The Broken Bubble

  “I have to finish taking my shower. Excuse me.” She hurried into the bathroom.

  Listening to the rush of water, he wondered if she had been here when the phone rang. The time was a quarter to six. “How late do you work?” he said.

  “Five-thirty.”

  So, he decided, she probably hadn’t been here. “Have you eaten dinner?” he said, standing by the bathroom door.

  “No, I’m not hungry. I don’t feel well today. I want to go to bed early.”

  Waiting for her, he roamed all around her apartment. Last night he had seen nothing of it; they had gone directly to bed, and Patricia had not even turned on the living room light. The prints on the walls interested him. And the mobile in the corner. He touched it, examined the materials, the workmanship. Handmade, he realized. From the metal strips of coffee cans, and from eggshells delicately tinted and glazed, undoubtedly by her. The furniture was low, light in color; he liked it. He tried out several chairs. Their lines were simple. He was a little awed, and at the same time he felt a full measure of confidence. This seemed to him a place where he had won out; he had nothing to fear from this room or this woman. He was excited and keyed up, but not apprehensive.

  When she came out of the bathroom, he said, “Let’s go have dinner in Chinatown.” The restaurants there were cheap and the food was good. “You could maybe have some tea.” He was positive that she would want to eat.

  “My head aches,” Patricia said. “Please, Art, not tonight. Okay? I just want to go to bed.” Going into the bedroom, she shut the door partly. The rustle of clothing reached his ears. In the darkness of the bedroom—the shades were down—she was dressing.

  “I want to take you around,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “Have some consideration. I had to work all day.”

  “You’ll like this,” he said. “H-h-hey, I want you to meet some guys.” He was thinking of the loft.

  Pat emerged, wearing leotards and a sweater. Her hair was still up in the turban. She looked cross and beset; she said, “Leave me alone tonight, Art. Please? As a favor to me?”

  He put his arms—around her waist. She was so small and light that he had no trouble with her; kissing her tight, inactive mouth, he said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t want to go out.”

  “You want to stay here?” he said, not releasing her. In her eyes panic appeared; she darted a glance up at him, her body stiff. If he let go of her now, she would talk and keep away from him, and in the end he would be maneuvered, step by step, out of the apartment. She was on the verge of some quick flight. But as long as he held onto her, she was afraid; she was too close to him to do anything.

  “If you expect to take me out,” she said between her teeth, “you have to dress better than that.”

  “I look okay,” he said.

  “You look like a drugstore delinquent.”

  “Too bad,” he said, enduring.

  “I’ll go out with you tomorrow night. I promise.”

  “No,” he said. “Maybe I cant get away tomorrow night.” His arm around her, he reached to pull down the shades in the living room. “You feel like dancing?” he said. He turned on the console radio and tuned in dance music.

  Still resisting, she said, “I’m no good at dancing. I hate dancing. You wouldn’t want to dance with me.” Suddenly she broke away. Before she had gone a step, he grabbed her; she fought, straining and twisting, and then gave up.

  “I have nobody to blame,” she said faintly, “but myself.”

  He waited by the door to the hall while she got her coat and purse.

  After they had eaten dinner, they remained in the curtained booth. The Chinese waiter cleared the dishes away and brought a fresh enamel pot of tea. Beyond the curtains customers and waiters stirred and made sounds; Art listened amiably.

  Across from him Patricia seemed less restive. Now, pensive, she lit a cigarette with her lighter and said, “I always like Chinatown. But you shouldn’t have brought me here.”

  “Why?” he said.

  “You shouldn’t try to take me anywhere, Art.” She smiled. “You have a crush on me, don’t you? But I’m too old. One of these days Bob and I’ll be married.”

  “I thought you were Jim Briskin’s girl,” he said, not able to understand.

  She said, “I’m his ex-wife!”

  “But you were going around with him.”

  “What a special world you kids live in,” Patricia said. “Dates, going steady…do you feel you’re dating me now, is that it? Taking me out to dinner, holding doors open for me. When you take me home, are you going to kiss me good night? Or have we passed that? It seems a little misplaced…”

  “I think you’re pretty swell,” he said, “you know? I mean, the way you dress and look.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I know, Art.” After an interval she said, “You kids are almost—what do I want to say? Archaic. So sort of formal and stilted. Old-fashioned. And they say you’re wild beasts. It’s not true. You’re courtly. Do you realize that? I suppose I like that. Last night it was fresh for me because of your preparations. You had to say this and go through that. Each step of the way. It took so long, you almost drove me crazy. But it was worth it, I thought. It made a lot of difference. Starting over again, like that. As if neither of us had ever done such a thing before…” She tapped her cigarette on the rim of her empty cup.

  “If you were a kid,” he said, “in school, you know? You would be the best-looking. Your hair’s so nice.” He meant, by that, that she was beautifully built; he thought her body was fabulous, but he could not conceive of saying it.

  “I think that’s what I responded to,” she said. “You were conscious of a lot of little things. You seemed to notice not just one thing but all the different things about me. But you have so much to learn. For instance—” She glanced up. “Never tell a woman any part of her is large. Her hands or her legs or her bosom. And for heaven’s sake, remember that you can injure a woman if you go too fast. Especially, a woman who’s”—she raised an eyebrow—“let’s say small. What I mean to say is, at that point go slow. Let her decide. Sometimes she can’t relax; she stays constricted.”

  He said, gazing down at his hands, “Rachael was like that to start. It took a week. A lot of times.”

  “If I were a man,” Pat said, “I’d go after her. What do you see in somebody like me? I can’t give you anything she can’t. Don’t you really see her? I just don’t understand. Maybe it’s because you have her and you know you have her. I’d like to give her some clothes; I think she could wear them. She needs clothes, but you can’t buy them now. Not on what you make.”

  He nodded.

  Pat said, “there’s nothing for you here. Don’t get a crush on me. I’m not worth it. And anyhow we can’t do that again.”

  “That’s what Jim Briskin said,” he said, opposing the words, the statement of it.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it was because you were drunk.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “When did you see him?”

  “He came over tonight.”

  “How did he act?”

  Art said, “He wanted to talk to Rachael.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I expect so. He’s very responsible, Art. He’s concerned about you and heir and about me.”

  “He said not to try to take you around. He said you would cause me a lot of suffering.”

  “He’s right, Art, I will.”

  “He’s just jealous.”

  “No,” she said, “he knows what he’s saying. He knows me. In some ways he’s like a child…he has an irrational streak. He gets excited and he acts on impulse; he gets carried away, especially if he thinks it’s his duty. But he has perspective. I don’t think it’s only jealousy…” She put out her cigarette.

  Getting to his feet, Art said, “Hey, let’s go. I want you to meet this guy; he has this place with a bunch of maps and papers. It’s our organization. We have a Ho
rch, a Nazi car.”

  “Do you want to take me there?” she said, seated, gazing up at him.

  “S-s-sure,” he said.

  “All right, Art. If you want to.” She arose; he held her chair awkwardly. “What does your organization do?”

  “It’s sort of revolutionary,” he said, finding money to go with the check.

  “Really?” Again she was lost in thought. “When I was a kid, I was a socialist. A Shavian socialist. Did you ever read Man and Superman? Any of Shaw?”

  “No,” he said, pushing the curtain back and leaving the booth. She walked slowly, her coat over her shoulders. Three men, seated at a table, studied her, and one of them made a remark and whistled.

  In a flurry of clumsiness, he paid the bill at the front cash register and started out onto the street. Pat came after him, expressionless; she did not seem to have noticed the men.

  But, he thought, he certainly had.

  The path that led to the stairs was littered with debris; he kicked at the bottles and paper rubbish, saying, “This sure is rundown around here. Can you get by?” The sun had set; darkness was appearing.

  Since she did not answer, he assumed she could. He started up the stairs to the metal door. Behind him she had halted to reach into her shoe. Then she came on.

  “He’s up there,” Art said.

  The metal door opened a crack. “Who’s that?” Grimmelman demanded in his shrill voice.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Hey, I got someone with me.”

  A blinding light shone in his face; Grimmelman had lit his carbide lamp and was swinging it out above the stairwell. “Emmanual? Step up. Identify your companion.”

  Annoyed, he said, “Open the door.”

  With reluctance Grimmelman admitted him. “Is that Rachael? What’s your motive in bringing her here? You’ve been informed—”

  “No,” he said, “It’s somebody else.”

  The door was open, and now Pat entered the loft. Her arms folded, she walked up to Grimmelman and said, “Are you Art’s revolutionary friend?”

  “This is a classified area,” Grimmelman said.

  Her lips moved. Without a word she passed Grimmelman to examine the maps mounted on the wall. Making no sound, she traveled the length of the loft, inspecting the papers and books and reports and heaps of information on the tables. Grimmelman, shivering with displeasure, said, “You’re not permitted to handle that material.” To Art he said, “Who is she? Is this authorized?”

  Pat said, “This is an SWP paper, isn’t it?” She held up a newspaper with heavy black banners. “During the war I knew a boy in the SWP.”

  “Are you politically active?” Grimmelman demanded.

  Tossing down the paper, she walked toward him. “No. Should I be?” She cleared papers and books from a chair and seated herself. “You know what you remind me of? The French students after the war. Living in Paris on bread and margarine. Kids who were in the Resistance in their teens.”

  Grimmelman said, “Were you in France?”

  “For a few months in 1948. On a scholarship.”

  “What was it like?”

  “They were very poor. What’s all this for, up here? Are you part of an organized group?”

  Art said, “H-h-he’s going to overthrow the existing order.”

  “I see,” Pat said.

  “This is not something to be discussed,” said Grimmelman. “If you were affiliated with the SWP, you probably have contacts with elements hostile to us.” He busied himself with papers; he ignored her. It was clear that he disapproved of her. He was not going to talk to her.

  Art said, “Look at this.” He showed her the M1 rifle; as always, it was oiled and shiny.

  “I see,” she said, without taking it.

  “Don’t show her those,” Grimmelman said.

  “Aw, hell,” Art said, exasperated. “What do you think she’s g-g-going to do? I told you she’s okay; I know her.” He pushed the M1 rifle at Pat, wanting her to take it. But she did not. Baffled, he returned it to its wall rack. From one of the work tables, Pat took a book, opened it, and then put it aside.

  His back to the two of them, Grimmelman shuffled papers. He carried the papers to a map in the corner and transferred information from the papers to the map. Except for the wheezing and scratching of Grimmelman, the room was quiet.

  “Let’s go,” Art said.

  She remained seated, and he thought that she did not intend to leave. But then, almost as an afterthought, she arose and walked toward the door.

  “What time is it?” she said to him as she started down the stairs. Neither she nor Grimmelman said goodbye; at the map, Grimmelman devoted himself to his papers, his shoulders hunched, his nose bent and twitching. He snuffled, lifted his head to rub his cheek with the back of his hand. Seeing them leave, he whinnied, a half laugh; as Art closed the door, Grimmelman started over to lock it.

  Pat had already, reached the path and was starting cautiously in the direction of the street.

  Art said, “That’s sure strange up there.”

  “He takes it seriously, doesn’t he?” Pat said. “How old is he? He’s older than the rest of you.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, wishing to forget the whole business.

  Pat said, “It smells stale. Like food. Does he eat and sleep up there?”

  “Y-y-yeah,” Art mumbled.

  “What’s he do for a living?”

  “Works at the cannery, I guess. During the fall.”

  “How did you run into somebody like that?” She stood at the sidewalk, by the car.

  “He used to hang around Dodo’s,” Art said.

  “He’s a crank. He must have put a lot of money into those books.” Getting into the car, she said, “Do you want to drive? Is there somewhere you want to take me?”

  At the wheel he said, “How’d you like to see the H-h-horch?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “It’s real rare,” he said. “You never saw one like it.” As they drove along the dark street, he said, “Maybe you d-d-don’t care.”

  She repeated, “Whatever you want.” She sounded indifferent, as if it was all the same to her. To him she sounded far off.

  On both sides of the car, industrial installations and warehouses passed. Streetlights were few and far between. Once he saw a bus parked at an intersection; the driver, alone inside, was reading a magazine.

  No good, he decided. He turned right and headed back into town.

  When they crossed Columbus, Pat said, “Are we going any place in particular?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Then why don’t we stop over there.” Ahead of them was a night spot; a green-and-blue neon sign whisked on and off. Cars and taxis were parked close by. An awning stretched from the door of the club to the curb; several men in dinner jackets stood in the entrance. A woman in an evening gown and fur joined them.

  “There?” Art said.

  “I’d like something to drink.”

  “I can’t go in there.”

  Pat said, “Then let’s stop somewhere else. Over in North Beach somewhere.”

  “No,” he said.

  “They don’t care how you dress in the North Beach places.”

  “I can’t go in because I’m under age.”

  “You haven’t got anything you can show them?”

  He had only one piece of forged identification, a borrowed Air Force pass. It was too risky. If they asked for his driver’s license or his social security card, he was sunk.

  “Let’s just go home,” he said. “To your place.”

  “Then we’re through going out?”

  He did not look at her, but he knew she was smiling.

  “It wasn’t much of an evening,” she said. Stretching her arms, she said, “I shouldn’t go out on workdays anyhow. I have to be up at seven tomorrow.”

  “You want to just drive?” he said.

  “No. I’d just as soon go home.”

  And stil
l, he thought, she was smiling. She was enjoying this; she was amused.

  “What does Rachael think of your revolutionary pal?”

  “Not much.”

  “I don’t think—what’s his name?—likes girls.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Did he ever make any passes at you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “There’re a lot of them in San Francisco. Once Jim went around with a girl whose husband was queer. He had an affair with her. That’s what he said, anyhow. That was years ago.”

  He grunted.

  “Sex is mysterious,” Pat said presently. “Sometimes I think it isn’t an instinct… It’s what you’re accustomed to or what you think you should want. Or something you haven’t ever had and you wonder how it would be. There’s a certain element of illicitness in it. The concealed…the denied. Something you’re not supposed to have. The ads hint; they never say exactly. They build it up, with mentions and elusive words. Like the lyrics in pop tunes. When I was in my teens, we were still listening to Glenn Miller. I remember during the war…we used to get our Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller records together, six or seven of us, and we’d play the records and lie around on the floor. Frank Sinatra.” She laughed. “I remember Frankie…on the ‘Hit Parade.’ He and Bea Waine. ‘I’ve Got Spurs That Jingle, Jangle, Jingle.’” She began to hum. “That was—when was that?—1943, I guess.”

  He said nothing.

  “That was when the Russians were our friends,” she said. “When they stopped the Germans at Stalingrad.” Rolling down the car window, she rested her arm on the sill. Cold evening wind rushed in, mixing with the warm air from the heater. “When I was growing up,” she said, “we sang all the different pop tunes. What was the first one? ‘Bei Mir Bist Du Schön.’ I was in grammar school. And ‘The Lambeth Walk.’ We actually believed the different lyrics. Do the kids believe them now?”

  “No,” he said.

  “About ‘June on the Moon’?”

  “No.”

  “I remember one. It always thought was beautiful. Do they ever play it anymore? ‘I’ll Build a Stairway to the Stars.’ I liked that about the best. The stuff Jim plays on ‘Club 17’… I can’t get used to Mitch Miller’s echo chamber. It’s so—bloated. And the styles, you can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man. Like Johnny Ray. And it’s everything mixed together, Western and Negro jump and sweet sentimental…a mish-mash.”