Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

Nachman hadn’t told Norbert what he’d seen on Fairfax Avenue, and he’d met Adele for lunch, thereby making himself complicitous. Nachman had agonized over those things, but to know what you’re doing is not the same as fully appreciating the terribleness of it. Nachman pressed the receiver hard against his ear. He’d never felt worse. If punishment were available to people the moment they deserved it, Nachman would have been punished days before. He could then show Norbert the receipt. Nachman suddenly realized that every move a person made was to one degree or another criminal, and that there was a great shortage of punishment. These thoughts occurred in the instant before Norbert said, “Would you like to go for a drive? I bought a new car.”

Norbert hadn’t denounced him, thank God, but Nachman didn’t look forward to the drive. Who knows what might be said? Who knows what lies Nachman might be obliged to tell? Nachman put down the receiver. He had been holding it in a sweaty clutch. His heart was beating quickly and heavily.

Fifteen minutes later, Norbert came by in his new car. It had a big engine and a dashboard like the flight panel of an airliner. Nachman had no idea what company made the car, and he wasn’t curious. If the car nourished Norbert’s spirit with fantasies of power, that was good.

“I like your new car,” said Nachman. “Really great. Beautiful.”

“Umm,” said Norbert, as if distracted.

Norbert drove out of the city along the San Diego Freeway. When a stretch of open road appeared, he stepped hard on the gas pedal. Nachman’s spine pressed against the seat.

“Too fast, don’t you think?” said Nachman.

“Are you serious?” There was contempt in Norbert’s question. He continued, “I do a hundred and fifty in the desert.”

Nachman glanced at the speedometer, saw that it read ninety-five, and then glanced at Norbert. What was he thinking? Norbert sat rigidly, staring down the road as if hypnotized by a point far off in the darkness. He was driving toward that point at greater and greater speed. But he was getting no closer, because the point existed only within Norbert, and they would probably be dead before he reached it. Minutes passed with only the drone of the big engine. The road rushed toward them and was swept under the devouring hood. Nachman watched cars and trucks far ahead loom suddenly and vanish in a blur and whoosh. Lights of oncoming traffic slashed by, going the other way. Slower lights of houses in the distance, along either side of the highway, moved like ships at sea. Norbert was driving well over a hundred miles per hour, speeding deeper into the night. Nachman was terrified, but trying to be a good friend, he said nothing to ruin Norbert’s mood. Norbert needed to drive fast, needed to terrify Nachman. If Nachman demanded to be let out, Norbert would doubtless slow down and apologize. Maybe he was waiting for Nachman to lose his composure. Nachman forced himself to abide silently in terror. He deserved it; he accepted it. Part of him imagined that he wanted it.

Norbert seemed abruptly to soften, to relent. He continued to stare straight ahead and was no less self-absorbed, but he slowed the car, then left the highway and returned to it in the direction of Santa Monica.

“Let’s have a drink,” he said.

With no enthusiasm, Nachman said, “Do you know a place?”

“I know a place.”

Norbert drove into Venice, and then to a bar in the middle of a long, poorly lighted street. It was a dark room with low ceilings and sawdust on the floor. Surfer types were shooting pool in the rear. Their girlfriends, scrawny blond kids who looked much alike, sat on a bench against a wall and smoked. Men in motorcycle leather were drinking beer at one end of the bar. Nachman would never have come to this place alone. But Norbert had a thick neck and broad shoulders. He was also fearless. He descended from Russian peasants. Shrewd, strong, dark, stocky, he had never once been sick, and never had a toothache. He’d played rugby in college, a game where men hurtle against one another, as in American football, but with no girlish helmets or shoulder pads. The atmosphere of the bar, like driving fast at night, suited Norbert’s mood. Nachman didn’t want to stay, but felt he owed his friend company the way convicts owe a debt to society. Norbert said, “I want a vodka martini. You, too?”

Nachman nodded yes, though he would have preferred a Coke. The bartender sneered, “Vodka martini?” as if Norbert had asked him to dance naked on a table. Norbert stared with no expression and said nothing, waiting for the bartender’s next remark. There was none. The bartender made the drinks. Norbert carried them to a booth.

“Here’s to life,” he said, his tone sour.

“Are you troubled about something?” Nachman blurted out the question.

“That’s how I seem to you?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not my problem.”

“Whose, then?”

“A guy in my department. You wouldn’t understand.”

“So it’s an academic problem?”

“The most academic problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard of Plato? The ancient Greeks talked about this problem in their philosophy departments. It’s about epistemology and fucking.”

“Come on, Norbert, spare me the lecture. What about this guy in your department?”

Norbert shook his head, evidently overwhelmed by the prospect of telling Nachman about the guy. Muscles began working in Norbert’s jaw, as if balls of feeling were being chewed. He had too much to say.

Nachman urged gently, “Tell me. What is the guy’s problem?”

“I already told you too much. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You said almost nothing.”

“All right, a student came on to him. That’s the problem. O.K.?”

“Could you say a little more?”

“Forgive me for saying this, but you live a small life. Somebody gives you a pencil and a piece of paper and you are a happy Nachman. Like a kid on a beach. Give him a pail and he is king of the sand, ten billion tons of sand. You follow? The sand is like life, but all you need is a pail.”

“Is this about me?”

“Of course not.”

“But you sound angry. Are you angry?” Nachman asked, risking the worst possible. He couldn’t go on with so much bad feeling suppressed.

“I’m angry at the guy with the problem. What a jerk. Imagine you are in your office, and a beautiful girl in a miniskirt is standing two inches from your nose. She is looking into your eyes and she smells good.”

“Why is she standing two inches from your nose?”

“It isn’t because she is nearsighted. She has no idea that anything she does has consequences. She is a girl.”

“All right, go on.”

“This girl is asking for advice about her major. Naturally, given such a provocative question, blood begins bulging in your manly part.”

“So what did this guy do?”

“He told her to get the hell out of his office and phone in her question.”

“I’m beginning to see the picture.”

“You disapprove? This is a story about nature. To you, maybe, nature is a foreign language.”

“Finish the story. What happened with the girl?”

“This guy kissed her and he put his hand between her legs.”

“Just like that? What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Ohhhhhh.’”

“I see the picture.”

“The guy can’t eat. Can’t sleep. He is crazy with jealousy because she sleeps with other guys. Look, it’s late. Do you want to get out of this dump and go home? You must want to go home. Say the word. Whatever you want.”

“If it helps you to talk, Norbert, I’ll listen all night. But there is something I must tell you.”

“You needn’t bother. I know you feel compromised. Adele told me about the mustache. She told me everything. It’s not your fault that you saw her on Fairfax Avenue.”