Bill Granger - The November Man

“How are you today, Mr. Hanley?”

“I’m fine,” he said. His voice was low and flat and not accustomed to being used. “I’m fine today. I’m better today, feeling better.”

If you did not feel better, they gave you medicine to help you to feel better.

They were going to give Carpenter electroshock treatments in a week. Of course, they didn’t say that but everyone knew that was what Mr. Carpenter’s condition indicated. He was on the schedule to report to Room 9 for “therapy” sessions next week. No one spoke of Room 9 because the people who came out of Room 9 were altered. They did not seem to be the same person.

“Mr. Hanley? Mr. Hanley? Are you with us today, Mr. Hanley?”

“Oh. Yes. Yes I am.” He got up from the straight chair by the window. He smiled at Sister Mary Domitilla. They all wanted you to smile; it was the first rule of Ward Seven. Smile and the world smiles with you.

“You have a visitor, Mr. Hanley,” said Sister Domitilla in the manner of one giving a child an unearned treat. “I want to be certain that you’re up to seeing him.”

“Who am I seeing?” Hanley said. “Yes, yes. I’m up to seeing him.” He felt a nervous shiver of anticipation.

“You’ll see soon enough,” said Sister Domitilla. “Come with me.”

He followed her out of the room. Her dark habit flowed down the hallway, accompanied by the clattering of the large rosary she wore at her belt. She was not as tall as Hanley and she was fat. She spoke in a musical voice in a way that most women have not spoken for years. Her voice had the notes of a toy xylophone.

Hanley shuffled behind. He wore bedroom slippers most of the time. They seemed more comfortable than shoes. What was the point of shoes? Or wearing trousers? He wore his pajamas and the hospital robe—it was gray and carried the insignia St. Catherine’s above a small cross—and he hadn’t brushed his hair for days. His hair was turning white, what was left of it.

“In there,” said Sister Domitilla. She stopped by an unmarked door. She nodded to the door. Hanley opened the door.

He blinked.

The man who sat on the edge of the table in the small, windowless room was lean and edgy and wore glasses. Hanley felt certain he knew him but he could not place him for a moment. The puzzlement crossed his features and made him frown.

“Perry Weinstein,” the man said, to jog memory. “You remember me?”

“Perry Weinstein,” Hanley repeated. “You’re the Assistant National Security Adviser.” There, it clicked into place just like that.

“Yes,” Perry said. He paused and studied Hanley’s face. “You all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” And Hanley smiled the smile they all expected.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Hanley.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Perry said.

“Yes. Yes, let’s talk.”

“Could we go outside? Take a walk?”

“Yes. If you want.”

“Do you want to dress?”

“I am dressed.”

“I mean… well, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, not at all. I’m fine, I tell you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all.”

They walked out of the room, down the hall, out into the yard. Into the open front yard, not the yard behind the building where the others walked. Dr. Goddard glanced out his window at them and frowned. It wasn’t a good thing, to see Dr. Goddard frown. Dr. Goddard only frowned when he had a problem.

The air assaulted Hanley. He shivered and Perry Weinstein said: “Are you cold?”

“No, not at all. I’m fine.” Could he explain that the air was a woman’s perfume and the smell of trees and buds growing on bare branches and the smell of the earth itself aroused him? He could bury his face in the earth and lick it. He thought of that and he was embarrassed again and fastened his robe tightly around him. He walked painfully along.

Perry Weinstein said nothing for a long time. They walked down the gravel drive toward the other buildings. Toward the gate. Hanley saw the gate and thought about it. Beyond the gate was the valley and beyond the valley was the world.

“There are no spies,” Perry Weinstein said. He said it in an offhand voice, as though saying it was a fine day.

Hanley blinked and said nothing. They stopped walking. Perry pointed to a green bench and said, “Let’s sit down.”

They sat down. Hanley folded his hands over his crotch to hide his erection from the other man. He felt foolish and embarrassed. He blushed and stared at the gravel and then, once, looked up and saw the gate down the path.

“Why did you say that?”

“Why did I say what?”

“‘There are no spies.’ ”

“Did I say that?”

“You said it in a telephone conversation. Do you remember?”

“My memory… is failing. I remember events of thirty or forty or fifty years ago quite clearly but I forget so much. I think I might be going blind. Not outside but inside.”

“Are you on medication?”

“Don’t you know?” Hanley said in a quick, sly voice.

“I don’t know. I came up here to see you.”

“What day is today?”

“Tuesday.”

“There are no visitors on Tuesday. Visitors come on Sunday after the last mass.”

“What do they do to you here, Hanley?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do they do to you here?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should know.” And there was a sudden and unexplainable sob in his voice. “Yackley sent me here. You should know.”

Perry Weinstein studied the older man through his horn-rimmed glasses. His eyes were mild and quick. He slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose, back and forth.

“There are no spies,” Perry Weinstein said.

“Yes. That’s true. And all of what we do means nothing. It is pointless, fruitless, hopeless. The Section means nothing. We are to spy upon the spies. Well, there are no spies, are there?” And Hanley smiled and was crying.

“Of course there are spies,” Weinstein said. His voice was cold.

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Perhaps you don’t have a need-to-know.”

“Cut that bullshit, Hanley.” Weinstein came close to his face. “Why is November in Moscow?”

“Is he in Moscow?”

“You said he was—”

“I wanted to warn him,” Hanley began quickly.

“Warn who?”

“November.” Hanley waited. “November was in Denmark, he was going to Moscow, he had put out feelers to Moscow Center. He wanted to go over. I had to tell November—”

“The real November,” Weinstein said.

“Of course. He was sleeping. I had to tell him to come awake. The words were all wrong. I realize that. I wanted to tell him that none of it mattered, there were no spies in any case—”

“That’s crazy talk,” Perry Weinstein said. “Why are you talking crazy?”

“Burke in Romania. They had him on a string for three years and pulled him in and traded him for Rostenkowski who we had. We had Rostenkowski in Paris for four years. Three for four.” Hanley smiled.

“Are you crazy, then?”

“No, I’m not crazy. It is difficult to explain,” Hanley said. “I was tired, it was the shock of it all, I suppose. I wasn’t crazy. Every day I went to the same bar on Fourteenth Street and they closed it down. So I had to find a new place. I started to eat in the cafeteria. Can you imagine doing that? The food was awful.”

“It has to be awful up to GS 13; then it improves,” Weinstein said. And he smiled at Hanley.

Hanley realized he was smiling back. A tight and typical Hanley smile, the smile of the bureaucrat who does not wish to be amused about jokes concerning the bureaucracy. The smile that Hanley had not smiled in Ward Seven in the three weeks he had been there; or three months; or three years. Eventually.