Maybe everything boils down to politics, Barney thought, but if I ever come face to face with that lecher, I’m going to tell him what I think of him.
Fate has a consistent caprice: She has ordained that in any men’s room – be it one with twenty, fifty, or even more urinals, if there are only two gentlemen present they will end up standing next to each other.
And this is how, at 4:38 P.M., Barney Livingston encountered Andrew Himmerman.
‘Very much enjoyed your paper, Doctor Livingston,’ the elder psychiatrist remarked.
Barney ignored him.
‘Thought it was right on target,’ Himmerman continued affably. ‘I assume you’ll be publishing it in the Journal.’
Barney was doing his best to make haste and retreat from his uncomfortable situation.
Himmerman was confused. ‘Have I done something to offend you, Doctor?’ he inquired politely.
‘No,’ Barney finally retorted. ‘But you certainly did a job on a friend of mine.’
‘Oh,’ the psychiatrist said calmly, ‘and who may that be?’
‘Sorry,’ Barney replied sardonically, ‘I forgot there’ve been so many in your life that you can’t keep track. I was referring specifically to Grete Andersen, M.D.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Himmerman groaned.
They were washing their hands now, this time separated by three sinks’ length.
‘I’d like to set the record straight, Doctor Livingston.’
Barney chose not to reply.
‘You may not believe this,’ Himmerman persisted, ‘but I never touched that girl. I don’t deny having acted improperly several years ago, but—’
Barney cut him off with a line of Marlowe’s, ‘“But that was in another country: and besides, the wench is dead.”’
Himmerman blanched. When he finally could answer, it was obvious he was having trouble finding the proper words.
‘I can’t tell you how that girl’s death hangs over me. My marriage is a shambles, my wife is paranoid now every time I talk to an attractive woman. I don’t sleep easy, I promise you.’
‘You seem to have slept easily enough with Grete.’
‘No, no! I had nothing to do with that girl. She was a complete hysteric. It was a total fantasy.’
‘Doctor Himmerman,’ Barney said, striving to control his temper to demonstrate his own psychic stability, ‘I’ve seen a photograph of the two of you. You were wearing tennis shorts. She had on a very skimpy bikini and you had your arms around each other. Eastman Kodak doesn’t sell fantasy film.’
‘Oh, no,’ Himmerman muttered under his breath. And then he asked angrily. ‘Did you study that photograph carefully?’
‘Not under a microscope, but I gave it a good, hard look.’
‘Then you should have noticed that she had her arms around me but not vice versa.’
‘Are you denying that you took Grete to Hilton Head for a weekend tryst?’
‘Doctor Livingston, if I told you there was no tryst, that the girl took herself – and, as far as I know, is still a virgin – would you believe me?’
‘It would be difficult,’ Barney responded.
‘Well, let me offer you some irrefutable facts,’ he persisted, anger rising in his voice. ‘The Psychiatric Association of the Southern States held its annual convention at Hilton Head over the weekend of April seventeenth and eighteenth, 1966. I was president at the time. Do you think I’d be crazy enough to take a patient to something like that?’
Barney still withheld judgment.
Himmerman continued. ‘I went down to the pool during our lunchtime break and all of a sudden this hysterical creature pops out of the bushes and gives me a hug. She had sweet-talked one of the lifeguards into taking that picture. I told her right on the spot that our professional relationship was over and not to show up for her hour the next Monday.’
He paused, sighing at the uncomfortable recollection of the unhappy incident, and asked, ‘Does this sound plausible to you, Doctor Livingston?’
‘Yes,’ Barney conceded, ‘but why did you take the pills?’
Himmerman lowered his head. ‘I’m trying to be brutally honest. And it’s not easy, Doctor.’
‘I know,’ Barney said sympathetically.
‘This girl’s problem – and now I’m speaking confidentially, doctor to doctor – is a morbid fear of men. She’s a classic hysteric, who gets frightened when she titillates a man and then runs away—’
He paused, and continued, ‘It’s my guess – and I hope it doesn’t sound too self-serving – that the transference was working and she was petrified of her feelings toward me. Her only escape was to discredit me as a love object. How the hell she did it I still haven’t found out, but somehow she got a look at my dossier in the Association’s files. Up till then it had all been kept out of the papers. I had sworn to the Ethics Committee I’d go back into therapy myself. That was the only condition under which my wife agreed to stay with me. Now this sick, sick woman was threatening to call a press conference and announce herself as the latest in a long string of sexual victims.’
He looked Barney in the eye and asked quietly, ‘If that happened to you – your career, your marriage, everything – all about to go up in smoke – for a lie – don’t you think you might momentarily lose control …’ His voice trailed off.
‘Yes,’ Barney said gently, for he now believed the man. ‘I guess I would. I’m sorry, Doctor Himmerman.’
37
Death reaped an awesome harvest in 1972.
Princes, presidents, and poets. Ice-cream men and athletes all left the earth a poorer place.
Erza Pound – genius, traitor, madman – perished from the earth, leaving, in his own words, ‘a deathless adornment/a name not to be worn out with the years.’
Charles Atlas, he who had begun life as a ninety-eight-pound weakling and become a paragon of muscles, the inspiration for all adolescent boys, could not chase off the bully Death when it kicked sand in his face. The hero who had once held up the world now had to leave it.
That pugnacious president, Harry Truman (who had once threatened to beat up a critic who had panned his daughter’s singing), lost his final bout with life.
Maurice Chevalier, quintessential Gallic charmer, though perhaps less chivalrous than his own name implied (he’d entertained the Nazi troops), was taken only God knows in which direction.
The Duke of Windsor, who’d forsaken the role of king to become the slave of love, had now to abdicate his life.
A Being of still greater power than J. Edgar Hoover tapped the FBI chief’s line to say his time was up.
There really was a man called Howard Johnson, the inventor of the sundae. His life ended in this year, surely accompanied to heaven by an angel’s choir of no less than twenty-eight voices.
All too soon, The Reaper took off Jackie Robinson, aged only fifty-three.
Younger still were all the U.S. soldiers in Vietnam, whose death toll neared the fifty-thousand mark.
Indeed, perhaps it was no accident that in this devastating year the magazine called Life expired.
And Barney’s wounds from having been shot down – albeit metaphorically – had still not healed.
Publishers Weekly’s prediction had lulled him into expecting that Mind of a Champion would receive at least a modest critical welcome.
But it had never come. There had been no further praise. There had not even been any further pans. His book had suffered the worst possible of fates: it was totally ignored.
‘Bill, tell it to me straight,’ he had demanded three months after publication, ‘is my book dead in the water?’
‘Let’s put it this way,’ Bill replied, ‘sales have been a little slower than we had hoped, but then the paperback is bound to reach a wider audience.’
Chaplin hesitated, hoping some felicitous, mollifying rhetoric would pop into his head. But then he realized painfully that there was no evasion.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’d say tha
t rigor mortis has set in.’
Had the experts of the Guide Michelin dined at La Renaissance, in the heart of Saigon near the French Hospital, they would have surely given it three stars.
This at least was the opinion of Major Palmer Talbot, who dined there often – especially when he was anxious to impress a visiting government official or an important journalist.
(‘Ironic isn’t it, Major, to find the best French restaurant in the world halfway ’round the globe from Paris. You would think that the war would cramp the chef’s style. You know, keep him from getting the ingredients.’
‘I think the left-wing press likes to exaggerate the situation here just for the sake of selling papers. I mean, it’s clear we’ve got things fairly in control – which is, of course, what you’ve come to see. And I hope you’ve been convinced that it’s a matter of a few more months till we bring peace to this lovely, benighted land.’
‘Well, frankly, I’m impressed. And I’ll share my impression with the boys on the Hill.’)
It has often been said that war is hell. Yet it is rarely admitted that for the privileged few war can be a hell of a good time.
Certainly Palmer Talbot’s tour of duty in Vietnam had thus far been enormously enjoyable. He had acquired the knowledge of Vietnamese not for the purpose of going out into remote villages to ask if Ho Chi Minh’s bullyboys were in the vicinity. Rather it was to help coordinate the actions of U.S. troops and their South Vietnamese colleagues by acting as liaison officer with their high commands.
He also had the enviable job of winning the hearts and minds of a steady stream of distinguished visitors, who were flying in and out on so-called ‘fact-finding missions.’ Palmer always saw to it that whatever else they might have seen, they at least knew that a place like La Renaissance was still flourishing, so the war couldn’t be that bad.
He was therefore not surprised when upon arrival in HQ one morning, there was a message for him to call the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee.
‘Will you get Senator Forbes on the phone for me?’ Palmer asked Marie-Claire, his Eurasian secretary. ‘I’ll take it in my office.’
‘No, Major. He specifically requested that you use one of the “safe” phones. It must be something of a high security nature.’
As he walked toward the soundproof room where the ‘scrambler’ phone was kept, Palmer took a cursory glance at the message she had handed him – it was the Senator’s home, not his office, that Palmer was to contact urgently.
The call went through in a matter of seconds.
‘Hello, Senator, this is Palmer Talbot in Saigon.’
‘Oh, Palmer, good man. Thanks for calling. I guess it’s already tomorrow where you are.’
‘Yes, sir. May I be of help to you, Senator?’
‘Matter of fact, you can, Major. You can do me an enormous favor.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
The Senator paused momentarily and then replied laconically, ‘Marry Jessica.’
‘Jessica?’ Palmer asked, slightly off balance.
‘That’s right, Major Talbot. My daughter, Jessica, whom you got pregnant while you were being briefed at my estate. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to announce it to the press immediately.’
‘But that’s impossible, sir,’ he stammered. ‘I’m already married and I can’t abandon my wife.’
‘It’s nice to hear you so protective, Major. But that’s the way I also feel about my little girl. I would advise you in the strongest possible terms to see things my way.’
The unspoken message was loud and clear. Forbes had enough power to have Palmer sent to the front lines where the mortality rate of officers could be measured in minutes.
‘Now don’t you worry, Major Talbot,’ the Senator continued. ‘I realize there’ll be a stumbling block or two on the way to the matrimonial aisle. But if the current Mrs Talbot is the generous person I’m sure she is, she’ll agree to a quickie Mexican divorce and we’ll be high and dry.’
Palmer was shaken. He didn’t want to hurt Laura. And he especially did not want to confront her fiery Spanish temper.
‘Uh, Senator, with due respect,’ he mumbled, ‘you’re asking me to do an outrageous thing.’
‘And do you not regard what you did to my Jessica as outrageous?’
Palmer was at a loss. ‘Sir, I’d like a little time to organize my thoughts before—’
‘I quite agree,’ the legislator replied. ‘That’s why you’ll be receiving ten days furlough as of 0900 hours today. If you hurry – and I dearly hope you will – you can be in San Francisco by tomorrow. And in Boston the day after. Meanwhile, to expedite matters I’ll have one of my former law partners begin to draw up the necessary papers. Is that all right with you, Major?’
‘Uh, sir, yes, fine.’
But when the conversation ended, Palmer sat there in a state of shock, his head buried in his hands, murmuring over and over to himself, ‘Laura, oh Laura. What should I do?’
Contrary to popular belief, it is possible for a human being to live normally in New York at night.
For as the sky grows darker the metabolism of the city slows down, its hypertensive pulse rate decreases, and the general mood descends from daytime manic to a relatively tranquil hypomania.
Barney walked out to the terrace and gazed down at the city, which seemed like a hive of glowworms.
Emily was in Switzerland, covering the European ski championships. To fill the lonely hours he had planned to finish a paper on schizophrenic thought disorder. But then Laura had called, and now he was agitated and unable to concentrate.
She had been too distraught to be specific. All he could gather was that something terrible had happened between her and Palmer and she could not bear to be alone in Boston.
Barney naturally insisted that she fly to New York as quickly as possible. She had protested that Emily would not like it. But on learning that Emily was away on assignment, Laura said she would try to make the last shuttle from Boston.
Just after eleven o’clock die doorman buzzed him that Miss Castellano was on her way.
Her eyes.
They were the first thing that struck him when he opened the door. Her eyes were huge red circles, as if they had been bruised in a fight. She had obviously been crying for several hours. Her voice was hoarse, as if she had exhausted all its strength.
‘Hi,’ she said softly.
He took the suitcase and said, ‘Come in. Sit down. I think you could use a stiff drink.’
She nodded.
‘For chrissake, Laura, what’s the matter?’
‘Palmer showed up …’ she began and then burst into tears again. ‘I can’t, Barn. It’s too unbelievable.’
‘I thought he was in Vietnam. How come he’s suddenly home – was he wounded or something?’
‘No, Barney,’ Laura answered, ‘it’s me who’s wounded. He wants a divorce.’
‘Hell, I’ve seen that coming for a while. I’m sure you must have, too.’
She took her head. ‘No, no, we had sort of a reconciliation. Everything was fine and then he just shows up and shoves a piece of paper in my face.’
‘What kind of paper?’
‘Consent to a rápido Mexican divorce.’
‘Hey, this is crazy, Castellano. What’s the goddamn hurry?’
Laura told him haltingly.
Barney was unable to retain his professional objectivity.
‘You know what, Castellano? I say good riddance to the bastard. Any guy that isn’t faithful to you isn’t really good enough to be your husband.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Maybe I just wasn’t good enough to be his wife.’
Barney could not bear this self-deprecation.
‘Laura, for chrissake,’ he shouted, ‘just because he treated you like shit doesn’t mean that you have to go along with his opinion. Screw him, Castellano! Let him go to hell and some day you’ll find someone worthy of you.’
She s
hook her head. ‘No way, Barney. I’m convinced that as far as men are concerned I’m a born loser.’
He sent her to bed in the guest room. Then he gave her a glass of water and two pills, and sat down next to her. ‘I know you won’t believe me, but I promise you that the sun will come up tomorrow morning. And that’ll mean you’ll have one day of recuperation to your credit.’
She took the pills and, emotionally exhausted, lay back on the pillow.
‘Thank you, Barn,’ she whispered softly.
He sat with her till he was sure she was asleep, then tiptoed out.
And went back to his typewriter, ripped out the unfinished schizo piece, put in a new sheet, and began to type.
MEMO
To: L. Castellano, M.D.
From: B. Livingston, M.D.
Subject: 101 Reasons why life is still worth living.
And he brought it to her with a cup of coffee the next morning.
Barney was on the telephone when Laura entered the living room. He hung up and smiled. ‘You look better already, Castellano.’
‘I bet,’ she answered wryly. ‘I just took a look at myself in the mirror. I look like I’ve gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali.’
‘No, you don’t,’ he corrected her. ‘Ali is a clean fighter.’ And then he imperiously pointed to the sofa and said, ‘Sit down.’
When she had obeyed he told her, ‘I’ve been on the phone to your Chief of service and explained – without really explaining – that you’re ill and have to have a week or so to recuperate. He was very understanding.’
‘What am I supposed to do in the meanwhile?’
‘Take long walks, think nice thoughts. In fact, why not buy yourself a whole new wardrobe?’
‘This hardly seems like professional advice, Barn.’
‘Listen, Castellano, just for this morning I’ve had a temporary switch of roles. Look upon me not as a doctor, not even as a friend, but as a parent. You’re going to listen to me and do what’s best for you.’