Free Bread Upon the Waters by Irwin Shaw Page A

less. Although perhaps not quite so primitively.”
    “I’ll suggest it to Romero,” Strand said lightly, “and give you the credit for the inspiration.”
    “No, seriously,” Hazen said, “I think the reconsideration of American history, especially along those lines, would make a good deal of sense. I’m not an expert, of course, but it seems to me that America—the United States—blundered into greatness; there was nothing foreordained about it. And we’re blundering into decline, back toward Europe, terrorism, factionalism, cynicism in private and public life, and I hope there’s nothing foreordained about that, either.”
    “You’re a pessimistic man, aren’t you, Mr. Hazen?”
    “Perhaps less so than I sound. I’ve been disappointed. Some hopes have been dashed. Institutions I have worked for have not lived up to expectations. People I thought I loved have not turned out as they might have. Characters have been stunted, careers unrealized. But no, I am not pessimistic to the point of surrender. I believe in struggle, intelligence, essential moral values. A night like last night—your daughter’s instant coming to the aid of a stranger in trouble at considerable peril to herself, your family’s unhesitating solicitude, the easy affection I felt flowing from one to the other around the table, the sense of unity without constraint, the absence of any signs of that mortal disease, loneliness—I don’t want to make too much of it, but a night like that in this day and age is a strong remedy for pessimism.”
    “I’m afraid you’re laying a very heavy burden of meaning on a simple family dinner,” Strand said, uneasy with all that praise. “You’re going to make me self-conscious each time I take out my key to unlock my front door.”
    “I’m talking too much,” Hazen said. “A lawyer’s vice. Never leave well enough alone.” He laughed. “The flowers and the racquet should have been enough. I see I’ve made you uncomfortable. Forgive me. I’m not used to modest men. Oh, that reminds me.” He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and brought out a small envelope. “I have a pair of tickets for the Philharmonic tonight. They’re doing a concert version of Berlioz’s Damnation of Faust. Would you and your wife like to go?”
    “There’s no need…” Strand protested.
    “I can walk along the street looking as I do,” Hazen said, “but can you imagine the stir at the Philharmonic if I showed up like this? Please take them if you can use them.” He pushed the envelope toward Strand. “They’ll just go to waste, otherwise.”
    “But you were taking somebody,” Strand said. “You have two tickets.”
    “My guest for the evening decided she had other plans,” Hazen said. “You and your wife do like the Philharmonic, don’t you?”
    “Very much.”
    “Then take these tickets, man,” Hazen said decisively. “You’re not the sort of person who hates Berlioz, are you?”
    “Not at all.”
    “Some other evening, when I’m more presentable, we can all go together.”
    “Thank you,” Strand said, putting the tickets in his pocket. “Leslie will be overjoyed.”
    “I consider myself more than compensated,” Hazen said.
    They were in front of Lincoln Center now. Hazen squinted at it. “Somehow,” he said wearily, “we have lost the knack for harmonious public building. Still, it’s a useful place.” He looked at his watch. “Well, I must be getting back to the office.”
    “You work on Saturday afternoon?”
    “It’s my favorite time of the week. The office is empty and quiet, the telephone doesn’t ring, there’s a neat pile of papers waiting for me on my desk, I buy a sandwich and a bottle of beer and take my coat off and loosen my collar and I feel like a boy studying for an exam he knows he’s going to pass. What do you do on Saturday afternoons?”
    “Well,” Strand said, “in the springtime, like now, I’m afraid I indulge in my secret vice. I watch