“Do,” he said, a kind of snort. “I voted for Wallace. You didn’t have to do anything. Just have a card, you know? The summer they killed the Rosenbergs I thought, that’s it.” He stared at Nick. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Anyway, it was all a long time ago.”
“You like it here?”
The man shrugged. “Same as anywhere. What was it like living there? You couldn’t take a piss without somebody reporting it. That’s what it was like there. You think I’m kidding? My wife got fired. She’d go to work, they’d have guys following her. It got to the point-” He stopped, taking another sip. “The hell with it. You’re too young. My daughter, she couldn’t wait to see it. Last year, when you could travel, she goes to the Bronx, to the old building, and it’s crawling with Schwartzes and she says no wonder you came. She thought we lived in a slum. But it wasn’t like that then. That’s not why.”
“So you never went back?”
“What’s to go back for? Last year-well, she went. I didn’t have money for all of us. Maybe someday. Anyway, it’s all different, isn’t it? I mean, they don’t even have the Giants anymore. What’s New York without the Giants?”
“What do you do here?” Nick said, intrigued now.
“Radio. I monitor the VOA broadcasts. Well, I did. But now I’m American again. You know, after last year. Even the old Reds. But that’ll change. We’re going through an adjustment now. You have to expect that.”
A believer’s rationale, still. Nick thought of the index cards in Wiseman’s study, all the facts of the witch-hunt, which had somehow overlooked Marty Bielak in a misplaced file. This is where some of them had ended up, perched on a barstool, stranded, like debris swept up on the beach by a storm.
“Can I ask you something?” Nick said impulsively. “Why did you? In the first place?”
“What, become a Red?” He looked back at his beer. “You think we have horns? Let me tell you, we didn’t. Who else was there? You think anybody cared about the working man? Anti-Semites playing golf. That’s what it was then. Anti-Semites playing golf.” He stared at the glass, then caught himself. “It’s the beer talking,” he said, trying an apologetic smile that stopped midway. “You ask me, you know what I’d have to say? Who else was there? That’s it.” He picked up the glass. “Anyway, here I am talking — it’s good, you know, the English-and you’ve got a pretty girl to go to. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Just seeing the sights,” Nick said easily. The man nodded. “Not so many come now. Unless they have family. You have family here?”
“No.” He shook his head. “My grandmother was Polish, though,” he said, improvising. Molly was right. You could learn to do it fast, part of the other game.
“And that’s close enough,” Bielak said, laughing to himself. “You’d have to be American. They’re the only ones who think it’s the same thing.” He paused, then looked up at Nick. “Let me ask you, could you use a guide? I know this town inside out. I could use a little cash.” His voice, the brash sound of the Polo Grounds, had dropped an octave, suddenly older. Nick caught the embarrassed pleading in his eyes, still shiny with beer. “Dollars, if you have them. My sister, she still sends, but these days-I have the time.”
Nick looked at him. Not an index card. “I don’t think so. We’re only here a little while. Thanks, though.”
“Just see the castle and on your way. Okay. Don’t miss the Jewish cemetery-it’s the best thing. Sounds crazy, but it is. Well, think about it.” He reached for a pen, wrote a number on the coaster, and handed it to Nick. “If you change your mind, I can show you the stuff the tourists don’t see.” Nick heard his voice begin to slur. “A special tour. You want to see all the old Reds? That might be interesting,” he said, his voice suddenly sarcastic.
Nick stood up, putting the coaster in his pocket. “Night,” he said, almost a mumble. He threw some crowns on the bar, not bothering to count them. “Good luck.”
“Luck.” Marty Bielak winked. “We don’t need luck here. We have socialism.”
When he got to the room, Molly was still up, reading by one of the two dim bedside lamps. The flannel nightgown was back and her face glistened with cold cream, an almost comic body armor. The heavy drapes, drawn tight by the maid, still sealed the room, and he crossed to open them, hungry for air.
“What happened to you?” she said. “I was about to give up.” She closed the book and snapped off her light, leaving only the small glow by his side of the bed.
“You were wrong about that guy,” Nick said, opening the windows. “He’s an American. He lives here. It was your English.” He began unbuttoning his shirt, looking down at the street lamps.
“Lives here? You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, Nick,” she said in mock exasperation. “Who do you think hangs around the Alcron bar talking to foreigners?”
He stopped, his hand still on the button. “You think?” he said quietly.
“Who else could afford it?” When he didn’t answer, she turned over. “Goodnight.”
