Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'I always picked up the tab. And I also discovered a post-Marxist weakness for luxury items'.

'That's a dangerous failing. Especially when coupled with reckless generosity'.

'What can I say... except that, unlike you, I've never known the pleasures of thrift. Anyway, one good thing about leaving the country is that I'll be out of reach of the IRS'.

'Don't tell me you've got a tax problem too?'

'It's not a problem, actually. It's just that I haven't filed a return for... I don't know... maybe three years'.

'But you have been paying them some tax, haven't you?'

'Well, if I haven't taken the trouble of filing a return, why would I also bother sending them some money?'

'So you owe them...'

'Lots. I think it's something like thirty per cent of everything I've earned ever since I've joined NBC. Which is a sizeable chunk of change'.

'And you put nothing aside'.

'For God's sakes, S - when have I ever done anything sensible?'

I stared down at the list of debts, and resolved to settle them myself once Eric was on the far side of the Atlantic. In addition to my invested portion of the divorce settlement, I'd been saving consistently since writing for Saturday/Sunday, and I'd also just banked that five-thousand-dollar advance from Harper and Brothers. So I'd be able to clear my brother's name at assorted emporia around town. The IRS would be another matter. Maybe I could sell some stock, or get a mortgage on the apartment. For the moment, however, I just wanted to get Eric aboard that ship. Worried that he might suddenly lose his nerve and vanish for a few critical hours, I made him promise to stay in the apartment until four thirty... when we'd grab a cab to the passport office.

'But this could be my last-ever day in Manhattan. At least let me take you to lunch at 21'.

'I want you to lie low, Eric. Just in case...'

'What? That J. Edgar Hoover and his boyfriend have decided to tail me for the day?'

'Let's just get through this as cleanly as possible'.

'There's nothing at all clean about this. Nothing'.

Eric didn't like it - but he eventually did agree to stay put for the day while I did all the busy work. I got him to write me a check for the remaining thousand dollars in his bank account. I went to his branch of Manufacturers' Hanover, cashed it, and bought him the equivalent amount in traveler's checks. I paid a fast visit to Joel Eberts' office and collected a power-of-attorney document. Then I rushed uptown to Tiffany's and bought him a sterling silver fountain pen, and had it engraved: From S to E. Always.

I was back at his apartment by three. He signed the power-of-attorney form, giving me complete charge over all of his financial matters. We agreed that, come tomorrow, I'd find a storage depot, in which all his remaining clothes, papers, and personal effects would be lodged until he returned home. He handed me a thick envelope, addressed to Ronnie. I promised him I'd get it to him as soon as he was back in the city. Eric ducked into the bathroom for a moment, and I managed to slip the wrapped gift from Tiffany's into his suitcase. Then, just before four thirty, I looked at him and said, 'It's time'.

Once again, he went to the window, leaning his head against the glass, staring out at the city.

'I'll never have a view like this again'.

'I'm sure London has its moments'.

'But they're low-storey ones'.

He turned towards me. His face was wet. I bit my lip.

'Not yet', I said. 'Don't get me crying yet'.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He took a deep breath. 'Okay', he said. 'Let's go'.

We left quickly. The doorman hailed us a cab. We got stuck in godawful traffic on Fifth Avenue, and just made it to the passport office with two minutes to spare. Eric was the last customer of the day. When he approached the window, the clerk who had been dealing with his papers yesterday told him to take a seat for a moment.

'Is anything wrong?'

The clerk avoided eye contact with us. Instead, he picked up a phone, dialed a number, and spoke quickly into it. Putting it down, he said, 'Someone will be with you in a moment'.

'Is there a problem?' Eric asked.

'Just take a seat, please'.

He pointed to a bench on the opposite wall. We sat down. I glanced anxiously at the clock on the wall. With rush-hour traffic it would take, at best, forty minutes to get Eric to the 46th Street Pier. Time was of the essence.

'What do you think's going on?' I asked Eric.

'Nothing, I hope, except mindless bureaucracy'.

Suddenly a side door opened. Out walked two gentlemen in dark suits. When Eric saw them, he turned ashen.

'Oh shit', he whispered.

'Good afternoon, Mr Smythe', one of them said. 'I hope this isn't an unpleasant surprise'.

Eric said nothing.

'Aren't you going to introduce me?' the gentleman asked. Then he proffered his hand. 'Agent Brad Sweet of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You must be Sara Smythe'.

'How do you know that?' I asked.

'The doorman at the Hampshire House knows you. And he informed us that you'd been with your brother in his apartment since yesterday evening. After, of course, your visit to the law offices of a certain...' He held out his hand. His associate put a file into it. He opened the file. He read aloud from it. 'The law offices of a certain Joel Eberts on Sullivan Street. He has impeccable subversive credentials, your lawyer not to mention a file on him as thick as the Manhattan phone book. Then, after your little legal pow-wow, you headed to the offices of Thomas Cook at 511 Fifth Avenue and booked passage on the SS Rotterdam, departing this evening. Afterwards, of course, you came here to the passport office, hoping to pull that last-minute travel ruse, so beloved of individuals trying to leave the United States in a hurry'.

He shut the file.

'But, I'm afraid, you won't be leaving the country tonight - as the Department of State have put your passport application on hold, pending the outcome of the Bureau's investigation into your political allegiances'.

'That's outrageous', I heard myself saying.

'No', Agent Sweet said mildly. 'It's all perfectly legal. After all, why should the State Department issue a passport to someone whose presence overseas may be harmful to American interests...'

'Oh for God's sakes', I said, 'what harm has he done to this country?'

Eric said nothing. He just sat on the bench, staring down at the fake marble floor.

'If he cooperates with us tomorrow, his passport will be issued within twenty-four hours. If, of course, he still wants to leave the country. Five p.m. tomorrow at NBC, Mr Smythe. I look forward to seeing you there'.

With a curt nod in my direction, Agent Sweet and his associate left. Eric and I sat motionless on the bench for a few minutes. Neither of us could move.

'I'm dead', he said.

I stayed with him again that night. I tried to get him to talk things through - to work out some sort of strategy before facing Sweet and the NBC people tomorrow.

'There's nothing more to discuss', Eric said.

'But what are you going to do?'

'I am going to get into bed, pull the covers over my head, and hide'.

I couldn't stop him from doing that. Nor did I want to - as, at least, I would know where he was. He was so exhausted, so stressed, that he fell asleep shortly after getting into bed. I tried to follow suit - but I spent much of the night staring at the living room ceiling, feeling both convulsed with rage and utterly helpless in the face of the FBI's onslaught on my brother. My mind was speeding, as I tried to figure some sort of possible way out for Eric. But I came up with nothing. He'd either have to name names, or suffer the consequences.

I wanted to believe that - if I was in his position - I'd play Joan of Arc, and refuse to cooperate. But everyone envisages themselves doing the heroic thing when sitting in an armchair. Brought face-to-face with the reality of the dilemma, however, things often turn out differently. You never really know what you're made of until you find yourself standing astride a precipice, looking down into a very deep void.