Rafael Yglesias - The Work Is Innocent

The baby wailed from the other room. Naomi glanced in its direction fiercely. “I’ll handle it,” John said. He moved past her, but she stopped him by taking his arm. “No,” she said, and Richard was amazed by the tones she put in the word: anger, frustration, apology, and love. Richard’s niece upset him with desperate, choking cries. Naomi stood still, her eyes blank and staring. She scratched an eyebrow thoughtfully until she seemed calmer and then went inside.

John picked up the graph paper on the table in front of him and went into the kitchen. Richard followed him. John said, “What was that about?”

Richard said, “I don’t know,” but he felt that dulled depression which followed certain kinds of arguments with his family. Naomi loathed the cynicism of literary people and believed real artists were strong, honest persons who had to forsake the ease and decadence of middle-class New York life, who should purge themselves by living among poor and working-class Americans.

She had left home at eighteen when Richard was only seven years old, and he remembered the fearful bulletins his mother had received: she was hitchhiking across the country, working as a waitress in greasy spoons; she was in Mississippi with the civil rights movement when the three whites were murdered and redneck night patrols taking potshots were common.

He envied her courage; he was stunned she could give up a comfortable bed, much less risk her life. And he had no contempt for her still maintaining those principles now that she was married and had a child, living in a house on one hundred acres of beautiful land.

But he had kept guiltily guarded his amendment to her views: he believed goodness in people was achieved by such sacrifice, but he knew that literary genius required only egotism and talent. In life great writers were fools or scoundrels.

John followed the evening routine. He cleared the table for his designs, sharpened the pencils, and poured himself a glass of wine. He had managed to develop an excellent reputation as a designer and builder, though he had had no formal architectural training. Richard wondered at the meticulous drawings, never able to picture the structures they represented. He watched John’s reflection in the old lead-glass windows: John’s full black beard and his plump English face were ghostly against the shimmery background.

When Richard poured himself a glass of wine, John looked up with a smile. “I thought you weren’t going to drink any more.”

“Well, I’m leaving. You know, celebration. Why? You don’t want me to?”

“Oh no. I’m glad. I like to have company.” He leaned back and scratched the sides of his beard. “How’s the book going?”

“Fine. I’m almost at the end of that day.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you. That was good having them feel sleepy. It reminds you that it’s all been one day.” He sipped his wine and looked at Richard appraisingly. “How come you thought of doing it that way?”

“Because of The Idiot. Dostoevsky’s novel. The first two hundred pages of it are one day. In a conventional narrative. ’Cause avant-garde people do like ten minutes for a thousand pages. Anyway, his thing was fantastic so I thought I’d make the first half just action when life is exhilarating for the main character.”

John grunted and nodded. Richard knew that reserve was typical of John, but he always feared that he had made a fool of himself when it occurred.

Richard tried to drink the sour wine without losing his sense and talking wildly. John remained calm no matter how much he drank, at worst becoming sluggish, but never hysterical or incoherent. He worked patiently, even smoking his cigarettes with deliberate smooth motions.

“What do you think are its chances of being published?” John asked without warning, hunched over his work. Richard knew that he would look up in a moment, his eyes evaluating without malice.

“Well, since it will have nothing to do with quality the only question is whether or not it will seem commercial to them.” John nodded and Richard smiled at him. “So? It’s written by a fifteen-year-old about a kid who drops out and smokes dope, right? Only thing I’m missing is sex.” John opened his mouth in a silent laugh, a cloud of cigarette smoke escaping with it. “In life and in the novel. But I really don’t know what its chances are. It’s supposed to be impossible to publish a first novel.”

“You’re not really worrying about it?”

“How can I?”

“No. You shouldn’t. It would probably just be confusing to think about. You know?” John looked into his eyes. “I really think it’s good.”

“Yeah?”

John sipped his wine and returned it to the table. “Yeah.” Richard knew this was high praise and he was pleased.

Naomi came in with Nana in her arms. Richard’s niece looked at him with puffed, drugged eyes and gladly gave herself up to John’s embrace. Naomi held herself stiffly and stared at Richard. “Do you know what I meant?” she asked, as if there had been no interval.

The men laughed. “When is it, uh, going to get to the boot- throwing exhibition?” John asked.

“Come on, John,” Naomi said, sounding dangerous.

“It wasn’t a boot,” Richard said. “It was an ashtray that she threw at me.”

“I was down in the cellar and it sounded as if it was more than one thing.”

“Yeah, I threw Cousine Bette at her. A literary argument.”

“You don’t understand the relationship Richard and I have, John.” Naomi had relaxed but she was still serious. “We were always the fighters in the family. Right?”

“Yeah,” Richard agreed. “You think that’s good?”

“Oh yeah! Sure. It’s just because we’re being honest with each other.”

“Okay. So then what was your question?”

John got up, stroking Nana’s arm. He said, “I’d better get out of the way of the honesty.” He walked out slowly while Richard giggled.

“I don’t want to fight,” Naomi said.

“Neither do I.”

She looked at him earnestly. “I just meant—you know—I wanted you not to get into thinking you can’t survive unless you go to school.”

“I want to drop out. How can you say that to me?”

“Wait! Or —I don’t know. I mean you can work, you know? You don’t have to be pampered.”

“I agree with you.”

“Are you sure? What if Mom and Dad—well, what if your novel doesn’t get published? You know you can’t expect it to. You plan to get some shitty, shitty job like you’ll have to get?”

“Yeah. I’ll have to.”

“You think you could do that?”

“Why couldn’t I?”

“I think you can. But you’ve never done it before.”

“I’ve never written a novel before.”

“Come on! There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, there’s a difference in how much I enjoy it. But writing isn’t easier than doing work. I think one can assume if I’m capable of writing, then I’m capable of working.”

“That’s a myth!” Naomi was on her feet suddenly, enraged. “It’s bullshit that writing is more difficult than work.”

“I didn’t say that! I didn’t say it was more difficult. I was saying they were equal.”

She looked at him, puzzled for a moment. “Okay,” she said, her anger gone. “But that’s the myth everyone believes. That some bullshit intellectual is doing something more important or difficult than a carpenter. Aaron”—her voice rose, Richard knowing what was to follow on hearing his father’s name—“will talk about an intellectual he doesn’t even admire as if he’s doing something more important than working people. Unless they have what he calls ideas, they’re not a human being. That’s so sickening.”