“I’m enjoying it.” Paul stretched his legs out on the ottoman. “But I can’t help wondering sometimes whether Tim can possibly be only a dupe, used by the top guys to destabilize governments. If that’s the case, then Martillini’s death must have knocked him off his feet. Or is he a top guy himself?”
Ilse didn’t answer. The television screen flickered. Water buffalo, rice paddies, running people, helicopters, stretchers, and fires flickered in and out.
“Sometimes I think those people in Cambodia will suffer terribly if we don’t win,” Paul said. “And on the other hand, I think we ought to get out now and never should have been there in the first place, as Eisenhower warned. I just don’t know.”
Ilse turned the television off. “Enough. There’s a concert in the park tomorrow night, and we’re having supper on the grass.”
“Do you think Tim’s an international top guy?”
Ilse sighed. “My guess is yes. What would you like for the picnic?”
“Anything you provide. It’s always good. What do you think can have happened to Tim now?”
“Don’t worry about him. If he’s not hiding in this country, then he’s very comfortable in Libya. Or Cuba, or maybe in Lebanon, in some white villa with a view of the Mediterranean.”
“You’re saying that the world hasn’t seen the last of him and his kind.”
“It’s a lovely evening. Come on, let’s take Lou for a walk. Then you can buy me some ice cream.”
“All right. I’ll drop the subject.” He laughed. “You’ve made your point. Get the leash.” He hesitated, then. “One thing, and then I promise to say no more. I’ve been thinking—I want to ask Theo to invite me to the house. I’ll wait awhile and ask him in a month or so. I want to.”
Ilse reached up and stroked his cheek.
“I’m surprised you’re not fussing the way you always did and telling me that’s crazy,” Paul said.
“No,” she answered gently. “What was true once isn’t necessarily true forever.”
It’s going really well, Iris thought as she surveyed the table. There were nine at dinner, which was about as many as the room could comfortably hold: Theo, Philip, and herself, besides Jimmy and Laura with their spouses and, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Werner, in whose honor the family had assembled. Only Steve was missing. And at once she corrected herself: not missing anymore, merely absent.
The table was really beautiful, adorned with Anna’s old French china and one of her best embroidered cloths, a little crowded, to be sure, but then crowding could also create an intimate atmosphere. The Werners had sent flowers that morning, five green orchids resting lightly in a Lalique bowl, the whole most unusual and most exquisite, chosen as though they could have known beforehand that the small table in the small room would be overpowered by a massive centerpiece.
Two or three enthusiastic conversations were going at the same time, flinging bits and pieces of themselves to where Iris sat.
“Nobody knows what the future may bring.” That was Philip. “My science teacher told us that in 1937 people at the American Academy of Sciences were asked to predict what inventions might be made within the next ten years, and not one of them predicted radar or the jet engine or atomic energy.”
“… the same butterflies we used to see at Cape Cod, the monarch.” That was Laura. “Can you imagine those frail things flying all the way to Mexico to winter and breed?”
Bright young people, they were. Handsome and good: Jimmy with feet on the ground, so sensibly, so happily, making his way; Laura, the sometimes willful and always charming romantic; Philip, turning now from boy into man and blessed with the gift of contentment, of easy acceptance. A mother might be forgiven for having a little pride in them. At once she corrected herself: no, not pride, but gratitude. Much gratitude.
Mr. Werner, on her right, looked as though he wanted her attention.
“The flowers,” she said. “I must thank you again. They’re so beautiful.”
“And I must thank you for a most beautiful letter. I was much moved by it.”
“Oh, I’m glad. It was a very hard letter for me to write. I really labored over it.”
He was surprised. “Labored?”
“Oh, yes! How was I to begin telling you how grateful, how thankful, we are for what you did? It was a miracle. A miracle! If we were to live a thousand years, Theo and I, there wouldn’t be time enough to tell you of our relief, our joy—”
He stopped her. “The joy was mine too. I’ve always liked to do things for young people. Boys’ clubs, summer camps, settlement houses, that sort of thing. And this was a challenge. A bit different.” He smiled; the smile was very kind.
At first, when he had come to the door this evening, she had been startled to find that she recognized him in spite of having seen him so few times, and each time only briefly, almost in passing. Then it came to her that there were indeed some things about the man that one would remember, chiefly his height and his elegance. There weren’t too many men who possessed that combination or that particular formal, yet simple, courtesy. Theo was one of them, she thought now, and thinking so, it was her turn to smile.
“… radiology,” Janet was saying. “Then I can pretty much set my own hours. Emergency medicine and child rearing don’t mix very well.”
“How right you are,” said Ilse Werner. “I remember it myself.”
Robbie, addressing Jimmy, inquired, “And you’ll do surgery?”
“I think so.”
“He can take up where I left off,” said Theo.
“Your husband has adjusted very well to the change in his career,” Mr. Werner remarked.
“He’s a courageous man, Mr. Werner.”
“I’d be pleased if you’d call me Paul.”
The friendly request gave her a queer feeling of guilt. If it had not been for what he had done for Steve, she would no doubt still be remembering him, if at all, with dislike. And she recalled the words she had used about him: hovering, popping up, sneaking—as on that day she had seen him driving away from her mother’s house. And she had chastised poor Mama for merely talking to a man who was apparently, after all, only an acquaintance from years past! For this she might well feel some twinges of guilt and shame.
She spoke now with redoubled effort at warmth. “I’m sure Theo’s told you we’ve been hearing regularly from Steve, hasn’t he, Mr.— Paul?”
“Yes, and I’m glad.”
“He seems to be liking his new work. That was a wonderful suggestion on your part.”
“It’s good that you don’t expect too much too fast. He has to rebuild himself patiently, and that takes time.”
“At least he’s building instead of dynamiting.”
Theo spoke. “He never did actually dynamite anything, Iris. He swore that to me.”
“Thank God.” And she raised her eyes to the opposite wall, where now hung the portrait of her mother that, for as long as she could remember, had hung above the mantel in her parents’ living room. Theo had wanted it to be put in this prominent position between the dining room’s two windows, and now at every meal, Anna, in the pink evening gown that her proud husband had had made for her in Paris, gazed down at her descendants.
“My mother would be so relieved if she could know,” Iris said. “She worried so about us all.”
“A good mother.”
“Yes, I had good parents. I often think how different their lives were from mine. How far they came! Papa grew up in back of a grocery store on the Lower East Side. His mother supported them when his father went blind. And then when Papa was successful—I guess that’s why he couldn’t give my mother enough. He wanted to make up for everything that neither of them had had when they were young. He would have given her the world.”
Suddenly, she became conscious of Werner’s intense expression. He had turned his head to look at her, and it crossed her mind that perhaps she was boring him with these personal remarks, so she sought hastily for something else to say.
&nbs
p; “Did you grow up in New York too, Mr.— Paul?” she asked.
“What are you talking about so seriously?” asked Ilse Werner, from across the table.
“Not seriously,” Iris answered her. “I just asked Paul whether he grew up in New York.”
“He did, and he can tell amazing things about the city that used to be, things you wouldn’t even recognize,” Ilse said with affectionate pride.
Robbie spoke then. “Tell us. I’m a midwesterner, and New York still dazes me.”
“I hardly know where to begin,” said Paul. “There are so many pictures in my head. Electric automobiles and organ-grinders with their monkeys. And, oh, yes, the Dakota apartment house on Central Park West. I could always get my bearings from it when I was a child because it stuck so far up into the sky. My grandmother called it a sore thumb, but my father said it was very fine and someday the whole West Side would be built up like that, all the way to the Hudson River where the farms were.”
“Farms!” cried Laura.
“Yes,” Paul continued, with evident enjoyment, “they were vegetable farms mostly, with goats climbing on the rocks behind the houses. I used to think it would be nice to live in one, I remember. Looking back, I suppose they were nothing more than shanties,” he mused.
“New York is fabulous,” Janet said. “I can’t wait until we live here.”
Laura shuddered. “Robbie and I wouldn’t take it as a gift. Can’t be too far out in the country for us.”
“And we’re in between, your mother and I,” Theo remarked. “We’ve gotten to like this house and our little garden. But maybe it would be nice to move a little farther out and have a bit more garden space.”
“And room for a pool,” Iris told him, “since your favorite exercise is swimming.”
“Expensive,” Theo said.
“You deserve it,” she responded firmly. “It’s something you always loved, and you should have it.”
He worked hard, he earned enough now, and it was time again for some luxuries. To her slight surprise Paul Werner gave agreement.
“I think he does. And you deserve something too, as a reward for labor, don’t you?”
“What labor?” she countered.
“Why, earning your doctorate. Theo tells me you’re almost finished with your thesis.”
“I’ve enjoyed it too much to call it ‘labor,’ ” she said, but was pleased, nevertheless.
Presently the dessert appeared, a lemon mousse with a fresh raspberry sauce.
“Laura made it,” Iris proclaimed. “You all know perfectly well that I didn’t. She’s a much better cook than I am.”
Everyone laughed, and Laura said, “It’s from Nana’s recipe, naturally. My grandmother was one of the world’s best cooks,” she explained to Paul.
When dinner was over, they all went to the living room. Theo served brandy, Philip consented to play some jazz, and Jimmy, one of those people who remember jokes, brought out a string of them.
The little house glowed, and Iris, watching and listening, felt the glow. She was really sorry they hadn’t invited Paul Werner before now. They had been remiss; she had said so to Theo earlier today when they were dressing.
“You weren’t thinking, were you, that I could possibly have any feeling toward him, after what he’s done for us, but the most grateful?” she had asked.
And Theo had answered, “Of course not. I just never thought he’d want to come.”
“But why on earth wouldn’t he want to? We’re nice people, aren’t we?”
To that Theo had given her no answer. Well, she decided now, it’s of no moment. We shall certainly invite them again.
The evening came to an end when Paul Werner said, “Now that we’ve had a good time and solved the world’s problems, it’s time to go home. At least it is for me.”
He thanked them, shaking everyone’s hand in turn, complimenting the hostess on the dinner, and all of them for their hospitality. They watched the Werners go down the walk with Theo, who escorted them to their car.
“Such a pleasant man,” Iris said. “He gave me the feeling that we had known each other forever. And I liked his wife too. You can tell how much she loves him.”
“A nice time, wasn’t it?” Theo remarked later in their room upstairs.
“Very. But you were so quiet! I’m used to seeing you take the lead, and tonight you were sort of lying back and observing. Was there any reason?”
“Not at all. I wasn’t even aware of it. I guess I was just listening to Paul.”
“Oh, he’s quite charming, so full of life! And to think how I used to dislike him!”
At this same time, while Theo and Iris were talking to each other, Paul and Ilse were on the parkway traveling toward New York. To Paul it was as if the evening had been a dream, as if the fulfillment of so many years’ longing were too much to have been granted to him.
“How lovely she is! How lovely!” he said. “All of them.… The two young couples in love.… Jimmy’s strong, the kind of young man I like.… Must be a consolation, in a way, for all their trials with that other.… But I have a feeling that that one will come out all right too, in the end; he won’t eat crow before his parents, that’s for sure, not with his fierce opinions. But at least he’s working well at the job, and that’s progress. He reminds me a little of my socialist aunt. This family breeds types. I guess all families do.… The boy at the piano has a fine head.… And Laura …” He stopped, thinking, Laura is Anna … almost.… You were right, Anna … you kept them together instead of coming to me all those times when I begged you to leave your husband.… You were right.… You gave them something to stand by.”
In the darkness in the little car Paul felt himself smile.
I helped too, he said to himself. The day I walked into Theo’s office and found everything in chaos, I helped too. And I thank God I could, because tonight is the result, and they’re all right together, the two of them. Even a blind man could see that. Theo … Iris.…
“I can feel you smiling,” Ilse said.
“Yes, I was happy. I was so happy tonight.”
“Yes, dear, I know. I’m glad.”
“I hope they’ll ask us to come again sometime.”
“I’m sure they will, dear Paul.” Passing lights fell full upon Ilse’s face, revealing a sweet expression of purest love.
“I wish life could go on awhile just like this,” he said.
Then, not very many days later, the pain came again, and he was taken away.
He lay in the intensive care room. Something seemed to have happened in his head, because it was difficult, although not impossible, to frame words. Could it be both heart and stroke, he wondered, a double blow? Tentatively, he tried to move his arms and legs; they moved, so he was not paralyzed. He gave a sigh of deep thankfulness.
People were coming and going. He was aware of low, considerate voices. He knew, without opening his eyes, when people were standing by his bed. He knew Ilse was there always. He was aware of Theo. When Leah came he recognized the jingle of her bracelets and was amused. He knew Meg’s voice. He wished that Iris and her children would come, but of course they would not; why should they? They were acquaintances, people he hardly knew.
One day he awoke and looked into the brown, weepy eyes of the Hindu intern.
“He’s awake,” said Ilse.
“Do something for me,” he murmured, and she bent low.
“The dog. Give him to Meg, unless you want to take him back to Israel.”
“My dearest, who says I’m going back to Israel?”
“You will. You should. You came to stay with me because you knew I was going to die.”
He drifted. Inside his head there was a flickering of pictures that flared, faded, and overlapped. In myriad colors they came: his parents and his grandmother Angelique in black and gray; Meg in a blue haze carrying babies, so many babies; Ilse, young, with black satin hair, in her white doctor’s coat; Anna, always she returning again and again, a
ll gold and scarlet; and Iris’s face … her face.
A nurse spoke far above his head. “He’s smiling.”
And someone answered, “It’s only a reflex. He can’t be, in his condition.”
They always said, he remembered, that no one really knew whether a person in a coma could hear or understand. He could have told them, he wanted to tell them, that, yes, he did hear and did understand. But he hadn’t the energy, and anyway, it didn’t matter. I am old, he thought again. It’s wonderful to have lived, but now it’s time.
They buried him in Westchester on a gilded autumn morning, a burnished day. In the windless air the last yellow maple leaves dropped, slowly turning, and fell on the roof of the granite mausoleum in which two generations of the Werner family already lay.
It was surprising, Theo reflected, how many had come to the graveside. Almost a hundred people had followed the hearse. There were young men in Wall Street suits, prosperous middle-aged couples, a group of well-dressed blacks representing, he supposed, some organization Paul had benefited; there were even a few young people wearing jeans. And yet, among all these, there was not one descendant except Iris.
The rabbi asked family members to take the front row of seats. First, of course, came Ilse, slender in a black suit, with deep grief on her fine strong face. There was a younger woman in some sort of western outfit, with a single braid of gray hair falling down her back. There were two couples, both in late middle age, one of them expensive and urbane, the other appearing to be country people; the woman was fair with a gentle, pink, English face, an elderly tweed suit and sturdy brogues.
“Come, Leah,” he heard the fair one say. “Sit here.”
“That’s Léa from the dress shop,” whispered Iris. She felt nothing but curiosity. All other feelings and memories connected with that place and time had been overcome and cast away.
The rabbi began the Kaddish. A murmur of accompanying voices filled the quiet space beneath the trees.
“Astonishing prayer,” Iris said to herself, “thanking God even in death for life, and asking for no bountiful reward in heaven. Only thanks. Astonishing, when you think about it.” And her eyes filled with tears.