The Loves of Harry Dancer (15 page)

His fingertips glide over her back. Feathers. She shivers.

“I don’t think I could do that,” she says.

“Why not?”

“A small matter of morality.”

“Morality?” he says. Fierce grin. “What’s that? If you’re not hurting anyone, where’s the harm?”

She doesn’t know the answer.

“Well,” he says, “you think about it. I don’t get to bed until two in the morning, so you won’t be disturbing me.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says. Feeling his hard fingers caressing.

“You’re obviously not wearing a bra, are you?”

“Obviously I’m not.”

“I’ll give you my phone number,” he says.

40

E
velyn Heimdall and Harry Dancer go to a new French restaurant on Las Olas. They have escargot, veal, and a Grand Marnier soufflé. A corky chablis. Dancer is in one of his moods. It’s a subdued dinner.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Putting his hand on hers. “I’m grumpy tonight, and I know it. Please forgive me.”

“What is it, Harry?”

“Oh, I go through these things periodically. Not depression, exactly, but a kind of sulking. I’m ashamed of myself, but I can’t help it.”

“I don’t believe you ever sulk.”

“Solemn rumination then. Will you settle for that? It only lasts a day or two, but while it’s on me I know I’m lousy company.”

“I have a confession to make, too,” she says. “It’s that time of month for me. Sorry about that, chief. But maybe we’re lucky our inactive moods coincide. In a few days we’ll be swinging from the chandelier again.”

That elicits his first laugh of the evening.

“You better believe it,” he says. “I’ll get you home early, and we’ll both dream of better things to come.”

On the drive back to her apartment house, she says: “By the way, I have a new boyfriend.”

“Good for you,” Dancer says.

“Jealous?”

“Madly.”

“I find that hard to believe. He moved into my apartment house. Very nice, but a little too young for me. But he’s teaching me how to swim.”

“You mean you can’t swim? Good lord, you should have told me. I’d have taught you.”

“Too late,” she says. “I’ve got a teacher.”

“What’s his name?”

“Martin Frey. He’s from somewhere in New Jersey. Trying to get a job down here working with computers.”

“Is he handsome?”

“Very.”

“Now lam jealous.”

She laughs. Pokes his arm. “Harry, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”

It is a little after ten o’clock when she is home, alone, in her own apartment. Turns out all the lights. Undresses slowly. Goes out onto the balcony, naked. Lies on a lounge. The cool breeze has lips. She closes her eyes against the moonglow.

How comforting to submit to a discipline. Army, state, religion—whatever. Accepts myths, dreams, illusions. Give yourself over. Oh, to be rid of choice! Those damned decisions. Sign on, and you’re free. Is tyranny a kind of liberty?

She stirs. Opens her eyes wide to stare at the star-flecked sky. That means freedom is painful. Hurt and suffering. Take responsibility for your own destiny, and you’re in trouble, Charlie. The question is…The question is…

“What is the question?” she asks. Aloud.

That pilot light within her flickers hotter. She swears to herself, solemnly, it is not only physical desire. It is a want to breathe free. Take the world to bed and note what happens. She sees doors opening. Windows flung up. Intoxication. Wild fantasies come clamoring. She is aswoon.

Rises shakily. Pads into the living room. Phones Dancer.

“Harry? You got home all right?”

“I did indeed. Sorry I was such a grump at dinner.”

“You’re entitled. We all have moods. I was sorry I wasn’t, ah, physically capable of making you forget your troubles.”

He laughs. “Tomorrow’s another day, Ev.”

“So it is. I love you, Harry. Sleep well.”

“You too, dear. Thank you for calling.”

She goes back to her balcony lounge. Happy she phoned. But still dissatisfied. Harry seems part of a past life. Discipline, myths, dreams, illusions. He is behind closed doors. Windows down. No seductive breeze there, tanged with salt, to stir and excite.

She touches herself. Confused by myriad “What ifs?” She is a tot, wandering into a garden. All those blooms, smells, sensations. She has never had to choose between alternatives. Doesn’t know how. Sign on, and your preferences are dictated. How can she wear red when white is prescribed?

Lies back. Throws her arms wide. Lifts her knees. Spreads her thighs.

“Fuck me, moon,” she says aloud. Giggling.

Madness! She doesn’t know its source. But knows it is evil. And exciting. And cannot withstand its allure. To be all things! Know all things! No standards, morals, laws. Not a one. No desire for reward. No fear of punishment. Then how grand a life might be!

She is not ready for that. Yet. But glimpses the enticement. It is, she tells herself, akin to prison doors unlocked, swinging wide. The prisoner looks in disbelief. Amazement. Takes one hesitant step. Another. Another. And then, released, trots, runs, sprints. Laughing. Weeping.

Evelyn Heimdall is burning with that vision. Returns again to the living room. Switches on a table lamp to search through her purse. Finally finds his number.

“Martin?” she says. “Good evening. This is Evelyn.”

“Hi,” Frey says. “How was the date?”

“It was okay. I’m home. Does that invitation for a nightcap still stand?”

“Of course. Come on down.”

“No,” she says. “You come up here.”

41

S
ally Abaddon has forgotten what it is like to have a close woman friend. All her assignments are men. All her associates are male. Now here is Angela Bliss. Friendly. Generous. Eager to please. Sally enjoys having a confidante.

The two women spend hours together. Usually in the mornings and afternoons. And those evenings Sally doesn’t see Harry Dancer. They laze at poolside or on the beach. Shop at malls. Search out amusing restaurants. Take a boat trip along the Intracoastal Waterway.

Physically unalike, they have some things in common. The experience of hard work and long careers. Independence. Both with lives centered around men. In Angela’s case, it’s an invalid husband confined to a nursing home. She says.

“I feel guilty about leaving him,” she confesses. “But I had to get away, if only for a few weeks. At home, I speak to him every day and visit him three or four times a week. It’s a drain.”

“I should think so,” Sally says. “There’s no hope he’ll get better?”

“No. None. It’s a degenerative nerve disorder. The doctors say he could live for years, getting progressively worse.”

“How awful.”

“Sometimes I feel like just taking off. You know? And never coming back. But I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I really do love him, and he’s completely dependent on me. Also, I’m a very religious woman, and I know that deserting him just wouldn’t be right. I don’t know what I’d do without my faith and my church. They give me strength to go on.”

Sally Abaddon makes no reply.

They are having breakfast at a Howard Johnson on Briny Avenue. Outside, a rainsquall drives spatters against the windows. But behind it is blue sky, promise of a steamy day.

“It’ll blow over,” Sally says. “We’ll have some tanning time. You’re getting good color.”

“I’ll never be as dark as you,” Angela says.

“But you’re not really dark; more of an apricot shade.”

“Apricot?” Sally says. Laughing. “Thanks a lot!”

“You know what I mean. You’re really a very beautiful woman. I wish I had your figure.”

“You do all right,” Sally assures her. “But I think you could do a lot more with yourself than you do. A padded bra would help, for starters. Or maybe cosmetic surgery. They can do wonders these days.”

“Oh no,” Angela says. “I could never do that. My church teaches that vanity is a sin. I’ll just have to live with what I am.”

Sky clearing. Sun beginning to glow redder. They walk slowly back to their motel.

“We could go out to the Pompano Fashion Square,” Sally suggests. “Jordan Marsh is having a sale on swimsuits.”

“Maybe later,” Angela says. “I’d like to get some sun before it gets too hot. Then I have to write some letters.”

“To your husband?”

“My husband, my priest, other people.”

“Your church really means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Angela?”

“A lot? It means everything. I don’t know what I’d do without it. It keeps me going. You’re not religious, are you?”

“No, not really. I just wasn’t brought up that way.”

“Well, I never try to convert anyone. What you believe or don’t believe is your business. But I wish you’d come to church with me on Sunday morning. It’s so beautiful. So comforting.”

“I’ll think about it,” Sally Abaddon says.

She lies prone on a beach towel spread on the lawn. Unfastens the bra strap of her bikini. Angela sits beside her. Rubs suntan lotion onto her shoulders. Her back. Soft, caressing strokes.

“That feels so good,” Sally murmurs.

“Let me do the backs of your legs,” Angela says.

That night, at Harry Dancer’s home, Sally tells him about her new friend.

“It must be nice to believe in something as strongly as she does,” she says. “With a bedridden husband who’s dying, she’d have every reason not to believe.”

“Does she work?” he asks.

“Yes. In the loan department of a Chicago bank.”

“Well, I hope her husband has good medical insurance. Or maybe he’s on disability. Those long illnesses can wipe you out.”

“She didn’t mention how they were paying for it, and of course I didn’t ask. Do you go to church, Harry?”

“Haven’t since Sylvia’s funeral. We used to go occasionally. Easter and Christmas. Some other times. But not regularly.”

He has made a big salad of shrimp and lobster chunks. With crusty garlic toast. And a jug of chilled Rhine wine. Informal meal. Informal dress. They are both wearing jeans. Sally with one of Harry’s old shirts. Tails knotted. Showing tanned midriff.

“Ooh, that was good,” she says. Sitting back. “You can cook for me any day.”

“What cooking? It was all cold. Except for the garlic toast, and I just heated that up in the oven. What would you like to do—take a walk on the beach?”

“Not really. Let’s take the rest of the wine upstairs with us.”

“Splendid idea,” he says.

She performs. Knowing their pillow talk and sounds of their lovemaking are being overheard and recorded. She says things and elicits responses from Dancer she thinks will please Shelby Yama and Briscoe.

Later, Dancer goes into the bathroom to shower. Sally lies alone in the big bed, on sweated sheets. Puts a forearm across her eyes.

What she feels, she decides, is a peculiar kind of loneliness. Not for someone, but for some thing. A new surety. Her future, that had once seemed bright with the promise of endless joys, now appears drab and lifeless.

Harry Dancer’s recollections of his life with Sylvia have given her a glimpse of a foreign land of love and solid civility. She would like to live in that world of sweet reasonableness. Day after day exactly like that passed and that to come. Continuity and meaning. With a steady faith like that of Angela’s.

She cannot hope for marriage to Harry Dancer. She has played her part too well; he thinks of her as an exotic, a wild boff. But not as a mate to love and cherish as he did Sylvia. And if she suggested such a thing, the Department would discipline her. In ways she’d rather not imagine.

She hears him come out of the bathroom. Takes her arm away from wet eyes. Watches him move about the room, dressing. A sweet, sturdy man, worthy of love. The best, probably, of all her victims. Somehow, in ways unknown to him, and to her, he has taught her guilt.

She showers. Dresses. He drives her back to the motel. Kisses her goodnight. She goes into her garish suite. Looks around, grimacing. She showers again. For reasons she cannot comprehend. Tries a book. Radio. TV. Nothing works for her. Emptiness roars.

She pulls on shorts, a T-shirt. Goes outside. Sees a light burning in the room occupied by Angela Bliss. Knocks. Is admitted.

“That church of yours,” Sally Abaddon says. “On Sunday.” Tries a laugh. “What time does the show go on?”

42

S
pymasters sit in the center of webs, awaiting tremors. The Corporation’s Chief of Operations believes he has planned well. All his players are in place. He has done what he can to forestall betrayal. Now he must wait. Putting his faith in the talent and resolve of employees hundreds of miles away.

But he faces an implacable enemy. The treachery of the night code-clerk has been uncovered; the poor fellow has been shipped off to a rehabilitation center. But who knows how many other moles have been implanted in the Corporation’s bureaucracy. And what damage they have done. Are doing.

The Chief idly touches the keyboard of his desktop computer. He is surrounded by state-of-the-art technology. There is no hardware he lacks to make him more effective at his job. His superiors allow him wide latitude in setting strategy and tactics. He can have no excuse for failure.

But, he knows, his machines, files, percentage tables and probability ratios—all are meaningless compared to the belief and will of the agents involved. They, being human, are the big gamble. And being human, can be weak, vacillating, even disloyal. They are not interchangeable machine parts, but vulnerable, sentient beings with incalculable defects and strengths.

He jots notes on his featured actors:

Anthony Glitner
: Case officer. Earnest. Hardworking. Determined. But does this man have the verve and imagination to honcho a complex assignment? Does he, perhaps, lack the moral steel needed? In fact, is he strong enough to bulldoze his way, if necessary, to victory?

Evelyn Heimdall
: Field agent. Warm, attractive woman. Excellent record with no evidence of backsliding. But now exhibiting troubling signs of weakening resolve and a penchant for self-indulgence. Her moral frailty could endanger the entire Dancer campaign.

Martin Frey
: Counterintelligence agent. Professional gigolo. But does he comprehend that his assignment is merely to test Evelyn Heimdall, not actively lure her into betraying her vows? Has he the perception to understand this fine distinction?