Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

Joel Eberts greeted me with a paternal hug and a considerable amount of news. He'd booked me passage on the SS Corinthia, sailing that night, docking seven days later in Le Havre. He'd secured me a single inside cabin: nothing fancy, but at least I'd have the place to myself. He had all the forms ready for my passport.

'It's the same deal as your brother - you run up to the passport office at Rockefeller Center, you hand in all the forms and a check for twelve dollars, you show them your transatlantic boat ticket, and they should have a passport for you by five this evening. But you better hurry. The deadline for one-day processing is ten thirty. That now gives you a half-hour to get there, tops'.

Forms in hand, I grabbed a cab. It raced uptown. I made the passport office at ten twenty-five. The clerk vetted all the forms, and told me to be back at the office by close of business today. As I came out of the office, I noticed that I was opposite the Saturday Night/Sunday Morning building. I didn't give it a second glance. I just hailed a cab and headed downtown again.

Joel Eberts had offered to bring me to lunch at a little Italian place near his office. We sat down. We ordered. The boss - a friend of Joel's - insisted on bringing us each a glass of Spumante. We toasted my journey to foreign parts.

'Have you thought about what you are going to do over there?'

'No. I don't even know where I'll end up... though, initially, I'll probably head to Paris'.

'You will write me as soon as you've gotten settled somewhere?'

'I'll wire you. Because I'll also need to set up bank transfer facilities'.

'No problem. I'll handle all that'.

'And you will give me a bill for all that you've been doing on my behalf?'

'Call it a friendly favor'.

'I would really rather pay you properly, Joel'.

'That's one of the many things I like about you, Sara - you're completely ethical'.

'Look where it's gotten me'.

He paused for a moment, abstractedly rubbing the rim of his glass with his stubby index finger. 'Do you mind if I ask you something?'

'Yes - I still think about him a lot'.

He smiled. 'Are my thoughts that transparent?' he asked.

'No - I am'.

'As I told you on the phone, there must be fifteen, twenty letters from him, stacked up in my office. He also called me around four times. Begging me to tell him where you were'.

'What did you say?'

'What you told me to say: that you had left New York and were living in an undisclosed location. Then he asked if I was forwarding on his letters. I said that you instructed me to hold all personal mail until you returned'.

'Did he leave you alone after that?'

Another pause. 'Do you really want to know this?' I nodded. 'He came to see me personally. Around six weeks ago. He sat in the chair opposite my desk, and...'

'Yes?'

'He started to cry'.

'I don't want to hear this'.

'Fine', he said, reaching for the menu. 'Shall we order?'

'What did he say?'

'You said you don't want to hear this...'

'You're right', I said, reaching for the menu. 'I don't. Tell me what he said'.

Joel put down the menu. 'He told me you were the best thing that ever happened to him; the center of his life. And he tried to explain...'

'How he killed my brother?'

'You know that's not true'.

'All right, all right - he didn't physically end his life. But he certainly got the ball rolling in that direction. He pointed the finger. He handed Eric to the Feds on a plate. How can I forgive that? How?'

Joel drummed his fingers on the table. 'Forgiveness is the hardest thing in life... and the most necessary. But it's still the hardest'.

'That's easy for you to say'.

'You're right. It is. Eric wasn't my brother'.

'Exactly', I said, reaching for the menu. 'And yes, I will have the veal piccata'.

'Good choice', Joel said, motioning towards the waiter. We ordered. Then Joel reached into his pocket. He pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. I saw that it was postmarked Brunswick, Me.

'Here's the letter you sent me', he said.

'Oh', I said, suddenly uneasy. 'You didn't read it, did you?'

'It's unopened, Sara - at your request. As long as it's legal, I always follow my clients' instructions'.

'Thank you', I said, tucking the letter into my bag. He looked at me carefully. I sensed that he knew what was in that letter - and how close I had skirted the precipice.

'I hope you'll get some rest during the transatlantic crossing', he said. 'You look tired, Sara'.

'I am tired. And yes, I do plan to spend most of the next seven days on the SS Corinthia fast asleep. If they allow me on the boat, that is'.

'Why wouldn't they?'

'You can't board a transatlantic ship without a passport, can you? And if the Department of State stopped Eric from getting a passport...'

'Don't worry - they'll issue you a passport'.

Joel was right. At five that afternoon, the clerk at the Rockefeller Center passport office handed me a spanking new green travel document, valid for five years. My lawyer accompanied me to the office, just in case my application had run into difficulties. But no questions were asked, no objections raised. The clerk even wished me 'Bon Voyage'.

We managed to find a taxi amidst the rush-hour madness on Fifth Avenue. I had just under forty-five minutes to make it to Pier 76, where the SS Corinthia was docked and setting sail that night at seven thirty. I stared out of the cab window as night fell on Manhattan. I suddenly wanted to jump out, run to the nearest phone booth, and call Jack. But what would I have said?

'Do you believe things happen for a reason?' I heard myself saying.

Joel looked at me with care. 'You're talking to the original Jewish agnostic, Sara. I don't believe in some Almighty plan, or even that dumb thing called "destiny". I believe you should try to live your life ethically, and otherwise hope for the best. What else can we do?'

'I wish I knew, Joel. I wish...'

'What?'

Silence.

'If only Eric had gotten his passport...'

'Sara...'

'Or if he'd gone to Mexico the next day... If he hadn't looked back in that taxi on the way to the airport, and seen the midtown skyline... If only...'

'Don't play the if only game, Sara. You can never win it'.

We inched our way west on 50th Street. We reached Twelfth Avenue. We turned south towards 48th Street. We pulled into the gates of Pier 76. We got out of the cab. The driver handed my suitcase and typewriter to a porter. He lurked nearby. I suddenly found myself clutching on to Joel's coat sleeves.

'What am I doing here?' I asked.

'Getting on that boat'.

'I'm scared'.

'You're leaving the country for the first time. It's only natural to be anxious'.

'I'm making the wrong call'.

'You can always turn around and come back. It's not a life sentence, you know'.

'Tell me I'm crazy'.

He kissed me gently on the head - like a father giving his daughter his blessing.

'Bon voyage, Sara. Wire me when you find your footing'.

The porter cleared his throat, hinting that it was time to get aboard. I hugged Joel. Gently, he detached my hands from his sleeves.

'What will I do over there?' I said.

'At the very worst, you'll survive. Which is what we all do'.

I turned and followed the porter up the gangplank. Just before we reached the main deck, I spun around. The taxi carrying Joel Eberts was pulling out of the gate. I kept my eyes at street level. To look up would have meant paying a final mournful tribute to the Manhattan skyline. I didn't want a long goodbye. I just wanted to leave town as quietly as possible.

Thirteen

SEVEN DAYS AFTER slinking out of New York Harbor, the SS Corinthia docked in Le Havre. I stepped on to French soil, my equilibrium still wobbly after all that time at sea. I immediately took a taxi to the railway station, and caught the express to Paris.