by Gore Vidal
“Yes. I’ve got a room in a hotel.”
“That’s funny, I thought you lived with your family or something. I thought Caroline said something about it.”
“My father used to live here. He lives in Boston now. He used to work here but he retired when I got out of the army.”
Richard Kuppelton nodded. “That’s right, I remember your telling me that once. Me, I live with all my family in Queens. We all live there. I wish sometimes that I lived alone.”
“It’s not much fun, living alone,” said Robert Holton.
“Think you’ll get married soon?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I think I might,” said Richard Kuppelton weightily; he had no one in mind, though; except possibly Caroline.
“I guess it’s a good idea if you’ve got the right person,” said Robert Holton.
“That’s very true.” They thought of this a moment. Each thought of it seriously and each regarded it distantly. Richard Kuppelton had no real desire to be married. He supposed that Robert Holton felt the same.
“I wonder,” said Kuppelton subtly, “what the conference is going to be about this afternoon. I wonder if it’s about promotions in the departments.”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“Since the war, seniority doesn’t make much difference.”
“I thought it did.”
Kuppelton shook his head, convinced of Holton’s insincerity. For weeks now everyone had discussed the new policy and everyone had watched the veterans in the different offices, especially Holton; it was expected that they would all be promoted: in any event Holton would be.
“No, it doesn’t make a bit of difference.”
Robert Holton smiled. He had small white teeth and an agreeable smile which Kuppelton resented. “That’s good news for me. I haven’t been here very long you know.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” and Kuppelton laughed loudly to show that he was friendly and that it made no difference to him who was promoted.
He glanced toward the windows. Mr. Murphy caught his eye and motioned to him. Quickly Richard Kuppelton got to his feet and walked across the room to the railing. He was careful not to let the gate slam when he came into Mr. Murphy’s presence.
“Yes, sir?”
“I just wanted to check with you on that aircraft stock report. I just wanted to make sure it was coming along well.”
“I’ve been working on it right along, Mr. Murphy. They’ll start typing it up tomorrow.”
Murphy compressed his lips and nodded slowly. “Mr. Golden was asking for it. I wanted to be sure, Dick.”
Kuppelton was suddenly glad that Mr. Murphy had called him by his first name. He did this only when he was well pleased or when he wanted something.
“It’s been quite a job getting those things together but I finally...got them together.”
“I know how it is. How’s your family these days?”
“They’re pretty well. My mother’s been better. Her legs don’t bother her so much now.”
“That’s good. Arthritis is pretty bad. I had a grandmother who had it once.”
“It’s pretty bad,” agreed Richard Kuppelton.
They both paused and wondered what to say next. Kuppelton began to edge toward the gate. Murphy stood up. “Let me see that thing as soon as you get it done.”
“I certainly will.”
Mr. Murphy turned to Caroline who was typing at her desk. “I’m going to be in conference for a while,” he said. “Take care of the calls, will you?”
“Yes, Mr. Murphy.”
“Big conference?” asked Kuppelton when Murphy had gone.
“I don’t know,” said Caroline and she stopped typing. “They were talking about it. Something to do with policy, I think.”
Caroline got up from her desk and stretched. She had nice slim legs, Kuppelton noticed. He wondered if his mother would like her. It was important to him to have his mother like his future wife—if he ever had one. She had been wonderful about the other girls he had liked but somehow they had never been quite what she thought his wife should be. He was her favorite son and he could not disappoint her, naturally.
“I guess that leaves me out,” he said wearily, hoping she would give him some good news.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” she said, a little coldly he thought, “you’ve got a good job now.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” he said emphatically.
“Oh, I know I am. Bob’s the fair-haired boy these days,” she added.
“I expect he is.”
Caroline walked to the window and looked down at the crowded street. “There really are a lot of people in this town,” she said in a distant voice.
“There sure are.”
“Do you ever wonder about all those people...down there?”
This was the sort of talk that made Richard Kuppelton nervous. He hated it when people started asking him vague questions to which there were no sensible answers. “No, I can’t say that I do.”
She turned around and looked at him then, looked at him rather sadly, he thought. “I’ve got work to do,” was all she said.
“See you, Caroline.”
Robert Holton was leaning back in his chair.
“Pretty dull, isn’t it?” commented Dick.
“The army was a lot duller.”
“I thought that was one thing that it wasn’t...dull.”
Robert Holton chuckled. “This is a lot better.”
“Don’t you miss moving around?”
He paused before he replied and Kuppelton wondered what the truth really was; however, Robert Holton only said, “No, no, I like staying in one place.”
Richard Kuppelton turned back to his books of figures. He wondered helplessly, as he wrote, how anyone could be as deceitful as Robert Holton. It was obvious to him that Holton would get the job he was to have gotten and he certainly could not get this job without being deceitful. Richard Kuppelton was worried about this. He was also worried because he found himself hating Robert Holton and his mother would never have approved of that.
Chapter Five
THE ULCER WAS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING.
After the ulcer his wife, and then his job, and finally his children. These were Mr. Murphy’s interests. At the moment the ulcer was more important to him than all the others together.
Ever since Mr. Murphy could remember, he had had pains in his stomach. Not really bad pains: just unpleasant sensations. In recent years this had gotten worse. A month before, a doctor examined him and said that he had an ulcer. The doctor was very serious and there was talk of further tests. Then Mr. Murphy read a picture magazine article on cancer.
He did not suspect cancer: he knew. The doctor, although he had been rather grave, had said nothing about cancer, but Mr. Murphy was confident he had it. He had tried to do everything right, to cure himself with bicarbonate of soda and other medicines but the pains not only didn’t go away but they got worse when he thought about them.
He pushed his fist into his stomach for a moment and felt the pain under his fingers. He cursed himself for having gone to the party the night before.
As he walked through his office he wished that he were home in bed. It would have been harder, of course, to stay home, because his wife was not very good with an illness. She had a tendency to become hysterical if she had to do anything unusual. No, it was better to be here at the office. To be here even if he was dying. This last thought made him uncomfortable and he put it out of his mind.
He looked at his watch—eleven-fifteen. The meeting would begin soon. Mr. Golden insisted that all meetings begin on time.
Mr. Murphy left his office. As he walked through the rooms he was pleased to have everyone speak to him politely. He was a person of importance here and he had become this all by himself with no help from anyone; practically no help.
The executive offices were larger and better decorated than the other offices. There were severa
l uniform rooms where the vice-presidents (they used to be partners but Mr. Golden had changed that) sat at big desks and received clients and dictated letters and did other things. Then there was the anteroom. This was a small room with red leather couches, a receptionist, some modern lamps and two portraits on the walls. These paintings were of Mr. Heywood and Mr. Golden. Beyond the anteroom was the boardroom.
The receptionist smiled at Mr. Murphy. He smiled back at her and sat down in one of the red leather couches. Two minor vice-presidents were also seated and waiting. They greeted him soberly.
“Nice morning,” said the younger of the vice-presidents; he had been a lieutenant commander in the navy.
“Certainly is,” said Mr. Murphy.
“I understood we’re in for a cold winter,” commented the older of the two vice-presidents; he had been a commander in the navy.
“Nothing like a real old-fashioned Christmas,” said Mr. Murphy in a smooth low voice. He was conscious of a difference in their voices. His own voice sounded rough to him while their voices were always smooth and almost British. He had noticed these differences before but there was nothing much he could do about them. In the front office he always felt less important because of this difference, and because of this and other things, too, he was made to feel an outsider.
The vice-presidents then talked in their cultured near-British voices about a certain college football game. Mr. Murphy lay back in his red couch and wondered if perhaps he should drink more milk. That was good for ulcers; but nothing was good for cancer. He shuddered.
A few more vice-presidents and section heads came into the anteroom. They talked and laughed together and Oliver L. Murphy talked and laughed with them.
There was a buzz and everyone stopped talking. The receptionist looked up from her desk. “They’re ready,” she said.
The men walked into the boardroom of Heywood and Golden.
A long room, with indirect lighting, thick carpets, and a long table with armchairs around it: this was the boardroom. On the walls were charts of stocks and trends.
Mr. Heywood was sitting at one end of the table and Mr. Golden was sitting at the other end of the table. Murphy sat down on the left of Mr. Heywood. This was his usual seat.
“Hello, Oliver,” said Mr. Heywood cheerily.
“Hello, Mr. Heywood.” Murphy was suddenly glad, glad that Mr. Heywood had called him by his first name; he did this only when he was well-pleased, or wanted something.
Oliver L. Murphy leaned back in his leather armchair. Mr. Heywood sat rather limply in his own chair at the head of the table. He waited for the others to be seated.
Lawrence Heywood was a gentleman. He had a large estate in Maryland and he collected prints; he had had three wives and a number of children and, generally, he had managed to do everything in a large but tasteful manner.
He was a tall man in his late forties. Completely bald, his neat round head shone pinkly under the indirect lights. His face was smooth and neat and looked as if he had never worried in his life. His voice was not near-British like his vicepresidents: it was British. He had gone to school in Massachusetts which explained a lot of it, thought Murphy.
Mr. Heywood did everything properly. He had inherited a lot of money. It seemed as if every year a new relative would die and leave more money to him. His three wives had all been beautiful and that was another thing to be said for him—he knew how to choose women. Mr. Murphy wondered what it would be like to marry a beautiful woman.
“How’s that new man in your office?” asked Mr. Heywood suddenly.
“You mean Holton? He’s doing very well.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We have a mutual friend,” and Mr. Heywood laughed gently at the thought.
“Is that right? He’s got a good background, I guess,” said Murphy.
“I expect so. I used to know his mother. She was a very attractive woman twenty years ago. She married....” Mr. Heywood decided not to reminisce in front of Murphy.
“He’s worked in my section, in the office, just fine.”
“That’s good. I don’t know him myself but I have some plans for him. We’re going to the same party tonight.” Mr. Heywood laughed gently again. “Perhaps we’ll get to know each other. It’s so hard ever getting to know employees in the office,” sighed Mr. Heywood. “I rather wish there weren’t so many of them sometimes.”
“I know just how it is.”
“We going to call this meeting together?” It was Mr. Golden’s high voice from the other end of the table.
“Certainly, Ben,” said Mr. Heywood. “We’ll start right now.” He picked up a black ebony gavel and tapped lightly, apologetically with it. The men stopped talking. “Now, let’s see,” began Mr. Heywood.
“The Steel account, that’s the big thing we’re going to talk about,” said Mr. Golden.
“That’s right.” Mr. Heywood sounded bored. “That’s right. Well, gentlemen, it seems that we have a problem.”
Mr. Murphy relaxed in his chair. Mr. Heywood’s voice, gentle and cultured, came to him soothingly. The Steel account was of no interest to Mr. Murphy; in fact, these conferences were generally of no interest to him. He was just there to talk about Statistics.
He played with papers in front of him. The voice of Mr. Heywood flowed about him. He was lost in a slow current of polite vowels. The pain in his stomach was, for the time, gone.
Mr. Heywood spoke of the market, of stocks and shares, of the state of the Union. He spoke convincingly because his manner was convincing and, also, because his ideas and facts had been given him by many clever men.
Mr. Golden sat at his end of the table and listened. He sat there very straight, his little mouth set in a soft line of pseudo-firmness. His small hands drummed on the table and his eyes glanced about the room. His eyes were always in motion. The fear of a thousand years was in Mr. Golden’s eyes.
From time to time he interrupted. Mr. Heywood would pause and listen; then, when the other had finished, he would continue in his gentle voice to tell the others what clever men had told him about Steel, and the men, whose livings depended upon him, listened respectfully to their ideas.
Mr. Murphy observed these things as he sat in his chair. He felt less important in these conferences but he did feel secure. Here in the boardroom he felt himself to be a part of something large and opulent—of American Business. This thought was comforting as well as sobering. There was no security in the world to equal that of belonging. It made no difference to what one belonged just as long as one was a part of something big and secure. And what, Oliver Murphy asked himself, could be bigger or more secure than Business? He saw these things clearly because he had a philosopher’s mind and the Celt’s ability to envisage life in a clear perspective. He could, he knew, see the trees as well as the forest. That was what made him different from the others. They felt, perhaps, that they belonged, but he knew.
Then the ulcer began to bother him.
He no longer was conscious of Mr. Heywood’s voice. The only thing of importance now was the dull pain in his stomach. He moved uneasily in his chair. He pushed a hand into his stomach. This helped a little. The pain shifted slightly. He followed it with his hand, his fingers pressing gently into the pain.
“We’ll want complete figures on the rise and fall of Arizona Zinc during the past five years.”
This was said by Mr. Heywood. It registered in Mr. Murphy’s mind but he didn’t respond for a moment.
“You’ll have those figures for us next meeting, won’t you?” Heywood asked, irritation in his voice.
“Certainly, Mr. Heywood,” said Murphy. He sat up straight and Mr. Heywood nodded to him and then continued to talk.
Oliver Murphy listened carefully to everything said. He was beginning to sweat from the pain and the fear (more fear than pain, he told himself) but still he strained to hear every word and, slowly, as he listened, magic took place and the pain went away.
At last, when certain decisions had been
made, Mr. Heywood adjourned the meeting.
Murphy stood up. He felt better now. He wondered if perhaps he might not be mistaken about the cancer.
“Oh, Murphy.”
“Yes, Mr. Heywood?”
“That fellow in your office, that Holton, you think he’s quite efficient?”
“I do.”
“I wonder,” said Mr. Heywood hesitantly, “I wonder how he might work out as one of our customers’ men. Dealing with the public, all that sort of thing.”
“He’d probably do that very well.”
“You could afford to lose him?”
“Oh, yes, I think so.”
“I wish,” said Mr. Heywood petulantly, “that I knew him better. It’s terrible having so little contact with the office people.”
“I could send him in to see you.”
“Good Lord, no! I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ll wait and see him tonight at Mrs Stevanson’s.”
“When do you think you’ll change him over?”
“Oh, I don’t know. If I think he has the suitable, ah, temperament, we might change him this week.”
“I know he’ll be really tickled to hear this.”
“I expect so.”
“How is Mrs Heywood?” asked Murphy politely.
“She’s fine, thank you,” said Mr. Heywood blankly. Trouble, decided Murphy. The third Mrs Heywood seemed to be following the previous Mrs Heywoods.
“Well...” said Murphy and he mumbled words to himself as he walked toward the door. Mr. Heywood stared vacantly at him as he left.
Mr. Murphy felt well when he was in motion. Walking with great dignity from office to office, conscious of the eyes of others upon him, was good for him. Aware of being a symbol of success he forgot his pains and some of his worries.
As he went into the Statistical office he could feel the atmosphere change. The clerks and typists became busy.
Mr. Murphy went to his desk. “Any calls?” he asked.
Caroline shook her head. When she shook, her breasts quivered slightly. Mr. Murphy noticed this and his stomach constricted with pain. Emotion was bad for him, according to the doctors. He looked away and tried to think of something else.
