The Last Supper (25 page)

“The French beheaded a French priest? Do you really believe that, Waddy?”

Waddy toweled his sweaty hair; they had just finished their tennis. “You’re new to this work, Paul,” he said. “Trust me. If what you’ve written appears in print,
you’ll throw away everything you’ve worked for here. You’ll lose that delicious Tonkinese girl, you’ll lose all your friends.”

Christopher sent off his story as he had written it. Waddy needn’t have worried: the editors of the magazine removed the description of the chopsticks. When he returned to New York,
Christopher asked why.

“Didn’t you think it was just a little racist?” asked the editor who had handled the story. “I mean, really, Paul—fiendish Asians pounding things into the ears of
babies. It’s like eight-millimeter pornography run backward. The stuff about the patrol and the city of tunnels was great, though.”

By that time, Waddy Jessup had already been back in America for nearly a year. Christopher had received news of his departure from Hanoi from David Patchen. One morning, when he arrived for his
regular tennis game with Waddy, David Patchen awaited him. He had come out from Washington to introduce him to his new case officer.

“Waddy was called home pretty suddenly,” Patchen said. “You were upcountry, he said—
upcountry
was Waddy’s word—so he couldn’t say
good-bye.”

“Will he be back?”

“No,” Patchen said. He was wearing his summer clothes, a wrinkled seersucker suit and a black knitted tie. The new man, dressed in tennis whites, volleyed off the board fence of the
court. Patchen shot him a look, to be certain he wasn’t within earshot.

“It was the polygraph,” Patchen said.

As a security measure, the Outfit had given all its officers lie detector tests. Strapped to the machine—“fluttered,” in the argot—they were asked if they were enemy
agents, if they had stolen money, if they were homosexuals.

“You can guess which questions gave Waddy trouble,” Patchen said. “They’ve given him a job in the Foreign Service. Nothing sensitive. I believe he’s in the protocol
office. He’s good with wives.”

— 8 —

When, after the defeat of the French at Dien Bien Phu, Christopher returned to the United States, he stayed with Elliott Hubbard at his house in New York. The house looked as if
it had been burglarized. Half the paintings were missing, leaving patches of lighter paper along the walls. The pictures had gone with Alice when she divorced Elliott.

Elliott’s new wife, a dreamy woman about Christopher’s age, was a painter. Three or four of her muddy abstractions hung in the places where the Cézanne, the Seurat, the
Cassatt, the Hicks had formerly been displayed.

The new wife’s name was Emily. She had turned the attic into a studio, and Christopher followed Elliott up the stairs to be introduced to her. She wore a smock smeared with paint; the
brush she gripped in her teeth had left a streak of vermilion on her cheek. A big window had been built into the roof to admit the light and through it there was a view of Central Park. Emily
seemed to be painting a landscape of the park, for she peered intently through the window as she worked.

“Oh,” she said, greeting Christopher. “I’ve dreaded meeting you. You’ve had such a sad life, and I can’t understand your poems. This is Julian.”

She led Christopher by the hand to a playpen where a child slept in a litter of educational toys made of unpainted blocks of wood.

“He looks like Elliott,” Christopher said, gazing at the sleeping baby.

“Yes. Elliott’s family has very strong genes. You’re the first relative I’ve met who doesn’t look exactly like them.”

Emily did not seem to expect him to answer. Even as she spoke, her attention slipped out of Christopher’s grasp like a trout and she turned without another word and strode across the room
toward the huge unfinished painting that stood on her easel. The picture looked to Christopher like a gutter puddle on a gloomy day. Frowning in concentration, Emily added more red to what seemed
to be a rainbow of motor oil in the lower left-hand corner. She was a serious painter, but not a very talented one.

Alice Hubbard agreed with this judgment. On Saturday morning, Christopher went to Alice’s new apartment, on the other side of Central Park, to fetch Horace, who spent
weekends in his father’s house. Alice had obtained the missing Post-Impressionists as part of her property settlement, and these hung on her walls, illuminated by spotlights.

“You’re staying with Elliott?” Alice said. “How do you like the Hubbard abstractionist?”

“Emily? I’ve just met her. She’s very good-looking.”

“And
so
talented. I hear her paintings are hanging where these outmoded things used to be. We all get what we deserve. May one ask where you’ve been all this time?”

“Indochina.”

“Indochina? Did you run into Waddy out there?”

“Yes.”

“He never mentioned it. Don’t tell me you’re a spy now, too?”

Alice laid a hand on Christopher’s arm, apologizing for her remark. Divorce had changed her: the old headlong Alice would never have made such a humble gesture.

“No matter,” she said. “Maybe you can talk to Waddy about old times and cheer him up. He’s terribly depressed.”

“I don’t know if I’ll see him.”

“Of course you’ll see him. He’s staying with me, poor fellow. Join us for lunch. It’ll do Waddy a world of good. Me, too.”

Christopher took a breath, then smiled. Waddy Jessup was the last person in New York with whom he wanted to have lunch.

“All right,” he said.

Alice saw what was passing through his mind. “Trapped,” she said. “Too bad. But it can’t be worse than eating raw fish with that trollop who’s doing the new
paintings for Elliott. At least Waddy doesn’t smell of turpentine.”

They could hear Horace running down the hall, calling Christopher’s name, and Waddy’s laughter, a wild tenor trill that ended in a fit of coughing, in the background.

After he had completed his greetings to Horace, now sixteen years old and taller than his mother, Christopher said hello to Waddy. His handshake, once so firm, was weak. He seemed to have a
tremor, and this was transmitted through his limp hand. His eyes were rimmed in red. He needed a haircut. His clothes were rumpled. He had gin on his breath.

Alice shooed them into the dining room. The table was already laid for four. Waddy poured the wine, a yellowish Mosel. While Alice and Christopher ate their asparagus, each taking two or three
sips of wine, Waddy finished off the bottle and went into the kitchen to open another.

“What’s wrong with Waddy?” Christopher asked.

“He’s being investigated.”

“Investigated?”

“By Congress. They think he’s a Communist.”

“He
is
a Communist.”

Waddy returned with a tall green bottle. With trembling hand, he poured more wine—droplets for Alice and Christopher, a brimming glassful for himself. He stared resentfully at
Christopher.

“I was listening in the kitchen,” he said. “Why do you say I’m a Communist, Paul?” These were very nearly the first words he had spoken.

“You’ve always said you were.”

“Have I? I don’t recall that at all. It’s that lout of a Wolkowicz who’s spreading these lies about me.”

“Oh, Waddy, come off it,” Alice said. “It’s just us. You’ve always been a raving Red.”

“A progressive, maybe. A man with progressive friends, people with a little human feeling . . .”

“Then why did you call yourself a Communist? You drove Father to distraction with it. You came home from Yale spouting Marx.”

“That was meant to be a joke.
You
know that, Alice.”

Alice, taking away the plates, paused at Waddy’s shoulder. He handed her his untouched asparagus.

“Is that going to be your defense?” Alice said. “That you were just kidding? For fifteen years?”

“It happens to be the truth.”

“Really? You had me fooled.”

Alice went into the kitchen. Waddy poured himself more wine. The sweetish burnt aroma of a cooking omelet drifted into the dining room along with the noise of a pan being shaken on the stove.
Waddy gazed out the window, saying nothing.

When Alice returned with a copper skillet in her hand, Waddy began talking again. Christopher wondered if he thought he should have a witness or if he simply needed the reassurance of his
sister’s presence.

“You’ve been abroad, Paul,” Waddy said, “so you don’t know what’s been going on in this country. The Republicans have taken over Congress and they’re
after the intellectuals. It’s a putsch.”

Alice held the omelet pan over Waddy’s plate.

“Are you going to have eggs?”

Waddy nodded. “A
putsch
,” he repeated.

Alice put a small portion of omelet onto his plate. “Eat it up, Waddy,” she said. “Your liver is going to kill you before the Republicans do.”

Waddy put a fragment of omelet into his mouth but did not swallow it. Horace, shoveling his own eggs into his mouth, watched in fascination. Waddy seemed to have forgotten how to eat.

“Chew, Waddy,” Alice said. “Swallow. I don’t understand why you want to deny that you’re a Red. Fight for the cause, that’s what you always said.”

Waddy gave her a furtive glance. “Not in front of Paul,” he said.

“Not in front of Paul? Do you think
he’s
an agent of the Republicans?”

“I’m not sure what Paul is. Paul has strange friends. Wolkowicz and Hubbard were close. What a joke! I
sent
that ape to Hubbard, and now look where he is.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Alice said. “What can you say that Paul doesn’t already know? He’s been listening to you rave for years. So has everybody else.
It’s not against the law to be a Communist. It’s stupid, but it’s not against the law. Stop being such a rabbit, Waddy. Go before that congressional committee and say,
‘You’re damn right I’m a Communist. Proud of it!’ I mean, really—what can they
do?
”

“They can send me to prison.”

Alice laughed. Waddy winced.

“It wouldn’t be a
long
sentence, Waddy,” Alice said. “Besides, think what a hero you’d be to all your revolutionary pals when you got out. ‘They
couldn’t break old Waddy!’ That’s what they’d say.”

Christopher had been watching the play of amusement and mischief over Alice’s face. She had popped a morsel of bread into her mouth as she finished speaking, and was chewing rapidly.

“Besides,” she said, “prison might be very satisfying in certain ways. I hear the jailbirds go in for free love. That was always one of your revolutionary
principles.”

Alice broke off more bread. Her eyes were on Waddy. She stopped chewing, her jaw to one side, her mouth slightly ajar. A look of alarm spread over her face.

“Waddy,” Alice said, her voice muffled by the food in her mouth.

Waddy seemed to be having a seizure. His eyes were wide open, his lips were pulled back from his teeth. His body shuddered, every jointed part quivering, as if some living thing were rushing
through the passages of his belly and throat and would soon leap out of his mouth onto the table. He uttered a huge dry sob, then another, and with his eyes fixed on Christopher he went into
hysterics.

“He’s having another crying jag,” Alice said. “Shake him, Paul.” She swallowed her bread and leaped to her feet.

Christopher pulled Waddy out of his chair and spoke his name, but Waddy continued to sob in a hoarse, heartbroken voice. Christopher shook him. It had no effect.

“Harder,” Alice said.

Christopher, who was younger and much larger than Waddy, shook him as hard as he dared. Waddy’s head rolled, his arms flapped, he continued to stare into nothingness. Christopher slapped
him. The sobbing broke, then started again. Christopher slapped him again. Waddy stopped making noise.

Alice put an arm around Waddy’s waist and led him into a bedroom. In a moment she came back.

“I think he’d better have a talk with Elliott, don’t you?” she said. “Nobody else can reassure him. Waddy’s such a spineless fool. Forget I said that, Horace,
but for God’s sake,
you
be a man, will you?”

— 1 —

While Wadsworth Jessup was having hysterics in New York, Barney Wolkowicz, in Washington, was supervising the search of an apartment belonging to a government secretary named
Jocelyn Frick. It was a fussy spinster’s flat, furnished with antiques that were too beautiful for the tiny rooms. There were stuffed animals on the bed. Wolkowicz watched while a federal
agent, not a member of the Outfit, took apart a Teddy bear, searched the stuffing, and then, glasses perched on his nose, sewed it together again, using the original thread.

Jocelyn Frick was a Soviet agent. Wolkowicz, tracking another suspect, had found a faint sign that this might be true; he had followed it up, and now, six months later, a team of agents trained
in surreptitious entry, the euphemism used to describe the burglary of the homes of suspected spies and traitors, had taken her apartment to pieces and put it back together again.

Jocelyn Frick was the youngest daughter of a justice of the Supreme Court of Virginia. His photograph, a Bachrach portrait of a white-maned man in judicial robes, stood beside her bed; her
father had autographed the picture:
To my darling “Cinders,” from her vy. affect Daddy, R. Beaulieu Frick
. Her father had called her Cinders, short for Cinderella, because she
had been a helpful child who had waited long to blossom into prettiness. Even then, her sisters considered her plump; men thought she was voluptuous. Like her beautiful sisters, she had gone to
Sweet Briar and been presented to society at the Spring Cotillion, but she had not married. Instead, she had fallen in love with a gloomy Armenian named Mordecai Bashian. This was entirely
unexpected. Three boys from good Tidewater families had proposed marriage to Jocelyn, but after graduating from college in the middle of the Great Depression, she had wanted to be a bachelor girl
for a year or so. Her father, who had influence with the New Deal, had got Jocelyn a job in the Bureau of Labor Standards.