The collected stories (26 page)

'I am not blushing,' said Ernie. Tve heard all this rubbish before. Here, Leo, you want to have a look at those temples? There they are.' He pointed to a shelf of large books, boxed editions; art books, Leo knew, even from across the room.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?

Leo stayed late, talking mostly to Amy ('My aunt was a character,' Amy said at one point, 'I once saw her lose her temper and down a whiskey, then smash her glass into the fireplace . . .'). After twelve Ernie drove Leo back to The Palms. In the car Leo said, 'I like your wife. She's very intelligent.'

'We're getting a divorce,' said Ernie.

It was a statement to which the only tactful response was silence. And Leo knew as Ernie said it that he would have nothing to do with Amy. A married lover, it was said, was a convenient if temporary pleasure; but a woman on the verge of divorce was a terrible risk, a man-eater.

Apparently there was a second meeting - Ernie swore it was so, it was marked in his pocket diary - but Leo could not recall it. His interest in Amy died with the news of the divorce. He could remember being a bit sorry, because he had never made love to a married woman, and now his courage failed him. The next time Leo saw Ernie in the Rex, Ernie was with Margo. Leo knew that he could not be friends with both wife and lover. His friendships had to be Ernie's or there would be misunderstandings. And Leo felt mild relief, as if something cloudy and uncertain in his life had disappeared, when Amy went to India. It was a surprising feeling: he barely knew the woman.

'. . . happens all the time,' Ernie was saying. Used to giving orders at the airport and unfamiliar with persuading people to do things, Ernie got excited and distracted telling Leo his idea. He began by saying that he considered it a big favor, but later in the evening he said in a wheedling tone that there was no risk; it was a small thing really, if Leo could see it in its proper perspective. 'Look at the paper. Every Thursday they give the court proceedings, and, Christ, they're practically all divorces - even in a little dump like Tanganyika.'

Ernie took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. The bar had filled up with seamen who stood, like Ernie, with one foot on the brass rail, glancing around. The regulars were at tables, drinking slowly or not at all, and looking up and commenting when people left or entered through the swinging doors of the bar.

'It's a strange request,' Leo said finally. 'I don't know what to do.'

SINNING WITH ANNIE

There's no one else I can turn to,' said Ernie.

'So it really isn't such a small matter, is it?'

Tor me, no. It's a life-or-death business for me. But you - God, it's nothing.'

'It's a lie, though.'

'Oh, yes, I know that,' said Ernie. 'There's no getting around that.'

'And a lie is serious, especially in a legal matter. It's perjury. The whole thing could backfire. I could lose my job at the bank.'

'It won't backfire, I swear.'

'Everyone knows we're friends. They'll know we made it up.'

'That's just it. These divorces, look at them. Who is it that's always named as the third party - it's friends every single time! How else would the wife meet the bloke? The women here don't get out much. The only men they meet are the friends of their husbands. That's how it happens-'

'You mentioned the court proceedings in the paper,' said Leo. 'I read the paper every day and I've never noticed them, but what bothers me is that other people here probably read them all the time. It would be just like my manager, Farnsworth, to see something like that. If he did I'd be finished.'

'Nothing to worry about,' said Ernie, becoming eager again. 'Don't give that a thought. The editor of the Standard is an old pal of mine. I could ask him not to print our names. He'd do it, I know he would. He's a very old friend. I've known him for years.'

'Then why don't you name him as corespondent?' said Leo. But he was sorry as soon as he said it.

'Leo, for God's sake!' Ernie said helplessly. 'Don't you see I can't? You're my last hope. If you refuse me, I'm stuck - Margo says she'll go away. She'll leave me.' Ernie began to sigh softly. 'Everyone lets me down, Amy, Margo, my kids - those kids mean a lot to me. You don't have any kids. You don't know what it's like to be away from them. It kills me. Leo, I cry when I think of them - I'm not ashamed, I do.' Ernie looked mournfully at Leo and said, 'If you did this for me, you can't imagine what I'd do for you. I'd do anything-' Ernie put his hand on Leo's wrist: the fingers were wet and Leo felt disgust, felt his arm turn clammy as Ernie said, 'Just name it - anything-'

'Stop,' said Leo, and drew away. 'I don't want to make a deal with you,' he said. But he said it to convince himself, because at

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?

the source of Leo's disgust was the thought that he could have had anything he named; and what was most sinister to him was that he was tempted to ask. But he said: 'First put it to Amy. See if she'll agree to it. I take it Margo already agrees. Then - this is crucial - make sure that nothing appears in the Standard. Get a definite promise from the editor. If Amy agrees and nothing gets into print, I'll be satisfied.'

Ernie beamed. 'We're halfway there! Amy's already said yes.'

'What? But how did you know I'd agree?'

'I didn't.' Ernie grinned. 'I just said that I was going to ask you. Here's her letter. I think she means business.' Ernie took out a wrinkled aerogram with a pink stamp printed on it. He showed it to Leo, smoothing it on the bar. The handwriting was large, willful, done with a felt marking pen: / suppose it will happen eventually, so it might as well be your way. Better with Leo than others I could name -he's a nice boy. There was no signature. Leo folded the aerogram and before he handed it back to Ernie he looked at the unusual return address: Amy/Ashram/Kolhapur.

The following Sunday at lunch Ernie was exuberant; he sat a few feet away from the table and held his beer mug on his knee; he laughed loudly and often. He said that he had seen the editor of the Standard and got the promise from him; and the lawyer, who was an Indian, knew of the connivance and was drawing up the papers. It was all set.

'Have a beer,' said Ernie. 'You're not drinking, Leo. Cheer up!'

'I've stopped drinking,' said Leo. He hadn't, but the lie was necessary: he wanted nothing from Ernie. On his way to the toilet Leo paid for his own meal. He said he had a headache and went back to The Palms. He did not want Ernie to think that the favor, which already he regretted, could be repaid so easily, or at all. He withdrew into spiteful lassitude and stopped seeing Ernie altogether.

Some weeks after that lunch he was visited by the Indian lawyer, whose name was Chandra and who drove out to The Palms and said softly, 'Are you alone?' and then 'I've come to deliver a subpoena.'

That was ominous; it gave Leo a fright, but Chandra said, 'Not to worry - it's just a formality,' and stayed for tea. They talked, and as they did, Leo thought: Here is a good man; he would never

SINNING WITH ANNIE

ask of me what Ernie did. And Leo wished that he had met Chandra instead of Ernie.

Walking to Chandra's car, Leo asked, 'Did you know Amy?'

Eagerly Chandra said, 'Yes - oh, she was a fine person. She knew a great deal about Indian art - very interested in Indian culture. A graduate, did you know? I was hoping Ernie would try to patch things up - but-'

'He wasn't interested,' said Leo.

'I should not say this,' said Chandra. 'But he did not deserve her.'

'You're right,' said Leo. And he startled the Indian by saying, 'He's a selfish bastard.'

Chandra looked warily at Leo and then said good-bye.

He's wondering how I can say that, thought Leo. But the betrayal was not Leo's - it was Ernie's. Ernie's lie had changed Leo and made him restless. He slept badly and had disturbing dreams. In a dream he watched his mother snarling at Ernie and saying, 'What have you done to our Leo?' Ernie had replied by sticking his tongue out at the old lady.

A month after he agreed to act as corespondent he admitted his hatred of Ernie to himself. Leo found himself falling into conversations with bank customers who knew Ernie; Leo made a point of calling Ernie a shit, and he encouraged the customers to agree with him. He saw each of Ernie's enemies - there were quite a number, Leo realized - as his own friends.

Amy as well. He thought of her in ramshackle India with her two children, living from day to day, in a silent ashram, in retreat from the world. It seemed a kind of destitution that he had connived with Ernie in forcing upon her. How she must hate me, he thought. But Amy did not know that his part in the conspiracy had ruined his friendship with Ernie and Margo. Amy didn't know that in his agreeing to the favor he had accepted the blame and had had to construct the adultery in his mind in order to convince himself of his blame. That preoccupation had begun to obsess and arouse him, almost as if it had all been true and he was looking back at a recent half-completed passion which had confused rather than exhausted his feelings.

On an impulse he wrote to her. It was late in the morning, just after coffee, and there were no customers in the bank because it was raining very hard. He felt lonely, but writing the letter lifted

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO?

his spirits. An impediment, the cramp of language he had sometimes experienced in letter writing, did not arise this time. The hollowness of letters with all their inadequate phrases had caused him to stop writing letters entirely, but the letter to Amy gave him pleasure. He said, J rather like the idea of being your lover. He said, / agreed to it because Ernie seemed so upset, but I don't like him anymore. He said, in his last long paragraph, I'm sitting in the bank and looking out into the empty foyer and the rainy street - and that was especially strange because as he wrote it he did look around the bank and he tried to explain all the things he saw to this lonely woman.

She replied. It came quickly and it made Leo realize that India was just across the water, closer than England. Amy talked about the children, how brown they had become; about the ashram's activities, the poetry magazine, the outings, the play school that was being organized. She said, I've seen those sexy temples, by the way. Fantastid She said she was learning a bit of Hindi. And she finished her letter with a long paragraph similar to Leo's: It's late now and our chickens are silent. The room seems quite empty and I'm smoking a cigarette I rolled from the air edition of the Guardian Weekly . . .

That was an aerogram. Her next was many sheets of notepaper in a thick envelope. She unburdened herself and responded to Leo's remark about Ernie (I don't like him anymore). She analyzed her marriage more candidly and more fairly than Ernie had ever done; it was a little history, their first meeting and their first disappointments. She said how excited she had been when Leo had come home unexpectedly with Ernie. Leo read, fascinated: she was a victim and here she was alone; Leo had had a part in victimizing her. The deception was like a fishbone in his throat.

Leo wrote Amy a long apology; he asked her to forgive him for agreeing to the lie. He said he was sorry and that if he had it to do over again he would refuse. Amy's reply was: Don't say that. Don't regret what you've said. You did something fine because you believed Ernie was your friend. I think about you often, Leo, and I sometimes wish we really had gone off together. But it's too late for that now. You're a very sweet person. If you regret what you did, then I'll have to as well. And I don't want that. I'm happy here.

SINNING WITH ANNIE

The bank manager, Farnsworth, frowned at Leo when the coffee boy knocked on the glass partition and said Leo had a telephone call.

'Take your call,' said Farnsworth. 'I'll check these figures in the meantime.'

'Sorry,' said Leo. 'I'll be right back.'

'Shauri kwishaV It was Ernie. 'It's all settled! I've just come out of court this minute. It'll be final in three weeks. God, the judge gave me the third degree, asked me how well I knew you and did I know what you were up to . . . Leo, are you there?'

'Yes. Look, I'm busy-'

'I thought you'd laugh when I told you. Say, Leo, is there anything wrong?'

'I'm with the manager. Piles of work-'

'I understand. But what a weight off my shoulders! It's like -just like a big weight lifted off my shoulders. I can breathe again! I feel like celebrating. How about a drink at the Rex?'

'It's not even noon, Ernie.'

'I can drive right over. Say yes.'

'No, I've got work to do.'

'Leo, are you feeling all right?'

'I'm fine; I have to go. The manager's waiting. I'll ring you back.'

But he didn't ring Ernie back that day; he busied himself with the July figures. And the next day he could have rung, but he had no excuse for neglecting to ring the previous day, none that Ernie would believe. Ernie would still say he was ill or out of sorts. Leo was waiting - for courage, he told himself. He did not want to hear about the divorce and he did not want to see Ernie until he could say what he felt: that Ernie had betrayed him and made him victimize poor Amy.

The third day Ernie rang three times in the morning. Leo told the switchboard operator that if Ernie Grigson rang again - she was to ask for the name - she should tell him that Leo was not available. Leo tried to stay out of sight; he worked in the vault, then in a back office hidden from the street. But late in the afternoon, when he was standing at the front counter and going over his transactions on the electric adding machine, he sensed someone pause at the window, and he felt it must be Ernie, peering in at him.

It wasn't. Two European ladies had stopped. Leo looked up and

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR LEO.-*

they began walking. He didn't recognize them - they were deeply tanned; one wore a headscarf, the other a straw hat - but their gestures were distinct. As they moved along the sidewalk, one looked through the bank's window, directly at him with her broad brown face and bright red lips, and then she quickly looked away and seemed to mumble; the second turned and stared at Leo, shielding her eyes from the glare in a kind of salute. And they walked on. The women did not face each other, but Leo could tell they were speaking. He realized it was Thursday.