Being There, Page 2

  Mr. Franklin returned to the documents. “During your employment and your residence here, Mr. Chance, can you recall signing any papers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then in what manner were you paid?”

  “I have never been given any money. I was given my meals, very good meals, and as much to eat as I wanted; I have my room with a bathroom and a window that looks out on the garden, and a new door was put in leading out into the garden. I was given a radio and then a television, a big color television set with remote control changer. It also has an alarm in it to wake me up in the morning.”

  “I know the kind you’re referring to,” said Mr. Franklin.

  “I can go to the attic and choose any of the Old Man’s suits. They all fit me very well. Look.” Chance pointed to his suit. “I can also have his coats, and his shoes, even though they are a bit tight, and his shirts, though the collars are a bit small, and his ties and …”

  “I understand,” Mr. Franklin said.

  “It’s quite amazing how fashionable your clothes look,” interjected Miss Hayes suddenly.

  Chance smiled at her.

  “It’s astonishing how men’s fashions of today have reverted to the styles of the twenties,” she added.

  “Well, well,” Mr. Franklin said, attempting light-heartedness, “are you implying that my wardrobe is out of style?” He turned to Chance: “And so you haven’t in any way been contracted for your work.”

  “I don’t think I have.”

  “The deceased never promised you a salary or any other form of payment?” Mr. Franklin persisted.

  “No. No one promised me anything. I hardly ever saw the Old Man. He did not come into the garden since the bushes on the left side were planted, and they’re shoulder-high now. As a matter of fact, they were planted when there was no television yet, only radio. I remember listening to the radio while I was working in the garden and Louise coming downstairs and asking me to turn it down because the Old Man was asleep. He was already very old and sick.”

  Mr. Franklin almost jumped out of his chair. “Mr. Chance, I think it would simplify matters if you could produce some personal identification indicating your address. That would be a start. You know, a check-book or driver’s license or medical insurance card … you know.”

  “I don’t have any of those things,” said Chance.

  “Just any card that states your name and address and your age.”

  Chance was silent.

  “Perhaps your birth certificate?” Miss Hayes asked kindly.

  “I don’t have any papers.”

  “We shall need some proof of your having lived here,” Mr. Franklin said firmly.

  “But,” said Chance, “you have me. I am here. What more proof do you need?”

  “Have you ever been ill—that is, have you ever had to go to the hospital or to a doctor? Please understand,” Mr. Franklin said tonelessly, “all we want is some evidence that you actually have been employed and resided here.”

  “I have never been ill,” said Chance. “Never.”

  Mr. Franklin noticed the admiring look Miss Hayes gave the gardener. “I know,” he said. “Tell me the name of your dentist.”

  “I have never gone to a dentist or to a doctor. I have never been outside of this house, and no one has ever been allowed to visit me. Louise went out sometimes, but I did not.”

  “I must be frank with you,” Mr. Franklin said wearily. “There is no record of your having been here, of any wages paid to you, of any medical insurance.” He stopped. “Have you paid any taxes?”

  “No,” said Chance.

  “Have you served in the army?”

  “No. I have seen the army on TV.”

  “Are you, by chance, related to the deceased?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Assuming that what you say is true,” said Franklin flatly, “do you plan to make any claim against the estate of the deceased?”

  Chance did not understand. “I am perfectly all right, sir,” he said cautiously. “I’m fine. The garden is a good one. The sprinklers are only a few years old.”

  “Tell me,” Miss Hayes interrupted, straightening up and throwing her head back, “what are your plans now? Are you going to work for someone else?”

  Chance adjusted his sunglasses. He did not know what to say. Why would he have to leave the garden? “I would like to stay here and work in this garden,” he said quietly.

  Mr. Franklin shuffled the papers on the desk and drew out a page filled with fine print. “It’s a simple formality,” he said, handing the paper to Chance. “Would you be kind enough to read it now and—if you agree to it—to sign it where indicated?”

  Chance picked up the paper. He held it in both hands and stared at it. He tried to calculate the time needed to read a page. On TV the time it took people to read legal papers varied. Chance knew that he should not reveal that he could not read or write. On TV programs people who did not know how to read or write were often mocked and ridiculed. He assumed a look of concentration, wrinkling his brow, scowling, now holding his chin between the thumb and the forefinger of his hand. “I can’t sign it,” he said returning the sheet to the lawyer. “I just can’t.”

  “I see,” Mr. Franklin said. “You mean therefore that you refuse to withdraw your claim?”

  “I can’t sign it, that’s all,” said Chance.

  “As you wish,” said Mr. Franklin. He gathered his documents together. “I must inform you, Mr. Chance,” he said, “that this house will be closed tomorrow at noon. At that time, both doors and the gate to the garden will be locked. If, indeed, you do reside here, you will have to move out and take with you all your personal effects.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small calling card. “My name and the address and phone number of our firm are on this card.”

  Chance took the card and slipped it into the pocket of his vest. He knew that he had to leave the study now and go to his room. There was an afternoon TV program he always watched and did not want to miss. He got up, said good-bye, and left. On the staircase he threw the card away.

  Three

  Early Tuesday morning Chance carried a large heavy leather suitcase down from the attic, noting for the last time the portraits lining the walls. He packed, left his room, and then, his hand on the garden gate, thought suddenly of postponing his departure and returning to the garden, where he would be able to hide unseen for some time. He set the suitcase down and went back into the garden. All was peaceful there. The flowers stood slender and erect. The electric water sprinkler spurted out a formless cloud of mist onto the shrubs. Chance felt with his fingers the prickly pine needles and the sprawling twigs of the hedge. They seemed to reach toward him.

  For some time he stood in the garden looking around lazily in the morning sun. Then he disconnected the sprinkler and walked back to his room. He turned on the TV, sat down on the bed, and flicked the channel changer several times. Country houses, skyscrapers, newly built apartment houses, churches shot across the screen. He turned the set off. The image died; only a small blue dot hung in the center of the screen, as if forgotten by the rest of the world to which it belonged; then it too disappeared. The screen filled with grayness; it might have been a slab of stone.

  Chance got up and now, on the way to the gate, he remembered to pick up the old key that for years had hung untouched on a board in the corridor next to his room. He walked to the gate and inserted the key; then, pulling the gate open, he crossed the threshold, abandoned the key in the lock, and closed the gate behind him. Now he could never return to the garden.

  He was outside the gate. The sunlight dazzled his eyes. The sidewalks carried the passers-by away, the tops of the parked cars shimmered in the heat.

  He was surprised: the street, the cars, the buildings, the people, the faint sounds were images already burned into his memory. So far, everything outside the gate resembled what he had seen on TV; if anything, objects and people were bigger, yet slower, simpler
and more cumbersome. He had the feeling that he had seen it all.

  He began to walk. In the middle of the block, he became conscious of the weight of his suitcase and of the heat: he was walking in the sun. He had found a narrow space between the cars parked against the curb and turned to leave the sidewalk, when suddenly he saw a car rapidly backing toward him. He attempted to leap out past the car’s rear bumper, but the suitcase slowed him. He jumped, but too late. He was struck and jammed against the headlights of the stationary car behind him. Chance barely managed to raise one knee; he could not raise his other leg. He felt a piercing pain, and cried out, hammering against the trunk of the moving vehicle with his fist. The limousine stopped abruptly. Chance, his right leg raised above the bumper, his left one still trapped, could not move. The sweat drenched his body.

  The chauffeur leaped from the limousine. He was black, in uniform, and carried his hat in his hand. He began to mumble words, then realized that Chance’s leg was still pinned. Frightened, he ran back into the car and drove a few inches forward. Chance’s calf was freed. He tried to stand on both feet, but collapsed onto the edge of the sidewalk. Instantly, the rear door of the car opened and a slender woman emerged. She bent over him. “I hope you’re not badly hurt?”

  Chance looked up at her. He had seen many women who looked like her on TV. “It’s only my leg,” he said, but his voice was trembling. “I think it was crushed a bit.”

  “Oh, dear God!” the woman said hoarsely. “Can you—would you please raise your trouser-leg so I can take a look?”

  Chance pulled up his left trouser-leg. The middle of the calf was an already swelling red-bluish blotch.

  “I hope nothing is broken,” the woman said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. My chauffeur has never had an accident before.”

  “It’s all right,” Chance said. “I feel somewhat better now.”

  “My husband has been very ill. We have his doctor and several nurses staying with us. The best thing, I think, would be to take you right home, unless, of course, you’d prefer to consult your own physician.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Chance.

  “Do you mind seeing our doctor, then?”

  “I don’t mind at all,” said Chance.

  “Let’s go,” said the woman. “If the doctor advises it, we’ll drive you straight to the hospital.”

  Chance leaned on the arm that the woman proffered him. Inside the limousine she sat next to him. The chauffeur installed Chance’s suitcase, and the limousine smoothly joined the morning traffic.

  The woman introduced herself. “I am Mrs. Benjamin Rand. I am called EE by my friends, from my Christian names, Elizabeth Eve.”

  “EE,” Chance repeated gravely.

  “EE,” said the lady, amused.

  Chance recalled that in similar situations men on TV introduced themselves. “I am Chance,” he stuttered and, when this didn’t seem to be enough, added, “the gardener.”

  “Chauncey Gardiner,” she repeated. Chance noticed that she had changed his name. He assumed that, as on TV, he must use his new name from now on. “My husband and I are very old friends of Basil and Perdita Gardiner,” the woman continued. “Are you by any chance a relative of theirs, Mr. Gardiner?”

  “No, I am not,” Chance replied.

  “Would you care for a little whisky or perhaps a little cognac?”

  Chance was puzzled. The Old Man did not drink and had not permitted his servants to drink. But once in a while, black Louise had secretly drunk in the kitchen and, on her insistence a very few times, Chance had tasted alcohol.

  “Thank you. Perhaps some cognac,” he replied, suddenly feeling the pain in his leg.

  “I see that you are suffering,” said the woman. She hastened to open a built-in bar in front of them, and from a silverish flask poured dark liquid into a monogrammed glass. “Please drink it all,” she said. “It will do you good.” Chance tasted the drink and sputtered. The woman smiled. “That’s better. We’ll be home soon and you’ll be cared for. Just a little patience.”

  Chance sipped the drink. It was strong. He noticed a small TV set cleverly concealed above the bar. He was tempted to turn it on. He sipped his drink again as the car maneuvered slowly through the congested streets. “Does the TV work?” Chance asked.

  “Yes. Of course it does.”

  “Can you—would you turn it on, please?”

  “Certainly. It will take your mind off your pain.” She leaned forward and pressed a button: images filled the screen. “Is there any particular channel, any program, that you want to watch?”

  “No. This one is fine.”

  The small screen and the sounds of the TV separated them from the noise of the street. A car suddenly pulled in front of them, and the chauffeur braked sharply. As Chance braced himself for the sudden lurch, a pain pierced his leg. Everything spun around him; then his mind blanked, like a TV suddenly switched off.

  He awoke in a room flooded with sunshine. EE was there. He lay on a very large bed.

  “Mr. Gardiner,” she was saying slowly. “You lost consciousness. But meanwhile we’re home.”

  There was a knock at the door; it opened and a man appeared wearing a white smock and thick black-rimmed glasses and carrying a fat leather case. “I am your doctor,” he said, “and you must be Mr. Gardiner, crushed and kidnaped by our charming hostess.” Chance nodded. The doctor joked, “Your victim is very handsome. But now I’ll have to examine him, and I’m sure you will prefer to leave us alone.”

  Before EE left, the doctor told her that Mr. Rand was asleep and should not be disturbed until late in the afternoon.

  Chance’s leg was tender; a purple bruise covered almost the entire calf.

  “I’m afraid,” said the doctor, “that I’ll have to give you an injection so I can examine your leg without making you faint when I press it.”

  The doctor removed a syringe from his case. While he was filling it, Chance visualized all the TV incidents in which he had seen injections being given. He expected the injection to be painful, but he did not know how to show that he was afraid.

  The doctor evidently noticed it. “Now, now,” he said. “It’s just a mild state of shock you’re in, sir, and, though I doubt it, there may have been some damage to the bone.” The injection was surprisingly quick, and Chance felt no pain.

  After a few minutes the doctor reported that there had been no injury to the bone. “All you must do,” he said, “is rest until this evening. Then if you feel like it, you can get up for dinner. Just make sure you don’t put any weight on the injured leg. Meanwhile I’ll instruct the nurse about your injections; you’ll have one every three hours and a pill at mealtimes. If necessary, we’ll arrange for X rays tomorrow. Now, have a good rest, sir.” He left the room.

  Chance was tired and sleepy. But when EE returned, he opened his eyes.

  When one was addressed and viewed by others, one was safe. Whatever one did would then be interpreted by the others in the same way that one interpreted what they did. They could never know more about one than one knew about them.

  “Mrs. Rand,” he said. “I almost fell asleep.”

  “I am sorry if I disturbed you,” she said. “But I’ve just been speaking to the doctor and he tells me that all you need is rest. Now, Mr. Gardiner—” She sat on a chair next to his bed. “I must tell you how very guilty I am and how responsible I feel for your accident. I do hope it will not inconvenience you too much.”

  “Please don’t worry,” Chance said. “I am very grateful for your help. I don’t … I wouldn’t …”

  “It was the least we could do. Now is there anyone you would like to notify? Your wife? Your family?”

  “I have no wife, no family.”

  “Perhaps your business associates? Please do feel free to use the telephone or send a cable or use our Telex. Would you like a secretary? My husband has been ill for so long that at present his staff has very little to do.”

  “No, thank
you. There isn’t anything I need.”

  “Surely there must be someone you would like to contact…. I hope you don’t feel …”

  “There is no one.”

  “Mr. Gardiner, if this is so—and please don’t think that what I say is mere politeness—if you have no particular business to attend to right away, I would like you to stay here with us until your injury has completely healed. It would be dreadful for you to have to look after yourself in such a state. We’ve lots of room, and the best medical attention will be available to you. I hope you will not refuse.”

  Chance accepted the invitation. EE thanked him, and he then heard her order the servants to unpack his suitcase.

  Chance woke up as a strip of light moved across his face from the opening in the heavy curtains. It was late in the afternoon. He felt dizzy; he was aware of the pain in his leg and uncertain of where he was. Then he recalled the accident, the car, the woman, and the doctor. Standing close to the bed, within reach of his hand, was a TV. He turned it on and gazed at the reassuring images. Then, just as he decided to get up and open the curtains, the phone rang. EE was calling him. She asked about his leg and wanted to know whether he was ready to have tea and sandwiches brought to him and whether she could come up and visit him now. He said yes.

  A maid entered with a tray, which she set down on the bed. Slowly and carefully, Chance ate the delicate food, remembering such meals from TV.

  He was resting against the pillows, watching television, when EE entered the room. As she pulled a chair closer to his bed, he reluctantly turned the set off. She wanted to know about his leg. He admitted to some pain. In his presence she telephoned the doctor, assuring him that the patient appeared to be feeling better.

  She told Chance that Mr. Rand was much older than she; he was well into his seventies. Until his recent illness, her husband had been a vigorous man, and even now, in spite of his age and illness, he remained interested and active in his business. She regretted, she said, that they had no children of their own, particularly since Rand had broken off all relations with his former wife and with his grown son of that marriage. EE confessed that she felt responsible for the rupture between father and son, since Benjamin Rand had divorced the boy’s mother to marry her.