“I cannot give them anything.”
“Very well, sir. The other thing is that the trustees of the Eastshore University would like to confer an honorary doctor of laws degree on you at this year’s commencement exercises, but they want to make sure beforehand that you’ll accept.”
“I do not need a doctor,” said Chance.
“Do you want to talk to the trustees?”
“No.”
“I see. And what about the newspapers?”
“I don’t like newspapers.”
“Will you see the foreign correspondents?”
“I see them often enough on TV.”
“Very good, sir. Oh, yes, Mrs. Rand wanted me to remind you that the Rand plane will be leaving for Washington at four o’clock. And she wanted me to inform you that you’ll be staying at your hostess’s home.”
Karpatov, the chief of the Special Section, arrived on Friday to see Ambassador Skrapinov. He was immediately ushered into the Ambassador’s office.
“There is no additional information in Gardiner’s file,” he said, placing a thin folder on the Ambassador’s desk.
Skrapinov tossed the file to one side. “Where is the rest?” he asked crisply.
“There is no record of him anywhere, Comrade Skrapinov.”
“Karpatov, I want the facts!”
Karpatov spoke haltingly: “Comrade Ambassador, I have been able to determine that the White House is eager to find out what we know about Gardiner. This should indicate that Gardiner has political importance of the first magnitude.”
Skrapinov glared at Karpatov, then got up and began pacing back and forth behind his desk. “I want,” he said, “from your Section one thing only: the facts about Gardiner.”
Karpatov stood there sullenly. “Comrade Ambassador,” he answered, “it is my duty to report that we have been unable to discover even the most elementary information about him. It is almost as if he had never existed before.” The Ambassador’s hand came down on his desk, and a small statuette toppled to the floor. Trembling, Karpatov stooped, picked it up and carefully put it back on the desk.
“Don’t imagine,” the Ambassador hissed, “that you can palm such rot off on me! I won’t accept it! ‘As if he had never existed’! Do you realize that Gardiner happens to be one of the most important men in this country and that this country happens to be not Soviet Georgia but the United States of America, the biggest imperialist state in the world! People like Gardiner decide the fate of millions every day! ‘As if he had never existed’! Are you mad? Do you realize that I mentioned the man in my speech?” He paused, then bent forward toward Karpatov. “Unlike the people of your Section, I do not believe in twentieth-century ‘dead souls’—nor do I believe in people from other planets coming down to haunt us, as they do on American television programs. I hereby demand all data on Chauncey Gardiner to be delivered to me personally within four hours!”
Hunching his shoulders, Karpatov left the room.
When four hours had passed and Skrapinov had still not heard from Karpatov, he decided to teach him a lesson. He summoned to his office Sulkin, ostensibly a minor official at the Mission, but actually one of the most powerful men in the Foreign Department.
Skrapinov complained bitterly to Sulkin about Karpatov’s ineptitude, stressed the extraordinary importance of obtaining information on Gardiner, and asked that Sulkin help him get a clear picture of Gardiner’s past.
After lunch, Sulkin arranged a private conference with Skrapinov. They proceeded to a room at the Mission known as “The Cellar,” which was specially protected against listening devices. Sulkin opened his attache case and with ceremony drew from a black folder a single blank piece of paper. Skrapinov waited expectantly.
“This, my dear Comrade, is your picture of Gardiner’s past!” Sulkin growled.
Skrapinov glanced at the page, saw that it was blank, dropped it, glared at Sulkin, and said: “I don’t understand, Comrade Sulkin. This page is empty. Does this mean that I am not to be entrusted with the facts about Gardiner?”
Sulkin sat down and lit a cigarette, slowly shaking the match out. “Investigating the background of Mr. Gardiner, my dear Comrade Ambassador, has apparently proven so difficult a task for the agents of the Special Section that it has already resulted in the loss of one of them, without his being able to uncover the tiniest detail of Gardiner’s background!” Sulkin paused to puff on his cigarette. “It was fortunate, however, that on Wednesday night I took the precaution of photowiring to Moscow a tape of Gardiner’s television appearance on THIS EVENING. This tape, you might be interested in knowing, was submitted to prompt psychiatric, neurological, and linguistic examination. With the aid of our latest-model computers, our teams have analyzed Gardiner’s vocabulary, syntax, accent, gestures, facial and other characteristics. The results, my dear Skrapinov, may surprise you. It proved impossible to determine in any way whatsoever his ethnic background or to ascribe his accent to any single community in the entire United States!”
Skrapinov looked at Sulkin in bewilderment.
Smiling wanly, Sulkin continued: “Moreover, it may interest you to know that Gardiner appears to be emotionally one of the most well-adjusted American public figures to have emerged in recent years. However,” Sulkin went on, “your Mr. Chauncey Gardiner remains, to all intents and purposes,” and here he held up the sheet of paper by its corner, “a blank page.”
“Blank page?”
“Blank page,” echoed Sulkin. “Exactly. Gardiner’s code name!”
Skrapinov quickly reached for a glass of water and gulped it down. “Excuse me, Comrade,” he said. “But on Thursday evening when I took it upon myself to allude to Gardiner in my speech in Philadelphia, I naturally assumed that he was an established member of the Wall Street elite. After all, he was mentioned by the American President. But if, as it seems …”
Sulkin held up his hand. “Seems? What reason do you have to suggest that Chauncey Gardiner is not in actual fact the man whom you described?”
Skrapinov could barely mutter: “Blank page … the lack of any facts …”
Again Sulkin interrupted. “Comrade Ambassador,” he said, “I am here actually to congratulate you on your perceptiveness. It is, I must tell you, our firm conviction that Gardiner is, in fact, a leading member of an American elitist faction that has for some years been planning a coup d’état. He must be of such great importance to this group that they have succeeded in masking every detail of his identity until his emergence Tuesday afternoon.”
“Did you say coup d’etat?” asked Skrapinov.
“I did,” replied Sulkin. “Do you doubt the possibility?”
“Well, no. Certainly not. Lenin himself seems to have foreseen it.”
“Good, very good,” said Sulkin, snapping the lock of his attache case. “It appears that your intuition has proven itself well-founded. Your initial decision to latch onto Gardiner has been justified. You have a good instinct, Comrade Skrapinov—a true Marxist instinct!” He got up to leave. “You will shortly receive special instructions about the attitude to adopt toward Gardiner.”
When Sulkin had gone, Skrapinov thought: It’s incredible! Billions of rubles are spent each year on clever Japanese gadgetry, on superspies trained and camouflaged for years, on reconnaissance satellites, overstaffed embassies, trade missions, cultural exchanges, bribes, and gifts—but all that matters in the end is a good Marxist instinct! He thought of Gardiner and envied him his youth, his composure, his future as a leader. Blank Page, Blank Page— The code name brought back to him memories of World War II, of the Partisans he had led to so many victories. Maybe diplomacy had been the wrong career for him; maybe the army would have been better…. But he was old.
On Friday afternoon, the President’s secretary reported to him. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but since yesterday, I have been able to collect only a few additional press clippings about Gardiner. They are the speech of the Soviet Ambassador, who mentioned him, and the tra
nscript of Gardiner’s interview with the press at the United Nations.”
The President was annoyed. “Let’s stop this! Have you asked Benjamin Rand about Gardiner?”
“I have telephoned the Rands, sir. Unfortunately, Mr. Rand has had a serious relapse and is on powerful sedatives. He can’t talk.”
“Did you speak to Mrs. Rand, then?”
“I did, sir. She was at her husband’s bedside. She said only that Mr. Gardiner cherishes his privacy and that she respects this aspect of Mr. Gardiner’s personality very much. She said that she feels—but only feels, you understand—that Mr. Gardiner intends to become much more active now that Mr. Rand is bedridden. But she did not connect Mr. Gardiner with any specific business or with any family situation.”
“That’s even less than what I read in the Times! What about our investigative sources? Have you talked to Steven?”
“I did, Mr. President. He hasn’t been able to find a single thing. He’s checked twice, and not one agency could help him. Gardiner’s photograph and fingerprints were checked out, of course, just before your visit to Rand’s and, having no record of any kind—as Rand’s guest—he was cleared. And I guess that’s really all I have to tell you.”
“All right, all right. Call Grunmann. Tell him what you know, or, rather, don’t know, and have him call me as soon as he gets something on Gardiner.”
Grunmann called in a short time. “Mr. President, all of us here have been trying desperately. There just isn’t a thing on him. The man doesn’t seem to have existed until he moved into Rand’s house three days ago!”
“I am very disturbed by this, very disturbed,” said the President. “I want you to try again. I want you to keep on it, do you understand? And by the way, Walter: there’s a TV program, isn’t there, in which some ordinary Americans turn out to be really invaders from another planet? Well, Walter, I refuse to believe that I talked to one of these intruders in New York! I expect you to come up with a large file on Gardiner. If not, I warn you that I shall personally authorize an immediate investigation of those who are responsible for such a flagrant breach in our security!”
Grunmann called back. “Mr. President,” he said in a low voice, “I am afraid that our initial fears are now confirmed. We have no record of this man’s birth, of his parents, or of his family. We do know, however, beyond any doubt, and I can vouch for it, that he has never been in any legal trouble with any individual or any private, state, or federal organization, corporation, or agency. He was never the cause of any accident or of any damage and—aside from the Rand accident—he was never involved as a third party in any such situation. He has never been hospitalized;he carries no insurance; nor, for that matter, can he possibly have any other documents or personal identification. He doesn’t drive a car or fly a plane, and no license of any kind has ever been issued to him. He has no credit cards, no checks, no calling cards. He does not own a property in this country…. Mr. President, we snooped on him a bit in New York: he doesn’t talk business or politics on the phone or at home. All he does is watch TV; the set is always on in his room: there’s a constant racket—”
“He what?” interrupted the President. “What did you say, Walter?”
“I said he watches television—all the channels—practically all the time. Even when Mrs. Rand … is with him in his bedroom, sir …”
The President cut in sharply: “Walter, there’s no excuse for such investigations, and, damn it, I don’t want to know anything of that sort! Who the hell cares what Gardiner does in his bedroom?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but we’ve had to try everything.” He cleared his throat. “Sir, we have been getting quite apprehensive about this man Gardiner. We recorded his conversations at the United Nations reception, but he hardly said a thing. Frankly, sir, it has occurred to us that he might be the agent of a foreign power. But the fact of the matter is that those people almost invariably have too much documentation provided, too much American identity. There’s absolutely nothing un-American about them; it’s a miracle, as the Director always says, that none of them gets elected to the highest office of this land—” Grunmann caught himself, but it was too late for him to brush off his remark.
“That’s a very poor joke, Walter,” the President said sternly.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean … I do apologize-”
“Go ahead with your report.”
“Well, sir, first, we feel that Mr. Gardiner is not one of these transplants. Definitely not, and then, the Soviets have put out an alert for information on his background. I’m happy to tell you, Mr. President, that even this unprecedented display of Soviet curiosity has failed; not only were they unable to come up with anything beyond—I am not joking, Mr. President—newspaper clippings from our press, but as a result of their eagerness they broke their cover and lost one of their most able agents to us! What’s more, eight other foreign powers have put Gardiner on their spying priorities lists. All I can say is that we shall keep on it, Mr. President … we shall continue investigating on a round-the-clock basis, sir, and I’ll let you know just as soon as we come up with anything.”
The President went upstairs to his apartment to rest. It’s simply incredible, he thought, incredible. Millions of dollars are allocated each year to each of these agencies, and they can’t supply me with even the most rudimentary facts about a man now living in one of the best town houses of New York City as a guest of one of our most prominent businessmen. Is the Federal Government being undermined? By whom? He sighed, turned on TV, and dropped off to sleep.
Seven
The man sitting on the sofa faced the small group assembled in his suite. “Gentlemen,” he began slowly, “some of you already know that Duncan has decided not to run with me. That leaves us, at present, without a candidate. My friends, we’ve got to announce someone soon, someone as good as Duncan, and I say this despite the distressing discoveries about Duncan’s past that have unfortunately surfaced.”
Schneider spoke out. “It wasn’t easy to come up even with Duncan,” he said, “and let’s not kid ourselves … whom can we possibly get at this late date? Shellman is going to stay with his firm. I don’t think Frank can even be considered, given his miserable record as president of the university.”
“What about George?” a voice asked.
“George has just had another operation—the second in three months. He’s an obvious health risk.”
There was silence in the room. It was then that O’Flaherty spoke. “I think I have someone,” he said quietly. “What about Chauncey Gardiner?” All eyes turned to the man on the sofa who was drinking his coffee.
“Gardiner?” the man on the sofa said. “Chauncey Gardiner? We don’t really know anything about him, do we? Our people haven’t been able to find out one single blessed thing. And he certainly hasn’t been of any help: he hasn’t said a thing about himself ever since he moved in with the Rands four days ago….”
“Then I would like to state,” said O’Flaherty, “that this makes me think of Gardiner as an even better bet.”
“Why?” several men chorused.
O’Flaherty spoke easily: “What was the trouble with Duncan? With Frank and with Shellman, for that matter, and with so many of the others we’ve considered and have had to reject? The damn trouble was that they all had background, too much background! A man’s past cripples him: his background turns into a swamp and invites scrutiny!”
He waved his arms excitedly. “But just consider Gardiner. May I stress what you have just heard from a most authoritative voice: Gardiner has no background! And so he’s not and cannot be objectionable to anyone! He’s personable, well-spoken, and he comes across well on TV! And, as far as his thinking goes, he appears to be one of us. That’s all. It’s clear what he isn’t. Gardiner is our one chance.”
Schneider crushed out his cigar. “O’Flaherty just tapped something,” he said. “Something big. Hmmmm … Gardiner, Gardiner …”
A waiter ente
red with steaming pots of fresh coffee and the discussion continued.
Chance pushed his way through the throng of dancing couples toward the exit. In his eyes there lingered yet a faint, blurred image of the grand ballroom, of the trays of refreshments at the buffet, the multicolored flowers, brilliant bottles, rows upon rows of shining glasses on the table. He caught sight of EE as she was embraced by a tall, heavily decorated general. He passed through a blaze of photographers’ flash-guns as through a cloud. The image of all he had seen outside the garden faded.
Chance was bewildered. He reflected and saw the withered image of Chauncey Gardiner: it was cut by the stroke of a stick through a stagnant pool of rain water. His own image was gone as well.
He crossed the hall. Chilled air streamed in through an open window. Chance pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped out into the garden. Taut branches laden with fresh shoots, slender stems with tiny sprouting buds shot upward. The garden lay calm, still sunk in repose. Wisps of clouds floated by and left the moon polished. Now and then, boughs rustled and gently shook off their drops of water. A breeze fell upon the foliage and nestled under the cover of its moist leaves. Not a thought lifted itself from Chance’s brain. Peace filled his chest.
Born on June 14, 1933, of Mieczyslaw and Elzbieta Kosinski in Lodz, Poland, Jerzy Kosinski came to the United States in 1957. He was naturalized in 1965. Mr. Kosinski obtained M.A. degrees in social sciences and history from the University of Lodz, and as a Ford Foundation Fellow completed his postgraduate studies in sociology at both the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw and Columbia University in New York. He wrote The Future Is Ours, Comrade (1960) and No Third Path (1962), both collections of essays he published under the pen name of Joseph Novak. He is the author of the novels The Painted Bird (1965), Steps (1968), Being There (1971), The Devil Tree (first edition 1973, revised in 1981), Cockpit (1975), Blind Date (1977), Passion Play (1979), Pinball (1982), and The Hermit of 69th Street (1988).
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