His second was worse. Oscar Pecora bailed him out of a Paris police station after a month’s solid drinking and packed him off to his villa on the lake at Lausanne.
Oscar Pecora was a patient man who loved Christopher. Christopher was his own protégé. Like a son, Chris sulked bitterly until the boiling within him could not be contained.
And one night it all exploded.
Chris was drunk. Madame Pecora, Oscar’s beautiful former-opera-singing wife, had retired. They were sitting on the balcony and there was a full moon on the lake and Chris was coming to the end of a fifth of scotch whisky.
“Why, Oscar, why! Why did they do that?”
“Tell me about it, Chris.”
“Saw them killing women and children. Dirty bastard Italian fliers sitting in their dirty bastard clubs bragging about it ... Watched them torture soldiers. Ever seen a Moroccan torture someone? By putting his testicles in a squeezer ... Oscar ... God dammit ... I got all that over the border to the Americans!”
“Christopher. Every report that you sneaked out of Spain was planted in newspapers and wire services. All we can do is give the facts to the people. We cannot force them to stage a rebellion in righteous wrath.”
“You are so right, Oscar. The whole goddamned human race sat on its hands and watched them murder Spain. Lemme tell you something, brother. They’ll pay for not stopping Mussolini and Hitler in Spain. Pretty soon they’ll run out of hiding room and, Jesus Christ, will they get clobbered!”
Oscar Pecora’s sympathetic hand fell on Chris’s shoulder. “We journalists are like garbage cans, Chris. Everybody sends us their filth. Through us comes all that is rotten in man. Christopher, what you are going through now ... You were a single small voice that cried out for justice in a dark and angry sea and no one heard you. Until a man is struck in his own face he does not want to believe the attack on his brother concerns him.”
Chris stumbled from his chair, staggered to the rail, and hung onto it. “Shall I tell you why I became a journalist? Do you know Thomas Paine? ‘The world is my country, all mankind are my brethren ... to do good is my religion.’ ”
Oscar Pecora recited, “ ‘In a chariot of light from the region of day, The Goddess of Liberty came. Ten thousand celestials directed the way. And hither conducted the dame. A fair budding branch from the gardens above, Where millions with millions agree, She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love, And the plant she named Liberty Tree ... from the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms! Through the land let the sound of it flee; Let the far and the near all unite, with a cheer ... in defense of our Liberty Tree.’ ”
“Bravo, Brother Pecora! Bravo! And now I give you William Lloyd Garrison ...” Chris stood upright and thrust his finger into the air. “ ‘With reasonable men, I will reason; with humane men I will plead; but to tyrants I will give no quarter ...’ Now how’s that for a goddamn quote?”
Chris reeled into his seat. “Little Jefferson ... we need a little Jefferson to round it out ... Oscar, I’m drunk ... God damn I’m drunk.”
“Come, Christopher. You’re tired. You have lost a hard battle, but you are my best soldier and tomorrow we must go out to the field again.”
“She’s in Jersey ... married that guy. They’ve got two kids ... nice little home, I hear. Me ... I’m the real winner, Oscar. I get to bring truth to the people.”
Chapter Eleven
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, AFTER Chris awoke from a deep sixteen-hour slumber, he found his way to Oscar Pecora’s study sheepishly.
“Boy, did I hang one on,” he said in an apologetic voice.
“For talent, nearly anything can be forgiven.”
“It has all been a pretty startling lesson, Oscar. I can see why the men in our business turn crass and cynical. We sound the great trumpet and no one hears us. Free men with full bellies don’t want to believe that a black native in Ethiopia concerns them or that the bombing of an open city in Spain is the prelude to the bombing of London.”
“Christopher, you’ve eaten my food, drunk my liquor, and now Madame Pecora is giving you flirtatious glances. I think it is high time you got back to work.”
“Doing what, Oscar? Can I go on being a journalist under these conditions? I have learned now that truth is not truth. Truth is only what people want to believe and nothing more.”
“But you will continue to seek it as a journalist or as a streetcar driver in Geneva. You have lost sight of the fact that there is a world of decent human beings and a lot of them are listening. They depend on the Christopher de Montis to be their eyes. You are not a man to abandon the human race because you have lost a battle. Now, what do you say, Christopher?”
Chris laughed ironically. “When you come right down to it, I’m not much good for anything else. I can’t even operate a streetcar.”
“I’ve called in men from our European bureaus for the past month. We are trying to determine how events will shift. What do you think, Christopher?”
Chris shrugged. “Spain is Italy’s show, mainly. The republican government will fall sooner or later. Franco is it.” Chris looked at the wall map behind Oscar. “Hitler will start up next.”
“Bergman in Berlin thinks so too. How does Warsaw sound to you? We have a small bureau there.”
“If you still want me, why not? One place is as good as another.”
“Settled. You go to Poland. We have a free-lance man we’ve been using off and on. An Ervin Rosenblum.”
“Photographer, too, isn’t he?”
“Yes, a good man. Take him on with you and try him out. Christopher, don’t try anything foolish in Poland. Keep us in business as long as you can there.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve had my fill of playing cops and robbers. It won’t do any more good in Poland than in Spain. Don’t worry, Oscar. All you’ll get are the straight reports.”
Dear Oscar,
Warsaw has been like a tonic. I’m glad one of us had some sense and I thank you. It’s like a little Paris here.
Ervin Rosenblum is a crackajack. I want to keep him on permanently. The bureau is in good shape. The usual government red tape, but nothing earth-shaking. Next week I hope to have a direct phone connection to Geneva. That will speed things up considerably.
Although I’m getting along O.K. in French and English, I’m taking an hour a day of Polish. And—can you believe it?—I’ve taken on the hobby of coach of several of the army basketball teams.
Chris blew a whistle. He talked to Andrei Androfski in French, and Andrei translated into Polish that the basketball practice for the day was over. The members of the newly formed Seventh Ulany Brigade team thanked their coach and trotted from the floor of the Citadel gymnasium.
Andrei, the team captain, worked with Chris for another half hour. He was intrigued by Chris’s wizardry in dribbling and hook shooting. Chris showed him the variations of passing the ball while being guarded and how to fake his pass moving in one direction, flipping the ball in the other.
They sat down drenched with sweat after the brisk workout. Chris wiped his face with a towel and lit a cigarette. “I’m pooped. I haven’t done this in years.”
“Those cigarettes are no good,” Andrei said. “They wind you. Such a wonderful game. I did not realize there were so many fine points to it. But what can I do with these dumb oxen? They have no finesse.”
“They’re coming along fine. By the end of the season they’ll play like the Harlem Globetrotters.”
Chris slapped Andrei’s knee. “Well, to the showers.”
“I think I’ll practice foul shots for a while,” Andrei said. “Say, by the way, what do you have on tonight?”