The Four Johns (5 page)

“Any time you like.… Oh, Oleg.”

Malinski had materialized on Susie's other side. He looked searchingly into her face. “You are troubled. Is it because of Mary?”

“Partly.”

“Strange indeed that she would not confide in you.”

“It's not so strange. We had a quarrel. To be accurate, I quarreled. Mary just laughed at me.”

“That would be her way. Yes. I can form no picture of Mary losing her temper.”

“Nothing affects her that deeply.”

Oleg held up his hand. “Certainly this is not true, Susie. For instance, she would never allow anyone to torment an animal.”

“She'd hit him with a brick. Several times.”

“Exactly,” said Oleg. “So you see, Mary
is
capable of emotion.”

“Of a certain kind, I suppose. She's frivolous, a born vamp. Because she's man-crazy? Not at all. Because she's never grown up. Flirting is a game with Mary. She feels nothing, and she doesn't understand why the men do. It mystifies her—sometimes it frightens her; I've seen her terrified. Still, she goes on flirting. But she very seldom—practically never—allows herself to be alone with a man. Except one. He fascinates her, for the simplest reason in the world: he's indifferent. Pays absolutely no attention to her. So Mary is piqued.”

“Yes,” sighed Oleg. “Of course.”

“He doesn't have a thing to recommend him. He's a raggle-taggle would-be poet, a scrounger. A jerk, really. But he's the only man Mary has ever thought twice about.”

“His name is John?” asked Mervyn, who had been imitating a mouse.

Susie nodded. “John Pilgrim.”

CHAPTER 3

“I am not an original man,” said Oleg Malinski from the darkness, “and I concede the triteness of the emotion that overtakes me when I stand out here on a clear night. But looking over these millions of lights, these thousands of roofs, feeling this twinkle of motion—no more than a vibration, really—I can never avoid a sense of wonder at the sheer volume of human activity under my eyes. It is almost oppressive.” Malinski waved. “Look out there. As we watch, death is seizing scores of human beings. Marriages are being consummated. Babies are being born. Unhappy persons alone in their rooms contemplate suicide. Social gatherings are in progress, some of the most remarkable sort. In certain dark houses—perhaps there, or there—a criminal finds a terrified little girl who has heard his footsteps. Now! He is laying his hands on her shoulders! In other houses men and women stare stupidly at each other, or at the television. And in one of these houses—who knows?—maybe Mary talks with her mysterious John.”

Susie stirred.

There was a short silence.

“Have you called home to Ventura?” Oleg asked.

“No.”

“But if she had perhaps prevailed upon ‘John'—whoever he may be—to drive her to Ventura, she would be at home now, and your worries would be at an end. Mervyn, is this not sensible?”

“I should think so.”

“But I'm not worried,” said Susie evenly.

“In that case we will be gay! Come! Will you dance the czardas with me?”

“I'm not very good at such things.”

“It is not necessary to be good. I am a man badly uncoordinated, yet I dance the czardas with enthusiasm.”

“I don't even have the enthusiasm.”

“Then I must dance alone. In any event, there is wine to drink, and perhaps in the wine you will find enthusiasm.”

“
In vino
you're supposed to find
veritas
,” said Susie with sudden energy. “So let's all drink.”

She went back into the living room, poured herself a glass of wine, and took it to a long couch. Here sat John Thompson, the librarian, in murmured conversation with a generous blond woman who had been introduced simply as Lalu. She wore a black flannel skirt, a broad black patent-leather belt, a white jersey blouse. She was barefoot, and as she listened to John Thompson she wriggled her toes. Thompson appeared not to see Susie, who in contrast to Lalu seemed prim and demure.

Mervyn replenished his own glass, then effaced himself in a corner. Susie evidently had put aside the thought of immediate departure and Mervyn was content to sit quietly. He had fallen into a mood which, in him, occasionally accompanied fatigue. It was a curious sensation, not unpleasant: detachment utter and complete. Events occurred as if seen through a lens. He surveyed the room. Susie sat decorously, intent on thoughts of her own. Beside her John Thompson leaned his barbered head close to the shoulder of the blond Lalu; his expression was one of placid contentment. As Mervyn watched, the librarian lazily gnawed at the blonde's arm. Lalu inspected her bare toes, wriggling them in a sort of ritual agitation.

A noisy altercation across the room attracted Mervyn's attention: John Boce and John Viviano were in disagreement. Boce sat in a big black canvas campaign chair, knees apart, belly between, while Viviano strode back and forth like a nervous secretary bird. The subject under discussion appeared to be the definition of female beauty. The accountant rested his case upon the
Iliad
. “This woman who launched a thousand ships. Helen. Don't tell me she was one of these concentration-camp types.”

“Elegance!” shouted the photographer. “Where is the elegance in these wads and masses of flesh? I seek the beauty of the nerves!”

Harriet ranged herself earnestly beside Boce. “But seriously, Viviano, don't you feel that ideals change? So far as we women are concerned, it's unquestionably so. Certainly you can't find the women Rubens painted attractive? Or Vermeer?”

“Rubens was a Dutchman,” sneered Viviano. “Venneer was no better.”

“Art is universal,” said Harriet. She raised her glass in graceful gesture. “To Art!” She drained the glass.

“Bah!” growled Viviano. “‘Art' is a word I never use. It has no meaning. It is a mass-produced toy for middle-aged females and culture-chasers to play with.”

Boce said, “I'll tell you for sure that when I get hold of a woman, I want to feel some meat. I've seen pictures in the fashion magazines where the women look as if they'd come up out of a drain.”

That seemed to end the argument.

Harriet had gone to join Oleg; he was loading the hi-fi. Pipes and violins burst out in the room. Oleg put his hands over his head and began to perform some sort of Slavic jig. Harriet studiously tried to follow him, but after a few tentative hops and kicks she went to pour herself more wine.

Mervyn glanced toward Susie, found her eyes on him. She looked away before he could decide the nature of her expression.

Oleg Malinski tired of his dance. He turned down the music. “One cannot dance alone. We will drink wine and talk.”

“I have already talked,” said Viviano. “I have also drunk your wine. Tomorrow I must dress and photograph four beautiful women.”

“You will need a clear head, undoubtedly,” said Oleg.

The photographer made a flamboyant gesture. “You may think that this is unalloyed delight. I assure you that serious problems arise. Only a man can subdue these creatures. They are like mindless panthers in a cage.”

Boce said thoughtfully, “It's a funny trade. I never suspected so much went on.”

Viviano began to pace. “Every day the most incredible difficulties arise. Do you know that I am like a god to these women? I am the agency that manifests their beauty. I am worshiped by them, blasphemed. But now I must leave.” He made gestures to left and right, bowed to Olga Malinski and departed.

John Boce exhaled a vinous breath, mingled with garlic. “I'm glad I'm normal. I
think
I'm glad I'm normal.”

Harriet had seated herself at his feet with a new glass of wine. “But we still haven't learned whom Mary ran away with.”

Oleg drew up a chair. “It is a fascinating problem. Assuming that the facts we have been given are correct.”

“Indeed they are,” said Harriet. “I heard Mary very distinctly. ‘John,' she said, ‘you mustn't be late.' And she said, ‘I love you dearly.'”

Susie made a hissing sound between her teeth.

“Why would she worry if he were late?” asked Oleg, shaking his head. “Unless, of course, she were talking to John Thompson, who is notoriously hard to find of a weekend. I am surprised that he came tonight. What do you say, John?”

Thompson, propped against Lalu, chuckled but made no comment. Lalu stroked his hair.

Boce said, “Harriet probably heard her wrong. She might have said Don or Ron or Lon.”

“Or Juan.”

“Or Con.”

“Or even Yvonne.”

“Did you say Ivan? or Yvonne?”

“It was John,” said Harriet.

The accountant puffed out his big cheeks. “Susie, you know everyone Mary knows. How many Johns are on the list?”

“Oh, not too many. John Boce—”

“Not John Boce!” cried Harriet. “John is a better, stronger man!”

Susie ignored her. “John Thompson. John Viviano—I introduced him to Mary. Like bringing coals to Newcastle.”

Thompson disengaged himself from Lalu, sat up on the couch and straightened his tie. “There's the lad who came to work in the stacks. John Pilgrim. I fired him last week, incidentally. Mary seemed to take quite a fancy to him.”

“Telephone this man!” cried John Boce. “Ask to speak to Mary.”

Harriet tittered. “John, you're not at all nice.”

“Let's get the facts,” roared Boce. “Telephone the skunk.”

“Telephone him yourself,” said Harriet.

“I'll do just that! Where's the phone?”

Oleg suavely pointed. Boce lurched across the room, consulted the directory, then dialed Information. He noted a number, dialed once more. Everyone in the room became still. At the fifth ring a tired voice responded.

“Let me speak to Mary,” said Boce smartly.

“Nobody here named Mary,” said the voice. Everyone could hear it. “You've got the wrong number.”

“Mary Hazelwood? Aren't you a friend of Mary Hazelwood?”

“Go to hell,” said the voice.

Boce looked inquiringly at the instrument, replaced it in the cradle. “He admits nothing.”

Lalu leaned back on the sofa, sybaritically stretching her bare legs. “Why bother?”

Susie tersely bade Oleg and Olga Malinski good night and left without looking to see whether Mervyn was following.

Mervyn rose and made hurried farewells. Boce heaved himself upright. “I'm not quite ready to go, Mervyn. Oleg's got some Polish sausage he's planning to break out. Maybe you can talk Susie into hanging around?”

“I'm ready to leave myself.”

“How are we supposed to get home?”

“If you want to leave now, I'll be glad to take you.”

“I'll get John Thompson to drop us off.”

Mervyn started for the door before Boce could change his mind. But Boce said, “Hold on. I'd better see if Harriet wants to go.”

Harriet, face flushed, hair in wisps, was in the process of pouring herself another glass of wine.

“She's settling in,” said Mervyn, edging toward the door.

“Yeah. Maybe so. But on the other hand—”

“On what other hand?” asked Mervyn in irritation.

“I need a set of wheels tomorrow. For maybe half an hour. I'll take the convert, if you're not using it?”

“Yes, yes, anything. Put some gas in it. Last time you used it I had to coast to the service station.”

“Right.” The accountant was once more all jolly good humor. “Good night, old man, happy dreams, drive carefully.”

Mervyn departed, his relief at being able to leave Boce and Harriet Brill soured by the knowledge that once more the fat man had outwitted him. Monday, for sure, he'd sell the car.

Susie was not waiting in the Volkswagen. Mervyn was not surprised. He backed around, started down the hill.

A hundred yards down, his headlights picked up Susie's slender figure. She was marching along with the determination of an Amazon. Mervyn stopped the car and opened the door. Susie climbed in.

Mervyn said in a mild voice, “I suppose it's useless to inquire into the reason for your peculiar behavior?”

Susie answered in an even milder voice, “I'm in the process of learning things about myself. The way I act under peculiar conditions. Peculiar conditions seem to call forth peculiar behavior.”

Mervyn puzzled over the remark. It seemed almost a covert challenge, as if Susie was daring him to ask for an explanation.

The silence became oppressive, so Mervyn asked. “What are you going to do this summer?”

“I'm
not
going to Tahoe.” Susie and Mary had half-seriously considered taking summer jobs at one of the Lake Tahoe resorts. “I'll probably sign up for summer session.”

She looked at him for the first time since she had got in the car. Mervyn could not read her expression in the dark—but, for that matter, he seldom could do so in the full light of day. “What about you?”

“I've still got my thesis,” Mervyn answered. “I suppose I'll concentrate on that.”

“No classes?”

“None till fall.”

They reached the bottom of the hill and Mervyn slowed down. He drove south along Perdue Street to the Yerba Buena Garden Apartments. Susie jumped out, thanked him briefly, ran up the stairs to the balcony, and along the deck to Apartment 12. Mervyn proceeded to his own apartment. As he opened his door he glanced back and saw Susie in the process of opening her door, looking down over her shoulder at him. Then the door closed behind her.

The next morning Mervyn was awakened by a rattling of the doorknob and vigorous pounding. Groaning, he looked at his clock: ten minutes to ten. He swung his legs out of bed and shuffled to the door.

The noisemaker was John Boce, dressed in suntans and glossy white windbreaker. He had on a long-billed blue baseball cap and dark glasses. Before Mervyn could speak, he raised a monitory hand. “I regret the intrusion, Mervyn. I come about the Chevrolet. You have practically convinced me that it's a sound investment.”