Read Online On Green Dolphin Street by Sebastian Faulks - Free Book Online
Authors: Sebastian Faulks
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to an unforeseeable future. I find it hard to believe that that hypothetical future event has taken a form, now. It seems somehow too … specific.”
Frank said nothing. She felt him looking at her, his head on one side.
Mary gathered herself. “Now,” she said, “you must tell me about this article. Is this the kind of thing you specialize in?”
“Lately, yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a news reporter by nature. I like to be there. I don’t want to be coming along a few days later to sweep up the crumbs.”
“But surely you’re in advance here?”
“It’s the same thing. It’s not news. They’ll run something like, ‘City in a turmoil. Washington’s foreign residents prepare for the post-Eisenhower era. Frank Renzo reports,’ or ‘goes behind the scenes.’ They like that. It’s all fantasy really. No one’s in a turmoil. Half the foreign nationals’ll get posted somewhere else in a couple of years anyway. They have no stake in the city.”
“So why are you doing this job?”
“So I can get back to reporting. It’s my punishment. I’m serving a sentence.”
“A sentence?” said Mary. “What did you do wrong?”
“It wasn’t funny.” Frank ran his hand along his jaw and shook his head. “This country went through a bad time.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her for a while, then shook his head again. For an embarrassing moment, Mary thought she saw a tear in his eye, but when she looked more closely it seemed to be dry. He said, “You ever hear of a guy named Joe McCarthy?”
“Of course.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you one day. Other things. After him.”
Mary looked down.
“For me, the important thing is to try to get back on board in time to do the election.”
“I see. How long have you been doing your penance?”
“Four and a half years. So.” Frank pulled a roll of bills from his jacket pocket and tucked some inside the check folder. “And what do you foreign nationals in turmoil do on the weekend? How do you confront the post-Eisenhower era?”
“I think we’re confronting it from the deck of a sailing boat.”
“Sounds good.”
Relieved that the mood had lifted, Mary said, “You could come along if you liked.”
“I figure I’ve taken enough of your time. Also, I’m not much good with water.”
“But I thought you grew up in Chicago.”
“Poor boys didn’t get to go on the lake.”
They were at the coat check, where Mary fumbled in her pocket for some coins.
“I’ll get it,” said Frank.
As they went out onto the street, Mary said, “Call us if you change your mind.”
“Sure.”
Frank put on his hat and buttoned his raincoat.
“Do you want a lift anywhere?” said Mary.
“No, I’m in the hotel just down the street.”
She walked with him to the corner. Through an open car window they could hear a radio playing a song. “What did Della wear, boy, what did Della wear … She wore a brand-new jersey, she wore a brand-new jerer-sey …”
“Drives you nuts, doesn’t it?” said Frank, and set off across the street.
There were letters from the children on airmail paper. Mary read them standing in the kitchen, a foolish smile on her face. Both complained of rules, strange lessons, uncomfortable beds and disgusting food; but Mary was able to infer, if only from the vigor of their complaints, that they were in good spirits. When Charlie came back from work, they sat in the kitchen and pored over the crinkled paper with its uneven pencil lines; Charlie laughed at the spelling and read out passages in which he imitated Louisa’s baffled stoicism and Richard’s lisping irritation.
It was a rare evening, with no social activity. To please Mary, Charlie put on the record of
South Pacific
in the living room and left the door open so that it could be heard in the kitchen, where he returned and sat with his legs up on the table, drinking scotch, while Mary cooked the dinner.
She was wearing white slacks and a loose pink
Frank said nothing. She felt him looking at her, his head on one side.
Mary gathered herself. “Now,” she said, “you must tell me about this article. Is this the kind of thing you specialize in?”
“Lately, yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a news reporter by nature. I like to be there. I don’t want to be coming along a few days later to sweep up the crumbs.”
“But surely you’re in advance here?”
“It’s the same thing. It’s not news. They’ll run something like, ‘City in a turmoil. Washington’s foreign residents prepare for the post-Eisenhower era. Frank Renzo reports,’ or ‘goes behind the scenes.’ They like that. It’s all fantasy really. No one’s in a turmoil. Half the foreign nationals’ll get posted somewhere else in a couple of years anyway. They have no stake in the city.”
“So why are you doing this job?”
“So I can get back to reporting. It’s my punishment. I’m serving a sentence.”
“A sentence?” said Mary. “What did you do wrong?”
“It wasn’t funny.” Frank ran his hand along his jaw and shook his head. “This country went through a bad time.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her for a while, then shook his head again. For an embarrassing moment, Mary thought she saw a tear in his eye, but when she looked more closely it seemed to be dry. He said, “You ever hear of a guy named Joe McCarthy?”
“Of course.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you one day. Other things. After him.”
Mary looked down.
“For me, the important thing is to try to get back on board in time to do the election.”
“I see. How long have you been doing your penance?”
“Four and a half years. So.” Frank pulled a roll of bills from his jacket pocket and tucked some inside the check folder. “And what do you foreign nationals in turmoil do on the weekend? How do you confront the post-Eisenhower era?”
“I think we’re confronting it from the deck of a sailing boat.”
“Sounds good.”
Relieved that the mood had lifted, Mary said, “You could come along if you liked.”
“I figure I’ve taken enough of your time. Also, I’m not much good with water.”
“But I thought you grew up in Chicago.”
“Poor boys didn’t get to go on the lake.”
They were at the coat check, where Mary fumbled in her pocket for some coins.
“I’ll get it,” said Frank.
As they went out onto the street, Mary said, “Call us if you change your mind.”
“Sure.”
Frank put on his hat and buttoned his raincoat.
“Do you want a lift anywhere?” said Mary.
“No, I’m in the hotel just down the street.”
She walked with him to the corner. Through an open car window they could hear a radio playing a song. “What did Della wear, boy, what did Della wear … She wore a brand-new jersey, she wore a brand-new jerer-sey …”
“Drives you nuts, doesn’t it?” said Frank, and set off across the street.
There were letters from the children on airmail paper. Mary read them standing in the kitchen, a foolish smile on her face. Both complained of rules, strange lessons, uncomfortable beds and disgusting food; but Mary was able to infer, if only from the vigor of their complaints, that they were in good spirits. When Charlie came back from work, they sat in the kitchen and pored over the crinkled paper with its uneven pencil lines; Charlie laughed at the spelling and read out passages in which he imitated Louisa’s baffled stoicism and Richard’s lisping irritation.
It was a rare evening, with no social activity. To please Mary, Charlie put on the record of
South Pacific
in the living room and left the door open so that it could be heard in the kitchen, where he returned and sat with his legs up on the table, drinking scotch, while Mary cooked the dinner.
She was wearing white slacks and a loose pink
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