by Irwin Shaw
Prinz shook his head. “No time. My heart attack’s in the hospital by now and I have to look in on him.”
“Anybody we know?” Strand asked.
“No.” He peered coldly through his thick glasses at Strand. “But he’s exactly your age. When’re you coming in for a checkup?”
“The next time I feel absolutely marvelous.” Strand laughed. “I’d rather not be told what I have if I don’t know it’s there in the first place.”
“Have it your own way,” Prinz growled. “I’m too busy as it is. Good night, all.”
Strand walked with him to the door. “He’s all right, isn’t he? Hazen?”
“He’s damned lucky,” Prinz said as he put on a black felt hat with a wide brim that made him look like a rabbi. “He told me about Caroline. Idiot. Maybe she ought to join the police force. See if you can get her to take a sleeping pill, too. And don’t let her go out tonight. She has a funny look in her eye.”
“She says she didn’t get hurt.”
“Not anyplace where a doctor could find it, maybe.” Prinz said enigmatically. “Give her the sleeping pill.”
Strand held the door open for him and the doctor went out, on the way to his heart attack, a man exactly Strand’s age.
Strand went back into the living room, where Jimmy was pouring another straight Scotch for Hazen. Hazen was holding the glass steadily in his hand. “To help me face the night,” he said to Strand. “Thank you for Dr. Prinz. He has a very clever pair of hands.”
“How many stitches?” Jimmy asked.
“Five or six,” Hazen said carelessly. “The good doctor said he’ll send the bill to you. If you have a pen handy, I’ll write my address down and you can send it on to me.”
Jimmy took a pen and a scrap of paper out of his jacket pocket, and Hazen wrote swiftly on it and handed it to Strand. The writing was steady and even, Strand noticed as he put the paper in his pocket.
“It’s just off the corner of 82nd Street and Fifth Avenue,” Hazen said. “Right across from the museum. Very handy.” He finished his drink and stood up, carefully putting the empty glass on an ashtray, so that it wouldn’t stain the end table next to his chair. “The next time you go to the museum perhaps you could come and visit me. I have quite a lot of hospitality to repay. Now I must go. I’ve bothered you fine people enough for one evening.”
“I don’t think you ought to go alone,” Strand said. “I’ll go with you. We can get a taxi on the corner.”
“Oh, there’s no need, I assure you,” Hazen protested.
“Do you have anyone to take care of you?” Leslie asked, looking worried. “If not, you could stay here. Jimmy wouldn’t mind sleeping on the couch for one night.”
“I’ll be perfectly all right,” Hazen said. Strand noticed that he hadn’t said whether there would be anyone in his apartment. “Dr. Prinz gave me his telephone number if anything comes up. But I’m sure I won’t need it.”
“I’ll take the taxi with Mr. Hazen,” Eleanor said. “I have a date on the East Side anyway.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Hazen said.
“Anyway,” Strand said, “I’ll go down with you and see you safely into the taxi. I wouldn’t want you to get another crack on the head between here and Central Park West.”
“As you say,” Hazen said. “Although, really, I hardly feel like an invalid.” As Eleanor went to get her bag and coat, Hazen said, “Good night, Miss Savior,” to Caroline, smiling, and bowed a little as he shook Leslie’s hand and said, “I won’t begin to try to tell you how grateful I am to you—to all of you…I hope we can meet again—under more—ah—normal circumstances.” He patted the turban on his head and looked down ruefully at his slashed leather windjacket. “My houseman is going to go into shock when he sees me.”
Downstairs, Strand and Hazen and Eleanor walked toward Central Park West. Strand could see that the man was peering at him intently.
“It seems to me, Mr. Strand,” he said, “that I’ve seen you someplace before tonight.”
“No,” Strand said, “I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
“I didn’t say we’ve met,” Hazen said, with a touch of impatience. “I remember people I’ve met. It’s just that your face is somehow familiar.”
Strand shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“I don’t blame you for not recognizing me.” Hazen laughed. “My own mother wouldn’t recognize me, the way I look tonight. Ah—” He shrugged. “Eventually it will come to me!”
They walked in silence for a moment. Then Hazen touched Strand’s arm and said, with the utmost seriousness, “I must tell you something that perhaps I shouldn’t say—I envy you your family, sir. Beyond all measure.” He dropped his arm and they walked in silence. Then, as they reached a corner and saw a vacant taxi bearing down on them, he took a deep breath. “What a lovely night,” he said. “I have a very peculiar thing to tell you. I’ve enjoyed it, every minute of it.”
Strand lay in the big bed in the silent dark room, Leslie’s head cradled against his shoulder, her long hair soft against his skin. His delight in the beauty of his wife’s body and the exquisite use she made of it had never lessened from the first day of his marriage and as they had made love tonight, he had whispered, “I adore you.” What had been a long-desired pleasure had become, with the passage of the years, a passionate and overwhelming need. The peace he felt now, he knew as he lay in the silence, listening to her gentle breathing, would be deliciously broken once more by morning. Weekend.
He sighed contentedly.
“You awake?” Leslie asked drowsily.
“Just.”
“What did you and Eleanor mean when you said something about Greece?”
“That?” Strand said, barely remembering. “She told me she might go to a Greek island on her vacation. With a young man.”
“Oh,” Leslie said. “I suppose that’s what she meant when she told me it was girly talk.”
“I suppose so.”
Leslie was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Did she say who the young man might be?”
“No. She said he’d been to the island before.” Strand hesitated. “With another lady.”
“He said that?” Leslie sounded incredulous and moved away a little from him.
“He tells her everything, she says.”
Leslie shook her head slightly against Strand’s shoulder. “That’s a bad sign,” she said. “Especially if she believes it.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”
“Why doesn’t she bring him around so that we can get a look at him?” Leslie asked, a little annoyed.
“She’s not sure of him yet, she says.”
Leslie was silent again for a moment. “Do you think she’s in bed with him now—like us?”
“Not like us, surely.”
“She scares me a little,” Leslie said. “She’s too sure of herself.”
“Like Mozart.”
“What?” Leslie sounded puzzled.
“That’s what Mr. Crowell said was wrong with Mozart, don’t you remember?”
“And I said Mozart came to a tragic end.”
“Eleanor has always known how to take care of herself.”
“I’m not so sure. She’s had everything pretty much her own way so far. If something suddenly went wrong—I don’t know—she might not be as strong as she thinks she is. Then there’d be no telling how she’d react. Maybe I ought to investigate the young man a little.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You might find out things that will disturb you—unnecessarily.”
Leslie sighed. “I guess you’re right. We can’t be armor for our children. We can only be supporting troops.”
Strand laughed. “You sound as though you’ve been browsing in my library.”
“Oh, I do a lot of things I don’t make reports about,” Leslie said lightly. “Sleepy?”
“More or less
.”
“Good night, dear.” She snuggled closer to him. But after a few seconds she spoke again. “She didn’t seem to cotton to our visitor, did she?”
“Not particularly.”
“Nor did Jimmy. Did you notice?”
“Yes.”
“He seemed most gentlemanly.”
“Maybe that’s why the kids were standoffish,” Strand said. “Gentlemanliness is suspect these days with the kids. They equate it with hypocrisy. Hazen said he thought he’d seen me before.”
“Did he say where?”
“He couldn’t remember.”
“Do you?”
“Not a clue,” said Strand.
“You know what Jimmy said about him when you were downstairs getting a cab?”
“What?”
“That he sounded exactly like the men they kept putting into jail after Watergate. He says Mr. Hazen has a porous vocabulary, whatever that means.”
“Half the time these days,” Strand said, “I don’t know what Jimmy means when he talks to me, either.”
“He’s a good boy,” Leslie said defensively.
“I didn’t say he wasn’t a good boy. He’s just using another dictionary from the one I’m used to.”
“Don’t you think our fathers felt very much the same thing about us when we were Jimmy’s age?”
“Tell me about the generations, mother,” Strand said, teasing her, “about how they come and they go.”
“You can make fun of me if you like. Still…” Leslie left the thought unspoken. “All in all, I thought it was an interesting evening.”
“Downstairs,” Strand said, “Hazen said he enjoyed it, every minute of it.”
“Poor man,” Leslie said. She kissed Strand’s throat. “Now let’s really go to sleep.”
3
“I ENVY YOU YOUR family, sir,” a voice had said, sometime in the past. Years ago? Last night? “Beyond all measure.” Who had said it? To whom had it been addressed? What family?
Strand was reading in the bedroom. Saturday morning was a busy time for Leslie, with children coming in for lessons every half hour from eight to one, and Strand locked himself away, so he wouldn’t hear the artless matinal tinkling. He read idly. He kept two books on his bedside table that he liked to dip into at odd moments—Prescott’s Conquest of Mexico and Conquest of Peru. Himself an armchair historian, whose farthest trips afield for material were occasional visits to the reading room of the 42nd Street public library, he especially treasured the eloquent accounts written by the blind scholar immured in Cambridge, of desperate deeds performed in far-off places by indomitable men who had changed the face of the planet with a handful of swords and a meager troop of horse, with never a thought of the verdict of history that would be brought in centuries later by the inhabitants of the continent of guilt they left behind them.
For other reasons he also admired the works of Samuel Eliot Morison, who had fought in naval wars, sailed the ocean routes of Columbus and Magellan and written about primitive voyages and bloody battles in such vigorous, manly prose. If he had been ambitious he might have aspired to be a Prescott. The life of a man like Morison, he admitted sadly to himself, would have been beyond him.
When he was young he had hoped to make his name as a historian, but when his father died during Strand’s last year in college, leaving behind him a derelict electric appliance repair shop and an ailing wife and a pitifully small amount of insurance, Strand had to give up whatever plans he had had for continuing in graduate school. The next best thing, he had made himself believe, was to get a license to teach history in high school, where he would at least be working in a field he was devoted to and could make a living for himself and his mother at the same time. By the time his mother died he was already married and Eleanor had been born, so now he read history and taught it but did not write it. If he had his moments of regret, he had his compensating moments of contentment. Rereading a well-loved book on a quiet Saturday morning was just such a moment.
He had had breakfast early with Leslie and Caroline, half-listening to their chatter as he scanned the Times over his coffee. Caroline reported that she had heard Jimmy come in about three. Jimmy’s door was still closed and Caroline guessed that her brother would make an appearance around noon. Caroline seemed none the worse for her experience of the night before. She had been dressed for tennis at the breakfast table, and had gone off to play with an old wooden racquet and had promised to come home before dark.
On Saturday mornings Mrs. Curtis came to clean and answer the doorbell and let the children in as they arrived for their lessons. Occasionally, Leslie would ask Strand to come into the living room and listen to a little boy or girl who had suddenly become a pianist. But this morning he had not been invited to one of these impromptu concerts, so Strand understood that no particular talent was on display and that Leslie would be edgy by lunchtime.
He was reading, for the fifteenth time, the account of Cortez’s battle on the causeway leading to the city of Mexico when the telephone rang. He went down the hallway and picked it up. It was Eleanor. “How’s Caroline?” she asked.
“No visible damage,” Strand said.
“I’ve been doing some homework,” Eleanor said. “On Mr. Russell Wrenn Hazen. I looked in Who’s Who. Caroline brought home a whale last night.”
“What do you mean, a whale?”
“A big one,” said Eleanor. “He’s the head man of one of the largest law firms in Wall Street, founded by his father, now dead. He’s on the boards of about a dozen giant corporations, starting with oil and going down to agrobusiness and chemicals, he’s a trustee of his old school, he has one of the biggest collections of Impressionist and modern art in America, begun by his father and added to by sonny boy, he is mentioned for his connections with museums and the opera and is noted for his philanthropic interests. He played hockey for Yale back in the dark ages, is on the National Olympic Committee and belongs to a lot of clubs, including the Racquet and Century and Union Club. Married to a Social Register lady, nee Katherine Woodbine. Three children, grown, two daughters and a son. Want any more?”
“That will do,” Strand said.
“Who’s Who doesn’t mention his bicycle riding,” Eleanor said. “I suppose that’ll be in the next edition. At dinner I thought he wasn’t just one of the run-of-the-mill Central Park exercise nuts.”
“I gathered he was a man of some importance,” Strand said. “Still, to his credit, he didn’t advertise.”
“He doesn’t have to. Do you know anybody else in Who’s Who?”
“Not offhand,” Strand said. “Well, there’s an old professor of your mother’s at Juilliard…. That’s about it. Did he say anything to you in the taxi?”
“He wanted to know why I said I slaved when he was putting us all through the third degree.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said it was just a figure of speech. He said he hoped to see more of us. He struck me as being a lonely man, although after reading about him it doesn’t seem possible.”
“I had the impression,” Strand said, “that you didn’t like him very much.”
“It wasn’t that, exactly,” Eleanor said. She sounded uncertain, as though she still hadn’t made up her mind about Hazen. “I just sensed a gap between him and us. No, not a gap. An abyss. Didn’t you?”
Strand laughed. “I’m not really an abyss man,” he said. “No. Are we going to see you over the weekend?”
“Sorry, I’m off to Connecticut for a spot of rural luxury. I’ll call on Monday.”
“Have a good time,” Strand said, as he hung up. He wondered where Eleanor had found a copy of Who’s Who. She hadn’t sounded as though she was in a library and he knew she didn’t have one in her apartment. Probably she had been calling from her young man’s place. He tried not to think of what she had been doing the night before, after she had dropped Hazen. He shook his head. Her life.
As he went back to the bedroom and picked
up Prescott again he wondered, without envy, how a man could divide himself into as many parts as Hazen, by Eleanor’s report, must manage, and why he did so.
He started reading again, but there was a knock on the door. It was Mrs. Curtis. “The man who had dinner here last night is here,” she said. “He looks something awful, all the colors of the rainbow, but he has some flowers for Mrs. Strand and he said if you weren’t busy he’d like to see you for a minute. He wants his bicycle but Alexander’s not around this morning.”
“When will Alexander be back?” Strand asked, as he put on a worn old tweed jacket, his Saturday costume, and slipped his feet into moccasins.
“Not for an hour. He had to go downtown for a piece for the boiler.”
Strand went along the long dark hallway past Jimmy’s closed door to the foyer. There were some prints on the walls, and some old posters for one-man shows, as well as a flower piece of Leslie’s. Not mentioned in Who’s Who, Strand thought. Hazen was standing holding a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in paper. Another long paper-wrapped package was lying on the table in the foyer.
“Good morning, sir,” Hazen said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Good morning,” Strand said as they shook hands. “Nobody disturbs me on Saturday morning. It’s my time for doing nothing.” Hazen did look awful, as Mrs. Curtis had said. He had a wool ski hat pulled over the bandage on his head, making his head look grotesquely large, and his face was swollen and misshapen, the skin below the pad of bandage on his cheek a sickly mixture of yellow, purple and green. His eyes, though, were clear and bright and he was neatly dressed in a beautifully fitting dark gray suit, his shoes glittering in a mahogany shine.
“How did the night go?” Strand asked.
“It passed.” Hazen shrugged. “And your daughter?”
“Off playing tennis. She was gay as a bird at breakfast.”
“The resilience of youth,” Hazen said.
He says the most banal things, Strand thought, as though they are pearly-new gems of observation.
“I bought a few flowers for your wife,” Hazen said, moving the bouquet with a little rustling of paper. “For her kind ministrations.”
