富贵弄人 听读名著｜ 第4章B

Facing the cameras with their unsensing triple lenses pointed at him like snouts, Chance became only an image for millions of real people. They would never know how real he was, since his thinking could not be televised. And to him, the viewers existed only as projections of his own thought, as images. He would never know how real they were, since he had never met them and did not know what they thought.

Chance heard the host say: “We here in the studio are very honored to have you with us tonight, Mr. Chauncey Gardiner, and so, I’m sure, are the more than forty million Americans who watch THIS EVENING nightly. We are especially grateful to you for filling in on such short notice for the Vice President, who was unfortunately prevented by pressing business from being with us tonight.” The host paused for a second; there was complete silence in the studio. “I will be frank, Mr. Gardiner. Do you agree with the President’s view of our economy?”

“Which view?” asked Chance.

The host smiled knowingly. “The view which the President set forth this afternoon in his major address to the Financial Institute of America. Before his speech, the President consulted with you, among his other financial advisers….”

“Yes … ?” said Chance.

“What I mean is …” The host hesitated and glanced at his notes. “Well … let me give you an example: the President compared the economy of this country to a garden, and indicated that after a period of decline a time of growth would naturally follow….”

“I know the garden very well,” said Chance firmly. “I have worked in it all of my life. It’s a good garden and a healthy one; its trees are healthy and so are its shrubs and flowers, as long as they are trimmed and watered in the right seasons. The garden needs a lot of care. I do agree with the President: everything in it will grow strong in due course. And there is still plenty of room in it for new trees and new flowers of all kinds.”

Part of the audience interrupted to applaud and part booed. Looking at the TV set that stood to his right, Chance saw first his own face fill the screen. Then some faces in the audience were shown—they evidently approved his words; others appeared angry. The host’s face returned to the screen, and Chance turned away from the set and faced him.

“Well, Mr. Gardiner,” the host said, “that was very well put indeed, and I think it was a booster for all of us who do not like to wallow in complaints or take delight in gloomy predictions! Let us be clear, Mr. Gardiner. It is your view, then, that the slowing of the economy, the downtrend in the stock market, the increase in unemployment … you believe that all of this is just another phase, another season, so to speak, in the growth of a garden….”

“In a garden, things grow … but first, they must wither; trees have to lose their leaves in order to put forth new leaves, and to grow thicker and stronger and taller. Some trees die, but fresh saplings replace them. Gardens need a lot of care. But if you love your garden, you don’t mind working in it, and waiting. Then in the proper season you will surely see it flourish.”

Chance’s last words were partly lost in the excited murmuring of the audience. Behind him, members of the band tapped their instruments; a few cried out loud bravos. Chance turned to the set beside him and saw his own face with the eyes turned to one side. The host lifted his hand to silence the audience, but the applause continued, punctuated by isolated boos. He rose slowly and motioned Chance to join him at center stage, where he embraced him ceremoniously. The applause mounted to uproar. Chance stood uncertainly. As the noise subsided, the host took Chance’s hand and said: “Thank you, thank you, Mr. Gardiner. Yours is the spirit which this country so greatly needs. Let’s hope it will help usher spring into our economy. Thank you again, Mr. Chauncey Gardiner—financier, presidential adviser, and true statesman!”

He escorted Chance back to the curtain, where the producer gently took him in hand. “You were great, sir, just great!” the producer exclaimed. “I’ve been producing this show for almost three years and I can’t remember anything like it! I can tell you that the boss really loved it. It was great, really great!” He led Chance to the rear of the studio. Several employees waved to him warmly, while others turned away.

After dining with his wife and children, Thomas Franklin went into the den to work. There was simply not enough time for him to finish his work in the office, especially as Miss Hayes, his assistant, was on vacation.

He worked until he could no longer concentrate, then went to the bedroom. His wife was already in bed, watching a TV program of commentary on the President’s speech. Franklin glanced at the set as he undressed. In the last two years, Franklin’s stock market holdings had fallen to one third of their value, his savings were gone, and his share in the profits of his firm had recently diminished. He was not encouraged by the President’s speech and hoped that the Vice President or, in his absence, this fellow Gardiner, might brighten his gloomy predicament. He threw off his trousers clumsily, neglecting to hang them in the automatic trouser-press which his wife had given him on his birthday, and sat down on the bed to watch THIS EVENING, which was just starting.

The host introduced Chauncey Gardiner. The guest moved forward. The image was sharp and the color faithful. But even before that full face materialized clearly on the screen, Franklin felt he had seen this man before somewhere. Had it been on TV, during one of the in-depth interviews through which the restless cameras showed every angle of a man’s head and body? Perhaps he had even met Gardiner in person? There was something familiar about him, especially the way he was dressed.

He was so absorbed in trying to remember if and when he had actually met the man that he did not hear at all what Gardiner said and what it was exactly that had prompted the loudly applauding audience.

“What was that he said, dear?” he asked his wife.

“Wow!” she said, “how did you miss it? He just said that the economy is doing fine! The economy is supposed to be something like a garden: you know, things grow and things wilt. Gardiner thinks things will be okay!” She sat in bed looking at Franklin ruefully. “I told you that there was no need to give up our option on that place in Vermont or to put off the cruise. It’s just like you—you’re always the first one to panic! Ha! I told you so! It’s only a mild frost—in the garden!”

Franklin once again stared distractedly at the screen. When and where the devil had he seen this fellow before?

“This Gardiner has quite a personality,” his wife mused. “Manly; well-groomed; beautiful voice; sort of a cross between Ted Kennedy and Cary Grant. He’s not one of those phony idealists, or IBM-ized technocrats.”

Franklin reached for a sleeping pill. It was late and he was tired. Perhaps becoming a lawyer had been a mistake. Business … finance … Wall Street; they were probably better. But at forty he was too old to start taking chances. He envied Gardiner his looks, his success, his self-assurance. “Like a garden.” He sighed audibly. Sure. If one could only believe that.

On his way home from the studio, alone in the limousine, watching TV, Chance saw the host with his next guest, a voluptuous actress clad in an almost transparent gown. He heard his name mentioned by both the host and his guest; the actress smiled often and said that she found Chance good-looking and very masculine.

At Rand’s house, one of the servants rushed out to open the door for him.

“That was a very fine speech you made, Mr. Gardiner.” He trailed Chance to the elevator.

Another servant opened the elevator door. “Thank you, Mr. Gardiner,” he said. “Just ‘thank you’ from a simple man who has seen a lot.”

In the elevator Chance gazed at the small portable TV set built into a side panel. THIS EVENING was still going strong. The host was now talking to another guest, a heavily bearded singer, and Chance once again heard his name mentioned.

Upstairs, Chance was met by Rand’s secretary: “That was a truly remarkable performance, sir,” the woman said. “I have never seen anyone more at ease, or truer to himself. Thank goodness, we still have people like you in this country. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Rand saw you on television and though he’s not feeling too well he insisted that when you got back you pay him a visit.”

Chance entered Rand’s bedroom. “Chauncey,” said Rand, struggling to prop himself up in his enormous bed. “Let me congratulate you most warmly! Your speech was so good, so good. I hope the whole country watched you.” He smoothed his blanket. “You have the great gift … of being natural, and that, my dear man, is a rare talent, and the true mark of a leader. You were strong and brave, yet you did not moralize. Everything you said was directly to the point.”

The two men regarded each other silently.

“Chauncey, my dear friend,” Rand went on, in a serious and almost reverential manner. “You will be interested in the fact that EE is chairman of the Hospitality Committee of the United Nations. It is only right that she should be present at the U.N. reception tomorrow. Since I won’t be able to escort her, I would like you to do so for me. Your speech will be uppermost in many people’s minds, and many, I know, would like very much to meet you. You will escort her, won’t you?”

“Yes. Of course I’ll be glad to accompany EE.”

For a moment, Rand’s face seemed blurred, as if it were frozen inwardly. He moistened his lips; his eyes aimlessly scanned the room. Then he focused them on Chance. “Thank you, Chauncey. And … by the way,” he said quietly, “if anything should happen to me, please do take care of her. She needs someone like you … very much.”

They shook hands and said good-bye. Chance went to his room.

On the plane back to New York from Denver, EE thought more and more about Gardiner. She tried to discover a unifying thread in the events of the last two days. She remembered that when she first saw him after the accident, he did not seem surprised; his face was without expression, his manner calm and detached. He behaved as if he had expected the accident, the pain, and even her appearance.

Two days had passed, but she did not know who he was and where he had come from. He steadily avoided any talk about himself. The day before, while the servants were eating in the kitchen and Chance was asleep, she had carefully gone through all of his belongings, but there were no documents among them, no checks, no money, no credit cards; she was not able to find even the stray stub of a theater ticket. It puzzled her that he traveled this way. Presumably, his personal affairs were attended to by a business or a bank which remained at his instant disposal. For he was obviously well-to-do. His suits were handtailored from an exquisite cloth, his shirts handmade from the most delicate silks and his shoes handmade from the softest leather. His suitcase was almost new, though its shape and lock were of an old-fashioned design.

On several occasions she had attempted to question him about his past. He had resorted to one or another of his favorite comparisons drawn on television or taken from nature; she guessed that he was troubled by a business loss, or even a bankruptcy—so common nowadays—or perhaps by the loss of a woman’s love. Perhaps he had decided to leave the woman on the spur of the moment and was still wondering if he should return. Somewhere in this country there was the community where he had lived, a place which contained his home, his business, and his past.

He had not dropped names; nor had he referred to places or events. Indeed, she could not remember encountering anyone who relied more on his own self. Gardiner’s manner alone indicated social confidence and financial security.

She could not define the feelings that he kindled in her. She was aware that her pulse raced when she was near him, aware of his image in her thoughts and of the difficulty she had in speaking to him in cool, even tones. She wanted to know him, and she wanted to yield to that knowledge. There were innumerable selves that he evoked in her. Yet she was not able to discover a single motive in any of his actions, and for a brief instant she feared him. From the beginning, she noticed the meticulous care he took to insure that nothing he said to her or to anyone else was definite enough to reveal what he thought of her or of anyone or, indeed, of anything.

But unlike the other men with whom she was intimate, Gardiner neither restrained nor repulsed her. The thought of seducing him, of making him lose his composure, excited her. The more withdrawn he was, the more she wanted him to look at her and to acknowledge her desire, to recognize her as a willing mistress. She saw herself making love to him—abandoned, wanton, without reticence or reserve.

She arrived home late that evening and called Chance, asking him whether she could come to his room. He agreed.

She looked tired. “I am so sorry I had to be away. I missed your television appearance—and I missed you,” she murmured in a timid voice.

She sat down on the edge of the bed; Chance moved back to give her more room.

She brushed her hair from her forehead, and, looking at him quietly, put her hand on his arm. “Please don’t … run away from me! Don’t!” She sat motionless, her head resting against Chance’s shoulder.

Chance was bewildered: there was clearly no place to which he could run away. He searched his memory and recalled situations on TV in which a woman advanced toward a man on a couch or a bed or inside a car. Usually, after a while, they would come very close to each other, and, often they would be partly undressed. They would then kiss and embrace. But on TV what happened next was always obscured: a brandnew image would appear on the screen: the embrace of man and woman was utterly forgotten. And yet, Chance knew, there could be other gestures and other kinds of closeness following such intimacies. Chance had just a fleeting memory of a maintenance man who, years ago, used to come to the Old Man’s house to take care of the incinerator. On several occasions, after he was through with the work, he would come out into the garden and drink beer. Once he showed Chance a number of small photographs of a man and woman who were completely naked. In one of these photographs, a woman held the man’s unnaturally long and thickened organ in her hand. In another, the organ was lost between her legs.

As the maintenance man talked about the photographs and what they portrayed, Chance scrutinized them closely. The images on paper were vaguely disturbing; on television he had never seen the unnaturally enlarged hidden parts of men and women, or these freakish embraces. When the maintenance man left, Chance stooped down to look over his own body. His organ was small and limp; it did not protrude in the slightest. The maintenance man insisted that in this organ hidden seeds grew, and that they came forth in a spurt whenever a man took his pleasure. Though Chance prodded and massaged his organ, he felt nothing; even in the early morning, when he woke up and often found it somewhat enlarged, his organ refused to stiffen out: it gave him no pleasure at all.

Later, Chance tried hard to figure out what connection there was—if any—between a woman’s private parts and the birth of a child. In some of the TV series about doctors and hospitals and operations, Chance had often seen the mystery of birth depicted: the pain and agony of the mother, the joy of the father, the pink, wet body of the newborn infant. But he had never watched any show which explained why some women had babies and others did not. Once or twice Chance was tempted to ask Louise about it, but he decided against it. Instead, he watched TV, for a while, with closer attention. Eventually, he forgot about it.

EE had begun to smooth his shirt. Her hand was warm; now it touched his chin. Chance did not move. “I am sure …” EE whispered, “you must … you do know that I want us, want you and me to become very close….” Suddenly, she began to cry quietly, like a child. Sobbing and blowing her nose, she took out her handkerchief and patted her eyes; but still she kept on crying.

Chance assumed that he was in some way responsible for her sorrow, but he did not know how. He put his arms around EE. She, as if expecting his touch, leaned heavily against him, and they tumbled over together on the bed. EE bent over his chest, her hair brushing his face. She kissed his neck and forehead; she kissed his eyes and his ears. Her tears wet his skin, and Chance smelled her perfume, all the while thinking of what he should do next. Now EE’s hand touched his waist, and Chance felt the hand exploring his thighs. After a while, the hand withdrew. EE was not crying any longer; she lay quietly next to him, still and peaceful.

“I am grateful to you, Chauncey,” she said. “You are a man of restraint. You know that with one touch of your hand, just one touch, I would open to you. But you do not wish to exploit another,” she reflected. “In some ways you are not really American. You are more of a European man, do you know that?” She smiled. “What I mean is that, unlike men I have known, you do not practice all of those American lovers’-lane tricks, all of that fingering, kissing, tickling, stroking, hugging: that coy meandering toward the target, which is both feared and desired.” She paused. “Do you know that you’re very brainy, very cerebral, really, Chauncey, that you want to conquer the woman from within her very own self, that you want to infuse in her the need and the desire and the longing for your love?”

Chance was confused when she said that he wasn’t really American. Why should she say that? On TV, he had often seen the dirty, hairy, noisy men and women who openly declared themselves anti-American, or were declared so by police, well-dressed officials of the government and businessmen, neat people who called themselves American. On TV, these confrontations often ended in violence, bloodshed, and death.

EE stood up and rearranged her clothes. She looked at him; there was no enmity in her look. “I might just as well tell you this, Chauncey,” she said. “I am in love with you. I love you, and I want you. And I know that you know it, and I am grateful that you have decided to wait until … until …” She searched, but could not find the words. She left the room. Chance got up and patted down his hair. He sat by his desk and turned on the TV. The image appeared instantly.