Stanley Elkin - Boswell

“This bottle is empty,” the girl next to me said. “There’s another in the pocket of my coat. I’ll go get it.”

“Sophisticated lady,” I said.

The girl stood up a little clumsily and moved off toward the bedroom. I got up and followed her. She had to step carefully over and around several people lying about on the floor. She was like someone crossing a stony road barefoot, and it was very pleasant to watch the look of intense, almost deadpan concentration on her face. We went into the bedroom and she snapped on the light.

“Oh, look,” she said excitedly. “Look at all the hats and overcoats on the bed. Look at them all. I think that’s the most wonderful sight.” Bending down she scooped them in her arms and held them against her face. She put them down very gently.

“I really think that’s the most wonderful sight. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When I was little and my parents had company, they’d put their hats and overcoats down on the bed that very way.”

“Yes,” I said, kissing her. “I love you.”

When I let her go she looked at me curiously for a moment and shrugged. “Let’s find that bottle,” she said.

After she found her coat and took out the bottle we went back to the living room and took up our old positions against the wall. Morty was still talking but I had stopped listening to him, though I still heard the pleasant rumble of his Eastern-Jewish-Bolshevik voice. I put my hand back in the girl’s lap. There was a boy sleeping somewhere near my left shoe. He sat up suddenly and turned to us. “What’s he been saying?” he asked us.

The girl shrugged, and he turned to a somewhat older student who had been sitting in a deep easy chair all evening long. “What’s he been saying?” he asked.

“He’s been explaining how Ohio is essentially an immoral state.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” the boy said, turning back to us. “That’s really rich. He’s been explaining how Ohio is essentially an immoral state. Morty’s a regular moralist. He can tell you the relative moral positions of the states the way some people can name the capitals.”

The kid hadn’t bothered to lower his voice and Morty heard him. “I can,” he said. “I can. What do you think, culture isn’t reflected in morality? What would be the point? What would be the point? I’m a professional anthropologist,” Morty said. “I know these things.”

“He says that per capita North Dakota is the most virtuous state in the Union,” my girl said.

“Not now,” I whispered. “I don’t care about that now.”

“He says people from Connecticut are the least virtuous,” the girl with garter straps said. “I’m from Connecticut,” she said, lifting her dress. “Whee.”

“Tell us about the Empty-Seat Principle, Morty,” someone said. Most of the people in the room laughed.

“What are you laughing? Don’t laugh. What are you laughing?” Morty said, smiling himself. “It’s perfectly scientific.” He popped some pills into his mouth. “After one ride on a rush-hour bus I can tell you the precise moral position of a culture.”

“Oh, Christ,” somebody said.

Silently I agreed.

“I can. I’ve done it. Take two cities of comparable size. Take Philadelphia and São Paolo, Brazil. Now, I tell you that Philadelphia is infinitely morla, morl moral, more moral —”

“Eugene Pallette,” I said.

“— more moral than São Paolo. No, I take that back. ‘Infinitely’ is not a scientific term. Philadelphia is precisely five times more moral than São Paolo.”

“That’s ridiculous,” someone said.

“Who’s the anthropologist here? Who has the Nobel Prize?” Mort said angrily.

It was true; I had forgotten about that. He had begun to bore me. He lived a dangerous life full of enormous, self-imposed risks. I thought of Harold Flesh, who for all the violence in his life was like a baby in a crib compared to Morty. Morty, I thought, suddenly fond of him, please be careful.

“In large cities,” Morty was saying, “the buses are designed to handle rush-hour crowds. The engineers create standing room in the buses by putting in a relatively small number of seats. Now, remember the thing we’re measuring is awareness of others. That’s what morality is, finally. Now, in São Paolo I’ve noticed that during a busy hour those people who are standing do not rush to take up the vacant seats when people who have been sitting down start to get off the bus. Often I’ve seen a bus full of empty seats and people standing in the aisles. It’s a question of scanty awareness of others. Those people who remain standing simply aren’t aware of the others. Now I say that Philadelphia is five times more moral than São Paolo because the ratio of occupied to empty seats averages out to about five to one.”

“Empty seats,” the boy at my shoe said.

“It’s a gauge. It’s a gauge,” Morty said. “I’ve checked it against police statistics. The crime rate in Philadelphia is a little less than five times what it is in São Paolo.”

“That’s really impressive,” I said to the girl.

“Make a fist,” she said.

I made a fist and my knuckles sprayed into the soft flesh of her thighs. She sighed.

“This is some way to make love,” I said.

“Who’s making love?” she said.

“Would you like to dance with me?” she asked after a while.

I got up and helped her to her feet. In a few moments I had to sit down. I had become excited and I was embarrassed. I put my hand back in her lap and made a fist.

Morty came over. “Are you having a good time?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Would you mind if I danced with Thelma?”

“No, of course not.” I hadn’t known her name until Morty said it.

I watched them dancing with a sullen jealousy. It no longer seemed, as it had before, that there was abundance and all time in which to contemplate it and choose and enjoy.

When they stopped dancing Morty pulled the girl down beside him on the couch. She made no move to return to me or even to look in my direction. From where I sat I could watch them and hear them.

“I saw her again yesterday,” Morty said, “and I’m sure.”

The girl nodded seriously. “Do you want to talk about it?” she said. “Here?”

“What do I care?” Morty said. “Secrets are for kids. I love her. I’m fifty-six years old and for the first time in my life I understand what real love is. Isn’t that a strange thing?”

“Not so strange, Morty,” the girl said.

“I’ve had six wives. What kind of man am I? Didn’t any of those girls mean anything to me? Sex — it was just sex. I’m a licentious man.”

His arm was around Thelma’s shoulder. Casually he let it drop until his right hand lay lightly against her behind. “I was married one time to a full-blooded African princess who was six feet two inches tall. That was just sex. After all, what could a girl like that have in common with a Jewish guy from the Bronx? I respond to a certain wildness, I think. That’s a very dangerous thing. But with Dorothy none of that enters in; Dorothy’s a gentle person. She has three kids, you know. She’s very mature, very ladylike.”

“That’s wonderful, Morty, that you should find it at last,” the girl said.

“I bought her a pair of beautiful earrings. I’d like to show them to you and get your opinion before I give them to her.”

“I’d like to, Morty,” she said. “Do I know Dorothy?” she asked.

“It’s Dorothy Spaniels,” Morty said. “Professor Spaniels’ wife. In History.”

“My roommate has him for a class.”

“Sure,” Morty said. “That’s the one. Listen, ask your roommate what he’s like in class. You’ve got to know your enemy,” he said with a nervous little laugh.