Collected Novels and Plays (14 page)

Many a meaningful one, the next morning, confronted Francis as he stepped out of the elevator.

There were, as foreseen, walnut and leather; also soft carpets and mammoth free-form glass receptacles for something grander than his own extinguished cigarette. Spread over one wall of the vast foyer, a mural depicted in restful colors an idealized Main Street quite taken up by every chain store that Tanning, Burr had helped to finance. From a wharf at the end of the street two company ships, laden with tractors, belched smoke of an unearthly purity. The mural had been
added since Francis’s last visit to the office. So had an oil painting of Mr. Tanning, done from a photograph but bearing little resemblance to him. In one corner a World War II Honor Roll rested on an easel. A breezy booklet, entitled
Bread on the Waters
and published by the firm, caught his eye; it was his for the taking.

A note more telling yet was struck, there where the foyer joined the hall, by a parade of men and women connected with the firm. Back and forth they went, young people in shirtsleeves, in summer dresses and ballet slippers, tanned executives, one or two youthful old ladies with haircuts, a single sheet of paper in hand. This, to be sure, was the Partners’ Floor, a glassy maze of air-cooled suites and breathtaking harbor views.
Here conferences
were held, statements issued to the press, clients large and small made welcome by two attractive hostesses in uniform. Few needed or cared to travel, by private elevator, the forty-odd stories down to what Mr. Tanning humorously called the Sweatshop. It covered three whole floors: mail room, cable room, printing press, first-aid station, a mile of metal brains keeping track of not merely their own operators but also workers in neighboring cells—the sales-by-telephone team,
insurance or tax experts, research men, advertising men
and
their secretaries, all no doubt stooping and wan, ill-nourished, temperamental. Somebody had to be, Francis argued; for the denizens of the Partners’ Floor were nothing of the sort. Each might have been picked for that look of healthy good nature, of clear-eyed dedication likely to be seen on faces in Utopia.

They made Francis glad he’d come. It was time some meek stand be taken against the system. With over an hour before meeting Jane and Roger at City Hall, he gave his name to a dazzled young woman.

At first Larry was all graciousness. He himself ushered Francis into his office. Framed upon the gleaming desk Enid, the children, and Mr. Tanning smiled. The closing of doors set up a rich hush. Francis refused a cigar and naively began to speak his mind.

He sensed within three minutes that Larry assumed he had come to ask for a job. The older man nodded encouragingly; sooner or later, he seemed to say, we all discover the wisdom of settling down, toeing the line; and while, frankly, he still had qualms about the Tanning heir, the name counted more, in any long view, than the personality ….

Reflections which presently gave way to cold disbelief.

Did Francis
know
what he was talking about?

The young man had managed to explain, with a faint stammer, that he wished to consult Larry in his capacity of trustee of the Tanning children’s accounts. He wished to know if it would be possible to get rid of his money.

“What money?” Larry had asked, uncertain, lighting his cigar and glancing at the time.

“My own—what I have. My share of things—”

For some reason Larry remained very patient. Francis, who had half-expected him to lean across the desk and slap his face, took heart. Earlier he had tried to rehearse a few of the points to be made—that it was a considered decision, that none of the family should take it as an affront, but that he simply couldn’t bear any longer the burdens of fortune. Now, once Francis had begun to mouth these platitudes, he understood just how false they rang. For a
frightful moment he nearly broke down. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he all but said, “I have no reason for asking what I ask,” until, to his own surprise, his way shown perhaps by the pale dawn of irritation in his listener, a crackle of leather or flash of gold at the cuff, Francis found words to convey some part of his feeling: “What I mean is, I don’t want the power that goes with money. It’s a crippling power; whoever
uses it is at the mercy of it. No freedom goes with it. One’s forever being watched and plotted against, or else protected from the very things that
don’t
do harm! One’s never in a position to find out what’s real and what isn’t—with the result that
nothings
real, nothing in the whole world is real!” He was remembering his father at Irene’s, hemmed in by calculating women. The poor old man had been rich too
long. Wherever he went, something in his appearance would distinguish him, would cause the woman who put her arms about him to do so, in spite of herself, first because of the fineness of his linen, the fragrance of his cologne, the meal they had enjoyed—and only to a lesser degree, if at all, because he was handsome and amusing, or lonely and in need of her. To Francis it seemed a monstrous wrong. Better to form no friendships whatsoever. “I’ve wanted,”
he said, “to be free, to really have a chance at life.”

Larry cleared his throat. “Well, haven’t you? It certainly looked to us at home as if you were doing what you liked. Believe me, many’s the time I envied you. I like Europe, too.”

“There’s another misunderstanding!” cried Francis. “Europe wasn’t the point. I was there in order not to be
here!
I hated Europe—it solved
nothing. So here I am, back, trying to get at my life in another way. At least,” he said with conviction, “I’ve found what keeps me from solving things.”

“Now, come on, Francis,” Larry gave a cajoling smile, “where’s your sense of humor? Show me one thing you can’t solve, and I’ll show you three that I can’t!”

“Larry, I’m asking you a straight question,” said Francis grimly. “We needn’t go into my reasons.” But without pausing he proceeded to do just that. “What I hate is—I’ll say it again—the
power
I have, of walking in and out of situations. When I’m fed up with one place I can travel wherever I please. Instead of enduring and suffering the way other people do, I need only write a
check.” Once more he thought of his father, the marriages, the loves stepped out of casually, like clothes. “One has to
work
for one’s life—” Francis broke off; he’d let himself in for it this time.

Larry reminded him that any job, within reason, he cared to hold down at Tanning, Burr—

“No, no, I was talking metaphorically,” Francis brushed it aside. “You should know I’d do anything before working
here.
That is,” he floundered, wanting to repair a possible tactlessness, “being the son of—” and then recalling, too late, that Larry himself was a member of the family. “To work
anywhere
, for me, wouldn’t be real. I shouldn’t need to do it, I’d be
inventing a life—don’t you see, Larry?”

He looked unconvinced and rather annoyed. “When you say,” he began in a metallic voice, “that you hate walking out of situations, what do you think you’re trying to do right now? That’s what
I’d
call running away from a problem.”

It startled Francis. He saw at once the justice of the observation.

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” continued Larry, profiting by his silence, “who put this notion in your head, but if you imagine for one moment that you can break the trusts established by your father, and from which your income and Enid’s derives, you’re greatly mistaken.
Now, if all you want is to have your monthly check stopped, I can arrange that in no time flat.” He reached for one
of four telephones on his desk.

“No,” said Francis, “I meant stopping it at the source.”

“Yes. Well, it’s legally impossible, the way the trusts are set up. The principal goes to Enid’s children and to your own, after your death. I hope that answers your question.”

They stared narrowly at one another.

“Thank you.” Francis stood up. “It does.” He paused, then asked, “Are you taking the train out this afternoon?” turning aside, for his cheeks burned as if he had received a mortal insult. “I’ll be going out sometime tomorrow, along with a very charming person, a sculptress ….” He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Sit down,” said Larry gently. “Forgive me if I lost my temper.”

“It means I’m doomed,” Francis kept repeating, “I’m doomed never tobe real.”

Larry was able to say a great deal, uninterrupted.

He started by praising money, to whose honorable uses there was no end. Did Francis realize that, each year since coming into his fortune, he had drawn the merest fraction of the funds at his disposal? Why, he could do so much for himself, for others! He could build a house, a theater, start a magazine, encourage artists, musicians, scholars; he could collect things, paintings or furniture, subsidize scientific research, feed the hungry, clothe the naked—Benjamin
Tanning’s children being, year after year, in a virtually unique position to bring comfort and happiness to thousands of people. And at a minimal cost to themselves, thanks to the tax set-up. There was also, Larry went on, letting his cigar go out, one’s own family. Francis would understand better, once he married and had children, the joy of making a home, of giving them every possible advantage, the pride he, Larry, would take in showing Lily Europe next year at
Easter. He said it all in a husky down-to-earth voice. Had he been using colors for words Larry would have produced a naturalistic portrait of himself smiling over a checkbook, surrounded by family and pets.
“Just think,” he urged Francis, “what your father did for you! Education, security—”

It was true, thought Francis miserably, all true.

“—freedom to travel,
power.
Think of the love and pride he felt. The money your father gave you represents years of work and daily decisions made. It’s been his life and his genius, Francis.” At this point Larry dropped his second unexpected remark of the morning. “If Ben had heard the things you’ve said to me here and now, I honestly think it would have broken his heart.”

Francis sat up and uncovered his eyes. He couldn’t tell how far Larry saw, but it was further than he had seen himself. As for Mr. Tanning, his photograph gazed straight at the Statue of Liberty.

Was that why Francis had come?—for he was suddenly beyond constructing a more likely motive—to break the sick old man’s heart? Less to strip himself of power than to prove how powerful he could be? He found that he was staring fixedly at Larry’s mutilated hand. What did he know of violence, he, Francis? Nothing—yet it was possible, all the same, that he had resorted to it.

Frightened now, he rose. “All right, Larry. Thanks for letting me bother you.” He didn’t want to be late for the wedding.

“Now listen,” Larry said, looking relieved. “Not one boy in ten has your brains and ability. Did I say ten? A hundred would be nearer the truth. Naturally if you were a stupid slob you’d be unfit to manage your own affairs. Nobody’s asking you to do that in the first place; that’s
my
job. But you’re a damned bright guy—I know, I’ve seen your college record—and I want to say before you go that
if you ever have any pet project you want my advice on, I’ll be not only delighted but truly flattered to do everything I can.”

With which Larry relighted his cigar and guided Francis through the outer office, towards the elevators. He took, Francis felt in a kind of anguish, unnecessary pains to introduce him to every humming young woman or prosperous oldster encountered on their way. All were impressed,
wanted to know was Francis going to work for the firm. Some remembered him from long ago and sent regards to his mother; one of these wept. At last he was down on the street.
The whole idea had been hopeless, he would know better next time. Next time?

Next time what? He was still asking himself twenty minutes later, while watching, in a sickly pink room full of artificial sunlight and the sound of an unctuous voice, the marriage of Roger (whom he saw as a perfect stranger) to Jane (whom perhaps he knew too well); then wondered, as they kissed, how long it would be before they decided to have a child, and whether the child would grow up to be happy and strong or lonely and sickly, or whether indeed the child would
live at all.

9.
The party for Xenia took place on upper Fifth Avenue in a penthouse paid for by a wealthy lover of Adrienne’s. Only a few days each month did this person spend in town—days on which Tommy Utter would withdraw to a cold-water flat ten miles distant, in the shadow of Brooklyn Bridge. When the lover left, back he moved. He worked at an ancient concert grand from six in the morning until two in the afternoon, the hour his
mistress left her bed and began to think about lunch.

“Let’s hope the lover never finds out,” said Francis.

“But he knows!” cried Xenia. “Of course he knows! Adrienne would never dream of hiding it from the sweet old man. She hasn’t told Tommy that he knows, however.”

“Why not?”

“Ah, he’d be furious, he wouldn’t understand. But Max thinks it’s wonderful for her to have a young lover. He says,
‘J’en aurais un moi-même, sij’étais pédéraste!’”

“Is he French?” was all Francis found to say.

“No, he’s a Pole.”

“Oh dear, everything’s so easy for you Europeans!”

“What do you mean?” his companion laughed. But he saw that she knew. Xenia was by far the most striking woman present, as well as being, curiously enough, the youngest. There had been, furthermore, a moment in which Francis, glancing about at the male guests, felt himself positively the
oldest
of these. He wasn’t; three or four gentlemen who looked like gigolos and turned out to be Counts—one, even, a Prince—were much in
evidence with their powerful tanned profiles and gray curls thick above their ears, kissing hands and refusing drinks. The rest, however, were very young men, as young, that is, as the women who outnumbered them were ripe. You had a sense of several “Judgments of Paris” being simultaneously acted out. Also unlike the women, most of the young men were American, Tommy’s friends.

Adrienne’s salon, though elegantly proportioned, had the bare unfurnished look of a makeshift dwelling soon to be boarded up. On entering, Francis had admired an Empire mirror shaped like a lyre. “How odd you should pick that out!” his hostess marveled. “I’ve been keeping it for a dear friend who wishes, I
think
, to part with it.”