Being There (11 page)

Chance neither moved nor resisted. Suddenly EE went limp and let her head fall on his chest. “You don't want me,” she said. “You don't feel anything for me. Nothing at all.”

Chance gently pushed her aside and sat up heavily at the edge of the bed.

“I know, I know,” she cried. “I don't excite you!” Chance did not know what she meant. “I'm right, aren't I, Chauncey?”

He turned and looked at her. “I like to watch you,” he said.

She stared at him. “To watch me?”

“Yes. I like to watch.”

She sat up, breathless, gasping for air. “Is that why … is that all you want, to watch me?”

“Yes. I like to watch you.”

“But aren't you excited?” She reached down and took his flesh and held it in her hand. In turn, Chance touched her; his fingers moved inside her. She jerked again, turned her head to him, and in a fiery attempt pulled and sucked his flesh into her mouth, licking it with her tongue, nibbling at it with her teeth, trying desperately to breathe life into it. Chance waited patiently until she stopped.

She wept bitterly. “You don't love me,” she cried. “You can't stand it when I touch you!”

“I like to watch you,” said Chance.

“I don't understand what you mean,” she moaned. “No matter what I do, I can't arouse you. And you keep saying that you like to watch me…. Watch me! You mean … when … when I'm alone … ?”

“Yes. I like to watch you.”

In the bluish light emanating from the TV, EE looked at him, her eyes veiled. “You want me to come while you watch.”

Chance said nothing.

“If I touched myself, you'd get excited and then you'd make love to me?”

Chance did not understand. “I would like to watch you,” he repeated.

“I think I understand now.” She got up, paced swiftly up and down the room, crossing in front of the TV screen; every now and then a word escaped her lips, a word scarcely louder than her breath.

She returned to the bed. She stretched out on her back and let her hand run over her body; languidly, she spread her legs wide apart and then her hands crept froglike toward her belly. She swayed back and forth and shoved her body from side to side as if it were pricked by rough grass. Her fingers caressed her
breasts, buttocks, thighs. In a quick motion, her legs and arms wrapped around Chance like a web of sprawling branches. She shook violently: a delicate tremor ran through her. She no longer stirred; she was half-asleep.

Chance covered her with the blanket. Then he changed the channels several times, keeping the sound low. They rested together in bed and he watched TV, afraid to move.

Sometime later, EE said to him: “I am so free with you. Up until the time I met you, every man I knew barely acknowledged me. I was a vessel that he could take hold of, pierce, and pollute. I was merely an aspect of somebody's love-making. Do you know what I mean?”

Chance looked at her but said nothing.

“Dearest … You uncoil my wants: desire flows within me, and when you watch me my passion dissolves it. You make me free. I reveal myself to myself and I am drenched and purged.”

He remained silent.

EE stretched and smiled. “Chauncey, dear, I've been meaning to bring this up: Ben wants you to fly to Washington with me tomorrow and take me to the Capitol Hill Ball. I must go; I'm chairman of the
Fund-Raising Committee. You will come with me, won't you?”

“I would like to go with you,” said Chance.

She cuddled up next to him and dozed off again. Chance watched TV until he too fell asleep.

IVtrs. Aubrey rang Chance in
the morning. “Sir, I've just seen this morning's papers. You're in every one of them, and the photographs are stunning! There's one of you with Ambassador Skrapinov … and one with the Secretary-General … and another with … a German Count Somebody. The
Daily News
has a full page picture of you with Mrs. Rand. Even the
Village Voice …
”

“I don't read newspapers,” said Chance.

“Well, anyway, a number of the major networks have invited you for exclusive TV appearances. Also,
Fortune, Newsweek, Life, Look, Vogue, House & Garden
want to do stories on you. The
Irish Times
called and so did
Spectator, Sunday Telegraph,
and
The Guardian;
they want a press conference. A Lord Beauclerk wanted me to inform you that the BBC is ready to fly you to London for a TV special; he hopes that you will be his house guest. The New York bureaus of
Jours de France, Der Spiegel, L'Osservatore Romano, Pravda, Neue Zurcher Zeitung
have called for appointments. Count von Brockburg-Schulendorff just called to tell you that
Stern,
of Germany, will have you on its cover;
Stern
would like to acquire world rights to your remarks on television, and they're waiting for your terms. French
UExpress
wants you to discuss the challenge of the American depression in their round-table interview: they'll pay your travel expenses. Mr. Gaufridi called twice to offer you his hospitality when you are in France. The directors of the Tokyo Stock Exchange would like you to inspect a new Japanese-made data retrieving computer …”

Chance interrupted: “I don't want to meet these people.”

“I understand, sir. Just two final points: The
Wall Street Journal
has predicted your imminent appointment to the board of the First American Financial
Corporation, and they would like to have a statement from you. In my view, sir, if you could give them a prognosis at this time, you could help their stock enormously….”

“I cannot give them anything.”

“Very well, sir. The other thing is that the trustees of the Eastshore University would like to confer an honorary doctor of laws degree on you at this year's commencement exercises, but they want to make sure beforehand that you'll accept.”

“I do not need a doctor,” said Chance.

“Do you want to talk to the trustees?”

“No.”

“I see. And what about the newspapers?”

“I don't like newspapers.”

“Will you see the foreign correspondents?”

“I see them often enough on TV.”

“Very good, sir. Oh, yes, Mrs. Rand wanted me to remind you that the Rand plane will be leaving for Washington at four o'clock. And she wanted me to inform you that you'll be staying at your hostess's home.”

Karpatov, the chief of the Special Section, arrived on Friday to see Ambassador Skrapinov. He was immediately ushered into the Ambassador's office.

“There is no additional information in Gardiner's file,” he said, placing a thin folder on the Ambassador's desk.

Skrapinov tossed the file to one side. “Where is the rest?” he asked crisply.

“There is no record of him anywhere, Comrade Skrapinov.”

“Karpatov, I want the facts!”

Karpatov spoke haltingly: “Comrade Ambassador, I have been able to determine that the White House is eager to find out what we know about Gardiner. This should indicate that Gardiner has political importance of the first magnitude.”

Skrapinov glared at Karpatov, then got up and began pacing back and forth behind his desk. “I want,” he said, “from your Section one thing only: the facts about Gardiner.”

Karpatov stood there sullenly. “Comrade Ambassador,” he answered, “it is my duty to report that we have been unable to discover even the most elementary information about him. It is almost as if he had never existed before.” The Ambassador's hand came down on his desk, and a small statuette toppled to the floor. Trembling, Karpatov stooped, picked it up and carefully put it back on the desk.

“Don't imagine,” the Ambassador hissed, “that you can palm such rot off on me! I won't accept it! ‘As if he had never existed'! Do you realize that Gardiner
happens to be one of the most important men in this country and that this country happens to be not Soviet Georgia but the United States of America, the biggest imperialist state in the world! People like Gardiner decide the fate of millions every day! ‘As if he had never existed'! Are you mad? Do you realize that I mentioned the man in my speech?” He paused, then bent forward toward Karpatov. “Unlike the people of your Section, I do not believe in twentieth-century ‘dead souls'—nor do I believe in people from other planets coming down to haunt us, as they do on American television programs. I hereby demand all data on Chauncey Gardiner to be delivered to me personally within four hours!”

Hunching his shoulders, Karpatov left the room.

When four hours had passed and Skrapinov had still not heard from Karpatov, he decided to teach him a lesson. He summoned to his office Sulkin, ostensibly a minor official at the Mission, but actually one of the most powerful men in the Foreign Department.

Skrapinov complained bitterly to Sulkin about Karpatov's ineptitude, stressed the extraordinary importance of obtaining information on Gardiner, and asked that Sulkin help him get a clear picture of Gardiner's past.

After lunch, Sulkin arranged a private conference with Skrapinov. They proceeded to a room at the Mission known as “The Cellar,” which was specially protected against listening devices. Sulkin opened his attache case and with ceremony drew from a black folder a single blank piece of paper. Skrapinov waited expectantly.

“This, my dear Comrade, is your picture of Gardiner's past!” Sulkin growled.

Skrapinov glanced at the page, saw that it was blank, dropped it, glared at Sulkin, and said: “I don't understand, Comrade Sulkin. This page is empty. Does this mean that I am not to be entrusted with the facts about Gardiner?”

Sulkin sat down and lit a cigarette, slowly shaking the match out. “Investigating the background of Mr. Gardiner, my dear Comrade Ambassador, has apparently proven so difficult a task for the agents of the Special Section that it has already resulted in the loss of one of them, without his being able to uncover the tiniest detail of Gardiner's background!” Sulkin paused to puff on his cigarette. “It was fortunate, however, that on Wednesday night I took the precaution of photowiring to Moscow a tape of Gardiner's television appearance on
THIS EVENING
. This tape, you might be interested in knowing, was submitted to prompt psychiatric, neurological, and linguistic examination.
With the aid of our latest-model computers, our teams have analyzed Gardiner's vocabulary, syntax, accent, gestures, facial and other characteristics. The results, my dear Skrapinov, may surprise you. It proved impossible to determine in any way whatsoever his ethnic background or to ascribe his accent to any single community in the entire United States!”

Skrapinov looked at Sulkin in bewilderment.

Smiling wanly, Sulkin continued: “Moreover, it may interest you to know that Gardiner appears to be emotionally one of the most well-adjusted American public figures to have emerged in recent years. However,” Sulkin went on, “your Mr. Chauncey Gardiner remains, to all intents and purposes,” and here he held up the sheet of paper by its corner, “a blank page.”

“Blank page?”

“Blank page,” echoed Sulkin. “Exactly. Gardiner's code name!”

Skrapinov quickly reached for a glass of water and gulped it down. “Excuse me, Comrade,” he said. “But on Thursday evening when I took it upon myself to allude to Gardiner in my speech in Philadelphia, I naturally assumed that he was an established member of the Wall Street elite. After all, he was mentioned by the American President. But if, as it seems …”

Sulkin held up his hand. “Seems? What reason do you have to suggest that Chauncey Gardiner is not in actual fact the man whom you described?”

Skrapinov could barely mutter: “Blank page … the lack of any facts …”

Again Sulkin interrupted. “Comrade Ambassador,” he said, “I am here actually to congratulate you on your perceptiveness. It is, I must tell you, our firm conviction that Gardiner is, in fact, a leading member of an American elitist faction that has for some years been planning a
coup d'état.
He must be of such great importance to this group that they have succeeded in masking every detail of his identity until his emergence Tuesday afternoon.”