Flux Read Free Page B

their lives, that the peace was illusion, that the prosperity was a fraud, that America’s ambitions had been cut off and that so much that was good and proud was still undone—
    And Jerry realized that he was weeping. The soldiers sitting across from him in the armored van were looking away. Jerry dried his eyes.
    As soon as news got out that Swick was arrested, he was suddenly unknown. Everyone who had letters or memos or even class papers that bore his name destroyed them. His name disappeared from address books. His classes were empty as no one showed up. No one even hoping for a substitute, for the university suddenly had no record that there had ever been such a class, ever been such a professor. His house had gone up for sale, his wife had moved, and no one said good-bye. And then, more than a year later, the CBS news (which always showed official trials then) had shown ten minutes of Swick weeping and saying, “Nothing has ever been better for America than Communism. It was just a foolish, immature desire to prove myself by thumbing my nose at authority. It meant nothing. I was wrong. The government’s been kinder to me than I deserve.” And so on. The words were silly. But as Jerry had sat, watching, he had been utterly convinced. However meaningless the words were, Swick’s face was meaningful: he was utterly sincere.
    The van stopped, and the doors in the back opened just as Jerry remembered that he had burned his copy of Swick’s manual on playwriting. Burned it, but not until he had copied down all the major ideas. Whether Swick knew it or not, he had left something behind. But what will I leave behind? Jerry wondered. Two Russian children who now speak fluent English and whose father was blown up in their front yard right in front of them, his blood spattering their faces, because Jerry had neglected to warn him? What a legacy.
    For a moment he was ashamed. A life is a life, no matter whose or how lived.
    Then he remembered the night when Peter Andreyevitch (no—Anderson. Pretending to be American is fashionable nowadays, so long as everyone can tell at a glance that you’re really Russian) had drunkenly sent for Jerry and demanded, as Jerry’s employer (i.e., owner), that Jerry recite his poems to the guests at the party. Jerry had tried to laugh it off, but Peter was not that drunk: he insisted, and Jerry went upstairs and got his poems and came down and read them to a group of men who could not understand the poems, to a group of women who understood them and were merely amused. Little Andre said afterward, “The poems were good, Jerry,” but Jerry felt like a virgin who had been raped and then given a two-dollar tip by the rapist.
    In fact, Peter had given him a bonus. And Jerry had spent it.
    Charlie Ridge, Jerry’s defense attorney, met him just inside the doors of the courthouse. “Jerry, old boy, looks like you’re taking all this pretty well. Haven’t even lost any weight.”
    â€œOn a diet of pure starch, I’ve had to run around my cell all day just to stay thin.” Laughter. Ha ho, what a fun time we’re having. What jovial people we are.
    â€œListen, Jerry, you’ve got to do this right, you know. They have audience response measurements. They can judge how sincere you seem. You’ve got to really mean it.”
    â€œWasn’t there once a time when defense attorneys tried to get their clients off?” Jerry asked.
    â€œJerry, that kind of attitude isn’t going to get you anywhere. These aren’t the good old days when you could get off on a technicality and a lawyer could delay trial for five years. You’re guilty as hell, and so if you cooperate, they won’t do anything to you. They’ll just deport you.”
    â€œWhat a pal,” Jerry said. “With you on my side, I haven’t a worry in the world.”
    â€œExactly right,” said Charlie. “And don’t you forget