As they drove away from the campus, ambulances passed them, their sirens going. A school bus, for the students who had been arrested, lumbered past them.

“Scanlon,” Rudolph said, “as of tonight, I’m no longer Mayor of this town, am I?”

Scanlon didn’t answer for a long time. He scowled as he watched the road and he wheezed like an old man when he had to turn a corner. “No, Mr. Jordache,” he finally said, “I wouldn’t think you were.”

Chapter 7

1968

I

This time, when he got off the plane at Kennedy, there was nobody there to greet him. He was wearing dark glasses and he moved uncertainly. He hadn’t written Rudolph that he was coming because he knew from Gretchen’s letters that Rudolph had enough to think about without bothering with a half-blind brother. While he was working on the boat in the Antibes harbor durjng the winter, a line had snapped and whipped across his face and the next day he had started having dizzy spells and suffering from double vision. He had pretended nothing was wrong, because he didn’t want Kate and Wesley to worry about him. He had written Mr. Goodhart for the name of an eye specialist in New York and when he received Goodhart’s answer had announced to Kate that he was going to New York to arrange finally about his divorce. Kate had been after him to marry her and he didn’t blame her. She was pregnant and was due to have the child in October and it was the middle of April already.

She had made him buy a new suit and he was ready to face any lawyer or doorman now. He was wearing the dead Norwegian’s pea jacket because it was still in good condition and there was no sense in throwing money away.

A planeload of people who had been on a ski holiday had landed just before him and the baggage hall was full of skis and tanned, healthy-looking, fancily dressed men and women, many of them loud and more or less drunk. He tried not to be anti-American as he searched for his bag.

He took a cab, although it was expensive, because he felt he couldn’t cope with getting on and off the airport bus and fiddling with his bag again and struggling to find a taxi in New York.

“The Paramount Hotel,” he said to the taxi driver and settled back wearily on the seat, closing his eyes.

When he had checked in and gone up to his room, which was small and dark, he called the doctor. He would have liked to go over right away, but the nurse said that the doctor couldn’t see him before eleven o’clock the next day. He undressed and got into bed. It was only six o’clock New York time, but it was eleven o’clock Nice time and he had taken the plane at Nice. His body felt as though he hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours.

“The retina is partially detached,” the doctor said. The examination had been slow and thorough and painful. “I’m afraid I’ll have to turn you over to a surgeon.”

Thomas nodded. Another wound. “How much is it going to cost?” he asked. “I’m a working man and I can’t pay Park Avenue prices.”

“I understand,” the doctor said. “I’ll explain to Dr. Halliwell. The nurse has your telephone number, hasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“She’ll call you and tell you when to report to the hospital. You’ll be in good hands.” He smiled reassuringly. His own eyes were large and clear, unscarred, without lesions.

Three weeks later he was out of the hospital. His face was drained and pale and the doctor had warned him that he was to avoid any sudden movements or strenuous exertion for a long time. He had lost about fifteen pounds and his collar swam around his neck and his clothes hung loosely from his shoulders. But he wasn’t seeing double any more and he wasn’t attacked by dizzy spells when he turned his head.

The whole thing had cost him a little over twelve hundred dollars, but it was worth it.

He checked in again at the Paramount Hotel and called the number of Rudolph’s apartment. Rudolph answered himself.

“Rudy,” Thomas said, “how are you?”

“Who is this?”

“Tom.”

“Tom! Where are you?”

“Right here. In New York. At the Hotel Paramount. Can I see you sometime soon?”

“You certainly can.” Rudolph sounded genuinely pleased. “Come on right over. You know where it is.”

When he arrived at Rudolph’s building, he was stopped by the doorman, new suit or no new suit. He gave his name and the doorman pressed a button and said, “Mr. Jordache, there’s a Mr. Jordache to see you.”

Thomas heard his brother say, “Please tell him to come up,” and crossed the marbled lobby to the elevator, thinking, With all that protection, he still got hurt.

Rudolph was standing in the hallway when the elevator door opened. “Lord, Tom,” he said, as they shook hands, “I was surprised to hear your voice.” Then he stepped back and regarded Thomas critically. “What’s happened to you?” he asked. “You look as though you’ve been sick.”

Thomas could have said that he didn’t think that Rudolph looked so hot, himself, but he didn’t say it. “I’ll tell you all about it,” he said, “if you give me a drink.” The doctor had said to go easy on the drink, too.

Rudolph let him into the living room. It looked just about the same as it had the last time Thomas had been there, comfortable, spacious, a place for comfortable small events, not decorated for failure.

“Whiskey?” Rudolph asked, and when Thomas nodded, poured one for Thomas and one for himself. He was fully dressed, with collar and tie, as though he were in an office. Thomas watched him as he picked up the bottles from the sideboard and hit the ice in the bucket with a small silver hammer. He looked much older than when Thomas had seen him last, with lines deep around his eyes and in his forehead. His movements were hesitant, tentative. Finding the tool to open the soda water bottle was a problem. He didn’t seem to be certain about how much soda water he should put in each glass. “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “Tell me what brings you here. How long have you been in New York?”

“About three weeks.” He took the glass of whiskey and sat down on a wooden chair.

“Why didn’t you call me?” He sounded hurt by the delay.

“I had to go to the hospital for an operation,” Thomas said. “On my eyes. When I’m sick I like to be alone.”

“I know,” Rudolph said, sitting across from him in an easy chair. “I’m the same way myself.”

“I’m okay now,” Thomas said. “I have to take it easy for a little while, that’s all. Cheers.” He raised his glass. Between Pinky Kimball and Kate he had learned to say cheers before drinking.

“Cheers,” Rudolph said. He stared soberly at Thomas. “You don’t look like a fighter, any more, Tom,” he said.

“You don’t look like a mayor any more,” Thomas said, and regretted having said it, immediately.

But Rudolph laughed. “Gretchen told me she wrote you all about it,” he said. “I had a little bad luck.”

“She wrote me you sold the house in Whitby,” Thomas said.

“There wasn’t much sense in trying to hang on.” Rudolph swished the ice in his drink around the glass thoughtfully. “This place is enough for us now. Enid’s out in the park with her nurse. She’ll be back in a few minutes. You can say hello to her. How’s your boy?”

“Fine,” Thomas said. “You ought to hear him talk French. And he handles the boat better than I do. And nobody’s making him do close-order drill in the afternoons.”

“I’m glad it turned out well,” Rudolph said. He sounded as if he meant it. “Gretchen’s boy—Billy—is in the Army in Brussels, at NATO.”

“I know. She wrote me that, too. And she wrote me you arranged it.”

“One of my last official acts,” Rudolph said. “Or maybe I should say, semiofficial acts.” He had a hushed, quiet way of talking now, as though he didn’t want to make any statements too positively.