but tonight he discovered that he was also dangerous. He wasn't the callous, blunt-spoken ruffian Alex had taken him for—or not only that. There was method in his cruelty and finesse in his insults, and he was capable of surprising subtlety. He could also be charming to women, a quality Alex had not expected and found disquieting to watch. Although no one was exempt, Sara was the target of his rawest malice—but even that was disguised. Instead of addressing her directly, he spoke generally of "the English" as stupid and supercilious, a snobbish, cold, incompetent breed who used rank to get what brains and ability got "over here." And he had a knack for drawing people into these veiled attacks as accomplices; Alex listened in astonishment when the Donovan woman agreed with him and even offered a recent example of pomposity in an Englishman of her acquaintance. It was as if Sara's heritage was unknown to them, or they'd all suddenly developed amnesia.
But Cochrane saved his sharpest barbs for his victims' poorest-defended vulnerabilities, and in Sara's case that meant her work with foreigners and new immigrants. There was no talk of "Jews, Micks, and Eyetalians" tonight; instead the focus was on the economic harm these unnamed ethnic groups were perpetrating on "real Americans"—anyone born in the United States, presumably. Jobs were being lost, neighborhoods degraded; the very spirit that made this country great was being tainted by the corrupt influence of foreign blood. Because he was a forceful, bullish speaker and because he was powerful and filthy rich, people agreed with him. He managed to make ethnic hatred sound patriotic. Even Constance was nodding when he talked about the systematic destruction by "aliens" of everything that had once made lower Manhattan livable and attractive.
Sara somehow managed a taut, smiling civility through most of it. Alex's newly sharpened senses witnessed nuances of self-restraint that impressed and dismayed him, and churned up an absurd desire in him to rescue her. But even her rigid control faltered when Harry Donovan took up the complaint, seconding Ben and deriding the recommendations of something called the "Tenement House Committee Report."
"But surely," she remonstrated with disarming gentleness, "no one could quarrel with a study that finds tenement house living conditions in need of improvement."
"Maybe," Donovan conceded, "but this report goes way too far." He looked to Ben for approval, and got it in a series of deep nods. "You fix things up for these people, Mrs. Cochrane, they just wreck them again. Believe me, I've seen it happen over and over." He was a burly, fair-haired man with pink cheeks and pale eyes. His wife's brother owned a number of laundries, a
growing
number since Donovan had been elected alderman and—a coincidence, surely—his brother-in-law had become the recipient of so many city contracts for laundry service.
"But we're not talking about luxuries," Sara pursued, "we're talking about things such as light and air. I'm sure you don't oppose a recommendation that new tenements occupy no more than seventy percent of an interior lot. Or better fire safety measures for existing buildings, or more drinking fountains and public lavatories. Simple, basic human necessities—"
"You can't build a profitable building on less than seventy percent of a lot," her husband snapped. She started to disagree, but he talked over her. "Anyway, where does it say honest taxpayers have a duty to provide these so-called basic necessities to people nobody asked to come here anyway? Who provided
me
with 'basic necessities' when I didn't have a nickel to my name? Nobody, and that's how it's supposed to be. If you can't make a living in this country on your own, the way the rest of us did it, through hard work, competition, and free enterprise, then you damn well ought to go back where you came from."
"I've got to go along with you on that, Ben," Donovan chimed in.
Sara
But Cochrane saved his sharpest barbs for his victims' poorest-defended vulnerabilities, and in Sara's case that meant her work with foreigners and new immigrants. There was no talk of "Jews, Micks, and Eyetalians" tonight; instead the focus was on the economic harm these unnamed ethnic groups were perpetrating on "real Americans"—anyone born in the United States, presumably. Jobs were being lost, neighborhoods degraded; the very spirit that made this country great was being tainted by the corrupt influence of foreign blood. Because he was a forceful, bullish speaker and because he was powerful and filthy rich, people agreed with him. He managed to make ethnic hatred sound patriotic. Even Constance was nodding when he talked about the systematic destruction by "aliens" of everything that had once made lower Manhattan livable and attractive.
Sara somehow managed a taut, smiling civility through most of it. Alex's newly sharpened senses witnessed nuances of self-restraint that impressed and dismayed him, and churned up an absurd desire in him to rescue her. But even her rigid control faltered when Harry Donovan took up the complaint, seconding Ben and deriding the recommendations of something called the "Tenement House Committee Report."
"But surely," she remonstrated with disarming gentleness, "no one could quarrel with a study that finds tenement house living conditions in need of improvement."
"Maybe," Donovan conceded, "but this report goes way too far." He looked to Ben for approval, and got it in a series of deep nods. "You fix things up for these people, Mrs. Cochrane, they just wreck them again. Believe me, I've seen it happen over and over." He was a burly, fair-haired man with pink cheeks and pale eyes. His wife's brother owned a number of laundries, a
growing
number since Donovan had been elected alderman and—a coincidence, surely—his brother-in-law had become the recipient of so many city contracts for laundry service.
"But we're not talking about luxuries," Sara pursued, "we're talking about things such as light and air. I'm sure you don't oppose a recommendation that new tenements occupy no more than seventy percent of an interior lot. Or better fire safety measures for existing buildings, or more drinking fountains and public lavatories. Simple, basic human necessities—"
"You can't build a profitable building on less than seventy percent of a lot," her husband snapped. She started to disagree, but he talked over her. "Anyway, where does it say honest taxpayers have a duty to provide these so-called basic necessities to people nobody asked to come here anyway? Who provided
me
with 'basic necessities' when I didn't have a nickel to my name? Nobody, and that's how it's supposed to be. If you can't make a living in this country on your own, the way the rest of us did it, through hard work, competition, and free enterprise, then you damn well ought to go back where you came from."
"I've got to go along with you on that, Ben," Donovan chimed in.
Sara