by Nigel Dennis
But it turned out that Mr. Petty had found something far more bracing: a serious male-friend who had formed a social-study group. Morgan had only to take one look at his former tutor to know that Mr. Petty’s future was secure. His desperate little beard was shaved away, he took his chair with the disdain of a busy executive whose priceless routine has been interrupted.
“We meet only once a month at present,” he explained, in a cool, even haughty voice; “but soon we shall meet at least once a week, and probably twice; and between-times group-members will constantly be in touch by ’phone or personal visits to each other’s apartments, thus insuring a steady turnover of creative ideas. There will also be groups within the group: if, say, Palestine or the South or the Vatican comes on to the monthly agenda, one of the interior, or committee groups will be made responsible for it, discuss it for at least a month, study all available references, and finally read a written report to the next general-membership meeting, incorporating if possible a practical solution. What we hope is that by the end of each year all these interior-group reports, edited and collected by an elected representative of the group-as-a-whole, may be published in book-form; the object being, of course, to give the average man proper insight into what is being done or is not being done about the specific problems he reads about every day in his newspaper. I think such a book might be a valuable means of keeping people on their toes, and, as far as I know, the whole scheme is completely new, and will thus fill a definite gap. For this reason, we are going to be pretty tough about membership-qualifications and attendance at meetings. Anyone who turns out to be a drone will find himself out on his ear.” Mr. Petty’s face became grim and savage, as does the face of a mumbling hound when, after a long period of stupid, frustrated gawpings, he at last hits the scent which promises his teeth and paws a blood-bath.
“I am delighted with the idea, John,” said Mrs. Morgan, “and I assure you that Forward will give you all a congratulatory send-off. What is the group called? Never mind; when you have all agreed on a good name, just mail it to me or to Annie, along with any other vital details. You will not mind my saying how pleased I am that at last you are out of the wood.”
*
When Mr. Petty had left, Morgan followed his mother to the library, his mind made up. The various parts of the Divver issue lay on her desk—still harmless sheets of manuscript which, in a few days’ time, the machine-presses would stamp into mad, graven images embodying an unalterable legend of Divver’s life and death. With his eyes on them, Morgan said to his mother: “I think you should know the truth; and if I don’t tell you now, it will be too late.”
“At least, don’t be so tense, Jimmy: I am sure the truth will be most helpful.”
“I have to tell you that you can’t make Max a hero, because everything you think about his death is a lie—a lie started by me. I’m only telling you the truth because I can’t bear to be the only one who is in a position to judge if it should be told. I don’t know if it ought to go beyond you and me: perhaps his wife will insist on hearing the whole story, even though she was going to divorce him.”
“Divorce Max? Lily? They were a most excellently-adjusted couple.”
“No they weren’t. She said she was going to charge him with mental cruelty.”
“Dear boy, mental cruelty only means that two people are not fully as happy as they once hoped to be. It means even less than adultery. Perhaps it was just a tiff. Particularly if Lily said it herself, instead of paying a lawyer to say it for her.”
“Anyway, that’s not the point, since he’s dead, and all those telegrams there aren’t congratulating him on his marriage.”
“You are talking a little callously, are you not, Jimmy?”
“He was shot.”
“What was shot?”
“Max was.”
His mother gave a start. Split between primitive horror and modern journalism, she threw one stricken hand into the air and dropped the other sharply on to the telephone.
He ran forward and held down the ’phone. “Wait until I’ve finished. It’s much worse than you think.”
“Who did it? A Nazi?”
“Yes. Max’s best friend. In self-defence.”
“Jimmy, is your mind clear? How could Max’s best friend be a Nazi?”
“Because he freed Max from democracy.”
“Please stop talking in paradoxes; this is most serious. Who was this Nazi?”
“He didn’t wear a uniform and he wasn’t a member of the Party. He just behaved like a Nazi, so Max concluded that he was just a plain man.”
“Don’t tell me that this was the man Max tried to rescue?”
“Yes. Max met him through me.”
“You were friends with a Nazi?”
“No; I just had an affair with his wife.”
His mother goggled. “Go on,” she said weakly.
“I thought the husband was a louse, but Max thought he was wonderful. I won’t go into the whole story, but he was everything that Max really wanted to be—a wife-beater, a boss, a ruthless big-shot, a conqueror of Europe, a very efficient man, a despiser of democracy, and presumably an anti-Semite and so on. But because the man was working on the right side and his behaviour only involved people in a personal way, Max just thought it showed a practical, heroic type of man. Max even decided that it would be fine to string along with him and never come home. Then, one day, there was a crisis, and the man collapsed. He began to talk just like an American liberal—about his feelings of guilt, his social worthlessness, his need to repent and to live a more serious life in future. Max was horrified: he had depended on the man, you see; and now it was clear that he would have to come back home and be a liberal again. Then, luckily, Hitler attacked, and that gave Max one more chance to make a get-away—into the Polish army. But I ruined that chance by telling Max that the man planned to wait in Mell and to continue working the mines, for the Nazis. Max was furious, and rushed to Mell to stop him. I think Max would have killed him, he was so enraged. But the man killed him instead. He shot him. I know. I saw the bullet-hole, and the door open where the man had been hiding, with a big American flag on it, so that the Nazis wouldn’t mistake him for a Pole when they came in.”
His mother opened and shut her mouth, muttered incredulously, shook her head like a ball. Then, when she seemed ready to collapse, she straightened up abruptly and looked gravely happier. “At least he died most heroically,” she said.
“Do you think so?” asked her son angrily. “I don’t. I think he just wanted to get his revenge on the man, because he felt like a damn fool. I think he was just out to rescue his own vanity, to even things up; and he would have felt so guilty otherwise. I mean; he didn’t die for democracy, but to make himself feel less of an idiot.”
“You are white, Jimmy; please sit down.”
“It’s terrible to talk like this about a dead friend. Particularly as I feel much fonder of him now than I ever did when he was alive. At least he behaved more like a human being in his last month than he ever had before.”
“I can hardly agree with that, Jimmy; but I do see that the whole problem is a very difficult one.”
“Of course it is. That’s why, when the consul began to question me, I suddenly realized I couldn’t tell him the truth.”
“Poor Jimmy; poor Max! Yes; I suppose we cannot very well say, in the issue, that he was definitely shot. Shot would be better, but killed will have to do.”
“You mean you are not going to scrap the issue?”
“Scrap the Divver issue! Why, Jimmy, almost every friendly organization in the country has sent condolences for our loss: some of the most able writers have sent short tributes to Max. Why, to back out suddenly with no explanation, no word on Max’s behalf—what an irresponsible act: we might as well present Hitler with a whole division of soldiers! No; as always, we must take the broad view. We must consider Max’s strange error of judgment in its larger social perspective. If we do that, the basic truth wi
ll undoubtedly receive the emphasis it deserves. We all have psychological blind-spots which occasionally lead us into anti-social attitudes; but surely this is not the time to study poor Max under the microscope, or for us to behave as blindly as you say he behaved himself. And, no doubt the whole problem was more complicated than you are able to realize: certainly we cannot, on your evidence, penalize Max for what was, at most, probably the only irresponsible incident in a long and honourable career … And, incidentally, I think you showed unusual social awareness for a boy your age, in withholding the misleading aspects of the matter from the consul. Consuls always judge by surface appearances and never recognize the deeper and broader forces hidden below.”
“I wasn’t thinking of society any more than Max was.”
“Unconsciously you were, Jimmy.”
“I never want to hear the words society and unconscious again. If I let you comfort me with them, I shall soon grow more and more like Max. I only agree with you to suppress the truth about his death because I despise myself too much to feel justified in demanding that he be exposed. But your reason for not exposing him is one that actually obliges you to be a liar in every matter that comes up. You aren’t just going to suppress something; you are going to pretend that the opposite of it is true. You aren’t being loyal to him; you are just trying to save your own skin by calling it ‘society.’ As for me, I know that I knew exactly what I was doing, and why I was doing it, every minute of the time I was in Mell. So did Max. We just enjoyed ourselves, and did all the things we were afraid to do at home. I didn’t go as far as he did, but that was only because I was younger. Max was probably just like me when he was my age, and there’s every chance that I shall be just like him when I am his age. Why should I resist friends any better than he did? How shall I have the courage to make enemies? Won’t I just take the enemy that my friends agree on, and feel that hating him is the only sign of integrity worth worrying about? If people who are stronger than I am decide tomorrow to join the Greek Orthodox Church, won’t I go along? And if I do, won’t they bring out a Morgan issue when I die, whatever the circumstances?”
A large glow of horror was now fixed in his mother’s eyes. She said at last, in an incredulous voice: “You suggest that I have spent half my life financing a deliberate deception, Jimmy.”
When he stubbornly refused to deny this, her expression became so shocked that he suddenly turned the argument away, and asked her: “What am I going to tell his wife tomorrow?”
“Yes, I had forgotten Lily,” said Mrs. Morgan. She pressed a sheet of Kleenex to her eyes and pondered, looking gravely in front of her. “Of course, when a man is not at home,” she said unexpectedly: “when he hasn’t the familiar landmarks; only himself….” As she spoke, her eyes changed from gravity to vagueness; and a few seconds later she was off into one of her trances …
He waited patiently, staring at her with envious eyes. In half a minute, she re-emerged with a start. Her horror, her confusion, her reminiscent vagueness had floated away in the trance’s wake. She laid her hand on the telephone, and her expression became as stern and practical as if her son had never opened his mouth. “Leave me now, Jimmy,” she said. “Some revisions will be necessary, and the time is getting short.”
*
Behind him ran the traffic of Greenwich village—loaded trucks roaring downtown, seedy Sicilians accosting unsuccessful painters: “Hi, Captain; spare a dime for an old Irishman?” In front of him, out of a crowded frame of first names, middle names, surnames, Srs. and Jrs., came the plain metal letters 6A. DIVVER, a concentration on the main facts of the matter which evoked gentle memories of his old friend. The door-opener buzzed, and an automatic elevator raised him to the sixth floor, moaning faintly in its course.
In the apartment doorway stood a young matron who looked him up and down briskly and asked: “Jimmy Morgan?”
“Yes. How-do-you-do, Mrs. Divver.”
“Not Mrs. Divver. Lil’s in the living-room. I’m Heather Stone. Come on in.”
He had expected a private interview; but he soon recognized in Heather the efficient attendant on today’s widow; the distillation, for use in small apartments, of yesterday’s mob of keening mourners. The phonograph was playing a Rossini overture, but not so loudly as to be too heard. Lily was sitting on the couch, smoking, dressed in a blouse and slacks; she rose to meet him graciously, saying, “Nice to see you; sit down; like a drink?” “Fine, I would,” he said, wondering why he had expected to find her with disordered hair, but by now hardened enough to the unexpected to adapt quickly and easily. “Siddown,” said Heather, giving him a good push, “and you too, Lil: I’m the drinks man.” “I hope Mort remembers the directions,” said Lily, looking at her watch. “Oh, he’ll make out,” said Heather from the kitchen: “He won’t remember anything; he never does. But he’ll manage.”
“How’s your mother?” said Lily.
“Fine, thank you. She sent her love and best regards.” “That’s very kind of her: do tell her how much I have appreciated all her practical suggestions.” “Thank you, I will: she’ll be very pleased to hear it.”
“I suppose you know you’re all out of soda,” cried Heather. “Did you look on the top of the shelf on the left—not the dresser, the shelf?” “Hold it; you’re right,” said Heather. “For a moment you had me worried,” said Lily. She added: “It would be just like them, of course,” and the two women went into an exchange that was far above Morgan’s head. “I tried changing to Peck’s,” said Lily, “but they were just as bad: Greenwich at least does send.” “The little man at Peck is the only one,” said Heather: “you have to ask for him when you ’phone. Otherwise you get Scarlatti, and it’s the same old story. What about oranges and lemons?” “Oh, usually two out of four,” said Lily. “Well, if you get the little man,” said Heather, “you’ll stick with Peck as the lesser of two evils—especially meat.” She handed Morgan his glass with a look that dared him to proffer any regrets. “I imagine it’s the same in Magister,” she said.
“Oh, while I think of it,” Lily said, “do tell your mother not to worry about that opening of Mr. Waters’: frankly, it’s the Brooklyn subway-ride that I dread; she’ll know what I mean. What about your plans?” “I hope to get into college as soon as possible,” said Morgan, making the decision at that very moment. Both women looked as if they had forgotten that he was still as young as all that. “Well, that sounds fine,” said Lily: “you look very well.” “What time is Morgenstern?” asked Heather, looking at her watch. “He said between four-thirty and five,” said Lily, looking at hers.
He heard the elevator door open, scuffling feet and a booming voice. The women smiled; Lily jumped up and opened the door, Heather behind her.
Art sped in, followed by Heather’s husband, who at once began to roar: “Lily, at least you could have warned me! The little son-of-a-gun runs like Jesse Owens. At the corner of Sixth …”
“There, there, dear,” said his wife, “a little drink will fix you up.”
“Oh, God!” cried Mort.
Lily was now back on the couch, undoing the top button of Art’s coat. He, his head raised in the half-strangled manner of the top-button moment, pointed to Morgan and cried: “Who’s that?” “Jimmy Morgan is his name, dear.” “Jimmahmorgn?” “That’s right … So, nice Mort found you, did he?” “Did I?” said Mort. “Come on, tell us,” said his wife, bubbling with anticipation; and her husband, assuming the lugubrious air of a clown, positively hurled himself into the role of the incapable man-of-thought.
“First,” he said, “I no more found the damn place and forced the entrance than I was run down by a howling echelon of juvenile delinquents. Pausing for breath, I fought my way through, safely reached the elevator, asked for the third floor …” “You were told the fourth!” shrieked Heather: “… shut up! … found myself landed up in an office with some dame who looked at me like Cassandra …” “The third floor?” cried Lily: “oh, my God, that was Miss Wagram.” She
and Heather were overcome with laughter. “Mort and Miss Wagram,” Heather gurgled: “a consummation devoutly to be wished: oh God!” “Wagram or no Wagram,” said Mort; “I got to hell out, remembered to ask for four—and practically fell off the edge of the roof.” “You said four instead of fourth!” cried his wife. “Why didn’t you listen?” “Well, nothing daunted,” Mort continued—but at this point Heather and Lily suddenly looked bored, and Heather said, “O.K You can tell us all the rest some other time,” and her husband promptly dried up, remarking whimsically: “From now on, I stick to art with a small a.”
Now, Art, stripped of an outer layer of crushable fabrics, wrenched free of his mother’s legs and barked: “Where my darts?” “You know where they are,” said Lily: “in the usual place; but I think if I were you I should decide not to start throwing darts right now.” “Where’s the usual place?” “In your own room, Artie, where all your own things are, in the top of the box beside the radiator.”
Art scuttled out, and the adults smiled affectionately. “Seriously,” said Mort, “the little son-of-a-gun is as strong as a horse … never struck me before that he was that husky.” “Yes, I think he’s going to grow big,” said Lily; and their eyes turned proudly on the bereaved boy, who re-entered with a slow, stomping movement, clutching a pair of darts in either fist. “If you must play with them now,” said Lily: “only at that end, where we hung the board.” “No, here,” said Art, idly inserting a steel point into the couch-cover. “C’mon now,” said Mort, rising, “at the end where your mother says, with me, and we’ll see if you can lick the pants off me. I bet you can, what’s more.”
Art showed some interest in this plan; then, suddenly changing his mind, advanced on Morgan, fixing the stranger with a stern eye. “You know?” he said, in a secretive, not un-proud tone: “You know what happened to Max? The Germans kicked him. So he won’t come back for a long, long time.” Hopeful of a strong reaction, he waited for the point to sink in.
