"I shall mind my own business."
"You lead a special life in that dumpy room. Charming, but what's it got to do with anything! I don't think you understand people's business. What do you mean about fellatio? What do you know about it?"
Well, it hadn't worked. What she threw at him was what the young man at Columbia had also cried out. He was out of it. A tall, dry, not agreeable old man, censorious, giving himself airs. Who in hell was he? Hors d'usage. Against the wall. A la lanterne! Very well. That was little enough. He ought not perhaps to have provoked Angela so painfully. By now he himself was shaking.
The gray nurse at this moment came and called Sammler to the telephone. "You are Mr. Sammler, aren't you?"
He started. Quickly he got to his feet. "Ah! Who wants me? Who is it?" He didn't know what to expect.
"The phone wants you. Your daughter. You can take it outside, at the desk."
"Yes, Shula, yes?" her father said. "Speak up. What is it? Where are you?"
"In New Rochelle. Where is Elya?"
"We are waiting for him. What do you want now, Shula?"
"Have you heard about Wallace?"
"Yes, I've heard."
"He did a really great thing when he brought in that plane without wheels."
"Yes, magnificent. He's certainly marvelous. Now, Shula, I want you out of there. You are not to prowl around that house, you have no business there. I wanted you to come back with me. You are not supposed to disobey me."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"But you did."
"I didn't. If we differ, it's in your interest."
"Shula, don't fool with me. Enough of my interests. Let them alone. You called with a purpose. I'm afraid I begin to understand."
"Yes, Father."
"You succeeded!"
"Yes, Father, aren't you pleased? In the-guess where? In the den where you slept. In the hassock you sat on this morning. When I brought in the coffee and saw you on it, I said, That's where the money is. I was just about sure. So when you went away, I came back and opened it up, and it was filled-filled with money. Would you think that about Cousin Elya? I'm surprised at him. I didn't want to believe it. The hassock was upholstered with packages of hundred-dollar bills. Money was the stuffing."
"Dear God."
"I haven't counted it," she said.
"I will not have you lying."
"All right, I did count. But I don't really know about money. I don't understand business."
"Did you speak to Wallace on the phone?"
"Yes."
"And did you tell him about this?"
"I didn't say one single word."
"Good, very good, Shula. I expect you to turn it over to Mr. Widick. Call him to come and get it, and tell him you want a receipt for it."
"Father!"
"Yes, Shula."
He waited. He knew that, gripping one of those New Rochelle white telephones, she was marshaling her arguments, she was mastering her resentment at his ancient- father's stubbornness and stupid rectitude. At her expense. He knew quite well what she was feeling. "What will you live on, Father, when Elya is gone?" she said.
An excellent question, a shrewd, relevant question. He had lost out with Angela, he had infuriated her. He knew what she would say. "I'll never forgive you, Uncle." And what's more she never would.
"We will live on what there is."
"But suppose he doesn't leave any provision?"
"That's as he wishes. Up to him, entirely."
"We are part of the family. You are the closest to him."
"You will do as I tell you."
"Listen to me, Father. I have to look out for you. You haven't even said anything to me about finding this."
"It was damn clever of you, Shula. Yes. Congratulations. That was clever."
"It really was. I noticed how the hassock bulged under you, not like other hassocks, and when I felt around I heard the money rustle. I knew from the rustle, what it was. Of course I didn't say anything to Wallace. He'd squander it in a week. I thought rd buy some clothes. If I was dressed at Lord and Taylor, maybe I'd be less of an eccentric type, and I'd have a chance with somebody."
"Like Govinda Lal."
"Yes, why not? I've made myself as interesting as I could within my means."
Her father was astonished by this. Eccentric type? She was aware of herself, then. There was a degree of choice. Wig, scavenging, shopping bags, were to an extent deliberate. Was that what she meant? How fascinating!
"And I think," she was saying, "that we should keep this. I think EIya would agree. I'm a woman without a husband, and I've never had children, and this money comes from preventing children, and I think it's only right that I should take it. For you, too, Father."
"I'm afraid not, Shula. Elya may already have told Mr. Widick about this hoard. I'm sorry. But we're not thieves. It's not our money. Tell me how much it was?"
"Each time I count, it's different."
"How much was it the last time?"
"Either six or eight thousand. I laid it all out on the floor. But I was too excited to count straight."
"I assume it's much, much more, and I can't allow you to keep any."
"I won't."
Of course she would, he was certain of it. As a trash- collector, treasure-hunter, she would be unable to surrender it all.
"You must give Widick every cent."
"Yes, Father. It's painful, but I will. Ill hand it over to Widick. I think you're making a mistake."
"No mistake. And don't take off as you did with Govtnda 's manuscript."
Too late to be tempted. One more desire gone. He very nearly smiled at himself.
"Good-by, Shula. You're a good daughter. The best of any. No better daughter."
Wallace, then, had been right about his father. He had done favors for the Mafia. Performed some operations. The money did exist. There was no time to think about all this, however. He put up the phone and left the marble counter to find that Dr. Cosbie had been waiting for him. The one-time football star in his white coat held his upper lip pressed by the nether one. The bloodless face and gas-blue eyes had been trained to transmit surgeons' messages. The message was plain. It was all over.
"When did he die?" said Sammler. "Just now?"
While I was stupidly urging Angela!
"A little while back. We had him down in the special unit, doin' the maximum possible."
"You couldn't do anything about a hemorrhage, I see, yes."
"You are his uncle. He asked me to say good-by to you."
"I wish I had been able to say it also to him. So it didn't happen in one rush?"
"He knew it was startin'. He was a doctor. He knew it. He asked me to take him from the room."
"He asked you to?"
"It was obvious he wanted to spare his daughter. So I said tests. It's Miss Angela?"
"Yes, Angela."
"He said he preferred downstairs. He knew I'd take him anyway."
"Of course. As a surgeon, Elya knew. He certainly knew the operation was futile, all that torture of putting a screw in his throat." Sammler removed his glasses. His eyes, one a sightless bubble, under the hair of overhanging brows, were level with Dr. Cosbie's. "Of course it was futile."
"The procedure was correct. He knew it was."
"My nephew wished always to agree. Of course he knew. It might have been kinder though not to make him go through it."
"I suppose you want to go in and tell Miss Angela?"
"Please tell Miss Angela yourself. What I want is to see my nephew. How do I get to him? Give me directions."
"You'll have to wait and see him at the chapel, sir. It's not allowed."
"Young man, it is important and you had better allow me. Take my word for it. I am determined. Let us not have a bad scene out here in the corridor. You would not want that, would you?"
"Would you make one?"
"I would."
"I'll send his nurse with you," said the doctor.
They went down in the elevator, the gray woman and Mr. Sammler, and through lower passages paved in speckled material, through tunnels, up and down ramps, past laboratories and supply rooms. Well, this famous truth for which he was so keen, he had it now, or it had him. He felt that he was being destroyed, what was left of him. He wept to himself. He walked at the habitual rapid sweeping pace, waiting at crossways for the escorting nurse. In stirring air flavored with body-things, sickness, drugs. He felt that he was breaking up, that irregular big fragments inside were melting, sparkling with pain, floating off. Well, Elya was gone. He was deprived of one more thing, stripped of one more creature. One more reason to live trickled out. He lost his breath. Then the woman came up. More hundreds of yards in this winding underground smelling of serum, of organic soup, of fungus, of cell-brew. The nurse took Sammler's hat and said, "In there. " The door sign read P. M. That would mean post-mortem. They were ready to do an autopsy as soon as Angela signed the papers. And of course she would sign. Let's find out what went wrong. And then cremation.