Red Rag Blues (4 page)

With the first glass of wine and the prospect of hot food, everyone cheered up. They drank Luis's health, asked him what he thought of New York. He said he was impressed by the height of the skyscrapers and the depth of the potholes. Herb congratulated him on a perceptive image. “Symbolizes the irony of capitalism,” he said.

Max asked: “Everyone want garlic in their sauce?”

“Not me,” Bonnie said.

“Tough shit. Majority rule. That's democracy for you. Ironic, ain't it?” Max was chopping onions. “What are politics like in Venezuela, Luis? Any revolutions while you were there?”

“Oh … I believe there was a small one. I was fishing that weekend up in the mountains, with the British ambassador's wife.
Charming woman. Quite devastating with a nine-foot split-cane rod. She could drop a fly on a sixpence.”

“That's like a dime,” Julie said.

“We had a revolution in this country, once,” Bonnie said. “Wasn't popular. Didn't last.”

“Personally, I never saw anything wrong with King George the Third,” Herb said.

“Me neither,” Julie said. “A warm family man and a real affectionate tyrant.”

“What this country needs is the Affectionate Tyranny Party,” Herb said. “Any bastard doesn't vote for us will get lovingly assassinated.”

Now Luis knew it was all just a joke; but nobody laughed. Nobody even smiled. New Yorkers puzzled him.

Max made a lot of spaghetti and it tasted good. Luis thought the wine was young and coarse, but it was certainly the right drink for their food, this company, these surroundings. He had watched the pasta sauce being fortified with garlic, oregano, paprika, ground black pepper, cumin, basil, old black coffee. Max had tasted it and then stirred in some chili powder, tasted again, added more chili. This was not subtle food. This was not a sophisticated gathering. The men had not shaved. The women were without makeup. The apartment was bare of paint or wallpaper. They sat on upturned milk crates and ate off a door that rested on two trestles which were stenciled NYPD—DO NOT PASS.

From time to time, Herb went to the window and looked down to make sure his taxi had not been stolen.

After dinner they talked about Enrico's arrest, and about work, or the hope of work. Herb was sick of driving a taxi but he couldn't quit until he found a job that brought in regular money. “I coach some kids at Columbia. They're scared they might get tossed out unless they open a book once a term,” he said. “Makes a few bucks. Peanuts, but it's cash in hand.”

“Watch your back,” Bonnie warned. “One of those kids might be a snitch for the IRS.”

“I hear there's money writing stuff for students,” Julie said. “Essays, theses, term papers.”

“I'd sooner shine shoes,” Bonnie said.

“Didn't you have something going with one of the studios?” Max asked. “Some screenplay thing?”

“This schmuck at Warner Brothers wants to make a biopic of General Patton. I gave him a screenplay, he gave me zero. Said it's not suitable. Screwed again.”

“No contract?” Julie asked.

“If I'd asked for a contract I wouldn't have got the work. The schmuck knows I'm in a fix.”

“Time I got back to the hack,” Herb said. Dinner was over. He drove them to the Subway. Luis bought tokens. Mr. Fort Knox.

*

Julie and Luis rode the Third Avenue El to 86th Street. She took him to Mooney's Bar, found a booth, ordered beers. “So now you know,” she said. “The blacklist is alive and flourishing, and it'll get you too if you don't watch out.”

“Blacklist? What blacklist?”

She eased her shoes off and flexed her feet. “No jokes, Luis. You never could tell a good joke, and the blacklist is about as funny as a boil on the backside.”

“Are we talking about American politics?”

“No, we're talking about American hysteria. Of course it's politics. McCarthyism. HUAC. The witchhunt for Communists, real or imaginary. Nixon's holy crusade. Hollywood pooping its pants whenever someone names names.
That
blacklist. Don't tell me nobody in Venezuela heard of it. The shit's been flying for years.”

“I had my bellyful of politics in the war, writing all those reports for the
Abwehr.
When I arrived in Caracas in 1945 I vowed never to read a newspaper again, and I never have.”

“Time
magazine?
Newsweek? Readers'
goddamn
Digest?”

“No.”

“They don't have TV in Venezuela?”

“I never looked at it.”

She sucked the suds off her beer and watched him, warily, as if this might be some elaborate hoax. “What have you been doing for eight years?”

“Enjoying myself. Keeping fit. I swam in my pool every day, played tennis, golf, a little polo. Kept a Bugatti, competed occasionally. There was always horse-racing, and high-stakes bridge. Trout fishing in the mountains. But mainly I read. Foyles
of London sent me a crate of new novels every month. Pure delight. Some American authors. Very talented.”

“The great American talent is publishing stuff that doesn't get you labeled pinko and slung in the pokey.”

“Pokey? That's prison, isn't it?”

She finished her beer and stood up. “Got to work.”

“Where?”

“Here. Waitress. I do the graveyard shift, midnight till four. The tips aren't bad, and I get a free hamburger for breakfast.” She gave him her spare keys. “Don't play the radio, and stay out of my bed. See you at dawn.” She came back to ask: “Was that solid gold fountain pen really yours?”

“A golf trophy. Runner-up in the Venezuelan Amateur Open, 1951.”

“Olé
in spades,” she said, and went away again.

Next day she slept until noon, took a shower, and dressed in one of Harry's old shirts. Luis had been out and bought a loaf and a small jar of Maxwell House, which left him with less than a dollar. They ate a late breakfast of dry toast and black coffee. “Last night you spoke of HUAC,” he said. “What is HUAC?”

“No.” She looked at him as if he had spilled ketchup down his shirt. “No.” She took her cup and padded, barefoot, to the window. “I have to live with that horseshit but I don't have to talk about it.”

“Terrific legs,” he said. “The ass was superb, I remember. May I see the ass?”

“Go to hell, Luis. Go back to Venezuela, you don't belong here.”

“I can't go back. That shirt is the most provocative thing you have ever worn.”

“Christ… I'd go straight to Venezuela if I could. If I had any money.”

He went over and stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She put her cup on the windowsill. She held his wrists, lightly. Whether she was resisting the embrace or endorsing it, neither of them knew. “We were always happy in bed,” he said. “Isn't that right?”

“Yes, sort of. And if we go to bed now, I'll be stuck with you. Sex is fun but it isn't simple and right now my life is too complicated already.” She spoke flatly and without emotion. Luis could think of no reply. They stood for a long minute, looking out the window. Eventually the doorbell rang.

It was Bonnie Scott. She had four tins of smoked oysters, part of a food hamper sent by her rich aunt in Philadelphia who had heard that she was unemployed and not eating properly. “This is my aunt's idea of K-rations for Manhattanites,” Bonnie said. “There was a jar of caviare too, not the best Beluga, she apologized for that. I traded it.” She waved a bottle of French white wine. “You guys ready for lunch?”

“Permanently,” Julie said.

They ate, and talked about Enrico's arrest, the notorious squalor of the Tombs, his chances of getting bail. Luis wanted to know more. “What is HUAC?” he asked.

“Shit,” Julie said. “There he goes again. He's been locked in the toilet since 1945, reading Proust. He knows nothing. Walk him round the block, Bonnie, tell the poor bastard the facts of life. I have to wash my undies.”

“Are those the only shoes you have?” Bonnie asked him.

“The best suede. Very comfortable.”

“Sure. Don't blame me if you get kidnapped by the New York City Ballet.”

They strolled down First Avenue.

“HUAC,” she said. “You've honestly never heard of HUAC?”

“There was no reason. I didn't intend to leave Caracas, so why should I follow American politics? When I could spend my time reading the best American novelists?” Luis was beginning to resent their poor opinion of his Venezuelan lifestyle. “Truman Capote, Herman Wouk, Norman Mailer, Malamud, Bellow, Salinger. Where would you go to find the truth? The
Daily News,
or John Steinbeck?”

She grunted. “I certainly wouldn't quote
The Grapes of Wrath
to HUAC, which incidentally stands for the House Un-American Activities Committee, a bunch of bad-breath bigots who could prove the Pope's a card-carrying tool of the Kremlin if they tapped his phone, and God knows they're probably doing that already.”

“Un-American,” Luis said. “Like doing something that's not cricket.”

“Spare me your English jokes, old sport. I've been grilled by HUAC and it was no comedy.” Luis looked interested, so she told him.

First, she was served a subpoena to appear before the committee. Failure to appear was contempt; she could be jailed for that. So she wore a sober blue dress and went. She knew what they were going to question her about.

Back in 1947, working for a small New York publishers called Goblin Press, she'd edited two short satirical novels. They were about life on a US Navy ship during the war in the Pacific. The ship manufactured condoms in a great variety of sizes, textures and colors. The author was a happy, funny, middle-aged man who looked a bit like Winston Churchill, only taller. He enjoyed being taken to lunch, and he was content to let Bonnie edit his manuscripts. His name was Gibbon Connor Rail, Gib for short, and he would talk about anything except his experiences in the navy. He declined to supply a photograph for the book jacket. “Show the ship's cat,” he said. “More brains.” She found a picture of a sardonic cat. The books sold well enough to cover their costs. Goblin Press was satisfied.

Three years later, Bonnie saw Gibbon Connor Rail's picture in
The New York Times.
He was Mikhail Bolgarik, an attaché at the Soviet embassy, declared persona non grata by the State Department and now on his way back to Moscow. “Pity,” her boss said. “I'd hoped he might have a big book in him. A desk job at the Kremlin will destroy his talent. Incidentally, I was never totally convinced by his name.”

“Gibbon Connor Rail,” Bonnie said. “What's wrong with it?”

“Gib Rail is Big Liar, backward.”

She was startled, and defensive. “You forgot the Connor,” she said.

“Think about it. Conner. One who cons.”

“My God … If this gets out, Goblin is going to look pretty stupid.”

“Yes. Fortunately, both titles are out of print. With luck, no one but us will know.”

Soon, Bonnie and her boss moved on. She joined a bigger publishers, worked hard, got known as a skilled editor with an eye for new talent. He made a career move: he became a theatrical agent. In 1952, he appeared before HUAC as a friendly witness. They asked him questions and he told them what they wanted to hear.

He was on safe ground here. All these people had already been denounced by HUAC.

And he read out a list of seventy-three names, some famous, some retired, some just starting their careers, and none represented by the witness's agency.

The committee was impressed. The chairman remarked that the list included writers. Did the witness know of any specific Communist attempt to infiltrate the US with dangerous written material?

That was more than enough. HUAC subpoenaed Bonnie. She confirmed everything. Counsel for the Committee suggested the two books were subversive of the American armed forces. Bonnie said the American armed forces seemed to have survived the attack in good shape. “No thanks to you,” the chairman said. Her publishers sacked her before the day was out.

“For what?” Luis asked.

“Guilt, of course. Guilt by association. Guilt by implication. Guilt by gobbledegook. Who gives a shit for what? Nobody takes a chance with HUAC. Hell, they might subpoena the company
chairman,
for Christ's sake, demand to know why he hired a known Communist sympathizer and saboteur of the American Way of Life! He might go before the Committee and get his answers scrambled, next thing you know, the shareholders are screaming blue murder! Jesus Christ Almighty, get that goddamn woman out of here, before she contaminates us all!”