The Charlotte News

Monday, June 30, 1941

FIVE EDITORIALS

Site Ed. Note: The front page of the newspaper of this day was impressive. On the one hand things looked bad in Russia. The Nazis had reportedly taken Minsk and moved half the 450-mile distance between the border and Moscow, all in just a week. Leningrad in the north was under siege. Finland, having been taken by the Soviets in March, 1940, was now being bombed and would soon be overrun by Nazis. As Raymond Clapper pointed out in his column, the object was to ensnare the Red Army; the cities, the roads, the terrain itself, were only incidental to this purpose, to foil the supply lines and industrial base which fed and armed the army. Clapper's last paragraph points ominously to the importance of Russia winning the campaign; for if it lost, the oceans would become the battleground--and of course Britain would be in far worse shape with a much better fed and fueled German military with which to contend. American military advisors suggested a fall-back strategy, similar to that employed by the Union against Lee in the Civil War, shore up defenses, prepare for siege on home ground, hope for early rains--the October blessing. Everyone now understood that quick victory in no more than three months was essential for Hitler--before the Russian winter.

On the other hand, the bleakness of the Russian front was offset by continued and largely unopposed RAF bombing raids into France and Germany, with Bremen and Oldenburg being hit the night before in the latter. The first squadron of American pilots, in training since the previous fall, were reported flying missions now for the RAF, adding to Allied strength, preparing America for the inevitable.

As the newspaper columns were now proclaiming, just as the President's son Elliott had said from north Africa in April, America was essentially at war in all but formal declaration and wholesale troop commitment. The attack on Pearl Harbor only formalized the matter.

On the domestic front, the report appeared for the first time of the Nazi spy arrest in New York during the weekend. The report indicated 25 being arraigned, seven of whom took the nearly unheard of step of pleading guilty on their initial appearance in court. Two of them had been stealing bombsight secrets at two plants, Norden and Sperry. The quality of the American bombsight over the Axis was crucial. The Axis had little or no control over its bombs in 1941. It was one decided advantage held by the Allies.

"Pay-Off", the News editorial of this date on the round-up, penned the number of arrested at 29, based on early reports. Subsequently, the number would be revised to include 32. The editorial explores briefly the timing of the arrest and assumes that since the Bureau had delayed arresting the spies to avoid the prospect of the known spies under surveillance being replaced by unknown spies, the balance had in some unknown manner shifted such that it was more important to risk such a replacement than continue to put in jeopardy the nation's military secrets. The overriding reason for the timing, in all likelihood, was to add to the urgency of the problem in the public mind, to increase the understanding of the national emergency declared by the President on May 27.

The piece on Congressman Tinkham of Massachusetts, seeking Congressional investigation as to what extent Federal funds were being used to aid Communism and whether the Federal government was infiltrated by Communists, while merely echoing the Dies Committee's work of the previous four years, was more of the harbinger which would, while belayed shortly pending the outcome of the war, be picked up again after the war by McCarthy, Nixon and others to form the Red Scare of the late forties, early fifties, culminating in the notorious McCarthy Army hearings to ferret out Communists in the armed forces and State Department. The real object of such machinations is equally made plain by the piece: every bit as much to support fascism, even its extreme incarnation, Nazism, as any genuine effort at getting at Communists posing a genuine national security risk. Curiously, just as with Dies, as many times pointed out by Cash, the smearing, the outrage, the vitriol reserved for alleged Communists, usually no more than political enemies, strangely subsided into silent tolerance or only mild, token expression of resentment when it came time to investigate Nazis involved in sabotage or spying.

And Hugh Johnson's column heralds in a passive way what could not be known at the time, that which was to be a sea change in the manner of collecting foreign intelligence, the coming announcement, to be made official on July 11, that "Wild Bill" Donovan would be named by FDR to a new position, Coordinator of Information, the forerunner of the OSS, also under his leadership, to be established in spring, 1942. It was the first time in the country's history that there was any office established solely for the collection, labeled in this initial incarnation as "coordination", of intelligence. Prior to the time, only the Office of Naval Intelligence, a small Army intelligence division, and a small FBI division had official charge of such matters. But none of these official organs did more than receive information and analyze it, the FBI occasionally, as in the bust of the spy network, assigning agents to shadow and infiltrate when espionage and thus criminal conduct were actually involved. Much of the collection of general intelligence until this time had been performed informally, often through journalists.

As we suggested, these few days in history, often unnoticed as forgotten because of what transpired in December to overshadow them and sweep them behind the door of history, saw a transformation of the country, beginning with FDR's May 27 fireside chat, accelerated further by the invasion of Russia June 22, which was every bit as dramatic, if not more so, than the aftermath of December 7. America's participation in World War II, in truth, began with the May 27 speech and its declaration of a national emergency; there had been steady movement toward such an announcement during the months before, especially with the passage of the Lend-Lease Bill in March. The editorials of the previous month echoing that shift in attention to war industry and national mobilization of the military effort reflect that sea change.

To place all of American society on a war footing was an evil thing. To inaugurate official organs of government which spied not only on foreign citizens, but its own citizens, both at home and abroad, was an evil thing. But they were evil things which FDR resisted as long as humanly possible until the alternative clearly and plainly was to give up and lay down before the juggernaut of Nazism, the Will to enslave others, inimical to freedom and democracy everywhere--and with real spies and saboteurs at work among the citizenry of the United States in far more than mere propaganda activity, busy at actual collection of military secrets and sabotage of port facilities, of defense contractors. It was an evil thing, one for which we have Adolf Hitler and his minions to thank.

A march on Washington was planned, incidentally, for July 1, orchestrated by A. Philip Randolph, head of the Brotherhood of Pullman Porters, to attempt to obtain from FDR an executive order to end racial discrimination against African-Americans in the armed forces, in defense industries which contracted with the government, and in the Federal government hiring practices generally. The march flopped. Twenty-two years later, however, times would, albeit with all deliberate speed, change.

Thus were things around the globe as seen by readers of The News this Noche Triste, June 30--in Mexican history the night in 1520 when Aztec followers of Montezuma rose up against the abuses of Cortez's men left under the charge of Pedro de Alvarado in Tenochtitlán, both sides, especially the Spanish, suffering severe losses. Montezuma numbered among the Aztecs hacked to death.

a triumphant snap and threw it to the coffee table in front of the plush

couch where he sat. The dimly lit hall was large and ornate, designed in a

somewhat rococo fashion, with Spanish influence.

on a couple of occasions, wandered into the lounge, having been told by an

attaché that Wilbur was present. He was consistently gracious and helpful.

Wilbur had told him that he and Mary continued periodically to suffer

from the incantation of Montezuma, and Daniels assured him that they would

extricate themselves from its coil in a few weeks when the system finally

began to adapt.

office to another, apparently set off by the German movement. Daniels was

not to be seen or heard.

had never seen in the Embassy lounge before. He was a man of medium stature

with thinning blonde hair, an aquiline nose, and azure eyes. He made

momentary eye contact with Wilbur over the top pinkage of his paper, but continued

closely huddled behind its veil.

It was some minute flash of awareness of something awkward about the man's

demeanor which stood inapposite to the basically congenial and unthreatening

surroundings. Why would the man come to the Embassy and stay if he were

uncomfortable? After the brief reflection, Wilbur dismissed it and went on

about his way back to the apartment.

City and dedicated to various Mexican war heroes. The statue here was of

Bolivar. Its weathered green copper was adequately shielded from the sun by

pigeon guano. Wilbur sat on a bench, propped one leg on it to rest his chin

upon his knee, and looked at the parade of people.

businessmen in Brooks Brothers, Mexican style. It was like a place, he

thought, trying very hard to become as cosmopolitan as Manhattan,

but struggling to overcome a basically provincial, agrarian actuality and a

kindred pace, not a place really that much unlike Charlotte or Atlanta,

in different accents. The men in business suits moved not quite with the

insistence of need to return to a beckoning press of work which consistently

characterized most of their emulated counterparts in New York.

horns glaring and people milling about, queuing here, wandering willy-nilly

there, there was the curiosity of mature men in fine charcoal suits, slipped

off the Paseo de la Reforma, playing pinball in open parlors, populated by

every stripe of the culture--except, of course, the Indians. The Indians had

not the pesos, nor, apparently, the social élan to be acceptable in pinball

arcades.

economic deprivation. He had, however, heard from Daniels that former President Lazaro

Cardenas deserved credit for the reform programs being initiated. Wilbur had

not offered the gall to comment on his having heard of the deal between the

Texan Davis, Cardenas, and Hit-fit for the delivery of oil to run the Panzer

divisions which had overrun two-thirds of Europe in less than two years and

threatened now to take the other third.

national pride in Mexico. He reapportioned lands, though not in equal

distribution, under what was called the ejido system by expropriating

holdings of wealthy landowners, including many very conservative and

Republican American landowners, in the wheat rich Yaqui Valley. He had given

support to labor reform brought about by the confederation of workers, the

C.T.M., when they struck the American and British oil companies in 1936. He

nationalized railroads; though judging by the trip down from Nuevo Laredo,

reform in that area was somewhat less than imbued with Amazing Grace.

negotiations over a proposed 15 percent royalty on mineral rights fell

through, Cardenas, on March 18, 1938, had also expropriated foreign holdings

of oil and lands, a program undertaken to the extreme consternation of both

the British and American oil magnates with holdings in Mexico. The

conservative American well owners in Mexico spoke not dispassionately in

favor of revolution or U.S. intervention to stop the confiscation.

And the U.S. State Department pressed for immediate repayment for all

expropriated agrarian lands, full knowing the Mexicans incapable of doing so,

as a wedge to undo the oil expropriation. Meanwhile, as Daniels knew and

wrote his son in July, 1938, the Mexicans traded oil not only to Germany but

to Italy and Japan as well, in return for manufacturing equipment.

and the companies to pay for the expropriation and finally had agreed, with

the assistance of the United States in creating a plan, to limited pay back to the

oil companies, based on an undervaluation of the holdings. The simmering

issue, however, had not cooled yet.

from all the countryside came to Mexico City to supply the Government

with their last pesos from the last paltry sale of fragile crops to help

remit, ever so slowly, the vast national debt resulting from the

expropriation.

reduced and health care, improved, during Cardenas's tenure which had begun

in 1934 and concluded the year before. Plans had also been laid for

reclamation and hydroelectric development.

Dealism with chili peppers, and Wilbur suspected Daniels's, and thus F.D.R.'s,

considerable enforcement in the process of reform. He figured, too, that the

continuing peasant uprisings by the revolutionary juntas had played no small

influence on the eventual establishment of at least perfunctory reform.

Judging by the outward appearances, however, Wilbur could little see

that such programs had served to remove much, if any, of the basically abject

conditions of the people. There was little middle class evident and a small

rich elite. The rest were poor, and if getting richer, it had to be a peso

at a time.

thus far accumulated, he overheard a man with a Spanish accent lecturing a

small group of young people, standing on the ellipse around a monument to

the Revolution:

with all its blood of a half million spilled from the shaky incipient

strikes led by Francisco Madero in 1910, precipitating the overthrow in 1911

of the thirty-four year dictatorship of Porfirio Diaz, to Madero's

assassination by his ally, turned successor, General Victoriano Huerta to

the United States-aided overthrow of Huerta by Venustiano Carranza to

Carranza's battles with the armies of his former comrades in coup de main,

Villa and Zapata, ultimately to the latter's death in 1919, to the

assassination of Carranza by his former compañero de armas, General Alvaro

Obregon, who had Villa killed in 1923, to the rise of 'Strongman' Plutarco

Elias Calles in 1924, the re-election of Obregon in 1928 and his immediate

assassination, the re-emergence of Calles, culminating finally in Cardenas's

grand reservoir of power, divested of Calles--ironically, the most ever

reposited in a Mexican leader--all finally to produce La Victoria de

Revolución. The Revolution for democracy was over. The Revolutionaries had

won; the revolutionaries were all dead.

coups manques, the United States was as hard to pin to consistency of

allegiance as the Revolutionaries. After a brief fling at backing Villa, the

reports of his cruelties shifted President Wilson to continuing support for

Carranza against the militaristic forces of Huerta and the peasant armies

of Villa and Zapata. Despite the Pershing affair, Carranza, in turn,

refused an economically attractive offer by the Germans to form an alliance

in World War I to recoup territory in the United States lost in the Mexican

War. Nevertheless, there was support for Obregon when he overthrew and

killed Carranza a mere three years later."

current President, Manuel Avila Camacho, elected in the bloody voting booths

of July, 1940 as Cardenas's handpicked successor with no little measure of

fraud at the polls. Though Camacho was much more conservative than Cardenas,

the alternative, General Juan Andreu Almazán, was supported strongly and

actively by the Right, the Axis powers, as well as by the less ideologically

motivated detractors of Cardenas' "Second Revolution". There had been

concern that the Almazán supporters, believing the election stolen from them

by selective tabulation of votes, would not allow Camacho to assume power in

December, 1940. With repressive security measures initiated, he did, with

little further incident--at least, in the streets.

of national defense under Cardenas. A military man to the hilt, he was

continuing the reforms of Cardenas but with far less vigor and decisively

tempered by authoritarian reverence to the elitist classes.

walk the tightrope between the Axis and Allied powers, awaiting the entry or

non-entry of the United States to determine Mexico's more economically

viable choice of loyalty. Outwardly, in any event, he remained faithful to

the Good Neighbor policy.

****

were suddenly disheveled by the appearance across Paseo de la Reforma of

a man facing away from him. He squinted through the glints of the sun

reflecting off of the passing cars and buses to catch a better glimpse. He

thought he had seen the distinctive blonde hair of the man whom he had just

found a bit too uneasy back at the Embassy.

Wilbur was sitting essentially in the middle of a huge grassy rotary. He saw

the man and then a stream of several buses and cars flooded past, apparently

having been held back somewhere by one of the few traffic lights. When the

traffic finally cleared momentarily again, the man was gone. But Wilbur was

sure it was the same thinning blonde hair, something which tended to

stand out amid the dark-haired Mexicans.

man was following. He got up and moved at a brisker pace, trying valiantly to

fix his footsteps to the pavement with a degree of legerity, but inevitably losing

the battle against the heat of the day and the ever increasing tightening knots

within.

the newspaper from the Embassy. He became aware of the side of his arm

brushing against the top of the front section sticking from his side jacket

pocket.

papers on the pinch sticks and today all of them had been loose.

Why had he been so distracted? He would now have to walk back the

several blocks to return it. These Yankee newspapers were precious down

here, especially with such a fateful day at hand. He felt momentary shame.

nausea, he should just continue back to the apartment. He would have Mary

bring it back or return it himself, later in the day. He felt even worse,

now. It was only a portion of one paper. Readers would have to make do with

what they had. He could not help them right now. More important matters were

pressing in.

paper he had been reading at the Embassy. As he did so, a piece of paper

fell to the ground. Wilbur picked up the small white note, creased in

half, unfolded it and saw written in pencil several phrases:

Ring, Rang Her Man, Minimal Empty Shell, Open-Pit You, Adam Screamer

Carroll, Wilbur Julius Steep, Painful Baptist Door, Leviticus 16, Luke 23,

Acts 13. Join us. We are Jap Endowed."

felt a sense that the ugliness of Key-enough and his associates had trailed him

to Mexico.

signal to his sub-conscious mind. It was true that he had been trying to

forget the brief conversation with Billy Davis in Austin, the subsequent dream,

the image of the Confederate on the train, something still sticking in his

mind from Delilah.

Nor did it bear the name of Key-enough or anyone else familiar. There was no

date. The only connection to earlier notes was this strange citation to Bible verses.

So what? Anyone could have done that. It was ridiculous. It was nothing.

Besides, even if it was one of these silly notes from Key-enough, it may

have been in his jacket pocket for weeks, months. That often happened. He

would find dollar bills in his jacket pocket left there for ages. He was at times

a walking library receptacle of trivial receipts, notes and incidentals.

not get fully separated from it. There was something about that blonde man,

the way he had made eye contact; and then to see him again. He sensed

strongly there was a connection somewhere.

periodically after each dusk, just below the surface in the nighttime roars

of this whirling city's gelatin turf, upon which there was exhibited a

strangely insistent amount of construction activity. It was just an immanent

feeling that something was being transmitted, aimed at him like a pistol

from the hip of the crazed, cracked merciless, smoking Cloud-usurped

imagination out of Dixieland, around Shelby maybe, Atlanta or from God knows

who or where.

chord of Bach bass notes hit him full blown. He covered his ears before

realizing it was just something in his mind to blot out the incessant

cacophony of traffic besieging his nerves.

strangling for a moment, just a moment, for breath. The organ prelude

continued its blasting crack to his cranium.

He felt a rush of blood to his head and he believed for a moment that he

might be having a stroke. He felt faint and sweaty. He looked to the sky and

saw it turning. Vertigo was not something he often had, but now everything

was awhirl, like a mad carnival ride for which he hadn't sought or paid the

admission.

looked at passersby. They looked at him. Some children pointed in mock

derision, cupping their hands to their mouths, laughing and whispering to

each other about what they apparently perceived as a strange gringo

slugging forth before them.

managed to focus his attention on his right heel which had developed a

blister from the ill-fitment of some new shoes Mary had made him purchase to

replace the Darrow-esque holey-soled wing tips, turned practically to

moccasins over the course of two years worth of treading around Charlotte.

The infringed nerves beneath the blister began to pierce his sense patterns

so frequently that he could barely stand now the excruciating rubbing.

It did the trick, however, to rush his adrenaline and remove his mind

from thoughts of an incipient stroke or worse, the chase of an unknown force

from out the smoking mirror.

Something suddenly hit him which had been rolling around now inside him for

weeks. He quickened his pace more to feel the sore the greater.

He had to tell someone what was in his head now and that someone had to

be Mary for there was no other someone anywhere nearby who he could trust.

6.

met Mary in a rush of emotion and told her of the episode and the invasion

of Russia. He presented an admixture of verbiage concerning, first, surreal

images regarding his dreams and, then, the geopolitical theories of Hitler,

how the whole thing was coming true and exploding apart: Hitler could

have the whole Heartland within his grasp within months. Where was our

country in all of this? Why was F.D.R., after the election, still cowtowing

to the neutralists, the "shilpit, shilly-shallying" America Firsters?

What about the dream before he left Shelby of the church and the coffin

and fascists presiding over his funeral? What about the recurring image of

the old Confederate? What about Delilah? What about? What about...?

****

III.

OF THE SMOKING MIRROR

1.

daily regimen of newspaper stories. He first examined the Sunday Times and

his attention, in flipping through, was drawn to a picture of a smiling

Lyndon Baines Johnson, the apparent Senator-elect from the State of Texas.

The article indicated that at the end of election day on Saturday, his lead

over Pappy O'Daniel was approximately 5,000 votes. The later returns had

reduced the lead to a slender and ever-decreasing margin and, while victory

was yet uncertain by early Sunday, Johnson was clinging to a narrow lead. It

looked as if the ever more powerful conservative anti-F.D.R. forces in

Texas had fallen a wee bit short of putting putty-faced Pappy into the

Senate. The Liberal Johnson seemed the heir apparent to the seat.

prospects for the doubtful state of egalitarian democracy within the State

which he and Mary had just traversed were not to be endured indefinitely. He

thought to himself that, with such a narrow victory margin at hand, who

knows, maybe he had in some small way with his salutatory address three

weeks earlier in Austin, been the salutary force needed to boost Johnson's

ballots enough to be the difference between more Southern demagoguery and

modernism in the making.

that, despite his friend having foregone the attempt to interview his

supposed alter-ego of disposition and "humble beginnings," he would

nevertheless be able forever to gloat a small bit, by implication at least,

that he may have helped the man make it.

with the self-admonition that he had better wait until this burly Texan, former

English teacher made his mark before purchasing banners, bunting and fireworks.

Johnson might, after all, turn out to be just another opportunistic Princely bum,

grasping for votes on the coattails of Liberalism while secretly intending to ride

whatever politically expedient wind which came blowing along. Tuck that away for

further, future analysis.

content to try to begin the novel--content that maybe he could affect

matters, laying the mines in place in its pages to blow the old

misconceptions from the brainwaves of the restive refugees from reality. He

would give it a go.

non-fiction work by summer's end and possibly consult with Mary further,

calmly, about packing their scant belongings and utilizing the other end of

their roundtrip passage back to the States.

that this was the day the mysterious note found in his drawer back in Shelby

had appointed for the rendezvous with Mr. X.

real. But these silly coded people, cloaked in self-anointed mystery were

not. They had only been trying some sort of intimidation or attempting to

twist his thoughts backwards to run him into some monolithic wall of

lies and thereby spoil his credibility as an author. Essentially Kukus--the

same thing anyway. There was no need to listen or attend it further.

Everything was bound to be under control in the proper places.

wallet, laying dormant there since the wee hours of May 29 when he had found

it in his desk mysteriously arriving there by unseen hands. It was real and

still there. The "La Reforma" of the note, he knew now, was the

Hotel de la Reforma where he had received the excellent haircut on Saturday.

piece of paper. He felt anxiety welling in his chest. Something said

"don't," but he was compelled not to listen. He was, after all, a writer. If

there were nothing of which to be afraid, why not investigate and write about

these creepers?

complacency. Goodrich, no doubt, had done the same sort of

participant-observation in the research for his writing somewhere along the

line and come to this thing--this intuitive impulse expressed in those

pages about something, maybe something yet to happen.

characters, the same Civil War scenery, the Reconstruction era, the whole

business he had outlined to the Foundation and use these jackals for the

fodder to connect the past paradigmatically to the present. It would accomplish

the more interesting task of writing about the now, the tumult of the extant now,

but would make it safer for all concerned. Sure. That is what Goodrich must

have done to get there.

found by his Old Irish great-grandfather, touch some chord of

remorse and rebirth over a lost family member. That would cinch everything

together and communicate the thing from the Civil War to the present. It could

be accomplished quickly and he could likely have a first draft in the mail to

to New York by year's end, maybe sooner.

faith. In four weeks since the speech, nothing had happened to him or the

world except the expected--regardless of its cruelty. Nevertheless, Hitler

and the boys could not conquer the whole thing in a few months. There was

that precious time within which to do his bit to prevent it. That was all he

could do. But he must be about it and now.

doorstep in Mexico, combined with what he already knew of them from his

Southern roots, and cloak them as the worst mongers of regional and racial

division--the Princes, Hectors, a Buchanan or two, drunken Silenus, the

cunning--though eternally hell-bound to rock-pushing in Tartarus--Sisyphus,

the Napoleonic Apollo, some Disney gnomes--including, maybe, Oswald, the

Rabbit--and all sorts of grafters of corruption of the ante-bellum, bellum

and post-bellum South.

could well become the likes of Hamlet, Dr. Faust, Tantalus, Ajax,

Prometheus, or the servant with an appointment in Samarra. They loved to

think about Fate and their Destiny with themselves and their goats of Aaron

properly posited within the framed canvas. Oh, were they not so wonderfully

original and cute? They were not looking for the "scapegoat," no more than

Herod, Pilate or Jeff Davis. No, just as their progenitors, they were

looking for the "Lord's goat"! Okay, he would oblige them. And he would

simply hold up a mirror--obscuring in his hands, perhaps, a cross and a

wooden stake--and show them where Aaron's lots fell.

He knew it. He must remember to check that. It fit their perverted absurdity

of prosaism all too well to be ignored. Maybe time was running more quickly

than he imagined.

this unique opportunity to come face-to-face for the first time in

foreign territory with one of these rattlers and perhaps thereby glimpse a

more microscopic and socio-anthropologic view of their serpentine motives

and, moreover, methods and actions. So close, eyeball glimmering close,

he could glean from their countenances the urgency or not of their task and

thus the urgency or not of his own and, thereby, the most suitable course of

action. He would have his sub rosa joke all the while in their presence. Very

satisfying, indeed.

wrestled with his conscience over the promise he had made to Mary, but

finally opted to cheat forth into this unknown alone. Curiosity

killed the cat, he knew. Mama had echoed the old expression hundreds of

times. But curiosity had him now, irrevocably. And there was no way out of it.

would not hurt to follow up a little bit and maybe, once and for all, put

his mind to rest that all of this was but poppycock, meant somehow only to

instill anxiety for some reason--maybe simply to withdraw his attention from

his work and delay or prevent the novel from being written.

just such tactics to prevent the writing of a work, bound to reach a larger

audience than the succès d'estime of The Mind of the South? Maybe they had

done something similar to Crane in a different context and that is what

happened down here a decade back.

matter of The Mind not be the malediction to the Kite wallowers and white

puritans, always seemingly in need of some B-movie style cloak-and-rope,

pyrotechnic spectacular accomplished in stealth to whet their appetites for

fantasy, increasing in the offing their self-delusion of omnipotence over their little

disappearing world of yesterday? Would they not be made significantly more

comfortable by the belief that they had somehow frightened him into

compliance by his omission to fulfill his publicly announced intention to

write the thing?

the task. He would ease his mind, now, by strolling calmly to La Reforma and

making it well-known to any who might be observing that he was not afraid of

them in the least.

in two days and strode into the lobby, past the desk. He sat down on a velvet couch

encircling a support column--some Doric thing. He waited and read some local

newspaper written in English, aimed at American tourists. It had perfunctory

news on very few matters of any interest to him, even had it been written in

depth as it wasn't.

occurred.

soothing voice practically verbalizing the words to him as he thought them.

meet you. I am sorry to be a few minutes late. That's what I get for making

my appointments so far in advance, yes? I have waited a long time for the

pleasure of meeting you."

did not recognize the man standing before him. He had already convinced

himself of the silliness of the whole matter and now, subito, it had taken

the form of substance--just what substance was yet to be unveiled. The man

was short, with thick eyeglasses. He introduced himself as Joe K. He had a

noticeable German accent.

associated with him may have found a way surreptitiously to slip a note into

his desk drawer in his parents' home on Morgan Street. The man had to be

considered dangerous. He stood shuffling his feet, with a queer grin of

self-satisfaction as he seemed to analyze every nuance of Wilbur's expression,

as a doctor might size up a patient on first meeting him. But this individual was

no doctor. He hadn't the gleam of intelligence in his eyes. There was madness,

slithering madness, a clear blithe alienation to the world, calm, but betrayed

by everything through time.

of vantage.

yes? You are a man of letters, I know. I assume you like Shakespeare."

and cause some scene. The least you can do is talk."

Venice. Your father is a merchant, I understand. So you will appreciate a

good bargain when you hear it. Your sister and her husband live not far from

Fort Bragg, I understand. They will very definitely appreciate you listening

to my offer. You would want all of them to have a nice, safe Christmas this

year, yes?"

Wilbur's actively obdurate silence suddenly turned to seething anger at this

boiled-over nut's temerarious suggestion of some Hobson's choice with regard

to his family. His emotions welled to the breaking point:

to Malcolm? You read my note. You are here. Let us do business now. You are

a journalist with some very good reputation. We need you within our cause.

We do not wish to see war. We only wish to see what is rightful in the

world of nations. You could be instrumental in insuring peace for all.

I am prepared to pay ample interest, so to speak. All you need to do is take

a trip with your wife to Hawaii and do a certain story on certain things

there. I'm sure some pecuniary remuneration and a few weeks out of this

terrible heat would be of interest to the both of you, no? Better there

than, say, Guadalajara, yes? This time of year, it is a boiling cauldron,

there. Do you know Guadalajara?

days will determine the scope of our needs.

notes--all of your notes, especially the things that would be, shall we say,

indiscreet of you to offer for print? I think you have ample understanding

of the rest of my meaning. A smart man like you knows much that people do

not tell him, yes?

I will see you again, here, tomorrow afternoon at 3:30, in the bar

next door. Do not bother alerting your friend Daniels or La Policia. Those

gendarmes will do nothing. Your friend Daniels already thinks, how shall we

say, being generous, that you have a bit of an overactive imagination, that

perhaps you are a bit paranoid, yes? You are trapped. Best go along

with the plan. Good for health, no? It will inure to your great

benefit. Oh, and, of course, to that of your family members, too.

Exact too much interest and... How do the French say? 'J'accuse'? You see

my drift? The man who exacts the pound of flesh from the Christian,

well... Let us not discuss this nastiness further. We have of late lost all

our mirth, no? You might say, after all, that this is just some more

lend-lease--you lend to us some of your time for a new lease on life. What

is it the British say, 'Honi sois qui mal y pense'? We are, after all, all

crusaders in the same cause. You are now learning much of crusades and

crusaders and the strength of real crusades, yes? Let us not be the fool as,

say, Macbeth? Remember his ignoring his duties to be the serpent 'neath it?

Or Hamlet? I know you have the photograph accurately now.

careful. We would not wish any accidents. As they say here, hasta mañana,

la cucaracha."

redness abounding. He followed suit out of the hotel and immediately walked

back to the apartment, wishing he had never stepped into this maelstrom.

sort, nor transmitted any information for or to anyone, Key-enough or anyone

else. But the ass didn't mention Key-enough, did he? But the note--he knew of

the note in Shelby. That must have been Key-enough's doing. But no. Don't know.

nothing of it, but clearly Pearl Harbor was the issue--but to what end? How could

the book...? Was it simply bizarre coincidence?

wrote out what had happened. He considered Merchant of Venice and

Shylock's fate to be judged as a Jew by Christians for his usury and the

initially adjudicated requirement that the liquidated damages clause of the

contract between Shylock and Antonio be executed, that is, a pound of

flesh be exacted as interest for Antonio's impecunity to repay the loan.

Shylock is ordered by Portia, masquerading as a judge, to cut from Antonio

exactly one pound of flesh, no more, no less. If he should slip and shed a

single drop of Antonio's blood or take more than his exactment, the court

admonishes that he would lose all his property. And, in the end, Shylock,

to avoid the sanction of the law, relents from his lusting advance for

Antonio's flesh. Shylock, nevertheless, incurs the penalty of the court for

having attempted to take the life of a Venetian citizen. He is ordered to

forfeit all his worldly goods, half to Antonio, half to the state. That

penalty is then remitted by the charity of Antonio to half of Shylock's

goods, provided Shylock becomes a Christian. He does.

scene from a work of literature and pervert it so to their own use as this

creature had.

placed the unfinished stream of consciousness, consisting of eighteen pages,

in the middle of a box of blank typewriter paper.

a small bag of groceries in hand. She first asked him why he had locked the

door. He shrugged with uncertainty.

be the beginning of the 421st anniversary of Noche Triste.

2.

grave peril for their lives. She made dinner, pretending not to be

concerned, listening only casually. He seemed quite annoyed by her disinterest.

He was insistent.

him over to the table.

threat by "Nazis or God knows who. They are after us. They will kill us.

You must listen."

chicken. "You will like it. It's your mother's recipe. I spent half

the afternoon rounding up the ingredients for this meal. Southern cooking is

hard to come by down here without the addition of chili peppers. Go on, now, eat.

Mama's home cooking. Yum-yum."

the perceived terror at hand. He nibbled at the chicken and rice and yams.

But there was no appetite. Suddenly, he bolted from the table.

hear them? They are there, in the hallway. They mean to kill us. Hear that?"

she said, "that hallway is quiet this time of night."

listen, Mary. Please, for God's sakes, these are our lives we are talking

about. I know. I have seen them. They have followed me all week, for a long

time. They read the book, some book. They do not want me to finish another

one. They want something from me, something I will not do."

There's nothing, no one at all."

with one hand, cautiously keeping his body out of full view through the

window, and closed the double casements tight.

in those high windows. Calm down."

knife she had used to cut the chicken. He began wildly slicing the air.

not of some unseen, potential intruder. Without a phone in the apartment,

she felt helpless. She had known this man for over three years, had lived

with him for over six months, had spent practically every moment of their

existence with him during the previous month. He had never exhibited such

abject terror before. To the contrary, he was normally calm, except for

momentary fits of temper on occasion over world events. He was slow to blow, quick to release

steam when the kettle whistled and just as quick to turn off the heat. Not

now. This was an aberrant event never seen.

shamed him into his better fettle. She tried again in the same vein.

Attila."

change in demeanor, as had been the previous result.

Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, himself. Plan to go back to fight at the Alamo, Davy? Oooh,

or maybe you've become the Terrible Turk, is that it? A jerked Turk in Mexico, huh?

Gobble, gobble. Just a little early for Thanksgiving carving, there, Turkey boy, isn't it?"

a slit, and rocked backward slightly.

the grip of his hand turned red from balled tension, and noticeably calmed.

know. I'm sure I heard something out there, Mary. They were talking."

self-awareness. He put down the knife and said that he feared he was losing

his mind under the strain.

you to know anything. They know a lot, more than I thought possible. It might

endanger you."

are in danger. I think we should leave here, tomorrow. Maybe, we should go

back home--maybe tonight."

Daniels said, it will pass. Just be patient. You'll conquer the novel."

someone very like them. They have been following me, maybe you, too. I wish

you would be serious and listen for awhile. It happened today. I know it sounds

unreal, but these nut-buggies thrive on just that sort of dependency on others not

believing in their outrages. How the hell do you think they conquered two-thirds

of Europe in less than three years?"

nature of their plight, she offered to read from the Bible. He indicated his agreement.

It was an atypical suggestion and an even more atypical acquiescence. He wished her

to read from Ecclesiastes. She proceeded to read the whole book of "The Preacher",

the one whose Hebrew name was Koheleth. By the last of it, he was sound asleep.