It was Neil Dumont who forced him to think of Toohey again. Neil spoke petulantly about the state of the world, about crying over spilt milk, change as a law of existence, adaptability, and the importance of getting in on the ground floor. Keating gathered, from a long, confused speech, that business, as they had known it, was finished, that government would take over whether they liked it or not, that the building trade was dying and the government would soon be the sole builder and they might as well get in now, if they wanted to get in at all. “Look at Gordon Prescott,” said Neil Dumont, “and what a sweet little monopoly he’s got himself in housing projects and post offices. Look at Gus Webb muscling in on the racket.”
Keating did not answer. Neil Dumont was throwing his own unconfessed thoughts at him; he had known that he would have to face this soon and he had tried to postpone the moment.
He did not want to think of Cortlandt Homes.
Cortlandt Homes was a government housing project to be built in Astoria, on the shore of the East River. It was planned as a gigantic experiment in low-rent housing, to serve as model for the whole country; for the whole world. Keating had heard architects talking about it for over a year. The appropriation had been approved and the site chosen; but not the architect. Keating would not admit to himself how desperately he wanted to get Cortlandt and how little chance he had of getting it.
“Listen, Pete, we might as well call a spade a spade,” said Neil Dumont. “We’re on the skids, pal, and you know it. All right, we’ll last another year or two, coasting on your reputation. And then? It’s not our fault. It’s just that private enterprise is dead and getting deader. It’s a historical process. The wave of the future. So we might as well get our surfboard while we can. There’s a good, sturdy one waiting for the boy who’s smart enough to grab it. Cortlandt Homes.”
Now he had heard it pronounced. Keating wondered why the name had sounded like the muffled stroke of a bell; as if the sound had opened and closed a sequence which he would not be able to stop.
“What do you mean, Neil?”
“Cortlandt Homes. Ellsworth Toohey. Now you know what I mean.”
“Neil, I…”
“What’s the matter with you, Pete? Listen, everybody’s laughing about it. Everybody’s saying that if they were Toohey’s special pet, like you are, they’d get Cortlandt Homes like that”–he snapped his manicured fingers–“just like that, and nobody can understand what you’re waiting for. You know it’s friend Ellsworth who’s running this particular housing show.”
“It’s not true. He is not. He has no official position. He never has any official position.”
“Whom are you kidding? Most of the boys that count in every office are his boys. Damned if I know how he got them in, but he did. What’s the matter, Pete? Are you afraid of asking Ellsworth Toohey for a favor?”
This was it, thought Keating; now there was no retreat. He could not admit to himself that he was afraid of asking Ellsworth Toohey.
“No,” he said, his voice dull, “I’m not afraid, Neil. I’ll…All right, Neil. I’ll speak to Ellsworth.”
Ellsworth Toohey sat spread out on a couch, wearing a dressing gown. His body had the shape of a sloppy letter X-arms stretched over his head, along the edge of the back pillows, legs open in a wide fork. The dressing gown was made of silk, bearing the trademarked pattern of Coty’s face powder, white puffs on an orange background; it looked daring and gay, supremely elegant through sheer silliness. Under the gown, Toohey wore sleeping pyjamas of pistachio-green linen, crumpled. The trousers floated about the thin sticks of his ankles.
This was just like Toohey, thought Keating; this pose amidst the severe fastidiousness of his living room; a single canvas by a famous artist on the wall behind him–and the rest of the room unobtrusive like a monk’s cell; no, thought Keating, like the retreat of a king in exile, scornful of material display.
Toohey’s eyes were warm, amused, encouraging. Toohey had answered the telephone in person; Toohey had granted him the appointment at once. Keating thought: It’s good to be received like this, informally. What was I afraid of? What did I doubt? We’re old friends.
“Oh dear me,” said Toohey, yawning, “one gets so tired! There comes a moment into every man’s day when he gets the urge to relax like a stumble bum. I got home and just felt I couldn’t keep my clothes on another minute. Felt like a damn peasant–just plain itchy–and had to get out. You don’t mind, do you, Peter? With some people it’s necessary to be stiff and formal, but with you it’s not necessary at all.”
“No, of course not.”
“Think I’ll take a bath after a while. There’s nothing like a good hot bath to make one feel like a parasite. Do you like hot baths, Peter?”
“Why…yes…I guess so…”
“You’re gaining weight, Peter. Pretty soon you’ll look revolting in a bathtub. You’re gaining weight and you look peaked. That’s a bad combination. Absolutely wrong aesthetically. Fat people should be happy and jolly.”
“I…I’m all right, Ellsworth. It’s only that…”
“You used to have a nice disposition. You mustn’t lose that. People will get bored with you.”
“I haven’t changed, Ellsworth.” Suddenly he stressed the words. “I haven’t really changed at all. I’m just what I was when I designed the Cosmo-Slotnick Building.”
He looked at Toohey hopefully. He thought this was a hint crude enough for Toohey to understand; Toohey understood things much more delicate than that. He waited to be helped out. Toohey went on looking at him, his eyes sweet and blank.
“Why, Peter, that’s an unphilosophical statement. Change is the basic principle of the universe. Everything changes. Seasons, leaves, flowers, birds, morals, men and buildings. The dialectic process, Peter.”
“Yes, of course. Things change, so fast, in such a funny way. You don’t even notice how, and suddenly one morning there it is. Remember, just a few years ago, Lois Cook and Gordon Prescott and Ike and Lance–they were nobody at all. And now–why, Ellsworth, they’re on top and they’re all yours. Anywhere I look, any big name I hear–it’s one of your boys. You’re amazing, Ellsworth. How anybody can do that–in just a few years–”
“It’s much simpler than it appears to you, Peter. That’s because you think in terms of personalities. You think it’s done piecemeal. But dear me, the lifetimes of a hundred press agents wouldn’t be enough. It can be done much faster. This is the age of time-saving devices. If you want something to grow, you don’t nurture each seed separately. You just spread a certain fertilizer. Nature will do the rest. I believe you think I’m the only one responsible. But I’m not. Goodness, no. I’m just one figure out of many, one lever in a very vast movement. Very vast and very ancient. It just so happened that I chose the field that interests you–the field of art–because I thought that it focused the decisive factors in the task we had to accomplish.”
“Yes, of course, but I mean, I think you were so clever. I mean, that you could pick young people who had talent, who had a future. Damned if I know how you guessed in advance. Remember the awful loft we had for the Council of American Builders? And nobody took us seriously. And people used to laugh at you for wasting time on all kinds of silly organizations.”
“My dear Peter, people go by so many erroneous assumptions. For instance, that old one–divide and conquer. Well, it has its applications. But it remained for our century to discover a much more potent formula. Unite and rule.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing that you could possibly grasp. And I must not overtax your strength. You don’t look as if you had much to spare.”
“Oh, I’m all right. I might look a little worried, because…”
“Worry is a waste of emotional reserves. Very foolish. Unworthy of an enlightened person. Since we are merely the creatures of our chemical metabolism and of the economic factors of our background, there’s not a damn thing we can do about anything whatever. So why worry? There are, of course, apparent exceptions. Merely apparent. When circumstances delude us into thinking that free action is indicated. Such, for instance, as your coming here to talk about Cortlandt Homes.”
Keating blinked, then smiled gratefully. He thought it was just like Toohey to guess and spare him the embarrassing preliminaries.
“That’s right, Ellsworth. That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. You’re wonderful. You know me like a book.”
“What kind of a book, Peter? A dime novel? A love story? A crime thriller? Or just a plagiarized manuscript? No, let’s say: like a serial. A good, long, exciting serial–with the last installment missing. The last installment got mislaid somewhere. There won’t be any last installment. Unless, of course, it’s Cortlandt Homes. Yes, that would be a fitting closing chapter.” Keating waited, eyes intent and naked, forgetting to think of shame, of pleading that should be concealed. “A tremendous project, Cortlandt Homes. Bigger than Stoneridge. Do you remember Stoneridge, Peter?”