Authors: Graham Greene
‘Who was Cetewayo?’
‘He was king of the Zulus.’
‘What else do you pray?’
‘Well, of course, lately I’ve been concentrating on the horse.’
He kissed her good night. She asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘There are things I’ve got to arrange about the horse.’
‘I give you a lot of trouble,’ she said meaninglessly. Then she sighed with content, pulling the sheet up to her neck. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it, how you always get what you pray for.’
CHAPTER 4
1
AT EVERY CORNER
there were men who called ‘Taxi’ at him as though he were a stranger, and all down the Paseo, at intervals of a few yards the pimps accosted him automatically without any real hope. ‘Can I be of service, sir?’ ‘I know all the pretty girls.’ ‘You desire a beautiful woman.’ ‘Postcards?’ ‘You want to see a dirty movie?’ They had been mere children when he first came to Havana, they had watched his car for a nickel, and though they had aged alongside him they had never got used to him. In their eyes he never became a resident; he remained a permanent tourist, and so they went pegging along – sooner or later, like all the others, they were certain that he would want to see Superman performing at the San Francisco brothel. At least, like the clown, they had the comfort of not learning from experience.
By the corner of Virdudes Dr Hasselbacher hailed him from the Wonder Bar. ‘Mr Wormold, where are you off to in such a hurry?’
‘An appointment.’
‘There is always time for a Scotch.’ It was obvious from the way he pronounced Scotch that Dr Hasselbacher had already had time for a great many.
‘I’m late as it is.’
‘There’s no such thing as late in this city, Mr Wormold. And I have a present for you.’
Wormold turned in to the bar from the Paseo. He smiled
unhappily
at one of his own thoughts. ‘Are your sympathies with the East or the West, Hasselbacher?’
‘East or West of what? Oh, you mean
that
. A plague on both.’
‘What present have you got for me?’
‘I asked one of my patients to bring them from Miami,’ Hasselbacher said. He took from his pocket two miniature bottles of whisky: one was Lord Calvert, the other Old Taylor. ‘Have you got them?’ he asked with anxiety.
‘I’ve got the Calvert, but not the Taylor. It was kind of you to remember my collection, Hasselbacher.’ It always seemed strange to Wormold that he continued to exist for others when he was not there.
‘How many have you got now?’
‘A hundred with the Bourbon and the Irish. Seventy-six Scotch.’
‘When are you going to drink them?’
‘Perhaps when they reach two hundred.’
‘Do you know what I’d do with them if I were you?’ Hasselbacher said. ‘Play checkers. When you take a piece you drink it.’
‘That’s quite an idea.’
‘A natural handicap,’ Hasselbacher said. ‘That’s the beauty of it. The better player has to drink more. Think of the finesse. Have another Scotch.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
‘I need your help. I was stung by a wasp this morning.’
‘You are the doctor, not me.’
‘That’s not the point. One hour later, going out on a sick call beyond the airport, I ran over a chicken.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘Mr Wormold, Mr Wormold, your thoughts are far away. Come back to earth. We have to find a lottery-ticket at once, before the draw. Twenty-seven means a wasp. Thirty-seven a chicken.’
‘But I have an appointment.’
‘Appointments can wait. Drink down that Scotch. We’ve got to
hunt
for the ticket in the market.’ Wormold followed him to his car. Like Milly, Dr Hasselbacher had faith. He was controlled by numbers as she was by saints.
All round the market hung the important numbers in blue and red. What were called the ugly numbers lay under the counter; they were left for the small fry and the street sellers to dispose of. They were without importance, they contained no significant figure, no number that represented a nun or a cat, a wasp or a chicken. ‘Look. There’s 2 7 4 8 3,’ Wormold pointed out.
‘A wasp is no good without a chicken,’ said Dr Hasselbacher.
They parked the car and walked. There were no pimps around this market; the lottery was a serious trade uncorrupted by tourists. Once a week the numbers were distributed by a government department, and a politician would be allotted tickets according to the value of his support. He paid $18 a ticket to the department and he resold to the big merchants for $21. Even if his share were a mere twenty tickets he could depend on a profit of sixty dollars a week. A beautiful number containing omens of a popular kind could be sold by the merchants for anything up to thirty dollars. No such profits, of course, were possible for the little man in the street. With only ugly numbers, for which he had paid as much as twenty-three dollars, he really had to work for a living. He would divide a ticket up into a hundred parts at twenty-five cents a part; he would haunt car parks until he found a car with the same number as one of his tickets (no owner could resist a coincidence like that); he would even search for his numbers in the telephone-book and risk a nickel on a call. ‘Senora, I have a lottery-ticket for sale which is the same number as your telephone.’
Wormold said, ‘Look, there’s a 37 with a 72.’
‘Not good enough,’ Dr Hasselbacher flatly replied.
Dr Hasselbacher thumbed through the sheets of numbers which were not considered beautiful enough to be displayed. One never knew; beauty was not beauty to all men – there might be some to whom a wasp was insignificant. A police siren came shrieking
through
the dark round three sides of the market, a car rocked by. A man sat on the kerb with a single number displayed on his shirt like a convict. He said, ‘The Red Vulture.’
‘Who’s the Red Vulture?’
‘Captain Segura, of course,’ Dr Hasselbacher said. ‘What a sheltered life you lead.’
‘Why do they call him that?’
‘He specializes in torture and mutilation.’
‘Torture?’
‘There’s nothing here,’ Dr Hasselbacher said. ‘We’d better try Obispo.’
‘Why not wait till the morning?’
‘Last day before the draw. Besides, what kind of cold blood runs in your veins, Mr Wormold? When fate gives you a lead like this one – a wasp and a chicken – you have to follow it without delay. One must deserve one’s good fortune.’
They climbed back into the car and made for Obispo. ‘This Captain Segura’ – Wormold began.
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
It was eleven o’clock before they found a ticket that satisfied Dr Hasselbacher’s requirements, and then as the shop which displayed it was closed until the morning there was nothing to do but have another drink. ‘Where is your appointment?’
Wormold said, ‘The Seville-Biltmore.’
‘One place is as good as another,’ Dr Hasselbacher said.
‘Don’t you think the Wonder Bar …?’
‘No, no. A change will be good. When you feel unable to change your bar you have become old.’
They groped their way through the darkness of the Seville-Biltmore bar. They were only dimly aware of their fellow-guests, who sat crouched in silence and shadow like parachutists gloomily waiting the signal to leap. Only the high proof of Dr Hasselbacher’s spirits could not be quenched.
‘You haven’t won yet,’ Wormold whispered, trying to check
him,
but even a whisper caused a reproachful head to turn towards them in the darkness.
‘Tonight I have won,’ Dr Hasselbacher said in a loud firm voice. ‘Tomorrow I may have lost, but nothing can rob me of my victory tonight. A hundred and forty thousand dollars, Mr Wormold. It is a pity that I am too old for women – I could have made a beautiful woman very happy with a necklace of rubies. Now I am at a loss. How shall I spend my money, Mr Wormold? Endow a hospital?’
‘Pardon me,’ a voice whispered out of the shadows, ‘has this guy really won a hundred and forty thousand bucks?’
‘Yes, sir, I have won them,’ Dr Hasselbacher said firmly before Wormold could reply, ‘I have won them as certainly as you exist, my almost unseen friend. You would not exist if I didn’t believe you existed, nor would those dollars. I believe, therefore you are.’
‘What do you mean I wouldn’t exist?’
‘You exist only in my thoughts, my friend. If I left this room …’
‘You’re nuts.’
‘Prove you exist, then.’
‘What do you mean, prove? Of course I exist. I’ve got a first-class business in real estate: a wife and a couple of kids in Miami: I flew here this morning by Delta: I’m drinking this Scotch, aren’t I?’ The voice contained a hint of tears.
‘Poor fellow,’ Dr Hasselbacher said, ‘you deserve a more imaginative creator than I have been. Why didn’t I do better for you than Miami and real estate? Something of imagination. A name to be remembered.’
‘What’s wrong with my name?’
The parachutists at both ends of the bar were tense with disapproval; one shouldn’t show nerves before the jump.
‘Nothing that I cannot remedy by taking a little thought.’
‘You ask anyone in Miami about Harry Morgan …’
‘I really should have done better than that. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ Dr Hasselbacher said, ‘I’ll go out of the bar for a minute and eliminate you. Then I’ll come back with an improved version.’
‘What do you mean, an improved version?’
‘Now if my friend, Mr Wormold here, had invented you, you would have been a happier man. He would have given you an Oxford education, a name like Pennyfeather …’
‘What do you mean, Pennyfeather? You’ve been drinking.’
‘Of course I’ve been drinking. Drink blurs the imagination. That’s why I thought you up in so banal a way: Miami and real estate, flying Delta. Pennyfeather would have come from Europe by K.L.M., he would be drinking his national drink, a pink gin.’
‘I’m drinking Scotch and I like it.’
‘You think you’re drinking Scotch. Or rather, to be accurate, I have imagined you drinking Scotch. But we’re going to change all that,’ Dr Hasselbacher said cheerily. ‘I’ll just go out in the hall for a minute and think up some real improvements.’
‘You can’t monkey around with me,’ the man said with anxiety.
Dr Hasselbacher drained his drink, laid a dollar on the bar, and rose with uncertain dignity. ‘You’ll thank me for this,’ he said. ‘What shall it be? Trust me and Mr Wormold here. A painter, a poet – or would you prefer a life of adventure, a gunrunner, a Secret Service agent?’
He bowed from the doorway to the agitated shadow. ‘I apologize for the real estate.’
The voice said nervously, seeking reassurance, ‘He’s drunk or nuts,’ but the parachutists made no reply.
Wormold said, ‘Well, I’ll be saying good night, Hasselbacher. I’m late.’
‘The least I can do, Mr Wormold, is to accompany you and explain how I came to delay you. I’m sure when I tell your friend of my good fortune he will understand.’
‘It’s not necessary. It’s really not necessary,’ Wormold said. Hawthorne, he knew, would jump to conclusions. A reasonable Hawthorne, if such existed, was bad enough, but a suspicious Hawthorne … His mind boggled at the thought.
He made towards the lift with Dr Hasselbacher trailing behind.
Ignoring
a red signal light and a warning Mind the Step, Dr Hasselbacher stumbled. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘my ankle.’
‘Go home, Hasselbacher,’ Wormold said with desperation. He stepped into the lift, but Dr Hasselbacher, putting on a turn of speed, entered too. He said, ‘There’s no pain that money won’t cure. It’s a long time since I’ve had such a good evening.’
‘Sixth floor,’ Wormold said. ‘I want to be alone, Hasselbacher.’
‘Why? Excuse me. I have the hiccups.’
‘This is a private meeting.’
‘A lovely woman, Mr Wormold? You shall have some of my winnings to help you stoop to folly.’
‘Of course it isn’t a woman. It’s business, that’s all.’
‘Private business?’
‘I told you so.’
‘What can be so private about a vacuum cleaner, Mr Wormold?’
‘A new agency,’ Wormold said, and the liftman announced, ‘Sixth floor.’
Wormold was a length ahead and his brain was clearer than Hasselbacher’s. The rooms were built as prison-cells round a rectangular balcony; on the ground floor two bald heads gleamed upwards like traffic globes. He limped to the corner of the balcony where the stairs were, and Dr Hasselbacher limped after him but Wormold was practised in limping. ‘Mr Wormold,’ Dr Hasselbacher called, ‘Mr Wormold, I’d be happy to invest a hundred thousand of my dollars …’
Wormold got to the bottom of the stairs while Dr Hasselbacher was still manoeuvring the first step; 501 was close by. He unlocked the door. A small table-lamp showed him an empty sitting-room. He closed the door very softly – Dr Hasselbacher had not yet reached the bottom of the stairs. He stood listening and heard Dr Hasselbacher’s hop, skip and hiccup pass the door and recede. Wormold thought, I feel like a spy, I behave like a spy. This is absurd. What am I going to say to Hasselbacher in the morning?
The bedroom door was closed and he began to move towards it. Then he stopped. Let sleeping dogs lie. If Hawthorne wanted him,
let
Hawthorne find him without his stir, but a curiosity about Hawthorne induced him to make a parting examination of the room.
On the writing desk were two books – identical copies of Lamb’s
Tales from Shakespeare
. A memo pad – on which perhaps Hawthorne had made notes for their meeting – read, ‘1. Salary. 2. Expenses. 3. Transmission. 4. Charles Lamb. 5. Ink.’ He was just about to open the Lamb when a voice said, ‘Put up your hands.
Arriba los manos
.’
‘
Las manos
,’ Wormold corrected him. He was relieved to see that it was Hawthorne.
‘Oh, it’s only you,’ Hawthorne said.
‘I’m a bit late. I’m sorry. I was out with Hasselbacher.’
Hawthorne was wearing mauve silk pyjamas with a monogram H.R.H. on the pocket. This gave him a royal air. He said, ‘I fell asleep and then I heard you moving around.’ It was as though he had been caught without his slang; he hadn’t yet had time to put it on with his clothes. He said, ‘You’ve moved the Lamb,’ accusingly as though he were in charge of a Salvation Army chapel.