—What kind of man am I talking about? A man who went on record saying that he’d refuse to fight for America if war broke out with the Soviets, a man who lives in this country and expresses his disloyalty to it every chance he gets. What kind of man am I talking about? A Communist, that’s the kind of man I’m talking about.

Yates lookd down at Jesse’s shoes. They were old, worn, but excellent quality, maybe Italian, or something fancy, another relic from the days when he earned a lot of money, more money in a year than Yates would earn in his life. But who would know it now? Still looking at the shoes, he said:

—Jesse, you know what really makes me angry?

—I’m sure a lot of things make you angry, Mr Yates.

—That is true. A lot of things get me hot under the collar. But more than anything else, it’s people who have done well in this country, people like you, coming from nothing, making all this money, having all this success, people who turn around and get into bed with another regime. The Soviets have given you nothing. They can’t even feed their own people. How can you love them and not us? How can you sing about them and not about us? You’re the American dream, Jesse: don’t you get it? You’re the American fucking dream. And what a shame that is.

Yates wiped his brow. His heart was thumping hard. This wasn’t fun any more. He breathed deeply.

—So hot in here, I don’t know how you sleep. I don’t know how you breathe. Must have different sort of lungs.

Anna replied, her voice soft:

—We breathe the same as you do, Agent Yates.

Yates curled his lip, as though he wasn’t convinced.

—Your last place had air conditioning? You must miss that.

Neither of them replied and Yates lost interest in goading them further.

—Listen, I’m done here. I’m going to leave you two alone. Before I go, I have a final question, a philosophical question, for us all to think about. In the Soviet Union do you think there must be people who hate their country? Don’t you think the world would be a whole lot simpler if those people lived here and you went and lived there?

Jesse said immediately:

—Mr Yates, insult me any way you want. But you can’t tell me this country isn’t my home as much as yours. It’s—

Yates interrupted, turning to leave.

—Not only am I going to tell you that, Jesse, I’m going to make you understand it too. And take it from me: you’d be smart to keep far away from that concert. You’d be really smart.

Manhattan

Same Day