He said, gazing down at his hands, “Rachael was like that to start. It took a week. A lot of times.”
“If I were a man,” Pat said, “I’d go after her. What do you see in somebody like me? I can’t give you anything she can’t. Don’t you really see her? I just don’t understand. Maybe it’s because you have her and you know you have her. I’d like to give her some clothes; I think she could wear them. She needs clothes, but you can’t buy them now. Not on what you make.”
He nodded.
Pat said, “there’s nothing for you here. Don’t get a crush on me. I’m not worth it. And anyhow we can’t do that again.”
“That’s what Jim Briskin said,” he said, opposing the words, the statement of it.
“What did he say?”
“He said it was because you were drunk.”
“It’s true,” she said. “When did you see him?”
“He came over tonight.”
“How did he act?”
Art said, “He wanted to talk to Rachael.”
“Yes,” she said, “I expect so. He’s very responsible, Art. He’s concerned about you and heir and about me.”
“He said not to try to take you around. He said you would cause me a lot of suffering.”
“He’s right, Art, I will.”
“He’s just jealous.”
“No,” she said, “he knows what he’s saying. He knows me. In some ways he’s like a child . . . he has an irrational streak. He gets excited and he acts on impulse; he gets carried away, especially if he thinks it’s his duty. But he has perspective. I don’t think it’s only jealousy . . .” She put out her cigarette.
Getting to his feet, Art said, “Hey, let’s go. I want you to meet this guy; he has this place with a bunch of maps and papers. It’s our organization. We have a Horch, a Nazi car.”
“Do you want to take me there?” she said, seated, gazing up at him.
“Ss-sure,” he said.
“All right, Art. If you want to.” She arose; he held her chair awkwardly. “What does your organization do?”
“It’s sort of revolutionary,” he said, finding money to go with the check.
“Really?” Again she was lost in thought. “When I was a kid, I was a socialist. A Shavian socialist. Did you ever read Man and Super man? Any of Shaw?”
“No,” he said, pushing the curtain back and leaving the booth. She walked slowly, her coat over her shoulders. Three men, seated at a table, studied her, and one of them made a remark and whistled.
In a flurry of clumsiness, he paid the bill at the front cash register and started out onto the street. Pat came after him, expressionless; she did not seem to have noticed the men.
But, he thought, he certainly had.
The path that led to the stairs was littered with debris; he kicked at the bottles and paper rubbish, saying, “This sure is rundown around here. Can you get by?” The sun had set; darkness was appearing.
Since she did not answer, he assumed she could. He started up the stairs to the metal door. Behind him she had halted to reach into her shoe. Then she came on.
“He’s up there,” Art said.
The metal door opened a crack. “Who’s that?” Grimmelman demanded in his shrill voice. “It’s me,” he said. “Hey, I got someone with me.”
A blinding light shone in his face; Grimmelman had lit his carbide lamp and was swinging it out above the stairwell. “Emmanual? Step up. Identify your companion.”
Annoyed, he said, “Open the door.”
With reluctance Grimmelman admitted him. “Is that Rachael? What’s your motive in bringing her here? You’ve been informed.”
“No,” he said, “It’s somebody else.”
The door was open, and now Pat entered the loft. Her arms folded, she walked up to Grimmelman and said, “Are you Art’s revolutionary friend?”
“This is a classified area,” Grimmelman said.
Her lips moved. Without a word she passed Grimmelman to examine the maps mounted on the wall. Making no sound, she traveled the length of the loft, inspecting the papers and books and reports and heaps of information on the tables. Grimmelman, shivering with displeasure, said, “You’re not permitted to handle that material.” To Art he said, “Who is she? Is this authorized?”
Pat said, “This is an SWP paper, isn’t it?” She held up a newspaper with heavy black banners. “During the war I knew a boy in the SWP.”
“Are you politically active?” Grimmelman demanded.
Tossing down the paper, she walked toward him. “No. Should I be?” She cleared papers and books from a chair and seated herself.
“You know what you remind me of? The French students after the war. Living in Paris on bread and margarine. Kids who were in the Resistance in their teens.”
Grimmelman said, “Were you in France?”
“For a few months in 1948. On a scholarship.”
“What was it like?”
“They were very poor. What’s all this for, up here? Are you part of an organized group?” Art said, “Hh-he’s going to overthrow the existing order.”
“I see,” Pat said.
“This is not something to be discussed,” said Grimmelman. “If you were affiliated with the SWP, you probably have contacts with elements hostile to us.” He busied himself with papers; he ignored her. It was clear that he disapproved of her. He was not going to talk to her.
Art said, “Look at this.” He showed her the M1 rifle; as always, it was oiled and shiny.
“I see,” she said, without taking it.
“Don’t show her those,” Grimmelman said.
“Aw, hell,” Art said, exasperated. “What do you think she’s g-g-going to do? I told you she’s okay; I know her.” He pushed the M1 rifle at Pat, wanting her to take it. But she did not. Baffled, he returned it to its wall rack. From one of the work tables, Pat took a book, opened it, and then put it aside.
His back to the two of them, Grimmelman shuffled papers. He carried the papers to a map in the corner and transferred information from the papers to the map. Except for the wheezing and scratching of Grimmelman, the room was quiet.
“Let’s go,” Art said.
She remained seated, and he thought that she did not intend to leave. But then, almost as an afterthought, she arose and walked toward the door.
“What time is it?” she said to him as she started down the stairs. Neither she nor Grimmelman said goodbye; at the map, Grimmelman devoted himself to his papers, his shoulders hunched, his nose bent and twitching. He snuffled, lifted his head to rub his cheek with the back of his hand. Seeing them leave, he whinnied, a half laugh; as Art closed the door, Grimmelman started over to lock it.
Pat had already, reached the path and was starting cautiously in the direction of the street. Art said, “That’s sure strange up there—”
“He takes it seriously, doesn’t he?” Pat said. “How old is he? He’s older than the rest of you.”
“I don’t know,” he said, wishing to forget the whole business.
Pat said, “It smells stale. Like food. Does he eat and sleep up there?”
“Y-y-yeah,” Art mumbled.
“What’s he do for a living?”
“Works at the cannery, I guess. During the fall.”
“How did you run into somebody like that?” She stood at the sidewalk, by the car.
“He used to hang around Dodo’s,” Art said.
“He’s a crank. He must have put a lot of money into those books.” Getting into the car, she said, “Do you want to drive? Is there somewhere you want to take me?”