The Troubled Air (32 page)

Mr. Sandler looked fiercely at Archer. Archer didn’t laugh. He was sorry he had heard the joke: Its bitter lilt, he knew, would echo and re-echo in his brain whenever he talked to a Jew from now on. There was nothing to be said, he felt. This was intra-mural information, not to be commented on by strangers. Mr. Sandler sighed, surprisingly. He resumed eating, moving the food neatly on his plate. The flush receded from his face, and his old man’s grouchy anger seemed for the moment to be spent. “And what do they think would happen to them if there was Communism here?” Mr. Sandler asked mildly, his voice adapted to theory. “What’s happening in Russia? The Jews’re being wiped out. First the religion—then the community—then the individual. It’s in the papers every day land even so they won’t believe it. There’s no room for a minority. Everybody’s got to be the same. They wiped out millions of their own people. Why do you think they’ll stop at the Jews? And it’s in the papers every day. All you have to do is read. Aaah—sometimes I wake up in the morning and I say, ‘Thank God I’m an old man and I’m going to die in four years.’ ” He stared down thoughtfully at his plate. “I was the one,” he said softly, “who told Hutt Pokorny had to be fired immediately. I hate Pokorny—personally—even though I’ve never met him.”

“I don’t think you’re being quite fair,” Archer said. “Pokorny hasn’t said a political word since 1925.”

“Maybe not,” Mr. Sandler said. “But he lied to get in here. And he’s married to a Communist. If you live with a woman you’re responsible for her.”

Archer thought of the enormous and furious woman and the meek, slipshod little round man. He grinned at the possibility of anyone’s being responsible for Mrs. Pokorny. “You ought to see the lady,” he said.

“I’m not interested,” Mr. Sandler said curtly. “And the sooner the sonofabitch is out of the country the better I’ll like it.”

Archer looked across at the old man picking gingerly at his food. The face was set, implacable, sixty years of stubbornness freezing the long, thin mouth. Pokorny, Archer thought, doomed in Vienna, Mexico, Philadelphia, unacceptable to Gentile or Jew.

“I think,” Archer said gently, more for his own sake than from any hope of saving the musician, “that you might at least give him fifteen minutes and talk to him …”

“I don’t want to hear anything more about him,” Mr. Sandler said flatly. “Not a word.” He put down his knife and fork with a gesture of finality. “It’s getting late,” he said, looking at his watch. “I have to get back to the plant. I’m going to offer you a proposition. I’m not going to bargain with you, Archer. Take it or leave it as I give it to you. Pokorny is out. Motherwell is out. Permanently. Atlas is out. If he won’t lift a finger to defend himself, I can’t be bothered with him.”

Archer stared at the old man. He was speaking in a clipped, decisive voice, giving orders as he had been giving orders for forty years. His teeth clicked as he talked. They were his own teeth, Archer decided. How many thousands of dollars, Archer speculated, listening, have gone to dentists to preserve those old, cleansed bones.

“Weller …” For the first time, Mr. Sandler hesitated. “We’ll see about her. Keep her off for awhile, three weeks, a month. Then maybe you can slip her back once or twice and see what happens. As for Herres …” He stopped.

Archer felt himself growing rigid in his chair. The fork in his hand trembled a little and he put it down carefully on the plate in front of him.

“You guarantee,” Mr. Sandler said softly, “that Herres is not a Communist.”

“Yes,” said Archer, after a moment.

“You’ve known him a long time,” Mr. Sandler said. “I trust you.” The words were intended to be kind, Archer realized, but the tone was cold and threatening. “I’ve decided you’re an honest man and I’m taking your word on Herres. And it’s hard to fire a man who was wounded and won the Silver Star. But, remember—I’m doing this on your responsibility. No one else’s. I hold you personally accountable for Herres. Is that understood?”

“Understood.”

“Now,” Mr. Sandler said. “That’s the deal. If you want it, I’ll call Hutt this afternoon and tell him who’s staying and who’s going. If you don’t want it—I’ll accept your resignation right now.”

Mr. Sandler peered at Archer, his eyes narrow and searching. Archer looked down at his plate. Three sacrificed, he thought, three saved. Counting himself. Actually, including Motherwell, it was only two sacrificed. And Pokorny was hopeless, in any event. Outlawed, rejected, caught in clumsy, long-ago errors beyond anyone’s power to rectify. Fighting for him was hopeless, romantic, meaningless destruction. And Atlas … Money in the bank, rents from two buildings, with a passage to France in his pocket … You might feel, perhaps, that it was unjust, but pity was not demanded.

“All right,” Archer said, “I want it.”

Mr. Sandler nodded. He looked down at his watch again. “If you skip coffee,” he said, “you can make the two-o’clock train.”

Archer stood up. “I’ll get my coffee in the diner,” he said. “Thanks for the lunch.”

Mr. Sandler sat in his place, looking up at Archer, his forehead wrinkled, as though there was one last doubt he was pondering. Then he shook his head and stood up. He put out his hand and Archer shook it.

“Come down again, some time,” Mr. Sandler said. “I’ll take you through the plant.”

“Thank you,” said Archer. “I’ll try to make it.”

“I think I’ll just sit here for a moment,” Mr. Sandler said, sliding back into his chair. “If you don’t mind. Have my coffee quietly.” He was almost mumbling now. Suddenly he seemed like a tired old man, wrinkled, low in energy, full of doubts and premonitions, testy, wanting to be left alone with his old man’s reflections.

“Of course,” Archer said. “Good-bye.” He walked past the other tables. Somebody had just told a joke and the four men at one table were laughing loudly.

By the time the train reached Trenton, Archer felt that he had engineered a triumph that noon in Philadelphia.

“Y
OU CAN GO IN NOW,” MISS WALSH SAID. “MR. HUTT IS READY FOR
you now.” There was a frost on Miss Walsh this morning. Like a sensitive pet, she reflected the mood of her master. As Archer went toward Hutt’s door, he noticed the slight glitter of perspiration all over Miss Walsh’s face. Maybe, he thought cruelly, I’ll put one of those advertisements for the new deodorants in an envelope and send it to her through the mails, anonymously. The Chlorophyl tablet, to be taken by mouth, and guaranteed to neutralize all body odors, all vapors of sweat and metabolic processes, for twenty-four hours at a time. Neutrality in Miss Walsh was much to be desired.

Hutt was behind his desk, his face sunburned and peeling over his neat gray flannel suit. O’Neill was sitting, very straight, near the window. The night before, at midnight, Hutt had called Archer from the airport in Florida and had told him to be in the office at three o’clock. Over the long wire, Hutt’s voice had been remote and without passion. “I’ll be in by then,” he had said, without any preliminaries. “I want to talk to you.”

Whatever O’Neill or Miss Walsh had said to the contrary, Hutt had not been out of reach of the telephone. Momentarily, Archer wondered what the conversation between Mr. Sandler and Hutt, sunburned, in a gay shirt, on a warm beach, had been like the day before.

“Sit down,” Hutt said, in his soft voice. O’Neill said nothing. He stared at Archer, his face grave, sober, waiting.

Archer seated himself on a hard chair. He tried to arrange his legs so that he looked at ease.

“You’ve been very clever, Archer,” Hutt said flatly, almost whispering. The bright wedge of his vacation-stained face was calm and expressed nothing. “You’ve won what might be called a temporary success.” He waited, as if to hear what Archer had to say to this. But Archer remained silent.

“I don’t know what you said to Mr. Sandler,” Hutt went on. “But you must have been very convincing.” There was almost a tone of flattery in his voice. “The old man is not ordinarily easy to convince. You also managed to get me on a plane and interrupt a very pleasant vacation.” Still, there was no complaint or censure in his voice. Even now, he sounded as though he was surprised and impressed by the far-reaching ingenuity of a man whom he had not regarded particularly highly before this. “Prior to your little journey to Philadelphia,” Hutt went on, “you knew, of course, about our rule about approaching any of our sponsors?”

“Yes,” Archer said. “I did.”

Hutt nodded pleasantly. “I thought as much. So it wasn’t ignorance that led you to violate one of the oldest customs of this organization.”

“No,” Archer said. “It was quite deliberate.” He saw that Hutt was waiting for him to continue, but he kept silent, resolved not to defend himself.

“It may interest you to know,” Hutt said, “that before you came in here O’Neill and I were discussing the advisability of dropping the Sandler account altogether.” He waited again, but Archer merely peered blandly at him, refusing to be drawn out.

“We decided not to drop it,” Hutt said, “for the time being. We will go on with it—under the—ah—new conditions imposed by you and Mr. Sandler. Looking at the question in the round, we agreed that it was inadvisable to force this particular issue at the moment. Didn’t we, Emmet?”

“Yes,” said Emmet, staring stonily ahead of him.

“From now on, Archer,” Hutt whispered, his freckled hands flat out on the desk in front of him, “we will institute a change in system. Emmet will do all the hiring for University Town. You can, of course, submit a list of people to him, but the final choice will be with him. Is that clear?”

Archer hesitated. When he had signed the contract for the program, he had fought hard for the right to choose his own people. Without it, a director could hardly be responsible for the quality of what went over the air. Still, he thought wearily, I’ve made so many compromises—one more or less is of small importance. And O’Neill was a reasonable man. “OK,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.”

“Exactly.” Hutt smiled gently. “We’ve decided that University Town is in need of more direct supervision than heretofore.”

Heretofore, Archer thought, I don’t know another man who would use “heretofore” in conversation.

“I don’t know,” Hutt went on, “whether you’ve informed Mr. Herres and Mrs. Weller of their new—ah—status. …”

“No,” Archer said, “I haven’t. I was waiting to talk to you and O’Neill.”

“Ah,” Hutt said softly, “were you? Technically, which would you prefer? Would you like Emmet to speak to them or would you prefer to do it in person and savor the full taste of victory yourself?” Hutt smiled obliquely and softly at him from behind the desk.

“I’ll call them,” Archer said.

Hutt shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He looked down at his desk reflectively, incongruously and humorously sunburned, with his nose peeling and the tips of his ears very red. “I think that about clears it up. Except for one thing. I’m sorry you didn’t decide to heed my warning the last time you were in this office. If you recall, I told you that it was dangerous in these times to find yourself defending unpopular causes. …”

“I’m not defending any cause,” Archer said. “I’m defending two people who deserve it. That’s all.”

Hutt waved his hand deprecatingly and smiled again. “Unpopular people, then,” he said gently. “I don’t know exactly what your reasons are but I no doubt shall discover them in good time.” The threat was there and Archer noted it. “Meanwhile,” Hutt went on, his voice barely audible on the other side of the desk, “I’m afraid I have to tell you that you’ve destroyed any value you might have had in the future to our organization. …”

Our organization, Archer thought. He says it in the same way he might say our church, our regiment, our flag, our country. He never uses the word company or corporation or business.

“Somehow,” Hutt said with a thin smile, “you seem to have mesmerized poor foolish old Mr. Sandler and I must keep you on for the time being for his sake. …”

Archer stood up. “I got him full of gin,” he said, “and promised him two blondes the next time he came to New York, if you want to know how I worked it. I’ll be going now. I have some work to do.” He felt himself trembling and knew that a dozen rash and hateful and hurting things were forcing themselves to his tongue and he knew he shouldn’t say them. He made himself walk slowly to the door.

“One final word, Mr. Archer,” Hutt said, still seated at his desk, looking down reflectively at his hands, flat on the desk, with the mark of the Southern holiday sun on them, “before you leave. Let me advise you to be discreet. After University Town is finished—and perhaps sooner—you will find yourself no longer working for us. I would be less than candid if I didn’t tell you that it is entirely possible that you will find yourself working for no one at all.” He looked up then, staring at Archer, thin-faced, urbane, baleful, pleased to let Archer know that he was his enemy and that he was powerful.

Amazing, Archer thought, even when he threatens a man, he does it in paragraphs. Archer looked at the slender man behind the desk, feeling that all means of communication were down between them. There was nothing to say. Archer turned on his heel and went out. Miss Walsh looked at him damply as he passed her.

Standing in the telephone booth downstairs, Archer listened to the buzzing in the receiver and watched the traffic in the lobby. Portly middle-aged men in overcoats trotted by, stenographers with glasses, office-boys carrying bags in which the mid-afternoon coffee was put up in containers. All of them with hurried, business faces, discontented, wishing it was five-thirty. Watching them, Archer decided that he would be more careful from now on about the expression on his face. The mouth, he decided, is the crucial feature. The women, he thought, are the worst. Woman after woman who would otherwise have been quite pretty passed the booth window, unconscious of being watched, their youth and their good looks canceled by the down-pulling lines of petulance, self-pity, disappointment, hunger. Has it always been like this, Archer wondered, or is this a special stigma of the time and place, of New York and 1950?

He heard the click at the other end of the wire, and then Vic’s voice.