Harlot's Ghost

by Norman Mailer

  Well, that was news. Harlot had been looking upon Cuba as no more than a mote in the dust of the great Miltonian contest between CIA and KGB. “Yes,” said Cal, “one has to wonder why Hugh has come around.”

  Dinner with him did not materialize until early in August. I had entertained the illusion that Kittredge might be there, but Cal and I arrived to learn that she was in Maine at the Keep. The meal, served by Merlinda, the Montagues’ cook, was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, if I recollect, with a magnum of Haut Brion ’55—is it a prank of memory that the year of the wine is recalled?

  We were illumined by Glenfiddich before we sat down, and Harlot was in a fine mood, and waxing wicked. Even Helms was dipped. “He’d be perfect if one didn’t sense that when alone, he bites his lip.” For all my father’s newly acquired love of Helms, he roared with delight. I, however, could as easily imagine Harlot saying: “When Cal Hubbard charges through the forest, one does root for the trees.” I had to hope that he would never come around to me. Addressing the defects of others, he would show the same far-off gleam of the eye that a dentist often fails to conceal when he has brought his drill up to the cavity and can begin raiding your molar of its rot. Dean Rusk came under scrutiny—“Incapable of going forward if there is a cloud in the sky.” Nixon fared worse. “Would have been a prize for the devil but that worthy wearied of gazing upon him.” Eisenhower was “a large balloon soaring on inert gas,” and Kennedy is “sufficiently skilled in duplicity to make a good Chief of Station.”

  Rosen would soon be honored by a large share of attention. Tonight, Harlot was lit-up, and had a tale to tell.

  “You are aware, of course, of Arnold’s half-kept secret?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I don’t know how you can live with it,” Cal burst out. “Rosen might end up in a police station one morning after a night in the men’s room.”

  “Of course, Rosen is in peril,” said Hugh, “but not, for God’s sakes, in a men’s room. A Turkish bath, perhaps. Or the wrong boy in a hotel room. Nonetheless, I have affection for Arnold. He does live in his own kind of peril and it keeps him observant. We can all use some of that.”

  As if he had been accused of lacking just such a vital faculty, my father said with some annoyance, “Why bring his name up at all?”

  “Because I feel indiscreet. So I will divulge a small operation. Both of you must vow not to pass it on.”

  “So vowed,” said Cal, raising his hand. The gesture was automatic—I could recognize they had engaged in this ritual on more than a few occasions.

  “So vowed,” said I, joining ranks.

  “‘Rosen’s Raid’ I call it,” said Harlot. “He came to me a couple of months ago and asked what I thought of his prospects for advancement. ‘Or the lack of them,’ I answered. I did not waste his time. ‘Rosen, you can go far,’ I began, ‘but only if you get yourself a wife.’ ‘Would you,’ he asked, ‘say the same for Harry Hubbard?’ ‘Certainly not,’ I said, ‘he’s neither ambitious nor homosexual.’”

  When I chose not to react, Harlot went on.

  “Well, I won’t take up our time with the demoralizingly sad little tale Rosen had to tell. His closet is a dungeon and he is most unhappy with his habit. He would like to break out. He feels what he terms ‘subliminal stirrings’ he has never felt before toward the other sex. I tell him that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to commence a new habit. ‘Sex,’ I tell him, ‘for those who are interested only in the bottom line, is naught but a notably agreeable friction in a familiar channel.’ ‘Should I start with whores?’ he asked, and promptly confessed to a most interesting notion that he might be able to cross the bridge with such a highly promiscuous partner, because then he would be in propinquity with all the men who had gone before him.

  “‘Do stay away from whores,’ I said. ‘Since we are speaking frankly, I will suggest that you may simply be too Jewish to bear their scorn.’ ‘That’s half of what I’ve always found in sex,’ Rosen answered. ‘Scorn. I’m used to that.’

  “‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but if you form an attachment to whores, you’ll never find the kind of woman who would be suitable not only to you, but—face the real level of the bar—suitable to the Agency as well. At least, if you wish to rise!’ ‘Well, you could be right,’ he said, ‘but decent women inspire nothing in me.’ ‘Nonsense,’ I answered, ‘there is no greater pleasure than that obtained from a conquered repugnance.’ ‘You are quoting the Marquis de Sade,’ said Rosen. ‘Indeed I am,’ said I, and we had our laugh. ‘Yes,’ I told him, knowing that I had turned the argument, ‘work up an entirely new set of habits on some virgin slate.’ ‘Do you mean literally a virgin?’ he asked. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘I believe I do. I can think of someone.’ ‘Who is it?’ he wanted to know, ‘have I met her?’ ‘If so, only casually,’ I said, ‘she came back from South America to work for me a couple of years ago, only far down the hall from you. She was bright enough, but not right for what one needed. I encouraged her to resign from the Agency, and had her installed at State. Now she works for Rusk.’ Rosen lit up at this job description. He is so ambitious. ‘What is she like personally?’ he asked. ‘A churchgoer,’ I told him, ‘plain as a post.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that makes it sound like an arranged marriage.’ ‘So it is,’ I told him. ‘We’re not inclined to waste each other’s time, are we? Your coreligionists used to go in for arranged marriages in the shtetl, did they not? Your blood must be teeming with such arrangements.’ ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘but the bride was not a churchgoer.’ ‘Yes, but then, you are not much of a Jew any longer, are you?’ I countered. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not much. The emotional bond, however, is desperately deep.’ ‘How deep?’ ‘Well, not so deep that I can’t take a look.’ ‘Before you do,’ I said, ‘I want to say that you’re not getting the connection for nothing.’ ‘No?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘you will not only woo her, but manage to traduce her loyalty from Rusk to you, where, of course, it will bubble on tap for me.’ Do you know, I like Rosen. His eyes came right back at me with the sweetest smile. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘at last I’ll be able to practice some of those low techniques you imparted on Low Thursdays.’ What a rejoinder. I had to laugh. He’s alert, is Rosen.

  “Since then, it has been in the works. I gave him a few photographs of the lady, and the church she frequents, Old First Presbyterian, near Judiciary Square. Do you know, J. Edgar Buddha’s first communion was there? Rosen hopped to it. Sat behind her for one Sunday, across the aisle on another, bumped into her on the way out, exchanged names—she couldn’t have been more thrilled: A potential convert from Judaism was as exciting to her as an Italian tenor to an English lady. They agreed to meet at the Friday-night church social. Dinner on the following Tuesday. On the next Friday, he walked her home from the church social and managed to kiss her in the hallway. Naturally, I was acting as his case officer. ‘Didn’t you feel it was appropriate to push further?’ I asked. ‘I was not wild about her breath,’ he replied. ‘Well, you’ve got to get past the nonessentials,’ I told him. Since then, we’ve been pushing it.”

  “Is this woman’s name Nancy Waterston?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Harlot. “In fact, Nancy spoke most pleasantly of an evening she had with you in Montevideo. I almost thought of putting you on the job instead of Rosen.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been more likely to get going with Harry?” asked Cal.

  “Up to a point,” said Harlot. “But Rosen, I think, will be ready before long to get through the crux. After that, he may have to marry the girl. I think it’s exactly what it is going to take. She has her own money, is loyal as a hound to whomever is her boss, and so, contrary to the normal precepts, we have to encourage a massive sexual entanglement. We’ve had some curious obstacles en route, I must say. For three evenings in a row, Arnold could not bring himself to go past the point of kissing Miss Waterston on the lips. ‘Everything rebels,’ he said. ‘Or are you merely too timid?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I am frightened,’ he
agreed. ‘Take her to a movie,’ I said. ‘Put your hand on her shoulder. Then, at a given moment, move it down to her breast.’”

  Harlot now looked at us. “One phenomenon never fails to amaze me. It does not matter how sophisticated an agent you are dealing with, sooner or later there will be some undeveloped aspect that will call for elementary instruction. So, with Rosen. I had to lead him through the petting game. ‘If you cannot bring yourself to shift your hand,’ I told him, ‘count to ten slowly, and, of course, silently, and in that time concentrate on the fact that you will have no respect for yourself if you fail to obey the challenge. Then, at the count of ten, plunge.’ Rosen took it in, and replied, ‘That is a technique Julien Sorel employed in The Red and the Black.’ ‘Certainly is,’ I said, ‘and Stendhal was a master psychologist.’ Do you know, the moment he could picture himself as Julien Sorel, it commenced to work. You turn the lock in every agent with a separate key. Rosen made progress. By now, I can tell you, they are commingled in a heap on her living room floor. No coitus, not yet, but Rosen is getting there. She is consumed with a taste for hours of polymorphous perverse, which is, I suppose, the level of sex most suitable to swamp creatures. Carnality that is all but consummated has become her cup of tea. I believe it is going to work. Rosen now sees her every night, has confessed to his hitherto homosexual bondage, and she is wholly captured. In her mind, they are both virgins. Since he is also Jewish and she has obviously made up her mind to convert him, we have an effective quid pro quo. Rosen gives up his religion plus his bachelordom; she gives us top-level tap into State.”

  “I don’t know that you have an equation,” said Cal.

  “Care to make a side bet?”

  “Yes. One of us pays for dinner at Sans Souci within sixty days.”

  “You’re on,” said Harlot. “I expect to eat and drink at no expense to myself. The Red and the Black has proved most useful, you see. Not unlike Madame de Rênal, Miss Waterston is consumed with passion. At my suggestion, Arnold absented himself for a couple of days and she was absolutely beside herself. I am convinced that before long, he will blossom into honest priapic ventures. After all, she provides him with such a sense of power and purpose.”

  “Wait till he wakes up to the fact that she is, by your words, ‘plain as a post,’” said Cal.

  “I regret the characterization,” said Hugh. “Arnold now shows me photographs of her in summer dresses. She has blossomed. I tell you, before she will allow herself to lose her Reed Rosen, she will come to understand that his career is of first importance to both of them, and that the Agency is a better guardian of the chalice than State. Leave it to Arnold. He’s coming onto the high ground now, and he does know how to maneuver. Another man might have seduced the woman in a week and taken a year to decide what to try next.”

  “Well, let us root for you to win,” said Cal, “even if I have to buy the wine.”

  “Yes,” said Harlot. “After all, knowing what Rusk is up to may yet count for a good deal.”

  “Well, I might just agree.”

  “Of course,” said Hugh. “Since Cuba is now of interest to me, Rusk can be a factor there. A couple of years ago when everyone, including you, Cal, saw the Caribbean as the main go, I knew it was incidental to the show. Now, after Pigs and Mongoose, it’s on the back burner. I, however, am worried stiff. Cuba can be used most adroitly these days by Khrushchev and Mao.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Cal. “Khrushchev and Mao are two gentlemen who, at this moment, seem pretty far apart to me.”

  “On the contrary,” said Hugh, “I see them as actors in a scenario of far-reaching disinformation. I will pose a chronology—ponder it, would you? In May, right in the midst of Castro’s visit to Moscow, Peking announced its desire to hold talks with the U.S.S.R. Stated object: Bring to an end all ideological rifts between them. Then, last month, Soviets and Chinese held most secret meetings in Moscow. By their termination on July 21, the attempt at conciliation was an announced failure. The Soviet Union declared its advocacy of “peaceful coexistence with the U.S.,” and the People’s Republic of China publicly judged that course to be an abject surrender to capitalism. We were witnessing—it was generally agreed upon by Western correspondents and diplomats—nothing less than a full-dress split in the international Communist movement. I say we are being handed a scenario.”

  “To what end?”

  “To divide us. I tell you, they are bringing off a gargantuan production in disinformation. It will yet overshadow Dzerzhinsky’s manipulation of the Trust.”

  “They can never manage to keep it secret,” Cal said. “Too many of their people have to get in on it sooner or later.”

  “Not nearly so many as you expect. What the hell, they are free of public opinion, so they need never worry over the morale of their middle-level cadres. Tell a good Communist to despise Red China on Monday and smile at it on Tuesday—he will be able to function with only a small dislocation of the gut. Even if they can’t keep it an absolute secret, it is going to work. World opinion follows the form of things rather than the substance. Already this masterpiece of disinformation is known to a few of us Agency folk. We set out to convince our own leaders. Can we? Dubious. Why, even Helms is of two minds over it. And all the while, the few Communists in the know will be elaborating their scenario. We will be provided with border clashes. We will hear scalding vilifications of each other. Separate spheres of influence will emerge in the Communist world. Of course, we will buy it. Their inner guard will play on us with consummate art.”

  “How do you fit Cuba into this?” I asked.

  “As the lead horse. Castro will make overtures of peace. Russia will not be far behind. Communism will begin to seem human. Some of it, at any rate. Can it be Christian not to make friends with reformed enemies? I tell you, they will end by inhabiting our councils and our economy. Where we can never trust all of Communism, we will certainly put our trust in what we think is the more amiable half of a now-divided entity. We will even think we control the balance of power.

  “In consequence,” said Harlot, “I have come around to thinking that Castro must go. Before Mao and Khrushchev gave their assent to this elevated form of theater, Cuba was but a folly for the Soviets; now, it could be the prettiest piece on their board.”

  “Is Castro aware of the scenario?” I asked.

  “I would surmise,” said Harlot, “that he is too young and too emotional to be taken into the councils of the elders. Only when passion is ready to transmute itself into will can one be trustworthy at the highest level.”

  His eyes were the embodiment of his own statement. Luminous as the light of still water was the steel-tipped manifest of his eyes.

  30

  The Keep

  August 20, 1963

  Dearest Harry,

  I am frightfully concerned about Hugh. Have you ever considered whether he is mad? Or whether I am? Poor Christopher. Sometimes when I rebel against the injunction I have put upon us not to meet nor even to talk on the telephone, I wish you could see Christopher. His eyes are so blue, a brilliant blue, as if blue is the best color for fire. Otherwise, my Christopher is a quiet and gentle child of six, vastly in awe of his prodigiously austere father (who still approaches him as if he were a small and polluted creature in a large wet diaper), but my son is also wary, I fear, of his mother. I think he is waiting for me to scream. Perhaps he will not trust me until I do.

  Dear Harry, let me commence again. Hugh has entered some tunnel of absolute logic that simply refuses to look at the world as it might be. I know he has communicated his theory of The Great Disinformation Sino-Soviet Swindle to you and Cal, for he wrote to me that he had you both over for dinner the night after I left. He has been delivering himself of this prodigious tirade all summer, and (worse luck!) has called the tune through June and July as to what the Russians and Chinese would do next. All the same, it is obscene, in my opinion, to postulate that one hundred men are manipulating a world of several bil
lion humans. “You are ignoring the variety of possibility that God chose us to have,” I said to him, but he cannot be reached by argument. Hugh has been waiting all his life for the shade of Dzerzhinsky to pay him a visit. He obviously feels he is the only mortal in CIA who can appreciate KGB on a transcendental scale.

  I keep trying to tell him that Russia and China cannot pretend to have a profound schism. Humans are, if nothing else, too perverse to be able to carry out such an orchestrated scheme of such immense and immediate disadvantage to themselves. But I will not deaden your head with the teleological and dialectical models that Hugh elaborates. For the present, it is enough to say that he has been looking to convert any number of critically situated people in the Agency to the new religion and must believe I am one of them, for we have had terrible fights over what he does with his thesis. For example, Hugh was so ill-advised as to use the half hour of private conversation he manages to obtain about once a month with Jack Kennedy in a futile attempt to brief him on the real nature of Sino-Soviet policy. Jack is the last person to hope to convince of such a concept. He has such a shrewd, sardonic sense of human foible and the little traps that spring out of the simplest things. I was watching both men from across the room—the upstairs family parlor, as it happened to be—and I must tell you that Jack was sitting a full foot further away from him at the end than at the beginning.

  Did Hugh wake up next morning with a rueful sense of how much he had lost? No! He was in a rage at Jack Kennedy. “That man,” he kept saying, “is superficial. It is a horror to recognize how superficial he is.”

  Two days later, Hugh decided that we must break relations with Jack and Bobby.

  “Do that, and I may leave you.”

  “You, too, are superficial.”

  It was the worst. We never speak to each other in that manner. It took forty-eight hours, but Hugh apologized, and I admitted that I could not leave him. Of course, the issue was still before us, nothing resolved. Oh, we explored the gap. It was one of the few times in our marriage when we were able to talk about facets of ourselves that were not at all agreeable to reveal. Hugh confessed to feeling like a fraud when with the Kennedys. “I am always pretending to be more amused than I am. For a time, I thought it was my duty. I might grow close enough to have influence. But these Kennedys never know what I am talking about. They come from an intellectual tradition that is comprehensive, humanistic, and six inches deep. At bottom, there is nothing we can agree upon. If they are servants of any power higher than themselves, it is not the God who is near to me.”