The Tidewater Tales

by John Barth

  Said Peter Sagamore suddenly John Arthur Paisley was neutralized by a neutralizer of Doomsday Factors.

  Doug Townshend put down Perrier and cigarette. Patted his lips with a paper napkin. Beamed. It’s time we went upstairs.

  Through Carla’s Cavern—an agreeable, unremarkable bar and grill—Peter followed him as he had followed him through these years of exposition, wondering no longer Whether but as always Why. An unremarkable door toward the rear of the establishment was opened from behind at their approach by a remarkable-appearing young woman who must have seen them coming, P could not guess how. Thin to the point of gauntness, large-eyed, wild-haired, mournful of expression but not unattractive, she wore over braless tiny breasts a T-shirt with the legend I’M SO HAPPY I COULD JUST SHIT. In a distracted voice she said Hi, Doug. Douglas Townshend said gently Mim, and bussed her proffered cheekbone. The girl looked shyly sidelong at Peter, but thereto infallibly courteous Doug made no introductions. Rick and Ma are upstairs, she said.

  Townshend nodded. Up the men went, the spare young woman remaining below, to a comfortable apartment above the bar. In the living room, which smelled of fresh mint, the Latin-or maybe Gypsy-looking Carla B Silver rose from a leather couch, smiling wonderfully around a cigarillo, straightening her caftan, smoothing her glossy hair. A man beside her, with whom she had been speaking closely, remained seated. Both seemed to Peter to be sizing him up, Carla B Silver a good deal more warmly than her companion.

  He reminds me a little of Jon, she said huskily to Douglas Townshend, while looking with sad goodwill at Peter. The hair and eyes? Doug touched her shoulder. Everything reminds me of Jon, she admitted. I’ll be downstairs.

  To himself Peter wondered John Paisley? The man on the couch said evenly, as if in reply, Jonathan’s our left-wing son. He disappeared in Chile last year. Peter Sagamore, Douglas Townshend said to the man, who shook hands without getting up. Frederick Talbott. Is that mint tea, Rick.

  More reserved than diabolical-appearing—a beardless, leaner, more polished-looking, less ruddy and amiable version of that Franklin Key Talbott fellow we’d met at Townshend’s early in this chapter—the Prince of Darkness smiled and poured two fresh glassfuls from a silver teapot, elongating the hot stream with dextrous panache like a Moroccan waiter. The Israeli cabinet did something the other day that Carla B Silver disapproves of, he said dryly. She’s been A-rabbing ever since, to teach them a lesson. He advised Peter to try the couscous special downstairs, if he and Doug were staying for dinner. This tea needs half a cube of sugar.

  Said Peter I’m sorry about your son. The three men stirred in small sugar cubes passed from a saucer by their host, raised their tea glasses in half salute, and sipped. Doug then sat by, clearly letting the newly-mets feel each other out.

  Frederick Talbott ignored the condolence; shrugged. You’ve caught a famous habit. The main reason we have a Central Intelligence Agency is that Doug Townshend and Allen Dulles got bored after V-J Day. Peter said nothing. But it’s a habit you can still kick, at your stage of it, Frederick Talbott said presently, checking his wristwatch. Writing a spy novel, are you?

  A touch irked by that disingenuousness, Peter declared without explanation I’m not even writing a novel not about spies. I’m an innocent but curious bystander who grew up in Hoopersville and sails on the Bay. Things bump into me.

  With plainly calculated unamiability Frederick Talbott asked What does it matter to you whether Jack Paisley killed himself or the Russians killed him or we killed him or somebody else killed somebody else? Why not stay home and write your stories?

  You make the idea sound attractive.

  I intend to. Why should you give a damn?

  Aware that he was being tested, but not at all sure what was at stake, Pete considered. The Paisley business seems to give a damn about me, he said, not displeased with that formulation.

  At once and shortly, Frederick Talbott replied No it doesn’t. Peter felt an uncomfortable thrill at the professional interrogator’s refusal to be nice. As if reading his thoughts, Frederick Talbott now said Look here, comrade: We’re not nice. You’re nice; my little brother’s nice. You write stories; you teach college; you’re used to nice people. You think Doug Townshend’s nice ‘cause he comes on nice. But he’s not nice and I’m not nice and Jack Paisley wasn’t nice.

  P echoed neutrally Wasn’t. He saw Talbott’s eyes flicker toward Doug Townshend as if pleased. Doug sipped his cigarette and his tea.

  You’re one of Doug’s hobbies, Frederick Talbott declared. I have my own. Your curiosity about Paisley doesn’t interest me.

  Holding onto his adrenaline, Peter said Your curiosity about me interests me. If you’re such a big-deal baddie as Doug makes out, how come you’re futzing around with a small-time storyteller?

  The man now positively grinned his approval to Douglas Townshend, who was also smiling. In a more cordial tone he said Let’s forget about motives and talk price. I know more than Doug knows about the Paisley affair; that’s why you’re here. I know more about the Paisley affair than anybody I know knows. What’s it worth to you to know what I know about the Paisley affair?

  Peter took it he didn’t mean in dollars.

  Of course not.

  Well, it’s worth my sitting here and being bullied. But just barely.

  Said Frederick Talbott, more correctively than unkindly, Now you’re the one who’s futzing around. So far it’s been worth it to you to keep some things you know from your wife, by mutual understanding. Apparently it’s been worth it to you to set aside your writing career for a while. Not quite that simple, maybe, but that’s about what it comes to, no?

  Peter didn’t argue.

  That was a fork in the river, Frederick Talbott declared, and for one reason or another you made your choice, as we all do. Now you’re at another fork in the river.

  He looked to Douglas Townshend, who now with his customary courtesy reassured Peter that he was not as yet exposed to any real danger by knowing what he, Doug, had confided to him thus far. It was the confider, if anyone, who was at risk. The next level of confidences, however, involved a more active complicity on the part of the confidant; not only the nature of the information but the fact of it would for example have to be withheld from Katherine Sherritt Sagamore, for her own protection, and Peter would be at some risk—of the same sort though by no means to the same degree—as Douglas himself and Frederick Talbott—for knowing what he would know. Early on in their relation, Doug reminded him, Peter had invoked the image of Faust. The situation now did indeed have its Faustian aspect: The price of his knowing more about the Paisley case and related matters would include some further estrangement not only from his wife but from his innocence in general and his innocence about the United States of America in particular. The presumable reward would be an enlarged understanding of where and what the powers are that move our government and the world: no small reward for one whose vocation is registering in language the experience of life. An enlarged understanding especially of Doomsday Factors (Frederick Talbott lifted his mint-tea glass as if to toast that phrase; Doug Townshend soberly returned the toast), who might well terminate the whole shebang. Mister Sagamore’s motive, Doug declared to his colleague—if you’ll permit me, Peter—has been less idle and more estimable than he’d have us think. It is nothing less than driving his art through reticence and his spirit through innocence, both to some presumable farther shore.

  Talbott grimaced. That’s over my head.

  Replied Townshend smoothly No it isn’t. And then, to Peter, As your Virgil on this tour—or your Mephistopheles—it falls to me to remind you that that innocence of yours is really long since lost. You are a little bit pregnant. If saying yes now has its price, the price of saying no is artificial innocence, which is another name for arrested development.

  Uncomfortable Peter Sagamore said to bored Frederick Talbott I don’t think that was the price you had in mind.

  Nope. You
r wife and her mother are both trustees of The Deniston School, right?

  Doug Townshend frowned and set down his tea glass; Peter’s surprise was evidently shared. Maybe they’d like to do their school and their country a little service, Frederick Talbott said.

  Tight-lipped Douglas stubbed his cigarette. Frederick Talbott ignored him for the length of an extended statement. The Soviet embassy wants more privacy on Corsica Neck. They’ve put out feelers about annexing land from Deniston, and pretty soon they’re going to make a quiet offer to the board of trustees. We have it in mind to stir up a big redneck fuss on the Shore at that point, so that some unimpeachable Deniston friend of ours can come to the Russians’ rescue and quiet the fuss and shepherd the deal through. Somebody respected and patriotic and blue-blooded, you know, but liberal in the Averell Harriman style. By then we’ll have saturated the campus with our people and our gear; we’ve got some in place already. We’ll also benefact the school anonymously. Is “benefact” a word? Our Deniston angel might get to know one or two embassy people or their wives, though we never count on that. The bottom line is that between the bugs and the angels we get a better idea what they’ve got in the attic over there.

  Peter looked to Douglas Townshend, who said with a sigh This shouldn’t be news to me, but it is. Business never stops, Peter. Feel free to say no.

  Okay, said Peter: No.

  Said smiling Frederick Talbott The angel needn’t report to us. She needn’t even know she’s our angel. You’ve established yourself as a CIA-hater who’s appalled but fascinated by messy goings-on in your own backyard. She shares your feelings, makes friends with her Russian neighbors, and tells you what she hears, and you tell us. The main things we find out for ourselves.

  Feel free to say no, Doug Townshend repeated—a touch edgily, it seemed to Peter—and rubbed his forehead with three fingertips.

  I said it already. Look, guys: I’m sorry if I led you-all to believe I was recruitable. My curiosity is cured.

  He stood, but Douglas Townshend did not at once stand also. Frederick Talbott kept his eyes on Peter. Feel free to say no, he echoed disagreeably. You really don’t know anything about us.

  Said Peter I’ll read a few spy novels. I’m ready to go, Doug.

  Checking his watch again, Frederick Talbott said Maybe you should read a few spy novels. You’re free to feel any damn thing you like, professor. What you’re free to do could be another story.

  Doug Townshend said Come on, Rick.

  You’re supposed to be coaching this boy, Doug, Frederick Talbott teased, and you tell him to feel free to say no? Tapping the saucer of sugar cubes, he said lightly to Peter I’ve sent all three of us a valentine: two-hour delay and clean as a whistle. Does he know what a valentine is, Doug?

  Good Lord, Rick, Doug Townshend said. Peter’s skin thrilled. Frederick Talbott rotated a bezel on his watch and said with satisfaction Seventy-five minutes to the end of the chapter, just like in a spy novel. Am I pulling your leg? From his sports-shirt pocket he removed a small yellow sealed envelope. Here’s the antidote, also clean as a whistle. He tore it open and dumped its contents, three bright capsules, onto the sugar server, where several of those half-cubes remained. One capsule was red, another white, the third blue. Ignore the colors, Frederick Talbott instructed; they’re all the same inside. My advice to you is to believe me and take one, even though this might be the valentine, or one of them might not be the antidote. That’s what kind of nice fellows you’re playing games with. He passed the saucer first to Douglas Townshend. What’s your advice, Doug?

  Douglas Townshend calmly said You’re being outrageous, Rick. But without hesitation he picked up a capsule, the blue one, and washed it down with the last of his tea. Pleased Frederick Talbott took the red one, but did not at once put it in his mouth, and offered the saucer to Peter. You see how we have to trust one another in our business, even though we mustn’t. He swallowed his capsule. Are you in? Feel free to say no.

  Take it, Peter, Doug advised with another sigh. I’m terribly sorry.

  Peter Sagamore perspired.

  Is Doug your friend or my accomplice? Frederick Talbott teased. Swallow hard. Tea? Dizzy Peter swallowed the white capsule; it caught in his dry throat and had after all to be washed down with gulps of tea. I’m really sorry, Doug Townshend murmured. Frederick Talbott poured himself another glass but did not sugar it; the remaining cubes he shoveled into his pants pocket. Think it over, he said affably to Peter: the Deniston caper. You’re free to say no.

  Katherine Sherritt and Peter Sagamore suppose that in a spy novel, this long episode would climax in an explosion of physical action; an indignant lunge, an expert parry; at least a curse, a smashed tea glass, a regurgitation. But in this truth-seeking tidewater tale, a tisking Townshend, still apologizing, merely ushered a sweating Sagamore down and out of Carla’s Cavern. No sign of friendly proprietress or crazy-haired girl in T-shirt; a lean and sullen West Indian tended the bar, at which early patrons were beginning to gather.

  Patient reader: To have lost much innocence does not condemn one to losing all. To realize that one bears some guilt does not condemn one to becoming ever guiltier. Our late friend Douglas Townshend’s conviction, if it was his conviction (we have chosen to believe it was)—that a gifted artist, purged of illusions, might come thereby through to some profounder art and perhaps even help save the world—may well itself have been an illusion. But even had Peter Sagamore been guaranteed such a payoff (he told Doug in their final conversation, by telephone a few days later), he’d have said No, no, no in thunder! And wished he had done earlier.

  Then you have made your choice, said still-apologetic Doug—who long since had opined that both “valentine” and “antidote” were almost certainly “blanks,” but just possibly were real. Your wife is more important to you than your writing is. Who can blame you?

  Said still shocked Peter The choice isn’t that clean. I haven’t told her yet what happened in that bar, but I will. To hell with John Arthur Paisley! To hell with you all, Doug.

  Quite so, said Douglas Townshend. This is what Rick wanted—to recruit you or turn you off—but I’m disappointed, of course. There’s more to that fellow than the side you saw, by the way.

  Doomsday Factors, for Christ’s sake. I’m ashamed of myself.

  Yes, well. Obviously I wish you and Katherine the best, and your literary projects too, though I’m not at all confident you’ve made the right choice. That unhappy hour in Carla’s Cavern could have led you into things that no American writer of your gifts has ever been even close to. Rick was much taken with you, I should say.

  Screw Rick.

  Mm. Me too, I gather. Peter said nothing. So be it, Douglas Townshend sighed. Porter Baldwin, by the way, is going to lose next month’s election. His defeat won’t be unrelated to all this, and to the Doomsday Factor. Peter said nothing. For heaven’s sake don’t imagine that we do our serious business as elaborately as that mint-tea thing, Doug said. Well, we do, sometimes, but that was Rick’s idea of a literary demonstration. More often he’ll go for a simple kick in the crotch or an umbrella-point in the leg, if not a bullet behind the ear. Seriously, Peter: Setting aside the Deniston business, if you should change your mind . . .

  Peter hung up the telephone. The U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, we read soon after in our newspapers, pressed the Maryland State Police to drop their murder investigation in the Paisley case and rule suicide. Maryann Paisley attempted to retrieve her late husband’s car from his girlfriend, one Betty Myers, but Ms. Myers refused to return it until certain personal items of hers had been returned to her from Paisley’s apartment—including, reporters speculated, those never-located tapes she spoke of in a Look magazine interview: the tapes in which her friend John had allegedly spoken of suicide. The Maryland State Police and the State Medical Examiner ruled that the corpse Story had bumped into was a probable suicide. The FBI concurred, but the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence
, annoyed by Admiral Stansfield Turner’s false denials of Paisley’s status, opened their own investigation. A sister of Paisley’s out in Oregon declared to reporters that if she ever wanted to kill somebody, she sure would do it in Maryland. Late in October, supporters of Congressman Porter Baldwin Jr. (R., Md.) were shocked by the revelation that he was a solicitor of homosexual favors from young male prostitutes in Georgetown gay bars; the damning evidence, together with witnesses prepared to testify, had dropped into FBI hands as if from nowhere, in connection with a routine police investigation of one of the gay hustlers. The congressman at first denied the charge, insinuating that his political rivals—who were of course jubilant—were behind the whole thing. Finally he more or less acknowledged the truth of the allegations, repented, apologized publicly to his family and constituents, but refused—rather spunkily, Peter thought—to withdraw from the congressional race, and lost the election. Two Soviet spies were convicted for trying to buy U.S. antisubmarine-warfare secrets from a Navy officer in Connecticut; they claimed entrapment, and though they were soon exchanged for five Russian dissidents, the newspapers speculated that John Arthur Paisley might also have been trying to entrap certain KGB officers, maybe his Massachusetts Avenue neighbors, and had been killed by them as a heavy signal to the CIA.