Half World: A Novel Read online

  In Washington, he had been questioned for close to a month, and she could only imagine how difficult it had been. Every evening when he came home during those weeks, he’d seemed a little thinner, a little smaller. The exhaustion stretched across his face. But she knew that this self-interrogation was even harsher. He had no sympathy for himself. He would be relentless in his questioning, ruthless in his assessments. She had been worried for him during the weeks in Washington but she was far more worried now. She had seen Henry driven, she had seen him obsessed, but she had never before seen him like this, filled with anger and fear.

  She’d thought that the move west would give them the space to talk, but Henry was back to another inflexible schedule. He was avoiding her concern, postponing time together while he worked in the city, or in the basement. She saw him now mostly at dinner, or playing with Thomas, and even then he seemed distracted, as if his head was still in one of those other places.

  She wondered if she should force the issue, press him to talk, but that is what they had done, his colleagues in Washington, and she did not want Henry to see her on that side of this, against him somehow. She would give it time. They had time out here, she could feel that.

  Some nights she woke alone with his impression beside her. He’d been there and gone, drawn back to his basement interrogation. On those nights she moved closer to that space, the imprint he’d left, and tried to sleep with at least the thought of him, the memory of his body beside hers.

  What this man had done to him. Ginnie wondered if even she could betray Henry any deeper than Weir had.

  14

  A cold night, a harsh wind coming in off the bay, whipping around the streets on the hill. Henry sat in the darkened office, just his desk lamp burning, looking at the page in his ledger marked with the date and a time he kept erasing and rewriting every few minutes. Through the two-way mirror he could see the empty bedroom, dark except for the lamp on the bedside table.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs, then a key in the lock. Dorn came into the office with a burst of cold air, lit a cigarette, sat in his chair beside Henry.

  “They’re a block away.”

  Henry switched off the light. He handed Dorn a pair of headphones, settled his own over his ears, started the recorder.

  They listened to the air hiss of the empty apartment, long enough that Henry began to wonder if Dorn had been mistaken about whom he’d seen on the street. But then there was more noise on the stairs, Elizabeth’s high heels and a heavier, looser gait, a man climbing drunkenly. Then they heard her key in the door of the north apartment and voices in the living room.

  Nice place.

  Let me take your coat.

  Cold in here.

  It won’t be.

  Henry could see Dorn’s smile in the light from the bedroom. He marked the time in the ledger.

  The Benny Goodman record started, the volume low. They could hear a kitchen cabinet open and close, glasses clinking. Henry stared through the mirror at the empty bedroom, trying to picture the rest of the apartment. The john sitting on the couch, or standing in the kitchen doorway, watching Elizabeth pour drinks.

  Dorn had run her through some basic lines, getting her comfortable with something the girls never did, which was to ask questions. Nothing too personal yet, nothing that would arouse suspicion. Just name, rank, serial number.

  There was a loud, scraping squeak, weight settling on uncooperative springs. Dorn winced. The sound of the sofa amplified through the microphone beneath. Henry lowered the gain on the headphones. Elizabeth’s heels returned to the living room. Some low-volume, unintelligible conversation. A sly, murmured laugh from Elizabeth. More squeaking from the sofa springs, added weight. A few minutes of movement on the couch, heavy breathing, Elizabeth cooing.

  You haven’t told me your name.

  You haven’t told me yours.

  Elizabeth.

  My name’s Clyde.

  Dorn removed a flask from his breast pocket, held it out. Henry shook his head. Dorn shrugged, tipped the flask back to his lips.

  Is that your real name?

  A moment of silence, then Clyde’s voice returning, confused.

  What else would it be?

  Don’t get mad. I was just wondering.

  Clyde is my real name.

  That’s fine, honey. I believe you. Don’t get excited.

  You sound like the cops.

  Do I look like the cops?

  No. A pause, then Clyde gave a hoarse laugh. Not like any cops I’ve ever seen.

  Come, she said. Follow me.

  Footsteps across the living room, and then they were there, Elizabeth and Clyde, visible through the mirror. A shock ran through Henry when Clyde looked into the glass, but then the man’s eyes moved on, surveying the rest of the room. He was tall and sinewy, with concave cheeks and deep-socketed eyes that held the shadows. His hair was thinning and unwashed, his clothes loose and untucked. He hadn’t shaved in a few days.

  Clyde set his glass on the dresser, what looked like scotch with ice. Half empty. The spiked drink. Henry wrote the man’s name in the ledger, Clyde, under the date and time.

  Elizabeth turned Clyde so his back was to the mirror, began unbuttoning his shirt. Henry lifted the small control box for the camera above the ceiling fan and squeezed the shutter. The camera made no sound that they could hear, or that Clyde seemed to notice, preoccupied with his hands under Elizabeth’s dress.

  You haven’t told me where you’re from.

  Who cares? His voice muffled, his face buried in Elizabeth’s neck.

  I’m a curious kitty.

  Buffalo, Clyde said. And then St. Louis. And then Tucson.

  You’re a world traveler.

  I go where the work is. And the pretty girls.

  Awwwwww. Elizabeth took a step back, pulled her dress up over her head and let it fall to the floor. She unclasped her bra, letting it drop slowly, then slid her thumbs into the waist of her underwear and pulled down. Clyde’s breathing got faster. He took a step toward her, stumbled, righted himself. Shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He pulled his belt loose and dropped his pants. Pulled off his shorts, almost falling again as he tried to step free. Henry squeezed the shutter again.

  Elizabeth reached into her purse and held out a packet.

  You’ll need to put this on.

  Come on, honey.

  Them’s the rules.

  Can’t we just—

  Them’s the rules.

  A whispered curse. Clyde breathing hard, looking down, hunched over himself, concentrating, adjusting.

  There. Happy?

  Very.

  Jesus, this really—

  Come here. She sat back on the bed, legs crossed, her arms back, holding herself up.

  If I’d known I’d have to—

  Come here. She uncrossed her legs. Clyde moved toward her, then climbed on top, losing his balance, righting himself, then thrusting and grunting, stopping every few seconds and shaking his head as if trying to refocus, then back to his business. Henry squeezed the shutter on the camera above the fan, the camera hidden in the dresser. All he could see of Elizabeth were the bottoms of her feet.

  Clyde’s thrusting slowed, stopped again. He pushed himself up, then lost the strength in his arms and collapsed onto Elizabeth. They lay like that for a moment, and then she rolled him off, sat up on the bed. Henry could hear snoring in his headphones. Elizabeth bent and pulled Clyde’s wallet from the heap of his pants. She removed a couple of bills, lit a cigarette, stepped into her underwear. Picked her bra off the floor and refastened it over her shoulders. She combed her hair with her fingers, turned to Clyde, splayed across the bed, then back to the mirror, looking directly through.

  She gave a little rolling flourish with her hand, then bent at the waist for a bow.


  * * *

  They stood in the vestibule between the closed doors of the apartments. Elizabeth held her hand out to Dorn, who laughed, too loudly. Henry worried that he would wake the sleeping man in the other room.

  “You’ve already been paid tonight,” Dorn said.

  “Funny.” Elizabeth left her hand out and Dorn dug his wallet from his jacket pocket, handed her a few bills.

  She said, “Cigarette, too.”

  “Nobody taught you to say please?”

  “Please.”

  Dorn handed her a cigarette, gave her a light. Elizabeth disappeared down the stairs, the sound of her heels receding, the front door opening and closing behind her.

  The bedroom smelled like smoke and sweat. Clyde was still passed out on the bed. Dorn lifted him under the arms, propped him up into a sitting position.

  “Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”

  “Dorn.”

  Dorn slapped Clyde across the face. “Speak up, boy. I didn’t hear an answer.”

  “Dorn, enough.”

  “You think he cares? He’s not going to remember any of this.”

  Dorn held Clyde upright while Henry pulled on his clothes. They carried him down the stairs, Henry waiting while Dorn checked that the street was clear. They walked with Clyde propped between them, two men helping a drunken friend home, taking side streets down the hill until they reached the Embarcadero.

  They sat Clyde against an alley wall. Dorn straightened his jacket, put the man’s hat back on his head, patted him on the shoulder as they left.

  * * *

  Henry let the tape play back in the office, Elizabeth’s voice, Clyde’s voice, the early conversation and then the breathing and grunts and the slumped silence.

  Dorn straightened up the north apartment while Henry shut himself in the darkroom and developed the film. When he was finished, Dorn stood behind him in the office, drinking a martini he’d made in the kitchen, looking over Henry’s shoulder at the wet prints.

  Dorn said, “I can’t see a goddamn thing.”

  “I’ll have to adjust the cameras.”

  “There’s this gray smear fucking this gray smear.”

  They left the building as the sun was rising, the fog settling low on the hill. Standing in a cloud. Dorn walked away down the street toward where he’d parked the Lincoln. As he disappeared into the fog, he stopped and turned, called back.

  “Congratulations, Hank. Looks like we’re in business.”

  15

  Washington, D.C., Winter 1955

  Henry sits at his desk. His office door is closed. He has just finished lunch at his desk. He always eats lunch at his desk. It is early afternoon, nearly a month since the interrogation.

  The light through the window behind him is bright white. Clear, cold December light, seemingly from no single source, simply from the winter world itself: the half inch of snow on the ground, the frozen reflecting pool in the mall. There is a neat stack of papers on his desk, another neat stack of file folders. He lights a cigarette, sets it in the glass ashtray. Replaces one folder, retrieves another from the stack.

  What Weir knew. What Weir had whispered into the ear of the enemy. How many had suffered for Henry’s mistake? Agents in the field, assets, sympathizers. Operations had been rolled up by the Russians, the Chinese. Brave men would spend the rest of their lives in prisons, torture chambers. Brave men would be killed. Had been killed. How many had already been killed?

  They were right to have accused him. It was not all for show. Marist had stood in the conference room and called Henry a traitor and Henry could feel his hands around Marist’s throat, his thumbs pressing the windpipe, fingertips on skin. He had wanted to kill the man from anger and shame.

  The papers slide from the folder, off the edge of the desk to the floor. Henry kneels beside his chair, gathering the pages.

  There is a knock at the door. Henry ignores it, continues to pick up the papers. The door opens. Marist is there. His suit coat is gone, his tie is loosened, there is a drink in his hand. Henry can hear laughter from down the hall, a shout, some applause. It is the afternoon of the office Christmas party.

  Henry stands. More papers fall to the floor.

  Marist looks at the spilled folder. “Why don’t you come down?” he says. “Close up in here. Take a break.” He places the drink on Henry’s desk. “I poured that for you. Bourbon, neat, correct? Your wife is from Kentucky. I’ve never met your wife.” He pauses, considering something. “We’re having a get-together at our place tomorrow night, Angela and I. We’d like you to come. You and your wife. But first, I want you to close up in here, come down the hall. You’ve missed the worst of it, I assure you. Everyone’s drunk now, so it’s easier to navigate.”

  Marist waits, looks again at the bourbon in the desk. “Are you going to drink that or am I?”

  Henry gathers the last paper, stands. “Be my guest.”

  “It’s not a request, Henry. I don’t like the idea of you holed up in here alone. There’s nothing to work on this afternoon.”

  “There’s always something to work on.”

  Marist starts for the door. “Close up and come down. That’s a direct order.” He turns the corner and disappears.

  Henry looks at the drink. A tumbler from the bar set in Marist’s office. Weir’s old office. The bourbon was Weir’s as well, a rich single-barrel. Henry takes a drink.

  The sound of an off-key Christmas carol from down the hall. Marist had insisted the party go on as planned. Weir’s betrayal had shaken everyone, but Marist believed the party would help to release some of the tension and frustration. Would prove that the world turned, the show must go on.

  Henry couldn’t fathom what it would take to walk down into the party. Everyone there assumed he was guilty in some way. This was the organizing principle that he had instilled in the company, that Weir had instilled. Proximity to guilt is still guilt. It is a communicable disease. He would bear it always, by his own design. A skin he could never shed.

  He takes another drink, places the folders into the appropriate drawers and file cabinets, locks the locks. He unbuttons his suit coat, carrying his cigarette and the drink with him as he leaves the office, locking the door behind him.

  * * *

  An older secretary noticed first, her eyes widening at the sight as Henry emerged into the large, open space. The party was in full swing. Recognition spread quickly, voices quieting as other secretaries and officers noticed him, conversations stumbling and then ceasing altogether as they realized who the naked man was. The shock of the most improbable sight, Henry March, standing pale and bare, holding an empty whiskey tumbler.

  He had stripped himself on the walk down the hall, following the sounds of the party, leaving his clothes behind in a trail stretching back to his office door. Shirt, undershirt, slacks, underpants, socks, shoes. Even his glasses. The world before him a soft blurred whirl.

  Roy Pritchard approached, looked Henry in the eye, and when he saw no one there that he recognized, led Henry by the elbow back up the hall. A few titters from some of the tipsier secretaries, openmouthed surprise from the others. Similar reactions from the officers. Henry March standing naked before them, a pale ghost, there and then gone. Marist stood in the farthest corner of the room, stopped in midconversation, watching without an immediately readable expression.

  Roy took Henry back to the office, collecting clothes as they went. Once inside, he closed the door and turned Henry to look at him again.

  “I have nothing to hide,” Henry said. His voice all the more disturbing to Roy for its measured tone. Henry’s normal, everyday voice, calm and even.

  “You see?” he said, looking at Roy, his face steady, his eyes steady. “I have nothing.”

  16

  San Francisco, Spring 1956

&nbs
p; The second girl arrived. She was tall and strongly built, a few years older than Elizabeth. She said her name was Emma. Dorn rolled his eyes at this. They gave her the briefing in the living room. She sat alone on the sofa with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, listening with her face set as if she didn’t quite believe them either. She had many of the same questions as Elizabeth: how she would be paid, if she would be working alone or with another girl. She had a low, deep voice, a southern accent, country rather than city. Henry was surprised that Dorn quoted her the same rate as Elizabeth. He had assumed Dorn would pay her less because she was a Negro.

  She walked through the apartment, inspecting the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen. She flipped through the crate of records, unimpressed, and Dorn gave her some money to buy new ones, anything but Benny Goodman. She looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language, like she had no idea who Benny Goodman was.

  “You can drink in here,” Dorn said. “But no drugs. Not in the apartment.”

  Emma smoothed the front of her dress. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Not in the apartment. Understood?”

  She turned to Henry. “Is he a cop, too?”

  “He’s not a cop,” Dorn said.

  “He doesn’t look like a cop.”

  Dorn lit a cigarette, passed it to Emma. “What does he look like?”

  She stared at Henry through the smoke. “He looks like a teacher or something. A professor.”

  Dorn laughed.

  “I don’t know what he looks like.” Emma took a pull on her cigarette. “He just looks like a regular guy.”

  17

  Arlington, Winter 1955

  Henry was unwell, that was what the voice on the phone said. It was a day not long after Henry’s official questioning had ended. Thomas was napping, Ginnie was finishing her lunch when the phone rang. The man on the other end of the line spoke with a smooth timbre, a hint of the affected Brahmin tone she heard from many of Henry’s colleagues. He introduced himself as Paul Marist.