Don DeLillo - Americana

"Chip Moerdler is a thundering ignoramus," Warburton said. "I've had dealings with that man. He wouldn't know quality if it struck him a blow in the solar plexus."

"Well and good," Weede said. "But you can't argue with a sales chart. Now I think we had better press on. There's one more bit of business that concerns you, Dave. That's the laser beam project."

"I've given Carter Hemmings a free hand with that. He seems to be something of an expert on the subject and I thought it was about time he got his feet wet. He's several years older than I am, you know, and sometimes it's best, for the sake of a man's morale in a case like this, to let him develop something on his own. It's always somewhat embarrassing for me to explain to Carter why he isn't included in these Friday meetings of ours. His impatience is understandable and I'm sure it won't be long before he joins us in solemn conclave. At any rate, Weede, Carter said he's got the laser beam thing hammered into top shape. When I spoke to him last evening he said he wanted to see you about it first thing in the morning. He said it's in absolutely stunning shape. Virtually ready to go."

"He didn't talk to me."

"I guess I'll have to resort to pressure."

And then, for no reason at all, I slid my foot several inches across the rug, and kicked over the empty coffee cup beneath Richter Janes' chair. I put my heel on it and crushed it. Nobody seemed to notice. I felt sick and exhausted. I wanted to be back in Meredith's warm musky bed, lost in the hollow of her breasts, swimming through fish-silver rooms, fathomless, deep in the shipwreck of sleep. I wanted to be with Sullivan in some lunar western wilderness, listening to Mingus on the car radio, and Ornette Coleman with his paintbrush horn, and Sullivan's arms crossed on her chest in sarcophagus fashion, her invisibly taped features; going flat-out across the northern plains, climbing, Bartók in the Rockies, cowboy songs and the nasal grassy drawl of banjos, and there is Oregon, the seal-slick distant sea. That's what I wanted. But I sat in Weede Denney's huge office, in the blue chair by the window, feeling sick and exhausted.

"Now it's time to hear from our resident China-watcher. Look smart, Mr. Chubb. How is the China thing coming along?"

"Weede, it's shaping up as the best public affairs series I've ever been involved in. I've already discussed it with seven or eight top people in the State Department. I've got calls in to six universities and two foundations. I've been putting in nights and weekends. My secretary has some kind of female thing and I've had to borrow Chandler Bates' secretary from time to time. The material is rolling in. Did you know that China had mastered most of the arts and sciences at a time when the Europeans were still combing fleas out of each other's hair? My wife thinks I'm working too hard. This is a big opportunity for us. China is a riddle. It's an enigma. Everything is being typed up. Mao Tse-tung and his followers walked six thousand miles to a mountain stronghold when what's his name was chasing them. The Chink with the wife who went to Wellesley. As soon as all the stuff is typed up and proofread and mimeoed, I'd like to get everybody's opinion on how it looks. Chandler Bates' secretary is slow so I don't know when it'll be ready. I'm very excited about this series. The Yangtze River is three thousand four hundred and thirty miles long."

"What's the series going to be about?" Warburton said.

"The whole big thing. China inside out."

"Will it say something we haven't already heard countless times?"

"There's a very real prospect of some exciting filmclips."

"Taken from a tall hill in Hong Kong, no doubt."

"The series will have a definite viewpoint. The stuff I'm getting typed up points that out very clearly."

"Points what out?"

"That a viewpoint is necessary."

"What viewpoint?"

"Yeah, what viewpoint?" Quincy said.

"I'm working on that with the State Department. They've been extremely cooperative."

Warburton said: "I'd like to quote Kafka at this juncture. 'Every fellow-countryman was a brother for whom one was building a wall of protection, and who would return lifelong thanks for it with all he had and did. Unity! Unity! Shoulder to shoulder, a ring of brothers, a current of blood no longer confined within the narrow circulation of one body, but sweetly rolling and yet ever returning throughout the endless leagues of China.' That, I submit, is your viewpoint."

"Ted, that's wonderful," Weede said. "I think you've really given Reeves something he can sink his teeth into. The part about unity-unity is splendid. It encapsulates all the surging drama of a land mass whose people we can only guess at. Where did you buy that tie?"

"It really sings, Ted. Maybe your girl can type it up for me. That part about the endless leagues of China is almost as good as unity-unity. Might be a title in there somewhere."

"Might indeed," Weede Denney said.

The meeting droned on. I watched Warburton's face. No, I could not have mistaken the flicker of mirth that worked at the corners of his mouth. I settled into the twilight, the lagoon, the mineshaft. A pigeon crossed the window ledge, nodding insanely, a fat prim spinster out for a stroll in Providence, Rhode Island, and then a distant boom of demolition sent it cracking into the air. I felt a tremor of pain at my temple. I tried to think of the Christmas shopping I still had to do. I would spend all day Saturday shopping for gifts and wrapping packages. I would buy something for Meredith and her parents; for my father; for Sullivan; for Binky; for my sister Jane and her children in Jacksonville; for three girls I had been seeing on and off; not for B.G. Haines; not for my sister Mary unseen and unheard from in years. I would take extra time and care wrapping the packages intended for Merry's parents and for Jane and her children. (The concept of distances has always stunned me-meridians, latitudes, international datelines; swinging with the arc of the earth, while I am forever stationary, all distant places seem elusive to me, sliding away and under, hard to get mail to. For this reason I have always tended to be over-reverent toward parcels which are destined to travel hundreds or thousands of miles, as if they were carrier pigeons taking secret messages to the plucky guerrillas in the hills.) Then I had a mental picture of my sister Mary. She is sitting in a laundromat in Topeka, Kansas. She is smoking a kingsize filtertip cigarette and waiting for the clothes to dry. She is wearing a gray cotton dress. There was no reason for me to think of her in that particular city or state or place of business, in that gray and whitewashed hell, clothes spiraling like mechanical embryos in experimental bellies, and yet I felt it was a true vision broadcast to me in some extrasensory way. It made me unaccountably sad. The entire left side of my head was radiating with pain. There was another explosion several blocks away. The voices buzzed in and out of dark hives. I looked at his face again. Then, suddenly, it struck me, with all the mindblazing beauty of a brilliant astronomical calculation. Warburton was Trotsky.

"I believe that covers everything," Weede Denney said. "I'm taking a big silver bird to the Coast this afternoon. I should be back Wednesday. Any problems, Mrs. Kling knows how to reach me. Have a nice weekend and a pleasant Christmas."

"Officially sanctioned," somebody said as a footnote to something.

Weede went into the private toilet adjoining his office. We picked up the paper cups, moved the chairs to their original positions and tidied up in general, reluctant to leave these small tasks to Mrs. Kling, who over the years had managed to become one of the most feared individuals in the company. On the way to my office I stopped by Hallie Lewin's desk and massaged her neck. She was typing a memo marked confidential. I could see that my name was not on the routing list.