Роберт Уоррен - All the king's men

It took the boy from Mason City, who had never seen any ice except the skim-ice on the horse trough. "Jesus," the boy from Mason City said, in unabashed admiration. And then, "Jesus." And he kept swallowing hard, as though he had a sizable chunk of dry corn pone stuck in his throat.

It was over, and Josh Conklin said politely, "How did you like that, Governor?"

"They sure can skate," the Governor said.

Then one of the Swedish-haired nymphs came out of the dressing room with her skates off and a silver cloak draped over her bare shoulders, and came over to the table. She was a friend of Josh Conklin's and a very nice friend to have even if the hair had not come from Sweden but from the drugstore. Well, she had a friend in the act, so she got her friend, who quickly made friends with the Governor, who, for the rest of the stay in Chicago, practically dropped out of my life except for the period every night when the skating was going on. Then he'd be sitting there watching the gyrating, and swallowing on the chunk of dry corn pone stuck in his throat. Then when the last act was over he's say, "Good night, Jack," and he and the friend of the friend of Josh Conklin would head off into the night.

I don't know that Lucy ever knew about the skating rink, but Sadie did. For Sadie had channels of information closed to the home-maker type. When the Boss and I got back home, and the Nordic Nymphs were but a fond memory, a soft sweet spot in the heart like the bruised place in a muskmelon, it was Sadie who raised the seven varieties of Hibernian hell. The very morning the Boss and I hit town, I heard rumbling from inside the Boss's office as I stood in the outer room chatting with the girl who was the receptionist and catching up with the gossip. I noticed the racket inside, a noise like somebody slamming a book on a desk and then a voice, Sadie's voice. "What's going on?" I asked the girl.

"Yeah, you tell me what went on in Chicago," the girl said.

"Oh," exclaimed I in my innocence, "so that is it."

"Oh," she exclaimed, mimicking me, "that was it, and how!"

I retired to the door of my cubbyhole, which opened off the outside room. I was standing just inside, with my door wide open, when Sadie burst out of the Boss's door about the way one of the big cats, no doubt, used to bounce out of the hutch at the far end of the arena and head fro the Christian martyr. Her hair was flying with distinct life and her face was chalk-white with the pock marks making it look like riddled plaster, like, say, a plaster-of-Paris mask of Medusa which some kid has been using as a target for a BB gun. But in the middle of the plaster-of-Paris mask was n event which had nothing whatsoever to do with plaster of Paris: her eyes, and they were a twin disaster, they were a black explosion, they were a conflagration. She was running a head of steam to bust the rivets, and the way she snatched across the floor you could hear the seams pop in her skirt.

Then she caught sight of me, and without change of pace swung straight into my room and slammed the door behind her.

"The son-of-a-bitch," she said, and stood there panting and glaring at me.

"You needn't blame me," I said.

"The son-of-a-bitch," she iterated, glaring, "I'll kill him, I swear to God I'll kill him."

"You set a high valuation on something," I said.

"I'll ruin him, I'll drive him out of this state, I swear to God. The son-of-a-bitch to two-time me after all I've done for him. Listen–" she said, and grabbed a handful of my lapels in each of her strong hands and shook me (He hands were squarish and strong and hard like a man's.) "Listen–" she repeated.

"You needn't choke me," I protested peevishly, "and I don't want to listen. O know too God-damned much now." And I wasn't joking. I didn't want to listen. The world was full of things I didn't want to know.

"Listen–" and she shook me–"who made that son-of-a-bitch what he is today? Who made him Governor? Who took him when he was the Sap of the Year and put him in big time? Who gave it to him, play by play so he couldn't lose?"

"I reckon you mean for me to say you did."

"And it's the truth," she said, "and he goes and two-times me, the–"

"No," I said, trying to get loose from the grip on my lapels, "he was two-timing Lucy, so you need some other kind of arithmetic for what he was doing to you. But I don't know whether to multiply or divide in a case like this."

"Lucy!" she burst out from lips that coiled and contorted. "Lucy–she's a fool. She had her way and he'd be in Mason City slopping the hogs right now, and he knows it. He knows what she'd do for him. If he listened to her. She had her chance, she–" She simply stopped for breath, but you could see the words still blazing on in her head while she gasped for air.

"I see you seem to think Lucy is on the way out," I said.

"Lucy–" she said, and stopped, but the tone said everything there was to say about Lucy, who was a country girl, and had gone to a hick Baptist college where they believe in God, and had taught the little towheaded snots in the Mason Country school, and had married Willie Stark and given him a kid, and had missed her chance. Then she added, suddenly quiet, in a grim matter-of-factness, "Give him time–he'll ditch her, the son-of-a-bitch."

"You ought to know," I said, simply because I couldn't resist the logic of the proposition, but I hadn't got it out before she slapped me. Which is what you ask for when you start mixing into affairs, public or private.

"It's the wrong guy," I said, fingering my cheek and backing off a step from the heat, for she was about to blaze, "I'm not the hero of the piece."

Then she wasn't about to blaze, at all. She stood there in a kind of heavy numbness inside the sagging clothes. I saw a tear gather at the inner corner of each eye, gather very slowly and swollenly and then run down with the precision of a tiny mechanical toy, one on each side of the slightly pitted nose, until they simultaneously arrived at the smear of dark lipstick, and spread. I saw the tongue come out and fastidiously touch the upper lip as though to sample the salt.

She was looking straight to me all the time as though if she looked hard enough she might see the answer to something.

Then she went past me to the wall, where a mirror hung, and stared into the mirror, putting her face up close to the mirror and turning it a little from side to side, slowly. I couldn't see what was in the mirror, just the back of her head.

"What was she like?" she asked, distantly and dispassionately "Who?" I asked, and it was an honest question.

"In Chicago," she said.

"She was just a little tart," I said, "with fake Swedish hair on her head and skates on her feet and practically nothing on in between."

"Was she pretty?" the distant and dispassionate voice asked.

"Hell," I said, "if I met her on the street tomorrow I wouldn't recognize her."

"Was she pretty?" the voice said.

"How do I know?" I demanded, peevish again. "The condition she earned her living in you didn't get around to noticing her face."

"Was she pretty?"

"For Christ's sake, forget it," I said.

She turned around, and came toward me, holding her hands up at about the level of the chin, one on each side, the fingers together and slightly bent, not touching her face. She came up close to me and stopped. "Forget it?" she repeated, as though she had just heard my words.

Then she lifted her hands a little, and touched the white riddled plaster-of-Paris mask, touching t on each side, just barely prodding the surface as though it were swollen and painful. "Look," she commanded.

She held it here for me to look at. "Look!" she commanded vindictively, and jabbed her fingers into the flesh, hard. For it was flesh, it wasn't plaster of Paris at all.