Бернард Маламуд - The Natural

The Judge blew at the ash of his cigar.

Roy grew restless. “I figure forty-five thousand is a fair price for my work. That’s only ten grand more than Bump was getting — and you can subtract off the three thousand in my contract now.” This last was an afterthought and he had decided to leave out the percentage of the gate till next year.

The Judge rumbled, Roy couldn’t tell if it was in his throat or belly.

“I was thinking of Olaf Jespersen.” The Judge’s eyes took on a faraway, slightly glazed look. “He was a farmer I knew in my youth — terrible life. Yet as farmers often do, he managed to live comfortably because he owned a plot of ground with a house on it and had come into possession of an extraordinary cow, Sieglinde. She was a splendid animal with soft and silky front and well-shaped hooves. Her milk yield was some nine gallons per diem, altogether exceptional. In a word she was a superior creature and had the nicest ways with children — her Own of course; but Olaf was deeply disturbed by an ugly skin discoloration that ran across her rump. For a long while he had been eyeing Gussie, an albino cow of his neighbor down the road. One day he approached the man and asked if Gussie was for sale. The neighbor said yes, frankly admitting she gave very little milk although she consumed more than her share of fodder. Olaf said he was willing to trade Sieglinde for her and the neighbor readily agreed. Olaf went back for the cow but on the way to the neighbor’s she stepped into a rut in the road and keeled over as if struck dead. Olaf suffered a heart attack. Thus they were found but Sieglinde recovered and became, before very long, her splendid nine-gallon self, whereas Olaf was incapacitated for the remainder of his days. I often drove past his place and saw him sitting on the moldy front porch, a doddering cripple starving to death with his tubercular albino cow.”

Roy worked the fable around in his mind and got the point. It was not an impressive argument: be satisfied with what you have, and he said so to the Judge.

“‘The love of money is the root of all evil,’” intoned the Judge.

“I do not love it, Judge. I have not been near enough to it to build up any affection to speak of.”

“Think, on the one hand, of the almost indigent Abraham Lincoln, and on the other of Judas Iscariot. What I am saying is that emphasis upon money will pervert your values. One cannot begin to imagine how one’s life may alter for the worse under the impetus of wealth-seeking.”

Roy saw how the land lay. “I will drop it to thirty-five thousand, the same as Bump, but not a cent less.”

The Judge struck a match, throwing shadows on the wall. It was now night. He sucked a flame into his cigar. It went in like a slug, out like a moth — in and outs then forever in and the match was out. The cigar glowed, the Judge blew out a black fog of smoke, then they were once more in the dark.

Lights on, you stingy bastard, Roy thought.

“Pardon the absence of light,” the Judge said, almost making him jump. “As a youngster I was frightened of the dark — used to wake up sobbing in it, as if it were water and I were drowning — but you will observe that I have disciplined myself so thoroughly against that fear, that I much prefer a dark to a lit room, and water is my favorite beverage. Will you have some?”

“No.”

“There is in the darkness a unity, if you will, that cannot be achieved in any other environment, a blending of self with what the self perceives, an exquisite mystical experience. I intend some day to write a disquisition ‘On the Harmony of Darkness; Can Evil Exist in Harmony?’ It may profit you to ponder the question.”

“All I know about the dark is that you can’t see in it.”

“A pure canard. You know you can.”

“Not good enough.”

“You see me, don’t you?”

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see somebody but I am not sure if it is you or a guy who sneaked in and took your chair.”

The cigar glowed just enough to light up the Judge’s rubbery lips. It was him all right.

“Twenty-five thousand,” Roy said in a low voice. “Ten less than Bump.”

The cigar lit for a long pull then went out. Its smell was giving Roy a headache. The Judge was silent so long Roy wasn’t sure he would ever hear from him again. He wasn’t even sure he was there anymore but then he thought yes he is, I can smell him. He is here in the dark and if I come back tomorrow he will still be here and also the year after that.

“‘He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent,’” spoke the Judge.

“Judge,” said Roy, “I am thirty-four, going on thirty-five. That’s not haste, that’s downright slow.”

“I hear that you bet money on horse races?”

“In moderation, not more than a deuce on the daily double.”

“Avoid gambling like a plague. It will cause your downfall. And stay away from loose ladies. ‘Put a knife to thy throat if thou be a man given to appetite.’”

Roy could hear him open a drawer and take something out. Handing it to him, he lit a match over it and Roy read: “The Curse of Venereal Disease.”

He tossed the pamphlet on the desk.

“Yes or no?” he said.

“Yes or no what?” The Judge’s voice was edged with anger.

“Fifteen thousand.”

The Judge rose. “I shall have to ask you to fulfill the obligations of your contract.”

Roy got up. “I wouldn’t exactly say you were building up my good will for next year.”

“I have learned to let the future take care of itself.”

The Judge took some other papers out of the drawer. “I presume these are your signatures?” He scratched up another match.

“That’s right.”

“The first acknowledging the receipt of two uniforms and sundry articles?”

“Right.”

“And the second indicating the receipt of a third uniform?”

“That’s what it says.”

“You were entitled to only two. I understand that some of the other clubs issue four, but that is an extravagance. Here, therefore, is a bill to the amount of fifty-one dollars for property destroyed. Will you remit or shall I deduct the sum from your next check?”

“I didn’t destroy them, Bump did.”

“They were your responsibility.”

Roy picked up the receipts and bill and tore them to pieces. He did the same with the VD pamphlet, then blew the whole business over the Judge’s head. The scraps of paper fluttered down like snow on his round hat.

“The interview is ended,” snapped the Judge. He scratched up a match and with it led Roy to the stairs. He stood on the landing, his oily shadow dripping down the steps as Roy descended.

“Mr. Hobbs.”

Roy stopped.

“Resist all evil —”

The match sputtered and went out. Roy went the rest of the way down in the pitch black.

“How’d you make out, kid?”

It was Max Mercy lurking under a foggy street lamp at the corner. He had tailed Roy from the dressing room and had spent a frustrated hour thinking I know the guy but who is he? It was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t spit it out. He saw the face as he thought he had seen it before somewhere, but what team, where, in what league, and doing what that caused him to be remembered? The mystery was like an itch. The more he scratched the more he drew his own blood. At times the situation infuriated him. Once he dreamed he had the big s.o.b. by the throat and was forcing him to talk. Then he told the world Mercy knew.

The sight of the columnist did not calm Roy as he came out of the tower. Why does he haunt me? He thought he knew what Max sensed and he knew that he didn’t want him to know. I don’t want his dirty eyes peeking into my past. What luck for me that I had Sam’s wallet in my pocket that night, and they wrote down his name. This creep will never find that out, or anything else about me unless I tell him, and the only time I’ll do that is when I am dead.