not sure that’s what it really is, or how it came to be in the first place.
On the night Emlyn McCarron told his story — the story of the Breathing Method –
there were perhaps thirteen clubmembers in all, although only six of us had come out on
that howling, bitter night. I can remember years when there might have been as few as
eight full-time members, and others when there were at least twenty, and perhaps more.
I suppose Stevens might know how it all came to be – one thing I am sure of is that
Stevens has been there from the first, no matter how long that may be … and I believe
Stevens to be older than he looks. Much, much older. He has a faint Brooklyn accent, but in spite of that he is as brutally correct and as cuttingly punctilious as a third-generation
English butler. His reserve is part of his often maddening charm, and Stevens’s small
smile is a locked and latched door. I have never seen any club records – if he keeps them.
I have never gotten a receipt of dues – there are no dues. I have never been called by the
club secretary – there is no secretary, and at 249 East 35th, there are no phones. There is
no box of white marbles and black balls. And the club – if it is a club – has never had a name.
I first came to the club (as I must continue to call it) as the guest of George
Waterhouse. Waterhouse headed the law firm for which I had worked since 1951. My
progress upward in the firm – one of New York’s three biggest – had been steady but
extremely slow; I was a slogger, a mule for work, something of a centrepuncher … but I
had no real flair or genius. I had seen men who had begun at the same time I had,
promoted in giant steps while I only continued to pace -and I saw it with no real surprise.
Waterhouse and I had exchanged pleasantries, attended the obligatory dinner put on by
the firm each October, and had little more congress until the fall of 196-, when he
dropped by my office one day in early November.
This in itself was unusual enough, and it had me thinking black thoughts (dismissal)
that were counterbalanced by giddy ones (an unexpected promotion). It was a puzzling
visit. Waterhouse leaned in the doorway, his Phi Beta Kappa key gleaming mellowly on
his vest, and talked in amiable generalities – none of what he said seemed to have any real
substance or importance. I kept expecting him to finish the pleasantries and get down to
cases: ‘Now about this Casey brief,’ or ‘We’ve been asked to research the Mayor’s
appointment of Salkowitz to -‘ But it seemed there were no cases. He glanced at his
watch, said he had enjoyed our talk and that he had to be going.
I was still blinking, bewildered, when he turned back and said casually: There’s a place
where I go most Thursday nights – a sort of club. Old duffers, mostly, but some of then
are good company. They keep a really excellent cellar, if you’ve a palate. Every now and
then someone tells a good story, as well. Why not come down some night, David? As my
guest.’
I stammered some reply – even now I’m not sure what it was. I was bewildered by the offer. It had a spur-of-the-moment sound, but there was nothing spur-of-tbe-moment
about his eyes, blue Anglo-Saxon ice under the bushy white whorls of his eyebrows. And
if I don’t remember exactly how I replied, it was because I felt suddenly sure that this
offer -vague and puzzling as it was – had been exactly the specific I had kept expecting
him to get down to.
Ellen’s reaction that evening was one of amused exasperation. I had been with
Waterhouse, Garden, Lawton, Frasier, and Effingham for something like twenty years,
and it was clear enough that I could not expect to rise much above the mid-level position I
now held; it was her idea that this was the firm’s cost-efficient substitute for a gold watch.
‘Old men telling war stories and playing poker,’ she said. ‘A night of that and you’re
supposed to be happy in the Research Library until they pension you off, I suppose … oh,
I put two Becks’ on ice for you.’ And she kissed me warmly. I suppose she had seen
something on my face – God knows she’s good at reading me after all the years we’ve
spent together.
Nothing happened over a course of weeks. When my mind turned to Waterhouse’s odd
offer – certainly odd coming from a man with whom I met less than a dozen times a year,
and who I only saw socially at perhaps three parties a year, including the company party
in October – I supposed that I had been mistaken about the expression in his eyes, that he
really had made the offer casually, and had forgotten it. Or regretted it – ouch! And then
he approached me one late afternoon, a man of nearly seventy who was still broad-
shouldered and athletic looking. I was shrugging on my topcoat with my briefcase
between my feet. He said: ‘If you’d still like to have a drink at the club, why not come
tonight?’
‘Well,..I…’
‘Good.’ He slapped a slip of paper into my hand. ‘Here’s the address.’
He was waiting for me at the foot of the steps that evening, and Stevens held the door
for us. The wine was as excellent as Waterhouse had promised. He made no attempt
whatsoever to ‘introduce me around’ – I took that for snobbery but later recanted the idea –
but two or three of them introduced themselves to me. One of those who did so was
Emlyn McCarron, even then in his early seventies. He held out his hand and I clasped it
briefly. His skin was dry, leathery, tough; almost turtlelike. He asked me if I played
bridge. I said I did not.
‘God damned good thing,’ he said ‘That god damned game has done more in this
century to kill intelligent after-dinner conversation than anything else I can think of.’ And
with that pronouncement he walked away into the murk of the library, where shelves of
books went up apparently to infinity.
I looked around for Waterhouse, but he had disappeared. Feeling a little uncomfortable
and a lot out of place, I wandered over to the fireplace. It was, as I believe I have already
mentioned, a huge thing – it seemed particularly huge in New York, where apartment-
dwellers such as myself have trouble imagining such a benevolence big enough to do
anything more than pop corn or toast bread. The fireplace at 249 East 35th was big
enough to broil an ox whole. There was no mantle; instead a brawny stone arch curved
over it This arch was broken in the centre by a keystone which jutted out slightly. It was
just on the level of my eyes, and although the light was dim, I could read the legend
engraved on that stone with no trouble: IT IS THE TALE, NOT HE WHO TELLS IT.
‘Here you go, David,’ Waterhouse said from my elbow, and I jumped. He hadn’t
deserted me after all; had only trudged off into some uncharted locale to bring back
drinks. ‘Bombay martini’s yours, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Thank you. Mr Waterhouse -‘
‘George,’ he said. ‘Here it’s just George.’
‘George, then,’ I said, although it seemed slightly mad to be using his first name. ‘What
is all of-‘
‘Cheers,’ he said.
We drank. The martini was perfect. I said so instead of finishing my question.
‘Stevens tends the bar. He makes fine drinks. He likes to say it’s a small but vital skill.’
The martini took the edge off my feelings of disorientation and awkwardness (the
edge, but the feelings themselves remained – I had spent nearly half an hour gazing into
my closet and wondering what to wear; I had finally settled on dark brown slacks and a
rough tweed jacket that almost matched them, hoping I would not be wandering into a
group of men either turned out in tuxedos or wearing bluejeans and L.L. Bean’s
lumberjack shirts … it seemed that I hadn’t gone too far wrong on the matter of dress,
anyway). A new place and a new situation makes one crucially aware of every social act,
no matter how small, and at that moment, drink in hand and the obligatory small toast
made, I wanted very much to be sure that I hadn’t overlooked any of the amenities.
‘Is there a guest book I ought to sign?’ 1 asked. ‘Something like that?’
He looked mildly surprised. ‘We don’t have anything like that,’ he said. ‘At least, I don’t
think we do.’ He glanced around the dim, quiet room. Johanssen rattled his Wall Street Journal, I saw Stevens pass in a doorway at the far end of the room, ghostly in his white messjacket. George put his drink on an endtable and tossed a fresh log onto the fire.