The Devil Tree
“That’s how it began. From then on I saw her twice, perhaps three times a week. We went to the theater, to galleries and lectures, and we talked about everything: the miniature mosaics of Saint John Chrysostom, the icons of the Forty Martyrs of Sebaste, your mother’s collections of Byzantine seals and Coptic tapestries, my writing projects, her marriage to Horace Whalen, even your mysterious whereabouts. We would meet each other only when your mother felt at her best, free to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed hers.
“I might as well tell you, Mr. Whalen, that for a long time there was no physical intimacy between your mother and me, and regardless of whether we met at her invitation or mine, I always paid the check.
“Keep in mind that I am not a rich man, Mr. Whalen. My father was an insurance broker who left no estate. I support my mother, who lives in Florida. When I met Mrs. Whalen, I had about seventy-five thousand dollars invested in various stocks and about fifteen thousand in a savings account. In the fifteen most productive years of my life, that’s all I had managed to save from the royalties of my books. I had always lived a carefully planned life, but whenever Mrs. Whalen and I went out for the evening, I spent more in one night than I normally would have spent on entertainment in a month. Finally I was forced to decide which was more important: my financial security or my enjoyment of the company of a woman unlike any I had ever known or would ever meet again. I chose your mother.
“When we became lovers, your mother insisted that we should be discreet. She didn’t want to cause gossip that could hurt you or embarrass her, her friends, or your family’s company. As you know, out of faithfulness to the memory of her husband, your mother did not plan to marry again. To make our relationship less apparent, whenever we visited places where she was well known, your mother would invite one of her older lady friends to go with us.
“Because of our mutual interests, we decided that we would travel together to places neither of us had ever seen. At that time your mother was not suffering from the illness that later affected her. She loved to travel, she enjoyed good food, and she was a marvelous companion.
“As your mother felt obliged to travel only first-class, she took it upon herself to pay our transportation and hotels. She would request the largest suites, one for herself and, out of discretion, another reserved in my name; the hotel management was always asked to put additional staff at her disposal, and the charge for all these people was included in the hotel bill, which was paid directly by the local branch of your family bank.
“Not that your mother didn’t pay attention to her money; she was quite concerned with the stock market. Once, for instance, when we were in Venice, she heard from her brokers that the market was very bearish. During lunch on the terrace overlooking the Grand Canal, she told me that the recession had gotten worse, and that the previous day her estate had lost, on paper at least, close to sixty-two million dollars. In the afternoon she asked for the latest American newspapers, and when one of the hotel managers delivered them, she joked that, given the dismal state of America’s economy, the Soviet Union’s Pravda would probably be more accurate than The Wall Street Journal at predicting what would happen on the Street. Immediately the hotel manager offered to bring your mother the latest edition of Pravda.
“When she asked him where, in Venice, he could get Pravda, he replied that he had a subscription to it, and that he would be glad to translate any articles that particularly interested her. Surprised, your mother asked him how he came to subscribe to such a newspaper. He admitted to being a Communist, to having studied in the Soviet Union, even to being a secretary of the local party cell. Taken aback—for the hotel, which catered only to the finest clientele, was among her favorites—Mrs. Whalen asked the man what he thought about America. ‘It has become a warmongering country, madam,’ he answered. ‘And one that bode no good for the future of mankind.’ ‘How could you possibly say that?’ said Mrs. Whalen. ‘And who has given you such an idea?’ The manager bowed politely. ‘Among others, I learned this from a man you yourself have known quite well.’ ‘I can’t believe that,’ said your mother. ‘Who was it?’ ‘Mr. Horace Sumner Whalen, madam. Mr. Whalen said this in the speech he delivered while visiting the Soviet Union, and its entire text was carried by Pravda, even though, apparently,. only small fragments of it appeared in American newspapers.’
“But getting back to what I was saying, because your mother’s expenses during our travels were paid by the bank, she seldom carried any cash, and whenever she needed extra money, the hotel’s concierge would lend it to her, then include it on her bill. I took it upon myself to do the tipping, the only financial responsibility that I thought I could afford to assume in our travels, and when the need for gratuities arose, it was I who handed them out. Eventually, in order to be always prepared, I began to carry an attaché case filled with ones, fives, tens, and twenties for use in restaurants, nightclubs, taxis, garages, ships, trains, airports, inns, spas, clinics—wherever.
“As I recall, I gave about ten dollars to each hall porter, ten to a headwaiter, five to a wine steward, twenty-five each to ship stewards and pursers, five to a bell captain, five to each maid and valet, forty or fifty to each private museum or archaeological site guide, one hundred to a hotel manager, and twenty-five to a desk clerk in charge of theater tickets; every hired seamstress got forty, and hotel telephone operators, secretaries, chauffeurs, masseuses, beauticians, and hairdressers got twenty-five each. Naturally, knowing who your mother was and seeing how comfortably she liked to live and travel, most people who were of assistance to us—whether Swiss sleeping car attendants or Iranian mule drivers—expected to be handsomely tipped. Even though I tipped them, they believed the money came from Mrs. Whalen, and I can assure you none of them was ever disappointed. I was generous to a fault: by the end of the second year of my relationship with your mother, out of all of my savings I had only two thousand dollars left, and I was nowhere near finishing my book about the historical consequences of the baptism of Theodosius, son of Emperor Maurice, in the year 584.
“I never mentioned to your mother the dilemma that tipping had created for me. How could I? In my relationship with her, it was the only financial obligation that I had assumed, and it was the least that I, a mature and professional man, could do for her. You see, I loved Katherine more than I had ever loved anyone, and to explain that I had run out of money tipping waiters would have meant admitting a total financial dependence on her from then on, which would have brutally distorted my real need of her. If I couldn’t afford it, too bad for me. But I resolved never to speak of it.
“I wrote her instead that I had to finish my book quickly and wouldn’t be able to see her until it was completed. Your mother took my letter as proof of my not wanting her anymore, and within a week she was gone.”
• • •
Another contribution has been made to my family’s oral history. After attending a service at the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church, once my mother’s favorite, I was politely accosted by an elegantly dressed older gentleman. “Are you, sir, by chance, Jonathan Whalen, the son of the late Mrs. Katherine Whalen?” he asked in a heavily accented staccato English. When I told him I was, he introduced himself as Mr. Vladimir Borys, shoemaker and owner of a small East Side custom-made shoe manufacturing establishment. As we walked toward my hotel, he told me that for over a decade he had hand-made and occasionally repaired the shoes of my parents.
According to Mr. Borys, although my father was content with a couple of pairs of new shoes every two or three years, my mother habitually ordered a pair or two every month.
“Mrs. Whalen’s feet troubled her,” said Mr. Borys. “The foot surgery she underwent several times did not seem to help, and she sought relief from her pain in the well-fitting shoes I made for her.” Mr. Borys reflected, then continued. “I was heartbroken when I found that transmitter in the heel of one of her shoes. You see, I thought I might have contributed, inadvertently, to her depression.”
Feigning familiarity with the incident, I asked, “How did you happen to come across the transmitter?”
Mr. Borys looked anxious. “Mrs. Whalen had stopped by for a fitting for a new pair of shoes, and I noticed that the heel on one of the shoes she was wearing was slightly crooked. I offered to fix it on the spot, and as I removed the heel I discovered inside a tiny metal object—a cleverly hidden miniature transmitter. Of course I showed it to your mother, and once she realized that someone was spying on her, she became terribly upset.”
“What happened next?” I asked.
“She summoned me to check all her other shoes. Most of them contained transmitters. And since I also fixed Mrs. Whalen’s handbags once in a while, I checked them as well. Like her shoes, most of them had transmitters hidden in them.”
Mr. Borys and I came to my corner.
“Mrs. Whalen confided in me later,” he said, as if to hand me a final gift of his memory of my mother before parting, “that an electronics expert she hired had removed other such transmitters hidden in her cars, as well as in all her telephones.”
“Did she ever tell you who had installed these listening devices, or why she was kept under surveillance?” I asked.
“One day when she came to my shop, your mother seemed quite ill—almost not herself,” said Mr. Borys, changing his tone. “Forgive me, but I think she might have been drinking. She told me that the surveillance still continued, and that she had found out that the orders to have her followed had come from someone high up in your father’s company—a man who was also your godfather.”
“Did she know why she was being followed?”
“Your mother told me that she was seeing a man she was very fond of—maybe even loved. He was a bit younger than herself, a writer of history and archaeology. Apparently your godfather suspected that this writer was after your mother’s money, and that’s why he put her under surveillance.”
• • •
Standing in a bar in Pittsburgh, Whalen ordered a drink. Close by, two men glanced at him and continued talking. Fragments of their conversation reached him above the din of the jukebox and the television set. The bartender rinsed a glass, filled it with liquor, and pushed it toward Whalen.
Whalen leaned back and looked along the bar.
Resting her elbow on the counter, a young black girl settled herself on a stool, her legs dangling, her eyes fixed on Whalen. She was alone and on the prowl. Her looks and her manner aroused him, and he ordered another drink and moved over beside her.
“I hope you don’t mind my squeezing in here,” he said, putting his hand next to hers on the counter.
“I don’t mind,” she answered.
“I wonder if you might like to go out of town with me for a day or two.”
“What for?” she asked.
He looked straight at her. “I like your looks. A girl like you could make me do things no white woman could.”
She grinned. “Do you always come on as strong as that?”
“Only if I want the girl to come on strong right back.”
“What else did you have in mind?”
“To see a house. It’s in Whalenburg, West Virginia. A nice drive from Pittsburgh,” said Whalen.
The girl listened, sipping her drink. “Why should I go for a ride to some faraway barn with someone I don’t even know? What’s in it for me?”
“Money—and you might also like to see the house. It’s quite a place, with lots of rooms, old furniture, paintings.”
She played with her glass. “Are you going to rip off something there?”
“Just my memories,” said Whalen. “As a kid, I used to live in that house. It’s been closed for years now, but there’s still a lot of my stuff in it. I just don’t feel like walking alone through all those rooms.”
“Let me get this straight. Now, in the middle of the night, you want to visit a ghost house outside of Shitsburgh?” She laughed.
Whalen smiled. “My mother used the same name for this town.”
“What is it that you want me to do there?” the girl asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Nothing that you haven’t already done, nothing that you don’t know how to do,” said Whalen. “And nothing that will hurt you while you do it.” He paused. “I’ll also make it worth your while. Do you have anything better to do?”
“No,” she said, finishing her drink. “We don’t have ghost houses in my family. And I always need cash. Do you know your way to Whalenburg?”
“That’s all I know,” said Whalen. “Let’s go.”
• • •
The blacks in this country make me think of certain birds I saw in Africa. Swooping up and down on air currents, they fly for hours with no effort, but on touchdown they pitch forward, skidding along on their stubby legs, straining to withstand the crash landing. Unable to slow down, they try to dig into the sand with their bellies, necks, and beaks, and when they are thus absorbed they will collide with anything in their path. Often you see one of these birds break its wing, its leg, its beak, or its spine. Unable to fly, the damaged creature will then struggle this way and that on the ground until it reaches its nest in the thicket. Watching these crippled birds, I always wondered whether they envied the freedom of their airborne relatives or whether they were glad to be grounded, with the earth for their only medium and haven, past their trial, never to soar again.
• • •
All the walls of the house, those painted with delicate designs as well as those covered with tapestries, portraits, or dim landscapes, had faded and become pastel. The carpets smelled musty, the parquet floor had long gone un-waxed. Whalen lifted the dust covers to look at the chairs; their delicate legs and intricately carved arms were still sharp in his memory. Small tables still stood in familiar places near window nooks and love seats, waiting to be used again, refusing to lose their purpose along with their polish.
• • •
In his mother’s bathroom, he quickly found his way to the secret built-in medicine cabinet under the sink. A few scattered vials of drugs, some of them professional samples, littered the shelves. Recalling how easily the family doctor had given her these drugs, Whalen picked up two sample packages and read through all the instructions, indications, and contraindications: “for the relief of symptoms of depression”; “for the reversal of psychotic behavior patterns”; “for management of overt hostility associated with organic brain disease”; “recommended only for patients under close medical supervision”; “to alleviate severe apathy, agitation, psychomotor retardation”; “extreme caution required when given to patients with history of alcoholic consumption”; “overdosage may produce hysteria, stupor, coma, shock, respiratory depression, and death.”
• • •
The girl switched off the overhead light in his mother’s bedroom and turned on a smaller one in the walk-in closet. Leaving the closet door open, she eased her stockings down, unhooked her bra and hung it on the doorknob, and stepped out of her underpants. Without a word she walked over to Whalen, reached down, took his hand and raised it to her breast, then pushed it lower and pressed it against her warm, dry flesh. She threw back her head and sat down next to him on the bed, waiting.
In the dim light that came from the closet, Whalen studied her squared-off cheekbones, her slanted eyes, her full-lipped mouth and the way the sharp features of her head contrasted with the smooth contours of her body.
He thought of her as his prey, an African girl whom he, the white hunter from across the sea, might eye in Mombasa. Her life in the slums of Pittsburgh was a jungle to him, and to her he was as out of reach as his childhood in this house now was. That’s why, with her, he could give in to his urges and abandon himself to what he would otherwise dare only in thoughts. By imposing his desire on the girl, he might also arrive at surrendering to her, and in his surrender he might succeed in drawing her into the scheme of his thought. Here, among the relics of his past, he might escape the past with this black girl, who on her own c
ould never have entered this house while there was life in it.
A hunter about to be freed by his prey, he kissed her neck, slid down on the bed, and kissed her mound. She threw her thigh over his head, and poising herself astride his face, she forced herself down, her flesh grinding against his lips, enveloping him until, as he sought to give her pleasure, he was left scarcely able to breathe, fighting for air that now only she could give him. His pulse raced. Once, skin-diving in Africa, he had come upon a sea snake, the unchallenged ruler of the deep, coiled in the thick coral. In a surge of fright he had moved away, but the snake had followed effortlessly behind him until it spiraled serenely at his side, its lidless eyes watching him. He remembered how quickly he had tired, how defeated he had felt, and how he had hated that creature, which, equipped by nature with only one light lung, could breathe more effectively than he could, for all of the two big tanks he carried on his back. Now, aroused by the girl and no longer able to control himself, he envied the snake’s ability to slow down, to control the pace of its heartbeat even at the peak of its excitement.
• • •
He approached the bed and stood quietly beside it. She was asleep, her head on the pillow at the level of his knees. He looked at the remnants of her makeup, cracked by tiny wrinkles under her eyes and matted with perspiration at the base of her nose. As he rested his hand on the blanket, it occurred to him that she was only pretending to be asleep, actually anticipating his touch. He drew his hand back.
• • •
Whalen opened a portfolio that contained various letters. Some of them were letters he himself had received in the past. The first one was written on his father’s business stationery.
Dear Jonathan,