The Only Problem

He wondered how much to believe of what she had told him. He began to wonder such things as why a news supplement from California should be shown on a main network in Toronto. Auntie Pet wasn’t likely to tune in to anything but a main network. He wondered why she had felt it necessary to come to France to give him these details; and at the same time he knew that it was quite reasonable that she should do so. It would certainly be, for her, a frightful tale to tell a husband and a Gotham.

And to his own amazement, Harvey found himself half-hoping she was wrong. Only half-hoping; but still, the thought was there: he would rather think of Effie as a terrorist than laughing with Nathan, naked, in a mountain commune in California. But really, thought Harvey, I don’t wish it so. In fact, I wish she wasn’t a terrorist; and in fact, I think she is. Pomfret was right; I saw the terrorist in Effie long ago. Even if she isn’t the killer they’re looking for, but the girl in California, I won’t live with her again.

He decided to get hold of Stewart Cowper later in the day, when he was expected back at his office. Stewart would go to California and arrange to see a re-play of the programme Auntie Pet had seen. Stewart would find out if Effie was there. Or he would go himself; that would be the decent thing to do. But he knew he wouldn’t go himself. He was waiting here for news of Effie. He was writing his monograph on the Book of Job as he had set himself to do. (‘Live? — Our servants can do it for us.’) He wouldn’t even fight with Ernie Howe himself; if necessary, Stewart would do it for him.

He opened Edward’s letter.

Dear Harvey,

The crocs at the zoo have rather lack-lustre eyes, as can be expected. Perhaps in their native habitat their eyes are ‘like the eyelids of the dawn’ as we find in Job, especially when they’re gleefully devouring their prey. Yes, their eyes are vertical. Perhaps Leviathan is not the crocodile. The zoo bores me to a degree.

I wish you could come over and see the play before it closes. My life has changed, of course. I don’t feel that my acting in this play, which has brought me so much success, is really any different from my previous performances in films, plays, tv. I think the psychic forces, the influences around me have changed. Ruth wasn’t good for me. She made me into a sort of desert. And now I’m fertile. (We are the best of friends, still. I saw her the other day. I don’t think she’s happy with Ernie Howe. She’s only sticking to him because of Clara, and as you know she’s pregnant herself at long last. She claims, and of course I believe her, that she’s preg by you. — Congratulations!) Looking back — and it seems a long time to look back although it’s not even a year — I feel my past life had a drabness that I wasn’t fully aware of at the time. It lies like a shabby old pair of trousers that I’ve let fall on the bedroom floor: I’ll never want to wear those again. It isn’t only the success and the money, although I don’t overlook that aspect of things — I don’t want to crow about them, esp to you. It’s simply a new sense of possibility. One thing I do know is when I’m playing a part and when I’m not. I used to ‘play a part’ most of the time. Now I only do it when I’m onstage. You should come over and see the play. But I suspect that possibly you can’t. The police quizzed me and I made a statement. What could I say? Very little. Fortunately the public is sympathetic towards my position — brother-in-law, virtually ex-brother-in- law of a terrorist. (Our divorce is going through.) It isn’t a close tie.

I’ve almost rung you up on several occasions. But then I supposed your phone was bugged, and felt it better not to get involved. Reading the papers — of course you can’t trust them — it seems you’re standing by Effie, denying that she’s the wanted girl, and so on. Now, comes this ghastly murder of the policeman. I admire your stance, but do you feel it morally necessary to protect her? I must say, I find it odd that having left her as you did, you now refuse to see (or admit?) how she developed. To me (and Ruth agrees with me) she has always had this criminal streak in her. I know she is a beautiful girl, but there are plenty of lovely girls like Effie. You can’t have been so desperately in love with her. Quite honestly, when you were together, I never thought you were really crazy about her. I don’t like giving advice, but you should realise that something tragic has happened to Effie. She is a fanatic — she always had that violent, reckless streak. There is nothing, Harvey, nothing at all that anyone can do for her. You shouldn’t try. Conclude your work on Job, then get away and start a new life. If your new chateau is as romantic and grand as Ruth says it is, I’d love to see it. I’ll come, if you’re still there, when the play closes. It’ll be good to see you.

Affectionately,

Edward

Harvey’s reply:

Dear Edward,

That was good of you to go to the zoo for me. You say the zoo bores you to a degree. What degree?

I congratulate you on your success. It was always in you, so I’m not surprised. No, I can’t leave here at present. Ruth would be here still if it were not that the place is bristling with the police — no place for Clara whom I miss terribly.

As to your advice, do you remember how Prometheus says, ‘It’s easy for the one who keeps his foot on the outside of suffering to counsel and preach to the one who’s inside’? I will just say that I’m not taking up Effie’s defence. I hold that there’s no proof that the girl whom the police are looking for is Effie. A few people have ‘identified’ her from a photograph.

Auntie Pet has arrived from Toronto wearing those remarkable clothes that so curiously bely her puritanical principles. This morning she was wearing what appeared to be the wallpaper. Incidentally, she recognised Effie in a recent television documentary about a police-raid on a mountain commune in California. She was with a man whose description could fit Nathan Fox.

I’ve been interrogated several times. What they can’t make out is why I’m here in France, isolated, studying Job. The last time it went something like this:

Interrogator — You say you’re interested in the problem of suffering?

Myself— Yes.

Interrogator — Are you interested in violence?

Myself— Yes, oh, yes. A fascinating subject.

Interrogator — Fascinating?

Almost anything you answer is suspect. At the same time, supermarkets have been bombed, banks robbed, people terrorised and a policeman killed. They are naturally on edge.

There is a warrant of arrest out for my wife. The girl in the gang, whoever she is, could be killed.

But ‘no-one pities men who cling wilfully to their sufferings.’ (Philoctetes—speech of Neoptolemus). I’m not even sure that I suffer, I only endure distress. But why should I analyse myself? I am analysing the God of Job.

I hope the mystery of Effie can be cleared up and when your show’s over you can come and see Chateau Gotham. Ruth will undoubtedly come.