Barbary Shore (23 page)

“What do you want?” McLeod asked hoarsely of him.

“Where do you keep it?” Hollingsworth asked.

“I don’t have it,” McLeod said.

“Sit up!”

With what an effort Hollingsworth restrained himself from using force. Slowly McLeod drew himself up on the bed. “What do you want?” he asked again. “Take me in, and be done with it.”

“Do you know where it is?”

For a moment I thought McLeod was going to nod. He rested stock-still, his head down, his eyes on the floor. “No, I don’t know,” he said in a low voice.

“Well, what is it? What is the little object?” Anxiety was perceptible in Hollingsworth’s voice.

“I would have no idea,” McLeod said painfully.

Hollingsworth stood erect, the point of his pencil jammed
into the palm of his hand. “This is intolerable,” he said, half to himself. He seemed deliberating how to proceed, and ten seconds might have passed while he stood alone in the room, in contrast to Lannie who sat with her head supported by her hands, still shaking, while McLeod, making every effort to recover composure, knit a crease in his trouser, the long fingers running forward and back in restless pressure upon the cloth.

“A fellow can assure you,” Hollingsworth began at last, clearing his throat, “That I’m not nearly so hard on you as some of my colleagues might be, and among the reasons”—a hint of passion might have been heard in his voice—“is that you’re a man who’s been quite an actor in his time, and it makes it more interesting, so to speak, in my line of work, when there’s a challenge. You have the feeling I don’t like you, and that’s not correct. I might even have a certain … delicacy of feeling, more or less, about the situation in which you find yourself.”

Lannie looked up, startled at first by his words, and then a crafty smile came over her face, and she shook her head in agreement.

“You think there’s no hope at all for you,” Hollingsworth continued, “but it’s my purpose to convince you of the opposite.” Saying this, he crossed around the desk, and whispered, by the length I judge, several sentences in McLeod’s ear.

McLeod began to laugh. “Cooo,” he said mirthlessly, and then stood up and moved away, so that Hollingsworth was left bent over, an expression of curious intensity upon his face.

“That’s how it is then,” McLeod said.

“As I’ve told you, a fellow hasn’t made up his mind yet, but he can.”

“I had an idea of this,” McLeod said slowly.

“You’re not a dull fellow,” Hollingsworth answered warmly.

McLeod was twisting a piece of waste in his hands. “Perhaps
we had better go on.” And across the strain of his face, an irritable excitement cracked his mouth into a smile. “Something you want clarified?” he asked.

“Well …” Hollingsworth consulted his notes. “What would you say, critically speaking, of the story you told about how the little object was lost.”

“I would say there’s not a bit of truth in it.”

The blond hair nodded, and into the opaque blue eyes a glint of satisfaction might have appeared. “Check,” he said.

“Of course,” McLeod added with a wan attempt at a grin, “sifted, analyzed and re-examined, there is still a core of metaphysical truth.”

Hollingsworth allowed himself to look pained. “What is that word … metaphysical?”

“You needn’t bother yourself. Call everything I told a lie.”

“I don’t pretend to have your learning,” Hollingsworth said, “and one would have to think it commendable the way you employ a big word, but you see I’m a simple fellow who concerns himself with the facts, and that’s not so bad in its own way, because I’m sitting where I am, and you’re sitting where you are.”

“I apologize,” McLeod said.

“There’s no use crying over spilt milk. Now, to continue, and as I have said so often, frankness is the best approach to me, what is the little object and where is it kept?”

McLeod shook his head. “You see, Leroy, there comes a time when your theoretical incapacities act as a hobble instead of a shield. Suppose I ask you: What is a tin can?”

“It’s a tin can.”

“It’s not a tin can unless one adds to it the knowledge that it’s made from stolen labor. For example, what would you say if I told you that the entire physical world at this stage of history—all the houses, all the factories, all the food—are merely a coagulation of stolen labor from the past.”

“I think we’re getting pretty far afield.”

“Hew to the point. What if there is no point and only a context?”

“It’s my job to remind you.” Hollingsworth was playing with the silver-and-black cigarette lighter. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

“I’ll answer, but I prefer to do it in my own way.” He popped a cigarette into his mouth, reached across the desk for Hollingsworth’s gadget, and lit it with some nonchalance. “To begin with, the little object so-called, is completely a problem in context. What is it and where was it born? Oh, I’ll answer your questions, Leroy. But wait. First I want you to take into account the vast structures which created it. An end product one might say, delivered into the world trailing corruption and gore, laden with guilt, a petrifaction of all which preceded it. Do you get me?”

Hollingsworth blinked slowly. Every curve of his posture announced that he could afford to wait.

“Supposing I possessed it. Where would it be? You assume woodenly that I’ve got it wrapped in brown paper, and it’s in one of m’pants pockets. Or perhaps it’s buried in the ground. But you’ve got no call to assume either. I might be keeping it here”—and he pointed to his head. “Or maybe nobody knows what it is. That’s possible too. You don’t have to know what something is to appreciate its value. You can still trace its relation to other things.”

“Would you help a fellow out with some practical examples?”

McLeod looked offended. “I’ve explained the possibilities. If you insist I can belabor them. But what difference does it make? The theory I lean to is that nobody knows what it is.”

Hollingsworth shook his head. “Ridiculous.”

“Makes perfect sense. Do
you
know what it is?” Before Hollingsworth’s silence, McLeod chuckled. “No, of course you
don’t. You’re sent out to bring back something you couldn’t even recognize, and that’s fitting. The processes all produce elephants, and we’re only allowed to touch small pieces of the hide. You see, you’re in a position where you can’t be trusted, and so you get a hair from the tail. And your chief, does he know any more? Not appreciably, for he’s no more to be trusted than you. Like everything else the little object creates about itself a circle of acquaintance and can be understood only collectively. For such is the nature of knowledge today.”

“How do you know what it is?” Hollingsworth asked.

“I don’t. You’re the only one makes such claims for me.”

“There’s reason to believe you’re not telling the truth.”

“I’d have been a fool to pick that up as a playmate. What furies would pursue me for such a sacrilege.” He was looking at Lannie now. “In the modern heavens what is the condition most unbearable for the Gods?” The question was answered with hardly a pause. “Why it’s a little object whose whereabouts is unknown. Something unaccounted for? No God can stomach that when He is collective.”

“You make it sound like a fellow would wish he were rid of it,” Hollingsworth suggested.

“Yes, I imagine a man could spend his life trying to find someone to pass it on to. Yet with what difficulty. For who could fulfill the specifications?”

They sat smiling at one another.

“Of course, this is all academic,” McLeod went on, “for I don’t have it. In outlining the situation, I think I’ve made it clear that a man would be mad to accept such a responsibility. Why should I do such a thing?”

“Guilt,” Lannie croaked suddenly. She had come forward in her chair and was staring at him, her wide eyes ringed by their dark circles, her hand twisting through her lank hair.

Each of the men stiffened at the interruption. By a slight inclination of his head, Hollingsworth indicated that he wished
her to be silent. “Yes, yes indeedy,” he mused aloud, “you’ve given me great food for thought, and although you’re a stubborn fellow, I’d have to mark you down as generally co-operative.” Once more he gathered his papers. “We’ll continue this upon further notice, and in the meantime, think it over.” He looked at Lannie. “Will you come with me, Miss Madison?”

Lannie stood up, but she was not to leave without incident. Hollingsworth’s hand was on her shoulder, and she flung it off. Staring at me, she said in a voice thick with anger, “You’re a fool, Mikey, go away.” And as our eyes locked, she said with an even greater passion, “Come with us. There’s no place else to be.”

Hollingsworth tried to guide her from the room, but she evaded him again, and pointed her finger at McLeod. “He corrupts,” she shrieked, “he corrupts everything.”

“Get out of here,” Hollingsworth barked. Almost forcibly he pushed her to the door, and whatever it was that had made her speak failed her, and Lannie was docile. She went into the hall without another word.

“I must beg your pardon,” Hollingsworth said.

McLeod nodded.

“A fellow knows you have it,” Hollingsworth smiled, “but it might be impolite to ask you once again.” He ducked his head toward me and followed Lannie.

When they were gone, McLeod walked to the window and stood looking out. Several minutes passed, and I had at last decided to leave when he turned around.

“You know, Lovett, maybe you ought to follow her advice.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t you have any idea of what’s to come?”

“But that’s exactly what I must find out,” I said with conviction.

“To what purpose?”

“I hardly know. When you feel something strongly …”

“You’re with me, then?”

“No, I’m not certain of that. I can’t be with them, but to take you on trust … I can’t do that.”

McLeod massaged his chin. “And rightly so. Look, friend, don’t mistake me, I want you here very much. In a way. There may come a time when I ask you to leave the room.”

“Yes?”

“You have no idea what he whispered to me, and how it’s tempting,” McLeod said suddenly.

“Then why do you want me to be here?” I asked.

He nodded his head to himself, and when he replied I did not understand him.

“Conscience,” McLeod said.

T
HAT
night the weather became unbearable, and my attic room which had suffered the sun’s glare upon the roof tar was baked again by a land breeze. The pavement turned soft, the air was heavy, and waiting for rain to fall, I lay sweltering on a damp sheet. Outside the leaves stirred sluggishly. A heat lightning had come up in the west, and for a long time I watched it kindle the curling plaster of my ceiling, became absorbed at last in its alternation with a searchlight which flashed a rhythmic beam across my walls. I drowsed to the muffled sound of thunder.

And while I was asleep or perhaps even waking, almost certainly a fantasy and yet I could not disprove it existed, I saw myself in still another barracks. We were one of a hundred buildings, surrounded by wire, and the flooring had holes, the walls had cracks; we slept two hundred of us on planks spread across a trestle. Each morning, and they were winter mornings, we were wakened at five and marched a mile to a long shed where we had bread and hot water if the cooks were kind, and porridge deprived of salt. That done, we marched beyond the enclosure and saw the dawn from down a long road lined with sentries and barbed fence. It was a cruel walk and at the end was a tremendous factory, almost new, but the windows were shattered, the roof of one wing was stripped, and the machinery did
not always function. There we worked, hand on a lever to punch and press, and next to us, never meeting, though in the range of our eyes, were other workers with a card, and they lived in a dormitory on the far side of the factory, and were free to walk to town once work was done. We were always promised that we would be allowed to join them if only … if only we would produce more than our fellows.

I had a friend. He was old and emaciated and more than bitter, a worker for sixty years as he would often say. “They made me a slavey as a boy of eight, and I earned two shillings a week, and my sister died of consumption in a dressmaker’s shop, tatting lace for milady’s ball. I was one of the industrial reserve army and almost permanently unemployed. Sixty years, and I am still one of the industrial reserve army and it was better then, for one didn’t march to work, and at the age of twelve I tussled a girl in the shavings on the cutting-room floor.”

Drugged by the morning sun, I could hardly awake. Light glared into my eyes, heat banked itself in the room, and cinder dust eddied over my face. I lay in such stupor that it must have taken me through the forenoon before I thought of quitting my bed.

A fly was circling through the hot moist air, buzzing over my chest, nipping my foot, and then off to explore the cubicle again. Somewhere the fly had lodged on a pin speck of carrion and played with the booty on the floor. I turned on my side and watched the fly even as the fly was revolving its food beneath a foreleg. Minutes elapsed this way, the insect humming against the sound of my breath, the city noise carrying into my window from far away.

I must have fallen asleep for when I opened my eyes the fly was gone and someone was in the act of slipping a piece of paper beneath my door. A corner projected over the sill, and rustled to one side and then the other. I had more than time to get out of bed and look in the hall, but the effort demanding too
much of my fuddled senses, I merely gaped at the door while the paper nosed its way to the left and to the right, and finally halted half into my room, half under the wood, while whoever had so placed it could be heard softly descending the stairs.

I shook my head dully and was about to navigate my feet to the floor and the paper to my hand when the note was agitated once more, slipped back over the dust of the sill and was withdrawn. It was only after several seconds that this seemed at all extraordinary, and like a bobbin jogging in the wake of events, I had no sooner decided that the disappearance of the note was even more to be noted than its presence, when to my complete disaster the piece of paper wiggled under the door again, and I could be diverted for a second time to the sound of footsteps moving away.