Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

She said, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Are you Nachman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“He sent you?”

“Can I come in?”

Nachman stepped back. She walked in, glanced around the apartment, and said, “This isn’t bad. I mean, for a basement apartment. The light is nice. It could be real dark in here, but it isn’t.”

“Have a seat,” said Nachman.

She sat on Nachman’s sofa, her purse in her lap, her posture rather prim. She smiled pleasantly at Nachman and said, “Ali doesn’t know what he did or said to offend you. But he is sorry. He hopes you’ll forgive him.”

“He is sorry?”

“Yes, he is sorry. He wants the paper.”

“The paper didn’t arrive?”

“Is this happening, Nachman?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you think? What am I doing in your apartment? Isn’t this crazy?”

She laughed. Her expression became at once pathetic and self-mocking. “Two men who, as far as I can tell, aren’t brain damaged can’t talk to each other plainly. And I’m late for cheerleading practice.”

“Go, then,” Nachman said.

“Don’t you think you owe Ali something? He took you to dinner. He intends to pay you a thousand bucks for the paper.”

“It’s in the mail.”

“Nachman, come on, be nice. Ali has an embassy job. We can’t leave the country until he graduates. The paper is his passport. Won’t you give it to me?”

“It’s in the mail.”

“Even a rough draft would do.”

“Let’s go to the post office.”

“Oh, please, Ali went yesterday. I’ve been there twice today. Look, I brought a tape recorder.” She took it from her purse and held it up. “See this little machine? You talk to it. Tonight I’ll type up what you said.”

Sweeny was trying to seem amusing, but her voice was importunate and rather teary, and then she bent forward, her face in her hands. “I’m not good at this,” she said. “It happens all the time. We go for a drive and Ali gets lost, so he pulls over at a street corner and tells me to ask some guys for directions. Man, we’re in the barrio. I don’t want to ask those guys anything. He says, ‘You’re a blond girl. They will tell you whatever you want to know.’”

Nachman wanted to embrace her and say, “There, there,” but worried that she would misinterpret the gesture.

She said, “I’m in the middle of this, Nachman. I don’t even know what’s going on. Ali is being mean to me. All I know is, it’s your fault. Do you hate Ali? He’s suffered so much in his life.”

“Suffered? Ali is a prince, isn’t he?”

“Ali descends from the Qajar dynasty. It was deposed in 1924 by the shah’s father, Reza Shah. Ali’s father owned villages, and beautiful gardens around Teheran. So much was taken away. They’re still multimillionaires, but they have sad memories. Can you imagine how much they lost? It’s really sad. Don’t laugh. How can Ali think about schoolwork? You’re laughing, Nachman. Please give me the paper. I’m really late for cheerleading practice. ”

“I’m sorry.”

Sweeny was on her feet. She said, “I guess I should go,” and gave her head a small defeated shake. “Ali tells me you’re a smart guy, but I don’t believe you understand the simplest thing.”

Nachman said, “Practice can wait. I’ll tell you about the paper.”

Sweeny pursed her lips and frowned. “All right.”

“Let’s start with the idea of time. Tick tock, tick tock. That’s how we measure time. With a clock. Do you follow me?”

“Yes.”

“Each tick is separate from each tock. Each is a distinct and static unit. Each tock and tick is a particle that does not endure. It is replaced by another particle. Like cards shuffled in a deck. Do you see?”

“This is intense.” She grinned. Her mood changed radically. She was playing the moron for him. Nachman felt charmed, beginning to adore her a little bit.

“Each particle occupies the space occupied by the previous particle, or card or tick or tock. Do you follow me?”

“Like ‘Hickory dickory dock.’”

“But the point is that ‘tick tock’ is an abstraction. A spatial idea about measuring time. It’s nothing at all like the real experience of time. Real experience is fluid, as in a melody — la, la, la. Real human experience is different from an idea of experience. When you make love, time doesn’t exist, isn’t that true?”

Her mouth dropped open with mock amazement, and Nachman smiled and wondered about what could never happen between them.

“Making love is an example. I just thought of it. The nursery rhyme ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ is funny. It’s mechanical. Love isn’t funny. Love is an example of what’s real.”

“I’ll just turn on the tape recorder.”

“Sit down.”

Sweeny sat.

Nachman was startled. He hadn’t intended to order her to sit. But he had, and she had obeyed. There she was, a pretty blond Sweeny sitting on his sofa. Nachman felt a surge of gratification. Also power. He blushed and turned away so that she wouldn’t see her effect on him.

She continued to sit and watch Nachman, entirely natural except for the tape recorder which lay in her lap, waiting upon his next words.

“As I was saying,” Nachman said, now addressing the ceiling, “we measure time by dividing it into tick tock, and this has nothing to do with … Look, if you can measure a thing, then you are talking about something that can change. Anything that can change is subject to death. The opposite of death is not life, it’s love. How can I talk to you about Bergson? This won’t do, Sweeny.”

“Why can’t you talk to me?”

“No damn tape recorder.”

Nachman’s voice had become hoarse. He felt a warmth in his chest and face, as if something had blossomed within because of this girl with her naked thighs and short yellow skirt. What he felt was the most common thing in the world, but Nachman didn’t think it was uninteresting. He was inclined to do something. What? He could sit down beside her. The rest would take care of itself.

“Why not?”

Nachman was jarred. The question returned him to himself. He didn’t sit down beside her.

“Why not?” Nachman sighed. “I don’t know why not. I suppose it’s because I want you to understand me. I mean, I want you to get it. This is all about intuition, which is about real experience, where everything begins. You simply have to get it. I don’t know what I mean. Maybe I don’t mean anything.” Raising his voice, Nachman said, “Please put the tape recorder away.”

Sweeny stood up, aghast, the tape recorder in her hand. She whispered, “Do you have something to say or not?”

Nachman shouldn’t have said “please.” He should have ordered Sweeny to put the tape recorder away. He’d been cowardly, unsure of his power. Now he had no power. He reached for the tape recorder and drew it slowly from her hand. She let it go. In the gesture of release, Nachman felt their connection falter. Sweeny’s eyes enlarged as if to make a sky, a vastness wherein Nachman felt minuscule. He was a dot of being that subsisted within her blue light. A dot; no Nachman at all beyond what Sweeny perceived. He’d never been looked at that way by a woman. His knees trembled. He couldn’t think. She said, “I don’t believe you are interested in talking to me,” and started toward the door.

Nachman called, “Wait!”

Sweeny stopped and looked back at him. He held the tape recorder toward her. She took it and said, “Ali ought to have his head examined.” An instant later, she was gone.

Nachman sat at his small kitchen table and looked out the window. He rarely had visitors in his apartment, and yet he had never felt so alone. As the light failed, the trees became darker. Soon they were black shapes against the pink-green glow of sunset. Just before twilight became full night, a ghostly-looking dog appeared, sniffing about amid the ice plants. It sensed Nachman’s eyes and lifted its head and faced him. Nachman realized that it was a coyote, not a dog. His heart beat with excitement, and his eyesight sharpened. He could see a glistening patina of moonlight on the coyote’s nose. Nachman’s neck muscles stiffened as he met the coyote’s stare.