"How are you?"
"How are you, Uncle?"
The actual meaning of this might have been, "Where are you?"
"How are you feeling?"
"There's been no change. I thought we would be seeing each other."
"I'm coming in. I'm sorry. When there's something important there is always some delay. It never fails, Elya."
"When you left yesterday, it was like unfinished business between us. We got sidetracked by Angela and such hopeless questions. There was something I was meaning to ask. About Cracow. The old days. And by the way, I bragged about you to a Polish doctor here. He wanted very much to see the Polish articles you sent from the Six-Day War. Do you have copies?"
"Certainly, at home. I have plenty."
"Aren't you at home now?"
"Actually I'm not."
"I wonder if you'd mind bringing the clippings. Would you mind stopping off?"
"Of course not. But I don't want to lose the time."
"I may have to go down for tests. EIya's voice was filled with unidentifiable tones. Sammler's interpretive skill was insufficient. He was uneasy. "Why shouldn't there be time?" Elya said. There's time enough for everything." This had an odd ring, and the accents were strange.
"Yes?"
"Of course, yes. It was good you called. A while ago I tried to phone you. There was no answer. You went out early."
Uneasiness somewhat interfered with Sammler's breathing. Long and thin, he held the telephone, concentrating, aware of the anxious Intensity gathered in his face. He was silent. Elya said, "Angela is on her way over."
"I am coming too."
"Yes. Elya lingered somewhat on the shortest words. "Well, Uncle?"
"Good-by, for now."
"Good-by, Uncle Sammler."
Rapping at the pane, Sammler tried to get Shula's attention. Among the wagging flowers she was conspicuously white. His Primavera. On her head she wore a dark-red scarf. Covering up, afflicted always by the meagerness of her hair. It was perhaps the natural abundance, growth power, exuberance that she admired in flowers. Seeing her among the blond openmouthed daffodils, which were being poured back and forth by the wind, her father believed that she was in love. From the hang of her shoulders, the turn of the orange lips, he saw that she was already prepared to accept unrequited longing. Dr. Lal was not for her; she would never clasp his head or hold his beard between her breasts. You could seldom get people to long for what was possible--that was the cruelty of it. He opened the French window.
"Where is the timetable?" he said.
"I can't find it. The Gruners don't use the train. Anyway, you'll get to New York quicker with Emil. He's going to the hospital."
"I don't suppose he'd wait at the airport for Wallace. Not today."
"Why did you say that about Lal, that he was just a bushy black little fellow?"
"I hope you're not personally interested in him."
"Why not?"
"He's not at all suitable, and I'd never give my consent."
"You wouldn't?"
"No, no. He wouldn't make any kind of husband for you."
"Because he's an Asiatic? You wouldn't be so prejudiced. Not you, Father."
"Not the slightest objection to an Asiatic. There is much to be said for exotic marriages. If your husband is a bore, it takes years longer to discover it, in French. But scientists make bad husbands. Sixteen hours a day in the laboratory, absorbed in research. You'd be neglected. You'd be hurt. I wouldn't allow it."
"Not even if I loved him?"
"You also thought you loved Eisen."
"He didn't love me. Not enough to forgive my Catholic background. And I couldn't discuss anything with him. Besides, sexually, he was a very gross person. Things I wouldn't care to tell you about, Father. But he is extremely common and lousy. He's here in New York. If he comes near me, I'll stab him."
"You amaze me, Shula. You would actually stab Eisen with a knife?"
"Or with a fork. I often regret that I let him beat me in Haifa and didn't do anything back to him. He hit me really too hard, and I should have defended myself."
"All the more important that you should avoid future mistakes. I have to protect you from failures I can foresee. A father should."
"But what if I did love Dr. Lal? And I saw him first."
"Rivalry--a poor motive. Shula, we must take care of each other. As you look after me on the H. G. Wells side, I think about your happiness. Margotte is a much less sensitive person than you. If a man like Dr. Lal was mentally absent for weeks at a time, she'd never notice. Don't you remember how Ussher used to speak to her?"
"He would tell her to shut up."
"That's right."
"If a husband treated me like that, I couldn't bear it."
"Exactly. Wells also thought that people in scientific research made poor husbands."
"He didn't!"
"I seem to remember his saying that. Does Wallace really know the first thing about aerial photography?"
"He knows so many things. What do you think of his business idea?"
"He doesn't have ideas--he has delusions, brainstorms. However, he wouldn't be the first maniac to make money. And his scheme has charm, dealing in plant names... well, some of the plants do have beautiful names. Take one like Gazania Pavonia."
"Gazania Pavonia is darling. Well, come out in the sun and enjoy the weather. I feel much better when you take an interest in me. I'm glad you understand that I took the moon thing for you. You aren't going to give up the project, are you? It would be a sin. You were made to write the Wells book, and it would be a masterpiece. Something terrible will happen if you don't. Bad luck. I feel it inside."
"I may try again."
"You must."
"To find a place for it among my preoccupations."
"You should have no other preoccupations. Only creative ones."
Mr. Sammler, smelling of sandalwood soap, decided to sit in the garden to wait for Emil. Perhaps the soap odor would evaporate in the sun. He didn't have it in him to rinse again in the onyx bathroom. Too close in there.
"Bring your coffee out."
"I'd like that, Shula." He handed her the cup and stepped onto the lawn. "And my shoes are wet from last night."
Black fluid, white light, green ground, the soil heated and soft, penetrated by new growth. In the grass, a massed shine of particles, a turf-buried whiteness, and from this dew, wherever the sun could reach it, the spectrum flashed like night cities seen from the jet, or the galactic sperm of worlds.
"Here. Sit. Take those things off. You'll catch cold. I can dry them in the oven." Kneeling, she removed the wet shoes. "How can you wear them? Do you want to catch pneumonia?"
"Is Emil coming straight back or waiting for that lunatic?"
"I don't know. Why do you keep calling him a lunatic? Why is Wallace a lunatic?"
To a lunatic, how would you define a lunatic? And was he himself a perfect example of sanity? He was certainly not. They were his people--he was their Sammler. They shared the same fundamentals.
"Because he flooded the house?" said Shula.
"Because he flooded it. Because now he's flying around with his cameras."
"He was looking for money. That's not crazy, is it?"
"How do you know about this money?"
"He told me. He thinks there's a fortune here. What do you think?"
"I wouldn't know. But Wallace would have such fantasies--Ali Baba, Captain Kidd, or Tom Sawyer treasure fantasies."
"But he says--no joking--there's a fortune of money in the house. He won't rest until he finds it. Wouldn't it be a little mean of Cousin Elya..."
"To die without saying where it is?"
"Yes." Shula seemed slightly ashamed, now that her meaning was explicit.
"It's up to him. Elya will do as he likes. I assume Wallace has asked you to help find this secret hoard."
"Yes."
"What did he do, promise a reward?"
"Yes, he did."
"I don't want you to meddle, Shula. Keep out of it."