People in Glass Houses

by Shirley Hazzard

  The section of the factory for which Swoboda had been engaged was concerned with the treatment of cherries. By the time the cherries, in vast metal trays, came to Swoboda’s attention they had already been divested of stalks, stones and colour — in short, of everything that had hitherto contributed to their character as cherries. Gouged and blanched, they had then been immersed in a crimson dye so that their colour might emerge uniform. It was Swoboda’s task to attach to these multitudinous, incarnadined cherries the red plastic stalks — also uniform — that would subsequently enable them to be pulled from cocktails and, as the case might be, eaten or discarded. And it was to such ends that he diligently applied himself for one long year.

  The job at the fruit factory, as has been noted, was important to Swoboda. He was untrained. He had no other means of making his living in a new country — a country of whose ways he was ignorant and whose language he did not, at that time, speak with confidence. Moreover, he wished to acquit himself in the eyes of those who had assisted him. Above all, he wanted to do well in this first paid occupation.

  The day he gave his notice was the happiest day of his life.

  And now, amid the sheaves of documents, it all came back to him. Shaken by the same repugnance, he arrived at the same conclusion — that such work was not for the adult and civilized, not for mature and feeling persons. Swoboda did what he had never done: he took an extra half-hour at lunchtime. During this half-hour he made his way to the Bureau of Lateral Substitutions and requested transfer to another department.

  Nominees for promotion at all levels were considered twice a year by a Promotions and Probations Board, and a printed list of the successful candidates was subsequently circulated throughout the Organization. Since those directly concerned were told in advance of the verdict in their case, the main interest of the list lay in keeping abreast of the fortunes of one’s fellows. It is a rare heart that truly rejoices in a friend’s prosperity, and it must be confessed that the offices and corridors of the Organization were swept, every six months, by gasps of indignation, of disgust and incredulity, at the revelation of the latest promotions — and by correspondingly magnified sighs of solicitude on behalf of those rejected.

  Just such gusts as these were sweeping the small grey office of Mr Bekkus when Swoboda entered it on the morning of the half-yearly list. Mr Bekkus — as a member of a similar group, the Appointments and Terminations Board — was practically bound to hold his colleagues on this parallel body in low esteem. And his ill-humour was increased, that day, by the fact that he was once more faced with the task of explaining the absence of Swoboda’s name from the promotion roster.

  As Swoboda came into the room, Mr Bekkus was standing by the window and holding the list to the light as if to verify the evidence of his eyes.

  ‘Claude Willoughby! Claude Willoughby!’ he repeated, as if of all Claudes this was the most unsuitable. ‘Cedric Sandaranayke! After this, anything’s possible. Sit down, Swoboda.’ Still standing in the light, Mr Bekkus turned the page and read on. ‘Kenneth Eliufoo — that’s geographical of course, though it won’t satisfy the Africans, you can be sure of that. Paquita Vargas — well, we all know how she got here. … And I see old Marcel made it at last.’ Reluctantly turning from self-punishment, he placed the list on his desk and sat down. ‘Er — Swoboda,’ he said, looking about his papers as if trying to recall what Swoboda was doing there.

  Swoboda looked at Mr Bekkus with something more than his usual composure. It was part of Swoboda’s misfortune that he pitied Mr Bekkus; that in his resistance to Mr Bekkus he was inhibited by the knowledge that Mr Bekkus was pathetic. Not that this insight was in itself supernatural — for others would have quickly arrived at the same conclusion — but what made Swoboda unusual was that he persisted in the belief even though he had spent some years in the power of Mr Bekkus and had suffered from the silliness and insensibility that constituted Mr Bekkus’s pathos. By now, surely, the sense of pathos might have given way to indignation at being subordinate to such a figure. But no. Swoboda had never said to anyone, ‘I’m sorry for him’ (although, in the Organization, this was a recognized means of expressing contempt for an unsympathetic superior — ‘I’m sorry for him, I truly am; he’s pathetic’ being uttered frequently and fiercely through clenched teeth). He had not even said it to himself. But in his heart he knew that Bekkus was a foolish man, a small, ignorant and pretentious man, and that he, Swoboda, was his superior in all but official rank. Swoboda was aware that Mr Bekkus had treated him ungenerously, had often been petty and unjust. He sometimes dwelt on this, almost hopefully, in his mind. But it was no use. He continued to find Mr Bekkus pathetic. And therein lay Swoboda’s misfortune — one might even have said, Swoboda’s tragedy.

  ‘I suppose,’ Mr Bekkus began, as if Swoboda had requested the interview, ‘you will want to discuss certain factors of your situation.’ Personal matters, for Bekkus, came in situations, elements and factors. When Swoboda said nothing, he went on. ‘As you know, I myself have done everything possible to expedite the processing of your upgrading.’ After a pause he added, ‘That goes without saying.’ Swoboda evidently concurred in this, for another silence fell. ‘There are some very slow-thinking individuals on the Promotions Board, Swoboda. And then, when you see who is accepted. …’ He lightly dashed the promotion list with the back of his hand as if Swoboda would hardly wish to make one of such a disreputable company. ‘Well, we all know the delays that — ah — mitigate against rapid advancement in the junior grades. But I think I can assure you, Swoboda, that your upgrading will be followed through in the foreseeable future — that is, at the next meeting of the Board.’ Mr Bekkus lowered his voice. ‘This is confidential of course.’

  Swoboda merely said, ‘I see, sir.’

  Bekkus began to be irritated with Swoboda. ‘I trust, Swoboda,’ he said with some severity, ‘that you are not too dissatisfied?’

  After a moment, Swoboda replied, ‘Yes, Mr Bekkus.’

  Mr Bekkus, who had been scoring his blotter with a pencil, hesitated. Before he could make up his mind whether the ambiguity of Swoboda’s reply bore investigation, Swoboda himself elucidated.

  ‘I mean, Yes, I am too dissatisfied, Mr Bekkus.’

  Mr Bekkus covered his surprise with a veneer of forebearance. He even smiled — a patient smile, an administrative smile, a smile that bespoke experience and concern. ‘It’s natural that you should feel disappointed,’ he began.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But, as I’ve just explained to you,’ continued Mr Bekkus, smiling less, ‘if you take the overall view, you need not feel dissatisfied on a long-term basis.’

  Swoboda looked steadily at Mr Bekkus. ‘It is with the overall view and on the long-term basis that I feel dissatisfied,’ he said.

  Now it was the turn of Mr Bekkus to be silent, though he cast about with one hand in a circular gesture, as if attempting to turn the procedural wheels that had in this moment so unaccountably ground to a halt.

  Swoboda went on calmly, ‘And I have applied for a transfer.’

  Mr Bekkus stared. Regaining the power of speech, he said, ‘Words fail me.’ (A poor workman will tend to blame his tools.) He emphasized the extreme gravity of the situation by putting the pencil down and folding his hands before him on the blotter. ‘Swoboda,’ he said very quietly, as if Swoboda were a dangerous lunatic, ‘why did you do that?’

  ‘Because’, replied Swoboda, ‘of the long-term basis.’

  ‘What do you complain of? Your relationships here have been good.’ Mr Bekkus took up the pencil again and began a series of ticks on his blotter. ‘Your working conditions are not unpleasant.’ He made a second tick. ‘You got your within-grade increment.’ (His tone so clearly implied ‘What more do you want?’ that Swoboda almost smiled.) ‘Your functions have been meaningful.’

  ‘No Mr Bekkus.’

  ‘Do you have some specific problem?’

  ‘The documents.’

  ‘The docume
ntation?’ Bekkus was baffled. ‘The documentation?’

  ‘The SAGG documents. They have become a burden. You may have noticed that.’

  Bekkus shrugged. ‘I have been dimly aware,’ he said. It was the best description he had ever given of his general state of mind. He took up a more aggressive approach. ‘This transfer, when did you request it?’

  ‘About six weeks ago.’

  ‘Your application — was it made verbally or just orally?’ Mr Bekkus was fond of this imaginary distinction.

  ‘I requested an interview with a Mr Yu in Lateral Substitutions.’

  ‘But did you actually see him — visually, that is?’

  Swoboda nodded. ‘The matter was to be confidential until a vacancy came up. However, I prefer to tell you now.’

  ‘I should have been consulted at the outset.’ Bekkus was getting angry. ‘Is this the normal procedure?’

  ‘Yu said so.’

  ‘What? Ah — yes. Well, I can tell you, Swoboda, that I consider this a breach of good faith on your part.’ He leant forward, his eyes belligerently bright. ‘Yes. After our years together — our relationship, that is — I would have liked to see some show of good faith.’ He rightly implied that this spectacle would have to be provided by others: Bekkus was a victim of the ancient delusion that loyalty is to be had for nothing. ‘I must tell you that I resent your behaviour in having directly approached the Bureau of Substitutions.’ His voice rose. ‘It was — it was —’

  He’s actually going to say it was an outrage, thought Swoboda, amused.

  But here Swoboda misjudged Mr Bekkus, for such a simple, expressive word was not at his command. Bekkus hunted through his vocabulary — no lengthy task — for appropriate expression. At last it came. ‘It was’, he cried passionately, ‘a — unilateral action.’

  When Swoboda moved to the section headed by Mr Patricio Rodriguez-O’Hearn, he carried his belongings in an Out-tray. It was as radical a change as can exist within the Organization, the new section being not only in a different department but even on a different elevator bank. Mr Rodriguez-O’Hearn was Chief of Missions in DALTO, the Department of Aid to the Less Technically Oriented. The work of this department — to induce backward nations to come forward — apparently enjoyed some success, for since its inception a number of hitherto reticent countries had become very forward indeed. The department in general, and Mr Rodriguez in particular, had a relatively good reputation within the Organization, and this favourable impression had been confirmed to Swoboda in a preliminary interview.

  Swoboda was scheduled to arrive C.O.D. (Commencing Official Duties) on a Monday in the middle of June, and on the morning of this day he appeared in the doorway of Mr Rodriguez’s suite of offices, carrying his tray. He was received kindly by Mr Rodriguez’s secretary, Miss Shamsee, who showed him into the neighbouring room he was to share with two other clerks. His possessions — a paperback Roget, a leather-framed photograph of his wife and child, an Orlon sweater, a bottle of aspirin, and an unusually efficient stapling machine — were quickly transferred to his new desk, a blotter was found for him, and his Out-tray was re-labelled ‘In’. One or two minor tasks were set him, but before he was able to begin these or take stock of the square, wide-windowed room that constituted his future premises, his new colleagues arrived.

  These two men were much of Swoboda’s age, and, although the yellow-haired one smiled and the dark-haired one was offhand, Swoboda formed no immediate impression of them, his mind being so full of new and nervous sensations this momentous morning. As is the way of people who are to spend many months in close company, the three of them bided their time at the outset, and the first hours passed in comparative silence. Swoboda gathered that his two new associates had already shared the office for some time, and was reassured by the fact that they were evidently on good terms.

  Swoboda having been given various files to study in preparation for his new duties, it was not until the late morning of this day that he felt himself free to size up his surroundings. As he raised his head to do this, the smiling man looked up from a form on the blotter before him and, with pencil poised, inquired Swoboda’s first name.

  Assuming that this was required for some official purpose, Swoboda tonelessly responded, ‘Stanislas.’ The young man then sprang up from his chair by the window and in a moment was before Swoboda with his hand outstretched, saying ‘Mordecai.’ On the far side of the room the dark man also rose up from his desk, uttering the sound, ‘Merv.’ They all shook hands and exchanged greetings. Mordecai then took his jacket off a stand near the door and said, ‘How about some lunch?’

  Thus began, for Swoboda, at the age of thirty-nine, his first taste of ordinary companionship. The relations of the three men were less demanding than would have been the case with women similarly thrown together. Their work was connected only indirectly, so that most of their conversation was personal; and their personalities offered sufficient contrast to keep them interested in one another.

  On Mordie’s head the yellow hair stood out in a spiky halo suggesting a sun-god rather than a saint. The word ‘sunny’ would have come to mind in any attempt to describe Mordie, for everything about him — hair, skin, and disposition — seemed to have been touched by light and warmth. The turmoil of history and of his own circumstances had swirled about and across him — for Mordie was a grandchild of those Russian Zionists who formed the first kibbutzim in Palestine in the early years of this century — without taking toll of his serenity, and even seemed to have attached him the more strongly to it. Such tranquillity often includes a measure of detachment, and Mordie was somewhat like a ship that stands offshore from a beleaguered city, ready to receive survivors, to evacuate the wounded and retreating—to do, in effect, everything but participate in the conflict. This attitude of a friendly neutral did not originate in aloofness or timorousness but from Mordie’s instinct for the way in which he could best be of service to his friends. Moreover, though he would not impair his usefulness by exposing it to pointless damage, it was conceivable that Mordie might yet one day suffer himself to be annihilated in some single glorious intervention.

  Mervyn was in all things unlike Mordie. He was an Australian of the short and saturnine variety. His last name was Lomax and he had been born in Narrabeen, an outlying suburb of Sydney, the only son of humble but contentious parents. He had shown interest in acquiring knowledge, even while still at school, in preparation for some wider, more accomplished world which he felt sure awaited him. Since his formal instruction was limited and he had, as a youth, few like-minded companions, his self-education ranged wide, altering course almost from day to day; many subjects were touched upon, though none exhausted, and surprising gaps were left. (These arbitrary gaps subsequently contributed to an impression that Mervyn had educated himself on a desert island, by means of an Encyclopedia Britannica of which one volume — say, that from LORD to MUMPS — happened to be missing.)

  A schoolmate, returning one day to Narrabeen from an envied trip to Europe, had informed Mervyn that the Parthenon was highly disappointing. From the vehemence with which the statement was made, Mervyn perceived that the disappointment of this youth lay with his own reaction, and that the blame had been laid upon the Parthenon as being, of the two, the more able to bear it. There followed the realization that, if beauty were not precisely in the eye of the beholder, it was at least essential for that eye to be open and favourably disposed. Mervyn’s eye became in consequence so fervently well disposed that a measure of disappointment unavoidably awaited him when at last he made his appearance in the Western Hemisphere. Because of this slight disillusionment, certain of the rewards — rewards rendered for the most part in aesthetic currency — with which Mervyn’s struggle for enlightenment was eventually crowned were greeted by him with defensive scepticism. He continued to court knowledge, but, like a lover once deceived, now qualified his suit with all manner of reservations and deprecation and even, from time to time, with a touch of that very h
ostility which had so detracted from the littoral beauties of Narrabeen.

  Another anticlimax awaited him in the form of the Organization, which he joined some years later. By then, however, Mervyn was getting ready to settle, and he stayed with the Organization, though many were the misgivings he both felt and voiced. His scholastic attainments lacking academic endorsement, they had no validity whatever in the eyes of the Organization, and he was, at the time of this story, attending a third year of evening classes which were intended to culminate in a degree in Commercial Science and the right to represent himself as an educated man — a right which his time-consuming pursuit of culture had hitherto obliged him to forgo.

  Swoboda, with his aptitude for such things, quickly saw that Mervyn, finding no whole and perfect world, felt himself betrayed by the ubiquitous human lapse. This was exactly the opposite of Swoboda, whose overdose of fatalism led him to value above all things the kinship of human error. The discrepancy led them into innumerable, inconclusive exchanges.

  ‘Stan,’ Mervyn would say, as they sat gingerly holding their hot containers of morning coffee, ‘who are your heroes?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Great minds. Who?’

  ‘Oh —’ Such renderings of account were unfamiliar though not unpleasant to Swoboda. ‘Kant, perhaps.’

  ‘Kant hadn’t a particle of poetry in his entire nature.’

  ‘Newton, then?’

  ‘Newton went wrong on Time.’

  Swoboda tried another tack. ‘Who are your great minds, Mervyn?’

  ‘Ah,’ Mervyn began to rub his left hand absent-mindedly up and down his lapel, caressing his heart like an old wound. ‘There are no great minds, Stan,’ he said sadly. To be great, in Mervyn’s opinion, was to be infallible.