CHAPTER 29

At 7:00 A.M., Peter left Lesley asleep in their king-size four-poster bed and tiptoed out of the room. Since her return from the hospital, he had a hard time falling asleep with Lesley because he didn’t trust her body. He doubted that it could get itself asleep and awake in the ordinary way without going wrong. All the pills she took, all the doctors’ sober cautions, reinforced such doubts. The result was that he, and not Lesley, had developed insomnia. He took hours to fall asleep; he awoke at any noise and at the earliest light, alert to danger. Today, as always, he retrieved the paper from the hallway and joined Louis in the kitchen. Louis, who had still not found himself an apartment and did not seem to be looking for one terribly hard, made coffee, and they each poured bowls of cereal. This private, shared breakfast had become a routine, and as a result, Peter thought, he had had more conversations with Louis in the past month or two than in the preceding decade. He had gone out of his way to show a respectful interest in Louis’s work during these breakfasts, and their talk had progressed from a few hesitant remarks about headlines to what were for Peter eye-opening political and social debates that sometimes lasted as long as ten minutes. Louis had quirky opinions, from Peter’s point of view: he disliked prisons, the death penalty, the income tax, and gun control.

This morning, Louis took the Business and Sports sections while Peter looked at the front page, the Arts section, and then the City section, where, on the front page, there was another of Kappell’s “Uptown, Downtown” columns. Peter was always tense when these appeared, but none of them had reverted to the subject of the seminar—until this one, in an “Afternote” that appeared at its foot.

To revisit a subject that was discussed here some time ago, here is an update on the Devereaux Foundation, which has funded a seminar at Columbia University of academic and political superstars, charged it with studying international terrorism, and made sure it has a questionable political tilt. The good news is that Peter Frankl, whose chairmanship of the seminar was unwise and improper, has resigned. The bad news is that he’s still overseeing matters at the Devereaux Foundation, where, according to informed sources, senility, venality, stupidity, dishonesty, and plain childishness and foolishness allow him a clear playing field. Also, Columbia needs to review the membership rostrum of that seminar carefully. Enough said.

“My God,” said Peter.

“What?” asked Louis.

Peter shoved the paper across the table, and Louis read.

“Huh,” said Louis with the vacant, hostile look Peter had first seen on his face in adolescence. For once, Peter was sure that he was not its object.

“It’s my fault,” said Louis. “It was my idea to call Mallory and put them on to the story.”

“It’s not your fault. Possibly it’s Mallory’s fault.”

“She can’t stop him.”

“At any rate, she didn’t stop him. Just after the first seminar meeting, she called people at the Devereaux Foundation, and obviously she fed Kappell information. I don’t know exactly what she told him, but she was at least working with him then.”

“I don’t believe it,” Louis said, turning pale.

“Emma Devereaux and a couple of others told me she called them.”

“I knew she was tricky, but I can’t believe she’d mess you up.”

“That’s probably going too far. I don’t think she meant to hurt me.”

“I’m gonna call her.”

“I wouldn’t. Leave it alone, Louis. What’s she going to tell you?”

But Louis had made up his mind. He went to his room and called Mallory, even though it was not yet 8:00. She was sleeping.

“Did you know about this Kappell column?” he asked.

Mallory recognized Louis’s voice. “What Kappell column?” she asked. She sounded hoarse and groggy.

“He’s got another attack on my father and the Devereaux Foundation people.” Louis read Kappell’s “Afternote” to her.

“Oh God. Look, I can’t go along with his attacking your father, but he may really be on to something with the people at that foundation.”

“No, he’s not. You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know a little. He probably knows more.”

“He’s going after them because someone wants him to. This doesn’t make sense otherwise. You know that. Don’t get tricky with me, Mallory. I know you too well, and I’m better at it than you.”

“You don’t know anything about the Devereaux Foundation.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve known about it for years, from my dad. You’ve made a big mistake with this. These people don’t deserve what you’re doing to them. Stop it, Mallory, because it’s not nice.”

“Louis, it’s not me. I didn’t even know he was going to—”

But Louis had hung up. Mallory had never known Louis to be angry before. He sounded almost contemptuous—and she had always taken him to be amoral. Now even Louis was her moral superior. This reversal of their previous roles humiliated Mallory. At the same time, she thought it unfair that for such a small crime she should appear so hugely guilty and feel so immensely unworthy. And why wasn’t time curing the whole problem, as it cured other problems in Mallory’s life? What was she supposed to have done about the whole thing, anyway?

A few days later, on her way to meet Merrit Roth for coffee, Mallory resolved to tell her the entire story, hoping Merrit might find a way to absolve her former student. Perhaps she would tell Mallory that such was real life, filled with moral ambiguity, that there was no way to keep your hands clean, that Mallory should not worry so much. Mallory had always greatly liked and admired Merrit Roth, so brilliant and sparkling, so pretty, and had written one of her best undergraduate papers for her.

Mallory was waiting in the café and greeted Merrit warmly when she arrived, looking harried, with a stain of curdled milk on her shoulder. No, Merrit said, she wasn’t teaching at Columbia, hadn’t taught anywhere for more than three years, during which she had gotten married and had two children, but she was an editor for a well-known online magazine, Tablet. Mallory thought that Merrit looked tired and thin but happy; and somehow their roles were reversed. Mallory, with her serious Gazette job and careful grooming, felt older and more respectable, even though Merrit was a dozen years her senior and had a couple of famous books to her credit and a big name. Writing for a scrappy online journal like Tablet hardly fit Mallory’s image of her former professor. It was frightening to think that marriage and the family could do this even to someone like Merrit Roth. Merrit made it easy for Mallory to approach the delicate subject of Howard Kappell and the Gazette by mentioning at the outset that she had seen all Mallory’s articles. She listened sympathetically and encouraged Mallory in her hopes of moving into more significant subject areas, and she looked serious when Mallory began telling the Devereaux Foundation story.

“A while back a friend called me and told me his father was going to organize an important faculty seminar at Columbia, and he suggested I come and write a story about it. When I asked the Gazette for permission, they said a senior reporter was already in charge but I could go and work with him.”

“Howard Kappell?” said Merrit. “I’ve seen a couple of articles he wrote about it.”

“What a memory you have.”

“He did something on it just a few days ago, and I happen to know Howard, and . . . But go on.”

Mallory described the inaccuracies in Howard Kappell’s original story, the prejudice Kappell had displayed talking about Frankl after the seminar, her own relations with Peter Frankl, and her respect for him. She related her conversations with the Devereaux people and how she had finally begged off any further involvement. And she told what Louis Frankl had said to her after the second Kappell piece on the subject had appeared a few days ago. She wanted Merrit to know everything so that she could size up the situation correctly and give her absolution.

“He’s sort of a slimy guy, Howard,” said Merrit.

“How well do you know him?”

“I used to know him pretty well, but we’re out of touch now. In fact, I always used to run into him at the Smith-Smythes’, who, I see, are part of the seminar. I don’t see them anymore, either.”

“He never mentioned knowing them. How strange.”

“He knows everyone. He wouldn’t publish this stuff if he hadn’t convinced himself there’s something to it, but that doesn’t mean there is something to it. He’s a crooked guy, in my opinion. He twists things.”

“I’m beginning to appreciate just how true that is. He should have told me he knew them.”

“They’re big on the terrorism circuit. They’re always involved. Last fall they came out with a strange essay in the LRB that comes awfully close to justifying the Palestinian suicide bombers and al-Qaeda, too. It’s all odd,” said Merrit. “So what do you propose to do about all this?”

“Me? What should I do? I don’t know of anything I can do.”

“Don’t you want to try to set the record straight?” asked Merrit.

“You don’t understand, Professor Roth. This is the real world. Kappell is not going to sit back and let me call him a sleaze. Nobody at the Gazette pays any attention to what I think. I could damage my whole career over something like this. I have to ask whether this is a cause that’s really worth it. I don’t know any reason to get behind the Devereaux Foundation people.”

“But you have reason to question Kappell’s motives for maligning them. And what about your best friend’s father, whom you so admire? Look, Mallory, I’ll confess I have something of a personal interest in this situation. My second book, the one that got the Bridgehaven Prize, was written on a Devereaux Foundation grant. I know those people—at least I knew the ones who were running things then. They’re a little bit crazy, and sometimes they fund garbage, but as far as I’m concerned, overall they succeed better than anyone. I’m appalled at what Howard is doing to them. Someone should write something on the other side of this.”

“Professor Roth, the other problem with this is that there’s no percentage in arguing with spin,” Mallory said. “All you can do is counterspin. It’s degrading and futile.”

“How can a professional journalist function with so little faith in the printed word—and the truth? I’m not sure that at your age you’ve earned the right to be as cynical as that, Mallory.” Merrit was smiling, but Mallory sensed a judgment behind the friendly words. She was dejected not only at having failed to get absolution from Merrit Roth, but in learning that even she was too interested in this situation to be genuinely objective.

“I have to try to think this through,” Mallory said. “Is it okay if I call you again?”

Merrit shook Mallory’s hand warmly. “Of course! I hope you do because I’ll be curious to know what you decide to do. Feel free to disregard anything I say, too, Mallory. You’re the one on the line.”