Boys and Girls Come Out to Play (37 page)

He crossed the darkened lobby and the square, and sat on a stone bench beside the cathedral, twisting his hands. He could see the little balcony of the Archduke Suite; he could tell by the colour of the drapes that the lights were burning in the drawing-room. His heart jumped when he thought he saw a familiar bosom move; but it was his own head that had moved, and the bosom was a sleeping pigeon. I bet they are all too drunk to stand, he thought: really, when I consider the things that man Divver has told me about how
he
has spent his life escaping from everyday reality, he can hardly have the nerve not to help
me
escape from exceptional tyranny: in the morning I shall confront him—before the gorgon can get at him direct.

The drawing-room lights went out; the bedroom lights came on: he shuddered and walked back to the hotel.

His fate, Divver himself, was crossing the lobby from the gold elevator. Morgan stood still in a wing of the revolving door. Divver’s big figure slouched along with the naturalness of a man alone, still absorbed by conversation he has just left. He had presumably drunk and spent the evening well, because he was talking to himself and his face was running through quick changes of hearty agreement, smiles, solemn consideration, sage nodding and lip-twisting. In his own elevator he clenched one fist and hit the sleeping operator smartly on the shoulder: he rose from Morgan’s sight gazing amiably at the roof of the car like a man who has found a route to the stars.

*

“Hi! Come in!” he shouted, when Morgan knocked on his door in the morning. Barely glancing around, he snapped
the metal clips of his underwear and exclaimed: “By God, this is the life! I must say, time and tide spring strange tricks on a man.” He reached for his trousers. “If you had told me even a few weeks ago that I was destined by fate to become a gold-miner, I would have called you crazy. Now, I feel that something more robust than pen-pushing should have been my vocation all along. Be a pal; take a gander through your window and tell me if the Big Chief’s car has arrived.”

Clutching his mother’s letter, Morgan looked down into the square. “All clear … No; wait; it’s just turning in from the street this minute.”

“Thanks,
mein
freund
,” said Divver, “that allows me precisely fifteen minutes. We gold-miners adhere to the strictest routine … And how are you this fine day? You don’t look too rested, I must say. No more hunting naked women down corridors, I hope? As your guardian, I don’t wish to reprimand you.”

“I attended the evacuation practice,” said Morgan spitefully.

“Oh, yes. Old man Simon said something about one.” For a moment Divver looked disturbed, but then added: “Larry had some pretty important schemes for Area B, which kept us in conference.” He put on his jacket and walked to the full-length mirror. “How do you think it looks?” he asked. “A frank opinion, please. My feelings were made to be hurt.”

He had put on a pair of square-toed boots and a brand-new set of Polish miner’s workclothes; a stiff, grey, threadbare outfit that transformed him to a state in which only his large, puzzled head suggested an editor and an enemy of intolerance. Morgan was about to hint at this when Divver drew out a peaked cloth cap and, cocking it on his head, obliterated the last vestige of his old self. “Frankly,” he said, snapping his fingers: “I think it’s pretty damn good. It’s rugged. It’s functional. It’s positively handsome. Of course, as my wife would say: ‘It’s the hat does it.’” He studied his new reflection
without modesty, smiling wantonly, peering closer like a man enamoured. “Well: do I look like a man of action? Or just a proletarian Sherlock Holmes? Of course, when it no longer fits my life, when it becomes
phoney,
I can always hand it to some Bucks County intellectual who apes The Man With a Hoe … On second thoughts,” he added, fingering the cloth cap and taking it off: “I think I’ll manage without this. As the Greeks said: ‘Nothing in excess.’”

“Are you going to be like Larry, and walk in and out of the lobby like that?”

“Certainly. Which do you think the more honest: to dress frankly for what you are going to do, or sneak out in a summer suit with your
real
clothes hidden under your arm?” But although Divver spoke confidently, some of his crazy pleasure in himself seemed to have been dulled, because he went on to say sharply: “Don’t think me rude, but it’s precisely your sort of question that typifies progressives. They yammer half the day about fundamentals and class-consciousness, and spend the other half keeping a check on their lapels and fly-buttons. By God!” Divver exclaimed, swinging away from the mirror. “I’ve yet to meet one, a single one, with the simple directness of Larry. In many ways he takes me back to the old farmers and individualistic small businessmen in my father’s office when I was a kid. Unenlightened for the most part, no idea of theoretical fundamentals; you might say that history had never given them a chance to straighten themselves out. Tough and hard-bitten, as Larry is: but somehow knowing in their collective unconscious how and when to go about things: just as Larry, a man who doesn’t know a moose from an Edipus, is somehow on the job, digging out gold when it’s most desperately needed. It makes one think … Do you know something? Until I ran into Larry I had a favourite delusion of grandeur. I hoped that I might someday become”—Divver flushed—“a
columnist,
with all the trimmings: my photograph
at the head of a column, next to a standing head like ‘Joking Aside’ or ‘Honourable Estate’; believe me, I thought up hundreds of titles. Now, do you know, if it weren’t for the fact that there’s a world crisis and I’m under contract for it, I’d throw my goddamned portable into the Baltic, like Prospero, and really start leading a real life.” Divver’s eyes became truculent, he stared like a man with a vision, then all at once he glanced at his watch, hurried over to look down into the square, and came back wagging his finger: “But don’t tell that to your momma in your next letter.”

Morgan looked outraged.

“Now, now,” said Divver, laughing, patting him on the shoulder: “I was only kidding; I know you wouldn’t do a thing like that.” He began to pocket the oddments he needed for the mines, glancing at Morgan. “How are you doing?” he asked kindly. “I have a feeling you’re not
adjusting
too well these days.”

“Oh yes I am. A little
bored
occasionally.”

“You should play tennis. I’m told the courts are good. Are you taking your pills regularly?”

“Sure.”

“That’s the way. Sleep and plenty of baseball at your age, as my old man used to say—and he was by no means the old fool I’ve often thought he was.”

“But I do have a bit of a problem that I’d very much like your frank opinion on.” Morgan began to open the letter; at which Divver firmly raised his hands and said, “Not right now, if you don’t mind. I’m not only in a hurry, I’m just not in a mood to grapple with problems. Won’t it keep until this evening?”

Morgan said yes, he guessed so.

“You didn’t happen to see any mail for
me,
did you?” Divver asked; and when Morgan shook his head, Divver gave a happy wink and said:

“I guess my spouse has stopped writing. I must say I don’t blame her: she’s not heard a word from me since I arrived. What a louse I am,” Divver said with great satisfaction.

“Well, she must have got
one
letter; from that evening we both wrote; remember?”

“Frankly, I never mailed mine,” said Divver. “That’s the truth, and if you think I stink—well, sir, that’s your privilege. I was never made to be a model of decent, social behaviour, if you must know.”

Dumbfounded, Morgan watched the strange caricature of his old guardian prancing around the room: Why, anyone would think, he thought, that he, not I, had just emerged from years of drugs.

Divver burst out laughing. “I can frankly confess now,” he said, “that that experience of yours your first night here was hilarious: I laugh every time I think of it. I once read about a man, an
actual,
real
man, who spent his whole life moving from one town to another, seducing a woman in each. I bet there’s not a living man who wouldn’t, at heart, like to spend his life that way … But that doesn’t mean that
you
ought never to get some sleep occasionally. You look washed-up. Why not stop by at the Archduke once in a while? Harriet was asking after you only yesterday. She said she had a feeling that you were a very intelligent young man, and she hoped she and Larry hadn’t offended you in some way.”

“I suppose I might, thank you: I don’t really know.”

“I remember when I was your age,” said Divver, relaxed and genial, “I remember having a quite paranoid delusion of
not
being
liked
or
wanted
by
people.
I guess it’s a phase we all have to go through. I’ll say a word to Larry or Harriet, so they won’t think you’re just plain rude … Well,
le
Maitre
is probably descending in that golden bird-cage right this minute, so …”

He was moving to the door when Mr. Plezeck, the organist,
entered with a swatch of newspapers. He was taken aback by Divver’s proletarian effect; but it was Mr. Plezeck’s presence rather than his astonishment that made Divver apologetic. “My God, Mr. Plezeck,” he said, “you’ll simply have to excuse me again. I must rush to the mines.” To prove it, he dived into a sidepocket, took out the cap and settled it on his head.

“Not spare even five minutes?” cried the organist, waving the newspapers. “An address given in Danzig by the Archbishop, of high importance.” He smiled suddenly and said to Divver: “But perhaps you are not a believer in the word of God.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Plezeck,” said Divver, grasping the door handle. “Not that I would dogmatically exclude the entire supernatural, sight unseen.”

“No matter!” cried the organist, smiling more than ever. “You are an apostle of the noble Rousseau; you believe that in our hearts lies a spontaneous will to good; you are a Jean-Jacques of the New World.”

Divver was very pleased by this compliment, but he edged out through the door. They heard him hastening down the passage.

“But, alas,” cried the organist, “with due respect to your honourable friend, see what the spontaneous in man is preparing for us today!” He unfolded one of the newspapers. “Danzig! The very name is terror; our Scylla, our Circe, and where is our Odysseus? Sit down; I will read it to you.” He felt for his spectacles.

“Mr. Plezeck; there’s no point in reading to me.”  

“You too have become a gold-miner?” exclaimed the organist.

“I have to go,” said Morgan. “I have an appointment.” Then, ashamed of the lie, which he dearly wished were true, he said: “No, Mr. Plezeck; the truth is that I don’t feel too steady: for some reason I am very nervous this morning.”

“Ah, well,” said the organist, tucking the newspapers under his arm and sighing: “We are all nervous these days; some too nervous to read, some too nervous not to read.” Like Divver, he patted Morgan on the shoulder. “Perhaps if I come fifteen minutes earlier tomorrow, Mr. Divver will have time?”

“I hope so, Mr. Plezeck.”

“
Adieu
,” said the organist.

Morgan had barely reached his own room when the waiter arrived with the breakfast tray. “Good morning, dear sir; another beautiful day. Do you eat alone or with your friend?”

“I’m sorry: I or he should have told you. Only one breakfast was needed. My friend is gone.”

“He has returned to New York?”

“No, no, nothing like that. He just goes out earlier now.”

“Then tomorrow he would like breakfast fifteen minutes earlier? Or half an hour? But would that be a convenience for you? Maybe
two
breakfasts, separate. One for him eight-thirty; one for you 9 o’clock. What you think? Or both together eight-forty-five. Or some other time?
Any
time.
You
say.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“Then you tell
me
.”

“Yes, I’ll tell
you
.”

“But you try and tell me tonight: in the morning I am here, there, everywhere; oh! you gentlemen and ladies; what blisters my poor feet suffer to bring you happiness! You telephone Service tonight, uh?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Such a sin to waste a whole breakfast: eggs, toast, orange juice, coffee. You know what, Mr. Moggan? My old father never could taste coffee, he was so poor, until he was seventy-five.”

“Oh, how sad.”

“Yes, Mr. Moggan, and true too. You know another thing? My father was working still twelve hours a day when he became
dead. Do you know how old he was then, when he was buried?”

“No, I can’t imagine.”

“More than ninety-five years!”

Well, he had twenty years of coffee, Morgan thought callously. He hated the whole world, particularly the waiter, who stood nodding at him so vehemently that a jar of marmalade slid to the edge of the perched tray. As the waiter slid it back with ease, Morgan found himself waving both arms and wanting to scream.

The waiter laughed. “Why you afraid, Mr. Moggan? O.K. now; you sit down. What you want is a good cup of coffee; put eggs in your belly.”

*

“I hope you didn’t resent the brush-off this morning,” Divver said, when he returned that evening in a dusty sweat. Seeing the envelope, he said: “Tub first, I think. Can’t sit around like this.”

When he came out of the bathroom, he said: “I hope it’s nothing major, because tonight I’ve just
got
to get this week’s piece written.” He took the envelope; but only to carry it with him to the window, saying: “Yes, you can see it from here too … see”; and he pointed down into the back
courtyard
where there was a heap of trunks and suitcases. “For the evening train. I bet that practice last night scared the hell out of them. I thought I’d noticed that the crowd was beginning to thin out, particularly the Americans.” He looked strangely malicious, and said: “To tell the truth, I’m rather pleased to see them getting out; it was as though they were all here to
spy
on me.” Then he laughed and, flipping the envelope against his fingers, said: “You certainly would have been amused to hear Larry, that crusty old Tory, read me a lecture on my duty to the liberal public. Around noon I was feeling
pretty good—we’d been sinking a small cyanide bowl—and I said what I said to you; that I was about ready to kiss my typewriter goodbye. You should have heard him! Gave me a real old-fashioned lecture: did I think my paychecks grew on trees? Had I heard of professional loyalty? Was this the moment in world-history to fall down on the job? ‘You’ll write it tonight and tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and keep away from here until it’s in the mail; and you’ll show me a carbon copy as proof.’ When I said I didn’t have any specific
subject
in mind, he merely said: ‘For all I care, you can write about
me
; just so long as you write
something
.’ And you know,” said Divver, taking the sheets out of the envelope, “there’s many a true word spoken in jest. I could do a pretty good piece on American foreign policy, knitting Larry in as the central contrasting symbol.”