Being There (12 page)

“Did you say
coup d'etat?”
asked Skrapinov.

“I did,” replied Sulkin. “Do you doubt the possibility?”

“Well, no. Certainly not. Lenin himself seems to have foreseen it.”

“Good, very good,” said Sulkin, snapping the lock of his attache case. “It appears that your intuition has proven itself well-founded. Your initial decision to latch onto Gardiner has been justified. You have a good instinct, Comrade Skrapinov—a true Marxist instinct!” He got up to leave. “You will shortly receive special instructions about the attitude to adopt toward Gardiner.”

When Sulkin had gone, Skrapinov thought: It's incredible! Billions of rubles are spent each year on clever Japanese gadgetry, on superspies trained and camouflaged for years, on reconnaissance satellites, overstaffed embassies, trade missions, cultural exchanges, bribes, and gifts—but all that matters in the end is a good Marxist instinct! He thought of Gardiner and envied him his youth, his composure, his future as a leader.
Blank Page, Blank Page
— The code name brought back to him memories of World War II, of the Partisans he had led to so many victories. Maybe diplomacy had been the wrong career for him; maybe the army would have been better…. But he was old.

On Friday afternoon, the President's secretary reported to him. “I'm sorry, Mr. President, but since yesterday, I have been able to collect only a few additional press clippings about Gardiner. They are the speech of the Soviet Ambassador, who mentioned him, and the transcript of Gardiner's interview with the press at the United Nations.”

The President was annoyed. “Let's stop this! Have you asked Benjamin Rand about Gardiner?”

“I have telephoned the Rands, sir. Unfortunately,
Mr. Rand has had a serious relapse and is on powerful sedatives. He can't talk.”

“Did you speak to Mrs. Rand, then?”

“I did, sir. She was at her husband's bedside. She said only that Mr. Gardiner cherishes his privacy and that she respects this aspect of Mr. Gardiner's personality very much. She said that she feels—but only feels, you understand—that Mr. Gardiner intends to become much more active now that Mr. Rand is bedridden. But she did not connect Mr. Gardiner with any specific business or with any family situation.”

“That's even less than what I read in the
Times!
What about our investigative sources? Have you talked to Steven?”

“I did, Mr. President. He hasn't been able to find a single thing. He's checked twice, and not one agency could help him. Gardiner's photograph and fingerprints were checked out, of course, just before your visit to Rand's and, having no record of any kind—as Rand's guest—he was cleared. And I guess that's really all I have to tell you.”

“All right, all right. Call Grunmann. Tell him what you know, or, rather, don't know, and have him call me as soon as he gets something on Gardiner.”

Grunmann called in a short time. “Mr. President, all of us here have been trying desperately. There just
isn't a thing on him. The man doesn't seem to have existed until he moved into Rand's house three days ago!”

“I am very disturbed by this, very disturbed,” said the President. “I want you to try again. I want you to keep on it, do you understand? And by the way, Walter: there's a TV program, isn't there, in which some ordinary Americans turn out to be really invaders from another planet? Well, Walter, I refuse to believe that I talked to one of these intruders in New York! I expect you to come up with a large file on Gardiner. If not, I warn you that I shall personally authorize an immediate investigation of those who are responsible for such a flagrant breach in our security!”

Grunmann called back. “Mr. President,” he said in a low voice, “I am afraid that our initial fears are now confirmed. We have no record of this man's birth, of his parents, or of his family. We do know, however, beyond any doubt, and I can vouch for it, that he has never been in any legal trouble with any individual or any private, state, or federal organization, corporation, or agency. He was never the cause of any accident or of any damage and—aside from the Rand accident—he was never involved as a third party in any such situation. He has never been hospitalized;
he carries no insurance; nor, for that matter, can he possibly have any other documents or personal identification. He doesn't drive a car or fly a plane, and no license of any kind has ever been issued to him. He has no credit cards, no checks, no calling cards. He does not own a property in this country…. Mr. President, we snooped on him a bit in New York: he doesn't talk business or politics on the phone or at home. All he does is watch TV; the set is always on in his room: there's a constant racket—”

“He what?” interrupted the President. “What did you say, Walter?”

“I said he watches television—all the channels—practically all the time. Even when Mrs. Rand … is with him in his bedroom, sir …”

The President cut in sharply: “Walter, there's no excuse for such investigations, and, damn it, I don't want to know anything of that sort! Who the hell cares what Gardiner does in his bedroom?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. President, but we've had to try everything.” He cleared his throat. “Sir, we have been getting quite apprehensive about this man Gardiner. We recorded his conversations at the United Nations reception, but he hardly said a thing. Frankly, sir, it has occurred to us that he might be the agent of a foreign power. But the fact of the matter is that those people almost invariably have too much documentation provided, too much American identity.
There's absolutely nothing un-American about them; it's a miracle, as the Director always says, that none of them gets elected to the highest office of this land—” Grunmann caught himself, but it was too late for him to brush off his remark.

“That's a very poor joke, Walter,” the President said sternly.

“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean … I do apologize-”

“Go ahead with your report.”

“Well, sir, first, we feel that Mr. Gardiner is not one of these transplants. Definitely not, and then, the Soviets have put out an alert for information on his background. I'm happy to tell you, Mr. President, that even this unprecedented display of Soviet curiosity has failed; not only were they unable to come up with anything beyond—I am not joking, Mr. President—newspaper clippings from our press, but as a result of their eagerness they broke their cover and lost one of their most able agents to us! What's more, eight other foreign powers have put Gardiner on their spying priorities lists. All I can say is that we shall keep on it, Mr. President … we shall continue investigating on a round-the-clock basis, sir, and I'll let you know just as soon as we come up with anything.”

The President went upstairs to his apartment to rest. It's simply incredible, he thought, incredible.
Millions of dollars are allocated each year to each of these agencies, and they can't supply me with even the most rudimentary facts about a man now living in one of the best town houses of New York City as a guest of one of our most prominent businessmen. Is the Federal Government being undermined? By whom? He sighed, turned on TV, and dropped off to sleep.

The man sitting on the sofa
faced the small group assembled in his suite. “Gentlemen,” he began slowly, “some of you already know that Duncan has decided not to run with me. That leaves us, at present, without a candidate. My friends, we've got to announce someone soon, someone as good as Duncan, and I say this despite the distressing discoveries about Duncan's past that have unfortunately surfaced.”

Schneider spoke out. “It wasn't easy to come up even with Duncan,” he said, “and let's not kid ourselves … whom can we possibly get at this late date? Shellman is going to stay with his firm. I don't think Frank can even be considered, given his miserable record as president of the university.”

“What about George?” a voice asked.

“George has just had another operation—the second in three months. He's an obvious health risk.”

There was silence in the room. It was then that O'Flaherty spoke. “I think I have someone,” he said quietly. “What about Chauncey Gardiner?” All eyes turned to the man on the sofa who was drinking his coffee.

“Gardiner?” the man on the sofa said. “Chauncey Gardiner? We don't really know anything about him, do we? Our people haven't been able to find out one single blessed thing. And he certainly hasn't been of any help: he hasn't said a thing about himself ever since he moved in with the Rands four days ago….”

“Then I would like to state,” said O'Flaherty, “that this makes me think of Gardiner as an even better bet.”

“Why?” several men chorused.

O'Flaherty spoke easily: “What was the trouble with Duncan? With Frank and with Shellman, for that matter, and with so many of the others we've considered and have had to reject? The damn trouble was
that they all had background, too much background! A man's past cripples him: his background turns into a swamp and invites scrutiny!”

He waved his arms excitedly. “But just consider Gardiner. May I stress what you have just heard from a most authoritative voice: Gardiner has no background! And so he's not and cannot be objectionable to anyone! He's personable, well-spoken, and he comes across well on TV! And, as far as his thinking goes, he appears to be one of us. That's all. It's clear what he isn't. Gardiner is our one chance.”

Schneider crushed out his cigar. “O'Flaherty just tapped something,” he said. “Something big. Hmmmm … Gardiner, Gardiner …”

A waiter entered with steaming pots of fresh coffee and the discussion continued.

Chance pushed his way through the throng of dancing couples toward the exit. In his eyes there lingered yet a faint, blurred image of the grand ballroom, of the trays of refreshments at the buffet, the multicolored flowers, brilliant bottles, rows upon rows of shining glasses on the table. He caught sight of EE as she was embraced by a tall, heavily decorated general. He passed through a blaze of photographers'
flash-guns as through a cloud. The image of all he had seen outside the garden faded.

Chance was bewildered. He reflected and saw the withered image of Chauncey Gardiner: it was cut by the stroke of a stick through a stagnant pool of rain water. His own image was gone as well.

He crossed the hall. Chilled air streamed in through an open window. Chance pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped out into the garden. Taut branches laden with fresh shoots, slender stems with tiny sprouting buds shot upward. The garden lay calm, still sunk in repose. Wisps of clouds floated by and left the moon polished. Now and then, boughs rustled and gently shook off their drops of water. A breeze fell upon the foliage and nestled under the cover of its moist leaves. Not a thought lifted itself from Chance's brain. Peace filled his chest.

Born on June 14, 1933, of Mieczyslaw and Elzbieta Kosinski in Lodz, Poland, Jerzy Kosinski came to the United States in 1957. He was naturalized in 1965. Mr. Kosinski obtained M.A. degrees in social sciences and history from the University of Lodz, and as a Ford Foundation Fellow completed his postgraduate studies in sociology at both the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw and Columbia University in New York. He wrote
The Future Is Ours, Comrade
(1960) and
No Third Path
(1962), both collections of essays he published under the pen name of Joseph Novak. He is the author of the novels
The Painted Bird
(1965),
Steps
(1968),
Being There
(1971),
The Devil Tree
(first edition 1973, revised in 1981),
Cockpit
(1975),
Blind Date
(1977),
Passion Play
(1979),
Pinball
(1982), and
The Hermit of 69th Street (1988).

As a Guggenheim Fellow, Mr. Kosinski studied at the Center for Advanced Studies at Wesleyan University; subsequently he taught American prose at Princeton and Yale universities. He then served the maximum two terms as president of the American Center of P.E.N., the international association of writers and editors. He was also a Fellow of Timothy Dwight College at Yale University. Mr. Kosinski founded and served as president of the Jewish Presence Foundation, based in New York.