That day seemed to drag on forever. Mac kept to his office, working on the agreement requested by Mr. Dulles, while thinking of Sara Mandakovich. In between his written sentences, he would daydream out of the sixteenth-floor window, watching the stockholders across the street in their own offices.
Hard to believe just ten years ago these guys were jumping out of their windows.
Time had brought enough prosperity to make things seem much better to the young Wall Street lawyer with his promising future in front of him. Mac was living in a world that was much different than the one that existed a decade earlier. Sure, war was a threat, but at this point, few could see Nazism for what it truly was. It was, after all, being portrayed in a clever disguise, projecting a desire for peace to the outside world. People believed what they wanted to believe.
It is so hot, so hot. Mac loosened his tie and collar, while still gazing out of his office window.
Although the windows were open, the noise of the street permeating his little, but comfortable office, it did not help much with the stifling heat. Mahogany window frames, a few pieces of traditional furniture, matching lithographs of eider ducks hanging on the taupe-colored walls, a space befitting a young lawyer at one of the country's most prestigious law firms. He had been recruited from the halls of Harvard little more than two years before, having graduated second in the Class of 1938. He had played defensive end on the Boston College football team before he went to law school, and his taut, imposing physique remained prominent. He was wined and dined until he signed on the dotted line, as they say, then the law firm threw him in the library to pay his dues. He had put his time in the books, dutifully passing the bar exam, learning his trade, and now he was ready for more. In fact, he craved excitement.
The past two years could have been worse. Mac was making what was big money at the time, and yes, he did have a job. The pain of the Depression was still a near enough memory, even for the young buck sitting in his posh Wall Street office. His junior associate status slowly developed into more responsibility. He was permitted to go to court now, by himself, albeit mostly to adjourn a case, or to present a silent presence on the part of the firm. At least he was in court, which was more than most new attorneys could say at Sullivan and Cromwell. He was also now permitted to sit in a room with a client, even if he had been instructed not to open his mouth under any circumstance. The thing was he looked good, and he was taught to bill for his time, whether he opened his mouth or not.
The past year had brought great changes, for Mac, and for the world. While Germany was enveloping most of Europe in flames, Mac was able to find himself a shabby chic apartment on the Upper Westside, West Eighty-Sixth Street, just off Central Park West. He was on the fifth floor with an exquisite view of the back of the brownstones on West Eighty-Seventh Street. Not very glamorous, but entertaining, particularly when he had nothing better to do but to casually snoop on his neighbors.
These first years were all about the law, after all. Each day was long, and there was very little opportunity for any kind of social life. He would get into the subway on Central Park West by six-thirty each morning. The crowded ride to Wall Street was long enough to read the entire front page of a newspaper being held up by a sitting passenger in front of him, while he stood, holding on to the wooden hand grips for balance. It was pretty much his only semblance of an exposure to what was going on in the world, as busy as he was learning the legal trade. He was acutely interested in world affairs, however, even if they were not touching him directly. Mac was savvy enough to realize that eventually the war would reach the shores of America. He was already planning on how he would jump in, despite his being unsure if he could kill another human being. He was hoping that Mr. Dulles could get him involved in Naval Intelligence, as rumor had it that his mentor was spending more and more of his time on such matters.
Mac would be in his office by seven-thirty, with his head already in his law books. His sensible, sixty-something year old secretary, Mrs. Appleton, whom he shared with another associate, would bring him his coffee in fine china, as was the practice at the firm. Mrs. Appleton was too good to him, and he knew it, but Mac made sure to tell everyone how lucky he was to have her. Her interactions with Mac clearly suggested that she thought he could use some mothering, he being twenty-six years old, fresh from upstate New York, by way of Boston. He was no rube, but he was still young. “I have taught him everything he knows,” she was fond of saying with a laugh, but it was pretty much true. Mac knew nothing from time sheets, intercoms, proper attire, or office politics. Mrs. Appleton did know, and she shared her sage knowledge with him, for which he was eternally grateful. He regularly brought her flowers as an expression of his appreciation, for which she had told him was “very sweet, but totally unnecessary.” Yet, he knew she was charmed, and most grateful for his thoughtful demonstration.
He would leave his office each day well after the close of business, choosing to walk uptown many nights, rather than riding in the smelly, sweltering summer subway. It was a seven-mile walk, but it not only passed the time, but it was also entertaining.
One day I will own these streets, he would dream, as he walked past the courthouses on Centre Street. I will be the best trial lawyer ever.
And he believed it. Mac prided himself on being the best at what he was doing. It was his way. He was confident, self-assured, and perhaps appearing a bit arrogant to those who did not know him well.
He would cross Canal Street, north to Little Italy, where he felt the most at home in the big city. Despite his adopted last name, his swarthy good looks made him unmistakably Italian. His father, Giuseppe Martini, was an immigrant from the north of Rome, here in this country since he was a young boy. His mother, an Irish-German beauty, Margaret McCabe Martini, was the daughter of a New York City Police Detective, who so looked the part that he was cast in early crime movies from time to time. His parents, deeply affectionate with both their son and with each other, were both Romance Language professors at Vassar College in upstate Poughkeepsie. Mac had shortened his last name to Martin in law school, as he was smart enough to realize that the only Martini that would be acceptable at a Wall Street law firm was served in a chilled glass. His parents were not amused, but they understood, given their own experiences in the stuffy world of academics. Different languages were spoken in the home, mostly Italian, at times French, and some English. Mac naturally became fluent in all three.
On his walks, he would listen to the Italian being spoken on the streets in Little Italy, occasionally taking the time to pleasantly surprise people by responding in their native language. He may not have dressed like them, in his fine lawyer suits, but his heart was Italian. He quickly became known on the streets, respected for his genial good manners, and his friendly disposition. His passion was unmistakably worn on his sleeve, and this made him even more welcome in the Italian neighborhoods. He found speaking Italian enjoyable, and it kept up his fluency.
Leaving Little Italy, he would proceed north past Police Headquarters where his grandfather had worked, up Fourth Avenue through Greenwich Village, and into mid-town. He would swing to the west at Twenty-sixth Street, to walk by the appellate court, where the great cases of the day were being argued. Periodically, he would go listen to the eloquence of the attorneys, dreaming of his days to come.
And Mac was a dreamer, to be sure. On his walks, he would imagine himself having tea and a nice cigar with Winston Churchill. He would argue cases with William Jennings Bryant. He would dine with Betty Davis, fly planes with Charles Lindbergh, and hit homeruns with Lou Gerigh. There was nothing he could not do when he dreamed it, fueling his unbridled confidence, and his purposeful passion. He was sure he could accomplish anything if he put his mind to it, and he worked hard enough, and smart enough, to make it happen. He wanted the hardest cases. He desired the most beautiful women. He believed nothing was unattainable, and he tried to prove it to himself each day. His dreams, he felt, would surely be his roadmap to success and happiness.
So, there he would find himself, outside the appellate court, winning arguments yet to come, his head in the clouds. Thereafter he would walk through Madison Square Park, up Fifth Avenue, past the Empire State Building, Bryant Park, the Public Library, and the whimsical windows of the posh stores of mid-town Manhattan.
Coming upon the wonders of Central Park, a lush oasis amid a desert of cold concrete, he would explore the jewels of historical sculptures and fountains, and the eccentricities of the masses. Central Park South, the southern boundary, was book ended on the East Side by the Grand Army Plaza and the Plaza Hotel, and on the West Side by Columbus Circle. In between, various gates in the sandstone half-walls invited visitors into a virtual wonderland. A mall of literary statues, a charming carousel, an incongruous dairy, a delightful zoo, each was special in its own way. Wooded pathways, ornate bridges, elaborate manmade lakes, streams, reservoirs, and waterfalls, all merged into a bucolic splendor. There were artists drawing, children playing, dogs greeting each other. There were jugglers, singers, and musicians to entertain, and there were just people being people, that was often even more entertaining. There was even a mysterious edifice, the Belvedere Castle, a granite, and schist hybrid Gothic Romanesque structure, sitting high on a bluff overlooking the newly sodded Great Lawn on one side, and Shakespeare's Garden on the other. Fine gardens, mowed ball fields, and macadam courts, a theatre, a skating rink, and just places to hide from humanity, all to keep the residents of the surrounding buildings happy and busy. There were horses, swans, ducks, and all sorts of small furry creatures. Mid-Park, on both sides, major museums covered city blocks, welcoming visitors each day to view works of art and antiquity.
Thousands would pour out of the stifling apartment houses to taste the cooler air of the park. Ladies sunning themselves, men settled upon benches reading, sleeping, and talking, sometimes to no one in particular. And everyone was seemingly smoking, pipes, cigars, and cigarettes. The fountains, the lakes, the dark woods, they were all appreciated respites from the oppressive heat. It was vibrant. It was truly alive, any time day or night, but particularly so in the summer.
Yes, it was hard to tell there was a war on in Europe that would soon engulf the entire world. That could have been on another planet, for all these people cared. It had nothing to do with them, and they continued to live life untouched by the atrocities being perpetrated across the ocean. New York was gay, it was pulsating, and Mac loved all of it.
That evening, however, Mac was in a hurry to get home to use that telephone number he had tucked into his shirt pocket. He went back to the twenty-eighth floor to drop off the agreement he had promised to Mr. Dulles, hoping his mentor would not be in his office. Much to his chagrin, Mr. Dulles called out to him when he saw Mac through his open office door.
“Mac, I thought you had forgotten about me. Have a seat, young man,” the older gentleman had motioned Mac from behind his desk.
“Never, Mr. Dulles. It is hot off Mrs. Appleton's typewriter, sir,” said Mac, as he took a fine leather perch on the edge of one of the chairs facing the august gentleman, across the dark mahogany desk.
Dulles had a rather austere office for such an important man, yet he did have his trophies here and there. Mac was particularly taken with the photographs of his lovely family, and those of Mr. Dulles with President Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, the Pope, and other dignitaries. He was most impressed with a little sign, which would come to have tremendous meaning to Mac, under the signature of Winston Churchill, proclaiming, “The truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it, Ignorance may deride it, but in the end, there it is!”
“Well, thank you Mac,” Dulles said laughing. “You’re a good man. I thought you were so distracted today by that young lady that you would have trouble putting it together.”
“I’m a good multi-tasker, sir,” Mac chuckled right along, yet he was clearly a little embarrassed.
Dulles laughed out loud at Mac's discomfort.
“Well, good for you, son; as hard as it may be to believe, I was young myself at one point. It's good to be aware of your surroundings, but never let anyone know you are distracted. Things are not always what they seem, son. By the way, listen; I may have something very important for you in the next week or so. You have impressed me not only with your aggressiveness, but also with your sagacity.”
“Anything, sir. I am always ready for more responsibility,” Mac said, knowing full well he was getting smoke blown up his pant leg, but wondering what Dulles was referring to with his offhand comment.
“You speak Italian, I understand?”
“Yes sir, and French.”
“Well, good for you. I will get you up here real soon to discuss a job I want you to do. It is of utmost importance, to this firm, and to the country. You’re patriotic?”
“Yes, sir. Any way I can help my country, and this firm, of course.”
“Good, we’ll talk. I will give you your chance to prove yourself on both accounts.”
“Thank you, sir; I will not let you down.”
“Great, now get out of here,” Dulles laughed, as he pointed to the door, “seeing as you are half out of that chair already. Go call that nice young lady. I saw her writing down a phone number after you left the conference room. I assumed it was for you.”
“You don’t miss much, sir. And thank you for your confidence in me. Anything I can do for you, I’m there.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Martin.”
“Goodnight, Sir,” said Mac, as he jumped off the chair, and left the office, wondering what that was all about. Obviously, it has something to do with my being able to speak Italian.
Mac was in a hurry now. Rather than do his nightly walk, he hopped the subway for the return trip to Eighty-Sixth Street. He was not hungry, but it was still too early to call Sara, or was it just that he was feeling a little nervous. He was not sure. He did not want to appear too desperate, so he sat in his darkening apartment watching his neighbors cavort on their terraces, eating an overstuffed sandwich he brought in from Columbus Avenue. Cocktails were abundant across the back terraces, husbands, and wives presumably, out enjoying the cool of the approaching evening. He poured himself a single malt while he entertained himself in his loneliness. After sitting in a pool of anticipation, Mac pushed himself to pick up the phone. Three rings, to Mac an eternity, before she finally picked up, sweetly answering “helloooo,” in a breathlessly seductive Eastern European accent. Mac had to gather himself, and swallow hard the lump in his throat.
“Sara, it is Thomas Martin. We met today at Sullivan?”
“Thomas, I am just getting in, but I am happy you called.”
“It was so nice meeting you today,” he said rather lamely. “You sound harried.”
“No, I’m alright. I just didn’t want to miss your call. I knew the ring must be you. No one calls me much.”
“I guess I made a fool of myself, huh?”
“It's ok, I was flattered. I did give you my number, after all. You must have done something right.”
“Meet me for a drink,” he just came out with it.
“It would be my pleasure. When would you like to meet?”
“How's tomorrow?” he asked, no longer caring about appearing too desperate.
“Sure. I will not be able to get out of work until seven o’clock, so if you don’t mind, can you come to a place near me?”
“Tell me where!”
“There is a little restaurant on East Thirty-Seventh Street, off Third Avenue, “The Library.” Meet me there at quarter past seven, or thereabouts. No need to make a reservation. Let's just meet, have a drink, and get to know each other a bit.”
“I will be there,” he said, giving her his work number in case there was a problem. “I am really looking forward to seeing you.”
“I’m glad; me too. See you then, Thomas. Sweet dreams. I must run now; I just got in, and all.”
“Take care, Sara. See you tomorrow.”
He hung up the phone, a big smile on his face. He continued to spy on his neighbors, but his mind was elsewhere. He was being drawn to an inviting flame, yet recalling the words of his mentor, that everything may not be what it seems to be.