Turning even more forbidding, Miss Buckley pointed out that Paper-man, when he bought the hotel, had signed a paper taking on himself all the bonds of the alien employees. If Esm‚ did succeed in having her baby on Kinjan soil, the child would virtually have a legal father in Paperman. His duty to keep it and its mother from becoming public charges would never end until he or they died. He would become personally involved in every encounter Esm‚ or her child ever had with the government, forever after, wherever they went, from the cradle to the grave-welfare agencies, social security, schools, police, army-all, all, would hark back forever to Norman Paperman, who had made an American citizen of this individual.
This recital terrorized Norman. If any part of it were true-and surely it could not all be petty official bullying-Esm‚ suddenly loomed as the greatest hazard he had yet encountered in Kinja. He almost cringed to Miss Buckley, in assuring her that he would take action at once. The cringing cheered and brightened the Immigration inspector like a glass of wine. Her eyes cleared, her magenta-ringed smile shone. She put the folders into her briefcase; and with the pleasantest air, she told him that the Immigration Office was glad to welcome him to Amerigo, and was always at his service. She then took a flirtatious, sexy departure.
At once he called Lorna into the office, and asked her to tell him all she could about Miss Buckley. Lorna was crisp and scornful. "She don' know nothin'. She does be a troublemaker, she ignorant as dirt. Don' hoross youself. You don' have to pay her no mind, Senator Pullman he fix de whole ting."
Lorna elaborated as follows: Miss Buckley was the girl friend of Senator Orrin Easter, the chief rival of Senator Evan Pullman. Both legislators were Republicans. One led the party of Eagle Republicans, the other the Elephant Republicans. Since the election of Eisenhower, in 1952, all the senators had become Republicans. Under Truman the two parties had been the Liberty Democrats and the Freedom Democrats. There was a lot more about Kinjan politics that Norman couldn't follow, but he gathered that there were no real issues at stake; the sole question was, which of two rival clubs gave out government jobs. At the moment Pullman's Elephant Republicans were in narrow control. However, there were friendly working arrangements with the Eagle Republicans, and so Christophine Buckley had obtained the Immigration job, which had special glitter because it was a federal appointment. Lorna snarled that Christophine had been thrown out of high school for bearing twins to Senator Easter at the age of fourteen. She had then had a varied government career as a social worker, holding jobs in family guidance and mental health, before leaping to her present federal post.
There was too much female venom stirred into this farrago to convince or reassure Paperman. The only comfort lay in Lorna's scornful assertion that Esm‚ was at least six weeks away from giving birth to his foster-child. Paperman believed this. The girl didn't look on the verge of childbirth. He decided to keep a very close watch on her waistline, and to deport her after Christmas. Right now, he needed her badly. She was a good girl, the cleanest and best of the staff, and in a shadowy way she seemed to be the leader of the six Nevis chambermaids.
So he dismissed Lorna and glanced at the mail from home. Henny's letter was generally cheering. Her pain had faded, and all the doctors now tended to ascribe it to nerves. New York was unspeakably cold, crowded, and filthy in the pre-Christmas panic. Her plans for coming down with Hazel a week hence were set. But the last page was a shocker.
I don't know how to hreak this to you, but with your heart history the surprise might do you in, and you'd better be warned. The Sending is coming to Amerigo for Christmas! Don't ask me why. Don't ask me what to do about it. I'm beside myself. Hazel acts delighted, but I'm very much mistaken if she isn't annoyed. Our tender little darling loves to do the pursuing, you know. She was bored by all the college boys who languished after her, and that was what sent her chasing Klug.
Oh, he drivels about finishing up his thesis on Balzac the Fruit during Xmas, and says he doubts whether he'll even see Hazel except for a swim now and then. But though Hazel may be a prize donkey, she's solid woman, and she can't be fooled. Your screwball chum down there has put a small damper on the Sending's glow. She feels it and she's let Sheldon feel it. And like every dumb cluck of a man, his ego won't allow him to take it quietly. His only hope is to pretend indifference, but no, the damn fool is going to run after her. I do believe we may be approaching the downfall of the Sending, my love, so grit your teeth. This may all be for the best.
Lester's letter was typed on the exceptionally heavy, creamy, engraved stationery of the Atlas Investment Corporation:
Dear Norman:
I thank you for your kind information about the Crab Cove situation in Amerigo. I am interested. Kindly inform the bank.
Due to exhausting negotiations on my Montana situation, including many airplane trips, I am fatigued. I will therefore spend Christmas at the Gull Reef Club. Kindly reserve the best accommodation in the hotel for me.
Kindest personal regards.
As he was digesting this double-barreled blast of disquieting news -for Atlas and the Tilson party seemed as unpromising a juxtaposition as gunpowder and a blowtorch-Lorna put her head in again.
"Suh, you fix de toilet in twenty-six yet?"
"What? Oh, Christ, no." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to meet the plane now."
"We goin' to lose dem guests, suh. Dey a party of four."
Paperman left the office and galloped up the stairs. Eternal weeks ago, when he had first visited the hotel with Lester, this staircase had been a menace to his health, to be mounted with plodding care. Now he took it two steps at a time with hardly a thought, because he seldom went upstairs when some emergency wasn't breaking loose. His heart beat fast and angry each time he did this. But Paperman was too "horossed" to mollycoddle his heart, and with time the palpitations seemed to be getting less violent.
He ran to the supply closet, took out a plunger and a can of murderous chemical, and let himself into Room 26 with a skeleton key. The overflowed toilet and the whole bathroom were a mess, foul and malodorous beyond language to tell. Norman Paperman, the fastidious, tasteful man about Manhattan, Norman Paperman, of the "cashmere existence," Norman Paperman, who until his move to the tropics had never done anything more practical or mechanical than wielding a can opener; this Norman Paperman now sloshed manfully through the vile puddles, worked the plunger for two minutes in the splashing filth, and then emptied the chemicals into the toilet. Horrifying gurgles, steamings, bubblings, and fumings began, and these he endured, together with the stench, for the time prescribed on the can. Then he flushed the toilet and ran, halting in the other room. He heard no splash of an overflow. He returned, looked in the bowl, and saw clear murmuring water. He summoned a maid to mop up; and off to the airport he went, as pleased with himself as if he had written a sonnet.
3
It behooved him to hurry. Nothing seemed to irritate the guests more, or to get them off to a worse start, than having to wait even a few minutes at the hot airport at midday, especially if they encountered the mysterious taxicab boycott. Paperman would have gladly capitulated to the cab drivers, but there was no calling back Amy Ball's circulars with the fatal opening words: "From the moment you arrive in Amerigo, when we personally meet you at the airport, your vacation at Gull Reef will be not a stay at a hotel, but a visit to the gracious tropical home of old friends." This was a commitment like the Monroe Doctrine. Norman had to struggle through this season, at least, with the old policy.
He raced through the somnolent town. It was high noon. The only traffic in sight was an old red taxicab far up Prince of Wales Street, evidently making for the airport. It went out of sight around a turn; Norman came bowling after it, and saw with horror, as he rounded the turn, that the red cab had stopped short in the narrow street and the driver was happily joking with a pretty girl on the sidewalk. He jammed on his brakes, slowed with fearsome squeals, crashed into the taxi, and struck his head on the windshield.
Wh
en he came to, he was lying on the roasting hot sidewalk; he sat up, and then staggered to his feet. A dozen Kinjans ringed him, including the chief of police in his gold braid and vast pistols. "Easy, mon," said the chief, taking his arms. Paperman insisted that he was quite all right, and he seemed to be. The blackout had been a momentary stunning. Neither car was badly damaged, but it was fifteen minutes before he could quit the scene. The chief insisted on writing down all the facts. He gently chided the cab driver for stopping in the middle of the street to hold a conversation. This was a universal custom in Kinja, and Norman had observed the chief doing it himself in his silvery new prowl car. However, since the law frowned on it, and the taxi driver admitted he had stopped for a few seconds to greet his best friend's sister, the chief gave him a summons, and gave another to Paperman for negligent driving. Norman drove off down the tar highway through the green walls of cane as fast as he dared, still giddy, and thankful for the heavy glass in the Land Rover windshield, which had saved him from breaking through and cutting his throat. One more small, unpublicized hazard of Eden to bear in mind, he thought.
Chapter Eight
Lionel
I
"Lionel, for Christ's sake!" Paperman involuntarily yelled, clear across the terminal.
In the distraction of the quake and its aftermath, he had quite forgotten that one of the arriving guests was Dan Freed's green-faced stage manager. There he was, sitting in a shady corner with an elderly couple and two schoolteacherish women. Except for this group, the torrid airport was deserted.
"Hey there, Norm! Here's the five for Gull Reef! Say, you sure look healthy, fella!"
Lionel had been passing the time by telling theatre anecdotes, and the other guests were in good spirits despite the long wait. They kept asking Lionel eager questions about Broadway stars even when they were all in the Land Rover, jerking and snorting along the coast road back to Georgetown.
Soon, as usual, they were exclaiming at the beauty of Amerigo. Even Norman, weary and disillusioned as he was, still loved the verdant hills, the blue-green sea, the play of sun and shadow in the valleys and on the ruins. Their effect on Lionel was astonishing. It was hard to recognize in this man the phlegmatic robot of backstage. The cheese-green cadaverous face, the straight long pale hair, the pursed old-lady lips were the same. But he smiled, he laughed, he spoke in high gay tones, he pointed out wonders to the others; for he was the only one of the five who had been to Amerigo before.
"Ah, Norman, you're the smartest guy I've ever known. This is heaven. This is for me. This is for anybody with half a brain. Look, Mrs. Stegmeyer. Look, Susy! See that ruin? That's Charlotte's Fancy, built by slaves before George Washington was born. How about that ocean? Did you ever see such a color?"
Lionel's delight over the waterfront-the red fort, the arcades, the Vespucci statue amid its pink-and-purple bougainvillea, the native schooners-reminded Norman of his own raptures when he and Lester Atlas had first trod this cobbled plaza. The gondola, said Lionel, was marvelous; and as for Virgil, he was more picturesque than the beefeaters in the Tower of London. "Tell me, gondolier, can you sing Venetian songs?" he asked, as they were rowing across.
"Fongf? No, fuh, I can't fing no fongf," Virgil said, smiling toward a spot about seven feet to the left of Lionel. "But I work two fifff."
"He does what?" Lionel said to Paperman. "Oh! Fantastic! 'Works two shifts.' How about that? Dan is going to go out of his mind about all this, Norman. Dan is going to get right up on the ceiling and stay there." He explained that the producer had sent him down for just one day to scout the Gull Reef Club; and, if he liked it, to make eleven reservations for the Freed entourage, stretching over Christmas and the New Year. "I'm sold right now," he said. "Imagine a hotel out in the harbor! It looks like a dream."
While the guests checked in, Norman went to inspect the water level in the emptying cistern, and saw that it had a long way to go. By lying on the greasy kitchen floor, and peering into the hole, he could see the jagged vertical crack down the inside of the wall.
"Take a peep down here every hour or so, Sheila," he said to the cook, "and send somebody to shut off the valve when it's about two-thirds empty."
"I do dat. Mistuh Papuh, suh, I does have de whole food list now fo' de party fo' Mr. Tilson. De cook at de Francis Drake she did help me a lot wid it. It come to a big lot o' money, suh."
"I'll bet it does. See me in the office after lunch, Sheila, and let's go over it. All right? Say three o'clock."
"I be dah, suh."
Lionel soon joined Norman in the bar. With his knack for self-effacement he had replaced his gray suit and red tie, which made him look like every other arriving tourist, with raucous madras shorts and an orange sport shirt, which made him look like every other guest. His legs and arms were the usual newcomer's gray-white; only his face had the strange greenish cast. This relieved Paperman. An entirely green man might have panicked the hotel's West Indian staff, with its ancestral superstitions of the walking dead.
The stage manager asked Church for a planter's punch, and stretched himself luxuriously on one of the double lounge chairs. "Ah, this is cloud nine. You know something, Norm?" he said, lighting a cigar with a sigh of pleasure. "You're still the talk of New York. I mean that. There isn't a star of a hit show who's envied the way you are. You're becoming a legend. I've been thinking about you for weeks, and I'm darn glad Dan let me scoot down here. I knew the place would be dandy, but he just wanted me to make sure. I'm actually ready to quit New York anytime myself. I've had it. I'm fed up. Twenty-nine years, fifty-three shows, is a lot of Broadway for any man. Do you know a little guest house here I could buy? Nothing this elaborate, you know, but-"
"Good lord. This isn't Lionel!" Iris was approaching in a frilly white shirt, blue linen shorts, and a tight chartreuse sash, carrying what looked like a Coca-Cola. Her hair was damp.
Lionel rose to his feet, staring at her, and then a delighted smile came over his face. "Why, it's Janet! Isn't it? Janet West! Jiminy Christmas, what a surprise."
She had very little make-up on, so she kissed his cheek instead of the air. "How long has it been? When was that Ibsen catastrophe? Thirty-nine? Norman, this is the greatest of all the Broadway stage managers."
"Thanks, Janet, you're prettier now than you were then, by God."
She sat on the lounge chair beside Lionel and they gossiped in the friendliest way, though Norman gathered that they hadn't seen each other in twenty years. "By the way," she said to Paperman, "what happened to our swim? I went in alone."
"I had to fetch Lionel. What do you think, Iris? He's been here an hour, and he wants to buy himself a nice little Kinjan hotel."
Iris burst out laughing.
"Why the horselaugh? I'm absolutely serious," Lionel said. "Don't you think I can afford it? I've saved my money. I'm not an actor."
"Shall we tell him," Norman said, "or shall we let him dream?"
"Tell me what?"
"Go ahead," Iris said. "Tell him."
Norman began the tale of his woes: the water shortages, the power failure, Church's sex mania, Senator Pullman, Tex Akers, Anatone, the ants, and the rest. As he got into the narrative, both Iris and Lionel started to laugh. With his raconteur's instinct, Norman was soon telling the episodes for their humor, which until now had not particularly struck him. Lionel after a while was lying back in the chair, gasping, whooping, and wiping his eyes.
"Oh, golly, Norm, stop," he wheezed, during the adventure of the Thousand Steps. "Stop, for pity's sake, or my old hernia will be opening up. Christopher! I've never heard anything like it. You're set for dinner conversation for life, Norm. That's one sure thing."
"Well, no matter how funny it sounds, I'm warning you not to be misled by some pretty scenery and the smell of frangipani. This is a rough place."
Lionel sat up, with something of his usual drawn, greenish, puckered look. "Well, I don't know, Norm. Sure, you've been having problems, but have you ever gone out of town with
a show? I've done it fifty-three times. Everything is always a shambles at the beginning. You've just been having a few out-of-town troubles, fella."
"Kinja is permanently out of town," said Paperman. "Very far out."
Pulling his nose with a judicious air, Lionel glanced around at the patrons of the bar. "In what way? I admit you're kind of heavy on pansies, Norm, but aside from that-" He was looking at the fat Turk Hassim, who sat at a nearby table with two sulky-looking young men, one with long wavy bleached hair, the other with a pugnaciously masculine, but too well-groomed, gray crew cut. Hassim was being rather loud and bouncy. For a fact, Norman observed, a lot of the transient homos were here for lunch, and several resident ones had come down out of the hills today.
Herman Wouk - Don't Stop The Carnival Page 24
