Роберт Уоррен - All the king's men

I asked: "Is the Judge a man to scare easy?"

I answered: "He does not scare easy."

That left money.

So I asked: "Does the Judge love money?"

"All the money the Judge wants is just enough money the make the Judge happy."

I asked: "Was there ever a time when the Judge didn't have enough money to make the Judge happy?" But naturally that wouldn't be chicken feed.

I lighted another cigarette and turned that question over in my mind. I did not know the answer. Some voice out of my childhood whispered, but I could not catch what it said. I had the vague sense, rising from a depth of time, and of myself, of being a child, of entering the room where the grown people were, of knowing that they had just that instant stopping talking because I had come into the room and was not supposed to know what they were talking about. Had I overheard what they had been talking about? I listened for the voice whispering out of my childhood, but that voice was a long way off. It could not give me the answer. So I rose from the table, and left the empty beer bottles and the cigarette butts, and went out into the street, which still steamed from the late afternoon shower like a Turkish bath, and where now the tires of automobiles hissed hotly through the film of moisture on the asphalt. If we were lucky there might be a breeze of the Gulf later. If we were lucky.

I got a taxi finally, and said, "Corner South Fifth and Saint-Etienne Street," and fell back on the leather to listen to the tires hiss through the wetness like something frying in a skillet. I was riding to the answer about the Judge. If the man who had the answer would tell me.

The man was the man who had been the Judge's close friend for many a year, his other self, his Damon, his Jonathan, his brother. That man was the man who had been the Scholarly Attorney. He would know.

I stood on the pavement, in front of the Mexican restaurant, where the juke box made the jellylike air palpitate, and paid my taxi and turned to look up at the third floor of the building which vibrated around the juke box. The signs were still up there, hung by wire from the little iron balcony, nailed to the wall, wooden boards painted different colors, some white, some red, some black, some green, with lettering in contrasted colors. A big sign hanging from the balcony said: _God is not mocked__. Another sign said: _Now is the Day of Salvation__.

_Yeah__, I said to myself, _he still lives here__. He lived there above a spick restaurant, and nigger children played naked in the next block among starving cats, and nigger women sat on the steps after the sun got low and fanned right slow with palm-leaf fans. I reached for a cigarette as I prepared to enter the doorway of the stairs, but found I had none. So I went into the restaurant, where the juke box was grinding to a halt.

To the old woman who stood behind the beer bar squatly like a leg and whose eyebrows were very thorny and white against the brown Mexican skin and black _rebozo__, I said, "_Cigarrillos?__"

"_Que tipo?__" she asked.

"Lucky," I said, and as she laid them before me, I pointed upward, and asked, "The old man, is he upstairs?" But she looked blank, so I said, "_Esta arriba el viejo?__" And felt pleased with myself for getting it off.

"_Quien sabe?__" she replied. "_Viene y va__."

So he came and went. Upon the Lord's business.

The a voice said in tolerable English, from the shadows at the end of the bar, "The old man has gone out."

"Thank you," I replied to the old man, a Mexican, who was propped there in a chair. I turned back to the old woman, and said, "Give me a beer," and pointed to the spigot.

While I drank the beer I looked up above the counter and saw another one of the signs, painted on a big slab of plywood, or something of the sort, hanging from a nail. The background of the sign was bright red, there were blue scrolls of flowers in relief in the upper corner, the lettering was in black, high-lighted in white. It said: _Repent ye; for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. Matt., iii,2.__

I pointed to the sign. "_De el?__ I asked. "The old man's huh?"

"_Si, seٌor__," the old woman said. Then added irrelevantly, "_Es como un santito__."

"He may be a saint," I agreed, "but he is also nuts."

"Nutz?"

She said nothing to that, and I continued with the beer until the old Mexican at the end of the bar suddenly said, "Look, here comes the old one!"

Turning, I saw the black-clothed figure through the dingy glass of the door; then the door pushed open and he entered, older than I remember, the white patches of hair hanging damply from under the old Panama hat, the steel-rimmed spectacles dangerously loose on the nose and the pale eyes behind, the shoulders stooped and drawn together as though pulled by the obscene, disjunctive, careful weight of the belly, as though it were the heavy tray, or satchel, worn by some hawker on a street corner. The black coat did not button across the belly.

He stood there, blinking gravely to me, apparently not recognizing me, for he had come from the last sunshine into the dimness of the restaurant.

"Good evening, _seٌor__," the old Mexican said to the Scholarly Attorney.

"_Buenas tardes__," the woman said.

The Scholarly Attorney took off his Panama and turned to the woman, and bowed slightly, with a motion of the head which stirred suddenly in my mind the picture of the long room in the white house by the sea, the picture of a man, the same but different, younger, the hair not gray, in that room. "Good evening," he said to the woman, and then turning to the old Mexican, repeated, "Good evening, sir."

The old Mexican pointed at me, and said, "He waits."

At that the Scholarly Attorney first, I believe, really observed me. But he did not recognize me, blinking at me in the dimness. Certainly he had no reason to expect to find me there.

"Hello," I said, "don't you know me?"

"Yes," he said, and continued to peer at me. He offered me his hand, and I took it, It was clammy in my grasp.

"Let's get out of here," I said.

"Do you want the bread?" the old Mexican asked.

The Scholarly Attorney turned to him. "Yes, thank you. If it is convenient."

The Mexican rose, went to the end of the counter, and took a largish brown paper bag full of something, and handed it to the other.

"Thank you," the Scholarly Attorney said, "thank you very much, sir."

"_De nada__," the Mexican said, bowing.

"I wish you a good evening," the Scholarly Attorney said, and bowed to the man, then to the woman, with an inclination of the head which again twitched the old recollection in me of the room in the white house by the sea.

Then I followed him out of the restaurant, into the street. Across the street lay the little park of trampled brown grass, now glistening with moisture, where the bums sat on benches and the pigeons cooed softly like an easy conscience and defecated in delicate little lime-white pinches on the cement around the fountain. I looked at the pigeons, then at the bulged-open bag, which, I observed, was full of bread crusts. "Are you going to feed the pigeons?" I asked.

"No, it is for George," he said, moving toward the doorway that led above.

"You keeping a dog?"

"No," he said, and led the way into the vestibule, and up the wooden stairs.

"What is George, then? A parrot?"

"No," he said, wheezily, for the steps were steep, "George is an unfortunate."

That meant, I remembered, a bum. An unfortunate is a bum who is fortunate enough to get his foot inside a softy's door and stay there. If he gets a good berth he is promoted from bum to unfortunate. The Scholarly Attorney had, on several occasions before, taken in unfortunates. One unfortunate had popped the organist down at the mission where the Scholarly Attorney operated. Another unfortunate had lifted his watch and Phi Beta Kappa key.