The Bleeding Heart (39 page)

There is Victor talking to Mach, who is seventy-two and still powerful, thick red mottled neck, red mottled face, full-bodied, eyes like yellow creases, mouth a thin straight line. He talks without inflection in his voice, and without moving his lips more than necessary, and he looks at men, when they speak to him, like a wary animal, his eyes watery blue thin slits with a cold yellow light. He listens as if he were a machine, and everything that is said to him must go through a certain number of coils and bobbins and gears and printouts before he can respond to it. He
never responds
to anyone’s face. It is one secret of his success.

Mach never looks at all at women. Once in a while you may catch him appraising an ass or a pair of boobs, and it may be upsetting if the boobs are yours because the eyes look only at your breasts, never raise themselves to the face. But he does not look lustful, merely appraising. If he wants anything, he can have it, he doesn’t even have to pay, his name delivers it to him. But he rarely wants anything.

Someone brings up Suzanne Hein, the great physicist, to be presented. Mach does not look at her, does not listen to what she says. It is just as well, because she is protesting something, some chemical process which is having a bad effect on the atmosphere. In the middle of her words he turns away to say something between his teeth to a man standing nearby. It is Victor. Mach turns to speak to Victor, and his body turns strangely, all at once, without any give at waist or knee. He sleeps the same way. He doesn’t turn fluidly, movement rippling through the flesh and bone, the dreaming body murmuring, snoring a little, hands coming up to slide under the pillow. When Mach turns in his sleep his whole body turns at once, suddenly. His body lifts, turns, and hits the mattress hard and becomes rigid again. His snores are like drumbeats.

Maybe he is afraid, who knows? But what does he have to fear? It is well known that Mach never wears a coat because he never needs one. He has a chauffeur to drive him to the front door of wherever he goes, a man to walk behind him carrying the briefcase and the cash and the credit cards and Mach’s cigar case, a man to pay the bills and give directions to the driver and open doors and close them: for Mach. This man will tell the chauffeur to be waiting at twelve thirty to drive Mach and him and a few deferential, anxious corporation presidents to lunch and to pick them up afterwards. The chauffeur will be kept waiting half an hour to drive them, half an hour to pick them up from lunch. But he doesn’t care, he’s being well paid, he had to go through a security check to get this job, he drives one of the most important men in the world, and he knows it, on cold days he tucks Mach’s knees under the lap rug with such solicitousness that Mach growls at him. Besides, he’s used to waiting. The aide pays the lunch bill and scribbles the amount down in a little lined book, or signs the charge slip. Everything will be charged to the corporation.

Mach lives in a penthouse apartment in Houston, owned by Blanchard, and takes his vacations in Aspen in a glass-walled house surrounded by a chain link fence and guard dogs, owned by Blanchard, or in an island in the Caribbean, rocky island set in azure and turquoise waters that play in white foam around it, covered with trees, lianas, bananas, orchids, the very air is perfumed, and the house is a fortress, Spanish style, cool promenades under stone-arched cloisters, heels resounding on the tile floors. Island and house owned by Blanchard, and Mach flies there in his jet, owned by Blanchard.

Mach never has to worry about facing the unfamiliar, about encountering an unpleasant word or gesture, about being caught short in the middle of the desert. He is more protected than a collar-wearing priest in a world full of devout Catholics. He is more protected than East Germany with its layers of chain link fences and lookout towers, its patrolling soldiers with guard dogs, its mined fields.

Why then is he so rigid, so anxious? Why does he look at every man who approaches him as if the man were a potential enemy? Why does he seem never to relax, to enjoy, to have pleasure? Why does he sip his martini carefully, and stop at two?

Dolores watches him. Maybe he thinks everybody is talking about him, that everybody knows about the deal he made for Blanchard Oil with I. G. Farben back in the thirties, a deal that kept Germany going strong all during the war that killed both German folk and American folk and lots of other folk besides, but that left Farben and Blanchard absolute victors when the war was over, so loaded with money they didn’t know where to hide it. But the truth is, everybody knows about it, or has chosen not to know, or has chosen to forget. And in the circles that surround Mach, he is admired for it. He doesn’t need to worry about that.

Wherever Mach is, the circle around him is quiet, waiting for the great man to speak; it is still, like the eye of a hurricane. But Mach says little. He listens, selectively. Only to men.

And there, standing a little behind Victor, is Edith. Dolores sees her too. Talking to Bitlow, Victor has forgotten to introduce her, and Bitlow too (he learns quickly) has forgotten to introduce his wife. The two women stand beside, a little behind, their men. They are both perfectly groomed in neat but not gaudy and certainly not sexy cocktail dresses. Their hair is styled and blonded identically. Both are drinking something a little sweet, in a pretty glass with a stem. They glance at each other and venture a formal half-smile. They glance at the men and pretend great interest in the serious and important conversation. They know it is serious and important because their husbands have told them so. They gaze upward—for these men are invariably taller than their women—at their men, and then across at each other. Their smiles say that they understand how important and intelligent and powerful their men are and that they are grateful, oh, so grateful, to have such men. They try to laugh at what they think are jokes (sometimes inappropriately), but in fact they are not at all sure what this conversation is about. They smile uncertainly at each other. Bitlow’s wife, Edna, does know the name of Victor Morrissey, and is a little intimidated by his wife. Edith knows this and enjoys it.

The men are talking about Oil. And the Alaska Pipeline. The women’s heads bob energetically. They may not know much, but they know the Alaska Pipeline is a Good Thing and Should Be Permitted to Proceed. For the Good of the Country. Otherwise there will be an Energy Crisis. Their husbands have mentioned this in Dire Tones, Often.

The women do not know that such crises can be engineered, that, in fact, one is being engineered under their very eyes. No, that’s silly.
Their
husbands? Who just two weeks ago Saturday went out on the lawn and played Frisbee with the kids? Never!

The conversation moves into more opaque areas—shipping, markets, prices. The women’s eyes glaze over, although they keep smiling and nodding their heads as if they understood everything. They are not embarrassed at not understanding what is being said. They know they are not supposed to understand what is being said. They know exactly why they are there, standing in the room beside their taller husbands. They are Respectability. They are the living, walking, talking, laughing proof that their husbands are good Family Men, no matter what hanky-panky they may occasionally indulge in, good Family Men who support The American Way of Life. They are not pansies or queers, these men, they are reliable, not bohemians or artists or hippies or anything else subversive of The American Way of Life. Anyone looking at these women can tell that they sleep only in their husbands’ beds, and not especially happily there, since they know that sexuality is the work of the devil, and that Children and the Home and the Family are the work of God.

Even if they don’t believe in God, they know that. But most of them do not know whether or not they believe in God, because that is a dangerous subject, better not thought about.

Knowing why they are there, they are extremely careful. They know they have no power to improve things, to make an impression or advance a deal, but utter utter power to destroy their husbands, to say the wrong thing, or get angry and throw a drink, or curse out loud, or frown at the wrong woman, or … oh, the list is endless! of the harm they are capable of inflicting. So they are very careful. They don’t dare move, they don’t know how things are progressing in the conversation, or what is going to happen next.

Suzanne Hein and Dolores are watching together.

What happens next is that Victor puts his arm up and lays his hand lightly on Bitlow’s shoulder, easily, seemingly in comradeship. Edna Bitlow’s eyes glow. Is it greed or ambition or relief that tonight her husband will be in a good mood, will be expansive and perhaps even kind, after his success? Perhaps he will even approve her, Edna, for her excellent behavior? Or is it that she is looking at Edith Morrissey, who is calm and cool and blond and assured and who does not have a single ripple of flesh along the lines of her svelte body, and imagining that someday she, Edna Bitlow, will be in the position of Edith Morrissey, and will look like her too?

Victor turns Bitlow’s body without force, like a man leading a woman in a dance, with a light touch, fingers on a waist, hand on hand. What he is doing is turning Bitlow to face the great man, and Bitlow gasps inwardly, his heart sends gushes to his brain, his brain sends gushes of gratitude to his heart, gratitude towards Victor Morrissey, who is doing this for him. And there he is, the great man, Mach himself, peering at the two of them out of his watery blue-yellow slits. The three men are talking together, Victor is introducing Bitlow (Bitlow!) to the great Mach (Mach!) and their backs are to the women. (Didja see that, Edna? Me, Billy Bitlow from Nohank, Arkansas, talking to him, Mach!) Edith moves a little closer to the men, she pushes herself against Victor just slightly, and smiles, fixedly, at Mach. She keeps smiling, looking directly at him, waiting for a moment of recognition, but she doesn’t get it. She has never gotten it, although she’s been introduced to Mach at least five times. She has mentioned this to Victor, who shrugs and says, Come on, Edith, he has important things on his mind, and who thinks, Good god, women and their petty concerns.

The women are totally cut out and are feeling a little humiliated, but they will never admit that to themselves or to each other. And in a way, they also feel liberated. That conversation left them only glazed in mind and body. They smile at each other more humanly now, and begin to talk. Such a lovely party, yes, and the weather so fine for this time of year, yes, they had taken a drive to Connecticut recently, Edna and her husband, and the foliage was really gorgeous! To see their son, yes, broad smile, pride coming up now, well, why not, to see their son who is a freshman at Yale. Yes.

Edna does not of course mention that the reason Billy was willing to take time off, was willing to drive so far, is that son has had a breakdown and is now in the Yale clinic, and they drove up to see if he needed to be driven back home to Washington. Her face shows it, trembling in tiny lines around the smile. Edith sees this or doesn’t see it. She knows the rules and would be shocked if Edna mentioned such a thing, shocked to the point of smiling and saying Ummm, and moving away and telling Victor later that she did not think the Bitlows were to be taken up.

But of course Victor already knows that and has no intention of doing it.

But Edna knows the rules too, and doesn’t mention it. Yes, the buffet was magnificent! Such huge shrimp! And the pineapple mousse! A
really
lovely party!

Yes, we drove to Connecticut to see Billy, Jr., just a freshman, you know, first time away from home and a little homesick. Isn’t that sweet? I think that’s sweet.

Edith thinks: No prep school? She
knows
the Bitlows are not to be taken up.

Both women perceive, out of the corners of their eyes, a woman standing behind a pair of men, talking. Her body is slightly turned towards them. She glances at the men and nods and smiles graciously, you can see she is thinking that, thinking
gracious
, I am
gracious.
Only occasionally does she glance over at Edith and Edna. And Edith and Edna recognize her moves, and inch a bit closer to her. At an appropriate moment, when the distance between them is just right, Edith turns to the new woman and smiles (she’s the superior here, after all, the one in charge) and says hello, I’m Edith Morrissey. And the woman’s face brightens, she knows the name Morrissey, and reaches out and puts her hand lightly, very lightly, very briefly on Edith’s arm, and Edith bristles, but then the woman says, Oh, I’m happy to meet you, I’m Eleanor Howe, my husband’s with EGC. And Edith knows
that
name, and so, awed, does Edna, and the reaction could be measured by an instrument that was sensitive to the vibrations and intensity of air, and in moments there is gay laughter in that little group, laughter betraying joy and gratification in the company, such exalted company! Yes, the three ladies stand in their neat but not gaudy cocktail dresses, one dark blue, one light blue, one beige, and their hairdos, two blond (one dyed) and one brunette, and hold their pretty glasses with something sweet in them, and smile and talk and praise, yes they praise the food, the drink, the men, the corporations, the view, the windows, the decor, the paintings, the weather, the music, the company, the woods and gardens be yond, the beauty of the entire created world! Hallelujah!

Party over, Victor drives home abstracted but with a lively glint in his eye. Edith glances at him, decides to talk, tells him about Edna Bitlow and her untakeable-up-ness, Eleanor Howe and her eminent takeable-up-ness, trying to please him with her perception, her understanding of the rules. He barely listens, says Umm, and if he catches any of what she says, he thinks how petty women are.

He’s right. The women imitate on a petty scale what the men do on a grand scale. Or at least, what the men think is a grand scale. (Oh, Mach!) Edith’s mouth twitches, because something like this comes into her mind, but she can’t bring herself to think it fully, much less say it. So she smiles and subsides and tries to think of something pleasant to wipe away the other and as they pull into their driveway she thinks how nice it is they have a circular driveway when everybody else on the block has only a straight one.