He was physically a large man, but there was a softness about him, the look of someone who has just stepped out of a hot bath. He was unnaturally pink, and his face with its pale intelligent eyes still carried, in some marks as subtle as the smell of white camellias, the signs of defeat. Alex Duval was a man of principle who had decided, a long time ago, that men of principle can never win. Yet he hoped and feared he was wrong. He voted for the Communist Party and rewrote his conference reports every Saturday morning. He ate cakes. Now and again he had an affair with a secretary. He no longer expected anything good to happen to him and sincerely hoped that the world would not be destroyed until after his death.
In spite of such pessimism, he derived real pleasure from the doughnut, which was perfectly oily, and the black coffee, which was very strong. He did not rush this second breakfast, but savoured each mouthful of it, and if he was impatient at all it was only to contrast the slightly bitter taste of the coffee with the sweet oiliness of the doughnut.
Before he began work on his conference reports he washed his big soft hands and carried a heavy black IBM electric typewriter from his secretary's desk to his own. Although she didn't know it he could type faster than she could: one hundred and thirty words per minute.
And so he began, his belly sagging over his trouser belt, the natural stoop of his shoulders inclining him towards the black machine, the high intelligent forehead marked with creases of concentration. The hands flew. An observer would never have remarked that this was a man involved with a tedious chore, but rather one in the throes of a sometimes difficult but often exciting creation. For as he wrote these conference reports Alex Duval emitted a strange series of little cries: an ejaculation of triumph, a snort of disgust, an attenuated giggle. He typed quickly, perfectly, in complete command of his mat-erial, using the fixed language of the conference report with consummate ease: Client requested that Agency should prepare such and such. Agency expressed the opinion that such and such. Agency warned client that this practice was unprincipled, that this promise should not be made, that this chemical was carcinogenic, that this product could cause liver damage.
He was not so mad as to not know he was mad. He knew, almost exactly, how mad he was. But he also allowed himself the 1 per cent chance that he was taking a useful precaution, and so his Saturday morning sessions had continued. Later, going down in the lift, he would feel the damp sour shame of a perversion finally practised, a lust satisfied. And in the street, walking amongst other men, be would feel at once self-hatred and a strange sense of superiority.
So when Harry Joy came to find out who were Actors and who were Captives on that Saturday morning, he came down the corridor walking softly on his sandshoes. He had adopted a white shirt and white trousers, and he walked loosely, not at all like someone come to spy. He heard the typing and imagined one of the copywriters. He followed the metallic clatter through the stale weekend air to Alex's office, where, standing at the doorway, he watched the process of creation.
Alex was chuckling. He kept typing with one hand while he reached for the coffee. Harry thought of Winifred Atwell playing 'Black and White Rag'.
Harry had left Lucy sobbing in her bedroom because he had remembered to treat her like an Actor. He could no longer act consistently – treating everyone as his mortal enemy one minute and then, totally forgetting where he was, as an old friend the next.
He hadn't seen Alex for three months and he smiled now, forgetting he had come to spy. He leant against the doorway and watched him work, giggling at his manic energy.
'Christ… Harry.' Alex rocked back and held his heart, dropped his head. 'Oh shit.'
He tried to cover the paper, to stand up, to shake Harry's hand. He was flustered and couldn't pay attention to what he was doing or saying.
'Harry, Harry.' He came and hugged him. Harry smelt the wet armpits around his ears, for Alex was a very tall man. 'Harry, Harry, we've missed you, Harry.' He started to lead Harry out of the office, away from the paper, out into the dull light of the corridor. 'Out here, where I can see you. Harry, you've lost weight. You look wonderful.'
Harry couldn't stop smiling. 'Thank you, Alex, it's good to see you.'
'Harry, Harry.' He put his big hands in his pockets and rocked to and fro on his creased old black shoes. 'The place hasn't been the same. It needs you Harry, you old bastard. Are you back?'
'Almost.'
'Harry, Harry, everyone will be so happy. You wait till you see them smiling. Nothing against Joel, but it's not the same. It isn't fun without you. What we miss, Harry, is your bleeding blind optimism.'
'Come and sit down, Alex.' Harry slipped into Alex's office before he could be stopped. He picked up the conference reports. Alex, flustering in behind him, tried to act as if they were nothing important, told himself to make no move towards them, to draw no attention to them. He was pleased to talk to Harry but he felt like a radio tuned to two stations at once.
'You look so well. You've lost your belly, you old bastard.'
'I've been walking.'
'And swimming. That tan makes you look ten years younger.'
'Sometimes I go to the beach with Lucy,' Harry flicked idly through the conference reports.
'So how is Lucy?'
'Mmm.'
'And Bettina?'
'Fucking hell, Alex, what's all this?'
'Nothing, Harry, just a joke.'
'
You
told them that saccharin causes cancer?
You
told them that, Alex?'
'It's a joke, Harry, that's all. I was just having fun.'
Harry sniffed. He could smell Alex's fear. He saw the big slumped sad man with his red shirt showing through his gardening sweater and saw him light one more Low Tar Cigarette. 'This isn't a joke, Alex. You're not doing this for a joke.' His eyes narrowed, wondering what category of torment was contained here. 'Tell me the truth, old mate,' he said, using his genuine affection as bait in the trap.
Alex sat down behind the desk and looked up at him.
'Oh Harry, you know me…' Alex felt as if someone had filleted his soul and thrown it on the desk. It was pale and slippery, a pitiful thing.
Harry was still reading through the conference reports with astonishment.
'Harry, it's not real. I didn't do it.'
'What happens when you send this out? We lose the busi-ness? Is that it?'
'No, no, Harry you don't understand. Here, take this key. Take it. It's the only one. You open that filing cabinet behind you. That's the key to it. Go on.' He waited while Harry did it. 'There are seven years of conference reports with stuff like that. They don't get sent out.'
'But why?'
'I guess I'm crazy.' He tried to smile, the smile of a fat schmuck who thinks he's a fat schmuck.
All Harry could see was his pain. It was almost a visible aura, a pale trembling force that burned around him. 'No,' he said, 'you're not crazy. You're frightened.'
'Harry, Harry, I'd rather you found me sucking cocks.'
'Alex, tell me...'
'How can I tell you, it's so crazy.'
'You've got to tell.'
'I can't damn tell you,' Alex thumped the desk and a tear ran down his shining face. 'I can't damn fucking tell you. It's ridiculous. It's my punishment, Harry, that's all.'
Harry sat down carefully on the edge of the desk 'Pun-ishment for what?' he said.
Alex was really crying now and Harry handed him a handkerchief impatiently.
'Punishment,' Alex said, 'for what we do here.'
'Ah.'
'You'd never understand. You're right. You're the normal one, Harry. I know you're right and I'm wrong, but I'm just crazy. It upsets me. I write… I write these conference reports for when they come to get me… to punish me.'
Harry felt cautious. He didn't move quickly. He accepted his wet handkerchief back and didn't say a thing. He was like man watching a splendid bird perform rare rituals in deepest forest.
Even when he spoke it was softly, and very carefully, as if the jab of a consonant or the scratch of a vowel might break the spell.
'Come on,' he whispered, 'let's go and get a drink'
He walked softly on his white sandshoes and Alex squeaked behind him carrying a box of Kleenex tissues. They went first to Harry's office, where they found ancient layouts stacked all over the desk The refrigerator was missing and two dirty glasses and a quarter of a bottle of campari were gathering dust in the once-generous bar.
'Joel's got the fridge.'
Harry nodded. 'Tell Tina to tidy this up and stock the bar.'
'Joel fired Tina.'
They went to Joel's office and found the refrigerator locked inside a newly built cupboard. It wasn't much of a lock. They broke it with a screwdriver and went back to Alex's office with a bottle of Scotch and a big bucket of ice.
Alex sat down in the chair behind the desk, and Harry lounged in the low guest's armchair. He crossed his legs and put the tumbler of Scotch on the arm of the chair. He looked like a man on holiday. He looked handsome.
'Tell me who is punishing you?' he said.
'Don't, Harry... please.'
Harry saw the humiliation in his eyes.
Alex stood up and shut the door, but when he sat down again he obviously didn't know how to start talking. 'I guess,' he said, and then stopped. 'I guess I'm just punishing myself.'
'I don't think you're crazy,' Harry said softly. 'I don't think you're punishing yourself.'
'Then you're crazy too,' Alex said sourly.
'No,' Harry said and narrowed his eyes.
'O.K., O.K., don't get mad.'
'Do you believe in Good and Bad?' Harry asked.
A slight hint of irritation showed itself on Alex Duval's face, and for a moment it was possible to see he was also an arrogant man. 'You know I do,' he said. He took out a cigar-ette, worried about it, and put it back in the packet.
'And you're being punished for being Bad?'
The simplicity of this made everything sound so childish that Alex Duval was almost angry. 'Yes,' he said. 'If you want to put it like that.'
'So,' Harry stood up. He was smiling. 'So we'll be good.'
'Oh Harry, that's very nice, but not very sensible.'
'Sensible?' Harry's eyebrows rose alarmingly. 'Sensible? How isn't it sensible? We'll be good.'
'We.'
'Both of us.'
Alex blinked. 'You'll be good?'
'Alex,' Harry sat down again, but he hunched over his legs and looked down at the floor, 'Alex I'm a bit crazy too. I think I'm in Hell.'
There was a silence.
'You're the first person I've told. I don't know who to trust. I've been trying to work out what to do.'
'You mean you know you're in Hell.'
'Yes,' Harry said.
'Oh Christ,' Harry.
'You think I'm crazy.' Harry stood up. He looked bereft. His face was suddenly very white.
'No,' Alex Duval said quietly. It did not for a second occur to him that Harry meant everything he said literally. He was distressed merely because Harry was the last person he had ever expected to reveal deep unhappiness.
'Since when?' he asked.
'Since,' Harry smiled encouragingly but his voice was choked off with emotion. 'Since I was in hospital.'
'Ah yes.' Alex remembered that it was at about this time that Joel and Bettina's affair became public knowledge.
'It's good to talk to you, Alex.'
'It's good to talk to you, Harry.'
The two men lapsed into an embarrassed silence. Alex Duval finally lit his cigarette and Harry ate the ice in the bottom of his glass.
'I have a theory,' Harry announced when he had finished the ice.
'Tell me.' Alex lit a cigarette.
'There are three sorts of people in Hell. Captives, like us. Actors. And Those in Charge. What do you think?'
'Who are the Actors?'
'Most of them. They work for Those in Charge.'
'To persecute the Captives?'
'Yes.'
'They're Actors; acting; not what they seem.'
'Mmmm. What do you think?'
'Brilliant,' said Alex Duval pouring himself another Scotch. 'Exactly right.' As he sipped the Scotch he wondered if he and Harry might finally end up being friends, real friends, after all these years. He liked Harry's theory. There was no room for optimism in it.
'Joel is an Actor?' he asked.
'Definitely.'
'And Bettina?'
'Yes.'
'We are Captives?'
'Yes.'
'Have some more Scotch, Harry.'
'Thank you, Alex. The question is,' Harry dropped a fist full of ice into his glass, 'the question is who are the Captives and how can they be freed?'
'Harry,' Alex said, 'it is good to see you. It is nice to talk to you. We haven't talked like this since the Old Days. Remem-ber how we used to sit around till all hours and talk?' Alex stuffed tobacco into his little bent pipe and lit it. When he had it glowing he leant back in his chair. 'You old bastard,' he said. 'It's so nice to talk to you.'
'Let me ask you a question,' Harry said. 'An opinion… '
'Yes,' Alex settled down comfortably.
'The relative merits of Goodness and Originality… what do you reckon?'
'Harry,' he shook his head, 'you're amazing. I don't believe it.'
The two men smiled at each other proudly.
'Originality, without Goodness,' Alex said at last, 'is nothing, of no worth.'
'That's what I was thinking,' Harry said. 'Originality, by itself, is nothing?'
'Not a pinch of shit.'
'But with Goodness?'
'Dynamite.'
'I think we should fire Krappe Chemicals,' Harry said.
'I think that's the place to start.'
'Yes… ' Alex said cautiously.
'How much are they billing?'
'Just under two million.'
Alex began to feel that there was something in the conver-sation he had not heard, as if he had dozed off and missed some vital piece of information. He sat for a while puffing on his pipe and looking at the hockey match in the park across the way. Harry fished a piece of ice out of the bucket and crunched it up.