Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

My husband is a realist and was not one of those who considered these activities merely wanton persecution of the department. An actor in it himself, he realized better than most the obscure and fearful nature of the struggle which was taking place in the world and the necessity for measures of defense; treachery existed, and he regarded as ingenuous those of his friends and acquaintances who pretended it did not. It was only in the current vagueness of definition and limits of the term that he was uneasy. Trained to assess guilt and innocence by definite standards, and, as a result of his extended service in Europe, having grown into a habit of tolerance of political diversity, he could not help but feel that perhaps he would be considered old-fashioned and not sufficiently severe by his superiors. The custom he had fallen into of discussing with me all invitations, with a view to avoiding being associated, even in the most casual way, with anyone who might conceivably discredit him, was, while necessary, increasingly irksome. The pleasure of society, to be truly enjoyed, must have a certain automatic and spontaneous quality, and in the last year or so all that had vanished. To judge, professionally, the virtue of colleagues and applicants, is one thing—it is quite another to be forced, on the most innocent occasions, to speculate on the politics, the discretion, the potential future disgrace, of dinner companions and tourists to whom one is introduced, by chance, in a bar.

John’s speculation was interrupted by the arrival of Trent. Trent was an executive of an American oil company which had an office in the city. He was a large, soft-spoken man, from Illinois, a little older than my husband. John occasionally played golf with him and considered him a friend. My husband rose and shook Trent’s hand and offered him a chair. They talked for several moments about inconsequential matters before Trent settled down to the business that had brought him to the consulate.

“There’s something I want your advice about,” Trent said. He looked uncomfortable and uncharacteristically ill-at-ease. “You’re mixed up in this particular line and you know what’s going on better than I do. I’ve been over here a long time. I read the magazines from home every week, but it’s hard to tell from them just how serious something like this would be. I have a problem, John.”

“What is it?” my husband asked.

Trent hesitated, and took out a cigar and bit the end off without lighting it. “Well,” he said, finally, laughing sheepishly, “I was once asked to join the Communist Party.”

“What?” my husband asked, surprised. Trent is a large, expensively dressed man with carefully brushed gray hair and he looks the perfect image of what, in fact, he is—an ambitious, successful business executive. “What did you say?”

“I said I was asked to join the Communist Party,” Trent repeated.

“When?” my husband asked.

“In 1932,” Trent said. “When I was in college. The University of Chicago.”

“Yes?” my husband said, puzzled, not understanding what Trent wanted from him.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Trent asked.

“ Did you join?” my husband asked.

“No.” Trent said. “Though I’ll admit to you that I thought about it for a long time.”

“Then I don’t quite see what the problem is,” my husband said.

“The man who asked me to join,” Trent said, “was an instructor. In the Economics Department. He was one of those young ones, in tweed jackets, who’d been to Russia. He’d have the bright boys up to his apartment for beer and a bull session once a week and we’d talk about sex and God and politics and feel pretty damned intelligent about everything. In those days he seemed like one hell of a guy.…”

“Yes?” My husband was still puzzled.

“Well,” Trent said, “I see they’re going after the colleges now, the committees, I mean, and I wonder if I oughtn’t to send in his name.”

At that moment, my husband decided to be careful. He realized then that he didn’t know Trent very well, despite the afternoons on the golf course. He picked up a pencil and pulled a pad over toward him. “What’s the man’s name?” he asked.

“No,” Trent said, “I don’t want to get you mixed up in it. And I’m not sure yet that I want to get mixed up in it myself.”

“Where’s the man now?” my husband asked.

“I don’t know,” said Trent. “He’s not at Chicago any more. I used to correspond with him for a few years and then it petered out. For all I know he’s dead now or he’s taken up yoga.”

“What, exactly,” my husband asked, a little sharply, “is it that you want from me?”

“I just wanted your opinion,” said Trent. “To sort of help me make up my mind.”

“Send in his name.”

“Well …” Trent said uncertainly. “I’ll see. We used to be pretty good friends and I thought a lot of him and something like this could do a man a lot of harm and it’s more than twenty years ago.…”

“You asked me for advice,” my husband said. “My advice is send in his name.”

At this moment, the door opened and the consul came in, without knocking. He hadn’t been expected back for two days and my husband was surprised to see him.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had someone with you,” the consul said. “As soon as you’re through, I’d like to see you in my office, please.”

“I’m just going,” Trent said, standing up. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.” He shook hands and went out.

The consul closed the door carefully behind him and turned toward my husband. “Sit down, John,” he said. “I have some very grave news for you.”

The consul was a young man, not much older than Michael. He was one of those fortunate young men who appear to swim upward, in any organization, without any apparent effort on their own part. He had clever, slender good looks and he always seemed to manage to be evenly and healthily tanned. He had been married, within the last year, to a very pretty girl, the only daughter of a wealthy family, and the two of them together had the valuable reputation of being an amusing couple, and were much in demand for parties and long weekends at famous houses. He was a young man whose career his elders delighted to advance and he had been clearly singled out almost from the very beginning of his service, for high position. My husband, from whom he differed in luck and temperament so markedly, shared the common attitude toward him, and willingly and almost with pleasure took on the extra duties that the consul’s full social schedule prevented the consul from fulfilling. That is not to say that my husband was not deeply envious of him. My husband was too conscious of his own worth and his solid achievements in the service not to feel a sense of injustice when he contemplated their comparative positions and their probable futures. And besides, while they were both attached to the embassy at X—, my husband had occupied a position of considerably greater importance and no man takes easily to seeing a younger man moved over his head into authority. But an attitude of envy, affection, and devotion, all mingled together, is less rare in a hierarchy than is generally thought possible.

Alone among his fellow workers, Michael Laborde did not think much of the consul, and called him slightingly, because of his light blond hair and his unfailing luck, Goldilocks. I must admit that I, too, was not so completely charmed by the consul as my husband. There was something that I found vaguely unpleasant and false about him, although I was careful not to give any intimation of this to my husband. I also kept to myself a curious little incident in which the consul and I were the only participants. I was out shopping one afternoon by myself and had stopped in front of a window for a moment, when I looked up to see the consul coming out of a doorway just a few feet away. He looked, as always, neat and beautifully dressed. He was not wearing a hat and his hair was wet and newly brushed, as though he had just taken a shower. He took a step in my direction and I began to smile in greeting, when he suddenly turned, without giving any sign of recognition, and walked swiftly away. I was certain he had seen me and there was in his whole performance a sense of embarrassment which was unusual for him. I watched him turn the corner and started on my own way, puzzled. Then, out of curiosity, I stopped and retraced my steps and went to the doorway from which the consul had emerged. The names of the six occupants of the building were on the side of the door and I recognized only one. It was the name of a young American, who was reputed to have a large independent income and who had settled, in the last three months, in our city. I had met him once or twice at parties, and even if his reputation had not preceded him, I would have been able, from his manner of walking and talking, to judge him immediately for what he was. Of course, if the consul had merely nodded to me and said Hello in the normal manner it would never have occurred to me to look at the names on the doorplates.