Libra - Don Delillo [108]
“It isn’t all typed.”
“Please, I have my consulting firm, you know, with paper, pencils and a girl who types. I will give you a copy, of course, plus the original notes.”
“You will also give a copy to Mr. Collings.”
“This is understood. They collect and analyze. It can be helpful to someone in your position if you cooperate. Let’s face it, you are in a cramped position. If I am a Mr. Collings and I see cooperation from an individual who can use and appreciate a better-paying job, then I am inclined to make a call. This happens all the time.”
Lee bounced the child on his knee to quiet her down.
“Also, George, I would like to publish ‘The Kollective.’ ”
“I would advise you no. I would say no, this is not right for you at this time. Let us look at the work. Then we discuss publication. You will be compensated one way or another, I guarantee this. These people have a thousand ways. They reach across the world. It’s amazing. How do you think you re-entered this country? When a person defects, his name is put on the FBI’s watch list. There is a lookout card that is prepared in such cases. But they returned your passport. They let Marina in. They gave you a loan and let you in.”
“They were keeping an eye all that time.”
“They’re still keeping an eye. You’re an interesting individual. I’m sure they would very much like to learn about your contacts in the Soviet Union. We’ll have a nice talk, you and I, in private somewhere, without the baby listening in.”
George laughed. They both laughed.
First Freitag and his partner, now this man Collings. They were swarming all over him like ants on a melon rind.
He looked at Marina. She was standing slightly curled, listening carefully to someone. Even in the heat and smoke she looked wind-scrubbed and fresh. Never love me for my weaknesses, he wanted to say. Never take the blame for me. Never think it is your fault when I am the one. I am always the one.
He slapped her on the side of the head and she took half a swing at him. He sat down and opened a magazine. She could tell he was turning the pages without really looking. She wanted something to throw. She grabbed a sheet of paper and crumpled it up and threw it at him. It bounced off his arm but he didn’t react. She went to the table and ate some of her dinner, looking at him. She stared hard. She wanted to make him uncomfortable, make it hard for him to read. She felt stupid, throwing a piece of paper.
“No cigarettes,” he said. “I do not want you smoking. That is period, forever.”
“If I want to smoke once in a while.”
“No good for baby. Very, very bad. You could not fill my bathtub? It is too much to come home, for me to expect a warm bath is ready, after a day of noise and sweat.”
“I don’t smoke too much. It is reasonable, what I smoke.”
“Lazy, lazy girl.”
“I make dinner. I scrub on my knees.”
“I scrub on my knees,” he said.
He flung the magazine sidearm, whipped it hard against the wall. The baby started in to cry. He got up and walked over to Marina.
“I scrub on my knees,” he said.
He hit her in the face. She sat in the chair, with leftover food in her plate.
“I scrub on my knees.”
She covered up. He hit her again. Then he went back to his chair and picked up a book. She took the plate of leftovers to the sink and left it there without scraping the food into the little pail. She left it there for him to clean. He would do it too. There was always something lying around after a fight that he would carefully clean.
“You tell those Russians how we live our lives, about our