Джон Макдональд - A Key to the Suite

After he hung up he waited a few moments before turning to look at Mulaney. Mulaney was standing. He wore a strange shy smile, curiously boyish. It was a smile to go with a blush, but Mulaney’s face was a ghastly gray-white under the red webs of the broken veins.

“I guess that does it,” Jesse Mulaney said, moving quite slowly toward the door.

“Wait a minute, Jesse. Think of the other ways I could have done it. I could have asked you to leave before I made the call. Or, talking to Camplin, I could have played it to you, then called him back later and given it to him the way I just did. What the hell good does it do anybody to keep hope alive when there’s no hope at all? No matter what you tried to do to me, or if you’d done nothing at all to me, it would have been exactly the same.”

Mulaney frowned. “How did things get so far ahead of me? Maybe it’s all because I never could really believe in all that new stuff, son. All the cards with the little holes. All the crap about surveys and images. Limited. That’s what you told Camplin I am. When I was eighteen years old I sold a Cherokee Indian a solid gold fountain pen for twenty-eight dollars. It was a used pen and it had the wrong initials on it, and I’d bought it at a street-car company auction of stuff people had lost and hadn’t claimed. I bought it for eleven dollars, and you know something? That Indian couldn’t write. He was going to use it to sign his X.”

“Would you rather have been kidded along about this, Jesse?”

The big man rubbed his eyes. “The way I feel now, maybe. I guess I break stuff to myself a little at a time.” He moved closer to the door and turned and said, “Connie calls you the new people. I’ve kept telling her the world and human nature don’t change.”

“I was given a job to do.”

“I can appreciate that. My God, I’ve fired a lot of men. Hired a lot of them, fired a lot of them. You know the big difference between us? Never in my life did I enjoy firing a man.”

“For Chrissake, Mulaney, do you believe I enjoyed this?”

“Didn’t you?” Mulaney asked. He grinned and chuckled and winked, though his eyes looked dead. “Not any? Not at all? Not a smidgin?” Still chuckling he let himself out into the hall and closed the door quietly.

After Floyd Hubbard had called the likely airlines and set up a reservation, he undressed and went into the bathroom. There he looked at himself with a curiosity and an intensity he had not used since childhood. He put his nose close to the mirror and looked into his eyes until there was nothing left of the world but those staring brown eyes and a feeling of dizziness.

Entranced, he told himself that nothing could possibly happen to him that was of any particular importance. So it did not really matter whether Mulaney had been right or wrong. He was wrong. There had been no enjoyment. (Forget the conversation with Connie. Forget it forever.)

So leave us please drop this debilitating introspection. Personal motivation is academic. The jobs are assigned. The missions are clear. Be a hammer. Be a blade. Be a club.

If we need affirmations of existence, slugger, let us look to the simplified ones, the less bothersome ones — the command given, the task completed, the money banked, the new mouth tasted, the new thighs spread, the new suits fitted, the meat and liquor tasted — all politely, efficiently, moderately. Measure it all in terms of salivation, of tastes and juices. Measured that way, it is a short turn around the track, so be the quiet smiler, walk gently, take what you want.

As he went to sleep he reminded himself to get to the airport early enough to have time to select small gifts for Jan and the kids.

When he checked out of the Sultana at eleven the following morning, the joint convention of COLUDA and NAPATAN was still in full swing. Groups talked in the lobby, and other groups headed toward and away from the committee meetings and the workshops, wearing their badges, interrupting each other with gossip and jokes and industry shoptalk, nursing hangovers or smug with sobriety.

As the cab drove away from the hotel, he glanced back at the welcome banner, and wondered vaguely what banner would replace it. He remembered a phrase from a college course taken long ago. Structured environment. He realized he had acquired a new appraisal of the convention as an institution. It wasn’t, as Mulaney seemed to believe, a fun-fest, a week of broads and bottles and letting down the hair. That was a minor part of it. Nor was it a dedication ceremony, or an educational device.

It was, he decided, an organized way of achieving a gratifying illusion of importance. It was anthropological in nature. It was as if fifty nomad tribes selected a ceremonial meeting place each year, and gathered there to do the ancient ceremonies, elect chiefs, sacrifice maidens, brew bitter remedies, initiate the young men. By gathering in such numbers they could convince themselves they were a great people, who would endure forever. They could make brave speeches to each other about their importance in the frightening size of the universe. They could rattle their symbols of rank, tell the glorious tales of victories since the last time of meeting, and, in quiet corners of the encampment, they could make secret devious plottings, trades, alliances and conspiracies. Thus, at the next convention, AGM should be represented by a cold, taut, canny cadre of men of maximum ability, men who — while remaining suitably affable — would seek out every advantage, every scrap of information, and give nothing away in return, men who would nurse weak drinks, remember names and attend all meetings. He decided to make a special report to John Camplin stating these views.

There was one curious incident during the flight to Houston, an incident which momentarily disturbed him.

He had a window seat in the forward part of the aircraft. After they were en route, he tilted his seat back and cautiously allowed the first memories of Cory to come filtering up into his conscious mind, keeping them at half strength until he became quite certain they would not sting. Superimposed over the fresh memories of her was the first vague outline of his future attitude toward what had happened. He was objective enough to recognize it as a defense device, a rationalization which he could reasonably hope to substantiate. She had been aimed at him like a weapon, and he had had no chance from the beginning.

As he remembered all of it, he felt a vague astonishment that he had been so reluctant to bed her again, so prim and righteous. He felt astonishment and a slight sense of loss. At 26,000 feet, virtue and reluctance seemed asinine.

She had been aimed at him, and she had faked the emotional involvement with the effortlessness of the professional. And she had slipped, fallen and died, which seemed a waste and a shame, but hardly a tragedy. Yet, through taking such a curiously moral stance, he had accidentally made the assuring discovery that the second infidelity diminished the guilt of the first, and that the sum of guilt over two was less than the guilt over one. It might be a little awkward to face Jan this time, but if the formula was consistent, the third would further lessen this middle-class burden of remorse, and by the time he had reached the twentieth, guilt should be reduced to a minor irritation, a psychic hangnail bothersome only when touched. He wished he had been a little more sober when he’d bedded Honey Constanto. She was a little too vague to be a satisfying memory.

Thinking of Honey, he fell asleep. Soon he was in a vast black shower stall, where a luminous liquid fell in heavy drops from the ceiling, like the first rain of a thunder-storm. Cory stood small and naked and smirking in front of him, silvery in the strange light which came from the heavy drops. “You see how it is?” she was saying. “You see how it has to be?” And he knew what she was going to do, and tried to scream at her, to beg her not to do it, but he could make no sound. And once she had begun, he could not let himself move, because they had told him that if he moved while she was doing it, it would kill him. He looked down in horror and saw her slide her hands right through the skin and flesh and bone of his chest and felt her hands in there, tugging and turning. “Jan wrote me and told me I had to do it,” she said. He felt the thing come loose in his chest and knew she would draw it out and knew he should not look at it, but he could not look away. The luminous rain was falling faster. Cory bit her lip and slowly worked his heart out through the skin, holding it in her cupped hands. He saw it was only a heart, red, wet, shiny and pulsing, and he felt an enormous relief and said, “I could have told you that.”