Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

“What does that have to do with me, Norbert? You did a number on me.”

“Come on, man. A thousand dollars. We’ll take a trip to Baja, hang out on the beach. It’ll be great.”

Norbert’s voice had a wheedling, begging tone. It was irritating, but Nachman forgave him. Although he came from a wealthy family in Beverly Hills, Norbert needed money. He carried books around campus and even went to classes, but wasn’t a registered student because he couldn’t pay his fees. His father had cut him off when he’d gotten a small tattoo on the side of his neck. There had been a dreadful scene. Norbert’s father, an eminent doctor, considered tattoos low class. Norbert still lived at home in Beverly Hills and drove one of the family cars, a Mercedes convertible. He paid for gas with his mother’s credit card. But until the tattoo was removed he wouldn’t get a cent. For months he’d wandered around campus with his tattoo and no job. He didn’t want a job. He could survive in an original manner. He had business ideas.

“I don’t know anything about metaphysics,” said Nachman.

“What do you have to know? It’s all in a book. You read the book and copy out sentences and make up some bullshit. Finito. That’s a paper. Do me a favor, Nachman, look at a couple of books. Flip through the pages and you’ll know all you need.”

“I’ve been reading for hours.”

“That’s good, that’s good.”

“Norbert, have you ever read a book?”

“Ali told me you promised. He is very happy.”

“It’s not for the money, and not because I want to go to Baja and hang out on a beach.”

“I understand.”

“I’m doing it because I like Ali. He’s a nice guy.”

“I feel the same way about him.”

“After this, no more. I’ll do this one time.”

“You’re O.K., Nachman.”

“You’re an idiot, Norbert.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. But don’t get too sentimental about Ali and forget the money part. Ali is very rich, you know. I would write a paper for All every day, but I can’t write. You should see Ali’s girlfriend, by the way Georgia Sweeny. You ever go to football games? She’s a cheerleader. An incredible piece. I’d let her sit on my face, man.”

Nachman hung up.

Norbert was shockingly vulgar. Nachman felt resentful, unwilling to write the paper, but then he remembered the look in Ali’s eyes. It had nothing to do with the cheerleader or with being rich. Nachman’s resentment faded. He went back to the books and read through the night.

For the next three days, he did none of his own work. He read Henri Bergson.

At the end of the week, Ali phoned.

“How are you, Nachman?”

“O.K.”

“That’s wonderful news. Have you given some thought to the paper?”

“I’ve been reading.”

“What do you mean, reading?”

“I can’t just start to write. I’m in math. It’s not like philosophy. Math you do. Philosophy you speculate. Did you ever hear of Galois? He was a great mathematician. He fought a duel. The night before the duel, he went to his room and did math, because he might be killed in the duel and not have another chance.”

“Was he killed?”

“Yes.”

“What a pity. Well, I agree completely. You must read and speculate. But is it coming along?”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry if I sound worried. I am confident that you will write the paper. A good paper, too. Do you mind if I phone now and then?”

“Phone any time,” said Nachman.

He liked Ali’s voice — the way feelings came first and sense followed modestly, a slave. The voice was consistent with Ali’s looks. Nachman wanted to ask, jokingly, if he had a sister, but of course he couldn’t without embarrassing Ali and himself.

“Can I invite you to dinner?” Ali asked. “You can’t speculate all the time. It will give us a chance to talk.”

“Sure. Next week.”

Nachman went back to the reading.

Metaphysics was words. Nachman had nothing against words, but as a mathematician, he kept trying to read through the words to the concepts. After a while, he believed he understood a little. Bergson raised problems about indeterminate realities. He then offered solutions that seemed determinate. Mathematicians did that, too, but they worked with mathematical objects, not messy speculations and feelings about experience. But then — My God, Nachman thought — metaphysics was something like calculus. Bergson himself didn’t have much respect for mathematics. He thought it was a limited form of intelligence, a way of asserting sovereignty over the material world, but still, to Nachman’s mind, Bergson was a kind of mathematician. He worked with words instead of equations, and arrived at an impressionistic calculus. It was inexact — the opposite of mathematics — but Bergson was a terrific writer, and his writing was musical, not right, not wrong.

By Monday of the second week, Nachman had read enough. He would reread, and then start writing. He would show that Bergson’s calculus was built into the rhythm and flow of his sentences. Like music, it was full of proposals, approximations, resolutions — accumulating meaning, building into crescendos of truth.

Ali phoned.

Nachman said, “No, I haven’t started, but I know what I’m going to say. I love this stuff. I’m glad I read it. Bergson is going to change my life.”

“I’m glad to hear that. You are marvelous, Nachman. I think the writing will go quickly. Perhaps you will be finished by tomorrow, almost two weeks ahead of time. I never doubted that you would do it.”

Ali’s faith in Nachman was obviously phony. He was begging Nachman to start. Despite his assertions, Ali lacked confidence. More troubling was Ali’s indifference to Nachman’s enthusiasm. That he didn’t care about metaphysics was all right, but he also didn’t care that Nachman cared. Nachman’s feelings were slightly hurt.

“It’s only been a week, Ali. Tomorrow is too soon. I still have two weeks to write the paper. I could tell you what I’ll say. Do you want to hear?”

“I am eager to hear what you will say. So we must have dinner. The telephone is inappropriate. At dinner you can tell me, and I can ask questions. How about tonight? We will eat and talk.”

“I’m busy. I have my own classes to think about. My work.”

Surprised by his reproachful tone — was he objecting to a dinner invitation? — Nachman tried to undo its effect. “Tomorrow night, Ali. Would that be good for you?”

“Not only good, it will be a joy. I will pick you up. I have in mind dinner at Chez Monsieur. The one in Brentwood, of course, not Hollywood.”

“I never heard of Chez Monsieur in Brentwood or Hollywood. But no restaurant music. I can’t talk if I have to hear restaurant music.” Nachman sighed. He was being a critical beast. Couldn’t he speak in a neutral way? “Oh, you decide, Ali. If you like restaurant music, I’ll live with it.”

“I’ll tell the maitre d’there must be no music. Also no people at tables near ours.”

“Do you own the place?”

“Tomorrow night I will own the place. Have no fear. We will be able to converse. When I make the reservation, I will also discuss our meal with the maitre d’, so we will not have to talk to a waiter. What would you like, Nachman? I can recommend certain soups, and either fowl or fish. Chez Monsieur has never disappointed me in these categories. I don’t want to risk ordering meat dishes. I’ve heard them praised many times by my relatives, but personally, I’d rather not experiment.”

“Ali, please order anything you like.”

“But this is for you, not me. I want you to enjoy the meal.”

Ali’s solicitousness made Nachman uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to being treated with such concern for his pleasure. “I’ll trust your judgment.”