(1961) The Chapman Report (11 page)

Paul nodded solemnly. “Yes, it does.” Busily, he straightened the sheaf of papers on his lap.

Dr. Chapman turned to Horace and Cass. “Well, we’re going to be up bright and early. We want to be at our best at The Briars.”

Horace rose and stretched. “Has there been much publicity about our coming?”

“Oh, I should think so,” said Dr. Chapman.

“I hate having my picture in the papers,” said Horace. “I’m not the type. I always look like I’m being confirmed.”

Dr. Chapman laughed. “The price of fame,” he said with satisfaction. “Well, good night.”

“Good night,” said Horace.

He started for the door. Paul and Cass were on their feet. They both nodded to Dr. Chapman, who was stuffing his papers into his brown calf briefcase, and followed Horace. They were in the narrow corridor, Paul in the rear, when Dr. Chapman spoke up again. “Paul, can I see you for a minute-just for a minute?”

“Of course.”

Paul looked after Horace and Cass, who were already moving down the corridor, hands extended like wings, balancing against the beige metal wall and the green shades, making their way toward the lounge car.

It would be their last night like this, before heading home. Paul wanted to celebrate. “Cass,” he called, “if you’re going to have a nightcap-“

“You’re damn right,” answered Cass.

“… I’ll join you.”

He watched them continue down the rolling corridor, and then he turned back into Dr. Chapman’s compartment.

“… you’ll be quite appalled, but without men like Ackerman, our work would be ten times harder, maybe impossible,” said Dr. Chapman.

He sipped his gin and tonic, and Paul, sitting across from him, drank again of his Scotch and water.

They had been conversing like this, not exactly about their work, but around their work, for five or ten minutes. Dr. Chapman had rung for the porter, and ordered the drinks-he, too, apparently, was feeling festive-and they had just got the drinks.

Dr. Chapman had been discussing inconsequential matters—

California, The Briars, some friends at UCLA, a possible vacation for all when they returned to Reardon, then California again-and this was odd, since he had so little small talk. Paul divined that this was all preliminary to something, and he drank and waited. Now Dr. Chapman was discussing Emil Ackerman, a wealthy Los Angeles resident, who had helped make arrangements for interviews four years before and had been responsible for the contact with The Briars’ Women’s Association.

“But just what does he do?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know,” said Dr. Chapman. “He’s representative of a certain profession, unclassified, unnamed, in America, that helps make the country go. He was in manufacturing, probably still is. Enormously rich. Has homes in Bel-Air, Palm Springs, Phoenix. His avocation is politics. Maybe it’s his vocation. Maybe that’s how he makes his money-putting in a governor or a mayor, fooling around with tax legislation. I know he’s tied in with the lobbyists in Sacramento, and he has his hand in a dozen activities. He doesn’t get much publicity. He doesn’t run for office. He’s a sort of Harry

Daugherty-or, better, Jesse W. Smith, the Harding man who had the Little Green House on K Street. Ackerman’s profession is doing favors.”

“Purely altruism?”

“I strongly doubt it. You cast your bread upon enough waters-and you wait-and sometimes you catch a whale. It’s a profitable sport. Most office holders are not titans of integrity or intelligence. You’ve heard the story about President Harding. His father said to him, ‘If you were a girl, Warren, you’d be in the family way all the time. You can’t say No.’ Well, there are hundreds like that. They can’t say No when Ackerman offers to do a favor, and they can’t say No when he wants repayment. Ackerman’s in the business of being paid back.”

“What can he get back from you?”

Dr. Chapman considered his drink. “Oh, nothing. I’m sure he expects nothing from me.” He looked up and smiled. “As Cass might put it, maybe he wants some phone numbers.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“No, seriously, I think I’m his fun. He just likes the sensation of being close to us. I imagine it gives him a certain standing among his higher-echelon friends. I mean, he can pretend to be a part of this; it’s something you can’t buy.”

“That makes sense,” said Paul. He drank slowly, still wondering

where all this was leading. “How did you ever tie in with him?”. “Well, you know our operation pretty well by now,” said Dr. Chapman. “There’s always resistance. From the start we decided to work with social groups instead of individuals, because individuals are scared or shy. But, bolstered by group opinion, an individual usually conforms. So our problem was to reach these civic and church groups. It wasn’t easy. The direct approach proved impossible. Most often, they were suspicious. Who were we? What did we really want? And so forth. So I reasoned that the only way to win their confidence was through academic and political leaders. I leaned heavily on the university connections I had. In each university city, a professor or professor emeritus or member of the board of regents would send me to a politician or the head of a club-and that would usually open the door. Of course, this time, it’s easier. You have no idea what it was like on the previous surveys. But now we have public acceptance. I have a reputation. It’s smart-even an honor-to be part of our effort. Anyway-“

He paused to sip his gin and tonic, licked his upper lip, then went on. “Anyway, that’s how I came across Ackerman. Four years ago, we wanted three group samplings in the Los Angeles area. I knew someone at UCLA, and he knew someone in the mayor’s office, and he knew Ackerman. Well, I came on ahead and met Ackerman. He’s a big old goat. Used to play football at Stanford, I think. While most of his schooling hasn’t rubbed off, I think he takes a pleasure in being common. But he’s shrewd and smart, and he knows everyone-and, as I said, everyone owes him something. Well, he got quite a kick out of the whole thing. He made three phone calls, and we had the three groups. I sent him an autographed copy of the book, and he was like a baby. Anyway, when I knew we were coming to Los Angeles again, I wrote him, told him what I wanted. And he arranged it. Don’t ask me how.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” said Paul.

Dr. Chapman’s mind seemed suddenly elsewhere. “You’ll meet him,” he said absently. “He’ll be at the lecture, you can be sure.” He gazed at Paul a moment. “Actually, there’s someone else I want you to meet-someone far more important to us right now.”

Here it is at last, Paul told himself. He said nothing. He drank.

“Before I go into that,” Dr. Chapman was saying, “I think I had better explain something to you. It’s rather important, and I know I can trust your discretion.”

Paul nodded.

“Because it involves the two of us.” He paused a moment, considering how he should say what he wanted to say. “I’m sure you know, without my telling you, that I have a good deal of respect and affection for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t waste words. So I mean what I say. I’ve had this thing on my mind for some time. I’ve been holding it off until our tour was finished. Keeping a team together is important-very important-working together, no favors, no exceptions; it has to be democratic. But there comes a time when you can’t depend on three men but must choose only one. Horace has seniority. He’s fine, fine. We all like him. He’s dependable, a workhorse. But he has no imagination, no social gift, no flair. He’s not dynamic. He reflects the face of the crowd. As for Cass, well, I’ll be truthful; he won’t do, simply won’t do. He’s misplaced in this kind of work. He hasn’t the detachment of a scientist. And he’s disturbed. That’s been evident to me for some time. Of course, he does his work, does his work well, but I’ll have to drop him after this survey is done.”

Paul was mildly surprised at Dr. Chapman’s perception-not his perception, really, but his all-seeing, omnipotent eye. Well, so much for Horace, and goodbye Cass. One little Indian left.

“Which brings me to you,” Dr. Chapman was saying. “I’ve watched you closely-under every circumstance-and I’m happy to say you’ve never disappointed. I think you like this work-“

“Very much.”

“Yes. And you’re good at it. I’ve decided you’re the one I can depend upon. You see, Paul, there’s more to my work than being a scientist. I learned that very quickly. The scientist part is the most important part, but it’s not enough. The world demands more. To maintain my position, I have to have a second face. It’s the social face, the political face, the-how shall I put it?-this way, perhaps: it’s not enough to do your work; you have to sell it, also. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“If I were scientist alone, with no other talent, this project would not exist today-but if it did exist, it would be relegated to the library stacks; it would not survive and flourish.”

Paul finished his Scotch and water. There was something about all this that was vaguely upsetting-disappointing would be too strong a word. Yet, it was reasonable. Dr. Chapman was always reasonable.

“I see your point,” said Paul.

“I knew you would,” said Dr. Chapman. “Few men have the qualifications to head up a project like this. I happen to be one.” He paused. “You happen to be another.”

Paul was sure that his eyes had widened. He could not think of a thing to say. He met Dr. Chapman’s gaze, and waited.

“Now, I must tell you what’s been happening. But I repeat, it’s strictly between us.” He measured his words, more carefully. “I’ve been approached by the Zollman Foundation-you know their importance-“

Paul bobbed his head. He knew.

“… they can do things the Rockefeller and Ford people can’t do. Well, their board of directors is very impressed with my work, my record. They’ve been feeling me out about expansion. They would like to underwrite a new academy to be established in the East-like starting a vast laboratory or college-along the lines of the Princeton School for Advanced Studies which would be devoted entirely to the work I have been doing. Only, it would be on a much larger scale.”

Paul blinked at the enormity of it. “What an opportunity-” he began.

“Exactly,” said Dr. Chapman crisply. “The work would go ahead on a scale hitherto undreamed of. I’ve gotten as far as discussing actual projects with them. Instead of the limited approach we now have, this academy would prepare dozens of projects, train personnel to handle them, and would send countless teams around the world. For the first time we’d be able to make comparative studies of the sexual behavior of English, French, Italian, and’ American women. As it is now, we’re confining ourselves to the United States, while brilliant sexologists abroad, like Eustace Chesser in England, Marc Lanval in France, Jonsson in Sweden, have been conducting sex surveys quite apart from us. This should all be done by one organization. Of course, there might be problems.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there could be obstacles abroad. Take that sex study of six hundred and ten French and Belgian women that Dr. Marc Lanval started in 1935. He was constantly hampered by the authorities. Liberal as the French are about their sexual activity, they seem to discourage inquiry into it. Lanval claims he was raided more than once by the Surete. Nevertheless, he got his results, and so would we.” Dr. Chapman reflected on this a moment before continuing.

“I remember Lanval asking his French and Belgian women, ‘Was your physical initiation or your wedding night a good or bad experience?’ Exactly fifty and one half per cent of his women said good experience, and forty-nine and one half per cent said bad. Now, wouldn’t it be interesting to have the same investigator ask the very same question of American, Spanish, German, and Russian women? That’s what I mean by comparative international studies. But, as I told the Zollman people, this would be only a part of our program-“

“Only a part?” echoed Paul.

“Oh, I envision endless other studies, off-shoots of our present work-international investigations into polygamy and polyandry, into the effects of venereal disease on sex life, an examination of illegitimacy in Sweden, a survey confined to mothers and the effects of children on their love lives, other surveys concerned solely with Negroes, Catholics, Jews and similar racial or religious groups, a study on the effects of birth control on sexual pleasure, a worldwide survey of artists who have devoted themselves to writing or painting romantic scenes, and so on and on. There are no boundaries to this and no language to express the good it can do. The Zollman Foundation is thinking in terms of millions of dollars-the academy would become a wonder, a marvel, a landmark of civilization-what Pliny and Aristotle and Plato would have sold themselves into bondage to establish.”

“I don’t know what to say. There aren’t words-“

“I expected you to appreciate it. I’m glad you do. If this academy came into being, I would be its president-its mentor.” He stared off a moment, then brought his eyes back to Paul. “You understand, I would be too busy to do what I am doing now. Our work would involve national, international welfare. It would almost be elevated to governmental level. My position would force me to be one moment in the White House, the next in Stockholm with the Nobel people, the next in Africa with Schweitzer, and so forth. I would need someone to guide the actual survey work, the sampling, the real machinery of the academy. This is the job I am offering you.”

Paul felt the hot flush on his cheeks. He wanted to reach out, touch Dr. Chapman, let him know what this expression of approval meant. “I … I’m overwhelmed, Doctor. It’s … I never dreamed of such a thing.”

“You’d be making twice the money you’re making now. And

you’d have authority and a certain-how shall I say?-standing; yes, standing.”

“When would this happen?”

“In a year-no more,” said Dr. Chapman. “After we’ve put the female survey to press. Of course-” he stood up suddenly, stepped to his coat on the hanger, and found a cigar. He bit the end, then located a match. Striking it, lighting up, he sat down-“you realize that the whole-the plan-is not a reality until we have a final vote of consent from the Zollman board of directors.”