Джеймс Кейн - Root of His Evil [= Shameless]

I knew perfectly well he and I weren’t going to Lindy’s, and under other circumstances I might have made objection, but there was Grant still standing on the curb and looking like a poor fish, and I was furious at him. So when Mr. Holden told the driver to go to the Hotel Wakefield I pretended not to notice, and when he waved at Grant and said, “Good night, old man,” I waved and smiled too, just as though it was perfectly natural.

When the taxi moved off he asked me in the most casual way if I minded stopping by his hotel first, as he was expecting telegrams, and had to keep in touch. I said not a bit, and we rolled down Third Avenue talking about what a fine set of girls they were who had assembled in the hall. The hotel was on Sixth Avenue not far from where I lived, and when we went in there he went at once to the desk. They handed him some mail and telegrams, and he tore one open. Then he came over to me, looking very depressed. “It was what I was afraid of. No Lindy’s for us tonight, Carrie. I’ve got to stand by for a Washington call.”

“It’s all right.”

“But we’ll have our supper. Come on.”

“If you’re busy—”

“Don’t be silly. We’re having supper.”

We went up in the elevator and entered his suite. He at once went in the bedroom and I could hear him phoning Lindy’s with a message to Miss Clara Gruber that he had been unavoidably detained and would not be able to come. Then he came back and asked me what I would like to eat, and I said I didn’t care, and he went back and ordered some sandwiches, coffee and milk. Then he called to know if I wanted something to drink, and I said thanks I didn’t drink. He said he didn’t either, and hung up. Then he came back. I was highly amused, and yet I felt some admiration for him. He had intended it that way from the beginning, and yet not one word had been said which indicated he had deliberately contrived to get me up here, and for some reason this made it much more exciting. I began to see that one reason men had previously left me somewhat indifferent was that they were extremely clumsy.

However, he continued to act very casual, and looked at his watch, and gave a little exclamation. “We can still get them.”

“Get whom?”

“The Eisteddfod Strollers. They’re broadcasting.”

“At this hour?”

“It’s midnight here, but it’s nine o’clock in California. They’re on tonight at KMPC, Hollywood.”

He went to the radio and turned it on, and vocal music began to come in. “Yes, they’re just beginning.”

“Who are the — what strollers did you say?”

“Winners of our Welsh bardic contest called the Eisteddfod. They’re terribly good.”

“Are you Welsh?”

“A Welshman from Cardiff. A lot of us are Welsh in this movement.”

“I thought you were Irish.”

“The brogues are similar, but an Irishman isn’t much good in a big labor union. He’s too romantic.”

“Aren’t you romantic?”

I didn’t know I was going to say that, and he laughed. “In some parts of my nature I might be, but not about labor. An Irishman messes things up, fighting for lost causes, exhibiting to the world his fine golden heart, but a Welshman fights when he can win, or thinks he can win. He knows when to fight, and he can fight hard, but he also knows when to arbitrate. It was characteristic of Lloyd George, another Welshman and a fine one. They called him an opportunist, but they won that war just the same. It’s characteristic of John L. Lewis. A Welshman is a formidable adversary.”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Lewis?”

“Well, I hope so. I came up through the miners.”

“To me he seems very theatrical.”

“Like all specialists in power, he knows the value of underestimation of his abilities on the part of his adversaries. The newspapers call him the great ham, and I don’t say he doesn’t love the boom of his voice. But theatricality is not the dominant side of him. John L. is the greatest specialist in direct action that has ever been seen in the American labor movement, and to that extent I think he has a profounder understanding of labor than anybody we ever had, not even excluding Furuseth, who was a great man. What is a strike? They call it a phase of collective bargaining, but it is really coercion. It suits John L. to be thought a ham, for it distracts attention from his club. The club’s the thing, just the same. He has a side though, that not many know about. At heart he’s a boy and loves things like jumping contests. He can put his feet together and jump the most incredible number of steps on the front stoop of the hotel, or wherever it is. And over tables — anything. Or could. That was in the old days. I haven’t seen him since the row with Murray.”

“You went with Murray?”

“Aye, and there’s a man, too.”

“But aren’t we culinary workers A.F. of L.?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of fraternizing in areas where there’s no real conflict, if that’s what’s worrying you. There is in any war.”

“Are you in charge of our strike?”

“I wonder.”

“Well — don’t you know?”

“All I expected to do when the little fellow phoned me earlier in the evening, was go over and pull together a meeting he was getting somewhat worried about. But developments since then—”

“Meaning me?”

“Quite nice development, I would say.”

He looked me over in a very bold way, and I could feel my face get hot, and I reached over and turned up the radio, as he had tuned it down during some announcement or other. The singing came through again, beautiful things I had never heard before, and I hated it when a waiter came in with our supper, and interrupted it. When the waiter had gone we began to eat the sandwiches, and Mr. Holden came over beside me. For the first time I felt a little frightened, and after a few minutes said: “I’ll fix up the deposit slips.”

I got out the money and counted it again, and put it in hotel envelopes, and then made out the slips, which I always carried with me. He watched and put the tray outside to be collected. The singers sang a song I loved, “All Through The Night.” Mr. Holden came closer to me, and the music seemed to be saying a great deal to him. We looked at each other and smiled. Then he put his arm around me. Then he took off my hat and laid it on the table in front of us. Then he kissed me. I was very frightened, and at the same time I was very limp and helpless. He kissed me again and I felt dreamy and carried away, and that time I kissed back.

I don’t know how long I sat there in his arms, but it must have been quite some time, because my dress was all disarranged, and I didn’t care whether it was or not, and I kept feeling that this was something I had been hungry for a long time. And yet at the same time there was something about it I didn’t like. So long as the Strollers were singing, and I felt sad and at the same time happy, I was very glad about it all, but now there was nothing but swing music coming out of the radio it wasn’t the same. I knew I had to get out of there, or something was going to happen that I was not in the least prepared for in my own mind, and that I did not want to happen. I loosened his arms and sat up, and began to shake my hair as though to straighten it out. “Do you have a comb?”

He got up and went in the bedroom. I grabbed my hat, the envelopes with the money in them, and my handbag, and scooted. I didn’t wait for the elevator. As soon as I was in the hall I dived for the stairs, and ran down them, four or five flights. When I reached the lobby I ran out of the hotel, jumped in a taxi and told the driver, “Straight ahead, quick.”

He started up, and I was so busy looking back to see if anyone was following, and straightening myself up, that I didn’t notice how far we had gone. When we got to Fiftieth Street I told him to turn west, because I had to go to the bank before I went home. But it was a one-way street going east, and I paid him and got out to walk the one block to Seventh Avenue. I got to the corner, turned it, and started for the night deposit box. As I did so, somebody grabbed my arm from behind.