Saul Bellow - Collected Stories

Victor called him the Santa Claus of threats. He was amused by him. He also said, “Krieggstein belongs to the Golden Age of American Platitudes.”

“What do you mean by that, Victor?”

“I’m thinking first of all about the ladies he takes out, the divorcées he’s so attentive to. He sends them candy and flowers, Gucci scarves, Jewish New Year’s cards. He keeps track of their birthdays.”

“I see. Yes, he does that.”

“He’s part Whitehat, part Heavy. He tries to be like one of those Balzac characters, like what’s-his-name—Vautrin.”

“Only, what is he really?’ said Katrina. For Victor, what a Krieggstein was really wasn’t worth thinking about. Yet when she returned to the dining room, the flapping of the double-hinged door at her back was also the sound of her dependency. She needed somebody, and here was Krieggstein who offered himself. At least he gave the appearance of offering. Not many went as far as that. Didn’t even make the gesture. Here she was thinking of her sister Dorothea.

“Bad moment, eh?” said Krieggstein gravely. “You have to go. Is he sick again?”

“He didn’t say that.”

“He wouldn’t.” Krieggstein, contracted with seriousness, had a look of new paint over old—rust painted over in red.

“I have to go.”

“You certainly must, if it’s like that. But it’s not so bad, is it? You’re lucky to have that old Negro lady taking care of the little girls the way she took care of you and your sister.”

“That sounds better than it really is. By now Ysole ought to be completely trustworthy. You would think…”

“Isn’t she?”

“The old woman is very complex, and as she grows older she’s even harder to interpret. She always was satirical and sharp.”

“She’s taking sides; you’ve told me so before. She disapproves of the divorce. She keeps an eye on you. You suspect she takes money from Alfred and gives him information. But she had no children of her own.”

“She was fond of us when we were kids….”

“But transferred her loyalty to your children? I haven’t got what it takes to track her motives with.”

Katrina thought: But whom am I having this conversation with? Krieggstein’s bare head, bare face, by firelight had the shapes you saw in Edward Lear’s books of nonsense verse—distorted eggs. He meant to wear an expression of Churchillian concern—the Hinge of Fate. He was saying it wouldn’t be a good idea to lose your head. The big artists, big minds, didn’t peter out like average guys. Think of Casals in his nineties, or Bertrand Russell, et cetera. Even Francisco Franco on his deathbed. When they told the old fellow that some General Garcia was there to say good-bye to him, he said, “Why, is Garcia going on a trip?”

Katrina wanted to smile at this but, in the crowding forward of anxious difficulties, smiling was ruled out.

The Lieutenant said, “You can be sure I’ll help all I can. Anything you need done.” Krieggstein, always tactfully and with respect, hinted that he would like to figure more personally in her life. The humblest of suitors, he was a suitor nonetheless. This, too, took skillful managing, and Trina didn’t always know what to do with him.

She said, “I have to call off a date with the court psychiatrist.”

“A second time?”

“Alfred has dragged Victor into it. He said our relationship was harming the kids. This headshrink was very rude to me. Parents are criminals to these people. He was so rude that Dorothea suspected he was fixed.”

“Sometimes the shrinkers prove their impartiality by being rough on both parties,” said the Lieutenant. “Still, it’s a realistic suspicion. Did you mention to your lawyer what your sister suggested?”

“He wouldn’t answer. Lawyers level only among themselves. If ever.”

“This doctor may be ethical. That’s still another cause of confusion. As a buddy used to say on Guadalcanal, the individual in the woodpile may be Honesty in person—I could take this appointment for you. I have all the right credentials.”

“Oh, please don’t do that!” said Katrina.

“Objectively, I could make a wonderful case for you.”

“If you’d only call his appointment secretary and set a time later in the week.”

Dorothea was forever warning Trina against Krieggstein, whom she had met at one of the gun-display tea parties. “I wouldn’t have him around. I think he’s bananas. Is he really a cop, or some imaginary Kojak?”

“Why shouldn’t he be real?” said Katrina.

“He could be a night watchman. No—if he worked nights he wouldn’t be dating so many lonely middle-aged women. Still taking them to the senior prom. Have you had him checked out? Does he have a permit for those three guns?”

“The guns are nothing.”

“Maybe he’s a transit cop. I’m sure he’s a nutcase.”

Krieggstein was asking Katrina, “Did you tell the psychiatrist that you were writing a book for children?”

“I didn’t. It never occurred to me.”

“You see? You don’t do yourself justice—put your best foot forward.”

“What would really help, Sam, would be to walk the dog. Poor old thing, she hasn’t been out.”

“Oh, of course,” said Krieggstein. “I should have thought ofthat.”

The snow creaked under his weight as he led big Sukie across the wooden porch. The new street lamps were graceful, beautiful, everybody agreed, golden and pure. In summer, however, their light confused the birds, who thought the sun had risen and wore themselves out twittering. In winter the lights seemed to have descended from outer space. Packed into his storm coat, Krieggstein followed the stout, slow dog. Victor called him a “fantast.” Who else would use such a word? “A fantast lacking in invention,” he said. But the Lieutenant was a safe escort. He took Trina to see Yul Brynner at McCormick Place.

The three guns in fact made her feel safe. She was protected. He was her loyal friend.

She found herself affirming this to Dorothea later, after he was gone. She and her sister often had a midnight chat on the telephone.

After her husband died, Dorothea sold the big house in Highland Park and moved into fashionable Oldtown, bringing with her the Chinese bridal bed she and Winslow had bought at Gump’s in San Francisco. The bedroom was small. A single window opened on the back alley. But she wouldn’t part with her Chinese bed, and now she lay with her telephone inside the carved frame. To Katrina all that carving was like the crown of thorns. No wonder Dotey complained of insomnia and migraines. And she was setting Katrina straight? “You’re locked into this futureless love affair, isolated, and the only man safe enough to see is this dumdum cop. Now you’re hopping off to Buffalo.”

“Krieggstein is a decent fellow.”

“He’s three-quarters off the screen.”

Poodle-haired, thin, restless, with what Daddy used to call “neurasthenic stick” arms and legs, and large black eyes ready to soar out of her face, Dorothea was a spiky person, a sharp complainer.

“The children will go to school as usual with the older kid next door. Ysole comes at ten.”

“You have to rush away and tumble through the clouds because the great man says you must. You claim you have no choice, but I think you like it. You remind me of that woman from Sunday school—‘her foot abides not in her house.’ A year’s study in France was a wonderful privilege for you and me after graduation, but it was damaging, too, if you ask me. Dad was getting rid of some of the money he raked in through the tax assessor’s office, and it was nicer to make Parisian demoiselles of us than to launder his dough in the usual ways. He was showing off. We were lost in Paris. Nobody to pay us any attention. Today I could really use those dollars.”