"Shall I bring you a slice of toast, Father?"
He didn't answer. She went away, taking his wet shoes.
Above New Rochelle, several small planes snored and buzzed. Probably Wallace was piloting one of them. Unto himself a roaring center. To us, a sultry beetle, a gnat propelling itself through blue acres. Sammler set back his chair into the shade. What had been in the sun a mass of pine foliage now resolved itself into separate needles and trees. Then the silver-gray Rolls turned the corner of the high hedges. The geometrical, dignified, monogrammed radiator flashed its rods. Emil stepped out, looking upward. A yellow plane flew over the house.
"That must be Wallace for sure. He said he was going to fly a Cessna."
"I suppose it is Wallace."
"He wanted to try the equipment on a place he knows."
"Emil, I've been waiting to go to the station."
"Of course, Mr. Sammler. But right now there aren't many trains. How is Dr. Gruner, do you know?"
"I spoke to him," Sammler said. "No change."
"I'd be glad to take you to town."
"When?"
"Very soon."
"It would save time. I have to stop at home. You aren't going back to the airport for Wallace?"
"He was going to land at Newark and take the bus."
"Do you think he knows what he's doing, Emil?"
"Without a license they wouldn't let him fly."
"That's not what I mean."
"He's the type of kid who wants to put things together his own way."
"I'm not sure he'll ever know..."
"He finds out as he goes along. He says that's what Action painters do."
"I could have more confidence in the process. I don't think he should be flying about today. His feelings, whatever they are--rivalry with his father, grief, or whatever--may carry him away."
"If it was my dad, I'd be at the hospital right now. It's different, now. We old guys have to go along."
Lifting his cap to extend the shade over his eyes, he gazed after the speeding Cessna. He revealed his long, full-bottomed Lombard nose. He had the wolfish North Italian look. His skin was tight. Perhaps he had been, as Wallace insisted, Emilio, a fierce little driver for the Mafia. But he was now at the stage of life at which the once-compact person begins to show an elderly frailty. This appeared in the shoulders and at the back of the neck, where the creases were deep. He was connected with the very finest, the supreme land vehicle. No competition with aircraft. He leaned against the fender, arms folded, making sure that no button scratched the finish. He held the hair-fragrant cap and tapped himself. He lightly struck the descending terraces, the large wrinkles of his forehead.
"I figure he wants shots from every altitude. He's flying low, all right."
"If he doesn't hit the house, I'll be very pleased."
"He could rack up the perfect score, after flooding the joint. You wonder, will he want to top that?"
Mr. Sammler brought out the folded handkerchief to slip under the lenses before removing his glasses, covering his disfigurement from Emil. He was unable to stare up longer, his eyes were smarting.
"How can one guess?" said Sammler. "Yesterday he said that it was his unconscious self that opened the wrong pipe."
"Yes, he talks that way to me, too. But I've been eighteen years with the Gruners and know that character. He's very, very disturbed about the doctor."
"Yes, I think he is. I agree. But that little machine... Like an ironing board with an egg beater. Are you a family man, Em--do you have children?"
"Two. Grown up and graduated."
"Do they love you?"
"They act like it."
"That's already a great deal."
He was beginning to consider that he might not reach New York in time. Even Elya's request for clippings might delay him too long. But--one thing at a time. Then Wallace 's engine grew louder. The noise attacked one's skull. It gave Sammler a headache. The injured eye felt pressure. The air was parted. On one side nuisance, on the other a singular current, an insidious spring brightness.
Blasting, shining, clear yellow, the color of a bird's bill, the Cessna made another, lower pass at the house. The trees threshed under it.
"He's going to crash. He'll hit the roof next time."
"I don't think he can buzz it any closer while snapping pictures," Emil said.
"He must certainly be below the permissible point."
The plane, rising, banking, grew smaller; you could hardly hear it now.
"Wasn't he about to strike the chimney?"
"It looked close, but only from our angle," said Emil.
"They shouldn't let him fly."
"Well, he's gone. Maybe that's it."
"Shall we start?" said Sammler.
"I'm supposed to pick up the cleaning woman at eleven--I think the phone has been ringing."
"The cleaning woman? Shula's in the house. She will answer."
"She's not," said Emil. "When I drove up I saw her in the road, walking along with her purse."
"Going where?"
"I wouldn't know. To the store, maybe. I'll get the phone."
The call was for Sammler. It was Margotte.
"Hello, Margotte. Well--?"
"We opened the lockers."
"What did you find, what she said?"
"Not exactly, Uncle. In the first locker was one of Shula's shopping bags, and in it there was only the usual stuff. Christian Science Monitors from way back, clippings, and some old copies of Life. Also a great deal of student-revolt literature. SDS. Dr. Lal was shocked. He was very upset."
"Come, what about the second locker?"
"Thank God! We found the manuscript there."
"Intact?"
"I think so. He's looking through it." She spoke away from the phone. "Are pages torn out? No, Uncle, he doesn't think so."
"Oh, I am very glad. For him, and for myself. Even for Shula. But where is the copy she made on Widick's machine? She must have misplaced or lost that. But Dr. Lal must be delighted."
"Oh, he is. He's just going to wait at the soda fountain. It's such a chaos in Grand Central."
"I wish you had knocked at my door. You knew I had to get to town."
"Dear Uncle Sammler, we thought of that, but there was no room in the car. Am I mistaken, or are you irritated? You sound annoyed. We could have dropped you at the station." What Sammler refrained from saying was that he and Lal might have dropped her, Margotte, at the station. Was he annoyed! But even now, with skull-pressure, eye-pangs, he did not want to be too hard on her. No. She had her own female vital aims. No sense of the vital aims of others. His tension now. "Govinda was so anxious to leave. He insisted. However, the trains are fast. Besides, I phoned the hospital and talked to Angela. Elya's condition is just the same."
"I know. I've spoken to him."
"Well, you see? And he has to have some tests, so you would only have to wait if you were here. Now I'm taking Dr. Lal home to lunch. There's so much he doesn't eat, and Grand Central is a madhouse. And it smells so of hot dogs. Because of him, I notice it now for the first time."
"Of course. Home is better. By all means."
"Angela talked to me in a very, mature way. She was sad, but she sounded so calm, and so aware." Margotte's kind and considerate views of people were terribly trying to Sammler. "She said that Elya was asking for you. He very much wishes to see you."
"I might have been there now...."
"Well, he's down below anyhow," she said. "So take your time. Have lunch with us."
"I need to stop at the house. But no lunch."
"You wouldn't be in the way. Govinda likes you so much. He admires you. Anyway, you are my family. We love you like a father. All of us. I know I am a pest to you. I was to Ussher, too. Still, we loved each other."
"Well, well, Margotte. All right. Now let's hang up."
"I know you want to get away. And you don't like long phone conversations. But Uncle, I'm insecure about my ability to interest a man like Dr. Lal on the mental level."
"Nonsense, Margotte, don't be a fool. Don't get on the mental level. You charm him. He finds you exotic. Don't have long discussions. Let him do the talking."