Mario Puzo - Fools die

Sometimes he told me of battles on his job against its corruption and administrative pressures to soften reports on additives his tests showed were dangerous. He always refused to be pressured. But his Stories were never a pain in the ass in the way of some people who always tell you how they refuse to be corrupted. Because he told them without indignation, with complete coolness. He was not unpleasantly surprised that rich men with money would insist on poisoning their fellowmen for profit. Again he was never pleasantly surprised that he could resist such corruption; he made it very clear that he felt no obligation to do battle for the right.

And he had no delusions of grandeur about how much good his fighting did. They could go around him. I remembered the stories he told me about how other agency chemists made official tests and gave favorable reports. But my brother never did. He always laughed when he told me these stories. He knew the world was corrupt. He knew his own virtue was not valuable. He did not prize it.

He just simply refused to give it up. As a man would refuse to give up an eye, a leg; if he had been Adam, he would have refused to give up a rib. Or so it seemed. And he was that way in everything. I knew that he had never been unfaithful to his wife, though he was really a handsome man and the sight of a very pretty girl made him smile with pleasure; and he rarely smiled. He loved intelligence in a man or a woman, yet never was seduced by that either, as many people are. He never accepted money or favors. He never asked for mercy to his feelings or his fate. And yet he would never judge others, outwardly at least. He rarely spoke, always listened, because that was his pleasure. He demanded the barest minimum of life.

And Christ, what breaks my heart now is that I remember he was virtuous even as a kid. He never cheated in a ball game, never stole from a store, was never insincere with a girl. He never bragged or lied. I envied his purity then and I envy it now.

And he was dead. A tragic, defeated life, so it seemed, and I envied him his life. For the first time I understood the comfort people get from religion, those people who believe in a just God. That it would comfort me to believe now that my brother could not be refused his just reward. But I knew that was all shit. I was alive. Oh, that I should be alive and rich and famous, enjoying all the pleasures of the flesh on this earth, that I should be victorious and not anywhere near the man he was, and he so ignominiously put to death.

– -

Ashes, Ashes, Ashes, I wept as I had never wept for my lost father or my lost mother, for lost loves and all other defeats. And so at least I had that much decency, to feel anguish at his death.

Tell me, anyone, why all this should be? I cannot bear to look at my brother’s dead face. Why was I not lying in that casket, devils dragging me to hell? My brother’s face had never looked so strong, so composed, so at rest, but it was gray as if powdered over with the dust of granite. And then his five children came, dressed in neat funerality, and knelt before his coffin to say their final prayers. I could feel my heart break, tears came against my will. I left the chapel.

But anguish is not important enough to last. In the fresh air I knew that I was alive. That I would dine well the next day, that in time I would have a loving woman again, that I would write a story and walk along the beach. Only those we most love can cause our death, and only of them we must beware. Our enemies can never harm us. And at the core of my brother’s virtue was that he feared neither his enemies nor those he loved. So much the worst for him. Virtue is its own reward and fools are they who die.

But then weeks later I heard other stories. How early in his marriage, when his wife became ill, he had gone to her parents weeping and begged for money to get his wife well.

How, when the final heart attack came and his wife tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, he waved her wearily away the moment before he died. But what had that final gesture really meant? That life had become too much for him, his virtue too heavy to bear? I remember Jordon again, was he too a virtuous man?

Eulogies for suicides condemn the world and blame it for their deaths. But could it be that those who put themselves to death believed there was no fault anywhere, some organisms must die? And they saw this more clearly than theft bereaved lovers and friends?

But all this was too dangerous. I extinguished my grief and my reason and put my sins forward as my shield. I would sin, beware and live forever.

A week later I called Janelle to thank her for getting me on the plane. I got her answering machine voice disguised in a French accent, asking me to leave a message.

When I spoke, her real voice was there, breaking in.

“Who are you ducking?” I said.

Janelle was laughing. “If you knew how your voice sounded,” she said. “So sour…”

I laughed too.

“I was ducking your friend Osano,” she said. “He keeps calling me.”

I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. I wasn’t surprised. But

I liked Osano so much and he knew how I felt about Janelle.

I hated the idea that he would do that to me. And then I didn’t really give a shit. It was no longer important.

“Maybe he was just trying to find out where I was,” I said.

“No,” Janelle said. “Alter I put you on the plane, I called him and told him what happened. He was worried about you, but I told him you were OK. Are you?”

“Yes,” I said.

She didn’t ask me any questions about what had happened when I got home. I loved that about her. Her knowing I wouldn’t want to talk about it. And I knew she would never tell Osano about what happened that morning when I got the news about Artie, how I fell apart.

I tried to act cool. “Why are you ducking him? You enjoyed his company at dinner when we were together. I’d think you’d jump at the chance of meeting him again.”

There was a pause at the other end, and then I heard a tone in her voice that showed she was angry. It became very calm. The words were precise. As if she were pulling back a bow to send her words like arrows.

“That’s true,” she said, “and the first time he called I was delighted and we went out to dinner together. He was great fun.”

Not believing the answer I would get, I asked out of some remaining jealousy, “Did you go to bed with him?”

Again there was the pause. I could almost hear the bow’s twang as she sent off the arrow.

“Yes,” she said.

Neither of us said anything. I felt really lousy, but we had our rules. We could never reproach each other anymore, just take our revenge.

Very shiftily but automatically I said, “So how was it?”

Her voice was very bright, very cheery as if she were talking about a movie. “It was fun. You know he makes such a big deal out of going down on you that it builds up your ego.”

“Well,” I said casually, “I hope he’s better at it than I am.”

Again there was the long pause. And then the bow snapped and the voice was hurt and rebellious. “You have no right to be angry,” she said. “You have no goddamn right to be angry about what I do with other people. We settled that before.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I'm not angry.” And I wasn’t. I was more than that. At that moment I gave her up as someone I loved. How many times had I told Osano how much I loved Janelle? And Janelle knew how I cared about Osano. They had both betrayed me. There was no other word for it. The funny thing was that I wasn’t angry with Osano lust with her.

“You are angry,” she said, as if I were being unreasonable.

“No, really I’m not,” I said. She was paying me off for my being with my wife. She was paying me off for a million things, but if I hadn’t asked her that specific question about going to bed, she wouldn’t have told me. She wouldn’t have been that cruel. But she wouldn’t lie to me anymore. She had told me that once, and now she was backing it up. What she did was none of my business.