Authors: Jerzy Kosinski
“My father was drowned, so to speak, by his love-making. My mother may have committed suicide. Death has an investment in Whalens—or is it the other way around?”
“Don’t be bitter, Jonathan. You were out of the country
for so long that we assumed you would find New York, as well as Pittsburgh, quite alien. Look what happened to you in Whalenburg. Even though the amount of your inheritance has never been made public, there is always the danger of someone going after you. We have very good reason to fear for your personal safety. Mind you, the company has absorbed the cost of this protection and will continue to absorb it.”
“You are wasting the company’s money,” said Whalen. “Are you also recording my conversations? Videotaping my girl friends? Giving me Nothing-but-the-Truth treatment?”
Macauley laughed loudly. “These days, even the New York tabloids report your adventures with your girl friends—and I compliment you on your taste. In any case, Jonathan, all we care about is you.”
Macauley opened a cabinet behind him, revealing a row of gold-topped crystal decanters. “A drink?” he offered. Whalen shook his head in refusal, and Macauley poured himself a tall Scotch. “If something should happen to you—and it could if you weren’t protected—it would affect us all. This company doesn’t like such risks.” He sipped his drink. “Not all the wars, the terrorists, and the violence are in other countries,” said Macauley. “America is no longer a safe country. Down there,” Macauley pointed toward the windows, “for a small fee, hoods are willing to bludgeon a man to death. There are unscrupulous women capable of blackmailing you, creating a scandal. Given who you are, Jonathan, you’re a perfect prey.”
“I don’t want your protection anymore. I’ll hire my own bodyguard to protect myself against anyone who violates my rights.”
Macauley stiffened. “As you wish, Jonathan. But if I, or this company, can be of any help, please let me know.”
“Thank you, I will.” Whalen got up.
Macauley escorted him to the door. “The Howmets are
eager to see you, Jonathan,” he said as he shook Whalen’s hand. “Have they managed to contact you yet?”
“Yes, I’m seeing them tomorrow,” said Whalen.
In the outer office a woman accosted him. Young and shapely in a waist-nipping dress, she would assuredly have gotten high tips from a stint with the 2001 Love Odyssey. She looked at him with the adulation usually reserved for TV idols. “Mr. Whalen? I’m Claudia Parker, Mr. Macauley’s secretary,” she breathed. “I’ve been assigned to assist you. How about starting with a guided tour of our offices?”
• • •
“To those of us who knew and loved her, your mother’s unwarranted death came as a terrible shock. Even though Walter and I were not so fortunate as to be among her intimate friends—she did not have many, you know—we’ll always remember”—Mrs. Howmet paused—“the twinkle in her eye, her quiet laughter, her refinement. Your mother, Jonathan, was so deep—so sincere! Whenever I was with her, she taught me to appreciate the finer things in life.” Mrs. Howmet sipped her tea and rang for a servant. “But let’s talk of the living: are you still with that beautiful model?” she asked, leaning toward him.
“Karen,” said Whalen, pouring himself more tea. “Yes, I am. From time to time, that is.”
Mrs. Howmet did not seem to register his remark. “Walter and I keep seeing her pictures in the magazines—a ravishing girl—but Jonathan, aren’t you somewhat uneasy about Karen’s occupation? Hardly a day passes without reports of some model dying from drug abuse, becoming an accomplice in a crime, or blackmailing a rich lover. Why, only yesterday the TV news reported that one of them
was shot to death by her jealous manager, who then took his own life. And your other friend—the one who ran off with you to London—isn’t she an actress? Modeling, acting—most unstable professions!”
“Mrs. Howmet—”
“Helen,” she beamed. “I held you when you were a baby. Just Helen.”
“Helen, actresses and fashion models are no less stable than corporate executives, most of whom, as you know, drink excessively and suffer from anxiety, insomnia, tension, hemorrhoids, ulcers, and sexual impotence.”
Hiding her discomfort, Mrs. Howmet stared at him without expression. Then, studying his face, she pleaded, “But I hope you don’t plan to marry Karen—at least not yet.”
“I don’t want to talk about my plans,” said Whalen abruptly. “Have you ever been to the Bowery?” he asked.
“The Bowery? Where is it?”
“In downtown New York. Not too far from Wall Street.”
“No, Jonathan. Suburbia has its rewards, and these days I seldom drive to the city.”
“Well, thousands of derelicts live in the slums of the Bowery. I thought that our company, which owns most of the Bowery real estate, might try to help them—maybe give them a decent place to live or build them a hospital or a drug rehabilitation center.”
A maid brought fresh tea. Mrs. Howmet was listening attentively to Whalen.
“Go on, Jonathan.”
“After all,” said Whalen, “these bums, these addicts, are part of our life. We could turn the Bowery into a halfway decent place for human beings.”
“But Jonathan, the company can’t arbitrarily interfere in other people’s lives,” said Mrs. Howmet. “Its aim has
never been to force others to do what they don’t want to do.”
“The Bowery derelicts don’t know what to do,” said Whalen. “They starve. They’re diseased. Their sores don’t heal anymore. In the Middle Ages they would have been given shelter. Today, day and night, they rot on the streets and eat out of garbage cans; they are run over by cars or beaten to death by hoods.”
“Have you thought of helping them out yourself?” said Mrs. Howmet.
“I have, but that would be just another one-time handout, while right now, even as we sit here and talk, the company’s own philanthropic foundation is spending millions of dollars sponsoring the American Soul Society, a bunch of psychic Svengalis who claim that they can provide scientific proof of the existence of the human soul—that they might even film or photograph it as it leaves the body—and the room—of a dying person!”
Mrs. Howmet leaned toward him again and gently touched his hand. “I haven’t seen you for many years, Jonathan, but I’ve always felt you were the child Walter and I never had, so I think I can be frank. You have traveled a lot, and owing to your own painful past you are easily influenced. The company your father founded now belongs to a great number of shareholders, decent men and women who have worked throughout their lives. We are all conscious of human misery, and it has always been the company’s policy, just as it was your father’s, to help those who want to help themselves. Providing indisputable evidence—such as photographs or film—of man’s immortal soul could be of vital interest to the entire human race. Giving money to a group of hopeless derelicts benefits no one, not even the derelicts themselves. With or without money, they’ll go on satisfying their diseased appetites, drinking, taking dope, and stealing.”
“But many of those derelicts want to work, to be useful,” Whalen insisted. “Whenever a car stops for a red light in the Bowery, they stagger over to wipe off a windshield or to clean the side mirror. . . . If Walter and I could convince the board that because the company owns much of the Bowery real estate it is also responsible for what happens there—”
“You’re talking like a character in a musical comedy, Jonathan. What would your father have said to all this?” Her voice became somber. “Don’t even discuss it with Walter; he says that welfare has been our illfare, the curse of this country, that most of our federal budget goes to loafers and freeloaders and unwed mothers—”
“Walter is wrong,” interrupted Jonathan. “Forty percent of the budget goes to the military, only two percent to welfare. Of the people on welfare, over half are children, a fourth are old-age recipients, and a fifth are mothers, not to mention the blind and the totally disabled.”
Mrs. Howmet eyed him with deliberation. “Don’t you think the company would have taken care of those derelicts ages ago if it were the right thing to do? But to take care of them would be to reward vice, to subsidize moral decay and corruption. It’s not right, Jonathan, not right at all!”
Whalen got up, and Helen Howmet, putting her hand on his arm, walked him around the room. Her voice was almost a whisper now. “Walter wants to talk to you about joining the Masonic Order he belongs to. Your father belonged to it too. Walter will tell you everything you need to know. All I want to say is that it is important for you to join—important for the Order, for you, for all of us.” She paused and smiled. “Oh, yes, a minor point. I think you ought to get a good haircut and some nice-fitting clothes. After all, you’re settled now.” She stopped and listened to a sound coming from outside. “That must be Walter now. He’s very anxious to talk to you.”
• • •
After the fitting, my tailor began talking about the movie and TV stars he’d dressed. His staff had gone home, and we were alone in his shop. He brought in some additional fabric samples, and then he suggested that the two of us watch an all-male porno film. I agreed. For some reason the film was upside down, and he said he didn’t dare to rewind it for fear of damaging it, so we sat there watching an upside-down stag movie. Then he propositioned me. I turned him down, not only because I knew he was a phony who would probably jerk himself off and then lie to his customers about how good I was in bed, but because what upsets me about fags is their affectations, their exaggerated preoccupation with looks and manners, or the fact their need for love is narrowed down to elemental sex, its incompleteness camouflaged by theatrics. Mumbling some story about another appointment, I said I had to leave. The tailor didn’t argue, and while he finished writing up my measurements he joked and gossiped about sleeping with some of the most prominent businessmen in town.
• • •
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Whalen, because I’ve heard so much about your family. As you can tell from my job application, I’ve been a professional bodyguard for fifteen years, ever since, at the age of twenty-two, I quit Stunts Unlimited in Hollywood. I’ve worked for businessmen, movie stars, television people, politicians,
and foreign leaders living here in exile. What my application won’t tell you, Mr. Whalen, is that I’ve saved the lives of several of my clients, and many have thanked me for it in writing. But to tell the truth, in two instances, I failed. One of my clients, as we worked our way through an all-blacktie crowd at the opening of a London play, was given a deadly chemical by a quick fine-needle injection right through his clothes. He slid to the floor twitching and shaking, and when he expired a few hours later everyone, including myself, thought he had had a heart attack. An autopsy revealed the true cause of death—but we still don’t know who injected him.
“The other client and I were walking from his Houston office to his car, which was parked at the curb in front of the building. When I saw him fall dead, blood gushing from his chest, I assumed that his killer had fired a high-powered telescopic rifle from one of the windows or the roof of the office building across the street, and that’s where I told the police to look for clues. When they found none, I began to suspect I’d given them a wrong lead. The killer was a good shot, no doubt about it, but I’m sure now that he fired an ordinary—maybe not even telescopic—rifle right up close to us. Where was he? I’ve figured it out. As my client and I were about to step out from the office building, I left first and looked around. When I saw no one near us on the sidewalk, no one suspicious across the street, and the traffic moving along smoothly and quite fast, I gave my client a signal that all was clear. We both ran for the car, but midway my client fell. Now, the only way my client could have been hit was if the killer was inside the closed trunk of a car, aiming and firing through a hole large enough to accommodate the barrel of his rifle and its silencer.
“In this business, Mr. Whalen, you can’t trust anyone, not even yourself. Let me give you an example: my own case. Recently I was unemployed and free to please no one
but myself. One afternoon I spotted this great-looking girl and followed her from Tiffany’s to Carnegie Hall. I politely introduced myself and told her that I felt lonely and unwanted. When I offered to treat her to a drink, a dinner, a show, or all three, she agreed. She was about twenty, a Persian, studying languages here. We had a good evening on the town. Bright like a firebug, she was a pleasure to watch and to listen to. I tell you, Mr. Whalen, I could have fallen in love with her easily.
“Next day she came to my apartment for dinner; afterward, I planned to drive her to my rented beach shack on Long Island, where we could spend the weekend. We were in the middle of dinner when I got a phone call from a former client who wanted to talk to me about some unfinished business. I had to leave the girl, but I asked her to wait there for me—to read a book, watch TV, or do what she pleased.
“Two hours later, I hurried home and she was gone; she left me a nasty note accusing me of leaving her for a quickie with another woman. Upset, I drove to the beach anyhow, vowing not to call her anymore.
“But I liked her, so I changed my mind, and as if nothing had happened between us, I telephoned her. She sounded friendly, as though she had forgotten the incident, and she agreed to have another dinner with me.
She came on time, looking terrific, ready for the evening. This time, to give me more time to entertain her, I had one of the better restaurants deliver a fancy dinner to my apartment. During the meal, after a few glasses of good wine, she was a bit giggly, and as I watched her I got a bit overexcited myself. When she stood up after dinner, perfect in a well-fitting dress, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I put my hands over her ass. Well, that sobered her up. She slapped me and pushed me away—too hard, I must say, for my taste. I pulled back, saying nothing, and I picked up
a big Carnal Classified, a photographic listing of provocatively posed female and male models, nightclub escorts, masseuses and masseurs, and just plain any-sex whores—all available for hire. Whenever a client of mine has asked me to provide a girl or boy for him to go out with, I’ve used Carnal Classified—as a sex-stunt casting directory, you might say. And since I’ve had to accompany the client on his date anyhow, I’ve often taken it upon myself to recommend someone I have already checked out. In any case, I threw the book in the face of my empress, then grabbed her by the neck and forced her nose into the pictures of all those whores. ‘What makes you think, cunt, that you’re better than any of these cocksucking alley cats?’ I asked her. I was about to give her more of a hard time, maybe even hit her, but as I said, I liked the kid, and so I did nothing.