The victim (14 page)

Allbee remarked feeling the mattress. "Now what else do you need-you want to wash? There's the bathroom." "I'd like a shower," said Allbee. "It's been a long time since I had one." Leventhal gave him a towel and found an old bathrobe for him in the closet. He sat down on the bed in his crumpled pajamas and listened disquieted to the water pelting the shower curtain and streaming in the tub. Soon Allbee came out, carrying his clothes. Wet and combed, his yellow hair gave him quite a different look. Leventhal observed his feet with a queer feeling of aversion. The insteps were red, coarse, and swollen, his toes long and misshapen, with heavy nails. "Amazing, what a shower can do for you," said Allbee. "I'm going to sleep," Leventhal said. He switched off the bed lamp. "Good night," said Allbee. "I'm really grateful for this hospitality." "Okay. There's milk in the refrigerator, if you want something." "Thanks, I may have a glass." He went toward the dining-room. Leventhal covered himself and pulled the pillow into position. The door of the refrigerator clicked open and he thought, "He is taking some." He was already falling asleep when he heard it shut.

14

HE slept but he did not rest. His heart beat swiftly and the emotions of the day still filled him. He had an unclear dream in which he held himself off like an unwilling spectator; yet it was he that did everything. He was in a railroad station, carrying a heavy suitcase, forcing his way with it through a crowd the sound of whose shuffling rose toward the flags hanging by the hundreds in the arches. He had missed his train, but the loud-speaker announced that a second section of it was leaving in three minutes. The gate was barely in sight; he could never reach it in time. There was a recoil of the crowd--the guards must have been pushing it back--and he found himself in a corridor which was freshly paved and plastered. It seemed to lead down to the tracks. "Maybe they've just opened this and I'm the first to find it," he thought. He began to run and suddenly came to a barrier, a movable frame resembling a sawhorse. Holding the suitcase before him, he pushed it aside. Two men stopped him. "You can't go through, I've got people working here," one of them said. He wore a business suit and a fedora, and he looked like a contractor. The other man was in overalls. "I must, I've got to get to the tracks," Leventhal said. "There's a gate upstairs. This isn't open to the public. Didn't you see the sign on the door? What door did you come through?" "I didn't come through any door," said Leventhal angrily. "This is an emergency; the train's leaving." The second man appeared to be a thoughtful, sympathetic person, but he was an employee and couldn't interfere. "You can't go back the way you came, either," the contractor told him. "There's a sign up there. You'll have to leave through here." Leventhal turned and a push on the shoulder sent him into an alley. His face was covered with tears. A few people noticed this, but he did not care about them. He found himself not awake, precisely, but so nearly awake as to be conscious that he lay in the dark. He had a sense of marvelous relief at the end of the dream. He was, it seemed to him, in a state of great lucidity, and he experienced a rare, pure feeling of happiness. He was convinced that he knew the truth, and he said to himself with satisfaction, "Yes, I do know it, positively. Will I know it in the morning? I do now." For what he thought would have been very strange to his waking mind, difficult to accept if not downright foolish. But why was that? "Why?" he reflected. "Dear God, am I so lazy, so weak, is my soul fat like my body?" His heart was jolting painfully; nevertheless he felt confident and happy. What was it? What did he and others do? Admittedly, like others, he had been in the wrong. That was not so important, either. Everybody committed errors and offences. But it was supremely plain to him that everything, everything without exception, took place as if within a single soul or person. And still--here he was almost tempted to smile at himself--still he suspected, more than suspected, knew, that tomorrow this would be untenable. "I won't be able to hold onto it," he thought. Something would prevent it. He had a particularly vivid recollection of the explicit recognition in Allbee's eyes which he could not doubt was the double of something in his own. Where did it come from? "Speak of black and white," he mused. Black and white were Mr Schlossberg's words, to which he frequently returned. Either the truth was simple or we had to accept the fact that we could not know it, and if we could not know it there was nothing to go by. "There's just so much that we can do. What's the use of wearing yourself out for nothing?" Leventhal said to himself. No, the truth must be something we understand at once, without an introduction or explanation, but so common and familiar that we don't always realize it's around us. Gripping the pillow, he turned over and shut his eyes. He was too stirred to sleep, however. He could hear Allbee's breathing, and he got up and closed the connecting door. He had forgotten to set the alarm and he woke up late. The day was gray and hot. Irritated at oversleeping, he dressed and shaved hastily. After he washed off the lather he still looked unshaven. He shook some powder onto a towel, rubbed it on his chin, and slipped a shirt over his head. He had no time to stop for breakfast. In the kitchen he picked up an orange to eat on the way to the subway. He went into the dining-room where Allbee lay face down, closely wrapped in the sheet. His broad calves were bare, his arms thrown forward, one hand touching the chair on which his clothes were heaped. Leventhal pulled at the mattress, but Allbee did not stir, and he was about to shake him but hesitated, nervously and angrily, and decided it would be unwise. For if he got him up now he was liable to lose half the morning in getting him out of the house. Leventhal did not know what to do about him. However--he looked at his watch -there was no time to deliberate now. Full of misgivings, he started for the office. He almost welcomed his green metal desk with its hundreds of papers. The great, cloud-filled gray space his windows opened on seemed stationary. The activity around him, the swinging of the gates as the girls strode through them, the tremor and shimmer of the long-stemmed fans, had a settling effect on him. He worked hard. By eleven o'clock he had finished a complete set of galleys and he went in to Mr Beard to discuss a lead article for the next number. Millikan, the son-in-law, was there, sitting beside the old man. He took no part in the conversation. Beard made a few remarks of tentative opposition, merely, Leventhal felt, for the sake of his authority, because he wanted to avoid agreeing at once, not because he had counter-suggestions. His eyeshade, dividing his forehead with its white blots from the rest of his face, hid his expression somewhat, but there were indications that he was pretty well satisfied. His mouth and jaw showed it. "Well, can I handle your goddamned job?" Leventhal wanted to ask. He did not say this, he looked casual. Nevertheless a deep quiver of vindication went through him. "Everything is going smoothly," he remarked. Neither of them answered. Leventhal prolonged the silence for nearly a minute, until he forced a nod from Beard, and then he stalked out. He didn't claim to be indispensable; on the other hand, they might admit occasionally, without killing themselves, that he was valuable to them. With all his troubles and distractions, he was still finishing his work well within the deadlines. And Beard realized how efficient he was, that was why he had said that unpleasant thing to Mr Fay. "What really bothers him," Leventhal thought, "is having to admit that he needs anyone for his business. He wants to be the one, the only, and the all-important. That's not the way a modern concern is run. He'll always be small potatoes." On the way back to his desk, he encountered Mr Fay. The fact that Fay had made an effort that day to defend him had led Leventhal to hope for more, a hint as to what had happened, an attempt to warn or advise him. One sign was all that was necessary. It wouldn't hurt to have a friend in the office. Moreover he wanted to thank Fay for putting in a word for him. "Maybe he will talk, one of these days," Leventhal told himself. Fay stopped him and mentioned an advertiser who was finishing a new plant that ought to be written up. He had spoken of it before. This time Leventhal was attentive, asked for more of the details, made notes on his pad, and said, "That's easy to fix up." He looked at Fay so expectantly that the latter seemed to think he was going to say more and paused, his dark eyes actively questioning under his graying, short brows and behind the shining circles of his glasses. "Yes," said Leventhal, "I'll get the story for you," and, with a mixture of impressions and, principally, the feeling that Fay was going to disappoint him, he turned away. The ringing of the phone, reminding him of his sick nephew and of Allbee whom he had left sleeping, brought the blood to his face. He jerked his neck awkwardly as he fixed the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, praying that it might be a business call. With one hand he feverishly worked at the tangled wires. At first he heard no one and he tried to signal the operator. Presently she broke in casually with, "Somebody by the name of Williston, for you." To restore his self-command, he stopped his breath for an instant. Then he said, "Put him on." He swung slowly back in the leather-backed chair, pulling a drawer open with the tip of his shoe and throwing bis leg over it. "Hello," Williston said. "Hello, Stan, how've you been?" "Pretty fair." "You calling about Allbee?" Leventhal knew perfectly well that this directness was what Williston least wanted; Williston preferred to be roundabout. But why should he permit it? He did not answer immediately. "Well, aren't you?" "I suppose I am. Yes, I am," Williston said, sounding reluctant. "I was wondering if you had seen him." "Oh, I've seen him. He's been coming around. As a matter of fact, he showed up last night; said he was kicked out of his rooming house. I put him up. He stayed over." "Kicked out?" Williston doubtfully said. "What's the matter, you think I'm exaggerating? You haven't seen him. One look at him and it wouldn't sound so impossible." "What does he aim to do?" "I wish I could tell, but he probably couldn't say himself. If you want to know, I think he's probably sick. There must be something wrong with him." Williston seemed to consider this; there was no reply for a while. Then he said, "Hasn't he given you any clue as to what he wants?" "Too many clues. I can't get any single thing out of him, that's the trouble." He slipped his leg from the drawer and bent over the desk, cradling the phone in both hands. "You should hear him; you'd find out in a hurry there was something wrong." Williston's voice came back in a drawling laugh. "He's trying to calm me down," thought Leventhal, feeling discouraged. "He thinks I'm overdoing the complaining and wants to kid me out of it." "Oh, it isn't that bad, is it?" said Williston. "It's plenty bad. You don't know how bad it is. I tell you, you haven't seen him or heard what he's got to say, what his line is. I did go wrong with Rudiger, I know, and that whole business was unfortunate. I won't try to duck out of it, although I could if I wanted to. But listen, you have no idea what he's like. Probably the thing to do is to get him a job. Whether he'll take it or not is another story. Maybe he doesn't want to work. I can't tell you. He wants everything, and I don't think he wants to do anything. He keeps play acting with me." He stopped and grumbled to himself, "I'll put him straight whether he wants to be put straight or not." "Oh, now, that's just boyishness," said Williston. Leventhal was unable to decide to which of them the boyishness was attributed. He hunted for words, bluntly bracing his face against the difficulty of carrying on this conversation. It was purposeless, an added burden. "Well, maybe you can make a useful suggestion, Stan." "I said I'd do whatever I could." Williston appeared to feel himself accused. "After all, I'm supposed to be his enemy. You're his friend." He did not hear all of his answer. He only caught a reference to a "practical step" and understood that Williston was impatient with the way the conversation was going. "Sure I'm in favor of something practical," he replied. But as soon as the words were out he was aware that he and Williston had swung farther than ever, hopelessly far, from the real issues. Over the telephone the "practical step" was vague enough and when he tried to apply it to Allbee it dissolved into irrelevance. For himself, the practical step was to get rid of the man, and this was not what Williston had in mind. "You think of something," he urged. "You know him. Maybe you can figure out what would satisfy him." "He must have a definite object. If I could talk to him I might find out." "How would you get to talk to him? He doesn't want you to know anything about him. He was mad when he found out I talked to you about him. But I'll suggest it to him and see what happens." "I'll expect to hear from you, then," said Williston. "You won't forget to call, will you?" "I'll call you," Leventhal promised. He hung up and, setting the phone on some of his papers as a weight, he made an abstracted survey of his desk, slipped his jacket from the back of the chair, and started out to lunch. He went down in the elevator amid a crowd of girls from the commercial school upstairs, largely unconscious of the pleasure that he took in their smooth arms and smooth faces. The elevator sank slowly in the musty shaft with a buzz of signals and a sparking of tiny arrowheads. On the street Leventhal bought a paper and glanced through it in the cafeteria. After lunch, he walked toward the river, passing through the sidewalk markets, between the sacks of coffee beans. The roasting odor was mixed with the smell of gas. The occasional piping of a tug or the low blurt of a steamer came through the trample and jamming of trucks, and booms bristled like the spikes of a maguey, dividing the white of the sky as the piers did that of the water. He was the first to return to the office; the place was empty. A breeze passed over the papers on the desk or left rolled in the typewriters, and shadowed the green linen blinds on the crosspieces of the windows. He stepped out onto the fire escape to finish his cigar, and had just ground it out on the rail and tossed it into the air when one of the phones began to ring. In the violence of his turn, he struck his shoulder on the doorframe and for an instant he could not see--the interior of the office seemed black. The ringing filled the air wildly, coming from all four corners of the room simultaneously. He felt a clutch of horror at his heart, and the thrilling, piercing run of the bell was infinitely faster than the flow of his blood. He reached his desk. The call was for him. "Yes? Who wants me?" he cried to the operator. It was Villani. Leventhal closed his eyes. It was what he had been expecting. Mickey was dead. He listened awhile to Villani and then roared out, "Where is my damned brother!" "He came in last night," said Villani. "He went straight out to the hospital. It was too late already. Poor little boy." Leventhal put the phone down. He could not restrain the play of muscles in his throat. He held himself off from the edge of the desk, as if about to stand up, and with the sick drop of fuller realization his broad face lost all color and his features grew thick. After a time he picked up a pad and, printing Mr Beard's name in large crayon strokes, wrote under it, "Death in the family" and, rising, went to lay it on his desk. He walked with angry energy to the toilet and began to bathe his head. He had a crushing headache. Over