Walker Percy - Love in the Ruins - The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World

“Truly?”

“Loves her as one loves music. A woman is the concrete experienced abstractly, as women. Music is the abstract experienced as the concrete, namely sound.”

“So?”

“Ha! Old stuff to you, eh, Doc? Well, that’s not the end of it. Don’t you see? Stimulate this area and you stimulate both the scientist and the lover but neither at the expense of the other. You stimulate the scientist-lover.”

“I see.”

But it is Art himself who interests me. How does Art, who looks like the sort of fellow who used to service condom vendors in the old Auto Age, know this?

“So that in the same moment one becomes victorious in science one also becomes victorious in love. And all for the good of mankind! Science to help all men and a happy joyous love to help women. We are speaking here of happiness, joy, music, spontaneity, you understand. Fortunately we have put behind us such unhappy things as pure versus impure love, sin versus virtue, and so forth. This love has its counterpart in scientific knowledge: it is neutral morally, abstractive and godlike—”

“Godlike?”

“In the sense of being like a god in one’s freedom and omniscience.”

“You surprise me, Art.”

“Hold still, Doc.”

Again the cold steel hums like a tuning fork against my skull.

The tone of the tuning fork turns into music: first, a plaintive little piping, the dance of happy spirits in a high meadow; the flute trips along, hesitates, picks up again, and here’s the beauty of it, in the catch, the stutter, and starting up again. Now comes the love music of man in particular for women in general: happy, faithless, seductive music: the race and rip of violins dancing, whipping, tricking, fizzing in a froth of May wine, sunshine sunshine, and cotton dresses in summertime.

Who am I?

I am he who loves. I am in love. I love.

Who do you love?

You.

Who is “you”?

A girl.

What girl?

Any girl you please. You.

How can that be?

Because all girls are lovable and I love them all. I love you. I can make you happy and you me.

Only one thing can make you happy and it is not that

Love makes me happy. Knowing makes me happy.

Love is God, because God is love. Knowing God is knowing all things.

Love is not God. Love is music

“Who are you talking to, Doc?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“What was I doing?”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as you feel good.”

Art pushes up the frosted window. We gaze out into the gold-green. Fat white clouds are blown by map winds. Swallows dip. Cicadas go zreeeee .

“You look good, Doc. Look at yourself. You’re not a bad-looking guy. You’re still young, you got a good built if you took care of yourself. Here, wash your face in cold water and comb your hair.” He hands me his pocket comb. “Now, no need to look like a hairy elf.” In a flash he produces a pocket klipette, clips the hair in my nose, ears, and eyebrows. “Tch, your fingernails!”—and gives me a manicure on the spot. In two minutes my nails become glossy watchglasses like Buddy Brown’s. Art comes close and sniffs: “Pardon, Doc, but you’re a little high, you know. Here’s a man’s deodorant. Now!”

Art gazes at me. I gaze at the green-gold summer.

“How do you feel, Doc?”

“Fine.”

“Isn’t it better to feel good rather than bad?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it better to be happy than unhappy?”

“Yes.”

“How can you take care of unhappy patients if you are unhappier than they are? Physician, heal thyself.”

“Yes.”

“Your terror is gone, you’re breathing well, your large bowel should be slack as a string, clear as a bell. How is it?”

“Slack as a string, clear as a bell.”

“O.K., Doc, now what?”

“I don’t know. What?”

“Well, what is the purpose of life in a democratic society?”

“A democratic society?” I ask him, smiling.

“Sure. Isn’t it for each man to develop his potential to the fullest?”

“I suppose so.”

“What is your potential?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“Doc, you have two great potentials: a first-class mind and a heart full of love.”

“Yes.”

“So what do you do with them?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“Know and love, what else?”

“Yes.”

“And win at both.”

“Win?”

“Is there anything wrong with being victorious and happy? With curing patients, advancing science, loving women and making them happy?”

“No.”

“Use your talents, Doc. What do you know how to do?”

“I know how to use this.” I pick up the lapsometer.

“What can you do with that?”

“Make people happy.”

“Who do you love, Doc?”

“Women, knowing, music, and Early Times.”

“You’re all set, Doc. One last thing—”

“Yes?”

“Where is your crate of MOQUOLs?”

“In a safe place.”

“Let me have them. The situation is critical and I think we ought to get them in the right hands as soon as possible.”

“No. I’d better not. That is not part of our contract.”

“Why not?”

“They are dangerous. I can’t be too careful.”

“What dangers?”

“Physical and political dangers.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean. If one of these falls into the wrong hands, it could produce a chain reaction in the Heavy Sodium deposits hereabouts or a political explosion between the Knotheads and the Lefts. Do you realize that the President and Vice-President will be here tomorrow?”

“Realize it! Why do you think I want your MOQUOLs?”

Coming close, he opens and closes his wallet, giving me a glimpse of a metal shield.

“F.B.I.?”

“A bit more exalted. Let’s just say I make security reports from time to time. That’s why we’re interested in making sure your invention stays in the right hands.”

“This seems a bit far afield from your work with mental health and the foundations.”

“Everything is interdisciplinary now, Doc. As well as being third-generational. You understand.”

“No. But don’t worry about my invention.”

“O.K., Doc. Now. Sign here.” He nods to the contract on the windowsill. A ballpoint pen leaps to his hand, clicks, and backs toward my chest.

“Very well.” Standing at the windowsill, which seems to be his place of business, I sign the blue-jacketed contract.

“You won’t be sorry, Doc.” All in one motion he takes pen and contract clicks pen, stuffs both into his inside breast pocket. As usual, he stands too close and when he buttons his coat it exhales a heavy breath. “Now you can use your talents for the good of mankind and the increase of knowledge. All you have to do is never look back and never be sorry, as per agreement.”

“As per what agreement?” I ask vaguely, frowning. But my colon is at peace and my heart beats in time to Mozart.

“We’re in business, Doc.”

“Yeah. Let’s have a drink.”

“What? Oh. Well—”

The bottle of Early Times passes between us. The whiskey catches hold in my stomach, gear engaging gear. Art chokes, his eyes water.

“That’s good stuff,” says Art, blinking. I could swear it was his first drink.

“Yes,” I say, laughing.

It’s like being back in Charlottesville, in the spring, in the men’s room, at a dance, at old Saint Anthony’s Hall.

The Pit is in an uproar. Students roost like chickens along the steep slopes of the amphitheater, cackling and fluttering their white jackets as they argue about the day’s case. Bets are placed, doctors attacked and defended. The rightwing Knothead Christian students occupy the right benches, the Lefts the left.