Saul Bellow - The Victim

He went into the dining-room where Allbee lay face down, closely wrapped in the sheet. His broad calves were bare, his arms thrown forward, one hand touching the chair on which his clothes were heaped. Leventhal pulled at the mattress, but Allbee did not stir, and he was about to shake him but hesitated, nervously and angrily, and decided it would be unwise. For if he got him up now he was liable to lose half the morning in getting him out of the house. Leventhal did not know what to do about him. However — he looked at his watch — there was no time to deliberate now. Full of misgivings, he started for the office.

He almost welcomed his green metal desk with its hundreds of papers. The great, cloud-filled gray space his windows opened on seemed stationary. The activity around him, the swinging of the gates as the girls strode through them, the tremor and shimmer of the long-stemmed fans, had a settling effect on him. He worked hard. By eleven o’clock he had finished a complete set of galleys and he went in to Mr Beard to discuss a lead article for the next number. Millikan, the son-in-law, was there, sitting beside the old man. He took no part in the conversation. Beard made a few remarks of tentative opposition, merely, Leventhal felt, for the sake of his authority, because he wanted to avoid agreeing at once, not because he had counter-suggestions. His eyeshade, dividing his forehead with its white blots from the rest of his face, hid his expression somewhat, but there were indications that he was pretty well satisfied. His mouth and jaw showed it. “Well, can I handle your goddamned job?” Leventhal wanted to ask. He did not say this, he looked casual. Nevertheless a deep quiver of vindication went through him. “Everything is going smoothly,” he remarked. Neither of them answered. Leventhal prolonged the silence for nearly a minute, until he forced a nod from Beard, and then he stalked out. He didn’t claim to be indispensable; on the other hand, they might admit occasionally, without killing themselves, that he was valuable to them. With all his troubles and distractions, he was still finishing his work well within the deadlines. And Beard realized how efficient he was, that was why he had said that unpleasant thing to Mr Fay. “What really bothers him,” Leventhal thought, “is having to admit that he needs anyone for his business. He wants to be the one, the only, and the all-important. That’s not the way a modern concern is run. He’ll always be small potatoes.”

On the way back to his desk, he encountered Mr Fay. The fact that Fay had made an effort that day to defend him had led Leventhal to hope for more, a hint as to what had happened, an attempt to warn or advise him. One sign was all that was necessary. It wouldn’t hurt to have a friend in the office. Moreover he wanted to thank Fay for putting in a word for him. “Maybe he will talk, one of these days,” Leventhal told himself. Fay stopped him and mentioned an advertiser who was finishing a new plant that ought to be written up. He had spoken of it before. This time Leventhal was attentive, asked for more of the details, made notes on his pad, and said, “That’s easy to fix up.” He looked at Fay so expectantly that the latter seemed to think he was going to say more and paused, his dark eyes actively questioning under his graying, short brows and behind the shining circles of his glasses. “Yes,” said Leventhal, “I’ll get the story for you,” and, with a mixture of impressions and, principally, the feeling that Fay was going to disappoint him, he turned away.

The ringing of the phone, reminding him of his sick nephew and of Allbee whom he had left sleeping, brought the blood to his face. He jerked his neck awkwardly as he fixed the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, praying that it might be a business call. With one hand he feverishly worked at the tangled wires.

At first he heard no one and he tried to signal the operator. Presently she broke in casually with, “Somebody by the name of Williston, for you.” To restore his self-command, he stopped his breath for an instant. Then he said, “Put him on.” He swung slowly back in the leather-backed chair, pulling a drawer open with the tip of his shoe and throwing bis leg over it.

“Hello,” Williston said.

“Hello, Stan, how’ve you been?”

“Pretty fair.”

“You calling about Allbee?” Leventhal knew perfectly well that this directness was what Williston least wanted; Williston preferred to be roundabout. But why should he permit it?

He did not answer immediately.

“Well, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am. Yes, I am,” Williston said, sounding reluctant. “I was wondering if you had seen him.”

“Oh, I’ve seen him. He’s been coming around. As a matter of fact, he showed up last night; said he was kicked out of his rooming house. I put him up. He stayed over.”

“Kicked out?” Williston doubtfully said.

“What’s the matter, you think I’m exaggerating? You haven’t seen him. One look at him and it wouldn’t sound so impossible.”

“What does he aim to do?”

“I wish I could tell, but he probably couldn’t say himself. If you want to know, I think he’s probably sick. There must be something wrong with him.”

Williston seemed to consider this; there was no reply for a while. Then he said, “Hasn’t he given you any clue as to what he wants?”

“Too many clues. I can’t get any single thing out of him, that’s the trouble.” He slipped his leg from the drawer and bent over the desk, cradling the phone in both hands. “You should hear him; you’d find out in a hurry there was something wrong.”

Williston’s voice came back in a drawling laugh. “He’s trying to calm me down,” thought Leventhal, feeling discouraged. “He thinks I’m overdoing the complaining and wants to kid me out of it.”

“Oh, it isn’t that bad, is it?” said Williston.

“It’s plenty bad. You don’t know how bad it is. I tell you, you haven’t seen him or heard what he’s got to say, what his line is. I did go wrong with Rudiger, I know, and that whole business was unfortunate. I won’t try to duck out of it, although I could if I wanted to. But listen, you have no idea what he’s like. Probably the thing to do is to get him a job. Whether he’ll take it or not is another story. Maybe he doesn’t want to work. I can’t tell you. He wants everything, and I don’t think he wants to do anything. He keeps play acting with me.” He stopped and grumbled to himself, “I’ll put him straight whether he wants to be put straight or not.”

“Oh, now, that’s just boyishness,” said Williston. Leventhal was unable to decide to which of them the boyishness was attributed. He hunted for words, bluntly bracing his face against the difficulty of carrying on this conversation. It was purposeless, an added burden.

“Well, maybe you can make a useful suggestion, Stan.”

“I said I’d do whatever I could.” Williston appeared to feel himself accused.

“After all, I’m supposed to be his enemy. You’re his friend.”

He did not hear all of his answer. He only caught a reference to a “practical step” and understood that Williston was impatient with the way the conversation was going.

“Sure I’m in favor of something practical,” he replied. But as soon as the words were out he was aware that he and Williston had swung farther than ever, hopelessly far, from the real issues. Over the telephone the “practical step” was vague enough and when he tried to apply it to Allbee it dissolved into irrelevance. For himself, the practical step was to get rid of the man, and this was not what Williston had in mind. “You think of something,” he urged. “You know him. Maybe you can figure out what would satisfy him.”