Washington, D.C., page 6
As Dolly crossed the street, he called, “See you tomorrow.” She did not look back. “Good night.” Dolly continued along Connecticut Avenue. “Give my best to Munson.” He could not resist this last. She broke into a run, careening back and forth on her high heels like a plump rowboat bucking a current.
* * *
—
When Clay had been first invited to the Chevy Chase Country Club he was disappointed by the simple wooden porch, set back from the suburban street. But once inside he felt that he had strayed into another century where rooms were vast and evocative of slow pleasures, where tall clocks seemed never to strike the hour, and manners were ritual.
Since tonight he was early, he went outside onto the terrace; here tennis players and golfers, their last games done, sat beneath striped umbrellas, drinking and chatting. They should have left by now, thought Clay severely; otherwise the scene gave him pleasure. To his right, behind trees, were the tennis courts and the swimming pool. To his left, as green and sweet as an eighteenth-century print of an English park, the golf course curved among soft hills and valleys and clumps of trees, indigo against the blue evening sky. In the darkest of the groves, fireflies darted.
“The rich have everything, don’t they?” Clay turned and saw the short thick figure of the man who had sung at the party the evening before. He shook the short man’s hand and flooded him with warm greetings; recalling, as he did, that he was a writer for the Washington Tribune, well liked by Enid. But what was his name?
“Why am I here? That’s what I want to know. Will you please tell me? What am I doing here? In this place, with these people?” A flood of words was suddenly let loose by Clay’s neutral observation that the Chevy Chase Country Club was “some place.” “I loathe the rich. I hate politicians. I despise scheming young men.” Clay felt a warm flush begin just inside his collar. He hoped that the guests beneath the umbrellas would not associate him with this extraordinarily unpleasant creature who was no doubt a Communist. “Most of all I hate politics. I hate the President. I hate Congress. The Supreme Court is particularly awful. I detest the military. The Diplomatic Corps should be liquidated, preferably with poisoned canapés. I loathe Washington, District of Columbia, gem of the swampland, home of the chigger, wreathed in its poison ivy, its belly stuffed with cabbage cooked in bacon grease and indigestible Virginia hams which taste like scrapings from the keels of sunken ships. Oh, let my hate give me eloquence! Shall we have a drink.”
This last was said in such a normal tone of voice that Clay almost missed it.
“Well, yes,” said Clay, “I…”
“Could use a drink, I know. But for what? You were going to say ‘use,’ weren’t you?”
“No,” Clay lied, becoming angry. “I was going to say I’d like a drink.”
“To think, I jumped to a conclusion!” His companion grinned. Clay hated him.
They entered the dimly lit bar. Each ordered a drink. Clay had made up his mind to be polite no matter what happened. Enid particularly liked this man…the forgetting of the name was exasperating, and put him at a disadvantage. His name was known, the other’s was not, and so Clay was at a disadvantage for there was power in names.
“Why,” began Clay carefully, not wanting to inspire another speech, “are you here, if you don’t like Washington?”
“Because I am weak. Corrupt. Without purpose. Tempted by free drink…free food…drawn to the company of savages for whom I do an occasional trick, sing a song, tell the future, remind them that the ship of state is drunk.”
“Are you?”
“No. But Rimbaud was. You have an open face, Clay. Never let life shut it. You have political ambition?”
“Yes, I do.” Clay chose to use short hard words.
“I’ll never understand why you people want to hold office. Now take that fraud James Burden Day.”
“I’m Senator Day’s administrative assistant.”
The short man laughed. “Yes, I know you are. And of course you’re loyal.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I said ‘fraud’ not to single your Senator out. The word was not used pejoratively. How could it be, in Washington? I only meant that he is like all the rest, only more successful. You wouldn’t want to be employed by some sort of maverick, would you?”
The short man took a deep swallow of his drink. Clay had not disliked anyone quite so much in years. “I admit he has a charming voice, your Senator. And manner. I studied him last night at the party. He was new to me, in the flesh, that is. But I got his number quick enough. Actor! He’s an actor. The way he uses his voice. The shift in accent. The ability to mimic. The mastery of the dying fall. At the moment he is playing Brutus but he could just as easily shift to Macbeth or to Lear, or, with particularly bad luck, to Timon. He can play anything but himself, having no self. Do references to Shakespeare bore you? Do books of any kind? I often find that any reference not immediately familiar, that is to say available in the morning papers, causes the people hereabouts to grow nervous, to search for the nearest exit.”
“I can see why.” Clay got this out very clear, and was very proud. The short man laughed contentedly. “You win! I am a bore. And I bore myself most of all, particularly in this Godawful city.”
“Why don’t you leave?”
“No money. I’m poor. I have to work. My job is here. Imagine going to the movies in the daytime, a habit more vicious than sniffing heroin, and equally addictive because I love what I see. I weep for Joan Crawford. God, how they treat her! The swine! And little Jean Arthur with that crinkly way she has of wrinkling up her nose…it’s so real. In fact, everything I see there in those dark theatres with their smell of feet and popcorn seems to me far more real than all this!” He took in the whole empty room with a baroque sweep of his arm, which, as if by magic, produced Enid in the doorway.
“What’re you two doing in there?” Enid was silver tonight, straight and slender, more than ever an Indian princess. “Come on in here, the party’s started.”
“I was telling Mr. Overboard how much I loved Washington.”
“Overbury.”
“He knows perfectly well who you are. I think we must snub you tonight, Harold.”
“I have been snubbed by masters…and mistresses.”
Clay looked at Enid sharply but she pulled him into the next room, leaving Harold alone with glass held high, proposing a toast to the legitimate government of Spain, now besieged at Valencia.
“What a perfect son of a bitch.”
“Harold? Don’t take him seriously. He only wants to needle people. To get a laugh. Listen…”
But Clay could not listen nor Enid tell, for they were suddenly stopped by a pale nearsighted young woman, glittering with beads.
“Enid Sanford! Beautiful, beautiful in silver. Such a nice color for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bloch.”
“I’m giving a little party Sunday, very intime.” The French was mispronounced, to Enid’s obvious delight. “Do come, at six. It’s for…” She named an elderly Justice of the Supreme Court. “He is so amusing.” Even Clay smiled at this. As Enid once said, cripples had been known to throw down their crutches and flee at the old man’s approach. “He loves relaxing among a few congenial souls.” It was generally believed that the Justice was having an affair with Mrs. Bloch, a last senile outburst before the final summing up. “And he does admire you, Enid. He adores young people.”
“Well, I shall certainly try, Mrs. Bloch.”
“After six, any time.”
“Allow me to present…” Enid began to introduce Clay, but Mrs. Bloch would have none of it. She had spied an ambassador; she was gone.
“I wonder how that awful Jew got in here?” Enid was thoughtful.
“According to the gossip columns, she’s everywhere.”
“That’s because she knows all the gossip writers. I think she pays them to write about her. Well, she’ll never get to our house, and we’ll never go to hers, poor thing. She should’ve stayed in New Jersey or wherever she came from. Washington’s not for her. Now, Clay, listen, about last night…”
“Sorry?”
“Of course I’m not!” Enid’s dark eyes reflected the flame from a candelabra. She was beautiful, he thought, and felt inadequate.
“Peter knows.”
“Peter knows what?”
“My brother. I couldn’t tell you last night. He saw us. In the poolhouse.”
“Oh, Christ! Why didn’t I shut that damned door?”
“Well, it’s done, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Will he tell your father?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know. He’s such a liar, they might not believe him.”
“A liar?” This was new to Clay.
“Always. Ever since he could talk he would say things that were awful.”
“But untrue.”
“Of course.” A party of young people waved at Enid from the door, and made their way toward her. “We’ve got to decide what to do,” she said in a rush. “Here comes those friends of mine from New York.”
“What about your father?”
“He’s here. Over there.”
The friends surrounded them. Enid’s cheek was kissed by girls, hand wrung by boys. “Talk to him!” Enid cried from the center of the demonstration.
Blaise Sanford was seated in a corner with two gray men, discussing—what else?—politics. In the next room the dancing had begun. Although the party was for the young, the old were on hand. Like a chorus, they sat in the deep chairs, watching their successors move through intricate dances, aware that eventually they would be forced to surrender even the deep chairs to the young dancers who in turn would have yielded the dance floor to others, younger still. How not to be forgotten? wondered Clay. How to retain the floor for life? That was the question ambition asked, and did not answer.
“Mr. Overbury?” A lean, gray-blond man came between him and the dance floor. “I’m Edgar Nillson, a friend…or would-be friend, of Senator Day.”
“I know.” Clay smiled a political smile and shook the man’s hand warmly. “You’re from New York. But originally from Maryland.” Clay knew that he was probably betraying too much knowledge, but if he was, it served the Senator right for not taking him into his confidence.
“I see I am being investigated. Well, luckily there’s nothing to hide. All evidence has been destroyed.”
Clay laughed: very cool, Mr. Nillson, very cool indeed.
“I want to buy some Indian land but I’m afraid the Senator’s not being helpful.”
“How could he be?”
“I do the Indians no great harm. The price, by the way, is a good one.”
“Beads, wampum, firewater?”
Nillson laughed. “You’re very quick, Mr. Overbury. No, it’s better than that. Actually money.”
“But less than the land is worth?”
“Who can say?”
“You can or you wouldn’t want to buy.”
“I’m willing to help the Senator with the nomination for President in 1940.”
“What does he say to that?”
“Nothing.”
“How can you help him?”
“Money. Influence. And then there is our friend Blaise Sanford.” Nillson drew Clay from the dancers to the chair, to Blaise himself who looked up. “Edgar! What are you doing in town? Sit down. Hello, Clay.” This was cold.
“Good evening, sir,” and “A little business, Blaise,” overlapped as the two men sat down on either side of the publisher, chairs still warm from previous clients.
“Wish I’d known you were here. We gave a little party last night. Would’ve had you there. To celebrate Mr. Roosevelt’s defeat.”
“And Senator Day’s victory.” Nillson smiled at Clay.
Blaise looked shrewdly from one to the other. “Business?”
Nillson was serene. “I want Senator Day to be elected President in 1940.”
“Not a bad idea. What do you think, Clay?” Aside to Nillson, “Prejudiced testimony.”
“Of course,” said Clay, “I’d like nothing better. And after today, it’s possible. We talked to the Vice President.”
Like most Congressional aides, Clay tended to use “we” when properly speaking the pronoun should have been “he,” a habit he disliked in others but tolerated in himself.
Blaise rewarded him with a look of interest. “Have you got him?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Nillson rose. “I’ll ring you tomorrow, Blaise.”
“Yes, do. Come out to the house for lunch. Swimming. It’s going to be another scorcher.”
Nillson disappeared into the room where the dancers were, and Clay was aware that anxious men were hovering nearby, waiting for their chance to kiss hands and receive the accolade of publicity. He should go but he chose to stay.
“Who is Mr. Nillson?” Clay was bold. After all, he had nothing to lose except Enid, a million dollars, and the support of a powerful press lord.
“Who is Mr. Nillson?” Blaise repeated in a tone which made it clear that what he meant was “Who is Clay Overbury?” “Well, he is a friend of mine. In oil. I don’t know what else. Burden and he ought to be friends. Good for both of them.” Blaise looked about him as though for help. Clay was dogged.
“Sir, about Enid?”
“What about her?” The dark eyes were suddenly turned on him full force. In the scowling red face, Clay saw Enid. “What about her?”
“We’ve been seeing each other quite a bit this summer.”
“No.” Blaise was flat.
“No?”
“No, you’re not going to marry her.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“And I’m saying don’t even think of it.”
Clay felt terror and rage in equal parts. Rage won. “And why not?” His voice shook. But from tension, he told himself, not fear.
“I don’t need to answer you.”
“And I don’t need to be insulted by you.”
“Which ends the discussion, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” Clay rose, head swimming. “For the moment,” he said, “that ends it.” But Blaise was already signaling for others to join him. Contemplating murder, Clay entered the room where the dancers were. From a waiter he took a glass of whisky and drank it down in a gulp. The warmth was quick to come. For the first time he realized that people drank to make bearable the unbearable. Then Clay plunged into the evening, swam through the dancers and did not reach shore until midnight, when drinking was heavy, flirting obvious, and the deep chairs empty.
“What shall we do?” Enid faced him on the screened-in porch. Outside, couples walked together in the dark, their courses through the night clearly marked by the steady burning of cigarettes, unlike the darting pulsing light fireflies give.
“What do you want?” He evaded responsibility. Some day a case would be made, his legal mind told him, and he wanted to be able to prove that he had not used undue influence. The choice would be hers, not his. She began to make it.
“Let’s go somewhere, for the night.”
“The poolhouse?” He smiled.
“No, never again! Not after Peter. Let’s drive to…to Maryland.”
“Elkton?” A leading question: Elkton was where Washington couples went to be married quickly, without formality.
“Did you talk to Father?”
“Does anyone?”
“He can be disagreeable.”
“He was.”
“He dislikes young men. They’re not important enough for him.”
“For you?”
“I’m not looking for importance. It was the first time, you know.” She had told him that the night befor, during the storm, and he had been impressed, if dubious. Yet it was quite possible that she was telling the truth. Certainly he had no evidence to the contrary. Since the winter, they had met casually at parties, less casually on weekends. The night after he broke his nose at Warrenton, they made love for the first time. She had been wickedly amused by his pain, insisting that he kiss her repeatedly despite the huge bandage. But not until last night had they gone “all the way,” as she put it.
“What about Diana?” Enid looked at him suddenly with her father’s face.
“Diana?” he repeated, pretending innocence.
“She’s supposed to be in love with you.”
“I work for her father. I like her.”
“Did you ever go to bed with her?”
He shook his head. “No. Not even on a rubber mattress, on the floor.”
Enid laughed. “I’ll never live that down, will I?” Clay, who loved her, found himself almost liking her. At moments she had a harsh straightforward humor about herself that was unlike any other girl’s he had known.
“We’ll give it some thought,” she said finally. “Now, let’s go dance. I’m awfully young, you know. Even for my age. Everyone says so.” Together they went inside, where something energetic and noisy was being danced by flushed couples. Just as well, thought Clay. He needed time to win over Blaise. Also he must, somehow, tell Diana that he could not marry her. He owed her that much; he owed the Senator more.
IV
Across the plain, the two moons rose, turning the tower to silver. That was the signal. He switched off the glider. Then, wrapped in the special cloak that the Grand Murg had given him, he strode back into the city where the army was waiting.
“I don’t give a damn what she wants! It’s what I want.”
“But Blaise, be reasonable. After all, it’s done.”
In the main square of the ancient city, older than recorded time, the Thark army was drawn up. When they saw him, they cheered, recognizing the cloak of the Grand Murg.
