Alison Lurie - The War Between the Tates - A Novel

“Can I help you?” Zed’s voice and manner are mild, almost shy. He is ill-dressed in a tired gray turtleneck sweater and sagging work pants, and looks ill-nourished, even unhealthy.

“No, thank you,” Brian says dismissively, relieved but rather surprised. From the reports of Wendy and other students he had expected something more than this slack, dim being—something more forcible, even formidable. “I’m just waiting for somebody.”

“Ah.”

A self-evident failure, Brian thinks, looking him over. A weak, small-town crank. He has wasted his time being jealous of this fellow; Zed doesn’t look as if he’d been able to get it up for years.

It annoys him though that the proprietor of the Krishna Bookshop has not been definitely dismissed, but continues to hover about four feet off, not quite watching him, like an intrusive salesperson. “If you don’t object, that is;” he, adds pointedly.

“Oh no. We’re all waiting for somebody here, isn’t that right, Tim?”

“That’s right.” An appreciative smile from the boy at the counter.

Cheap profundity, Brian thinks to himself, not smiling. He moves away from Zed. Like that stare he gave me earlier: another trick. Anybody could do it; I’ve done it myself with students. It only affected me for a moment because I am in a state of tension. He looks out of the window over the head of the stone idol to discover if Wendy is coming along the street

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” Tim remarks conversationally, putting his book down and leaning forward.

“That’s because I haven’t been in here,” Brian replies. “But I’ve heard a lot about this place,” he adds somewhat more agreeably, wondering if and how he should ask what time Wendy usually comes in.

“Oh yeh?” Tim smiles.

Zed shuffles slowly nearer. “And what have you heard?” he asks.

“Various things.” Brian frowns; he has no wish to get involved in conversation, but wants to establish his position as a rationalist who has not the slightest interest in the wares of the shop. “For instance, I hear that you believe in devils,” he says, allowing a mocking overtone.

Zed smiles. “It seems a mistake not to, given this world.”

In other company Brian might laugh and concede the point, but not here. “And God?” he asks coolly.

“Oh yes.” And Zed has reached the counter now and leans on it with one frayed elbow.

“And where is God, in this world?”

Zed sighs and looks directly at Brian. Again, the flash of light. “I think God is not very interested.”

Though this is in effect what Brian himself thinks, that Zed should say it strikes him as phony. He glances out the window again impatiently; surely if Wendy were coming she would be here by now.

“I also heard you were doing a roaring business,” he says. Since he has been in the bookshop for twenty minutes and seen no sign of business, this is meant ironically, but Tim takes it straight.

“People might say that, but it’s an illusion. We don’t make much bread; he”—gesturing with his hand—“gives too many books away. Besides, we get ripped off all the time.”

“Ripped off?” Brian says, observing that Wendy is still not coming along the street, nor anyone. Only some bits of dirty newspaper are swept past by the hard wind. Perhaps she has left town by the early bus, or got a ride from someone.

“Yeh. We lose a lot of books that way, maybe ten, fifteen a week. We could stop it—anyhow, cut it down. Only he doesn’t want to.” Tim laughs, looking at Zed.

“I stop it sometimes,” he says. “It depends on the person. And the book.”

Brian glances at his watch: two twenty-five. He decides to give her five minutes more.

“Some people only feel good about something they’ve stolen,” Zed continues. “That makes it really theirs. With others that doesn’t work. Like Wendy: she’ll only pay attention to a book if somebody she admires gives it to her.” He glances up at Brian; another, though fainter, flash of light. This effect is due, Brian now realizes, mainly to the fact that Zed has unusually pale eyes, of watery gray which is almost white.

“Or take Danny, who was just in here,” Zed adds. “I wouldn’t give Danny any book I wanted him to read seriously. And I’d stop him if he tried to lift one, because he’s the type that doesn’t value anything they haven’t paid a good price for. For Danny, We should mark the books up.” He smiles and adds slowly, turning toward Brian, “A lot of Capricorns are that way. Like you.”

Brian, who has been gazing out into the street, faces back. “And what makes you think I’m a Capricorn?” he asks,

“I know you’re a Capricorn,” Zed says slowly, “because I know who you are.”

Brian swallows and shifts his feet angrily. It is not only that his anonymity, his social advantage as a customer, has been destroyed. If this white-eyed crook knows who he is, it is because Wendy has explained him, described him. He has been exposed, betrayed—how fully exposed, he has not time to consider now. He recognizes an attack, and knows as a political scientist that the correct strategy is not to stop and analyze it, or even to defend himself, but to counterattack with any weapon handy.

“There you have the advantage of me,” he therefore retorts. “I don’t even know your name.”

A short pause. The opponents look at each other; or rather, Brian looks at Zed, and Zed looks at a spot some inches to the east of Brian.

“Why, this is Zed,” Tim offers cheerfully, gazing from one to the other like a small child who has never seen a machine gun. “He lives here; he runs this place.”

“Zed what?” Ignoring Tim, Brian stares at the shabby, phony individual who knows whatever Wendy has told him ... perhaps everything.

“Just Zed,” Tim says.

“That’s what you call yourself,” Brian says. Zed nods minimally. “What’s your real name?”

“You mean, what was my name before I came here?”

“Yeh.”

“That’s the past. It’s irrelevant.”

Defensive tactics, Brian thinks scornfully. “Not to me,” he insists. “I’m a historian.”

“History doesn’t interest me any more.” Zed smiles weakly but stubbornly. “It’s two-dimensional, and I’m not interested in anything now below the fourth dimension.” Apparently a joke, since Tim laughs appreciatively. The noise of this laughter irritates Brian; he rolls out his big guns.

“He refuses to admit what his name is,” he says, speaking ostensibly to Tim.

Silence. Then Zed looks up.

“If you really want to know,” he says in a strained, pale voice, “I used to be called Sanford Finkelstein.”

“Sanford Finkelstein,” Brian repeats slowly, mockingly. Though he has never to his knowledge heard the name before, he smiles—for the first time in two hours.

6

“SANFORD FINKELSTEIN—”

For the third time that day, and within the hour, this name is spoken in Corinth—a coincidence which Zed, had he known it, might have attributed to the Law of Simultaneity as defined by Jung and other writers on the I Ching. It is spoken this time by Danielle Zimmern as she and Erica wait in line at the Blue Cow, the campus coffee shop.

Danielle has heard the name herself only the day before, from an emeritus professor in her department: an elderly gentlemanly scholar whose own name is Jack Shade. In his day, Professor Shade established a reputation for loyalty to the university and original research; he retains both. Unlike so many of his former colleagues, he has not abandoned either Corinth or his intellectual interests upon retirement in favor of Florida and television. He remains in town, and the history and traditions of the university remain absorbing to him.