Saul Bellow - Collected Stories

“If I’m not home by five, when Lilburn comes, give him a drink, and have dinner there, too.”

“This is our regular night for bingo. We go to the church supper.”

“I’ll pay you fifty bucks, which is more than you can win at the church.” Ysole said no.

Katrina again felt: Everybody has power over me. Alfred, punishing me, the judge, the lawyers, the psychiatrist, Dotey—even the kids. They all apply standards nobody has any use for, except to stick you with. That’s what drew me to Victor, that he wouldn’t let anybody set conditions for him. Let others make the concessions. That’s how I’d like to be. Except that I haven’t got his kind of ego, which is a whole mountain of ego. Now it’s Ysole’s turn. “Are you holding me up, Ysole?” she said.

“Trina, I wouldn’t stay for five hundred. I had to fight Lilburn for this one night of the week. When do you figure to get home?”

“As fast as I can.”

“Well, the kids will be all right. I’ll lock the doors, and they can watch TV.” They hate us, said Trina to herself, after Ysole had hung up. They hate us terribly.

She needed Visine to ease the burning of her eyes. In the winter she was subject to eye inflammation. She thought it was because exhaust gases clung closer to the ground in zero weather and the winter air stank more. She opened her purse and sat on the edge of the bed raking through keys, compacts, paper tissues, dollar bills, credit cards, emery boards.

“You got nowhere with the telephone, I see,” said Victor. He was now standing above her, and he passed his hand through her hair. There was always some skepticism mixed with his tenderness when he approached her, as if he were sorry for her, sorry for all that she would never understand, that he would never do. Then he made a few distracted observations—unusual for him. Again he mentioned the air-conditioning unit. He couldn’t find the switch that turned it off. It reminded him of the machinery he had heard for the first time when he was etherized as a kid for surgery on his leg. Unconscious, he saw a full, brilliant moon. An old woman tried to climb over a bar—the diameter of this throbbing moon. If she had made it he would have died. “Those engines may have been my own heartbeats. Invisible machinery has affected me ever since. And you know how much invisible machinery there is in a place like this—all the jets, all the silicon-chip computers…. Now, Katrina, do something for me. Reach under my belt. Put your delicious hand down there. I need a touch from you. It’s one of the few things I can count on.”

She did it. It was not too much to ask of a woman of mature years. A matter between human friends. Signs of eagerness were always instantaneous. Never failing.

“What about a quickie, Trina?”

“But the phone will ring.”

“All the better, under pressure.”

“In these boots?”

“Just pull down your things.”

Victor lowered himself toward her. To all that was exposed he applied his cheeks, warmth to warmth, to her thighs, on her belly with its faint trail of hairs below the navel. The telephone was silent. It didn’t ring. They were winning, winning, winning, winning. They won!

That was what Victor said to her. “We got some of our own back.”

“We were due for one break,” said Katrina. “Dizzy luck. I’m spinning around.”

“Let’s stay put awhile. Don’t get up. There’s a Russian proverb: If late for an appointment, walk slower. We’re best off just as we are. Kinglake would have rung us if the plane weren’t on its way.”

“Do you think it’s after sundown, Victor?”

“How would we know from here? We’re on the inside of the inside of the inside. Why worry? You’ll be only a little late. They have to get me there. No Wulpy, no festival. It’s a test for them, a challenge they’ve accepted.”

They rested on the edge of the bed, legs hanging. He took Katrina’s hand, kissed her fingers. He was a masterful, cynical man, but with her at times like these he put aside his cynicism. She took it as a sign—how much he cared for her. He enjoyed talking when they lay together like this. She could recall many memorable things he had said on such occasions: “You could write better than Fonstine”—one of his enemies—“if you took off your shoes and pounded the keyboard with your rosy heels. Or just by lifting your skirts and sitting on the machine with your beautiful bottom. The results would be more inspiring.”

Victor now mentioned Wrangel. “He wanted to establish a relationship.”

“He has great respect—admiration for you,” said Katrina. “He said that to him when he came to the Village in the fifties—just a kid—you were in a class with Franklin D. Roosevelt. Meant to be a great man.”

“I was sure he would do lots of talking while I was on the telephone. Well, not to be modest about it, Katrina…” (And what was there to be modest about? They lay together at the foot of the bed, bare between the waist and the knees. His arm was still under her shoulders.) “In some respects I can see… I thought what I would do with power. It gave me an edge over intellectuals who never tried to imagine power. This was why they couldn’t think. I have more iron in me. My ideas had more authority because I conceived what I would do in authority. It’s my nature….” He paused. “It was my nature. I’m going to have to part with my nature presently. All the more reason to increase the dispassionate view I always preferred.”

“Talking like this, just after sex?” said Katrina.

“I would have done well in a commanding situation. I have the temperamental qualifications. Don’t flinch from being a reprobate. Naturally political, and I have a natural contempt for people in private life who have no power-stir. Let it be in thought, let it be in painting. It has to be a powerful reading of the truth of existence. Metaphysical passion. You get as much truth as you have the courage to approach.”

Having nobody but me to tell this to. This was one of Katrina’s frequent thoughts—she was disappointed for his sake. If there had been a pad to the right of her she might have taken notes. She did have some idea what he was saying.

“Some of the sharpest pains we feel come from the silence imposed on the deepest inward mining that we do. The most unlikely-looking people may be the most deep miners. I’ve often thought, ‘He, or she, is intensely at work, digging in a different gallery, but the galleries are far apart, in parallels which never meet, and the diggers are deaf to one another’s work.’ It must be one of the wickedest forms of human suffering. And it could explain the horrible shapes often taken by what we call originality.’”

“Was there nothing Wrangel said that had any value?”

“I might have been interested by his guru. I had a sense of secondhand views. I don’t think Wrangel had any hot news for me. If this is something like the end of time—for this civilization—everything already is quite clear and intelligible to alert minds. In our real thoughts, and I don’t mean what we say—what’s said is largely hokum—in the real thoughts, alert persons recognize what is happening. There may have been something in what Wrangel said—still echoing his guru—about the connections made by real thoughts: a true thought may have a true image corresponding to it. Do you know why communication broke down with Wrangel? It was uncomfortable to hear a California parody of things that I had been thinking myself. I’ve been very troubled, Katrina. And the ideas I’ve developed over sixty years don’t seem to help me to cope with the trouble. I made an extreme commitment to lucidity….”

“But aren’t you lucid?”