So Little Time (8 page)

“Oh,” Walter said. He looked as though he had mentioned the name of a mutual friend only to discover that the friend was dead. “No one told me, Jeff, excuse my mentioning it.”

Jeffrey felt a faint glow of triumph.

“But the pictures bought it,” he said, “for sixty-five thousand dollars. So that's all right. Never mind about having mentioned it.”

“Jesus,” Walter said. “Why didn't you write another?”

Jeffrey looked at Walter in much the same way that he might have contemplated a public monument. He was feeling better.

“I doctor them now,” he said. “They call me in to bail out someone else. A producer has a play that's sour and I try to fix it. Then sometimes I go out to the Coast.”

“Jesus,” Walter said, “that's real money.”

Jeffrey still examined him thoughtfully. “Three kids,” he said gently, “take quite a lot of money.”

Walter was sitting on the edge of his chair.

“I've got an idea for a play myself,” Walter said, “the last days of Vienna. I was there. I knew Dollfuss personally.”

Jeffrey hesitated and spoke gently.

“A play?” he said. “Well, don't get me started on that. I don't mean to be snotty, Walter, but I have to work on plays for a living. I'd give it all up if I'd written
World Assignment
.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn't,” Walter said. “When did you read it, Jeff?”

Jeffrey hesitated again before he answered.

“I haven't read it yet, but I'm going to. You see all the boys are writing books now, and it's hard to read them all.”

He had Walter there, but he could not tell whether Walter knew it. Walter had risen. He hurried to the secretary.

“If you haven't read it,” he said, “it's time you did. Let me give you a copy, Jeff.”

“No,” Jeffrey said, “that isn't fair. I always buy friends' books.”

“Oh, no,” Walter said. “What's thirty cents in royalties? Here, take one, Jeff.” He paused. “Actually, it's thirty-seven-and-a-half cents now.” He pulled out his fountain pen. “I'll sign it,” he said.

“Why, thanks,” Jeffrey said. “That's nice of you, Walter.”

Walter looked up quickly from the flyleaf of
World Assignment
.

“Say,” Walter said, “you know your way around, don't you?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey answered, “yes—slightly, Walter.”

“Jeff—” Walter's voice had a different note—“are you in
Who's Who
?”

Jeffrey leaned back and reached very slowly for his glass as though some sudden movement might break the spell.

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I'm in
Who's Who
, Walter.”

“They sent me the form last week,” Walter said. “Jeff, do you know what I'm thinking?”

“No,” Jeffrey answered. “What, Walter?”

“I was thinking—” there was a new ring in Walter's voice—“you and I are the only ones from back home who are in
Who's Who in America
!”

It had been a long while since Jeffrey had considered anything of such proportion. It reminded him of one spring night when he had turned the corner into 57th Street and had seen a row of elephants walking westward apparently by themselves, each holding another's tail.

“My God,” Jeffrey said, “so that's it.”

From Walter there came an aura, a warm triumphant glow that made Jeffrey wonder whether all triumphs were not the same and whether the solace which anyone derived from them might not be based upon some half-forgotten slight. When you thought of it in those terms, Walter Newcombe might be egregious, but not preposterous. You could imagine him carrying his past with him through every change of scene seeking blindly for some personal sort of vindication.

“Jeff,” Walter asked, “how's everything back there?”

It was unnecessary to ask Walter what he meant—it was like looking at blurred shapes on a picture screen, just as someone adjusted the lens, snapping every image into instantaneous focus.

“I haven't been in Bragg for quite a long while,” Jeffrey said.

“Pa and Ma are still there,” Walter said. Momentarily his veneer had cracked. His hair seemed yellower and longer and his nose more shiny.

“Your father—” Walter hesitated. “Is he still there?”

“No,” Jeffrey said, “he's dead.” It was uncomfortable, not suitable, wandering through the past with Walter Newcombe.

“He was a lovely person,” Walter said, “very lovely.”

The characterization made Jeffrey wince, and he did not answer.

“What happened to the house on Lime Street?” Walter asked.

“We sold it,” Jeffrey said.

“Who bought it?” Walter asked.

“Jimmy Ryan,” Jeffrey said.

“Jesus,” Walter said, “Jimmy Ryan.”

His exclamation was not profanity, but rather a tribute to decline.

“What happened to Ethel?” Walter asked. “Did she get married?”

“Ethel?” Jeffrey said. “Yes, she's married. They're living in West Springfield.”

He did not know why he added where they were living, except that his mind was running that way.

“She was a very lovely girl,” Walter said. “She must still be a very lovely person. What became of Alf?”

“In California, the last I heard of him,” Jeffrey said. “San Bernardino, California.”

“Alf always struck me,” Walter said, “as being kind of wild. Is Alf still that way?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “he's still that way.” Walter was still exploring the past. Jeffrey wished that he would stop, but there was no way to stop him.

“Jeff,” he said, “what happened to that girl you used to go with? Of course, I was just a kid, but we used to see you out walking.”

“What girl?” Jeffrey asked, but he did not need to ask. He was thinking of the hideous indelicacy of the way Walter put it.

“You know,” Walter said, “Louella Barnes, the one with the big bow on the back of her head. You know.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “Louella Barnes. She's married.”

“Who'd she marry?” Walter asked.

“Milt Rolfe.”

“Jesus,” Walter said, “Milt Rolfe.” And there was another silence. “I always thought,” Walter added, “she was a very lovely person.”

Jeffrey pushed himself out of his chair. Walter was like a book which contained everything in the first chapter—there might be more pages, but the first chapter was all you needed.

“Don't go,” Walter said, “please don't.”

“I've got to,” Jeffrey answered, “it's getting close to five o'clock.”

“I wish you wouldn't,” Walter said. “This has pulled me all together. Say, Jeff—”

“What?” Jeffrey asked him.

“I wish you'd stick around,” Walter said. “Mildred will be coming back. Say, Jeff, I've been reading the damnedest book. I wonder if you've read it.”

“What book?” Jeffrey asked. He was putting on his coat.

“
War and Peace
,” Walter said. “Have you ever read it?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I've read it.”

Walter looked disappointed, but he went right on.

“I just happened to run into it,” he said, “at Liggett's Drug Store—just before I was hopping the train to lecture at Rochester. You know the way you run into things. That book weighs about a ton, but I couldn't put it down. I read it all night at the hotel.”

“Well,” Jeffrey said, “that's fine, Walter.”

“More people ought to know about that book,” Walter said, and he gave his pleated trousers a gentle hitch. “Where's it been all these years?—That's what I told them at Rochester. Every thoughtful American ought to read it.”

“Walter,” Jeffrey said, “just before I go, I wish you would tell me something.”

“Sure,” Walter said, “anything, anything at all.”

Then Jeffrey was asking the question he had come there to ask.

“Walter,” he said, “you've been everywhere. You've seen everything. You have a right to an opinion, and for God's sake, don't say, ‘Let's skip it.' What's going on over there in Europe? What the hell is the matter with the Allies, and don't tell me to read
War and Peace
.”

He spoke more urgently than he had intended. Walter was standing almost motionless and a strange cloak of dignity seemed to have fallen on him. He was not a clown any longer, and things that he had seen were reflected on his face.

“Jeff,” Walter said, and a break in his voice made his words sound very kind, “you know better than to ask me that. You know I'm just a fool, Jeff, but there's one thing I thank God for. It looks as though we're out of the mess, this time. Thank God we're here in America.”

He did not spoil it by going on. Jeffrey held out his hand.

“Yes,” he said, “thank God for that. You see—I've got a son—”

When he thought of it afterwards, it sounded a little like Irving Berlin.

When Jeffrey stood on the corner of Park Avenue, he felt as though he had been on an ocean voyage. He could see the city in the detached way one sometimes sees it after finishing with the customs. He had that same feeling of gratitude that he was permitted to see it again. He had the same impression of its vitality, the same astonishment at its beauty. The air was soft with spring and a clean west breeze was blowing and the sun was dropping low. The sun made the façades of the buildings near him warm and glowing, and it made the Grand Central tower shadowy. They were selling gardenias and violets at the street corner. The traffic lights had turned red, so that the avenue was choked with yellow and orange taxicabs, and with blue and gray private cars, all absolutely motionless, shining in the sun. Then the lights turned and they all moved by him like a stream. There was nothing in the world just like it. The whole Avenue was gay in the sunlight.

The dogwood blossoms in the florists' windows were too big. They were as artificially cultivated as the dogs themselves that paraded down the Avenue: cinnamon poodles, waddling dachshunds, and freshly plucked wire-haired terriers, moving like mechanical toys. The taxi starter at the Waldorf was too big and he had too many buttons. There were too many apartment houses on the avenue and there were too many taxicabs. Westward on Broadway when dusk came, there would be too many people at Times Square and too many lights and too many tropical fishes on the electric signs. There would be too many people trying to be like Hedy Lamarr and Ronald Colman and too many girls trying to look like debutantes and too many debutantes trying not to look that way. In the windows of the steak houses there would be too many steaks. There would be too many orange drinks and too many copies of
Life
magazine and too many hamburgers and too many people who did not have the price of a hamburger. There was too much of everything, and he certainly could not tell what it added up to and no one else could either, but it was the greatest city in the world.

It was time he was getting home, and he took a taxicab when he came to St. Bartholomew's Church, which resembled a model in the Metropolitan Museum, now that so many high buildings rose around it. The driver of the cab had been reading a tabloid and listening to his radio, but when Jeffrey approached he gave a galvanic jerk, and reached to open the door, like a fisherman who feels a bite.

Nearly everyone Jeffrey knew had interesting experiences with taxi drivers. There were always stories at dinner parties that revealed their wit and salty wisdom. Taxi drivers left other people with a glow of democratic comfort because they had talked to them confidentially through the window just as though they were like anybody else. Jeffrey wondered whether there might be something wrong with him, for taxi drivers never gave him any new ideas, and this one was no exception. His collar was frayed and the back of his neck was dirty. As he crossed Lexington Avenue, he swore softly at the traffic cop.

“You see that cop?” he asked. “Smile at him, and he gives you a ticket. That's the kind he is.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “cops are all like that.”

“Yes,” the driver said, “cops are all like that.”

The conversation ended. It was nothing you could talk about at a dinner party. It would be impossible to say that you saw the funniest taxi driver today, and what do you think he said? “Cops are all like that.” Yet the driver must have had a life of his own. He must have possessed ambitions and some sort of ideology.

“It takes all kinds to make a world,” he said. “That's the truth, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I guess you're right.”

“I know I'm right,” the driver said, “it takes all kinds to make a world.”

The trouble was that there were too many kinds making up the world in New York. The weight of their numbers made it impossible for you to think of them as individuals; the man was a taxi driver, and Jeffrey was a fare, and the chances were about a thousand to one that they would never meet again, yet back there where he and Walter had come from you knew everything about everybody. Perhaps it was just as well not to know too much.

“Good evening, Mr. Wilson,” the doorman said.

“Good evening,” Jeffrey answered.

“It's been a nice day for April,” the doorman said, and then the elevator boy was saying that it was a nice day for April.

They had said it all a number of times before, the only difference was that Jeffrey was more conscious of it.

“Tell me about yourself,” Walter Newcombe had asked him.

If he had told about himself he would have described ten thousand such rides in taxicabs and elevators. The starter would snap his button or whatever it was that starters snapped; the doors would close. Floors please. Fifth floor out. Going up. Floors please. Watch your step getting out. Floors please.

6

There's Everything in New York