Morrell and Don had met in Guatemala when they were both covering the dirty little war there a number of years back. Don had gone on to an editorial job at Envision Press in New York, but he still undertook some reporting assignments. Maverick magazine, a kind of edgier version of Harper’s, published most of his work.
“Did you get here in time for the Maccabees-EYE-team standoff?” I asked.
“I was just telling Morrell. I picked up literature from both Posner and Durham.” He waved at a pile of pamphlets on the coffee table. “I’ll try to talk to both of them, but of course that’s breaking news; what I need is background. Morrell says you might be able to supply me with some.”
When I looked a question, he added, “I’d like a chance to meet Max Loewenthal, since he’s on the national committee dealing with missing assets for Holocaust survivors. His Kindertransport story alone would make a good sidebar, and Morrell tells me that you know two of his friends who also came to England as children in the thirties.”
I frowned, thinking of Lotty’s furies with Max over exposing the past. “Maybe. I can introduce you to Max, but I don’t know whether Dr. Herschel would want to talk to you. And Carl Tisov, Max’s other friend, he’s here from London on a concert tour, so whether he’d have the time, let alone the interest-”
I broke off with a shrug and picked up the pamphlets Don had brought back from the demonstrations. These included a flyer from Louis Durham, printed expensively in three colors on glossy stock. The document proclaimed opposition to the proposed Illinois Holocaust Asset Recovery Act, unless it also covered descendants of African slaves in America. Why should Illinois ban German companies who profited from the backs of Jewish and Gypsy workers but accept American companies who grew rich on the backs of African slaves?
I thought it was a good point, but I found some of the rhetoric disturbing: It’s not surprising Illinois is considering the IHARA. Jews have always known how to organize around the issue of money, and this is no exception. Margaret Sommers’s casual comment about “the mean old Jew Rubloff” echoed uncomfortably in my head.
I put the flyer back on the table and rifled through Posner’s screed, which was irritating in its own way: The day of the Jew as victim is over. We will not sit idly by while German and Swiss firms pay their shareholders with our parents’ blood.
“Ugh. Good luck in talking to these two specimens.” I flipped through the rest of the literature and was surprised to see the company history Ajax Insurance had recently printed: “One Hundred Fifty Years of Life and Still Going Strong,” by Amy Blount, Ph.D.
“You want to borrow it?” Don grinned.
“Thanks, I have my own copy-they held a gala a couple of weeks ago to celebrate. My most important client sits on their board, so I got chapter and verse close up. I even met the author.” She’d been a thin, severe-looking young woman, dreadlocks tied back from her face with grosgrain ribbons, sipping mineral water on the fringes of a black-tie crowd. I tapped her booklet. “How’d you get this? Bull Durham going after Ajax? Or is Posner?”
Don patted his cigarette pocket again. “Both, as far as I can tell. Now that Edelweiss Re owns Ajax, Posner wants a printout of all their policies from 1933 on. And Durham is quite as insistent that Ajax open their books so he can see whom they insured from 1850 to 1865. Naturally Ajax is fighting like crazy to keep the IHARA, with or without Durham ’s amendment, from getting passed here or anywhere. Although the Florida and California legislation that inspired the Illinois act doesn’t seem to have hurt insurers any. I guess they’ve figured they can stall until the last beneficiary dies… Morrell, I’m going to kill in a minute if I don’t get some nicotine. You cuddle Vic. I’ll give my great hacking smoker’s cough to warn you I’m coming back in.”
“Poor guy.” Morrell followed me as I went into the bedroom to change. “Mmph. I don’t remember that bra.”
It was a rose and silver number I rather liked myself. Morrell nuzzled my shoulder and fiddled with the hooks. After a few minutes I pulled away. “That smoker’s cough is going to hack in our ears in a minute. When did you find out he was coming to town?”
“He called from the airport this morning. I tried to let you know, but your mobile phone wasn’t on.”
Morrell took my skirt and sweater and hung them in the closet. His extreme tidiness is a big reason I can’t imagine our ever living together.
He perched on the edge of the tub when I went into the bathroom to take off my makeup. “As much as anything, I think Don wanted an excuse to get away from New York. You know, since Envision’s parent company was bought by that big French firm, Gargette, he hasn’t been having much fun in publishing. So many of his authors are being axed that he’s afraid his job will be cut. He wants to scope out the issues surrounding the Birnbaum conference-see if there’s enough in them for a book of his own.”
We went back into the bedroom, where I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. “What about you?” I leaned against him, closing my eyes and letting the wall of fatigue I’d been battling crash over me. “Is there any risk of your contract for the Taliban book being canceled?”
“No such luck, babe.” Morrell ruffled my hair. “Don’t sound so hopeful.”
I blushed. “I didn’t mean to be so obvious. But- Kabul. An American passport is as big a liability there as a woman’s exposed arms.”
Morrell held me more tightly. “You’re more likely to get into trouble here in Chicago than I am in Afghanistan. I’ve never been in love before with a woman who was beaten up and left to die on the Kennedy.”
“But you could visit me every day while I was recuperating,” I objected.
“I promise you, Victoria Iphigenia, that if I am left to die in the Khyber Pass, I will get Humane Medicine to fly you over so you can see me every day.”
Humane Medicine was a human-rights group Morrell had traveled with in the past. They were based in Rome and were hoping to set up an inoculation program for Afghan children before the Himalayan winter set in in earnest. Morrell was going to roam around talking to anyone he could, observe the state-sanctioned boys’ schools, see if he could find any of the underground girls’ schools, and generally try to get some understanding of the Taliban. He’d even been taking a course on the Koran in a mosque on Devon Avenue.
“I’m going to fall asleep if I don’t start moving,” I murmured into his chest. “Let’s get some dinner for Don. We’ve got that fettuccine I bought on the weekend. Put some tomatoes and olives and garlic in it; that’ll do the job.”
We went back into the living room, where Don was flipping through a copy of the Kansas City Review-Morrell had a critique of some recent books on Guatemala in it. “Good job, Morrell-it’s a tough question, what to do about old juntas in new clothes, isn’t it? Tough question to know what to do about our own government’s involvement with some of these groups, too.”
I drifted for a bit while they talked about South American politics. When Don announced a need for another cigarette, Morrell followed me to the kitchen to pull supper together. We ate at the island countertop in the kitchen, perched on barstools, while Don talked with a certain gloomy humor about the changes in publishing. “While I was in Barcelona, my corporate masters announced to the Journal that writers are just content providers. Then they sent out a protocol on how to type manuscripts, demoting the content providers to clerk-typists.”
A few minutes before ten he pushed his chair away from the counter. “There should be some coverage of the Birnbaum conference on the ten o’clock news. I’d like to watch, although the cameras probably concentrated on the action out front.”