Authors: Irwin Shaw
Billy was reaching for his uncle’s letter when the telephone on his desk rang. He picked it up and said, “Abbott speaking.”
“Billy, this is Rhoda Flynn.” It was a woman’s voice, with the sound of music and conversation in the background.
“Hello, Rhoda,” he said. She was a cub reporter on the paper, a pretty girl who was doing a lot better than he was, who already had a by-line and who tried to flirt with him whenever they bumped into each other in the office.
“We’re having a little party over at my house,” the girl said, “and we could use some extra men. I thought, if you weren’t doing anything …”
“Sorry, Rhoda,” Billy said. “I’m still working. Some other time, maybe.”
“Some other time.” She sounded disappointed. “Don’t work too hard. I know what they’re paying you and you shouldn’t spoil them.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he said. “Although there’re no visible signs that they think I’m spoiling them. Have a good time.”
After he had put down the phone he stared at his typewriter, only the clatter of a distant teletype machine breaking the silence, the sounds of gaiety and companionship he had heard on the telephone still echoing in his ears. He would have liked to go to the party, talk freely to a pretty girl, but what he really wanted to say he couldn’t say.
What the hell, if I can’t talk to anybody else, I can still talk to myself.
He put a sheet of paper in the typewriter and began to tap on it.
THIS IS FOR THE 1972 NOTEBOOK. FOR VARIOUS REASONS I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING ON IT SINCE SPAIN AND I’M ALONE AND ANONYMOUS AND AFRAID IN THE CITY OF CHICAGO AND I THINK THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT SHOULD BE SAID BY A MAN OF MY GENERATION AND MY PECULIAR CAREER THAT MIGHT EVENTUALLY BE READ WITH INTEREST IN THE FUTURE BY OTHER YOUNG MEN. AS THE COLONEL SAID IN BRUSSELS, “WE’RE ON THE FIRING LINE OF CIVILIZATION,” WHICH IF IT WAS TRUE OF BRUSSELS, MUST BE EQUALLY TRUE OF CHICAGO. MESSAGES FROM SUCH AN IMPORTANT POSITION SHOULD BE LEFT WHERE SURVIVORS, IF THERE ARE ANY, MIGHT BE ABLE TO FIND THEM.
He paused, reread what he had written, remembered that he had heard that the Colonel had been passed over for his star and had retired to Arizona, where he could play tennis all year. Then he began to type, very fast.
I AM GETTING NEUROTIC. OR MAYBE NOT. I THINK THAT I AM BEING CONSTANTLY FOLLOWED. I THINK I SEE MEN AND WOMEN WHOM I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE STARING INTENTLY AT ME IN RESTAURANTS, I HAVE GOTTEN INTO THE HABIT OF TURNING UNEXPECTEDLY AROUND WHEN I WALK IN THE STREET, I HAVE MOVED FOUR TIMES IN SIX MONTHS. UP TO NOW, I HAVE NOT CAUGHT ANYBODY IN THE ACT. PERHAPS MY MIND IS PRESCIENT AND IS WARNING ME OF MY FUTURE. MAYBE TIME IS A CIRCLE AND NOT A SPIRAL AND SOMEBODY IS ON THE CIRCLE, COMING THE OTHER WAY. WILLIAM ABBOTT, JR.’S, NEUROSIS, HERETOFORE UNRECOGNIZED BY SCIENCE.
IF I AM KILLED OR DIE IN A CURIOUS WAY, THE PERSON WHO WILL BE RESPONSIBLE IS A WOMAN WHO CALLED HERSELF MONIKA WOLNER WHEN SHE WORKED AT NATO AS AN INTERPRETER WHILE I WAS IN THE ARMY IN BRUSSELS, AND MONIKA HITZMAN WHEN I SAW HER LATER AT THE EL FARO CLUB NEAR MALAGA IN SPAIN. SHE WAS, AND I SUPPOSE STILL IS, A MEMBER OF A TERRORIST ORGANIZATION WHICH OPERATED AND PROBABLY STILL OPERATES ALL OVER EUROPE, WITH CONNECTIONS, PERHAPS, WITH SIMILAR ORGANIZATIONS IN AMERICA.
THE MAN WHO WAS FOUND DEAD AFTER ACCIDENTALLY BLOWING HIMSELF UP WHILE PLACING A BOMB IN MY CAR IN JUAN-LES-PINS, FRANCE, WAS A MAN KNOWN TO ME ONLY AS GEORGE AND WAS THE LEADER OF THE CELL TO WHICH MONIKA WOLNER-HITZMAN BELONGED. HE WAS AN EXPERT WITH SMALL ARMS AND UNTIL THE ACCIDENT WHICH CAUSED HIS DEATH, WAS CONSIDERED AN EXPERT IN THE MANUFACTURE OF EXPLOSIVE DEVICES.
I AM WRITING THIS IN THE CITY ROOM OF THE “CHICAGO TRIBUNE,” WHERE I HAVE BEEN EMPLOYED FOR THE LAST SIX MONTHS, AS A RESULT OF THE FRIENDSHIP OF MY FATHER WITH ONE OF THE EDITORS. MY FATHER WILL KNOW WHERE TO FIND THIS QUITE LENGTHY NOTEBOOK. ALONG WITH SOME BOOKS AND PAPERS AND OLD CLOTHES AND VARIOUS PIECES OF JUNK I HAVE ACCUMULATED IN MY TRAVELS, I KEEP MY NOTEBOOK IN A FOOTLOCKER IN THE BASEMENT OF HIS APARTMENT, AS THERE’S NO SPACE FOR IT IN MY TINY ROOM. HE KNOWS THAT IN THE FOOTLOCKER I HAVE SOME STUFF I’VE WRITTEN, BUT HE HASN’T READ ANY OF IT. I HAVE LED HIM TO BELIEVE THAT IT IS AN OUTLINE FOR THE NOVEL WHICH HE IS CONSTANTLY ENCOURAGING ME TO WRITE.
SINCE I LEFT CANNES, WHERE I UNDERWENT A QUITE RIGOROUS INTERROGATION BY THE FRENCH POLICE, WHO RIGHTLY SUSPECTED SOME SORT OF CONNECTION BETWEEN THE MAN I KNEW AS GEORGE AND MYSELF, BUT WHO COULD PROVE NOTHING, I HAVE NOT SEEN ANY MEMBERS OF MY FAMILY, MORE OUT OF FEAR OF WHAT COULD HAPPEN TO THEM IN MY COMPANY THAN ANY LACK OF AFFECTION. THE THOUGHT THAT JUST SOME TWENTY MINUTES AFTER THE BOMB WENT OFF I WAS TO LEND THE CAR TO MY MOTHER AND HER FRIEND FOR A LUNCHEON DATE HAUNTS ME, ALTHOUGH THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I HAVE BEEN ABLE TO BRING MYSELF TO WRITE ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED ON THE CÔTE D’AZUR.
Once again he stopped typing and remembered the hours with the two detectives who had interrogated him, first politely and sympathetically and then harshly and with open hostility. They had threatened to arrest him but he knew they were bluffing and had held out, saying over and over again, “I can only repeat, in answer to your questions, that I am here in Cannes only to see my mother’s movie and I never saw the man before and I have no enemies that I know of. I can only guess that the man made some sort of tragic mistake.”
Finally, they had broken off and let him go, with a last warning that the case was not closed and that there was an extradition treaty between France and the United States.
Rudolph had looked at him queerly, but that was to be expected, after the business with the gun and silencer.
“You’re a lucky man,” Rudolph had said at the airport the next day, just before he boarded the plane to New York. “Just keep it that way.”
“Never fear,” he had said.
Wesley, who was with them and who had lost his smile, shook his hand soberly, but had said nothing.
Gretchen had not been able to come. When she had heard about the bombing—there was no way of keeping it from her—she had collapsed and gone to bed. The doctor they had called for her had discovered that she had a raging fever, although he couldn’t diagnose her ailment. He had ordered her to stay in bed for at least five days.
When Billy had gone to her room to say good-bye to her he was shocked at her appearance. Her face was bluish-white and she had seemed to diminish in the space of a few hours and her voice was almost inaudible when she said, “Billy, please—for my sake—take care of yourself.”
“I will,” he said and leaned over and kissed the hot forehead as she lay propped up against the pillows of the bed.
Billy shook his head at the flood of memories, then started typing again.
IF I COULD HAVE TOLD THE WHOLE TRUTH TO THE COPS, THEY MIGHT HAVE GIVEN ME THE LEGION OF HONOR. AFTER ALL, I WAS INSTRUMENTAL IN BREAKING UP OR AT LEAST DEPLETING A GANG OF ASSASSINS THAT WAS TERRORIZING ALL EUROPE. OF COURSE I DID IT BY ACCIDENT, BUT ACCIDENTS COUNT, TOO, MAYBE MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE. THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE FAMILY IS ONE OF ACCIDENTS, GOOD AND BAD. MAYBE OF ALL FAMILIES.
DESPITE THE FACT THAT I SEEM TO BE AVOIDING ANY MEETINGS WITH MY RELATIVES, THEY WRITE ME OFTEN AND KEEP ME ABREAST OF THEIR AFFAIRS. I WRITE CHEERFUL AND CHATTY LETTERS IN RETURN, PRETENDING THAT MY FATHER IS SOBER MOST OF THE TIME AND THAT I AM DOING SPLENDIDLY ON THE PAPER. SINCE I COVER POLICE HEADQUARTERS AND SMALL CRIMES IN THE LOCAL COURTS, THIS IS HARDLY THE CASE. WHILE I DO NOT PRETEND TO MY FATHER THAT THE NOVEL I AM THEORETICALLY OUTLINING WILL BE ANOTHER “WAR AND PEACE” OR EVEN THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL, I CONFIDE TO HIM THAT I BELIEVE IT IS SHAPING UP TO MY SATISFACTION.
MY UNCLE RUDOLPH, WHO IS THE CEMENT, THE SAVIOUR, THE CONSCIENCE AND MINISTERING ANGEL OF THE FAMILY, EVEN THOUGH HE NOW, IN HIS ETERNAL SEARCH FOR GOOD DEEDS TO BE DONE, COMMUTES BETWEEN LONG ISLAND, CONNECTICUT, WASHINGTON AND THE CAPITALS OF EUROPE, FINDS TIME TO SEND OUT LONG LETTERS OF ADMONITION AND ADVICE, WHICH NONE OF US FOLLOW. HE IS THE MOST ARDENT OF LETTER WRITERS AND IT IS THROUGH HIM THAT I HEAR OF THE VARIOUS ACTIVITIES OF HIMSELF, MY MOTHER, WHO IS NOW MRS. DONNELLY, AND MY COUSIN WESLEY, WHO HAS REMAINED IN CANNES, HAVING FOUND HIMSELF A JOB AS A DECKHAND ON A YACHT. UNCLE RUDOLPH FINDS THE TIME TO VISIT WESLEY IN CANNES, IN CONNECTION WITH AN AFFAIR THAT …
He stopped typing, stood up and walked around the desk. Then he sat down again, stared at the sheet of paper in the machine and began to type again, more slowly than before.
EVEN NOW, I THINK IT WOULD BE WISER NOT TO GO INTO THE SUBJECT OF WESLEY’S OBSESSION. ALL OF US, MY MOTHER, MY UNCLE AND MYSELF, HAVE TRIED TO GET WESLEY AWAY FROM THE CÔTE D’AZUR. NONE OF US HAVE HAPPY MEMORIES OF THE PLACE, TO PUT IT MILDLY. EVEN THE FESTIVAL TURNED OUT TO BE A DISAPPOINTMENT. CONTRARY TO WHAT THE PUBLICITY MAN ON THE PICTURE PREDICTED, NOBODY WAS VOTED ANYTHING BY THE JURY AND IT’S LUCKY FOR MR. SIMPSON THAT NOBODY TOOK HIM UP ON THE BET OF HIS LEFT NUT THAT WESLEY WOULD GO HOME WITH A PRIZE. ACCORDING TO MY MOTHER, WHO IS ABOUT TO START SHOOTING HER SECOND PICTURE, WESLEY HAS REFUSED HER OFFER OF A PART, WITH A LOT OF MONEY ATTACHED TO IT, AS WELL AS OFFERS OF IMPORTANT ROLES BY OTHER COMPANIES. AS OF NOW, WESLEY IS UNDOUBTEDLY POTENTIALLY THE RICHEST DECKHAND ON THE MEDITERRANEAN. IN HIS LAST LETTER TO ME, WESLEY WROTE ME THAT WHEN HE GETS THROUGH WITH WHAT I STILL HAVE TO CALL HIS AFFAIR ON THE CÔTE, HE WILL DO ENOUGH WORK IN THE MOVIES TO SAVE UP FOR A BOAT AND SET HIMSELF UP, AS HIS FATHER DID, AS A CHARTER CAPTAIN. HE SOUNDS CHEERFUL ENOUGH IN HIS LETTERS, BUT HE MAY BE LYING, AS I DO, WHEN I WRITE TO THE FAMILY. STILL, HE’S GOT SOMETHING THAT I HAVEN’T GOT TO BE CHEERFUL ABOUT. AT EIGHTEEN HE CAME INTO ABOUT THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS MINUS A BIG BITE FOR THE TAX PEOPLE, AND HIS GIRL WANGLED HERSELF A JOB IN THE PARIS BUREAU OF “TIME” AND FLIES DOWN TO CANNES TO SEE HIM AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE. HE ALSO WRITES THAT HE GETS IN A LOT OF TENNIS, EXCEPT FOR THE SUMMER MONTHS, AND BELIEVES HE COULD SWAMP ME IF HE PLAYED ME NOW. I HAVEN’T TOUCHED A RACKET SINCE JUAN-LES-PINS.
THE POLICE NEVER DID FIND OUT WHAT GEORGE’S REAL NAME WAS OR WHERE HE CAME FROM. I CAN’T GET OVER THE FEELING THAT ONE DAY I WILL LOOK UP FROM MY DESK AND SEE MONIKA STANDING THERE. I DREAM ABOUT HER CONSTANTLY AND THE DREAMS ARE EROTIC AND HAPPY AND LEAVE ME DESPERATE WHEN I WAKE UP.
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Billy stopped typing, frowned. “Oh, hell,” he said aloud. He took the sheet of paper out of the machine and put it with the other two sheets of paper into a large envelope to take home with him. He stood up and put on his jacket and was about to leave when he glanced down and saw the bulky envelope his uncle had sent him from Cannes. Might as well, he thought. I’ll have to read it
sometime.
He tore open the envelope. There was a note clipped to a page of newsprint that had been folded many times. There was a second note clipped to the back of the newspaper page. “Read the item circled in red,” was written in his uncle’s handwriting, “and then read the note on the other side.”
Billy shook his head annoyedly. Games, he thought. It wasn’t like Rudolph. Curious, he sat down so that he could put the newspaper page under the light. At the top left-hand corner of the page MARSEILLES was printed in block letters and in smaller letters,
Page Deux.
The column headed
Faits Divers
was circled in red crayon.
Mort d’un Voyou,
he read, his French still serviceable. Then the story:
Last night, the body of a man, later identified by the police as that of Janos Danovic, a Yugoslav national, was found on a pier in the Vieux Port. He had been shot twice through the head. He was known to belong to the
milieu
along the Côte d’Azur and in Marseilles and was arrested several times for pimping and armed robbery, although he was never convicted of the crimes. Police believe that it was another incident in the settling of accounts that has been keeping them occupied in Marseilles in recent weeks.
Billy slowly put the paper down. Christ, he thought, Rudolph must be crazy to send something like this through the mails. If it had gone astray or if it had been opened accidentally, some curious bastard would have wondered why an adviser to an American senator would be interested in the murder of a small-time murderer in Marseilles, and started to make unpleasant inquiries. He was about to tear the page into small pieces when he remembered the note on the back.
He turned the page over and slipped the note out of the clip. “Look at the date on the newspaper,” his uncle had written. Billy looked at the top of the page. It was page one of
Le Meridional
and it was dated Samedi, 24 Octobre, 1970.
1970. Danovic had been dead over six months before Wesley had gone back to Europe. Billy leaned over his desk, his elbows on it, and put his head in his hands. He began to laugh. The laughter grew hysterical. When he finally could make himself stop, he picked up the phone and asked the night operator for Rhoda Flynn’s phone number. When she answered the phone, he said, “Hi, Rhoda, is the party still on?”
“If you can make it,” Rhoda said, “yes.”
“I’m on my way,” he said. “What’s the address?”
She told him the address and he said, “Ten minutes. Make me a stiff drink. I need it tonight.”
As he walked out of the Tribune Building and went along Michigan Avenue, looking for a taxicab, he had the feeling he was being followed. He turned around and looked, but there were just two couples half a block behind him.
Maybe, he thought, it would be a good idea if I asked Rudolph if he still has that gun. It might come in handy.
Then he saw a taxi and hailed it and got in and went to the party.
A Biography of Irwin Shaw
Irwin Shaw (1913–1984) was an award-winning American novelist, playwright, screenwriter, and short story writer. His novel
The Young Lions
(1948) is considered a classic of World War II fiction. From the early pages of the
New Yorker
to the bestseller lists, Shaw earned a reputation as a leading literary voice of his generation.