Pinball

by Jerzy Kosiński

  “Anytime you want,” he said brusquely. “Just come.”

  “But I don’t want to intrude. You have your own work to do.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “Come over anytime.”

  “I might take you up on that,” she said, starting the engine. “Would three times a week be too much?”

  The prospect excited him, but he didn’t want her to know it. “‘We will be held accountable for all the permitted pleasures we failed to enjoy,’” he quoted the Aggada and chuckled to put her, and himself, at ease. “That’s good for a start,” he said. “When do we begin?”

  “How about tomorrow?” she said, and he sensed in her eagerness to let him know that his offer to help had pleased her.

  “Remember me to Jimmy,” he said.

  “I will,” she said. “Though I doubt he has forgotten you!” She drove off, her hair blowing in the breeze.

  His feelings in utter disarray, Domostroy walked back to the ballroom. When he turned and looked behind him, she was gone. The parking lot was empty. Even the Born Free members were no longer at their post.

  Donna did not hide her visit to Domostroy from Osten. She even told him of her plans to work with the composer so that she could get as much help and advice as possible in preparation for the Warsaw competition. Osten could not challenge her right or her need to seek musical help, but he resented the fact that Domostroy was the person she had chosen to go to for it. He knew of Domostroy’s reputation and by now he was suspecting more and more that Domostroy was the man who had photographed the White House woman and might have collaborated with her on her letters to Goddard. Finally, disturbed by Domostroy’s interest in Donna, Osten decided to investigate the composer’s motives, and one evening when he knew that Donna was with Domostroy, Osten rented a car and drove to the Old Glory.

  Whenever he had driven in the South Bronx before, he had been on his way to somewhere else, but now, looking for a specific address there, for the first time he became aware of how closely the South Bronx resembled the slums of Tijuana. Except that in Tijuana, at least, the slum dwellers lived with the hope, misplaced though it might be, that their city, because it was so close to the wealthy United States, might one day grow into a metropolis and that their lives would become as new and straight as the new buildings and highways that were springing up all around them. There were no new buildings or highways, and no such hope, in the South Bronx.

  He found the Old Glory and circled it once, slowing down when he saw Donna’s car parked near the entrance to the dance hall right next to an old convertible, almost certainly Domostroy’s. He knew she would be there for the whole evening, so he decided to bide his time and wait for twilight to give way to darkness.

  He drove for a while through some desolate stretches, his radio blasting the latest rock blues, killing time until the moon floated out and the black walls of the ballroom turned silverish in the lunar radiance.

  He parked his car outside the chain-link fence and walked into the tall grass that grew beside it, his parabolic microphone in one hand, a lighted flashlight in the other. Placing the microphone on its tripod, he aimed its dish in the direction of the light that was streaming out of the windows of the huge ballroom. He flicked on the microphone and, pressing a button, activated the machine’s tantalum wind filter, which would eliminate all unwanted outdoor sounds. Then he attached the microphone to a small cassette recorder, and as through the earplugs he began to pick up the first sounds from within the Old Glory—either Donna or Domostroy playing Chopin on the piano—he hunkered down and leaned one shoulder against the fence.

  Except for the recorded piano sound, there was stillness all around him. Behind him, rows of burned-out buildings stretched away in silence. Before him, the vast gray floor of the parking lot shone eerily, and the Old Glory, with its arches, columns, carved surfaces, balconies, and sloping roofs, rose like a phantom castle.

  He sat on the ground and expectantly moved closer. Just then, without warning, something hard hit him on the back of the head, and as he fell forward in the wet grass and his thoughts grew dim, he was conscious of harsh voices. Barely aware that he had been attacked from behind, he lapsed into darkness.

  He came to, uncertain of where he was or how long he had been unconscious, his head feeling as if it were clamped in a vise. He was sitting in an old naugahide armchair next to a grand piano, and when lie looked up and saw Donna bending over him with concern on her face, at first he assumed he was in her Carnegie Hall studio. Turning his head, he saw Patrick Domostroy holding the parabolic microphone and the tape recorder, and next to him three swarthy young Hispanics in yellow caps with BORN FREE printed on them.

  “Are you all right, Jimmy?” asked Donna, patting him gently on the shoulder.

  He reached up and felt a lump on his head, then glanced at his hand to see if there was blood on it. There wasn’t. “I’m fine,” he said, remembering out of instinct to alter his voice.

  “I thought you were a student of literature—not a spy,” said Domostroy, walking toward him.

  The Born Frees flashed broad grins.

  Osten looked at the floor. He felt like a kid caught stealing in a candy store, and the thought that he must appear ridiculous to Donna and Domostroy filled him with shame.

  “I don’t give a damn what you thought,” Osten said sharply. “And don’t think I don’t know what’s been going on here!”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” asked Donna, recoiling from him.

  “What it says,” Osten said, seizing the chance to play the deceived lover. “That you’re a cheater and a liar! Well, aren’t you?”

  Donna’s face became flushed. “You don’t know what you’re saying!” she stammered. “How can you be so unfair to me—and to yourself? I’m here to play piano. Don’t you know how much that means to me? You have no right—no right—” She turned away, hiding her tears.

  “That’s some guerrilla bingo set you’ve got to spy with,” said one Born Free, rolling his shoulders as he took a few steps closer to Osten.

  “Why don’t you give it back to the CIA, man?” taunted another.

  “You’re wasting it here, man. This ain’t El Salvador. Not yet!” gibed the third.

  “Take it easy!” said Domostroy to calm the gang. “He’s not working for the CIA. He’s just spying on her.” He gestured at Donna. “She’s his girl friend.”

  The gang members snickered, and Donna looked at Domostroy with reproach. “Patrick, please.”

  “He’s right, Donna,” Osten interrupted, anxious to mislead Domostroy. “He’s right,” he repeated slowly, getting up. He stretched his shoulders, winced, and looked her in the eye. “I wanted to find out what was going on between you and your music teacher.” He glared at Domostroy, and the three Born Frees grinned with glee.

  “You’ve got some nerve, man,” said one of them. “You were trespassing without a visa, didn’t you know that?” He looked at his pals with a wink. “This is Born to Burn country, this is abroad, man; this place split from Uncle Sam long ago, and you could get hurt by sneaking around like this. Next time we catch you, sonny boy, it will really cost you!”

  “Next time I’ll know what to do with you!” snapped back Osten.

  By now Donna had regained her composure. She was no longer sad, just angry. Controlling her voice, she said, “There won’t be any next time, Jimmy. I think you better go now.” Her voice quivered with emotion as she added, “I don’t want to see you again.”

  “Wait, Donna,” said Domostroy, “don’t be too hard on him.” He laid the microphone and recorder on the chair that had been vacated by Osten. “He was only trying to protect you. He was probably worried about your being out here … alone …’ His voice trailed off.

  “That doesn’t mean he can follow me around and spy on me,” said Donna, glancing at Osten then quickly turning away from him and facing Domostroy and the others. “He had no right—no right whatsoever—to do that. No one does.” Her firmness se
emed to leave her, and she sounded as if she might cry again, but she hastily composed herself and pushing aside a chair that blocked her way, she walked to the piano and sat down. “Let’s work, Patrick,” she said calmly as her fingers struck a chord on the keyboard.

  Osten picked up his possessions. “I’m sorry, Donna,” he said. He paused. “Maybe one day you’ll understand how I feel.”

  One of the Born Frees snickered. Another, imitating Osten’s croaky voice, said, “Maybe one day, man, well kick the shit out of your tight ass.”

  A wave of rage and humiliation swept over Osten, and turning to Domostroy, he said, “Tell your Foreign Legion to go fuck themselves.” Then, still angry, he turned to Donna. “As for you, Donna—you deserve a better lover than a cheap nightclub act!”

  “Why don’t you just leave,” Donna replied, her back to him.

  He wheeled and started for the door, but one of the Born Frees blocked his path and switched open a long knife.

  “Let him go,” said Domostroy, barely controlling his fury. “Let him take his spying toys and go bug someone else.”

  When Osten was gone, Domostroy shook the hands of the three young men. “Thanks for keeping an eye on the place,” he said. “You did a great job.”

  “Our pleasure,” said the tallest of them as he settled his cap on his head. They went laughing and chattering from the ballroom, and at the doorway the tall one turned and gave Donna a long look.

  Outside in the fresh air, Osten became aware of his pain. It radiated through his skull and went all the way down to his left shoulder, affecting the movement of his arm. When he got to the car he found that someone had stolen his jacket and his wallet, which contained, in addition to more than a thousand dollars, his university ID and his California driver’s license.

  He threw the microphone and recorder on the back seat, got in, and headed back to Manhattan. He drove slowly, fearing that his rotten luck and his splitting headache might cause him to have an accident along the way.

  In sifting out his thoughts, Osten discovered that what upset him most was not the loss of Donna, but his failure to accomplish what he had set out to do. He had no doubt that Donna had meant what she said and would not see him again, even though he doubted she was Domostroy’s mistress. Frustrated at finding that he had no control over her, he also felt a sense of relief so suddenly that he was free of her, for the anxiety their relationship caused him by now had eroded the love he once felt for Donna. And though he was halted for the moment in his attempts to find out what—if anything—Domostroy had to do with the photographs of the White House nude, at least he was free to pursue Andrea, the possible subject of those photographs and the potential writer of the letters, about whom he had so far only been able to fantasize. Even if she turned out not to be the White House woman, she was still eminently worth going after.

  At his sublet apartment, he chased two aspirin with a bottle of beer and put a compress of ice cubes wrapped in a towel on his head. He then tacked the enlarged photographs of the nude he hoped was Andrea up on the walls and studied them for an hour or so. Drowsy and numb by then, he promised himself he would call her first thing in the morning. Then he fell asleep.

  When he awoke, the lump on his head was bigger, but the pain had diminished. Before calling Andrea, he was seized by doubt as to whether he should tell her what had happened to him the night before, and he decided finally that since there was a good chance she would learn about it from Donna, he had better tell her himself.

  Andrea seemed surprised to hear from him. Trying not to betray how much he wanted to be with her, he asked lightly if she would see him for dinner that night. With seeming innocence, Andrea asked if he was planning to bring Donna. He answered that he meant dinner for just the two of them because Donna and he had split—and not under the most agreeable circumstances. As he described his encounter with Donna and Domostroy, painting himself as an innocent jerk lost among villains, Andrea’s giggles of appreciation spurred him to embellish the story and he began to laugh along with her.

  Before hanging up, they made a date for that night.

  “‘Consort not with a female musician lest thou be taken in by her snares.’ That’s Ecclesiasticus, the Book of Wisdom.” Andrea was speaking to Domostroy on the phone. “I had dinner with Jimmy Osten last night,” she went on. “How come you had your hired hoods beat Jimmy up in front of ‘Brown Sugar’ Downes? Was it because you’re fucking her now and wanted to show off?”

  “‘Women, indeed, are the music of life.’ That’s Richard Wagner!” he retorted. “What’s more, I resent your racist remarks about Donna.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” she replied. “Now let me tell you who’s the racist here. Why do you think you like Donna Downes? Because of her wonderful talent and her Juilliard schooling? Bull! You went after your tawny temptress, Mr. Hypocrite Whitecock, not because her music made your white cock hard, not because the Harlem odalisque was your spiritual soul sister, but because she was a black go-go girl and for you, and for every other white male sexist, black skin means slavery and black cunt means whoredom. You tell yourself that you want Donna because of her music and talent and other shit like that, but in fact you want to fuck the cunt of a chocolate chippie slave. Like any other white master going after a black ghetto hussy, you’re turned on only by her talent for entertaining you! Deep down you know it! And your Black Carmen knows it too!”

  “Are you studying drama, or soap opera?” he asked.

  “I’ve also been studying you, remember?”

  “Then you should know that I met Donna Downes through little Jimmy Osten—her other ‘white master,’ as you so crudely put it. Or was Jimmy really in love with her?”

  “I doubt if he was ever in love with her,” said Andrea. “He tells me he’s had his eye on me for three months—even before Donna ever introduced us.”

  “You didn’t, by any chance, buy him his surveillance toys and send him to spy on us, did you?”

  “I didn’t have to. He’s probably sick of her screwing around behind his back when he’s away at school.” She paused. “By the way, as a lover, Jimmy has one advantage over you,” she broke off casually, as if to tease him.

  “He’s young,” he ventured.

  “Age doesn’t matter,” she said. “But his vulnerability does. By not hiding it, he brings out the nurturing instinct—the most fertile ground for sexual giving and receiving in a woman.”

  “Emotional maternity wards are just not my beat,” said Domostroy harshly.

  “Just as well,” said Andrea. “That’s where Jimmy has beaten you.”

  “I’m not in a contest with Jimmy Osten, or for that matter, with anyone else,” he said, trying to change the subject. “The mother in you may enjoy taking up with the boy in him, but I’m convinced it’s bad for our plan. What if Goddard should turn up and find little Jimmy milking your maternal breast?”

  “Stop calling him little! Unless you want me to ask Donna how you compare with Dick Longo.”

  “You do that, and I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” she challenged him.

  “I’ll call Jimmy and tell him about you and me.”

  “He won’t believe you,” she said.

  “Will he believe the photographs I took of you?” he asked. “I have copies of all of them.”

  “So what? They’re faceless!”

  “Some aren’t. You were just too preoccupied playing with yourself to know what pictures I took!”

  “If you do that, Patrick, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Now he was challenging her. Abruptly, realizing they were getting nowhere, he became conciliatory. “Let’s stop this nonsense, Andrea. I swear I haven’t slept with Donna. And I had nothing to do with the gang beating up Jimmy Osten on his childish mission impossible. I hope he knows that.”

  “He was very curious about you,” said Andrea blithely. “In any case,” she said, calmer now, “you’re right when you say that he can’t stay in my apar
tment. Goddard wouldn’t appreciate it, if he ever shows up. And of course, Jimmy’s accustomed to all that space in California.”

  “California? Why California?” Domostroy asked.

  “He’s studying literature and creative writing at the University of California at Davis. Postgraduate work toward his Ph. D. Boy or no boy, Jimmy’s an intellectual type, you know. So if your precious Donna has left him out and alone, I just might hang around—even hang onto—him for a while.”

  “You go ahead and do that,” he said, trying to sound offhanded. “In fact, be good to the boy. After all, what’s good for the Ostens is good for Etude, and what’s good for Etude is good for me. I’m still in their greedy hands, remember.” He laughed. “Just be on the lookout. And let me know if anything unusual happens.”

  “Like what?” asked Andrea.

  “Like Goddard showing up He’s certainly a bigger fish to catch than Jimmy.’” He chuckled. “I spent a lot of time luring Goddard with my brilliant letters and your dirty pictures. I wouldn’t want to think that all my efforts were wasted because he turned up and found you in bed with”—he groaned in mock grief—“little Jimmy Osten!”

  “Keep in mind,” said Andrea, “that I paid you for your efforts. So I can waste them if I want to.’” Not amused, she hung up.

  “Have you ever met Andrea Gwynplaine?” Donna asked Domostroy after one of their practice sessions at the Old Glory.

  For a moment Domostroy was tempted to admit the truth. Why should he lie to Donna, the one woman he could so easily love. Why should he let his secret and insidious arrangement with Andrea threaten his open and trustworthy involvement with Donna? To what degree was he bound by his pact with Andrea?

  “Andrea Gwynplaine?” he repeated. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Who is she?”

  “Haven’t I mentioned her to you? She’s a drama student at Juilliard who also attends lecture courses in the music department,’” said Donna. “I think Jimmy was very impressed by her, and he’s been after her ever since he started coming to Juilliard with me to sit in on lectures.”