Colson Whitehead - The Intuitionist

He no longer speaks like a colored man from the South. Like Natchez. Nor is his face the same as it was, in this fluorescent light, in this circulated air. The leather is sure in her hands. She traces the zipper’s serrations with a fingertip. “How’d you find out about Fulton?” she asks.

“A few years ago when we realized his later stuff was missing, we just did the legwork no one had had a reason to do before. Found out where he came from. His sister had just died. She didn’t have any heirs, so we just bought her estate. Using the term loosely, of course.”

“No one cares where he came from.”

“Not particularly. Colored people think two of our presidents were colored. We make noises about it, but nothing ever comes of it. The rank and file in the industry won’t believe, and those who know care more about his last inventions. His color doesn’t matter once it gets to that level. The level of commerce. They can put Fulton into one of those colored history calendars if they want — it doesn’t change the fact that there’s money to be made from his invention.”

“You certainly earn your pay.” The gold lettering outside his door read, RAYMOND COOMBS SPECIAL PROJECTS.

“I try. If I were really that good, my sabotage at the Follies would have kept you in Intuitionist House. Make you feel safe because I could protect you, where we could keep tabs on you and keep you away from Chancre. I was trying to square things — but you got your own ideas. Independent Lila Mae.” He stops to consider Lila Mae’s satchel. She sees it dawn on him that she might have a gun in there. “Can I ask you something?” he says, wheeling himself back in his chair to be free of the table. “For future reference on my Natchez disguise.”

“Shoot.”

“What made you go to Lift? Did you think the dumb country boy would mess it up, or did you just want to give your new beau a present?”

“I just wanted to help.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

Just one or two matters left to clear up. The elevator inspector wants to know for sure, even though Lila Mae understands all she needs now. The elevator inspector inquires of the man from Arbo, “What are you going to do about the election tomorrow? You seem to be in a stalemate at this point.”

Coombs watches Lila Mae rub the edge of the satchel; his eyes dart to the doorway behind her and he considers angles, distances. He says, “Chancre’s holding a press conference from his hospital bed tonight. I’m sure he’ll address the Fulton rumors — everyone knows about the black box at this point. But we’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of it.” He braces himself slowly, takes stock of his desk and what implements might come to his aid. “And you, Lila Mae, what are you going to take care of?”

“I have something for you,” she says. She drops it on his desk.

“What’s this?”

“It’s Fulton’s notebook. It’s what you’ve been looking for.”

“Why?”

“I just wanted to help,” she says.

On her way to the elevator, she considers for a moment breaking the glass protecting the small Arbo Excelsior. Carrying it under her arm and setting it down in the stone menagerie outside the building. Freeing it to take its chances in the new city it was never designed for. Into the wild. But it would never survive out there. She kisses the glass instead and walks on.

* * *

What floor?

* * *

How could he have expected them to be ready for it? They can barely make sense of the cities they have now. The ones Otis gave them. They bump into each other going through doors and execute ridiculous pratfalls. He wants to be there now, in the places they will build when they have the perfect elevator. He won’t be there. He knew that as soon as he started to believe in it. He had never allowed himself to believe out of fear. So of course when he started to believe, it was too late. He could only describe what he thought it would look like and give them the means.

It cost him three dollars to get his shoes resoled. He remembers that. Some might find it funny that he’s the one to give it to them. After all they put him through. But he didn’t have a choice, did he? Once he started. He started with a different idea but then the idea got to him and it made him do it differently than how he started. It got under his skin, one might say. Now he’s almost finished, if his body will let him finish. Where was he? Something about the thinner air up there and how to deal with it. He notices he’s written three dollars in the margin of his notebook. He’s always writing things in the margin.

Now that it’s getting warmer outside it is not so cold at night in the library they named after him. Some time ago he stopped wearing anything except his night robe. No one says anything because they consider him a great man and allow him his eccentricities.

He’s thought it through as far as he can see. It will be up to someone else to execute the plan. Maybe the wrong person will come. They’ll think the time is right when the time is actually not right, and that would be terrible. Or they might wait too long. Well, he truly can’t see what evil will come if they wait too long but he would definitely prefer it if whoever comes for it has a good sense of timing. Whoever that is. It might even be one of the students out there on the campus right now, those sleeping know-nothings snug in their elevator dreams. Maybe one of those jerks will find it.

So much corruption in the world today. Oh hell that’s the way it’s always been, old fool. Let it lie. Get back to work. All this work to do. If only he’d started sooner. But he had no way of knowing what he needed to do until he started it.

It’s late. He writes the elevator.

His handwriting has gotten worse since he started. He sees that. It worsens the closer he gets, as if his words are being pinched and pulled by the elevator on the other side of his writing. Like they were being pulled into the future. He can still read it.

He remembers he ran into the Dean this evening on the quad, that self-righteous old clown. Nattering on about his dinner date with some other yahoo they got around here. He asked the Dean if he knew the name of the student exiting the gymnasium, the young colored girl who always walks fast with her head down to the cement. The Dean said her name was Lila Mae Watson and that she was a credit to her race.

He sees her through the window now, as he has for many nights recently. She studies in the small room across from the library. A converted janitor’s closet, if he recalls correctly. Hers is the only light on in the whole building. Just like this light. This light is the only one on in the whole library. She doesn’t look like she eats much. She looks so frail and slight through the window. He wishes she had better sense. But he cannot concern himself with her. The elevator needs tending. He lifts his pen. He notices he has written Lila Mae Watson is the one in the margin of his notebook. That’s right. That’s the name of the only other person awake at this hour of the night. She doesn’t know what she’s in for, he thinks, dismissing her from his mind. He’s always writing things in the margin.

His work summons him. He’s almost done. He has given Marie Claire her instructions and trusts her to carry them out. Someone will come. Someone will take care of it. This thing he’s writing.

Maybe he’ll start bringing the lantern up here at night and use that to work by. It would make the light really dramatic. That would really start people talking.

It works, but they are not ready for it. They will not be ready before his time runs out. He wishes he could be there with them. But he is not for that world. He’s in this one.