White Noise - Don Delillo [37]
“Tuck, I’m not happy.”
“Why not?”
“I thought you’d love me forever, frankly. I depend on you for that. Malcolm’s away so much.”
“We get a divorce, you take all my money, you marry a well-to-do, well-connected, well-tailored diplomat who secretly runs agents in and out of sensitive and inaccessible areas.”
“Malcolm has always been drawn to jungly places.”
We were traveling parallel to railroad tracks. The weeds were full of Styrofoam cups, tossed from train windows or wind-blown north from the depot.
“Janet has been drawn to Montana, to an ashram,” I said.
“Janet Savory? Good God, whatever for?”
“Her name is Mother Devi now. She operates the ashram’s business activities. Investments, real estate, tax shelters. It’s what Janet has always wanted. Peace of mind in a profit-oriented context.”
“Marvelous bone structure, Janet.”
“She had a talent for stealth.”
“You say that with such bitterness. I’ve never known you to be bitter, Tuck.”
“Stupid but not bitter.”
“What do you mean by stealth? Was she covert, like Malcolm?”
“She wouldn’t tell me how much money she made. I think she used to read my mail. Right after Heinrich was born, she got me involved in a complex investment scheme with a bunch of multilingual people. She said she had information.”
“But she was wrong and you lost vast sums.”
“We made vast sums. I was entangled, enmeshed. She was always maneuvering. My security was threatened. My sense of a long and uneventful life. She wanted to incorporate us. We got phone calls from Liechtenstein, the Hebrides. Fictional places, plot devices.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Janet Savory I spent a delightful half hour with. The Janet with the high cheekbones and wry voice.”
“You all had high cheekbones. Every one of you. Marvelous bone structure. Thank God for Babette and her long fleshy face.”
“Isn’t there somewhere we can get a civilized meal?” Tweedy said. “A tableclothy place with icy pats of butter. Malcolm and I once took tea with Colonel Qaddafi. A charming and ruthless man, one of the few terrorists we’ve met who lives up to his public billing.”
The snow had stopped falling. We drove through a warehouse district, more deserted streets, a bleakness and anonymity that registered in the mind as a ghostly longing for something that was far beyond retrieval. There were lonely cafés, another stretch of track, freight cars paused at a siding. Tweedy chain-smoked extra-longs, shooting exasperated streams of smoke in every direction.
“God, Tuck, we were good together.”
“Good at what?”
“Fool, you’re supposed to look at me in a fond and nostalgic way, smiling ruefully.”
“You wore gloves to bed.”
“I still do.”
“Gloves, eyeshades and socks.”
“You know my flaws. You always did. I’m ultrasensitive to many things.”
“Sunlight, air, food, water, sex.”
“Carcinogenic, every one of them.”
“What’s the family business in Boston all about?”
“I have to reassure my mother that Malcolm isn’t dead. She’s taken quite a shine to him, for whatever reason.”
“Why does she think he’s dead?”
“When Malcolm goes into deep cover, it’s as though he never existed. He disappears not only here and now but retroactively. No trace of the man remains. I sometimes wonder if the man I’m married to is in fact Malcolm Hunt or a completely different person who is himself operating under deep cover. It’s frankly worrisome. I don’t know which half of Malcolm’s life is real, which half is intelligence. I’m hoping Bee can shed some light.”
Traffic lights swayed on cables in a sudden gust. This was the city’s main street, a series of discount stores, check-cashing places, wholesale outlets. A tall old Moorish movie theater, now remarkably a mosque. Blank structures