The Ninth Wave

by Eugene Burdick

  The waiter turned his hands up in puzzlement and winked at Mike. Connie looked down at her hands. The waiter walked over to a sideboard and picked up two bottles of wine and began to polish three glasses.

  "See. He doesn't care," Mike said. "Where do you get those crazy ideas, Connie?" He grinned at her.

  "All right, Mike, skip it," Connie said. "I just don't like the word. That's all."

  The waiter brought the wine and Mike filled their glasses. It was a bitter wine with a thin biting taste. A black residue floated in the bottom of the glasses.

  The waiter brought three large plates of spaghetti and meat sauce. In the center of the table he placed a wicker basket full of big chunks of sour-dough bread and he gave each of them a small white dish with a pat of butter. Mike bent his head over the plate, twirled the spaghetti with his fork and began to eat. Pieces of spaghetti dropped from his lips and with a piece of bread he pushed them onto his next forkful. He finished half of the plate before he paused. Connie was looking at him.

  "All right. I'll be a good boy and watch my manners," he said.

  He sat up and began to eat more slowly, taking smaller bites. Connie began to eat. Hank, without talking, finished his plate and asked the waiter to bring a second helping.

  They were almost finished when a white panel truck with loudspeakers on top came down the street, lurched over the curb and drove into the square. It stopped between the restaurant and the Garibaldi statue. Two men got out and opened the rear door of the truck. They took out a portable platform and put it just beneath the window of the restaurant. They hauled spools of black wire from the truck and unloaded a microphone.

  Out of the darkness, flitting through the pools of light, children gathered silently. They looked in the back of the truck, played with the wire, talked softly in Italian.

  "For Christ sake get away," one of the men said. "Keep back until we get the equipment set up."

  The children paid no attention.

  "Who's this Cromwell, Mike?" Hank asked.

  Hank was eating the bread left in the wicker basket. He did it unthinkingly, by habit.

  "Just a talker," Mike said. "He's a lawyer, but he makes speeches all over the state. I've heard him a few times down in L.A. and once up here."

  "Is he in politics?" Hank asked.

  "In a way, I guess. He's run for office a few times and was a Congressman for a while. But he isn't a regular politician if that's what you mean."

  The waiter brought another basket of bread and Hank reached for a piece, crumbled it into chunks and threw them in his mouth.

  "What does he live on?" Connie asked.

  "He's rich. Comes from a real old California family. They say he has a fortune. That's one reason these Italians will come out to hear him; because he's a Cromwell and has money."

  "I still don't get it," Hank said. "What does he talk about?"

  "It varies," Mike said. "Once I heard him talk on unemployment; another time he talked on trade with Japan. Different things."

  "Why?" Hank asked. "What's the point?"

  "I'm not sure what the point is," Mike said. He paused and looked out the window. "Sometimes I think he just likes to talk. Other times I think he really feels about things. You'll see. It's funny. Wait till you see him."

  Outside in the square one of the men picked up a microphone, plugged it into a black wire and mounted it on a stand. He spoke into it gently.

  "Testing . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . testing," a huge magnified voice said.

  He whistled and an earsplitting shard of sound crashed through the square. The man stepped back and smiled.

  "It's O.K., Jamie," he said. "Turn the volume down a bit."

  In the warm air the voice was enormous. The words floated like sluggish balloons, keeping their shape until they reached the buildings and then fractured into smaller sounds. People appeared in the windows of the apartments; men in undershirts, children, old women. Almost at once people began to drift across the square, made a scattered thin line around the Garibaldi statue.

  "We'll just sit right here," Mike said. "We can hear everything and get a good look at the crowd."

  "Good," Connie said. "Standing up makes my feet ache."

  "I still don't get it," Hank said. The breadbasket was empty and his fingers ran crablike over the wicker strands, found a few crumbs. "Does Cromwell belong to a political party? Or is he trying to start one? Or what?"

  "I don't know," Mike said impatiently. "I told you that. I've heard he's a Democrat, but he never mentions political parties. You'll see. He just doesn't sound like a politician. Someone told me that he wants to be governor of the state, but he never mentions it."

  The loudspeakers on top of the truck were connected to a record player. The two soundmen put records on the turntable and then sat on the fenders of the truck and smoked cigarettes.

  Green eyes, those soft and limpid green eyes, Your eyes that promise sweet nights, Give my soul a longing, a search for love divine.

  As the song floated over the square the children stopped playing. They gathered around the truck and stared up at the big white speakers. One of the boys, about four years old, stepped out from the crowd of children. He was a stocky boy, with black thick hair and strong legs. He closed his eyes romantically, held his arms out as if they were around a partner and began to mimic a couple dancing. He had a slight subdued smile on his face; as if he were about to burst into laughter. The children cheered. In the faint light the boy looked dwarfish; like a full-grown person imperfectly viewed.

  Someone put a foot out and the boy tripped. He stumbled to his knees, his eyes popped open and he roared with laughter. He got to his feet and lunged at the boy who had tripped him.

  The crowd started to thicken. Women filled up the shaky green benches that lined the edge of the park, holding limp babies in their arms. The air was turning blue-white with cigar smoke. Men stepped out of nearby bars. Most of them wore black hats and their shirts were buttoned up to the top button, but they wore no ties.

  An old gray Cadillac came around the corner, worked through the people in the street and drove over the curb. Finally it came to a halt in front of the restaurant. The driver got out of the front seat and opened the rear door. A woman got out. As she stepped from the car she lifted her hand, but not quickly enough to conceal the purple splash of a birthmark down the left side of her face. It started under her eye and like a vivid welt, furry in texture, spread down her cheek. With a practiced, expert gesture she lit a cigarette and held it so the birthmark was covered. She turned and walked up the stairs to the restaurant. As she turned, her profile came into view. She had a perfect cameo profile, with flawless skin, a flaring nose and a beautiful rounded chin. She had a superb figure.

  "Who's she?" Connie breathed; her voice admiring, but her lips drawn back slightly, as if by disgust. "She's beautiful. I mean really beautiful . . . except for that thing."

  "I don't know for sure," Mike said. "She's his secretary or something. She's not his wife. She's always with him. Her name is Clara."

  Mike looked through the window into the car. Cromwell sat in the back seat, the light from the window falling directly on him. He was a big man with lanky legs and long arms. He looked about fifty years old, but it was hard to tell. He might have been much older, but it was impossible that he could be younger than that. He had a hat pushed back on his head and the tanned angularity of his face showed. He scratched savagely at his armpit and looked out at the crowd. He turned suddenly, stepped out of the car and came into the restaurant.

  When he stepped into the restaurant he stopped and looked for the woman. He was wearing an expensive suit that was almost ruined. The seams were stretched so that the threads showed, buttons dangled, a pocket was torn in one corner, the shoulder pads had slipped. The zipper on his fly was stuck partly open. The suit was covered with tobacco ash that fell in a light gray mist whenever he moved.

  "Clara, where's Leo?" he asked. He scratched at his thigh
and the motion pulled his pants leg up. A sock dangled around his ankle. "Christ, that's just no crowd at all. Leo said they'd have a mob. Where is he?"

  "He said he'd meet us here," Clara said. "We're a little early."

  Cromwell looked angrily around the room, stared for a moment at Mike's table and then, quite suddenly, he relaxed. He stopped scratching and he walked over to the small bar and asked the bartender to make him an Irish coffee.

  "Make it just right," Cromwell said. "Two ounces of Bushmill's, half teaspoon of sugar, big slug of whipped cream."

  Leo came in. He was a big, worried-looking man. He was wearing a collarless shirt fastened at the top by a gold collar button that gleamed deep from the fat of his neck. A small group of men stood outside the restaurant window and looked in.

  "Hi, John," Leo said. "You're a little early. The crowd will be bigger a little later. Ifs a bad night. St. Mary's is having a bazaar, couple of other things going on. But there'll be more people before you start."

  Cromwell did not say anything. He took a taste of the Irish coffee, looked up with a smear of whipped cream on his upper lip. Then, satisfied with the taste he drank it off in two large gulps. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  "What else is going on?" Cromwell asked. "Here, have a cigar," he said before Leo could reply. He held out a handful of cigars. Leo took one, bit off the end and lit it with relief.

  "Good cigar," Leo said, letting the smoke float out of the corner of his mouth.

  "Baloney," Cromwell said sourly. "They're awful but I'm used to 'em. What else is going on tonight?"

  He was taut again, his long fingers picking at the back of his neck, then scratching his ribs. Occasionally he held his hands quietly over his chest as if he hoped in that way to keep them quiet. Then in a few seconds they started to move again. Leo looked pained.

  "Well, the North Beach Civic Club is having a steak and beer party tonight," Leo said. "They've got money, you know. Free steak and beer. That'll draw some of the people away."

  "Clara, remind me to give the Civic Club a call on Monday," Cromwell said. He stood for a moment, staring through the window at the crowd, one finger carefully scratching the lobe of his left ear. He turned and looked at Leo. "Leo, you should have told me earlier. You made a mistake."

  "I know, Mr. Cromwell. I know I did," Leo said quickly. He shifted his feet. "It just couldn't be helped."

  "Anything can be helped, Leo," Cromwell said severely. "Whenever you get into a jam like this let me know. I can do something about it."

  "I know you can, Mr. Cromwell," Leo said and his face relaxed. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

  "Well, let's go out and get going," Cromwell said. He turned toward the door.

  "Fine, fine, Mr. Cromwell," Leo said. "I want you to meet the members of our executive committee who organized the meeting tonight."

  The little group of men outside the window had drifted into the restaurant and they stood by the door, smiling at Cromwell.

  Leo walked over to the men and started to introduce them.

  "I don't want to meet them, Leo," Cromwell said. He ran his eyes over the group. "They were supposed to do a job and they didn't do it. We don't have anything to talk over. When they show me that they can do a job we'll have something to talk about. Introduce me to them then."

  He walked by the group of men. They stared after him. Their faces twisted with anger. Leo's face was gaunt with surprise. He walked out into the square and the men slowly followed him. Clara got up and walked out. She was smiling.

  "I can tell you one thing," Hank said as the restaurant became silent. "That guy will never be a politician. He loses friends faster than anyone I ever saw."

  "Wait. Just wait," Mike said. He looked out the window.

  Cromwell walked to the platform and stepped to the microphone. He looked out over the square. He shot his cuffs, reached into his vest pocket and took out a small paper bag of Sen-Sen. He shook a few pieces into his hand and threw them into his mouth. He stared calmly out over the crowd, thoughtfully sucked at the Sen-Sen. He reached down with one hand and dug his fingers into his buttocks, scratched hard. Someone in the crowd laughed and the laughter spread, rolled over the square. Cromwell looked up in surprise.

  "He looks like Charlie Chaplin," Connie said. "All that scratching and jerking. Mike, he's just hopeless."

  Mike did not reply. Standing in the weak light, Cromwell's figure was caught in sharp outline and he did look antic; half serious. There was something elaborately portentous in the way he scratched himself, the deliberate motions of sucking the Sen-Sen.

  Mike replied, finally, to Connie without taking his eyes from Cromwell.

  "Look, Connie, imagine that you're one of those wops out there. You've heard of the Cromwells. You've heard that they own the biggest bank of San Francisco and rice fields around Sacramento and, in general, they're loaded. You come out to hear Cromwell because you've heard about all the money and power. And you see Cromwell scratching his butt and picking at his ear. Suddenly he's like someone you know; he's like your father or uncle or grandfather. Scratching, worried, messy looking. Would it make you like him or loathe him or . . . "

  Mike stopped talking, for Cromwell had put his hands into his pockets and stepped forward to the microphone.

  "Si č fatto un gravissimo errore e voi ne siete i responsabili," Cromwell said in perfect Italian.

  His voice thundered out over the square. He pointed a finger at the crowd. His voice was mocking.

  "Yes, a great injustice has been done," he said in English. "And you, all of you, are to blame."

  The laughter of the crowd was chopped off. An old man took the butt of a cigar out of his mouth, stared slack-jawed at Cromwell. In the back of the square a pregnant woman slowly stood up on one of the benches, her pear-shaped silhouette caught in the light.

  "I know, I know. You're happy, you go to work, you get enough to eat," Cromwell said. "Sheeplike, ignorant and happy you go along your way. Well, you've been duped. While you drank your wine and ate your. spaghetti something was taken away from you, you were cheated. 'Vox populi, vox Dei.' That's what the Romans used to say. The voice of the people is the voice of God. Your ancestors said that. And they meant it. But not you. Not anymore. Now you're content to let someone else do everything for you. And they cheated you. While you were looking at your plate of spaghetti or guzzling your wine it happened."

  Cromwell stopped and mauled his ear with his closed fist. The crowd stirred restlessly. A murmur of anger came from the rear of the crowd. The sounds that came out of the loudspeakers were like strands; almost like lashes, making the crowd shuffle forward in protest.

  A woman stood in the front row. She was middle-aged and dressed in a thin black coat that she held tightly about her body. Her upper lip was dark with hair and she held her mouth in a suspicious pout. Her gray-streaked hair was dirty. She stared at Cromwell with outraged eyes, her face livid with hostility.

  "What, you ask? What has happened?" Cromwell went on. "What did we miss while we were sleeping off a binge? Well, friends, let me tell you that while you were going on your comfortable way here in San Francisco, our president, consulting no one, working in secret, gave fifty destroyers to Great Britain. Now think for a moment how much of our national treasure, our wealth, the sweat of our own American men, the tons of our steel, the hundreds of our cannon, went into those fifty destroyers. Were you consulted when these millions of dollars were given away? Don't make me laugh."

  The crowd stirred. Their faces were blank, confused, uncertain. The gaunt woman in the first row looked over her shoulder, stared at the crowd and then turned her angry eyes back on Cromwell.

  "You weren't consulted on this gift of destroyers to Great Britain, and there are a lot of other things that you are not being consulted on," Cromwell said. He leaned forward, his voice dropped slightly. "I am told, by people who had better remain unnamed for their own protection, but I can assure you that they are reliable. I am told by t
hese people that even more monstrous deals are being negotiated at this very moment. More of the treasure of America is being given away, more of our ships and planes and tanks and munitions are being given to a nation which got itself into a war and now wants us to bail them out. And do you know where those destroyers will operate? They will operate in the Mediterranean, they will roam the length of Italy, sinking innocent fishing boats, denying movement of legitimate cargo in and out of Italy."

  Cromwell paused, scratched behind his ear. This time no one laughed. The faces in the crowd were losing their indefinite look.

  "And in our papers, friends, do you ever hear a mention of Il Duce? Do you ever hear a mention of the man who has cleared the swamp lands of Italy, reunited a divided people, forged the will of a nation into unity? Of course not."

  "What is he trying to do?" Hank asked. "Tell them that Mussolini is a nice guy? The dirty bastard."