Jonathan Franzen - The Twenty-Seventh City - A Novel

He’d been giving dozens of interviews, passing time with gentlemen and ladies from The New York Times, Newsweek, U.S. News , the Christian Science Monitor and all the lesser publications, but he hadn’t been this nervous since Christmas Day, when Luisa had brought Duane over for the first time. St. Louis was about to hit the cover of the magazine that had reserved the right to name the Man of the Year. Probst wanted to make the best possible impression. And, as always now, Jammu was on his mind. He hadn’t really enjoyed a calm moment in any of the eighteen days during which they’d socialized. The nervousness arose from the strain of waiting, each day, to see how long he would hold out without making contact with her. That he would make contact was inevitable. It was merely a matter of prolonging the suspense.

He sat down at the breakfast-room table and put his feet up on a neighboring chair, reached over his shoulder to the telephone, and dialed her number.

“Jammu.”

“Probst,” he said. “Do you want to have dinner?”

“I thought you were busy.”

“I should definitely be done by ten. I’ll make sure I’m done by ten. I have my lines all memorized.”

“‘It’s just not realistic.’”

“That’s right.” He smiled. She made these jokes without a trace of malice; they were even fortifying. “And I’d say the answer is emphatically less. And who stands to gain by this.”

“Seriously, Martin, you can say whatever you want about me. I won’t hold it against you if you feel you can’t contradict what you’ve said in the past.”

“That’s very generous of you. Considering you’re going to be the cover girl.”

She coughed. “Touché.”

The receiver was shaking in his right hand. He switched it to his left, which for some reason was rock steady. “Why is this such an event?” he said. “What is it about Time that makes this seem so important?”

“I think it’s the red border on their cover.”

“The—? Oh. Uh huh.”

“Congratulations, by the way, on your selection.”

“You’re not supposed to know about that.”

“It’s Chet Murphy who can’t keep a secret. But it is true, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I get to wear the veil and the crown, hold the scepter and ride in a convertible and review the debs. And make predictions, I guess, if I’m a Prophet. But it’s so unexpected. Most of the organization isn’t speaking to me. I haven’t even been going to the meetings.”

“It sounds like they want to make you feel guilty and change your tune on the merger.”

“They should know me better than that.” His right hand, recovered, took the receiver back. “Ess?”

“What.”

“Nothing.” He was just testing to see if her name worked. “I’m watching the second hand go around on the kitchen clock. We got four pages in Newsweek but not a cover. This will really do it for St. Louis. People are going to invest here like never before.”

“It’s interesting to see you appropriating my optimism. It’s just what your campaign needs, less defense, more offense. But I do wish you were on my side.”

“You want me to change my mind?” He asked because he had a peculiar feeling she didn’t. “You want me to make Stone’s day?”

“Yes.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“You don’t sound like you mean it.”

“I just don’t want you giving me anything. But I say yes to be honest with you, because I don’t think you’d have had anything to do with me if your heart were really in the merger fight. And it’s been at least a week since you told me about your, quote, intuitive distrusts.”

For a while he’d been careful to keep in mind why he was seeing her: not to become friends with her, but to continue sounding her out, testing her story. But her story had passed the acid test. It was clear that if he’d been she he would have done almost exactly the same things in St. Louis. It made sense. And meanwhile, in a rush of mutual infatuation, they’d gotten to be friends.

“You could be county supervisor, Martin.”

“I’ve told you why that’s out.”

“Not very persuasively. And if you were supervisor, or even if you were plain Martin Probst, and if you’d thrown your weight behind the referendum, and if it became law, then the region would be reunited in more ways than one. Admit you’d like to see that happen.”

“I admit it. But what if I stick to my guns?”

“You know that won’t matter either.”

“Why not.”

“Because you’re special to me.”

He rested his head on the hard back of the chair and released the controls in his head, let it throb. The ceiling was a solid white but consisted of an infinity of points; without betraying their individuality, all of them began to glow. “What about dinner?” he said, with effort.

“Call me when you’re through with Stone. I’ll be here.”

It was somewhere between fifteen and ten before 8:00, a crooked time, the minute hand marking a fractional. Probst stood up and ate a handful of salted peanuts from a blue Planter’s can. He reached for the liquor cabinet but didn’t venture in. He understood her. She was in no more hurry to see him abandon John Holmes and Vote No than he was to see her undressed: all in good time.

Of course he didn’t trust her. He wasn’t born yesterday. He suspected that Quentin Spiegelman had been told he was special to her, that Ronald Struthers had been told he was special to her, and before that, Pete Wesley. That was how coalitions were formed. But now at least he had a sound alternative to General Norris’s theory of conspiracy. Jammu didn’t need to plant bugs or bomb cars when there was a handier point of access: she made people love her.

He could smell his peanut breath. Up the stairs he went again to brush his teeth. His gums were sore, it was ridiculous. Then again, an aura of peanut butter might easily have undermined his credibility with Brett Stone. He didn’t plan to get into a discussion of Jammu. He did, however, plan to hint that he wouldn’t actually be all that disappointed if the merger went through. He’d recently come up with a good new twist on his American Revolution analogy, just the sort of thing Time would go for. The doorbell was ringing as he came down the stairs.

On the doorstep stood a rosy-cheeked thirty-year-old whose head came up as far as Probst’s shoulders. The photographer? Wisps of vapor trailed away from his nose; the night was cold and wet. Probst didn’t see anyone else.

“Come in. You’re—”

“Brett Stone.” Nodding, Stone stepped inside. The hand he put out for Probst to shake had short black hairs on the knuckles, and puckered white palms. Apparently he hadn’t brought a photographer.

“Shall we get right to it?” Probst said.

“Sure.” Stone led him into the living room, nodding.

“Can I get you something?”

“Thanks, no.” Stone’s watch pipped eight o’clock. He had curly hair the color of motor oil, and pale green eyes. His nodding was rapid and barely perceptible, as though residual from some big bang earlier in his day or life.

Probst was fascinated. “Any trouble finding me?”

“Nope!” Stone had opened his briefcase on his knee and placed a microcassette recorder on the coffee table. Probst stationed himself at the fireplace, and Stone began to ask him questions. Why had Westhaven gone bankrupt? Of Municipal Growth’s members of a year ago, how many were still active in the group? Was Probst making any effort to expand it now? Apart from being a chief executive, what other criteria were there for membership? Had Probst been asked to join Urban Hope?

Probst fielded the questions thoughtfully, crafting his sentences with an eye to the tape recorder, and threw in as many interesting sidelights as he could before the next question arrived. Soon he was sweating with concentration. Yet there remained in his head a whispering voice. You’re special to me, Martin. You’re special to me…