• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 6161 0

never have been capable of doing it on my own, I agree. It was all Harold Lampton and Kermit Bloomgarden. As for Humboldt he was not the first man to go down trying to combine worldly success with poetic integrity, blasted with poetic fire, as Swift says, and consequently unfit for Church or Law or State. But he thought of me, Renata. His scenario gives his opinion of me—foolishness, intricacy, wasted subtlety, a loving heart, some kind of disorganized genius, a certain elegance of construction. His legacy is also his affectionate opinion of me. And he did his very best. It was an act of love—”

“Charlie, look, they’re bringing you the telephone,” said Renata. “It’s terrific!”

“You’re Mr. Citrine?” said the waiter.

“Yes.”

He plugged in the instrument and I spoke to Chicago. The call was from Alec Szathmar. “Charlie, you’re in the Oak Room?” he said.

“I am.”

He laughed with excitement. We two who had sparred in the alley with boxing gloves as children hitting each other in the face until we were winded and dazed were now men, and had risen in the world. I was lunching elegantly in New York; he was phoning me from a paneled office on La Salle Street. Unfortunately, the messages he gave me did not suit the plush occasion. Or did it? “Urbanovich is going along with Denise and Pinsker. The court says you must post a bond. The figure is two hundred thousand dollars. This is what happens when you ignore my advice. I told you to hide some money in Switzerland. No, you had to be aboveboard. You weren’t going to do anything gross. That’s the kind of snobbery that does you in. You want austerity? Well, you’re two hundred grand closer to it than you were yesterday.”

A slight echo told me that he was using an amplifier. My replies were heard on the squawk box in his office. This meant that his secretary, Tulip, was listening. Because of the affectionate interest this woman took in my doings, Szathmar, always the showman, sometimes invited her to listen in on our conversations. She was a fine woman, somewhat pale and heavy, and carried herself in the sad high-hearted style of the old West Side. She was devoted to Szathmar, whose weaknesses she knew and forgave. Only Szathmar himself was conscious of no weaknesses. “What will you do for dough, Charlie?” he said.

The first thing to do was to conceal the facts from Renata.

“There’s no immediate problem. I’ve got a small balance with you, still, haven’t I?”

“We agreed that I would repay the condominium loan in five annual installments, and you’ve already gotten this year’s payment. I suppose the decades of free legal advice I gave you don’t count for a thing.”

“You also put me on to Tomchek and Srole.”

“The finest domestic-relations people in Chicago. They couldn’t work with you. No one could.”

Renata passed me another bit of Melba toast with caviar, grated egg, onion, and sour cream.

“Now I’ve given you message number one,” said Szathmar. “Message number two is to call your brother in Texas. His wife has been trying to reach you. Nothing has happened. Don’t lose your head. Julius is going to have open-heart surgery. Your sister-in-law says they’re going to transplant a few arteries for the angina. She thought his only brother should know. They’re going up to Houston for the operation.”

“Your face is completely changed, what is it?” said Renata as I put down the telephone.

“My brother is going to have open-heart surgery.”

“Oh-oh!” she said.

“Quite right. I must go there.”

“You’re not asking me to postpone this trip again?”

“We can easily fly from Texas.”

“You’ve got to go?”

“Of course, I must.”

“I’ve never met your brother, but I know he’s a rough man. He wouldn’t cancel his plans for you.”

“Now Renata he’s my only brother, and these are frightful operations. As I understand it, they break into your chest, remove the heart, lay it on a towel or something, while they circulate the blood by machine. It’s one of those demonic modern technological things. Poor humankind, we’re all hurled down into the object world now. . . .”

“Ugh,” said Renata, “I hope they never make