“What’s between you? How does he work you? First you come to complain about him. Next thing I know he sounds like the Protocols, but it’s all right with you.” He furiously pounded the metal table, his face and his elongated throat flaming. “Influence with Jews!” he shouted.
Leventhal silently reproached himself. “That was a real mistake. I shouldn’t have said that. Why did I let it slip out? I’m not even sure Allbee means that.”
To Harkavy, he said, “Don’t fly off the handle. I realize it seems bad, but you don’t know the facts. I can judge this better than you.” He kept his voice low in order to control it.
“The facts? What are you letting this man do to you? Are you going off your rocker?”
“Don’t be foolish, Dan,” he cried. “I know you mean well, but you’re being carried away. And please remember my mother before you say a thing like that. You know about my mother. I told you about her as friend to friend. The meaning of it hasn’t sunk in.”
This silenced Harkavy briefly. He seemed to scowl. In reality he was clearing his throat. After considering him for a while he said, “Well, you are a privileged character. You’re the only man living whose mother lost her mind and died.” Immediately he changed his tone, clapping his hands sharply. “As friend to friend, what are the facts? This thing about Shifcart is such nonsense it isn’t even worth talking about. But you, you must be in a trance. Tell me, what’s going on. Just look at you!”
“What’s the matter?”
“You look like the devil.”
“Do I? Well, I told you. There was the kid’s death, first of all.”
“You were more honest when you were drunk, last night. You admitted that you wanted to get the man off your neck. Don’t hide behind the child. That’s not good. It’s dishonest. Wake up! What’s life? Metabolism? That’s what it is for the bugs. Jesus Christ, no! What’s life? Consciousness, that’s what it is. That’s what you’re short on. For God’s sake, give yourself a push and a shake. It’s dangerous stuff, Asa, this stuff.”
Leventhal looked at Harkavy in blank perplexity.
“Well, I’m damned if I can see it,” he finally said. “In the first place, when I came to you, you were the one who told me about Williston…”
“And?”
But Leventhal would not continue.
“And? What next?” said Harkavy, sitting forward.
There was a short pause and then Leventhal said, “Say, I’ve got to have that aspirin.” He rose.
“All right, you don’t want my help. I can’t make you take it. God bless you. You had a chance to unburden yourself and get some advice. How many friends have you got?” He put a slice of bread in the toaster and rammed down the lever.
Among the bottles of lotion and cologne and the powder boxes in Mrs Harkavy’s medicine chest, Leventhal found the aspirin and swallowed a tablet with a sip from the tap. He filled the sink with warm water and pushed back his sleeves; the light green color gave him a kind of pleasure. He dipped in his hands and then glanced at the tub with its thick nickled spout. The linen closet stood open, giving out a dry perfume of soap. Leventhal took a towel and let the metal stopper fall. “I’m going to take a bath, if you don’t mind,” he called to Harkavy.
“Go ahead.”
The faucet ran loudly and Leventhal shut the door and began to undress. The room grew hot. He sat on the edge of the tub in the roar of the steaming water and lathered his hairy dark body, energetic and all absorbed. The tumult of the faucet relieved him, for some reason. As he lay back in the charge and sway of the water, he observed to himself, as if in compliment, “He didn’t get anything out of me.” He stroked his chest, releasing tiny bubbles from the hairs. “I’ll be better off taking care of things by myself,” he thought. He turned off the cold tap and the hot water ran on, green with a white inner shape and a thread of vapor.
He wondered what success Max was having with Elena. He was concerned for him, of course, but he worried mainly about Philip whom, if it turned out that Max was wrong about Elena, he would go to any lengths to save. He postponed thinking about himself. Eventually he would have to — provided that Max was right about Elena and he wrong. The reason for a mistake like that could not be neglected; it had to be dug out. But dug out when he had the strength for the operation, not now. A ring of soap, melting from the bar in his hand, spread over the water.
While he dried himself, his heart beat rapidly. However, his headache was almost gone, and he felt freshened and almost cheerful. He went into the kitchen. Harkavy had set out plates and was scrambling some eggs.
It was not until the meal was nearly over that he suffered a recoil, a raw, painful current through his overtried nerves. He could not continue this way with Allbee. It was enough. It had to be ended. Any day he expected to hear that Mary was coming back. What if she should come back before it was ended? He freed himself from this fear much as one might brush away a clinging insect from one’s face. And Allbee might think, because he had not slept at home last night — what might he think, that he was afraid of him? It would give him the confidence to make new demands. He could have the introduction to Shifcart. More than that, no. And he would have to get out of the house. “Enough!” he silently decided. “Enough, enough!” He dropped his fork noisily. Under Har-kavy’s questioning eyes he looked, as usual, unperturbed; moping somewhat, but steady and calm. He recovered the fork and touched his food with it. But he was unable to swallow another bite.
23
HE started home at half-past four. The wind had dropped, the sky was cold and darkening rapidly. In the little park the turned-up rusty shells of leaves scraped in the path and cracked underfoot. Very little green remained in those that streamed raggedly in the trees. A damp warmth, smelling of stone, rose from the subway, and through the gratings Leven-thal caught a glimpse of the inert light on the roadbed and of the rails, hard and gray in their simultaneous strike. The close brownstone houses looked autumnal and so did the foot-burnished, steel manhole lids; they were glinting sharply. Summer seemed to have ended prematurely in chill and darkness. The people who had gone out of town for the holiday would be building fires on the beaches, those who were not already crowding the trains into the city.
Leventhal halted on the sidewalk opposite his flat. All the windows in the building were dark. The tiny red lamp in the foyer appeared to be embedded in the fanlight and sent its bloody color into the corners and as far as the polished, florid head of the banister at the rear. Mrs Nunez’ vines, spreading thickly upwards, swayed in a mass on the taut strings. “He’s out,” said Leventhal to himself. He was exasperated, almost as if Allbee had gone away to thwart him. But actually it was to his advantage to be the first one home, for so far he had not decided how to deal with Allbee. And now, while going up the stairs, he occasionally touched the dust-hung concave of the wall and thought, “What will I do?” He was, however, far too agitated to make any plans. He climbed rapidly, rather struck by the number of landings and, until he recognized a fire bucket with cigarettes buried in the sand, wondering why the place did not look more familiar. Reaching the fourth floor, he put his back against the wall while he felt in both pockets for his key. He brought out a handful of change and keys, and began to pick it over under the weak light. Then it seemed to him that someone was moving in the flat. It could be that Allbee had been sleeping and had just gotten up. That would explain the dark windows. He rapped and put his ear to the panel. He was sure that he heard steps.