The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [226]
"Still, I'm no educated," he said.
Goldstein shook his head in commiseration. "That's an obstacle, it's true. I've always wanted a college education, and I feel its absence. But for business a good head can carry you through. I really believe in being honest and sincere in business; all the really big men got where they are through decency."
Martinez nodded. He wondered how big a room a very rich man needed to hold his money. Images of rich clothing, of shoeshines and hand-painted ties, a succession of tall blonde women with hard cold grace and brittle charm languished in his head. "A rich man do anything he damn well feel like it," Martinez said with admiration.
"Well, if I were rich I'd like to be charitable. And. . . what I want is to be well off, and have a nice house, some security. . . Do you know New York?"
"No."
"Anyway there's a suburb I'd like to live in," Goldstein said, nodding his head. "It's really a fine place, and nice people in it, cultured, refined. I wouldn't like my son to grow up the way I did."
Martinez nodded sagely. He never possessed any definite convictions or ambitions, and he always felt humble when he talked to a man who had sharp complete plans. "America's a good country," he said sincerely. He had a glow of righteous patriotism for a moment; half-remembered was his image of a schoolroom and the children singing "My Country 'Tis of Thee." For the first time in many years he thought of being an aviator, and felt a confused desire. "I learn to read good in school," he said. "The teacher thought I was smart."
"I'm sure she did," Goldstein said with conviction.
The water was less rough, and the spray had become infrequent. Martinez looked about the boat, listened for a moment to the random sounds of conversation, and shrugged again. "Long trip," he said.
Gallagher had come back to his cot, which was adjacent to Martinez's, and he lay down without saying anything. Goldstein was uncomfortable; he had not spoken to Gallagher for over a month. "It's a wonder none of the men are seasick," Goldstein said at last. "These boats aren't good for traveling."
"Roth, Wyman, they're sick," Martinez said.
Goldstein shrugged proudly. "I don't mind it. I'm used to being on boats. A friend of mine had a sailboat on Long Island, and in the summer I used to go out with him a lot. I enjoyed it thoroughly." He thought of the Sound and the pale dunes that surrounded it. "It was beautiful there. You know you can't beat America for beautiful country."
"You can say that again, brother," Gallagher snorted suddenly.
It was just his way of talking, Goldstein decided. He didn't mean any harm. "Did you ever go out on boats, Gallagher?" he asked mildly.
Gallagher raised himself on an elbow. "Aaah, I went canoeing once in a while out on the Charles, past West Roxbury. Used to go with my wife." He said it first, and then thought about it. His face altered for an instant, assumed a numb stricken cast.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Goldstein breathed.
"That's all right." Gallagher felt some irritation at getting sympathy from a Jew. "Forget it," he added, a little meaninglessly. But he was becoming tender again, dissolving in a bath of self-pity and pleasant gentle sorrow. "Look," he said abruptly, "you got a kid, ain't ya?"
Goldstein nodded. "Oh, yes," he answered eagerly. "My boy is three years old now. Wait, I'll show you a picture of him." With some effort, he rolled over on the cot and withdrew his wallet from his back pocket. "This isn't a good picture of him," Goldstein apologized, "he's really one of the handsomest children you could imagine. We've got a big picture at home of him that we had a professional photographer take, and honestly you couldn't beat it. It could win a prize."
Gallagher stared at the picture. "Yeah. . . yeah, he's a cute kid, all right." He was a little bewildered, uncomfortable with the praise that welled clumsily out of his mouth. He looked at the picture again, seeing it really for the first time, and he sighed. In the one letter he had written home since Mary died