Authors: Barbara Kingsolver
“So you would think. But this guy Matus has acquired for himself a certain cachet. He used to be a member of the Communist Party. Twenty years ago, when everybody including your Aunt Frances was a member of the Communist Party. Now he comes to the FBI, of
fers to come clean. Before you know it they’ve got him in front of the HUAC, the whole works. So far he’s remembered hundreds of former associates who now work in government and the media, and for an additional fee he will remember more. Amazing, his memory. The
New York Times
is a major employer of Communists, he says.
Time
and
Life
also. This guy is a star.”
“And runs his own business on the side.”
“An entrepreneur.”
“Nobody could take this seriously.”
The girl was still watching us. Down at the opposite end, leaning backward against the bar, fiddling with the cameo on a ribbon around her neck.
Artie sighed. “I have a client. A former president of a prestigious southern college. Served on the War Labor Board. Currently president of the Southern Human Welfare Conference. A very celebrated guy, consulting fees and public speaking provide most of his income. Suddenly, he has no income. He has protestors. This antisegregation outfit over which he presides has turned up on the attorney general’s list, one of these ninety so-called Communist front organizations.”
“On whose authority? Loren Matus?”
“The HUAC in its infinite wisdom has devised what they call an acid test for revealing an organization’s true colors. You want to hear their criteria? Any one of the following is sufficient. Number one: it shows unswerving loyalty to the Soviet Union. Or, two: it has refused to condemn the Soviet Union. Or three: it has gained accolades from the Communist press. Or four: it has displayed an anti-American bias, despite professions of love for America.”
“So. If you love America, but you hate the segregation laws…”
“Yes. That could arguably be an anti-American bias. Let me ask a rhetorical question. Has the American Poodle Society explicitly condemned the Soviet Union?” He signaled to the waitress, and she came immediately, as if pulled on a string. Refilled our glasses, her eyes carefully down. Then the quick smile, a flash of strong teeth
with a tiny center gap. Away she went, after that, unspooling the tether.
“Let me ask you something,” Artie said. “A personal question, if I may. When you look at a beautiful girl, do you see beauty?”
“A fair question. When you look at a great painting, do you see beauty? You see color and form, right? Loveliness, allure, magnificence. Maybe even arousal. So tell me, Artie. Do you want to have sex with the painting?”
“I’m sorry, my interest is not prurient. I’m just a curious man. Curiosity killed the cat, my wife used to tell me very often.”
“Anyway, this letter. You’re advising me to ignore it?”
“I am advising you,” he said slowly, “that you are being approached by a snake. You could attempt to reason with the snake, or you could offer it a cash contribution. Most likely the snake is still going to bite.”
Grant’s twelve-year-old whisky is a potent anesthetic. “Luckily enough, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not looking for a job right now. I have the only job I ever wanted.”
“Luckily enough. You are a writer, employed by the American imagination. Your publisher does not have to answer to any sponsors, only to your readers.”
“
Employed by the American imagination
. I like that very much.”
“Are they really reading you in China?”
“Goodness, no. Not even in France. Some reviewer said, ‘Don’t be surprised if this book shows up in China.’ Something like that. They also said I was Chaplinesque.”
“Well, many artists are not so lucky as yourself. Mr. Chaplin among them. Film stars, directors, television scriptwriters. They all have to be produced, they require sponsors. It’s becoming a lucrative industry for the likes of Aware Incorporated.”
Suddenly the girl was back, unsummoned. “You’re the writer, aren’t you? I’m crazy about your books.”
“What writer?”
“Harrison Shepherd?”
“That’s so strange. You’re the second person to ask me that.”
“Oh. Sorry, my mistake.” She floated away, an unmoored skiff, and disappeared through a door at the back.
Artie reorganized his sigmoidal curve against the bar, the better to stare at his dimwit companion. “What’s wrong with you? She’s a sugar pie.”
“I know it. I’m grateful. To all these girls, I really am.”
“So, you could sign a damn cocktail napkin. It would have made her day.”
“That’s what I can’t see, Artie. What thrilled her was a book—she wants a hero. Not some tin whistle double-gaiter on a barstool.”
“So. In a pinch, you stand in.”
“Do you know how that feels to me, to pass myself off as important? Exactly like passing counterfeit money. Look at her, she’s magnificent. My name, some ink on a napkin. How could that be worth the gold-brick standard of her day?”
Artie swiveled back to face the bar, fished a pack of Old Golds out of his pocket.
“So. Matus the snake has contacted me because a motion-picture option got his attention. That’s what you think?”
“You know what they say. God wants to punish you, he answers your prayers.”
“Artie, I didn’t pray for a motion picture. It makes me uneasy. I don’t like attention.”
“You have a funny way of choosing your profession, in that case.”
“People think that. If a person is famous, he must have wanted to be in the public eye. But to me, writing books is a way to earn a living in my pajamas.”
Artie nodded thoughtfully. “I take your point. People think lawyers are a cutthroat gang, and me, I couldn’t cut the throat of a fish. Margaret says I should take up fishing. And I think, an old softie like me? What would I do if I caught one? Apologize?”
October 3
Two airplane tickets purchased, air-coach to Mexico and back, at a cost of $191 each. A breathtaking sum, but all in the line of duty; Arthur Gold says it can be worked out for some reduction in the tax later on. He is helping Mrs. Brown with the passport applications. Apartment queries sent to Mérida, and fair warning to Frida, expect a visit, though Diego is sure to be out of the country. Romulus will feed the cats and mind the house, eight weeks, I will have to remember to bring back a smashing present.
Mrs. Brown stands at the ready, her suitcase already packed, though the trip is six weeks away. No price is too high for this joy. Her thrill for adventure is a thing I dearly wish I could learn by example. She makes me wish for the boy who once could swim miles underwater, looking for treasure.
Today I teased her, asking whether I needed to look out for any fellow who might be angry with me for taking her off this way. She blinked, taken aback.
“Well, it’s not out of the question,” I said. “I’m aware that you’re an attractive woman. And I’ve noticed you’re sprucing up, of late.”
She honestly blushed. No-nonsense Mrs. Brown. She said not to worry myself, if any man she cared for took an interest, I would be first to know it.
The New York Times,
October 23, 1947
79 in Hollywood Found Subversive, Inquiry Head Says
Evidence of Communist Spying Will Be Offered Next Week, Thomas Declares
By Samuel A. Tower, special to the
New York Times
WASHINGTON, OCT. 22—Actors, writers and others in Hollywood were named today as members of the Communist party or as Communist sympathizers. The accusations were by Robert Taylor, screen actor, and by other movie figures as the inquiry of the House Committee on Un-American Activities into the extent of Communist penetration into the film industry went into its third day.
At the same time the movie industry, reacting to a persistent committee criticism that no anti-Communist pictures were being made, charged through its counsel, Paul V. McNutt, that suggestions concerning films to be made represented “one method of censorship” and did “violence to the principle of free speech.”
The committee chairman, Rep. J. Parnell Thomas, asserted that the committee would produce at coming sessions evidence that “at least 79” persons in Hollywood had been engaged in subversive activity. After a noon executive session the committee announced that it would present next week evidence of Communist espionage activities, with a surprise witness, in developing further testimony that confidential data on an Army supersonic plane had fallen into Communist hands through a Hollywood literary agent.
Mr. Taylor, arriving to appear at the afternoon session, was greeted with an audible “ah” by the spectators, mostly women, who filled the hearing chamber. Outside the chamber there was a mob scene as those unable to get in swirled and pushed against Capitol police. In his testimony he declared at one point, “I personally believe the Communist party should be outlawed. If I had my way they’d all be sent back to Russia.” When this drew loud applause from the audience, Chairman Thomas reprimanded the spectators and requested no further demonstrations.
Mr. Taylor asserted that there had been “more indications” of Communist activity in Hollywood in the past four or five years, but guarded and qualified his testimony when committee interrogators sought specific data on activities and individuals. He testified that, as a member of the Screen Actors
Guild, he had come to believe that there were actors and actresses “who, if not Communists, are working awfully hard to be so” and whose philosophy and tactics seemed closely akin to the Communist party line. This group constituted what he called “a disrupting influence.” The handsome actor declared that the film, “Song of Russia,” was, in his view, Communist propaganda and that he had objected “strenuously” to playing in it. He added, however, that the industry at that time was producing a number of movies designed to strengthen the feeling of the American people toward Russia. Mr. Taylor asserted that he had not knowingly worked with a Communist and would not do so. After twenty-five minutes on the stand the handsome star made his departure, accompanied by applause and shouts of “Hurray for Robert Taylor” from a middle-aged woman wearing a red hat.
Members of the Committee asked M-G-M executive James K. McGuinness, who is in charge of scripts for the studio: Has the industry the will to make anti-Communist movies? Why haven’t they been made? Why couldn’t the studios produce such films and circulate them through schools, like the patriotic wartime pictures?
Representative Emanuel Celler, D. NY, attacked the inquiry as an act to make “all true Americans blush with shame.” “If Chairman Thomas sought to strike terror into the minds of the movie magnates, he succeeded. They were white-livered. One vital aspect of these antics must be kept in mind. Today it is the motion pictures. Tomorrow it may be the newspapers or the radio. The threat to civil liberties is a real one.”
October 31
I have learned from experience, make the cookies early. Children will come to the door dressed as hobgoblins. When the doorbell rang just after four o’clock, Mrs. Brown carried the plate to the door. But it was a man, clearly audible. I was in the kitchen mopping up after the afternoon’s baking. Flour covered everything like an early frost.
“No, he can’t,” she said, in a strained voice. “Mr. Shepherd is indisposed.” Her instincts for protecting her boss are unflappable.
“Are you the lady of the house?”
“I’m the stenographer.”
The badge startled her, and she can’t remember the name. FBI, that much she remembers. He’d come to ask Mr. Shepherd a few questions, but as he was unavailable, Mrs. Brown was duty-bound to answer them herself, insofar as she was able.
After it was all over and he left, she came in the dining room and put her head down on the table. I made a pot of coffee. Then, together, we remembered and wrote it down. To show Artie later.
“How long has he lived in this house?”
(She guessed about five years)
“No,” the man said. “Mr. Shepherd purchased this house October of 1943.”
“Then, my stars, why ask?”
“Has he got a mortgage?”
“If a person has a house he has got a mortgage. Evidently you have the details.”
“Where did he live before?”
“He let a room from Marian Bittle at her boarding house on the Black Mountain Highway. What they call the Tunnel Road.”
“And before he came to Asheville?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t think I can answer any more questions.”
“Well, you’ll have to try. Executive Order 9835.”
“What’s that?”
“It means you have to try. If the FBI is asking, you answer. Where did he get that car? That’s a pretty pricey car. Or was, in its day.”
“I believe the car belonged to his deceased father.”
“I noticed an empty Remy bottle in the trash. Is Mr. Shepherd a drinker?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I think we’re finished. Mr. Shepherd’s lawyer might be the one to take this farther, if needs be.”
“Look, lady, don’t get sore. An investigation doesn’t necessarily mean he’s under suspicion. We’re conducting a field investigation.”
“Of what?”
“Just the usual.”
“You can’t tell me what it is you think Mr. Shepherd has done?”
“No, ma’am, we cannot.”
“But if he were here, you could tell him.”
“No, ma’am, we cannot tell the accused this kind of thing, for security considerations. Do you happen to know his income?”
“For goodness’ sake. He’s a writer. He couldn’t say himself what it’s going to be, month to month. Do you know what books people will buy next year?”
“Does he attend any meetings?”
“No.”
“Well, the neighbors said he does. They see him take the Haywood bus every Thursday. But on other days, only to the market or the newsstand.”
“Mr. Shepherd goes to the library on Thursdays.”
“Why so regular?”
“He finds it comforting to keep regular habits.”
“Ma’am, do you know what magazines he reads?”