Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

Nachman assumed that Norbert was joking, but the prince wasn’t smiling. With modest restraint, the prince said, “Norbert thinks of me as an exotic fellow. He tells people I am from Persia or Jordan or Bahrain. I’ve lived mainly in Switzerland. I went to school in Zurich, where there were a dozen princes among my classmates. I have noble relations, but in America I am like everyone else. My name is Ali. How do you do, Nachman? It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Nachman said, “Oh?”

The little word “Oh” seemed embarrassing to Nachman. What did he mean by “Oh”? He then said, “How do you do? I’m Nachman from Los Angeles.”

Norbert said, “What is this, the UN? Switzerland, Persia, Jordan — who cares? Ali’s problem is about a term paper. He’ll explain it to you.”

Norbert walked away, abandoning Nachman and Ali. Nachman grinned at Ali and shrugged, a gesture both sheepish and ingratiating. “I don’t always know when Norbert is joking. I thought I was meeting him for coffee. He didn’t mention anything else.”

“I understand. Norbert was indiscreet. He is like a person at a seance who speaks beyond himself. He has no idea how these things are done.”

What things? Nachman wondered.

Ali smiled in a knowing manner, and yet he seemed uncertain. The smile flashed and, before it was fully formed, vanished. “Norbert is in my city-planning class, and we talk about this and that. The other day, I mentioned my problem, you see, and Norbert said that he had a friend who could write papers. He insisted that I meet his friend. So here I am — you know what I mean? — and here you are. I want to ask you to write a paper, you see.”

“I see.”

“I cannot write well, and I have done badly in one class, which is called Metaphysics. I should never have taken this class. I imagined it had to do with mysticism. Please don’t laugh.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“It happens that this class has nothing to do with mysticism, only with great thinkers in metaphysics. I am not interested in metaphysics, you see.”

Ali nodded his beautiful head as though he were saying yes, yes, making a gentle obbligato to his soft voice, and his hands made small gestures, waving about and chasing each other in circles. It was distracting. Nachman wanted to say, “Stop doing that. Talk with your mouth.” Only Ali’s eyes remained still, holding Nachman’s eyes persistently, intimately, in their darkness.

“But I don’t write well about anything, not even about mysticism, you see, and I have no desire to try to write about metaphysics.”

“Why don’t you drop the class?”

“Good question. I should drop the class, but it’s now too late, you see. I was hoping the professor would eventually talk about mysticism. There are people, you know, who talk and talk and never come to the point. The professor is a decent man and he is doing his best, but if I fail I won’t graduate. This would ruin my plans. Your friend Norbert said that you would be sympathetic. He said that you could write about metaphysics.”

“I don’t know anything about metaphysics. I don’t even know what it is. I’m a student in mathematics.”

“Norbert said you could write about anything. He was sincere.”

Ali sounded as if he were sliding backward down a hill he had just struggled to climb. Nachman felt sympathy. Ali had persuasive force, because of his looks, but also because he seemed to engage Nachman personally, irresistibly. It wasn’t strictly correct to write a paper for someone else, but Nachman already knew that he was willing to help.

“I’m sure Norbert was sincere,” Nachman said. “Norbert wants to start a paper-writing business. Did he tell you that?”

“No. But I applaud this idea. Many students need papers. You will be partners with Norbert?”

“I never said that, but you have to let a friend talk. Talking is Norbert’s way of life. He is always broke, but he doesn’t think about getting a job. He schemes day and night. And he dollars me. You know the expression? ‘Nachman, lend me a dollar.’ He never pays me back. He had the idea about the paper-writing business. I don’t need the money. I have a scholarship that covers books and living expenses.”

“Even so, you must go into business with Norbert. Because of your friendship. Norbert loves you, and he had a splendid idea. Norbert brings you poor students like me, and you write the papers. He gets a percentage, and soon he will owe you nothing. Will you do it? A thousand dollars.”

“It’s not a question of money. If I write a paper, it will be a good paper.”

“So you will help me?”

“What was the assignment? Let me think about it.”

“I need a paper on the metaphysics of Henri Bergson. About twenty pages. It’s due in three weeks.”

“Bergson writes about memory, doesn’t he?”

“See, Nachman, you already know what to write. If a thousand dollars isn’t enough, I’ll pay more. Will you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know if you will do it? Or if a thousand isn’t enough?”

“One, I don’t know. Two, I also don’t know. The money is Norbert’s department. Talk to him about the money.”

“So we have a deal?”

With a fantastic white smile in his dark face, Ali put forth his hand. Reflexively, Nachman accepted it. A line had been crossed. Nachman hadn’t noticed when he crossed it. Maybe Ali had moved the line so that, to Nachman’s surprise, it now lay behind rather than in front of him. Ali’s expression was deeply studious, as if he were reading Nachman’s heart and finding reciprocity there, a flow of sympathy equivalent to Ali’s need. For Nachman the reciprocity was too rich in feeling and too poor in common sense. He felt set up, manipulated. But he’d shaken hands.

“I’ll phone you,” Ali said. He nodded goodbye. Nachman nodded, too, and walked into the library, went to the card catalogue, and pulled out a drawer. He found cards with the name Henri Bergson printed on them, and he copied the titles of several books onto call slips. Half an hour later, Nachman left the library and went to his car, a blue-and-cream-colored Chevy Bel Air.

Nachman’s apartment was in the basement of a house in the Hollywood Hills, near Highland Avenue. It had a bedroom and living room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom, and low ceilings. It was cramped, but not unpleasant. The windows, approximately at ground level, looked down a steep hillside to a narrow winding street. Nachman could see ice plants, cacti, rosebushes, and pine trees.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Nachman picked up a book by Henri Bergson. According to the jacket, Bergson had won a Nobel Prize in Literature and had influenced the intellectual and spiritual life of the modern age. He’d intended to convert to Catholicism, but when the Nazis invaded France and began rounding up Jews, Bergson elected to remain what he was, a Jew. His story was heartbreaking, but seemed irrelevant to Nachman from Los Angeles. To Nachman, all religious institutions were frightening. Read the books, Nachman thought, just read the books.

That evening when the phone rang, Nachman picked it up and shouted, “Norbert, are you out of your mind?”

“A thousand dollars, Nachman.”

“Ali wants me to write a paper about Henri Bergson.”

“Who is Henri Bergson?”

“You wouldn’t be interested and I don’t want to talk about him. If you think writing a paper is easy, you do it.”

“Nachman, I once tried to keep a diary. What could be easier? Little girls keep diaries. Every night I opened my diary and I wrote ‘Dear Diary.’ The next thing I wrote was ‘Good night.’ Nothing comes to me. I’m a talker. Believe me, Nachman, I can talk with the best, but I can’t write.”