The next day Roger went to Tom O'Connell. Through a cloud of tobacco
smoke, Roger saw him at the end of the dusty loft, sprawled on the edge
of a table behind a low railing and listening to two short, heavy men
talking at once. Some maps and statistical charts hung from the rough,
wooden walls; a magazine-stand stood close to the door, piled with
papers and pamphlets, red-bound, or with glaring red splotches in their
cover designs. Close to the bench on which Roger waited some one was
pounding a typewriter behind a partition. The east end of the loft was
enclosed as a separate office and from this enclosure came the voices
of men and women talking loudly. The whole room vibrated to the feel of
a rushing force, of many violent plans being made and driven through to
execution in an incredibly short time. No restraint here, no polish,
no modulation. Right or wrong, these people believed in themselves.
Society was a wall through which, by brute force, they would drive
the spike of their ideal. Roger's excitement grew. He felt like the
unfortunate son of the leading citizen in a small town, watching a
magnificent back-alley fight by "de gang."
Suddenly the typewriter beside him stopped, and Katya Orloff peered
over the top of the partition. If she was surprised she did not show it.
"Come in. Tom will be through in a minute." She disappeared and Roger
went round to the gate she opened. Katya's desk was piled with papers,
carbons, and cigarette ashes. Teetering on one edge, the dregs of a
cup of black coffee, into which Katya had dropped the crust of a ham
sandwich, threatened to destroy a pile of clean copy, but didn't.
"Sit down." Katya motioned to an upturned apple box and Roger sat down.
Then, for the first time, Katya smiled. A spark lit in the little brown
eyes, but the heavy mouth remained unmoved. It was as if her power
to smile was slowly dying. The eyes alone refused to petrify in the
devastating seriousness of Katya's purpose. Roger smiled back.
"I thought you would come. I expected you sooner."
"Did you?" Roger withdrew his smile, resentful of her assurance. He
felt that Katya caught his feeling, but she did not apologize. Instead
she offered him one of her vile cigarettes. Roger refused.
"They are beastly, but I can't smoke anything else any more." She
inhaled and the cigarette was gone in a few deep breaths. "But I'm
really glad you didn't come any sooner. It means you've thought it
out carefully. We're overloaded now with enthusiasm, twigs not strong
enough to keep the pot boiling. Hear them crackling?" Her frowsy black
head jerked toward the voices of the two men talking to Tom. "Poor Tom.
He'll have to pour water on them and then--two more vanity-wounded
enemies."
Katya's voice, husky from too much loud speech-making and the vile
cigarettes, had unexpected soft spots, rest places, quiet corners of
pity in the roar of her faith. Roger felt that the woman might have
many of these hidden places, little corners of pity and gentleness, and
forgot his resentment.
"I'll promise not to crackle."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-nine. Almost thirty."
"You're married, aren't you?"
"Yes."