by Nigel Dennis
If she leaves me she’ll take Artie too, he thought suddenly.
“I was talking with old Mrs. Morgan this morning,” he said. “In fact, I had a pretty serious talk with her; it made me think a lot.”
Lily continued to stare straight at him.
“Mrs. Morgan,” he said, looking earnestly at Lily, “is really a pretty fine woman. I was surprised. I’d never guessed it before. I had known it, of course, intellectually, but I had never, so to speak, felt it.”
“Why should you?”
“Just the same, she’s a very high-strung, neurotic type—aggressive, possessive, obsessive, if you know what I mean. Well, apparently she feels that her son….”
“The dopey one?”
“Yes, he’s the only one … apparently she feels that he ought to get away from her more, that it does him no good to be so protected, that he should learn to think and act independently. I imagine she suffers from a sense of guilt; any decent woman would, of course. She would like him to go somewhere. But the question is,” cried Divver, spreading his arms, “go where? With things in such a turmoil everywhere, or about to be?”
“Excuse me,” said Lily, and withdrew to the kitchen where she turned down the oven to its lowest notch. “Yes, go on.”
“Go where? She seems to have thought of Europe, but couldn’t quite swallow that—no place right now for a sick boy all alone. On the other hand, it seems suddenly to have occurred to her that since someone had to go to Europe for the magazine, she might be able to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Meaning what exactly? All I get clearly is that somehow Art and I are going to be the two birds.”
“That’s a most unfair remark,” said Divver, drawing himself up.
“O.K. Go ahead.”
“I am, if I say so myself, the most experienced foreign affairs man on the staff. If I am, I feel, why not say so frankly: I know I am; why hide it? So when there was talk about one of us going to Poland …”
“What talk?”
“What d’you mean, what talk?”
“I mean who talked with whom, who brought it up, whose idea was it, where did all this talk go on?”
“Well, at Mrs. Morgan’s it went on.”
“And whose idea was it to send you?”
“Well, that was kind of mixed. I would have been thought of in the first place.”
“Were you?”
“What d’you mean, were I?”
“I mean, did someone say: ‘Let’s ask Max Divver to go; he’s the man’?”
“No, it wasn’t exactly like that.”
“Then you mean, you said you wanted to go?”
“I said nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, I said I didn’t want to go.”
“So?”
“Well, I guess I am going.”
“You are?”
“Well, someone has to go; it’s a matter of getting real information for the public.”
“When did all this first come up?”
“Oh, a while back; I couldn’t say to the day.”
“Did you know you were going that day you had the boil and I said I knew you were?”
“Well, yes and no—no, really. I’m not going to lie to you; I’ll be absolutely frank: I suspected subconsciously that I felt that way about going, but intellectually I felt just the opposite.”
“Well, I knew it subconsciously and intellectually.”
“Oh, Lily, you were dead right—without knowing you were of course.”
“You say you didn’t make the suggestion?”
“It wouldn’t be completely honest for me to say I didn’t. I did mention Poland.”
“The time after your boil when you went up?”
“Yes, I guess I mentioned it then. Yes, you’re dead right; that must have been when. Mrs. Morgan was saying something about our lack of coverage—you know.”
“In brief, then you said you’d like to go….”
“Oh, no….”
“… anyway you teetered around a while, and in the end Mrs. Morgan said O.K., if you took Jimmy. That would be just like her.”
“Put it that way if you like.”
“So you’re going to Poland as a nursemaid?”
“Yes, quite a job, eh? Looking after him, goddamit, and doing pieces at the same time. My God, when I think of it….”
“Never mind thinking about it right now. You and Jimmy go to Poland, Art and I stay here. Is that right?”
“What the hell’s so wicked about that? It’s my job, isn’t it? Since when is my career something you have to crush?”
“I only asked. You’re all set to go?”
“I guess so. But don’t think it hasn’t bothered me deciding. I often lay awake.”
“Oh. And when do you go?”
“In about one month, I suppose.”
Lily rose and went to the kitchen. “O.K. if you want to eat now,” she said.
“Fine. Smells pretty good,” he said, rubbing his hands and chortling.
“Put the bread and the butter on, will you. And the water and the mayonnaise, please.”
“You bet.”
Lily maintained, apparently with ease, a silence that lasted almost to the end of the meat and vegetables. At that point Divver laid a hand on her’s and said nervously: “Honey, I hope you’re not going to feel too bad about my going?”
“No, why should I? Why should it matter to me?”
“Well, to have your husband go off…. Goddamit; no woman …”
“I don’t see that we need to talk about it any more, do you? I’ve had a headache all day, anyway.”
“What a shame! I wish you’d told me.”
“Do you mind clearing away? I think I’ll go right to bed.”
“Sure. I’ll wash them too? Won’t take me a minute.”
“No, just pile them up for me in the morning.”
*
Divver expected more of the same from Lily; he was wrong. She made no assaults on him at all during the next two weeks; there were no reproaches, no arguments. She talked less than usual, but when she did talk he was surprised by her airy manner; one would have thought she had nothing whatever on her mind. She ’phoned her orders for groceries in her usual firm, interested voice; to Art, too, she gave orders in just the right way, enunciating the words with extreme friendliness and clarity. She also seemed to sense that Divver was embarrassed by the idea of preparing for his trip, and she was not at all hesitant about suggesting which suitcases would be the best to take and explaining what part of the cellar he would find them in. When the cases came up to the apartment—thick with fluffy dust, but with the big initials and hotel stickers of his past setting seals on his future—it was Divver who avoided them and Lily who went to work on them with a dust-rag. His only idea, really, was to get away as quickly and blindly as possible: he wanted simply to fill any old suitcases with any old things and hail the first taxi.
But this proved impossible: Lily knew how much time there was; she knew which of his suits should be sent to the cleaners, and sent them; she also knew what new shirts he would need, and bought them; finally he realized that when the right time came she would pack for him too. Consequently he had very little to occupy himself with, and spent most of his home hours answering Lily’s sensible questions as to what things he would need, or merely standing in silence watching her do his work for him. Once or twice he made remarks that he hoped would make it possible for him to tell her that he didn’t feel easy about going and that he was already eager to come back to her and knew how much he was going to miss her. But she never responded to these hints; she merely ignored them or tongue-twisted them into questions of visas and underwear.
The days passed with a slowness that was torture for Divver, he-did-not-know-what for his wife, and fascinating and dramatic for his son. Art had not been old enough to appreciate his father’s previous trips to Europe; he was now completely capable of sharing the event. His questions were endless, natural and tactless: h
ow big was the boat, what was Poland, why was his father going, why was he not taking them with him, when was he coming back, who would be his father while his father was away, didn’t he like it at home? When Lily answered these questions she did so calmly and simply, saying, for instance: “Your father has to go, dear, because that’s his work, you see?”—whereas Divver, faced with the same questions, would try to be jocular, and would say: “How d’you think you and your mother would eat if your father wasn’t earning money for you?” “Couldn’t you earn it here?” “No; how could I say things about Poland if I stayed here?” “Why do you have to say things about Poland?” “For other people who can’t go, don’t you see, stupid?” Art also helped his mother in getting his father’s things ready, so Divver was the only one who was not busy. A stranger, looking in at the window, might have thought that a husband was being abandoned by his wife and child.
Life was easier during office hours, except that Divver found himself unable to work and was embarrassed by editorial conferences about matters which would come due when he was no longer there. Also, contributors to the magazine put their heads into his room from time to time and told him what a swell idea it was that he was going: “I shall certainly look forward to your pieces. They will fill a real gap.” “Yes, there will be a lot of important stuff to dig out,” Divver would answer, and then find himself thinking with some surprise: that’s true, what’s more the work is important; of course it must be, or I wouldn’t be going, would I? Just the same, he had reached the stage where he believed that no matter how flawlessly he might refute any charge his wife might bring against him, she would be bound at bottom to be right, and could be in error only in her choice of words.
“Neither Neville Chamberlain nor M. Daladier,” he wrote at this time in an editorial paragraph, “appears capable of realizing that there is a point beyond which the subtlest diplomacy cannot function, if there is behind it no dynamo of positive, honest conviction. It is a fatal error to suppose that even selfish, nationalistic ends can be attained by a devious policy unbacked by faith; it is worse than fatal to suppose that this same policy can miraculously snuff out the armed power that threatens the peace and security of every living being today. Behind the recent antics of Chamberlain and Daladier serious men may clearly discern the paranoid visage of a privileged class, to which the Siamese twins of financial profit and social prestige remain, as ever, the alpha and omega of Western civilization.”
Divver also made two trips to Mrs. Morgan’s house. She, too, was busy. “I’m sure your nice Lily is head over ears in getting you off,” she said to Divver. She also gave Divver many practical details of arrangements she was making concerning her son: the American consul in Tutin, “a Southerner, of course, like all our consuls,” a friend of a very dear friend in Richmond, had been informed of Jimmy’s coming, and could be relied upon in case of a surprise move by Hitler. She talked a lot about her son, his seizures, his character, etc. “He has his difficult side,” she admitted, “but I can assure you that his heart is in the right place. There’s nothing tricky and underhand about him; he just likes to have his own way.” “I guess we all do,” said Divver. “Yes, of course, don’t we? But I think you men know more about handling that kind of adolescent boy than we woman do. Little boys and husbands seem to be about as far as we women are able to go.” They both laughed at that.
When Divver took a stroll in the garden with Morgan he was greatly encouraged. The boy was polite, and obviously almost hysterically eager to say and do the right thing. At one time he blushed to the roots of his hair and said: “I can tell you, Mr. Divver …”
“Call me Max, Jimmy; for God’s sake, you make me feel like an old Republican.”
“Well, Max; I don’t know what my mother’s said about me, but …”
“Some very nice things, Jimmy; don’t you get your mother wrong.”
“Oh, anyway, you’ll not find me in the way, or a problem. I don’t want to raise hell or anything.”
“You ought to take along a tennis racket,” said Divver.
“I haven’t said this to my mother,” said Morgan suddenly, his voice assuming such deadly seriousness that Divver jumped and glanced at his face. “But I hope very much that this trip may do some important things for me.”
“You mean you’re going to find yourself some Polish dairy-maid?” said Divver, smiling.
“How funny, Mr. Divver, that’s just what my grandfather said. No, I mean—I hope it’s going to change my health.” He turned red again.
“I sure hope so,” said Divver warmly.
“That’s a good reason to go, no?” said Morgan.
“It sure is. Do you think much about getting there?”
“All the time. You too?”
“Not this time, I don’t. I guess I’ve been too often.”
What Diver did dream of now, when his whole past weighed on him and his future looked simply shameful, was neither America nor Europe, but the high seas that run between—no-man’s-land turned into water. By the time he and Lily got into bed on the night before he left, they were both exhausted with last-minute matters; but Divver felt there was still one last-minute question to settle before they went to sleep: should he or should he not try to make love to his wife? She ought to have something to keep her going, its only fair, he thought—as though he were in duty bound to leave a deposit on a place he would want to take again some time. When Lily had put on her nightgown, he even felt that it would be nice for him too—but he was greatly relieved when she climbed into bed and managed to seem asleep before he had followed her in. He lay beside her and stared to the foot of the bed at the dim blocks which were his suitcases, neatly packed and labelled. He asked himself angrily: What am I so ashamed of? What am I doing that’s so wicked? What am I doing that I haven’t done ever since I began going abroad? Why should it be different this time?
He could find no answer to these questions; all that came into his mind was pictures of his life during the last twenty years. He saw himself when he first came to New York, listening to the students who had expounded the revelations; he thought of his first wife, and her listening to him as he re-expounded those revelations; he thought of his return from Italy and that decisive moment in his editor’s room when he knew he would never have to become a school-teacher. He thought of the steady building-up of himself that had gone on in the next confident years—his firm tread as he had marched into his second state of matrimony; his balance and gravity at deciding with Lily to try and have a child. (“It’s much better if it’s done soon,” she had said); the serious way he had written editorials, arranged furniture, dressed himself, chosen friends, argued and thought. He could find no real fault in any of it; all he could find to account for the shame he felt was that he had no right to connect Europe with happiness. For a moment, as he lay in bed, he thought he might analyse this happiness, so as to find out what it was—but instead he found himself imagining where he would be this time tomorrow … at once darkness surrounded him and an exhilarating wind blew in his face; he stood at the ship’s-rail, the shaded deck-lights behind him, and heard the music of the ship’s orchestra faintly against the rushing of the sea—the endless water that upheld him in a boundless present, where friendship, loyalty, truth, love and courage were demanded and desired by none; the intermediate world of rootlessness. Alongside, a narrow, visible breadth of water was lit up by the ship’s lights; it careered toward the ship’s wake at such a speed that it was hard not to believe that the ship would reach its destination almost as soon as it had started. Then he remembered the incessant miles of breathing water that lay between him and his destination, and his thought now was that no ship, whatever its frantic speed, could ever reach port. Between these opposing conclusions, one warning of excess, the other assuring that no excess could be enough, Divver rested, safe in the temporary fluid where nothing mattered at all. It was not complete oblivion; in the middle of it all he could hear his heart thumping and his voice crying: “I
must find dignity, or I shall die.”
PART TWO
IN a blooming cathedral town, streets run like supply lines to the cathedral’s doors, taking their names naturally from bread, milk, brewers, vintners, rarely from bishops and landlords, whose vanity must rest content with memorable tombs. In time, these streets and their heart of piety form the centre of Old Town, on whose fringe, abruptly in a few decades, the chimneys and villas of industrial New Town spring up.
Mell had never grown into New Town. Its gold mines had been worked before Columbus, and had bought it influence and a bishop; but with the coming of gold from the New World, Mell had gone to sleep, and had been kissed awake, looking not a day older or younger, by an Englishman in knickerbockers on a bicycle, three hundred years later.
In his book Wheeling Round the Baltic this Agent of the Forces (for that was his name) had given Mell a full chapter. The inhabitants, who had never seen an Englishman or a Force before, treated him with great friendliness: when he woke up on his first morning in Mell, he found that the cottager’s son had washed his bicycle, and the mother had brushed and ironed his dusty knickerbockers. He stayed a full week in Mell, instead of the one night he had planned, and wrote in his book of the extraordinary courtesy of these somnolent, semi-literate people, with their decaying cathedral and primitive gold-mines. He also remarked that during his stay he never met a single Englishman—so striking a statement that a dozen Englishmen, after cunningly spreading false trails among their friends and relatives, sped surreptitiously to Mell the very next summer, and came home saying that it was indeed a lovely place, without even cesspools, but that the English were already beginning to spoil it. By 1912 the cottage selected by the Forces to house their bicycling Agent had been impelled to add on four rooms and to call itself the Hotel Bristol. Soon after it was found that more thorough gold-mining would be profitable if the product could be sold to tourists; and Mell began to be reputed as a curiosity—one of Europe’s few remaining gold areas.
New trade breeds old customs, and by 1925 the traditions of Mell had grown so vigorously that the townsfolk themselves wondered how they had ever done without them. “There is in Mell,” said one of the new guide-books, “a centuries-old pride in fine workmanship in gold, handed down from the Middle Ages in an unbroken line from father to son. The craft of ‘Mell Gold,’ known but to a few, is one of Tutin province’s most jealously guarded secrets, comparable to the Stradivarius tradition in violin-making, but considerably older.” Bread Street, the largest of the old cathedral alleys, became an avenue of goldsmiths; its owners had the sense to leave its outlines unspoiled, its corners blind to motorists. From June to September tourist brides bought the little nuggets named “Mell Dowries” (“for centuries the brides of Mell have pinned these in their hair”); others bought enamelled beauty-compacts, engine-turned in Tutin and Danzig, with a raw pea of Mell gold sunk in the cover; or gold cigarette boxes which played Hark, hark, the lark!; an occasional tiara was also sold. Golden weddings were a specialty; octogenarian couples hobbled thousands of miles to this one place in the world where they were in the swim.
