“What next?” Scott Ettley asked, smiling, outwardly at ease again. A bus was approaching, now.
“We’ll keep separate on the bus. We’ll walk together after that. I’ve some things to ask about, before we appear at the meeting.”
Scott nodded, and drew apart slightly. He searched for his fare. Another passenger joined them, and they boarded the bus as strangers. But as the bus followed the short run through Central Park, taking them eastwards once more, Scott had a good idea of what Orpen would ask. Orpen would want to know what had Scott decided to do about Rona. What can I do? Scott thought as he stared out at the Park’s black shadows, at the high towers rising into the dark sky with a blaze of lighted rooms, what can I do except let us drift apart? Didn’t Orpen see that this couldn’t be hurried, that you can’t love a girl one day and then pretend to forget her on the next? And if Orpen challenged him with being a coward, he would admit it. He couldn’t face Rona. He wasn’t able to do that. All right, so what? Orpen had won. Wasn’t that enough? Careful, Scott told himself, stop this bitterness against Orpen. It isn’t he who has won; it is something bigger than Orpen or Rona or myself, something bigger than all this city and its lighted sky and the millions who stare up at it.
When the bus stopped at Fifth Avenue, Scott Ettley got off first, and it was Orpen who had to follow him, catching up with him as he walked slowly down Fifth Avenue on the tree-shadowed side by the Park’s east boundary. “Am I going the wrong way?” he asked Orpen.
“No, this will do,” Orpen said with a narrow smile. He began his questions and they were mostly what Scott Ettley had expected.
Scott answered briefly, without hesitation. It was a good feeling to know that he could recognise Orpen’s next move. A new stage in my life, he thought. Until now, Orpen had done all the leading. Then he noticed that Orpen’s worry (he was always most sardonic when he was worried) wasn’t altogether directed at him. Orpen was worried. Orpen was disguising it. Orpen had troubles of his own. Scott Ettley became so sure of this that he didn’t even allow his amusement to be shown when they approached Thelma’s apartment house on Park Avenue. In the last three blocks he had guessed it would be their destination.
“You may have to wait a little,” Orpen said, glancing at his watch. “It’s an important meeting tonight. We have a visitor. A tourist. From Prague.”
Scott was impressed. A tourist? That was very high level indeed. And there was an odd quality in Orpen’s voice that strengthened Scott’s interest in the visitor from Prague.
Orpen noticed his glance. “You probably won’t see him,” he said brusquely, putting Scott into his proper place once more. Then, in marked silence, they entered the apartment house.
Orpen was annoyed with himself. I was too abrupt, he thought. Then he smiled, this time with real amusement. He was thinking of the way he had helped Scott Ettley all along this road. From the beginning, he had advised and taught and cautioned and protected and persuaded. It was on his strong recommendation that Scott had reached this stage of his career so quickly. Or did Scott really believe that everyone in the Party got the same chance? Was he congratulating himself on his special virtues that had marked him out from the others? Orpen’s smile turned into a laugh quickly covered by a fit of coughing.
“Don’t worry about the night elevator man,” Orpen said, as they waited in the private lobby to Thelma’s apartment. “Or about the night doorman. Souls of discretion.” His amused eyes seemed to be saying, Yes, Scott, I can still tell you a thing or two.
The door took some time to open, this evening. When it did, the butler stood there. But his coat was off, and his face was smiling. They entered quickly, and he double-locked the door behind them. He held out his hand to Orpen. From the music-room, its doors closed firmly, came the sound of someone practising Chopin, not well, but determinedly.
“Bill!” Orpen said in way of greeting, as he gripped the man’s hand.
Scott Ettley hoped he hid his surprise. He shook Bill’s hand, in turn. Bill? Scott had always know him as Martin, the very correct and stupid butler who was the only servant who stayed in the apartment. The rest of Thelma’s servants left after dinner. It was difficult nowadays, Thelma had often explained to her friends, to find any servants who would live on the premises. Most seemed to have homes of their own and wanted to get back to them each night. It was a common enough explanation in New York housekeeping, and no one had ever disbelieved it. Everyone had thought, privately, that Martin might be a stiff-necked old idiot, but Thelma was lucky to have him around especially when Charles started getting drunk.
But now Bill was walking ahead with Orpen, and Scott Ettley was left to follow. Bill took them to a narrow door in the hall, opened it and gestured for them to enter. He listened to the sounds of the piano from the music-room, and smiled. “Thelma may not play good, but she plays loud,” he remarked. “That’s all we need, anyway.” He closed the narrow door and led them into a short dark passage. It was Scott’s guess that these must be the servants’ quarters, now so little used. But the sound of the piano could still be faintly heard, ebbing and flowing as Thelma interpreted the emotion of the music.
“Where’s that son of hers tonight?” Orpen asked suddenly.
“Charles started drinking at ten o’clock this morning. He’s in his room, dead to the world.” Bill’s voice held no interest.
“I always feel happier when he is out of the house,” Orpen said.
“Better this way. Then we don’t have to worry about him returning unexpectedly. He’s so drunk he wouldn’t recognise Thelma,” Bill said cheerfully. “If you lived in this place, you wouldn’t be afraid of Charles.” He opened the second door in the corridor. “You wait here,” he told Scott Ettley. “Oh, by the way,” he added, dropping his voice almost to a whisper, “when we meet Peter remember he’s all for the formalities. A great stickler is Peter. Comrade this. Comrade that. Just his European way. But remember!” There wasn’t any humour now in Bill’s voice. He and Orpen exchanged a look. There was a tightening to Orpen’s lips. Bill was impassive.
“Peter is next door, now?” Orpen asked in a low voice.
Bill nodded. “He seems anxious to see you tonight.”
There was something almost ominous in the phrase. Scott Ettley thought he saw a shadow cross Orpen’s face. But Orpen was saying “Good!” as if he meant it. Then Bill gestured impatiently, and Scott entered a small empty room, poorly lit, sparsely furnished. Bill closed the door behind him.
Scott sat down on a hard wooden chair and waited obediently. As the minutes dragged on, he became almost paralysed with nervousness. Suddenly, he remembered Nicholas Orpen’s words to him last night: “You’re entering the big league, now.” He fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. It had been more comfortable in the minor leagues, he thought. He loosened his tie, relit his cigarette, and then studied the furniture. What, he was wondering, what is this job I’ve to do? The question had lain at the back of his mind all day, all evening, ever since Orpen had told him about it yesterday. But he hadn’t allowed him to speculate about it, not until this moment. Why even speculate now? He had accepted it. Orpen had made sure of that. All that was left to know was the assignment itself.
Then it seemed to Scott Ettley, suddenly, as if the walk here with Orpen had meant something after all. Orpen had been preparing him. But for what? Scott began organising the trend of Orpen’s questions. Rona...his father...when had Scott seen his father? This evening? How was his father? Still friendly?... A silly question, a question Scott had only shrugged off with bitter annoyance. How could he explain his father’s emotions tonight? Orpen wouldn’t have believed them. But now, lighting his third cigarette, he began to wonder. And as he began to wonder, he felt the coldness of fear beginning to chill his excitement.
The door opened. Bill’s heavy white face, expressionless, looked into the room. Bill’s short broad forefinger beckoned him. He was on his feet at once, grinding out his cigarette under his heel, following obediently. Al
l speculation, all fears and hesitations left him. He entered the next room. He was quite calm. He even enjoyed this feeling of cold fatalism. This was it.
The room was almost as small as the one Scott had left. It was as barely furnished, as poorly lit. The window, too, was tightly shaded. And it must have been closed, for the air was warm and heavy with tobacco smoke. Four men were grouped round a card table, three of them talking quietly. There was Orpen who didn’t even glance up at Scott, as if he were disowning him, and two men in early middle age, as sedately dressed as Orpen, unplaceable. The fourth man, small, solidly built, sat a little apart. He held his cigarette in a strange way, thumb uppermost. His face was quite expressionless; his eyes missed nothing. He was saying nothing at all, but he dominated the room.
Scott Ettley, at a quick gesture from Bill, took an empty chair. It creaked as he sat on it, creaked with each deep breath. He was embarrassed and he sat motionless, trying to control his breathing so that the uneasy noise would stop. How ridiculous, he had time to think, to be facing one of the most important steps in my life, and to be worried only by a loose-jointed chair.
And then Bill began to talk. It was a thorough examination. They knew everything about him, but they still asked questions. Orpen was silent, as if his job were already over. And the man from Czechoslovakia said nothing at all. It seemed as if he were examining the examiners.
Scott answered promptly, without hesitation. He could thank Orpen for that. The others seemed satisfied. There was a short pause, almost an unspoken agreement.
Then the man called Bill said quietly, “Here is your assignment. You will leave the Morning Star, where you have gained four years of useful experience. You will go to your father. You will tell him that you’ve reconsidered your decision, that he was right and you were wrong, that you now want to work on the Clarion.
Scott Ettley stiffened involuntarily. The chair creaked ominously. He controlled himself. I have already accepted the assignment, he told himself. I have already accepted it.
“You will tell your father that you’d like to have a chance to work in the field of foreign news. He will be pleased by that choice. By the end of next year, his present editor of foreign news will be ready to retire. You understand?”
Ettley nodded. There is no turning back, he thought, no turning back. I’m too deep in, too deep in. He looked at the watchful faces. He said slowly, “I understand. Completely.”
Bill’s factual voice went on. “You will leave New York, live in Staunton, work hard and efficiently, justify every promotion that comes your way. That is all you have to do. Meanwhile.”
Ettley nodded again. He could say nothing. He could not even regulate his own thoughts.
“You will dissociate yourself from all your present political contacts,” Bill said. “You will express no political opinions of any kind. Is that clearly understood?”
There was a pause. “Yes,” Ettley said, “yes.”
The visitor from Czechoslovakia leaned forward. He spoke in English, correctly, not too distinctly, but forcibly. “Comrade Ettley does not want this assignment?”
Ettley faced him frankly. “I have said I will do it. I will do it.” He looked at Orpen. How long had Orpen known that this would be his job? How long? Four years ago, when Orpen had persuaded him to work on the Morning Star?
“These are your instructions,” Bill said. “Simple, but difficult. We rely on you. We consider this assignment of prime importance. Start on it at once. There’s no time to waste. You will report to us on your father’s reactions to your proposal by the end of this week, at the latest.”
Again there was a pause. Again the visitor leaned forward to speak. “Does Comrade Ettley find some difficulty we have not thought of?”
Scott Ettley looked at Orpen again. The other eyes followed his. Orpen was studying the stains on the card table.
“Well?” asked the man who had come from Czechoslovakia. There was a harshness, a coldness, in his voice that startled Ettley.
He blurted out, “A difficulty has arisen. I met my father tonight. We almost quarrelled. He refused all explanations I tried to give him about—about the end of my engagement to Rona Metford.”
Orpen looked up then, his lips compressed. He stared at Ettley.
“Your father is an ally of this girl?” Bill asked quickly.
“Sentimental nonsense, comrades. We waste our time,” the foreign voice said. “We have no place for weakness, Comrade Ettley. “
“Comrade Ettley’s good faith need not be questioned,” Orpen said unexpectedly. “He thought this girl would be an asset in his work for the Party. We decided she would be a liability. I advised him of this, last night. He accepted the decision. As he has accepted all our decisions. I do not pick men who are weak, Comrade Peter.”
Bill was watching the foreigner’s face. “But you weren’t such a good judge of the girl’s usefulness,” he said worriedly, angrily. “Wait in the next room,” he told Scott Ettley abruptly.
Ettley rose and walked stiffly to the door. He closed it quietly as the argument began. He was remembering the way Orpen had stared at him, unbelieving, almost accusing, challenging disloyalty. And then Orpen had defended him when the Czech had criticised. Or had Orpen been defending Orpen? There’s some hidden battle going on, Scott Ettley thought suddenly, there’s a struggle for power, a...”
He looked over his shoulder swiftly. It had seemed to him, there, as if a door farther along the passage had closed quietly. For a moment he halted, wondering if he ought to go and investigate. Then he thought that it might be another candidate for another assignment, another man waiting for examination in another small room. Or it might have been a draught of air from an open window. In any case, he must not hang about this corridor, he must not appear to be eavesdropping on the argument he had left behind. He imagined the comments of the Czech comrade if he were found loitering here. Ettley’s face still burned with the sting of those last remarks. He opened the door of the room where he was to wait, and he entered quickly, leaving the corridor without another glance behind him.
A struggle for power, he was thinking again... And then he discarded that notion as ridiculous, nonsensical. Men such as Orpen or Bill were not interested in personal power. They were caught up in something bigger than that. Personal politics did not enter into the picture at all: they couldn’t. Just as personal wishes, personal desires couldn’t. Then he began thinking about himself, about this job on the Clarion.
When the door opened at last, it was Orpen who came into the room. “All right,” he said briskly, “you can leave, Scott. The next meeting which you will have to attend will be on Friday. Here, same time. We’ll come separately. Take care, won’t you? You will then report the results of your talks with your father. We expect to hear good news. And then, you’ll get final instructions.” He turned as if to leave. At the door, though, he looked back at Ettley. “Why didn’t you tell me about this attitude of your father’s toward Rona Metford? I gave you the opportunity.”
“I didn’t realise—” Scott halted awkwardly. He couldn’t find an explanation. “I don’t know,” he said frankly, unhappily. And then, to change the subject, “Friday? But will you be in New York on Friday?” Last night, Orpen had said he was leaving on Thursday. For abroad, Scott had guessed. Whenever Orpen travelled abroad, he gave few details; you could measure the importance of his trips by the casual way he’d mention them.
“That’s been cancelled, meanwhile.” Orpen’s voice was expressionless. “And, by the way, so are my instructions to you about giving up Metford.”
“Cancelled?”
Orpen studied the younger man’s face for a moment. “You look like a man reprieved,” he said, almost sadly. If only he had accepted my decision, Orpen thought, he would have spared himself a lot of pain in the future. Better to break with the girl now, instead of in a few months or a year—as soon as her usefulness was over, anyway. “Slip out quietly,” he advised abruptly. “Don’t speak to
Thelma.” And he left the room at once, as if he didn’t want to stay away from the meeting next door any longer than he had to.
* * *
Scott Ettley reached the main hall to the apartment. It was empty. He walked quietly toward the front door. The music, which had stopped for the last few minutes, was beginning again. This time, Brahms was under Thelma’s attack and defending himself vigorously. Scott glanced behind him. He thought, but again he couldn’t be sure, that he saw a brief movement far down the hall near the library door.
He hesitated. His first impulse was to investigate. But his instructions had been to keep away from the front of the apartment: Don’t speak to Thelma. He opened the massive front door, and then he closed it without leaving. He stood motionless beside it, his eyes on the other end of the hall. He saw Charles slip out of the library, moving quickly and silently on slippered feet. And Charles saw Ettley. He checked himself for a moment, stared down the broad hall with that stupid expression on his blank white face. Then he moved on. But this time Charles was walking unsteadily. This time, Charles was drunk.
Scott waited until Charles disappeared towards his bedroom. Then he went back into the narrow corridor, his decided footsteps sounding their warning. Bill was out to face him in one moment. “What is it?” Bill asked. He had his butler’s coat half-drawn over his shoulders.
“Charles. He’s wandering around. He isn’t drunk.” He had spoken softly, but, from the silence in the room behind Bill, Ettley knew that his words had been heard by all of them. He might be accused of sentimental nonsense but no one could say he wasn’t alert.
Bill regained himself. He closed the room door quickly, and moved quickly toward the hall. “Did he see you?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Naturally,” Ettley said. “He’s probably seen all of us.”
Bill swore under his breath. He looked back at the room worriedly, as if he were trying to imagine the reactions of the visiting comrade to all this. “Better get out,” he told Ettley, his voice sharpened by sudden fear. Then pulling his coat into place, he strode angrily up the hall.