Matters of Honor Page 7

  By the way, he added, did you happen to notice that there is no mention in the movie about the murder of however many million Jews in Europe? Five? Six? Seven? Shouldn’t that have come up one way or another? For instance, when one of the rednecks calls the John Garfield character, a decorated veteran in full army uniform, a dirty kike. Total silence. What does that say about Mr. Garfield, whose name at one time was Jacob Julius Garfinkle, and everyone else involved with the production? For instance, Moss Hart, who wrote the screenplay?

  I told him I had no answer.

  There is no decent answer. That’s one of the reasons why I prefer to stay off this subject. Archie and I don’t talk about it.

  In fact, I couldn’t imagine Archie letting himself in for that sort of harangue. He was, on the other hand, certainly up to date on the subject of Margot. When I told him that I’d been called to Sanders to identify her, he said that Henry had asked him to come as well, though for a different kind of opinion.

  But I’m not doing it, he said. I’m sure I’ve already met that lollipop at Mario’s party last week. She’s a bit of all right.

  Mario was a senior, an Argentinean polo player who had made time in his schedule for rugby.

  I’ll get Mario to invite her again, and you and I will bring Henry, Archie continued. It’s the only way he’ll ever meet her. But don’t say a word about it to him. He won’t come if he knows what we’re up to.

  That was the efficient and agreeable side of Archie, which matched his freckled good looks, neatness of person, and effortless manners. If a friend needed a hand with a practical problem, he was the man for it. The other side was his drinking. I had watched my parents hit the bottle for as long as I could remember. I couldn’t fail to recognize someone for whom liquor meant something quite different from getting silly after a few drinks too many. Drunks marked for destruction like my father scared me; there’s no other way to put it, even when, as in my father’s case, they gave no hint of inclination to violence. That Archie was one of those drunks I didn’t doubt, although he fooled most of his friends by holding his liquor so well. I thought he held it far too well. The huge quantities of booze I had seen consumed at the couple of parties given by Archie’s friends I had attended, to say nothing of what he drank, put me off coming again. This occasion was different. If Henry was going to be introduced to Margot, I wouldn’t fail to be present.

  I had no doubt that Archie understood my disapproval. That his feelings were hurt was plain in his adjustment of attitude toward me. He had become watchful. Our camaraderie revived only when we met on the squash court. We played often. He was fast and nimble, and I had to work hard to give him a decent game. For my part, once it was clear where we stood with each other, I began to understand that neither my disapproval, which he surely considered another symptom of my prissiness, nor, so far as I could tell, anyone else’s, mattered to Archie. He had talked himself into believing that to drink hard was a romantic gesture, an act of gallant defiance, one that he could pull off because of the total control he exercised over himself, if he chose to, as well as the strength of his constitution. Squash, incidentally, was another game to which Archie was taking care to introduce Henry, and Henry was eager to learn, rightly associating the sport with boarding schools. Why Archie took such pains with Henry, and had become so attached to him, was something of an enigma. Perhaps it was, at least initially, the attraction of the exotic. Henry was for Archie, just as for me, a strange and heretofore unknown type; Archie’s previous contacts with Jews must have been even more limited than mine, but they had left him open-minded, as he was about most things except brands of gin and cigarettes and other paraphernalia required for a gentleman’s comfort and pleasure. But it wasn’t only Henry’s Jewism or Henry’s war experiences, which he may or may not have investigated, or the ambiguities of Henry’s attitude that so engaged Archie’s interest. What really hooked him, I believe, was that Henry, more intellectual and bookish than anyone Archie had ever known, should be so accommodating, so keen to be deeply involved with him. He was in awe of Henry’s brains and would have understood it if in their dealings Henry had been aloof, perhaps even patronizing. Instead, Henry proved himself an eager pupil, learning the tricks Archie had to teach, and participating, without condescension, in the pastimes that were Archie’s principal occupation—pastimes that Archie himself surely knew were silly. Such acceptance must have seemed to Archie little short of miraculous. It convinced him of Henry’s true affection, and both Archie and Henry, each in his own way, had a huge need to please and to be liked. A price had to be paid, and they both paid it. It is probable that, beyond his mistaken impression that Henry’s successes were effortless, Archie found in Henry’s friendship a validation of his conduct, proof he was all right and could safely dismiss what he perceived as my disapproval. Perhaps the disapproval and carping of others as well. Henry could not have been unconscious of the role he played. What was, in that case, the measure of his responsibility for Archie’s behavior? Did he feel relieved of any by a conclusion, similar to mine, that trying to reform Archie was a waste of time? I wondered whether Archie would eventually come to blame Henry for his complicity; perhaps on occasion he already did, during the awful hours when a hangover slowly recedes, making place for bleak lucidity. That seemed improbable, but then he was more opaque to me than was Henry, although one might have supposed that Archie and I would have understood each other better. His being particularly closemouthed about himself and his family contributed to the opacity, as did the fact that I was less intensely curious about him.

  The party at Mario’s was to take place after the Yale game, the last game of the season, at the house where we intended to live as sophomores. Archie and Henry were going to the game without dates. As I had not gotten a ticket and said I didn’t want one, Archie instructed me to meet them at the house, at the porter’s lodge, so that I could corral Henry if he tried to defect at the last minute. The afternoon had turned nasty, the wind blasting through the covered passage between the street and the courtyard where I waited. Harvard’s ignominious loss to Yale had been expected, and perhaps for that reason it had not dispirited the undergraduates and girls hurrying inside from Dunster Street. I took in the red cheeks and noses, the long crimson or blue scarves wound around girls’ necks, the occasional raccoon coat. Such a coat, dating back to my father’s college days, hung in the hall closet at home. He offered it to me, very nicely, the evening before my mother drove me down to Cambridge. My refusal was a surly reflex, and I knew that I hurt him, even though he had his martini pacifier in hand and limited his response to the habitual “Fine and dandy.”

  Finally, Archie and Henry arrived. We crossed the courtyard and climbed two flights of stairs. The living room was crowded and noisy. Several people greeted Archie, and Henry prudently remained at his side. Not seeing anyone I knew, I drifted to the window overlooking the Charles, which glistened beyond Memorial Drive like a slick vein of anthracite. There was a stack of records on the phonograph. I identified the music being played as a tango. It was followed by passionate chanting in Spanish. The woman’s deep voice would rise to a vertiginous height and then fall abruptly. It was accompanied by a guitar and rhythmic pounding of heels and clapping of hands. I was drawn to this strange music. The next record was similar and again I listened attentively. A wiry man with very black hair approached me and said, It’s flamenco, Gypsy songs from the south of Spain. I collect flamenco records. You’re welcome to come to listen whenever you like. By the way, I’m Mario Delgado. You must be one of Archie’s roommates, the one who isn’t from Poland. Mario’s accent was as elegant as his navy-blue blazer, and quite unlike the intonations of Archie’s other Latino friends.

  I told him that I wouldn’t have guessed he was from Argentina. The provincial stupidity of my remark was clear to me as soon as I had made it. I mumbled an apology.

  Don’t worry, he replied, nobody can place me, and everyone asks. It comes from my having been sent to school in En
gland, but a couple of years too late. Come, you should have a drink.

  He led me to the table that served as a bar and deftly left me. I saw Henry and Archie still near the door in a group of people shouting so as to be heard over the noise. I didn’t want to shoulder my way in. Instead, I went back to my post at the window. On the way I examined first the contents of the bookcases, which proved unremarkable, and then the posters pinned to the walls advertising Dubonnet, the casino in Biarritz, French movies, and, inevitably, the Moulin Rouge. At the same time, I took inventory of the guests. The girls were all very tall. Perhaps that was the criterion that determined who was invited. Some I recognized, probably because I had stared at them in the library. The others might have been imported for this important weekend from Wellesley, Smith, Vassar, or Sarah Lawrence, or even more distant sources of supply. Among the men, foreigners seemed to be in the majority. They wore tweed jackets or blazers too beautiful, like Mario’s, not to be noticed. Americans, all manifestly upperclassmen, sported neckties of the three or four best final clubs. Blond and serene, they were to a man products of the boarding schools that acted as principal feeders for Harvard College, a species not unfamiliar to me, except that its representatives assembled at Mario’s were, on the scale of perfection, right at the high end. I glanced again at Archie and Henry. Their group was all foreigners, and therefore rugby players. It was impossible not to notice that both my roommates were out of place in this setting; to put it more brutally, they looked odd. This was so not only by reason of how they were dressed, or, in Henry’s case, also his haircut, which was too short, exposing white skin over his ears. It was more their facial expressions. They had neither the clubmen’s blandness and satisfaction with the place they occupied by divine right nor the foreigners’ good-natured bonhomie. There was something too keen and too eager to please about Archie; Henry was nervous and uncomfortable, and couldn’t hide it.

  A good half hour had passed since Mario propelled me toward my martini, and I hadn’t exchanged a word with anyone else. I wondered how much longer I could decently continue this way without asking for another drink or taking some other action to make myself a less conspicuous wallflower. I also wondered whether Margot would really appear and, if she did, how Archie was going to manage the introduction. I didn’t think he had actually met her; more likely he had only observed her and found out her name. I had just decided I would give her another fifteen minutes and was making my way to the bar when Margot entered the room on the arm of my cousin George. To meet him this way for the first time since coming to Cambridge wasn’t exactly what I would have wished, but it solved the problem I had been pondering: I would say hello to him, and the rest would follow. I checked on my roommates. They hadn’t moved; standing with their backs to the door, neither could have seen Margot.

  Fresh martini in hand, I threaded my way toward George. It took him a moment to see me. As soon as he did, he exclaimed with a look of pleasant surprise—I hoped it was in some part genuine—over the remarkable coincidence of finding me at this party given by people he didn’t know and introduced me to Margot as his cousin. She mumbled some greeting, not particularly friendly. Without paying further attention to her, George told me that he had wanted us to get together right away, at the beginning of the term, but, with one thing and another and particularly crew practice, he hadn’t gotten around to looking me up. I responded with assurances that he had been much on my mind and that, having made the freshman wrestling team, I understood the demands the crew made on him. Then Mario joined us. This was a good opportunity to bring Henry over. My two roommates are here, I told George. I’d like you to meet them.

  In fact, I brought only Henry. As soon as she saw him, Margot came to life. She held out her arms crying out, At last, here is the boy in the window! This is too funny. I made a spectacle of myself trying to pick him up and he paid no attention! It was very humiliating, she concluded.

  I couldn’t tell whether her greeting embarrassed Henry or encouraged him. In either event, he didn’t need me. Planning to remain at the party only a few more minutes before going to dinner, just to make sure that Henry was really all right, I moved back to the window. George disengaged his arm from Margot’s and followed me.

  You know, he said, when I told you that I wanted to look you up I meant it. We should be friends. I have only one Standish cousin, and that’s you.

  Strictly speaking that wasn’t quite right. He had two older first cousins, daughters of his father’s sister. I was only a second cousin. Their name wasn’t Standish, but they were closer relations. Still, it would have been churlish to contradict him.

  Pittsfield is a funny place, he continued, referring to the town where the bank had its head office. So are Stockbridge and Lenox. Knowing Father, I’m sure he wouldn’t want people at the bank to think that he was treating your old man differently from everybody else, so I bet he makes sure he’s all business with him. But that has nothing to do with you and me. We should be friends.

  My astonishment was considerable. All through my childhood, I had thought that such a thing was impossible. When we were at the same day school, I went to his birthday parties because his mother invited the whole class. The invitations naturally stopped when we went to different boarding schools. Now he was taking the first step. I couldn’t imagine what lay behind this overture. Remarkable discretion on the part of the Standish parents about mine, as well as about the adoption? It was, of course, possible that Mr. Hibble had told the truth, and no one really knew, except for my parents and him. And the Standish grandfather who was my benefactor. What could George possibly like about me? I could think of nothing. Perhaps some well-disposed person had said something favorable that caught his imagination. Or was he acting out of a sense of noblesse oblige? It occurred to me that, if a true friendship developed, I would need to tell him I had been adopted. It would be wrong to conceal it from someone who cared so much about family ties. But that could wait. I said that I would like nothing better than to be friends. Then I added Margot seems nice.

  I like her a lot, he told me. If I can get her up to Stockbridge for the New Year’s dance, you’ll have to come too.

  After we said goodbye, I found Mario and thanked him. I couldn’t find Archie. Margot and Henry were still where I had left them. I thought I wouldn’t disturb them. With luck, I could still get something to eat at the Freshman Union. I walked fast toward Quincy Street.

  VII

  A BIG WINTER STORM hit after Christmas, knocking down power lines in western Massachusetts and parts of Connecticut and New York, and blowing snowdrifts across many roads. In some places it took several days to dig out, and crews worked around the clock to restore electricity and telephone service. Like everyone brought up in the Berkshires, George thought nothing of driving in the worst of winter conditions and was determined to go down to New York in the family station wagon. He would spend the night with his aunt and bring Margot and Henry to Stockbridge. Far from objecting, his parents thought this was a splendid plan, his father counseling him only to throw a spare set of chains in the back of the station wagon, just in case. Mrs. Hornung, however, vetoed the project. She decreed that if Margot really had to go to a dance in the Berkshires, she would go by train, the more sensible idea being for George to come to the party she and her husband gave every New Year’s Eve at their apartment in New York. There would be dancing, and George was welcome to bring friends. Her decision put an end to Henry’s row with his parents over the prospect of his driving off with George into the storm. In the plan finally adopted, the Berkshire dance prevailed over the Hornungs’ entertainment. Margot and Henry would take the train due in Stockbridge at three in the afternoon on New Year’s Eve and, at Margot’s insistence, Henry would stay at George’s house, rather than with me as I had proposed. Not being very confident about my parents in the role of hosts during that particular holiday, I had been glad to yield. All the same, I went to the station with George to discharge at least some of my duties as ro
ommate. There was no attendant on duty; there hadn’t been one in Stockbridge for a long time. We waited some fifteen minutes, and then, the pay phone being broken, I remained on the platform, so that I would be on hand to greet Henry and Margot if the train suddenly appeared while George drove to a nearby gas station on Route 7 and called down the line to stations in the state of New York where there was a chance that someone might be on duty. It was as we had expected. Switches kept on freezing up. It might be an hour or more before Henry and Margot arrived or it could be less. As they would be unable to call, we stayed at the station.

  Since Mario’s party, I had run across Margot only in the Yard and in the street. We would wave and say hello, but in spite of my growing curiosity about her, we didn’t stop to talk. Henry came back to the dormitory late the night of that party. He said he was frozen stiff. Archie was still out and I had just about finished my reading. As Henry hadn’t eaten, I suggested that we go out for a hamburger. He refused, protesting that he was tired and too cold to go out again, but in the end he agreed. The wind had turned into a gale and, for a Saturday night of the Yale game weekend, the Yard and the streets abutting on Harvard Square were surprisingly empty. There wasn’t even the usual gang of townies waiting outside Elsie’s on Mount Auburn Street to bait unwary undergraduates. I let Henry eat in silence. We were having a second cup of coffee when I asked what had happened at the party after I left. Nothing, he replied. Margot introduced George and him to Mario. George drifted off to greet some other people, leaving him and Margot. They got to have a long talk. At some point, George came over and said, Let’s go and eat, and he and Margot left for a restaurant in the North End. George had been very polite, asking Henry to join them. He declined, not wanting to impose. By then the dining room at the Union would have closed, and he didn’t feel like dinner anyway. So he walked along the Charles on the Cambridge side all the way to Harvard Bridge. There he crossed over to Boston, wandering around for a while in Back Bay. He followed the Storrow Drive to Cambridge, went back to Harvard Square, and poked around Brattle Street and Spark Street. Beautiful houses, he said. I wouldn’t mind living in one of them.