The Plot

by Irving Wallace

In long strides, Brennan went past the Piazzetta, continued on along the Canal past the novelty stalls before the Gardinetti, past the comic-opera air terminal, elbowing his way through the traffic being disgorged from ferries at the San Marco station. Reaching the corner, hesitant, wanting to turn back, he broke his stride and faltered, but finally, he willed himself to turn the corner.

  Ted was there, leaning against the wall beside the entrance, hands stuck in his pockets, as he observed the stream of foot traffic.

  As yet unseen, Brennan was able to take a careful look at his son, and what he saw startled him, and gave him hope and commitment. Those forty-six chromosomes of eighteen years ago had been faithful, Brennan could see. The boy was, like it or not, his father’s son. This was Matt himself at seventeen, with hair the same color, although Ted’s was close-cropped, with the same gaunt, serious countenance, although occupied by several adolescent pimples, and the same skinny slouching sharp-boned frame. And now, by coincidence or by heredity, the fresh drip-dry shirt with the button-down collar, narrow knit tie, tweed sport coat.

  Spirits lifting, Brennan advanced toward his son. “Glad you made it, Ted. Sorry to be late.”

  The boy turned, snapping erect, and was almost as tall as Brennan. With consternation, his head bobbing, mouth unsmiling, he dumbly accepted his father’s short handshake.

  “I see you had no trouble finding it,” Brennan said. “You’re looking great, Ted. You’ve really grown up since I last saw you.”

  “Thanks,” said Ted. Swallowing, he added, “You’re looking good, too.”

  “Well, Venice—” Brennan said vaguely. He gripped his son’s arm. “Let’s sit down.”

  He guided Ted toward the swinging doors, pushed one open, and followed his son into Harry’s Bar.

  Brennan surveyed the room. Except for the bar beside them—the ten stools occupied by Italian, English, and American customers thirstily imbibing gin fizzes and dry martinis and nibbling at the hot toasted prosciutto sandwiches—the ground floor of the restaurant was relatively empty. At a later hour, the place would be a smoke-filled madhouse of wealthy tourists, celebrated actors and actresses, authors, Italian aristocrats, and fading contessas with their eager, natty, effeminate young male escorts. But now, except for a few couples scattered about the room, most of the tables were unoccupied, and Brennan was grateful. He would have some degree of privacy with his son.

  He nudged Ted and pointed to the left, to a framed photograph on the wall, near the bar’s cash register. “That’s a signed picture of Ernest Hemingway with Giuseppe Cipriani, the Italian who opened this place, taken around 1931, I think. They were great friends, Hemingway and Cipriani.”

  Ted was peering at the photograph with genuine awe, and Brennan was pleased.

  “Do you know why Giuseppe Cipriani named this place Harry’s Bar?”

  “No.”

  “Cipriani was a plain bartender, and a rich American from Boston, Harry Pickering, took a liking to Cipriani and lent him the money to start a restaurant and bar of his own. So Cipriani showed his appreciation by naming his place after his patron. Celebrities of every stripe have come here. I’m told that once, in the good old days, four different monarchs ate here at the same time in a single evening, each at a different table. There were other regulars like Winston Churchill and—wait, they’re signaling us. We’d better claim our table.”

  As they made their way past the bar, the bartender and his assistant waved cordially to Brennan, and he waved cheerfully back. Then the proprietor materialized, beaming, pumping Brennan’s hand, and displayed his pleasure at being introduced to Brennan’s son. At the corner table, two effusive Italian waiters greeted Brennan with familiarity, and were also pleased to meet his son.

  Sitting, watching his son out of the corner of an eye, Brennan sensed that their reception could not have been more effective had he staged it. Bewilderment was clearly evident in Ted’s face, and Brennan guessed at the source of the boy’s confusion. Ted had arrived here, driven by the guilts of duty, to meet reluctantly with a parent who had been branded a latter-day Benedict Arnold. He had expected, perhaps, to find a disgraced, cringing, ostracized traitor; yet in this public place, a stunned Ted had found his parent enthusiastically welcomed, highly respected, openly admired.

  The waiter, toothlessly grinning down at father and son, said, “You celebrate tonight?”

  Brennan nodded. “Do you drink, Ted?”

  “Not legally. But—I wouldn’t mind something.”

  “Well, I don’t want to corrupt you entirely. I’d suggest a Bellini. Specialty of the house. Peach juice and champagne. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “One Bellini,” Brennan said to the waiter. “And I’ll have the usual. After that, we’ll eat. My son’s got to make a date.”

  They discussed the menu, or rather Brennan did, with Ted responding in monosyllables, and when the drinks were served, Brennan was prepared to order their dinner. Having convinced Ted that Harry’s open-faced hamburger, served on round slices of toasted bread, was the best in the world, he ordered this for his son but took the calf’s liver and onions for himself, with two servings of cannelloni from the list of Farinacei to start them off.

  They were alone, at last. Ted sampled his peach juice and champagne without interest, then stared down at it uncomfortably. Brennan had finished his Scotch-and-water in three swallows, praying alcohol would help him, and, to be certain, he called out for a refill.

  Looking at the top of his son’s head, he braced himself. There had to be communication, somehow. “How’s your mother?” he inquired.

  Ted brought his head up, but avoided his father’s eyes. “She’s—well, she’s okay, I guess. She’s been seeing some specialists. They think it’s bronchitis. Uh—right now she’s in—in Hawaii, for a rest. She took Tracy with her.”

  “And Tracy? How is she?”

  “As usual. Noisy. She wasn’t doing well in geography, so Mother got her a tutor. Oh, yeah—I almost forgot—she said for me to thank you for that birthday present.”

  “Yes, I had a cute note from her. She writes well for a twelve-year-old.”

  “I guess so. I get letters from her at every American Express. She keeps bitching about being in Hawaii.”

  “Why?”

  “She wanted to come to Europe with me.”

  “Well, you remember to kiss her for me when you’re back home. Don’t forget, Ted.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Now, you. I’ve been waiting for this—for our meeting—for a long time. I want to hear all about you.”

  Ted glanced at him suspiciously, then averted his eyes. “Well, I don’t know if there’s much worth hearing about. There’s nothing special, not really.”

  Brennan had emptied his highball glass and motioned to the waiter for a third drink. He returned his attention to his son. “I only meant that I’d like to know what you’ve been up to. It’s hard to learn much from letters. I’m curious about what interests you these days, in school, out of school, your sports, hobbies, the kind of friends you have, the girls you see. And Yale—I’d like to know what you’re going to major in, that kind of thing. And this trip. Exactly where have you been, what have you seen, and how about the rest of your itinerary?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Let me see…” His voice had faded out, and he seemed reluctant to speak.

  “Where did the trip start?”

  “We came across on the S.S. France—second-class.”

  “How was that?”

  “It swings.”

  “Then where?”

  “London. We picked up the car, a Peugeot, in Amsterdam, then we began driving …”

  He went on, haltingly, sparingly, colorlessly, as if not wishing to share his summer’s vacation with his father. In a few minutes, Brennan had both his third drink and the end of his son’s grudging recital. To their mutual relief, the cannelloni materialized. Desperately, Ted gave himself to the pasta, while Brennan ignored his own, and d
evoted himself to the Scotch and a persistent observation of his troubled child.

  When the cannelloni dishes were removed, Brennan had a fourth drink and a renewed determination to make some meaningful contact with this boy. He resumed with specific questions about Ted’s schooling and social life back home, and Ted continued to respond with his laconic replies. The hamburger sandwich and the calf’s liver appeared, and rapidly disappeared in the expanding silence, and still the chasm that separated them had not been bridged.

  With despair, after ordering a chocolate mousse for his son and another Scotch for himself, Brennan decided to make one last effort. Perhaps candor would shock the boy out of his determined withdrawal.

  After they had not exchanged a word for a full minute, Brennan suddenly sat up straight and said, “Ted, let me ask you something, quite frankly. You seem to be here under some kind of duress. You don’t seem to be interested in me the least bit, and you seem even less interested in letting me know a damn thing about yourself. That’s an odd condition for a father and son. So, okay, tell me—why in the devil did you bother to come to Venice and see me at all?”

  Taken aback, Ted blinked at him across the table. “Why I came?” he asked, confused.

  “Yes. Why are you here? Did your mother tell you to stop in Venice to see me?”

  “Mother?” This was emphatic. “She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  “Does Tracy know?”

  “Not exactly.” He thought about it. “Well, I guess maybe she does. It came up between us. She wanted to know if I was going to see you, because if I was, she wanted to, too.”

  Tracy had wanted to see him. Ah, Brennan thought, little girls and their fathers, the surest faith and love of all. But Tracy was a digression. The primary subject here was Ted, and Ted had not yet answered the question. Brennan decided to ask it once more. “All right, Ted, but you still haven’t told me why you are here. Why?”

  Ted’s confusion had given way to discomfort. He shifted in his seat, and began to ball up his napkin. “I guess I felt that—that I should—”

  Brennan interrupted. “You mean, you felt it was your duty?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Wanted to,” Brennan repeated. He wondered if the expression of desire had been spontaneous or was an effort to appease, to mouth what was expected of him. Brennan felt sorry for the boy, was ready to relent, yet, somehow, it was important to solve this mystery. “You wanted to see me. But you don’t know why. Was it nostalgia for remembrances of a father? Was it naked curiosity? That is, Can my father be the ogre everyone says he is? Or was it the need to see for yourself that your father is exactly what you’ve been led, by others, to think that he is—and after confirming this, you could leave here with no more guilts, free at last to relegate me to the skeleton in the closet, and transfer any filial relationship to your stepfather?” He paused, unhappily watching his son twist the napkin. Brennan frowned. “Does any of that make sense?”

  “I—I don’t know.” Ted glanced up. “I really don’t.”

  “Okay. Let’s forget it.” He clutched his highball glass. “Is there anything else you’d like to order?”

  “I’d like to go to the bathroom.”

  Brennan pointed toward the cloakroom alcove. “That way.”

  Ted bumped the table, sliding out of his place. He went quickly, gawkily, out of the room.

  Brennan surveyed the restaurant. It was becoming filled, and the bar, as ever, was crowded. Beyond the bar, above the swinging doors, he could see that the day was graying, readying for darkness. He looked at his wristwatch. The dial showed him ten minutes after seven. There was little time left for anything more, if, indeed, there was anything more to be said. He had tried for his moments of truth, and learned nothing of the boy, although his son might have learned something of him. As for small talk, there was no more of that left. But truth still remained the uncharted area. Perhaps he should make a final desperate attempt to give truth some definition, or else make his peace with the loss of a son forever.

  He drank slowly, and the taste and fumes of the Scotch were behind his eyes and in his brain, only mildly dizzying, yet liberating him from inhibition and clarifying his feelings. He wanted Ted as son. He wanted his son’s esteem. Perhaps it was too late to win either, but, win or lose, he wanted his truth in the open, this once.

  Impatiently, he waited, wondering why Ted was taking so long, what Ted was thinking, how Ted would react after returning, if he did return.

  He saw Ted edging sideways between the tables. When he looked up, Ted was standing, making no effort to resume his seat.

  “I—I just looked at—at the clock,” Ted stammered. “I guess maybe I sh-should take off.”

  “In a few minutes,” said Brennan firmly. “Sit down.”

  Surprised, the boy resumed his place on the other side of the table, slowly lowering himself into his chair, where he sat tentatively, his pimply features apprehensive.

  Brennan pushed aside his glass and folded his hands, one over the other, on the table. He looked directly at his son. “I’ll let you go shortly, Ted, but I won’t let you go without the truth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The truth about your father, whatever it’s worth to you, but the truth, take it or leave it.”

  Ted blinked, but remained silent.

  “When the crisis happened, you were too young to understand it,” Brennan said. “You were—what?—not yet fourteen. Now you’re going on eighteen. Now I can speak to you as one adult to another.”

  Ted squirmed. “You don’t have to. I know—”

  “You know nothing.” Brennan had raised his voice and several persons at a nearby table looked up. Brennan sought control and, finding it, resumed in an urgent, low-pitched tone. “All you think you know comes from questionable sources—your mother, whose judgment was prejudiced by personal considerations, or from your friends, whose opinions come from parents who had no access to the evidence, or from your reading of rehashes in the press and history books. All your knowledge, from those sources, adds up to a belief that you are the son of a traitor, a turncoat, a spy, a man who betrayed his country. All you know, from your sources, is that your father is, at worst, Klaus Fuchs or the Rosenbergs, at best Alger Hiss. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “I—I never said—”

  “But that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Dammit, quit being slippery with me. Try to be honest with me once tonight.” He regarded his son drunkenly. “That’s what you think of me, isn’t it?”

  Ted’s features had colored, and he began to tremble. “If you’re so innocent,” Ted blurted, “why didn’t you ever try to prove it? Why didn’t you? Why did you run away?”

  At last, at last, Brennan thought, and he felt eased. Resentment and shame were no longer invisible. They were there, recognizable, to be fought.

  “Now,” said Brennan quietly, “we can talk.”

  Yet, it would not be easy. There was too much, far too much, for this time and place. His son had posed a single question, and maybe answering that would be enough. At least, it would be the truth, the only bulwark he could provide his son against the onslaught of distortions and lies.

  He stared across the table. Ted sat frozen into an attitude of expectation and dread.

  Brennan spoke quickly. “If I was innocent, you asked, why wasn’t I able to prove it? That’s a fair question. I was innocent, Ted, completely innocent—not because I wasn’t found guilty, but because I had done nothing wrong, absolutely nothing, and three persons on earth knew it, and I knew it, but I couldn’t prove it or produce those three persons to prove it. A political scandal had occurred. A political scapegoat was needed. I was the chosen victim, and not of evidence or justice, but of character assassination. To paraphrase Rousseau, if there had not been a Senator Joe McCarthy in his time, society would have invented one. There were McCarthys—as well as their victims—before McCarthy h
imself, and there will be more in years to come. There were such men three years ago, seeking victims, and I happened to be a vulnerable target.”

  He paused, having heard himself, as he spoke the last words, and now he sensed that to his son, even to his son, this was merely special pleading, his self-protective words against the august and unanimous pronouncement of his peers. He was giving Ted too little, he knew, if he did not give him the facts.

  “Four years ago,” Brennan said, “after we’d had hundreds of discussions with the Red Chinese representatives in Warsaw, the Chinese agreed to join with the United States, Soviet Russia, Great Britain, and France in a preliminary foreign ministers’ parley in Zurich—a preliminary to the final high-level talk at which a permanent disarmament treaty would be signed. At that point China was an extremely muscular member of the world’s nuclear club, but still somewhat behind us in the production of thermonuclear bombs of advanced design, and she still lacked a long-range delivery system. Nevertheless, we recognized that the Chinese must be dealt with as a military equal, and the sooner the better. Also, in China, the climate seemed about right. Chairman Kuo was proving more realistic than his predecessors, more concerned with the fact that another domestic Leap Forward economic program had turned out to be only a stumble, and Kuo was less concerned with military aggression. The Chairman was demoting Maoists from key positions, and quoting Mao’s old Yenan lecture that China’s policy must be ‘to avoid a decisive engagement in every campaign or battle when victory is uncertain, and to avoid absolutely a strategic decisive engagement which stakes the destiny of the nation.’ This was a China we could talk to. But before proceeding to a Summit meeting, we decided that there were certain areas of disagreement that must be thrashed out first, disagreements involving geographical conflicts of interest—in Japan, India, Southeast Asia, Siberian frontiers—as well as problems involving prisoners of war, trade, and so on.

  “Equally important, before attempting a Summit conference, was the ironing out of many differences on nuclear disarmament. For example, if every one of us agreed to reduce our conventional warfare capabilities, well, how could we do so equitably? We were an air power. China was a land power. Who would give up how much of what? Or the problem of concealment. If we each reduced our armaments in stages over six or eight years, how could we be positive some country wasn’t violating the treaty by hiding a few nuclear bombs? Or the problem of the members of the neutral on-site inspection teams. How would we know their reports were truthful, that they were not secret anti-Communist or Communist agents, or fanatics, or deranged, or unstable? You see, Ted. Such details had to be ironed out, also, before we could go ahead with a meaningful Summit conference. In short, an important preliminary parley was indicated. And so, this confrontation in Switzerland, at Zurich, was arranged.