He breathed, looked into the dull metal of the doors and tried to arrange himself, then made his way down the thin corridor, at the end of which Mr. Wolfschmidt waited, arms folded, a sardonic little smile creasing his face.
Chapter 6
Lurid appeals to sexual appetite were everywhere. They seemed to glare at him from every source and surface: the covers of books and magazines, billboards, radio, television (the Sardo bath commercial was the worst, with its naked and beautiful woman luxuriating in suds, running her slender, soapy hands over her perfect arms, just managing, therefore, to shield her breasts). He was continually being ambushed. Sometimes it seemed that the only safe place for him was the confessional, in his side of the booth, with the muffled sound of the other person’s confession coming through the closed panel, and the dim shape of the crucifix in the dark.
Through his senior year of high school, when he had thought he was going to study for the priesthood, he had gone to confession twice a week, and to Mass and communion almost every day. It was somehow more than piety. He had a purpose, which felt practical enough: According to the catechism, and to the books he had been reading, all the sacraments yielded grace, and grace was nourishment; it provided one with the strength to resist the allure and glamour, the sheer magnetism, of sin. And for Walter Marshall, there was really only one sin, one offense of heaven that he was always trying to fortify himself against: the sin of lust. The immense tide of impure thoughts and desires that seemed always about to engulf him. The huge interior rush of blood-deep yearning that continually afflicted him. For years now, he had been in a constant battle to keep from thinking about sex every waking minute. And what was worse, the temptation followed him into sleep. It wound itself through his sometimes terrifyingly pleasurable dreams, and sought to remind him of its presence in every daily transaction—his curiosity was boundless, as was his mind’s feverish capacity to present him with voluptuous images and morbid temptations.
In the days before he had read the works of Thomas Merton and others, it seemed to him that the rest of the commandments were easy. In his innocence, he had seldom given them a thought: It took no effort at all to refrain from using the Lord’s name; to keep from bearing false witness, or killing anyone, or adoring another God, or stealing what did not belong to him. These matters seemed settled by something in his nature: It was just not in him to do harm to anyone or anything. But the very fact of sex made him weak. It had gotten so bad that, sitting in the front pew of the church during Mass, he had even had thoughts about the nuns, their rounded hips under the black cloth of the habits, those womanly bodies, their folds and secrets, their very difference from him. These thoughts went through him before he could quite manage to unthink them, and though he worked very hard not to indulge himself (for he knew that would be the sin), each one left its residue in his heart, as though every impulse were only part of a heavy chain whose slow forging would eventually pull him down.
The city was humming with sensual heat. Women walked by him in their colors, and he tried not to look at any of them. Alice had gotten his senses going today. He was out of breath with his own heart’s blood. He caught himself supposing that one benefit of marrying Alice would be that, after the honeymoon, this constant pressure would be gone at last.
Mrs. D’Allessandro was waiting in the library. She stood at the window that overlooked the street and watched him climb the stairs. Inside the building there was a perceptible difference in the light. Everything was a shade dimmer, and he saw that the office was empty, the desk lamp turned off. He found Mrs. D’Allessandro sitting at the center table in the little book-lined room, her hands folded before her on the polished surface. She watched him enter but did not move. On the table before her was part of a submarine sandwich in a fold of white paper.
“Well?” she said.
“I spoke to her. We’re supposed to see Mitchell Brightman this week.”
“Not Edward R. Murrow?”
“I don’t think so. She said Mitchell Brightman would be perfect. He does this sort of thing.”
A voice came from the chair in the corner of the room, behind Marshall. “And what sort of thing is that?”
It was the little toy man. Marshall couldn’t keep from emitting a small whimper, seeing him there.
The toy man seemed not to have noticed. “Is this the Mitchell Brightman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What sort of thing does Mr. Brightman do when he’s not on television?”
“We made a payment,” Mrs. D’Allessandro said, almost sweetly. “A large payment. We’re getting everything in order. What more does Terrence want?”
“I’m supposed to make a report,” the little man said. “That’s all I know.”
Marshall listened while she began to talk about the forum, and raising tuition; the idea of charging admission, and of getting permission to actually broadcast the evening to the local area. She did not move from her place at the table, but the toy man got up, walked across the room to the windows, and looked out at the street. His dark blue suit was a bit loose in the sleeves. Mrs. D’Allessandro kept her hands folded tightly on the edge of the table so that she looked like someone saying grace before eating the big sandwich that was there. She went on about the plans for Mitchell Brightman’s visit to the D’Allessandro School. Although all the details were not yet worked out, something concerning President Kennedy would be the focus of the evening, which couldn’t fail to elicit a large interest from the community. Brightman had known the president personally, and been close to him during some of the more famous passages, and that alone made him a very good draw. The event simply could not fail to have the desired effect.
The little man turned at the window, his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the frame, perfectly relaxed, a man who derived pleasure from his work. He stared at her. “Where you going to put everybody—where they all gonna go? All these paying visitors? In here? In that little office across the hall?”
“We’ll set it up in the basement, Marcus. Terrence knows how we do things. It’s where we hold graduation every year, and if Terrence had ever come here for anything, he’d have seen for himself. We move the vending machines and tables out and set up chairs. We can seat up to seventy-five people.”
“Up to seventy-five people.”
“We’ll get seventy-five,” Mrs. D’Allessandro said. “With Mitchell Brightman the speaker and Kennedy the subject, we’ll get seventy-five.”
“You’ll need more than seventy-five. I’d say you need a couple of hundred paying customers for the evening to be a success.”
“We can’t get that many in here. The fire marshal would close us.”
“You have a problem.”
She thought a moment. “There’s Saint Matthew’s, down the street. Maybe they’ll let us use their basement.”
“Better get working on it.”
“I’m sure they’ll let us use it. They let us use it the year our pipes broke.”
The toy man said nothing for a moment. Then he brought one hand out of his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck. “Mitchell Brightman’s going to cost, isn’t he?”
She indicated Marshall. “This young man is going to get him on a volunteer basis.”
“If I can,” Marshall hastened to add. And then, because the man scowled at him, he said, “I think I can, though.”
“There,” said Mrs. D’Allessandro.
After a brief pause, Marcus stirred. “I’ll relay the information.” He crossed behind her and moved to the doorway. “Mr. Brace may have some ideas of his own, of course.”
She stood. “You tell Terrence that what we do is not to be tampered with, if he wants his money.” Then she gave the young man a look, as though she had unintentionally revealed more than she wanted to. He averted his eyes. “Do you hear me, Marcus?” she went on. “He’s not to interfere.”
“I’ll tell him,” Marcus said. Then he tore a piece of the bread from the sandwich and put it in his
mouth. “Sourdough,” he said. “Good.”
When he was gone, she sat down and seemed to sag. Walter stayed where he was, just inside the door, looking first at the empty corridor where Marcus had gone, then at Mrs. D’Allessandro, who had buried her face in her hands. The street outside was in shade now, and the light had gone from the window. He thought of Natalie Bowman sitting there and then tried to imagine Alice as his wife, to send warm thoughts in her direction. Poor Alice, who had done nothing wrong and didn’t deserve to have her bright expectations dashed.
Perhaps he had sighed, thinking about this. Mrs. D’Allessandro moved slowly, almost sleepily, lifting her head from her hands. When she looked at him, she seemed surprised to find him still there. “You haven’t approached Mr. Brightman,” she said.
“No, ma’am. But Alice’s father can get him to do it. She’s sure.”
“But you won’t know until the weekend?”
He nodded.
“Why don’t you sit down,” she said, running her hands through her hair. “You make me nervous hovering over me like that.”
He was several feet away, in fact, but he would not contradict her. He took a chair at the end of the table.
“You want the rest of this?” she said, indicating the sandwich.
“No, thank you.”
“My eyes were bigger than my stomach.”
Marshall said nothing.
She smiled. “Don’t know why I asked you to sit down. I don’t have a bleeding thing to say.”
After a pause, he said, “Is Mr. D’Allessandro—is he—”
She looked at him. “Still in hospital. He gets out tomorrow morning.”
He waited.
“There will be class tomorrow evening, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You think I’m an old lady, don’t you?”
“No, ma’am.”
She was now rubbing her cheeks, slowly, eyes closed. “I know I said that to you before. Either that or I’m bloody well losing my mind.”
He was quiet.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
She muttered, “Nineteen. Was anybody ever that young? Jesus.”
As had been his habit for some time now, out of the sense that he could make a prayer out of the profane use of the name, he said, Have mercy on us, to himself.
“I’m twenty-four years older than you are,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Seems like a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” she said. “I can do without that, thank you.”
He said nothing.
She smiled at him, and seemed to laugh softly, then pushed the sandwich across to the other side of the table and buried her face in her hands again. “I know. You’re at that awkward age. Everybody’s a character in your bleeding flicker.”
“No,” he said.
“Of course they are. It’s quite normal for a boy your age.”
“I have to go,” he told her.
“I’m not stopping you.”
He stood, then hesitated, trying to come up with something else to say.
She hadn’t raised her head, but when she spoke, her voice was a shade brighter. “I’ll tell Lawrence it’s all right, then.”
“Yes, m—” He stopped himself in time.
Now she did laugh, pushing the hair back from the sides of her head and resting her chin on the palm of one hand to look at him. “You are so bloody polite. Your parents must be awfully proud.”
“It’s just my mother,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No,” he told her. “It’s okay.”
She smiled. “Lawrence says you’ve got talent, but that you’ve decided you’re not going after Mitchell Brightman’s job after all. Is that true?”
The reference to Brightman’s job threw him briefly.
“You’re not interested in a career in broadcasting.”
“Oh,” he said. “Yes. I mean no, I’m not.”
“Such a funny boy,” she said. “You’re really very cute, aren’t you? You’ve got those big, watery, dark-blue eyes, and such lovely, natural blond hair. I know several girls who would kill to have that hair.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Do I make you nervous?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He shook his head.
“Just you. And your mother.”
“Yes.”
She looked at the other side of the room, then shook her head. “I have a brother.”
“Just the one brother?” he asked her.
She nodded. “Lawrence, though, comes from a big family. He’s got brothers and sisters by the bleeding truckload. His father was married four times, and he had children in each marriage, and in three of the marriages the wives had other children. You could fill D.C. stadium with his brothers and sisters and half-brothers and half-sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles and in-laws by marriage all over the world. And all of them together don’t add up to the trouble the one brother on my side of the family—” She stopped herself, put her hands down on the table, and stood. “Do you want a ride to your bus stop?”
“No thank you,” he said, perhaps too quickly.
“Well,” she said. “I guess I’ll choose not to take offense.” She stood there, the tips of her fingers touching the table.
The door to the building opened, and Natalie stepped into the foyer, turned and looked in at them. She wore a light blue blouse and jeans, and seeing her, the recently affianced Walter Marshall faltered slightly on his feet.
“Hello,” Mrs. D’Allessandro said. “I’m afraid I’m not quite ready yet. I have some things to do upstairs. Why don’t you wait here and we’ll take young Mr. Marshall to his bus stop. That is, if young Mr. Marshall has no objection.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t,” Marshall said.
Mrs. D’Allessandro had moved around him and started up the stairs. “You okay? You look a bit green all of a sudden.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m fine.”
She looked at him, then at Natalie, then back at him. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Natalie walked into the library and sat down where Mrs. D’Allessandro had been sitting. “Whoops,” she said. “The seat is warm.”
He sat across from her. The submarine sandwich sent its odor of meat and olive oil and peppers and mayonnaise up at him. He tried to seem casual, perhaps a little depressed. He didn’t know why this pose seemed the one he should take, but he couldn’t quite help himself.
“Poor Walter,” she said. “Not feeling well.”
“I’m okay,” he said.
“Mrs. D’Allessandro helps me, with langwege. I haf a langwege problem.”
“You speak beautifully.”
“I sound like a foreigner.”
“My boss is German. You speak much better than he does.”
“Your boss is Mr. Wolfschmidt.”
He looked at her.
“You told me about him.”
“I did?”
“Oh,” she said, laughing softly to herself. “That’s like me. I don’t remember from one day to the next. I’m always losing my mind.” She sighed, remembering. “I vas little girl from Berlin when I came here. Year vas 1951. Did I tell you that?”
“I knew you were a child.”
“Yes. Not like now. An old lady.” Like Alice, she was older than he was.
“You’re—twenty-five?”
“In a few days, I’ll be twenty-six.” She smiled. “When I came here I vas only thirteen, and so frightened, you know. From the terrible bombing in Berlin. And there vas the camps for refugees. I lived in one for a year ven I was very little. I vas little girl, four and five and six years old when it all happened, and then I come to America and grow up, and in America I have seen incredible things and been to plac
es I never dreamed—places no one ever could dream in a million years—if I told you—vell—” she stopped and seemed to catch herself up. Some memory had gone through her. “My own life is almost inconceivable to me, Walter. I have a lot of trouble believing it sometimes.”
For a moment they both listened to the creaking in the ceiling, someone moving around above them.
She looked at the folded paper with the submarine sandwich lying in it. “You people in America. The way you all waste food. It’s a sin to do this. A big sin. When I vas small, I see people eating out of tresh, in the debris of bombed buildings. Little babies, like me.”
“You went through that,” Marshall said.
“Once I eat a piece of bread I took from a rat. Moldy, bugs in it. A piece of garbage on the street.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I hate to think that you went through a thing like that.”
“Planes flying over, dropping bombs.”
He shook his head.
“And look at how you waste food.”
“Oh,” Marshall said, “this isn’t mine.” He pushed it aside.
She seemed to consider a moment. “I haven’t eaten.”
“Why don’t you eat it?” he said. “You’re welcome to it.”
She took it and began to eat, taking big bites, so that her lovely cheeks bulged.
“I try never to waste anything,” he said.
But she had gone on to something else. “I am not American citizen yet,” she said, chewing. “Maybe I’ll never be. But I feel like one. I think in English, mostly. And people still talk loud to me, you know—as if I can’t understand better. I have been where most Americans can never go—” She paused, looked at the open doorway, then seemed to lose the thread of what she had been saying.
“You’ve been where most Americans can never go,” he said, trying to help her.
“If you only knew,” she murmured.
Yes, he wanted to say, and I’m in love with you. Briefly, it was as if he had spoken the words aloud. She shifted in her chair and seemed a bit embarrassed.
Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America, and All the Ships at Sea Page 13
