‘I don’t think it should be asked,’ said Bob.
‘Well, okay, so you’re a hypocrite,’ said Froelich. ‘I’m a hypocrite.’
‘I thought that it was wrong of me, as a British citizen, to sign an oath of loyalty to another government,’ said Walker. ‘My motives weren’t any more complicated than that.’
‘You know, Bernie,’ said Bob, ‘that’s quite an argument.’
‘Sure it is, just keep it as simple as that.’
‘Of course,’ said Walker, ‘Bourbon said the oath was only nominal, a safeguard.’
‘That’s right,’ said Froelich. ‘If you overthrow the American government by force, they’ve got a comeback: they can take your job away.’ He cut some more meat and said, ‘How about seconds?’
‘Thank you,’ said Walker, putting out his plate.
‘Well, what are you going to do?’ Bob Naughty asked, looking excited about all this.
‘Well,’ said Froelich, ‘think it through. He doesn’t sign it. He’s not a citizen; his loyalty is required elsewhere; he’s got an absolutely sound reason for standing out.’
‘Okay, then people get hold of it and it becomes a big story. Won’t they ask him to leave?’
‘We could come in on that,’ said Froelich.
‘I thought I might sign,’ said Walker.
‘Well, the only reason I could think of for signing is that you’re a communist and you want to teach some subversive materials,’ said Froelich.
‘No, I’m not, my subversion is all in favour of literature.’
‘Why not do this? Just put in a protest to the President of the University? Get him to give you an answer, a ruling. It’s going to trouble him, that’s all we want.’
‘You shouldn’t ask him that,’ said Patrice.
‘Sure, he’s a decent man, he likes performing moral actions,’ said Froelich.
‘The only problem,’ said Walker, ‘is that like everyone else I don’t know what a moral action is any more. I’m away from my household gods; I’m living in a world of someone else’s ethics; I don’t know what I’m saying or doing when I say or do. How am I qualified?’
‘You’re a man, that’s all,’ said Froelich.
‘Well, who isn’t? What do I have? If I had a moral life I wouldn’t be here. I’m here for the confusion. So why me? Why here?’
‘You didn’t stand,’ said Patrice to her husband. ‘Why should he?’
‘I did stand. I crossed my fingers when I signed it,’ said Froelich. ‘No, look, this is the point, friends. Because you’re from outside, because there’s no cause or flag you’ve got to wave except a simple matter of principle that has to do with the one thing you are, which is that you’re English – that’s the only existence you’ve got, pal – you’re the man. The finger points, James.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Walker.
‘It points, buddy,’ said Froelich. ‘A time to choose.’
Patrice came out of the kitchen with a cheesecake. ‘I only have a fish-slice to carve it with, is that okay?’ she asked.
‘Oh, fine by me,’ said Walker.
‘See, you can make decisions,’ said Froelich.
All the things that were being said to him disturbed Walker very much, though he tried not to show it. He had always tried to preserve in himself that little slender growth of concern, a dangerous taste for good humane doing. It was his most precious possession and he didn’t care, therefore, to bring it out too often. It seemed to him that he lived in a primitive world, in which this thing he stood for had little place. People believed in the broad sweeps of history, not in moments of individual decision. Walker could take history, and he could leave it alone. He was nervous now because here was a political matter, a public matter; and he felt he was being invited to do something rather improper, to perform an indecent exposure of his moral core on the platform and the stage. And expose it, too, in a world of political nuances he didn’t understand and couldn’t control.
All his values were private values, he believed; if he had political faiths, he had them because they ensured privacy and independence and personal survival, and he had never known what it was to think of himself as an agent in a cause. He was just James Walker, naked as they come; all else was pretence and role-playing. But now the invitations were flowing. Tell us your beliefs, your truths, your commitments. Noticeably, in the last days, he had begun to feel the robe of Englishness. Little shivers of nationality, almost of patriotism, came to him now and then in moments when he thought, They do things better at home or There’s wisdom in the way we manage.
A sort of pride came now and then when Mrs Bourbon spoke of English child-rearing, when the university teacher in New York called up the English moral life, when Bourbon talked of the marginality of literature. His own notions, primal and personal as they were, took on a location and a source. When people said to him, ‘You English are so polite,’ he felt he carried the quality of a nation. When he was asked to be loyal elsewhere, he had reacted with the statement of another loyalty, one he had never before known he possessed.
‘Of course, you know the background to all this,’ said Froelich. ‘They used these oaths to press charges of perjury against faculty members with a past, in the McCarthy days. Some universities used to have microphones hidden in the classrooms during classes in those days. I wasn’t here then, but it was fought hard here, and the oath was amended. There was a Democrat president then, and he came out on the good side. Then when we got a Republican administration in the State he was eased out, you know? But the atmosphere’s more liberal now. They even have intellectuals in government. Pouring into the White House waving Dombey and Son.’
These evocations suddenly sounded a chord on Walker’s liberal heart-strings; he said, ‘All right, I’ll fight it.’
Patrice said, ‘You think about it, Mr Walker. Don’t let these hustlers talk you into anything you don’t want to do. Let’s move back to the chairs and I’ll serve coffee and cookies.’
They moved, and Froelich put on the phonograph a record of Cynthia Gooding. The wires around the room twanged; the two speakers boomed; the singer sang Scottish folk-ballads about lords poisoning one another; and Patrice brought in the coffee, which was served in pots that had once held Keiller’s Dundee Marmalade. ‘We brought these back home with us, we thought they were so beautiful,’ she said.
‘They’re great,’ said Eudora Naughty.
‘Marvellous,’ said Walker politely.
‘That means he hates them,’ said Froelich, ‘because he knows what they’re used for.’
‘He said they were marvellous, goddam it,’ said Patrice.
‘Sure he said they were marvellous,’ said Froelich, ‘but how do you know he means what he says?’
‘Why did he say it, then?’
‘Because he’s polite. The English are polite by telling lies. The Americans are polite by telling the truth.’
‘Oh, fix some drinks,’ said Patrice.
‘Build us a martini,’ said Bob Naughty.
‘Am I houseboy round here?’ asked Froelich.
‘That’s right,’ said Patrice.
‘Okay, you two want martinis? How about you, James?’
‘I’ll have a Scotch,’ said Walker.
‘How do you like it?’
‘Oh, neat,’ said Walker. ‘It’s the only way to drink it.’
‘Is that right?’ said Eudora Naughty. ‘Look, Bernie, let me try that.’
‘You’ll take one gulp and pull your pants off, honey. You know how you get when you drink.’
‘Sure she will, give it to her,’ said Bob. ‘I like her in that mood.’
Froelich went off into the kitchen, and Patrice said, ‘He’s manic tonight.’
‘He’s a great guy,’ said Eudora.
‘He’s a hundred per cent ego,’ said Patrice. ‘Look, Mr Walker, don’t you let him pressure you like that. He just likes to run the whole show. You do what you want. I think it’s crazy to ge
t mixed up in these schemes of his. He’s probably working to destroy the whole goddam university.’
‘Somebody ought to fight this one again,’ said Bob Naughty. ‘Bernie’s right.’
‘You admire that man too much,’ said Patrice.
‘He’s a squirrel,’ said Eudora. ‘He collects nuts.’
‘Well, okay,’ said Bob, ‘but he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Well, I don’t know what he’s doing.’
‘I’m pissing in the drinks,’ said Froelich from the kitchen. ‘You know what I think? I think Mr Walker there wants to go to bed with my wife.’
‘Well, who doesn’t?’ said Bob Naughty.
‘What do you think, spicejar?’
‘I think you’re going crazy,’ said Patrice.
Froelich came in with the drinks. ‘Did I ever tell you about all my wife’s lovers?’ he said, handing the drinks round with overtly meticulous care.
‘You’re drunk, Bernie,’ said Patrice. ‘You’re so high it just isn’t true.’
‘Hi hi,’ said Froelich, ‘and these lovers work in relays and come up the drainpipes the minute I go out that door. They’re even wearing out the brickwork.’
‘This is a total lie,’ said Patrice.
‘Oh, don’t believe her, believe me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m more interesting,’ said Froelich. ‘You didn’t answer Mr Walker’s question, spicejar.’
‘I didn’t hear any question,’ said Patrice.
‘He’s too shy to ask it. He’s an Englishman and that means he’s polite.’
‘You should take some lessons,’ said Patrice.
‘Well, answer the question, please, baby, and quit stalling. Mr Walker is a normal healthy human animal with the usual male appendages and the impulse to go to bed with you has possessed him. Actually he’s crazy. But we can’t help that, can we, Eudora? Eudora and I are going to kiss one another for the next couple of minutes, so just get a good conversation going and don’t pry.’
‘Well, honey,’ said Eudora.
‘It’s your left ear that’s always attracted me, baby,’ said Froelich. ‘Take a look at that lobe. It’s the sexiest lobe in town.’
‘I’m glad you appreciate it,’ said Bob.
‘Bob, I’ve been taking a statistical survey around here, and figures prove that you’re kind of the odd man out in this ménage. So why don’t you go boil up some more coffee?’
‘I’d love some coffee, Bob,’ said Eudora.
‘Now will you two kids in the back seat pay attention to each other and leave us to our business?’ said Froelich.
Walker said, ‘Well, this is quite a party,’ to Patrice.
‘It’s Bernie’s favourite kind of party,’ said Patrice.
‘And what about you?’
‘Well, I don’t know, that’s how it goes.’
‘Why don’t we take a walk outside?’
‘I’ll get some real shoes,’ said Patrice.
Outside, on the block, it was dark. Sprinkler hoses hissed in the silence. ‘Why are you divorcing?’ asked Patrice.
‘Oh, we’ve grown away,’ said Walker.
‘What’s your wife like?’
‘A nice girl. Very nice. Big and good looking.’
‘She work?’
‘She’s a nurse.’
‘Does she nurse you?’
‘Well, that’s exactly it,’ said Walker. ‘What about you? Do you work?’
‘I have a job in admissions on campus,’ said Patrice.
‘Like it?’
‘Oh, it’s kind of fun. I run around a lot.’
They passed a house where there was a student party, to judge from the hail of beer-cans that came thumping out of the window. ‘Sounds like fun,’ said Patrice. ‘Maybe we should try it.’
‘No, let’s just walk,’ said Walker. ‘It’s nice out here with you.’
‘It’s nice out here with you too,’ said Patrice.
Walker turned so that he stood in front of Patrice, and lifted up her face to kiss her. She put her arms round him and said, ‘Well, hi hi.’
‘Hi hi,’ said Walker.
‘You should have got your jacket,’ she said. ‘You’ll catch cold.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
Patrice ran her hand through his hair and said, ‘I like doing that. I love English hair, it’s so long. They’ll cut it off when you go to the barber shop. For me, don’t let them. Take a stand.’
‘I will,’ said Walker, kissing her again. He grew so engrossed that he failed to hear the car that drew up beside them. ‘Hey,’ said a voice. It was a police cruiser with a big red pimple light on the roof.
‘Did you want us?’ said Walker.
‘What’s going on here?’ said the cop.
‘We were just taking a walk,’ said Walker.
‘Where’s your car?’
‘I haven’t got a car.’
‘Come here and talk where I can hear you,’ said the cop. ‘What are you playing at, walking around this time of night?’
‘It’s a nice night.’
‘Yeah, beautiful, stars, moon, all the usual crap. I don’t like to see people walking around at night. I get the idea they’re up to somethin’. Got any identification? What about you, girlie?’
‘I live right up the block,’ said Patrice.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Right back there where that light is.’
‘Well, let’s see some identification.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Walker. ‘We weren’t doing anything.’
‘Look, bud, I already seen you doin’ sumpn. Now come on, no lip, or I’ll take you in for drunken driving.’
‘I don’t even have a car.’
‘Look bud bud, if I take you in for drunken drivin’ you were drunken drivin’, car or no car. Where’s your identification?’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘A funny guy,’ said the cop.
‘I’m just a visitor here.’
‘Yeah, where are you visitin’ from?’
‘England.’
‘Oh, you’re from England? Hoity toity. And what about you, girlie? Are you a limey too?’
‘No, I told you, I live right up the block.’
‘You’re a resident.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ll tell ya sumpn, girlie, I don’t like to see a resident screwin’ with these foreign kids. Why don’t you stick with a good American boy? What’s wrong with American boys?’
‘Nothing,’ said Patrice. ‘This man’s just a friend.’
‘Yeah, I saw what kind of friend. Well, let me see you go right back in there where you live. And, girlie . . .’
‘Yes?’ said Patrice.
‘Keep your screwing in-state, okay?’
‘I don’t think you should talk like that,’ said Walker.
‘Come on,’ said Patrice. ‘Don’t talk back. This isn’t an English bobby.’
‘That girlie’s talking sense, Limey,’ said the cop. ‘Now beat it. And you, Limey.’
‘But he’s no right . . .’ said Walker.
‘Whyncha take the potatoes out your mouth when you’re talkin’?’
‘Now just a minute . . .’ said Walker.
‘Come on, for Christsake, Mr Walker,’ said Patrice.
‘I ought to write down that name,’ said the cop, ‘’cause I don’t remember too good. But maybe I’ll remember. Okay, walk. And don’t forget I’m cruising right behind you and I want to see you go into that premises. You’d better really live there, lady.’
‘It’s like a fascist state,’ said Walker, as they turned round and went back.
‘Oh, he thought we were students.’
‘Is that the way they treat the students?’
‘Well, the cops don’t like the university kids. They give them a lot of work. Then there’s this drugs thing. It’s made them a bit too smart.’
‘I’ve a good mind to complain.’
&n
bsp; ‘The police chief’s worse than that guy.’
‘Sitting there, holding on to that gun, just playing around with us. What was it all for?’
‘Oh, people don’t walk in America. And you talk funny. And he’s just plain exercising power.’
‘He looked like an executioner.’
‘Well, we have executioners,’ said Patrice. ‘It’s a violent country. That’s why you have to be careful with this oath thing. What do you know about America?’
‘I know, but that’s a simple matter of principle.’
‘Only it’s not so simple.’
They were on the porch; Patrice waved to the cruiser, which had turned round and was moving along very slowly at the kerb edge. She opened the door and the cop suddenly gunned his engine and roared away. Inside, Froelich and Eudora had disappeared and Bob Naughty was lying full length on the divan, with his shoes off and a martini in his hand.
Walker found his drink and picked it up. ‘Let’s have some music,’ said Patrice. ‘Why don’t you go and pick a record you like and play it for us, Mr Walker? They’re through there in the bedroom.’
When he got into the bedroom Walker heard heavy breathing. ‘I was looking for a record,’ he said into the darkness.
‘Hi hi,’ said Froelich, ‘grab the pile from down there by the door.’
‘Got them,’ said Walker.
‘Bysie, bysie,’ said Froelich. Walker went back into the living room to discover the lights were off and there was heavy breathing here too.
‘I got the records,’ he said.
‘Great,’ said Bob. ‘Strike a match and put something on. Music to screw by.’
‘How about the 1812 Overture?’ said Walker.
‘God, no,’ said Bob. ‘What are you, a militarist?’
‘There’s the Appassionata,’ said Walker.
‘We ought to talk to Mr Walker,’ said Patrice.
‘Oh, come on, you’ve got a whole year to talk to Mr Walker.’
‘Well, look, here’s a stranger in a foreign land. I guess if I’m going to neck, I’d rather neck with a stranger in a foreign land. It’s more pathetic.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Bob.
‘Where are you, Mr Walker?’ asked Patrice.
Stepping Westward Page 27
