7
THE NIGHT BEFORE I BOARDED THAT PLANE FOR SOUTH AMERICA, KITTREDGE and Hugh invited me to a farewell meal at the canal house. After dinner, Montague went off to work in his study, while Kittredge and I, on finishing the dishes, climbed to a small sitting room she kept for herself on the second floor. As a mark of my advancement to godfather, I was now invited occasionally upstairs. Once, indeed, when it was late at night and we had talked for hours, they even asked me to stay over, which invitation I finally accepted, but I certainly had the oddest sleep. Small and not quite locatable noises went on until dawn.
If only in my imagination, animals seemed to neigh. In the early morning I was suddenly awake and convinced of the presence of something exceptional. It was then I realized that it was Hugh and Kittredge making love, and no matter how the sounds were muffled by two small rooms between, I could not help but hear them.
I may have been thinking of that early morning while Kittredge and I talked in her upstairs parlor. Since our night at the club, she had been in what I can only term a jagged depression, gloomy but with odd flashes of wit. Rosen had subsequently informed me that Mary Jane was one more term for marijuana, and I had even brought this etymological tidbit to dinner in the naïve hope it would prove amusing. I soon gave up. Kittredge seemed on the edge—I cannot call it hysteria—of some sort of merriment altogether removed from what we talked about. I was glad when dinner concluded and Kittredge and I were installed upstairs. Now that I was actually leaving in a couple of days, I was beginning to feel uneasy. I wanted to speak of such feelings, but she cut me off.
“I can’t help you. I’m not a psychoanalyst, you know,” she said. “I am a characterological theoretician. There are about eight of us in the world.”
“I wasn’t,” I said, “looking for free medical service.”
She hardly responded. “Do you think the other seven are as ignorant of human nature as I am?”
“What are you telling me?”
“I don’t know a damn thing about people. I come up with theories that other people say are wonderful, but I don’t know that I am getting anywhere in my work. And I am so naïve. I loathe that Lenny Bruce, I do. I also envy him.”
“You envy him?”
“I work hard to keep faith in the sacraments. Our marriage would crack if I couldn’t keep to such beliefs with Hugh. And there was this Bruce person, this comedian. So sure of himself. Not even knowing what he mocked. Like a six-week-old puppy that will do it all over the house if you let him loose. But such freedom. So easy.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s alone. No other public entertainer dares to talk that way.”
“Oh, Harry, why did I ever bring Hugh to that terrible place?”
“Yes. What were you up to?”
“Do you know how much anger is in Hugh?”
“And in you? Isn’t it possible you are well-suited for each other?”
“No,” she said. “Hugh could kill. He could go off his clock. He won’t, but the tension is always there.”
“He has fabulous control,” I said.
“He needs it. His mother, Imogene. Know anything about her?”
I shook my head.
“Well, she used to be as pretty as Clare Boothe Luce. I must say, she’s kind of grand for Denver, Colorado, but that woman is a witch. I believe she’s evil. Hugh is all but convinced, you know, that she did murder his father. How would you like to grow up with a little thought like that in your coffee mug every morning?”
“Yes, but he has come a long way since then.”
“All the same, Hugh can’t take in too much human stuff at once.”
“Can you?”
“Well, I always thought I could until the other night. That Mary Jane place! I wanted so much for Hugh to obtain a bit of insight into what the rest of America might be like, and then it was awful—I discovered I’m just like Hugh. Narrow as a needle.”
“I don’t know about your mate,” I said, “but you’re not narrow. You’re wonderful.”
“Harry, you have the kindest heart. It’s because you’re part Jewish, I think. They say the Jews are kindhearted. Is that true?”
“Well, I’m only one-eighth. I hardly qualify.”
“It’s homeopathic. One touch of the tar, baby.” She looked at me with her head at an angle. “Harry, do you know, I feel naked in front of you?”
“What?”
“I’ve never talked about myself this much before. I try to hide how simple I am. It’s easy with Hugh. His mind is on his work. But you know my little secret now. I want to succeed at my job. And I’m too innocent and too ignorant. Do you know I also envy you for going off to Montevideo?”
“It’s only espionage there. Hugh says that’s no better than nuts and bolts.”
“Foo on Hugh. There! I’ve wanted to say that since I married him. Poo, foo, on Hugh! I envy you, I tell you. Espionage!” she said in a breathy, throaty voice. Only after a moment did I realize that she was doing a parody of someone like Marilyn Monroe.
“Hugh does insist that the real game is counterespionage,” I said.
“Yes, wonderful Feliks Edmundovitch Dzerzhinsky. Do you know, I’m bored with Hugh.”
Bored with Hugh? Now I knew what they meant by time standing still. It did not. It slowed down, and took a turn, and the colors in the room began to alter.
“No,” she said, “I adore him. I’m mad about him. Hugh throws one maniac of a good time in bed.” The look in her eye suggested that she had saddled up a centaur and was riding him. “It’s just that he won’t do sixty-nine.”
At the look of consternation on my face, she began to laugh. “Hugh is awful,” she said. “He says that sixty-nine is nothing but counterespionage for amateurs.”
“What?” I had to say again.
“Oh, you know. You’re-in-my-brain-I’m-in-yours.” I had no time even to be properly startled by this before she added, “Harry, have you ever done soixante-neuf?”
“Well, frankly, no. I don’t know if I want to think about it.”
“I hear it’s heavenly.”
“You do?”
“One of my married friends told me so.”
“Who is it?”
“Oh, Harry, you’re as naïve as me. Don’t look so stricken. I haven’t gone mad. I’ve just decided to talk like Lenny Bruce. Don’t worry, dear godfather of our child, Hugh and I are very much married.”
“Good,” I said. “I don’t think you’re nearly so naïve as you claim.”
“You may not be the one to judge,” she said. “Now, Harry, do me a favor. Write long letters from Uruguay. Really long ones. Tell me all about your work.” She bent forward to whisper: “The things I’m not supposed to know. I’m so ignorant of the basic day-to-day stuff. I need this kind of knowledge for my own work.”
“You’re asking me to break the law,” I answered.
“Yes,” she said, “but we won’t get caught, and it’s very simple.”
She reached into her blouse for a piece of paper. “I wrote out all the instructions. This is a perfectly safe way of sending letters back and forth. It’s all done with the State Department pouch. Absolutely airtight.” She nodded at what must have been the look in my eye. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I am asking you to break the law. But not really, darling,” and Kittredge gave one of her kisses, a fell, wet, kissing cousin of a full kiss. “Write the longest letters you can,” she said. “Put enough in to get us hanged.” She gave the oddest laugh, as if nothing in all the world could be as sensuous as conspiracy itself.
I didn’t look at her note until I was on the plane. It was but a few lines long:
Just address your pouch envelope to Polly Galen Smith, Route AR-105-MC. Once the pouch reaches Washington, your letters will be delivered to a post office box in Georgetown that Polly still holds but has passed over to me, key and all, since she has obtained an additional box for her own use. Hence, she won’t ever know who is writing to me.
Besitos,
Kittredge