Harlot's Ghost

by Norman Mailer

  So I hovered between, half a lover entering the hypnotism of love, and half an onlooker doomed to observe myself in the act of love. On I sawed, back and forth.

  Soon she was moist and did not wince each time I plunged, or was it that she winced less? I must have made love at ferocious speed because the powers of displeasure were certainly growing—this wretched room and yes, this poor and hungry girl who loved me from the outside first—America first! I moved in two worlds at once, in pleasure, and in lack of pleasure, and it kept me moving. I did not dare to stop or all erection could be gone; then there came a few minutes when the sweat stood on my neck. In this chill half-heated icebox of a chamber, standing, feet on the floor, while a strange young woman was laid out before me on the bed, no heat gathered in my loins. I was lost in a perpetual-motion machine, I was in the purgatory of desire, and I humped and I pumped beneath a pall, on and on, until the image of Butler’s knotted buttocks came back to me again, and the perpetual motion machine staggered, took a loop, then a leap, and the filaments of heat began to revolve in me and my body to quake with the onset of the irreversible. Pictures of her vagina flickered in my brain next to images of his ass, and I started to come, and continued to come, and to come from the separate halves of me, and had a glimpse of the endless fall that may yet be found on our way into the beatitudes.

  We shared a cigarette. I was feeling a good bit better now. Achievement was my portion. Gloom might still reside in the outer reaches, but half the world was better than none. I adored Ingrid, and did not feel a thing for her. At the end, I had been all alone in myself. Now, she nuzzled my nose with her fingertip as if we were newlyweds and she was examining the features to face her in years to come. Then she spoke: Tomorrow at work she would inform Maria. That was the sum of her first speech. Ingrid was filing territorial rights.

  “What will you tell her?” I asked. Maria, in secret, was my preference, and it occurred to me that if Ingrid spoke well of me, perhaps Maria would take another look.

  “If she asks, I will say”—and she intoned the next words with special clarity—“schwerer Arbeiter, aber süsser,” and Ingrid offered a kiss.

  It did not seem to me that the mysterious Maria would be particularly intrigued by a hard worker who was sweet.

  The dawn was coming at the window. Ingrid would now go back to her husband, to her child, her mother, her brothers, and her cousins, and I would have time to change, take a bath, and go to work.

  9

  I NEVER DID GET TO SLEEP NEXT DAY. A TAXI RIDE AT DAWN DROPPED INGRID off at the shabby seven-story apartment house where she lived, then a stop at my apartment, a shower—I was off to my job.

  If I had hope that Bill Harvey could have forgotten his last conversation with me, it was at once dispelled. Before I filled my coffee mug from the urn, the buzzer rang, and Chief ’s low voice reverberated in my ear. “Start the London push with these fellows,” he said, and furnished me three cover names: Otis, Carey, Crane. “Approach them in that order. Otis is an old friend. Has the clout to do the job. Carey’s a hard worker and will produce. Crane is less experienced but a go-getter.”

  “Chief, do you want me to put all three on the job?”

  “Hell, no. Take the first one who is available. Tell him it’s worth a couple of Brownie points.” He hung up.

  I had by now developed enough sense of Company security to anticipate the difficulties. If Berlin Base wished to speak to Station in London, or in Paris, or, for that matter, in Japan or Argentina, such telephone traffic had to be routed through the hub in Washington. It was out of bounds to go around the rim. If the procedure was time-consuming, I undertook it nonetheless with no disdain. Exposure to the shenanigans of the cellar bar had led me to see why foreign outposts of the Company were not encouraged to communicate directly with each other. Given the amount of deviant behavior in the world, communications along the rim could become damnably exposed—far safer to feed all messages into the hub and out again.

  So I was soon engaged in the webwork of prearranging telephone calls from Berlin to Washington to London, and spent the morning putting in requests to speak at specific times that afternoon on secure phone installations at London Station with Otis, Carey, and Crane.

  By early afternoon, I reached cover-name Otis in London.

  “What the hell is this,” he asked, “and who are you? My boss is pinning donkey tails on my ass. He thinks I’m looking to transfer to Berlin.”

  “No, sir, it’s not like that at all,” I told him. “Big BOZO, Berlin, needs a helping hand in London. On a minor matter.”

  “If it’s minor, why didn’t Bill use a fucking pay phone and call me at my apartment?”

  I was uneasy that Harvey’s first name was used so freely, but then this was a secure phone. I replied, “The matter, when all is said, may not be minor. We don’t know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sloate. Charley Sloate.”

  “Well, Charley boy, tell me, what made Harvey think of me?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Otis. He said you were an old friend.”

  “Bill Harvey doesn’t have old friends.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Who are you, the flunky?”

  “A rose by any other name,” I managed to say.

  Otis began to chuckle. “Charley boy,” he said, “do me a favor. Walk Bill Harvey’s little project around the corner and kick it in the ass.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’m going to break a rule of two months’ standing and have a martini before five.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Bill Harvey. Jesus!”

  He hung up.

  While I did have some idea that SM/ONION was not going to be found in London, I still had to proselytize Carey or Crane into working on our request; otherwise, I could face Base Chief Harvey with a report that I had nothing to report.

  I prepared, therefore, to speak to Carey, the man described as able to produce. I told myself that Carey would not know the rank of Charley Sloate and I must address him as an equal. I had certainly been too meek with Otis.

  It was a firm preparation, but Mr. Carey was not in London. His secretary, however, was pleased to be talking over a secure phone. “This,” she said, “is the first time for me, Mr. Sloate. I hope you won’t take it personally, but you sound like you’re down in a well. Do I sound sort of ghoulish too?”

  “We will improve on closer acquaintance.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “Thank you.”

  “May I say whatever I want to over this phone?” she asked.

  “It’s safe.”

  “Well, Mr. Carey is in America. Can he assist you from there?”

  “I don’t believe so. When’s he coming back?”

  “Oh, it’s at least a couple of weeks. He and his wife are getting a divorce, and he’s over there to divide the property. It’s a difficult time for him.”

  “Could you do something for me?” I asked.

  “I’d be glad to.”

  “We’re trying to locate a Company man who’s been assigned to London. All we have is his cryptonym.”

  “Mr. Sloate, I’d love to be of help, but that kind of access is closed to me.”

  “Yes, I thought it might be.”

  “In fact, I received a reprimand from Mr. Carey because I wasn’t careful enough. You won’t repeat this?”

  “No.”

  “Well, once or twice, I let slip his real name while talking to his colleagues, and that is a negative mark. I knew they were aware of the selfsame real name, so I wasn’t as properly careful as I should have been about cover.”

  “I have trouble with such stuff too,” I said.

  “You’re nice.” She paused. “Will you ever get to London?”

  We chatted about whether I would ever get to London. She assured me that it was a good place for Americans.

  I was down to Mr. Crane, the go-getter. On the assigned time for ASTOR (Approved Secure Telephon
e Rendezvous), I encountered the voice of the man who would indeed help me.

  “Yes,” he said, “Crane on the line. I’ve been waiting. How is big BOZO?”

  “Well, he’s fine. Working hard.”

  “Great man. You tell him I said I would do anything he wants, and this is before I even know what it is.”

  “He’ll enjoy your trust in him.”

  “Tell him I’ve learned a little more about poker since he took me down to my BVDs.”

  “Is that a warning not to get into a game with him?”

  “Mr. Sloate, you’ll learn at the feet of a master. And you will pay for it.” He cleared his throat. Over the secure phone, it sounded like a motorcycle starting up, and I thought of the myriad of electrons scrambling and unscrambling themselves to the sound. “Hit me with the task,” Mr. Crane said. “Harder the better.”

  “Person in question has been trying to locate one of our people, a Junior Officer Trainee, who’s been recently assigned to London. His cryp is SM/ONION. We don’t know his cover name or names.”

  “That should be the adverbial duck soup.” He laughed at his own qualifier. Given our instant amity, I laughed with him. Now, we sounded like two motorcycles riding around in a large barrel.

  “Need it today?”

  “Preferably.”

  “Did you pick up any refills on this umbilical?” he asked.

  “Yes. We have Repeat-Access at 1800 to ASTOR.”

  “Way to go. I’ll call on the minute at 1800.”

  It was now a quarter to four. I had time to reach Harlot. To enter his secure telephone, there would be no need for ASTOR. I would be speaking directly to Washington. At BOZO, however, one still had to log in every secure telephone call, and I did not want to use William King Harvey’s logbook for such a call. It would be necessary, therefore, to take a trip over to the Department of Defense where I still kept my desk even if I had not approached it in three weeks. On the other hand, DOD was half across the American sector from BOZO, and we were almost in the rush hour. Moreover, their phone might be in use. I decided to carry this operation as far as I could on my own.

  Crane came back on the line at six. “I won’t,” he said, “give you definitive returns until tomorrow, but we don’t seem to have an SM/ ONION. Nor a scallion. Nor a rutabaga. Not in London town.”

  “Does London include all of Great Britain?”

  “You don’t think the Brits invite the Agency into every village with a mill, do you? London is about all of it. We’ve got a Consulate slot in Manchester.” He stopped. “Plus Birmingham. A bloke in Edinburgh. Ditto Glasgow.” He grunted.

  “I appreciate your effort,” I said. “I hope our troubles didn’t impinge on your afternoon.”

  “Well, I thought I was going to have to stand up my golf foursome, but this is London. The drizzle turned into a downpour. No golf. Nothing lost.”

  “That’s swell,” I said.

  “Charley Sloate, let me tell you. Our check-out will continue tomorrow, but BOZO’s target is not going to be found on teacup liaison to some one-thousand-year-old color guard in Edinburgh. Target ought to be right here in London. However, we’ve pursued such inquiry already. Negative.”

  “Check.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “My principal still wants SM/ONION,” I said. “After all, ONION can’t have an SM unless he’s in England.”

  “Technically, he can’t.”

  “Technically?”

  “We’re secure on the penmanship, right?”

  “You mean this phone?”

  “I mean this is ex officio. You’re not memo-ing any of our palaver, I assume.”

  “I wasn’t intending to.”

  “All right. Hear this: Cryptonyms can develop a life of their own. But, I never said that, Charley Sloate.”

  “I follow you.”

  “How important is all this, anyway?”

  “I can’t tell you because I really don’t know.”

  “Inform our friend that I am ready to step up the search. We can keelhaul our files with search vouchers into the defunct cryptonyms of personnel who are still with us in London. That’s a big load of wash. London Chief may query Headquarters, D.C., as to why Berlin Base has a meatball up its giggie. Does His Bigness want the onion that much? I’m happy to do the work if he does.”

  “I’ll see him tonight.”

  “Good. Hear from you in the morning.”

  “By the way,” I said, following an inspiration I had not owned even an instant before, “is there some possibility that SM/ONION is on detached duty to the English?”

  “You mean Liaison to MI6?”

  “Well, something of that order.”

  “Can’t be Liaison,” said Crane. “All the saddlebags at Liaison were checked out today.”

  “Might ONION be in a more committed activity?”

  “Special duty?” He whistled. Over the secure phone, it sounded like a bear wheezing in a cave. “I don’t know if we can penetrate such cover. Yet, that could be the answer.”

  In the evening, I had five minutes with Bill Harvey. He was taking C.G. to the opera. He was also swearing as he finished troweling his studs into a starched and pleated shirt.

  “Total tap-out, you’re telling me,” he growled.

  “No. Mr. Crane did have one interesting lead. He thinks ONION may be on special duty with MI6.”

  “Fearsome,” said Harvey. He started to shake his head. His phlegm came up. Extracting a wet-tipped stub of a cigarette from his lips, his hand wobbled over to a standing ashtray and released the butt. His torso shook from the cough. The taffy machine started. He hawked his product into the ashtray to follow the cigarette, and like a leech it slid its way down the standing tube to the cuspidor at the bottom. His suspenders hung to his knees. I mention such details because in Harvey’s presence it took that much to make you aware of anything more salient than the workings of his mind.

  “This is a true son of a bitch,” he said, “if it has real wings.” He nodded. “Sit down. C.G. and I may just have to get to the opera a few minutes late. I have to think it out. Look at what this scenario signifies. First, an alleged file clerk is shifted all around Washington, then is shot out to Korea, slipped back to London, and now is placed on special duty to MI6. We could be talking about a bang-and-bust specialist they had tucked onto a siding in the Snake Pit for a couple of weeks. Why not? A demolition expert hidden in the Snake Pit? But what did he blow up so imprecisely that they have to send him flying around the world? What is his connection to me? Why is he now in England working for MI6? Could it have any tie-in to Suez? Shit! I happen to like Wagner, believe it or not, and I’m not going to hear much Lohengrin tonight. Are you free to meet me here after the opera?”

  “I’ll be on hand.”

  “SM/ONION assigned to MI6. I have a lot to kick around.”

  So did I. I descended to my cubbyhole office in GIBLETS, put all my papers on the floor, set the alarm for 11:00 P.M., and went to sleep on my cleaned-off desk.

  This evening nap allowed me to recover from my hangover, and I awoke with good appetite and a desire to see Ingrid. I had hardly time, however, to make myself a sandwich from the icebox in GIBLET’s kitchen before I could hear the motor of BLACKIE-1 coming back to the paved turnaround in the rear of our sandbagged villa. By the look on Mr. Harvey’s face as he came into the galley, his bow tie off, his dinner jacket open to show the handles of his revolvers, I gave up any notion of getting over to Die Hintertür in the next hour or two.

  “Well, we arrived so late we had to promenade down the aisle just before the overture commenced,” he said. “C.G. is plenty irked. She hates running that kind of gauntlet. Those Krauts hiss at you. The damnedest sound. Little pissy noises. Psss! Psss! I had to squeeze by an old biddy in a diamond tiara, and she was sssss-ing away, so I whispered, “Madame, we are the sons and daughters of Parsifal.”

  I was obliged to return him one blank look.

  He gr
inned. “When in doubt, sow confusion. Strategies of Poker, Volume One.”

  “I heard today about your rep in poker.”

  “Which unqualified son of a bitch let you on to that?”

  “Mr. Crane.”

  “He means well, but he can’t play. If I claim any edge at the game, it is that occasionally I can read a mind.” He burped. Mr. Harvey’s gut utterances were like guided tours to his alimentary canal.

  “Hubbard,” he now said, “I like my mind to be clear. I hate impedance.”

  “Yessir.”

  “This situation with CLOAKROOM. It’s lodged in my brain. Is it or isn’t it penny-ante?”

  “I suppose that’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “The worst obsessions,” he said with some gloom, “begin with the smallest things. Hell, the brain even has the same hue as an oyster. By which logic, every obsession is a putative pearl. All the while I was listening to the music, I was also running down my options. I’ve given up on any big American bang-and-bust man whom the Brits are grooming for Cairo. The Brits would never accept the idea that we have better technical personnel than they do. Too much pride.”

  “Where does that leave us?” I asked.

  “Ready to do it by the numbers. I broke my own rule tonight. In these matters, you weigh hypotheses, you don’t juggle them. You don’t start with your largest possibilities. You paw over your small scenarios first. Check?”

  “Check.”

  “All right. The very smallest. Let’s say the whole thing is a fiasco from day one. It involves no more than some poor asinine kid who has a rabbi. Some rabbi high enough upstairs to know the ropes. KU/ ROPES. Was somebody trying to tell me something right from the start?” He paused, he took a beat just long enough for my heart to lose its beat, and then went on. “Let’s assume, if this is the case, that CLOAKROOM’s poor performance on the cable concerning Wolfgang was an accident. I took to this possibility for a while because it was simple. I’m a great believer in Ockham’s Razor. Did they teach you that at Yale?”