"I think on the whole I like them better than they liked me. Besides, a Pan once saved my life."
"And Shula in the convent."
"Yes, that too. Nuns hid her."
"I can remember Shula years ago in New Rochelle, coming downstairs in her nightgown, and she was no kid, she must have been twenty-seven or so, kneeling in front of everybody in the parlor and praying. Did she use Latin? Anyway that nightgown was damn flimsy. I thought she was trying to get your goat, with her Christian act. It was a put-down, wasn't it, in a Jewish house? Some Jews, anyhow! Is she still such a Christian?"
"At Christmas and Easter, somewhat."
"And she bugs you about H. G. Wells. But fathers are soft on daughters. Look how Dad favors Angela. He gave her ten times more. Because she reminded him of Mae West. He was always smiling at her boobs. He wasn't aware of it. Mother and I saw it."
"What do you think will happen, Wallace?"
"My dad? He won't make it. He's got about a two percent chance. What good is that screw?"
"He's struggling."
"Any fish will fight. A hook in the gill. It gets jerked into the wrong part of the universe. It must be like drowning in air."
"Ah, that is terrifying," said Sammler.
"Still, to some people death is very welcome. If they've spoiled their piece of goods, I'm sure many would rather be dead. What I'm finding out is that when the parents are living, they stand between you and death. They have to go first, so you feel pretty safe. But when they die, you're next, and there's nobody ahead of you in line. At the same time I see already that I'm taking the wrong slant emotionally, and I know I'll pay for it later. I'm part of the system, whether I like it or not." Another moment of silent aberrant reflection--Mr. Sammler felt the density and the unruliness of Wallace's thoughts. Then Wallace said, "I wonder why Dr. Cosbie is so keen on football pools."
"Aren't you?"
"Not the way I was. Dad told him how much I know about pro football. College football, too. That's all behind me now. But it was like Dad offering me to the surgeon, so I would do something for him, so that we would all be close and friendly."
"But it's something else you're keen on now?"
"Yes. Feffer and I have a business idea. It's practically all I can think about."
"Ah, Feffer. He abandoned me at Columbia, and I haven't seen him since. I wondered even whether he was trying to make money on me."
"He's a terribly imaginative businessman, He'd con anyone. But maybe not you. Here's what we've come up with, as an enterprise. Aerial photographs of country houses. Then the salesman arrives with the picture--not just contacts but the fully developed picture--and offers you a package deal. We will identify the trees and shrubs on the place and band them handsomely, in Latin and English. People feel ignorant about the plants on their property."
"Does Feffer know trees?"
"In every neighborhood we'd hire a graduate student in botany. In Dutchess County, for instance, we could get someone from Vassar."
Mr. Sammler could not keep from smiling. "Feffer would seduce her, and also the lady of the house."
"Oh, no. I'd see he didn't get out of hand. I can control that character. He's a top salesman. Spring is a good time to start. Right now. Before the leaves are too thick for aerial photography. In the summer we could work Montauk, Chilmark, Wellfleet, Nantucket from the sea. My father won't give me the money."
"Is it a great deal?"
"A plane and equipment? Yes, it's considerable."
"You intend to buy a plane, not rent one?"
"Rent doesn't make sense. If you buy you get the tax write-off-depreciation. The secret of business is to make the government cover your risk. In Dad's bracket we'd save seventy cents on the dollar. The IRS is murder. He doesn't file a joint return and isn't head of a family since Mother died. He doesn't want to give me another lump sum. It's set up for me in trust so I'll have to live on the income. When I had my chance I dropped fifty thousand in that boutique."
"Gambling, I thought. Las Vegas."
"No, no, it was a motel complex in Vegas, and we had the clothing shop, the men's boutique."
A furious dresser and adorner of men's bodies, Wallace would have been.
"Uncle Artur, I'd like to put you on our payroll. Feffer agrees. Feffer loves you, you know. If you don't want to do it, well put Shula on at fifty bucks a week."
"And in return for this? You want me to talk to your father?"
"Use your influence."
"No, Wallace, I'm afraid I couldn't. Why, think what's going on. It's dreadful. I'm terrified."
"You wouldn't upset him. He thinks the same thoughts whether you talk to him or not. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. He's brooding about this anyway."
"No, no."
"Well, that's your decision. There is something else, though. There's money at home, in New Rochelle. In the house."
"Excuse me?" From curiosity, uncertainty, Sammler's voice went up.
"Hidden cash. A large amount. Never declared."
"It can't be, can it?"
"Oh yes it can, Uncle. You're surprised. If the inside of a person were only as simple as a watermelon-red meat, black seeds. Now and then, as a favor to highly placed people, Papa performed operations. Dilatation and curettage. Only when there was a terrific crisis, when some young socialite heiress got knocked up. Top secret. Only out of pity. My dad pitied famous families, and got big gifts of cash."
"Wallace, look. Let's talk straight. Elya is a good man. He stands close to the end. You're his son. You've been brought up to think that for your health you have to throw a father down. You've had a troubled life, I know. But this old-fashioned capitalistic-family-and-psychological struggle has to be given up, finally. I'm telling you this because you're basically intelligent. You've done a lot of peculiar things. No one can call you boring. But you may become boring if you don't stop. You could retire honorably now with plenty of interesting experience to point to. Enough. You should try something different."
"Well, Uncle Sammler, you have good manners. I know it. In some ways, you're aloof too. Sort of distant from life. But you put up with people's shenanigans and shtick. It's just your old-fashioned Polish politeness. All the same, there is also a practical question here. Nothing but practical."
"Practical?"
"My father has X thousands of dollars in the house, and he won't tell where it is. He's sore at us. He's in the capitalistic-family-psychology struggle. You're perfectly right--why should a person burn himself out with neurotic fever? There are higher aims in life. I don't think those are shit. Far from it. But you see, Uncle, if I have that plane, I can make a nice income with a few hours of flying. I can spend the rest of my time reading philosophy. I can finish up my Ph. D. In mathematics. Now listen to this. People are like simple whole numbers. Do you see?"
"No, of course not, Wallace."
"Numbers also bear an important relation to people. The series of numbers is like the series of human beings--infinite numbers of individuals. The characteristics of numbers are like the characteristics of matter, otherwise mathematical expressions could not tell us what matter will or may do. Mathematical equations lead us to physical realities. Things not yet seen. Like the turbulence of heated gases. Do you see now?"
"Only in the vaguest way."
"The equations preceded the actual observations. So what we need is a similar system of signs for human beings. In this system, what is One? What is the human integer like? Now you see, you've made me talk seriously to you. But just for a minute or two, I want to go on with that other thing. There is money in the house. I think there are phony pipes through the attic in which he hid the bills. He borrowed a Mafia plumber once. I know it. You might just slip in a reference to pipes or to attics in your next conversation. See how he reacts. He may decide to tell you. I don't want to have to tear apart the house."