The Defection of A. J. Lewinter, page 5
SINCLAIR: Only what troubles us all, Mr. Wilson—money. Augustus is behind on his alimony payments. Not much behind, mind you, but enough to worry him. His wife—his ex-wife—is a, pardon the expression, bitch. Augustus used to go there every Sunday to see his children, but she turned them against him. I can just imagine the stories she told, the lies she made up. Anyhow, Augustus is worried she will make trouble about the alimony, the wife that is, though Lord knows she doesn’t need it. She gets a very generous allowance from her father.
WILSON: Why was he behind on alimony? He makes a good salary and he couldn’t have many expenses.
SINCLAIR: Ah, money, Mr. Wilson. Augustus and money. Maybe he has holes in his pockets. Who knows why? Somehow he never has enough money. Which of us does? I think he is just a bad money manager. He is still paying off some debts—the automobile, a cottage on the Cape. The alimony takes a chunk out of his check, a big chunk. To tell you the truth, a week or so before he left for Japan, Augustus swallowed his pride and went to one of those finance companies, the ones that consolidate your debts. You’ve heard of it—something-or-other debt, in Boston.
WILSON: You mean Consol-O-Debt?
SINCLAIR: Yes, that’s the one. Consol-O-Debt. Do you know what the Chinese say about money. Mr. Wilson? They say money gives a man wings that can take him everywhere—except heaven. Now the Chinese word for “heaven” …
Edited transcript of conversation between Agent D. Matthews and Rupert Brooke Lewinter. 12 August. Subject, aged 45, a research chemist with Norton Pharmaceuticals, Inc., is the only brother of Lewinter.
LEWINTER: I’m terribly sorry, I forgot your name?
MATTHEWS: Matthews.
LEWINTER: Yes, of course, Matthews. When you mentioned on the telephone where you were from, I thought it best we have some privacy. I hope you didn’t have too much trouble finding this place.
MATTHEWS: Your directions were excellent.
LEWINTER: It’s about Jerry, isn’t it? I knew that crowd at M.I.T. would get him into hot water. If I told him once, I told him a thousand times, Jerry, I told him, stay away from those professional anti-Americans. I don’t know what kind of work Jerry does, but I knew it wouldn’t sit well with you fellows when word got around who he was hanging out with. I’m right, huh, aren’t I? Jerry’s in hot water?
MATTHEWS: If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Lewinter, let’s take things one step at a time. Can you tell me something about your brother’s background? Did he, for instance, have a happy childhood?
LEWINTER: Quite Frankly, Mr. Matthews, Jerry—
MATTHEWS: Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Lewinter, but everyone else seems to call him by his initials. Why do you call him Jerry?
LEWINTER: Jerry is the name the family uses. In Bronx High School of Science, he was Augustus. He started out college as A. Jerome, but switched to initials in his senior year. But we always called him Jerry. Just plain Jerry. I don’t think he likes it very much, but it’s hard to break one’s childhood habits, isn’t it?
MATTHEWS: I see. You were going to say something about his childhood when I interrupted.
LEWINTER: Yes, his childhood. Frankly, Mr. Matthews, Jerry was coddled, and I don’t think it’s done him any service. He grew up on a diet of instant gratification. If he set eyes on a toy boat or plane or train, he was playing with it the next day. I suppose one would say he was happy in the sense that he was never frustrated, but I’m not sure he could be described as happy in a larger sense. That is to say, everything came too easily, and therefore nothing meant very much to him. Am I making sense in all this?
MATTHEWS: Yes, I think so. Go on.
LEWINTER: Interestingly enough, my parents—my father was an inventor of sorts—my parents didn’t make that mistake with me. Jerry and I are really something of a case history in child raising. I was the older brother, of course. When my parents had me, they were quite preoccupied with making ends meet. As a result, I learned at an early age to put up with the frustrations that one finds in life as a matter of course. Just before Jerry was born, my father struck it rich in a modest way—he invented a home garbage grinder, a pedal affair that would pulverize household waste, everything except tin cans. Ever hear of it—the Lewinter Disposerizer? Sold in the Sears, Roebuck catalogue. One can still occasionally find Lewinter Disposerizers on farms. At any rate, my parents were determined to give Jerry every advantage. That was the phrase they used, every advantage. What they actually gave him, it seems to me, was every disadvantage—in the sense that they didn’t prepare him for the setbacks and frustrations in later life.
MATTHEWS: Very interesting. So you trace a lot of his problems to his childhood, then.
LEWINTER: Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Matthews. Jerry was an eager, bright boy. He had a phenomenal memory. They actually had him to doctors when he was very young to see if he had a photographic memory, it was that good. I remember once when my father had lost his wallet, Jerry rattled off the number of every card in it. And another time, he recited every word of a fourth-grade reader the day after he got the book. It was quite a stunt.
MATTHEWS: Did he?
LEWINTER: Did he what, Mr. Matthews?
MATTHEWS: Did he have a photographic memory according to the doctors?
LEWINTER: He did—and he didn’t. I know that sounds strange. For some reason, he turned it off when he saw the doctors and turned it on again when he wanted to impress somebody at home. I myself am convinced that he had it, yes—that is, until the accident.
MATTHEWS: The accident?
LEWINTER: Yes. He was about eight, I think. Eight or nine. He fell off a garage roof and landed on his head. He was unconscious for almost two days—it was really touch and go. He recovered, of course. But he never did those memory tricks again. I’m convinced he lost his extraordinary memory capacity in that fall, absolutely convinced. No telling what he might have become if he had retained it, is there? I mean, he was quite intelligent to begin with. That, and a photographic memory, well …
MATTHEWS: Tell me about his wife, that is, his former wife.
LEWINTER: She was a good mother, a good wife, a handsome woman in her own way, and very ambitious for Jerry. She made demands on him, which is something our parents never did. If he amounted to anything, it was because Susan pushed him.
MATTHEWS: Apparently he didn’t share your view. Why did he leave her?
LEWINTER: Your guess is as good as mine. He didn’t know a good thing when he saw it.
MATTHEWS: I understand he’s planning to marry again. Do you know the girl?
LEWINTER: That’s news to me. I knew he was pretty thick with her, but he never mentioned a word about marriage. So Jerry’s planning to marry again, eh? Interesting. I never met her, so I can’t tell you anything about her. Yes, I do know one thing. She encouraged him to take his solid-waste-disposal scheme—I used to tell him it was just a colossal Lewinter Disposerizer—to some congressman.
MATTHEWS: What about the group at M.I.T. you mentioned before?
LEWINTER: There’s not much to tell. I’ve met one or two of them—they’re a noisy bunch, professional look-for-the-worst-in-everything types, if you get my meaning. I told Jerry that, given his line of work—mind you, I have no idea exactly what he does, except that it is very secret—given his line of work, those were not the kind of people with whom he should be hanging around.
MATTHEWS: He didn’t take your advice, I gather?
LEWINTER: Jerry never took my advice.
MATTHEWS: What is his attitude toward the Soviet Union?
LEWINTER: Now you do have me frightened. Why are you asking a question like that?
MATTHEWS: Absolutely routine, Mr. Lewinter. I’m asking it because it’s on my list of questions.
LEWINTER: In his own way, Jerry is very idealistic, and I suspect he thinks the Russians are too. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Jerry is no fellow traveler. Nothing of the sort. If he thinks much about Russia at all, it is probably with the vague notion that they might be interested in his waste-disposal scheme. Jerry is very frustrated about that project, you know. He just can’t seem to interest anybody in it, no matter how much he tries. It means a lot to him, getting someone to accept his waste-disposal scheme.
Unedited transcript of conversation between Agent R. Grotten and Susan Bidgood Lewinter. 13 August. Subject, aged 37, a housewife, is the divorced wife of Lewinter.
LEWINTER: I was expecting a Mr. Bodkin. When they called, they said a Mr. Bodkin was coming. I wasn’t expecting you.
GROTTEN: Bodkin’s wife had a baby late last night. They asked me to fill in for him.
LEWINTER: Boy or girl? Was it a boy or girl?
GROTTEN: I really don’t know. Nobody said.
LEWINTER: In this day and age, boys are so much easier to handle, don’t you think so, Mr. Grotten? Do you have any children?
GROTTEN: Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I do.
LEWINTER: Boys or girls?
GROTTEN: Eh, why, actually, one of each. Eh, Mrs. Lewinter-
LEWINTER: Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Grotten, but I use Miss. Since the divorce. Miss Lewinter.
GROTTEN: Yes, of course. Now, eh, Miss Lewinter, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your former husband, if I may.
LEWINTER: Does this have anything to do with alimony? I filed a complaint with the court last week—August is three months behind in his payments—and they said they would send a court officer around.
GROTTEN: Actually, I’m—
LEWINTER: Not that it’s critical. The money, I mean. Luckily, I have some income of my own to fall back on. But it’s the principle of the thing. The divorce settlement stipulated he was to provide a hundred and twenty-five dollars a week. That’s not unreasonable, is it? In this day and age, a hundred and twenty-five dollars doesn’t go very far when you’re trying to hold a household together and raise two small children, does it?
GROTTEN: We’re not from the courts, Miss Lewinter. I thought they made that clear to you when they set up the appointment with Bodkin. This is a routine security background investigation.
LEWINTER: But he’s already had one of those. When August first came out here, they did that.
GROTTEN: I know, Miss Lewinter, but we’re updating it. Strictly routine, I assure you. Now, if I could trouble you to answer a few questions?
LEWINTER: You have nothing to do with the alimony?
GROTTEN: That’s right. Nothing.
LEWINTER: I see.
GROTTEN: I am interested in the fact that he is behind in his alimony payments, though. You mentioned earlier that he was three months behind. How come you waited that long to file a complaint with the courts, Miss Lewinter?
LEWINTER: If I went to a court every time August missed an alimony payment, I’d look like a fool. You have to understand August. He’s a very forgetful person. He’s always forgetting birthdays and anniversaries and dinner dates and bills—and alimony payments. He simply doesn’t have a head for details.
GROTTEN: Did you attempt to remind him, about the alimony payments, I mean?
LEWINTER: Oh, I tried, I tried, Lord knows I tried. I sent him registered letters and telegrams. I did everything but actually go there. I couldn’t bring myself to do that, not with that woman living there. I’m not angry, mind you. August has a right to a life of his own. But that woman. I don’t know what he sees in her.
GROTTEN: You’ve met her, I take it?
LEWINTER: Only once, before we were divorced, at a party. I know what you’re driving at. No, I don’t know her very well. But anyone who has met her says the same thing. In a word, she’s a shrew.
GROTTEN: I don’t mean to open old wounds, Miss Lewinter, but what led to the divorce? What went wrong?
LEWINTER: Oh, it’s very complicated. You’re not pressed for time, are you? Ha. Well, let me see if I can make a long story short. I think the thing that really broke the camel’s back, so to speak, was that August used to exaggerate his own importance. It wasn’t exactly that he lied, you have to understand. But he sort of created his own image of himself with a web of fabrications. Take the business about the waste-disposal scheme. I suppose it was a genuine enough scheme. But the way he talked about it, you’d think he was Leonardo da Vinci offering the world the steam engine or whatever it was da Vinci did invent. August wanted desperately to be important. He was always searching for things that could make him important. This involved a lot of half-truths and exaggerations. And when you punctured one of his pretenses, he seemed to fall apart in your hands. It was very sad, really.
GROTTEN: Was he involved politically?
LEWINTER: Oh, no, never. August political? He never gave it a second thought. He was interested in practical things—his work, his schemes, but never politics. GROTTEN: Was he happy with his work?
LEWINTER: As far as I could tell, yes. He seemed to think that he had made a very good impression on whoever it is that’s in charge of his section at M.I.T. He seemed to feel that they were receptive to his new ideas.
GROTTEN: Did he ever talk about the Soviet Union?
LEWINTER: The Soviet Union? Good God, I don’t even think he knew where it was.
Edited transcript of conversation between Agent T. Blumenthal and Doctor Donald Fishkin. 13 August. Subject was Lewinter’s dentist.
FISHKIN: Lewinter! That son of a bitch rabble-rousing bastard. Why the hell are you asking about Lewinter? He get caught with his fingers in the till or something? Boy, would I like to get my hands on that crazy maniac. That’s right, maniac. He’s off his rocker, crazy, insane, a good-for-nothing son of a bitch. What he needs is a custom-made strait jacket. Look, take a tip from me, steer clear of that raving madman. Four years I treated him, four years. Right. Four years he comes in here telling me how pleased he is to have found such a good dentist. Right. Then one day he waltzes in, calls me a prick to my face, and waltzes out with his X rays. Right. With a waiting room full of patients, too.
BLUMENTHAL: Did he ever—
FISHKIN: The bastard, he’s a walking loony, if you ask me. Skipped out of here with his X rays just like that. Son of a bitch never even paid the hundred and twenty-five dollars he owes me. Four years. Right. Four long years. I’ll tell you something, from me to you, he’s around the bend. Right around the bend.
8
“HE SOUNDS PARANOID,” yawned Kaplan.
“Lewinter?” asked Billings, a frown tugging at the comers of his thin, dry lips.
“What’s his name, the dentist.”
“We’re not here to analyze what’s-his-name, the dentist,” Billings said coldly, the frown deepening. He removed his horn-rimmed glasses with both hands—someone had once told him the frames lasted longer if you took them off that way—and placed them on the sheaf of transcripts. “I take it, then, we can dismiss the possibility that the subject of this C.P.P. is insane?”
Kaplan let the silence drag out until it was uncomfortable before he answered. It was a technique he had developed in his medical practice; never shoot from the hip, appear thoughtful, weigh your words, lure their minds out across the silences to meet you halfway.
“There’s no such thing as insanity in psychiatry,” he said finally, definitively. “It’s really a legal term, insanity, implying the inability to distinguish between right and wrong. Since this is not a legal proceeding, and since you’re not concerned with rights and wrongs, perhaps we should stick to terms that have some psychiatric relevance.”
They had not got on from the start: Billings, the prissy intelligence pro committed to the gospel that achievements in his field, as in any field, came from discipline, obedience to the imperatives of the pecking order and paper work; and Kaplan, the brilliant young psychiatrist who associated discipline with mediocrity and reveled in leaps of intuition. “Good God, can’t we come up with a psychiatrist who isn’t Jewish?” Billings had complained when an aide handed him a list of the people on the Comprehensive Personality Profile. “They’re inevitably so sloppy.”
Billings had meant sloppy in the mental sense, but his first glimpse of Kaplan convinced him that the term could be applied in the physical sense too. Kaplan had a large nose, a prominent Adam’s apple which bobbed like a buoy when he talked, and long hair that looked as if the wind had recently blown through it. The vest of his $400 suit was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing an eighty-nine-cent red polka-dot tie that Kaplan had bought at Tie City.
“All right, let’s not use the word insanity,” Billings was saying. “Naturally, I realize that there’s not much to go on yet—the major portion of the interviews have yet to come—but we have to start somewhere. Perhaps we can hammer out a preliminary estimate …”
“Sounds, eh, anal compulsive to me,” said Erich Schindler, the physicist on the C.P.P. A squirrelish man with jutting, nicotine-stained teeth, he had a habit of talking with his head angled down, as if peering over eyeglasses he neither wore nor needed. His biggest contribution to the conversation before he weighed in with “anal compulsive” had been to hold forth, apropos of nothing in particular, on the “Cartesian distinction between mind, the essence of which is understanding, and body, the essence of which is motion.” Peering over the nonexistent glasses, he entered the lists again. “Look here, my boy, eh, don’t mean to step on toes and all that—you’re not sensitive about territorial imperatives, are you?—but I learned a long time ago that you can’t miss the mark, well at least you can’t miss it by much, if you, eh, label someone anal compulsive, can you?”
“God damn right,” Kaplan agreed. He liked Schindler despite his meandering mind and exaggerated professional airs. Kaplan had been surprised to find a scientist of Schindler’s prominence taking part in one of these affairs; he guessed, partly from his own experience, that the honorarium, as they called it in the academic world, had been too enticing to turn down.
“Anal compulsion is the ragweed of psychiatry,” Kaplan continued. “It’s everywhere. It’s a fancy way of saying uptight, and who isn’t these days.” He looked pointedly at Billings. “Listen, it’s too soon”—Kaplan waved toward the pile of transcripts—”for anything but the most vacuous generalities.”
