The Eighth Day (33 page)

The children of Saturn also shed their influence upon the growing man:

Roger spent the greater part of the day moving about Chicago and its environs. He returned at intervals to his table in the tumultuous City Room, where he was accustomed to receive visits from persons wanting publicity for a favorite charity, an obituary for a relative (Roger was very fine at obituaries), an advertisement for a lost pet. Some came to express approval or indignation. One morning as he was leaving his desk he was approached by a grave bearded man whom he recognized as the prominent lawyer Abraham Bittner.

“Mr. Frazier?”

“Yes. Yes, Mr. Bittner. Please sit down.” Mr. Bittner sat down, slowly drew off his gloves, and looked at Roger in silence. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bittner?”

Mr. Bittner's hands played with an agate fob that dangled from his watch chain. Roger's eyes kept returning to some words engraved on two sides of the stone. Seeing his curiosity, Mr. Bittner drew out the watch and fob and placed them on the table. He remained silent as Roger looked more closely at the stone.

“Are those words in Greek, Mr. Bittner?”

“They are in Hebrew.”

Roger raised his eyes inquiringly.

“Those words are the motto of a society to which I belong. I am calling on you today as a representative of that society.”

“What do those words say, sir?”

“Have you a Bible in this office?”

“We had one. Someone took it.”

“The words, in
your
Bible, are from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah, the third verse of the fortieth chapter: ‘Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.'”

“May I pick it up, Mr. Bittner?”

“You may. I represent this society and particularly its directing committee of twelve men. This committee—as a mark of esteem for what you are doing for the city of Chicago—would like to place a convenience at your disposal.” He paused. “You live in Room 441 at the Thurston House. The street under your windows is noisy until late at night and is particularly so in the early morning. The view from your two windows opens on the brick wall of Cowan's warehouse. Are these things so?”

“Yes, Mr. Bittner.”

“This committee wishes to rent to you for three years, at one dollar a year, an apartment on the fourth floor at 16 Bowen Street. Four of its windows look out upon the lake. There are absolutely no conditions attached to this offer. It is extended entirely in the interest of your well-being and continued productivity. The apartment is ready to receive you from this moment. Here are the keys. Here is a receipt for your signature.”

Roger continued to stare at him. Finally he started to speak, but Mr. Bittner arrested him with raised hands.

“You will not know the names of these committee members. They do not wish to be thanked. All but two are men of large means—very large means. They are Chicagoans. They love this city. They are resolved to do everything in their power to make Chicago the greatest, the most civilized, the most humane, the most beautiful city in the world. They have already extended parks, built fountains, and widened avenues. They contribute largely to the universities, the hospitals, the orphanages, to the rehabilitation of prisoners. You have written of your interest in the planting of trees. The committee has planted groves of oaks in the parks and has prevented others from being cut down.” He lowered his voice. A smile hovered about his lips—the smile of one sharing a secret with one who will understand its import. “They are thinking of some Jerusalem here in the future—a free Jerusalem. They are thinking of an Athens. . . . ? You, Mr. Frazier, are doing a work which you alone can do. You have written with sympathy of the foreign communities in the city. You have restored a measure of dignity to older men and women in the eyes of their own children. You have called the attention of your readers to deplorable things which it is in their power to alter—all this in
your
way. The committee has this fear: that you will leave Chicago, that you will carry on your valuable work in New York or in some other city.”

He slowly put his watch and agate fob back into his pocket.

The door of the editor's office opened. Old Hickson appeared holding some yellow pages in his hand. He called angrily: “T
RENT
! T
RENT
! We can't print this goddamned slop. Who the hell's interested in an old tramhorse? Get on your toes! Get a bee under your tail!”

Suddenly the editor saw that Roger was entertaining a dignified visitor. He returned to his desk, slamming the door behind him.

Roger picked up the keys. “Thank you very much, Mr. Bittner, for what you've told me. Thank the members of the committee. But I . . . ? I . . . ? I'm uncomfortable when I'm given presents. I'm sorry, Mr. Bittner, but that's the way I am.” He laid the keys down soundlessly on Mr. Bittner's side of the table. “Thank you, I'm sorry.”

Mr. Bittner rose. He smiled and put out his hand. “I shall call on you again in November.”

Two nights later Roger walked to the address on Bowen Street. The windows on the fourth floor were dark. He compared the ground plan with that of the corresponding apartment on the first floor, where the windows were lighted and open. There would be a room for Sophia; his mother could come and visit him. He looked long at the lake. But he was just nineteen. Those rooms were for a full-grown man. He didn't want to be a full-grown man yet. Mr. Bittner renewed his offer in November and was again refused. Ashleys don't take presents. But it gave him a strange feeling, a hushed feeling: he was being watched by the good and the wise. Persons who did not give their names had unlocked his father's handcuffs and given his father a horse.

He tried to recall the words engraved on the stone . . . ? about a road . . . ? about deserts.

The Archbishop of Chicago had written Mr. Frazier a letter of appreciation on “Trent's” account of the inauguration of St. Casimir's Home. He had sent a copy of “A Cap for Florence Nightingale” to his sister, who directed a hospital in Thuringia. When Roger printed a “pudding” about the midnight procession around a church on the eve of its patron's day (“A Thousand Candles, A Thousand Singers”) he wrote again, inviting the author to lunch. Roger knew better than to accept invitations from the important and the well-to-do (as he put it to himself, he couldn't stand “face talk”), but the Archbishop had said there would be no other guests. Roger accepted it.

The door was opened by a young priest who stared at him in astonishment. The two had met frequently in the hospital.

“Hello!”

“Hello, Father Betz.”

They shook hands.

“Euh . . . ? Have you come from the hospital about something?”

“No. Archbishop Krüger's asked me to lunch.”

“Oh! Come in. . . . ? Are you sure it's today? He's expecting a man who works on a newspaper.”

“That's me.”

“A Mr. Frazier.”

“Yes.”

Roger was accustomed to this.

The Archbishop had been told that “Trent” was young. He expected to meet a man of forty. Roger expected to meet an imposing prelate. Both were astonished. The Archbishop was very old and bent; he spoke with what Roger described to himself as a “cricket's voice,” for he had had an operation on his throat. Both had beautiful manners—Roger's particularly toward the old, the Archbishop's particularly toward the young. The latter was delighted, amused, and moved; Roger was delighted and moved.

“You and Father Betz have met before? Did I hear you exchange greetings at the door, Mr. Frazier?”

“Yes, Father. I met him often in the South Side Hospital. I worked as an orderly there.”

“Ah, did you?” The Archbishop's conversation was interspersed—when he was pleased—with a continuous murmur of faint interjections: “Well, well,” and “Truly?” and “You don't say!”

Muttering gently, his face almost below the level of his shoulders, he led his guest into the dining room. He spoke some words in Latin, crossed himself, and pointed with both hands to Roger's chair.

“It is very kind of you . . . ? hm, yes . . . ? from your busy day to give me this opportunity to express my pleasure . . . ? oh, a great pleasure . . . ? at your most sympathetic, most understanding accounts of . . . ? the dear sisters at St. Elizabeth's were delighted . . . ? were
delighted
. . . ? oh, yes, oh, yes . . . ? at your story about the
capping
exercises of young nurses. You see things . . . ? you
see
things in a way that others do not see them. You not only instruct us, you enlarge us. Yes, I can say that.”

Roger laughed. He seldom laughed and only then where there was nothing to laugh about. He laughed now because of a certain sparkling gaiety that appeared and disappeared on his host's face. The thought occurred to him that it must be a great pleasure to have a thing he had never known: a grandfather.

It was a Friday in early Lent. They were served a little cup of soup made from greens, a trout, some potatoes, a glass of wine, and a bread pudding. Another unusual thing took place in Roger. In reply to his host's questions, he replied at length. He talked. He was asked about his early years.

“My real name is Roger Ashley. I was born in Coaltown in the southern part of the state.”

He waited. The Archbishop drew in his breath. He gazed into Roger's eyes in silence.

“Did you ever hear the story of my father's trial and escape, Father?”

“I did. . . . ? Would you wish to refresh my memory about it?”

Roger talked for ten minutes. The Archbishop interrupted him only once. He rang a small handbell. “Mrs. Kegan, be so kind as to give Mr. Frazier that other trout. . . . ? You young men have a good appetite. I remember that. And do kindly finish those creamed potatoes.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Roger.

“Kindly continue, Mr. Frazier.”

When Roger had finished his story, his host looked for a moment at a picture on the wall behind his guest's back. The murmured interjections had long ceased. Finally he said softly: “Those are very unusual events, Mr. Frazier.—And you do not know who your father's rescuers were?”

“No, Father.”

“You have no idea who they were?”

“No, Father.”

“What is your dear mother doing now?”

“She's running a boardinghouse in Coaltown.”

Silence.

“You have received no news of your father . . . ? of any kind . . . ? in . . . ? almost two years?”

“No, Father.”

Silence.

“Both your father and mother are Protestants?”

“Yes. Father took us every Sunday to the Methodist church. We went to Sunday school, too.”

“Were there . . . ?? Forgive me, did you have prayers in the home?”

“No, Father. My father and mother never talked about things like that.”

“You plan to be a writer? You will be a writer all your life?”

“No, Father. I only write these things to make money.”

“What will your life's work be, Mr. Frazier?”

“I don't see that very clearly yet.” Slowly Roger raised his eyes to those of the old man. In a low voice he said, “Father, I think you have something to say about those things that happened in Coaltown.”

“Do I? . . . ? Do I? . . . ? Mr. Frazier, those events are unusual. Your way of telling them is unusual. Your father's behavior was unusual. Let me say that to my eyes there are some unusual aspects that perhaps you do not see.”

Roger waited.

“I think I may be able to make clear what I mean by telling you a story. A story. A number of years ago in one of the southern provinces of China there was a wave of hatred against all foreigners. A considerable number were killed. All the members of one of our missions were taken prisoner—a bishop, four priests, six sisters, and two Chinese servants. All but the servants were German. Each was placed in a small cell in a long low building made of clay and pebbles. They were allowed no communication with one another. From time to time one or another of them would be led out to be tortured. They expected that at any moment they would be beheaded. However, their execution was delayed and after a few years they were released. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“The Bishop was placed in the central cell of thirteen. What do you think he did, Mr. Frazier?”

Roger thought a moment. “He . . . ? he started tapping on the walls. He counted the letters of the alphabet.”

The Archbishop was delighted. He rose and went to the wall. He rapidly tapped a group of five, then another group of five, then twice.

Again Roger thought a moment. “L,” he said.

“In German we think of I and J as one letter.”

“M,” said Roger.

The Archbishop returned to his seat.

“This could only be done very late at night and the tapping could only be heard through one wall. So, in the depth of the night messages of love and courage and faith were passed back and forth. Now the jailers had placed the two Chinese servants in the two end cells. They had been blinded by the guards so that they would not attempt to escape from those outer cells. They were Christians and they knew German, but they did not know how to read or write. The Chinese languages cannot be reduced to any pattern of tapping. How did the Bishop communicate with them?”

“I don't see how he could, Father.”

“The Chinese are very musical. He directed their neighbors to tap out the rhythms of the hymns they knew and the rhythms of the spoken prayers—of what you call the ‘Lord's Prayer.' They tapped back in joyous response. They had been rescued from their abandonment. Now in time several of these prisoners died. The cells were empty and the chain of communication was broken, wasn't it? But the Chinese put some other prisoners into those cells—an English silk merchant and an American businessman and his wife. They knew no German. The Bishop knew some French and some English. He sent messages from cell to cell in those languages and finally received a reply in English. He asked these prisoners kindly to transmit some messages in German to the cells beyond their own, explaining that they were words of religious comfort. Time was allotted to the newcomers. The Americans made it clear that they had no wish to partake of any religious messages, but across eight cells the husband comforted the wife and the wife the husband. How many were now transmitting patterns that were unintelligible to them?”