Masters of Atlantis

by Charles Portis

  Nor could the Indiana editors, who gave the announcement only a brief mention in their newspapers, those who gave it a mention at all.

  “Don’t worry,” said Popper. “They’ll have to take notice when the book comes out. They’ll have to provide full coverage when you start making your speeches around the state.”

  Within a week the writing of the book was done, Polton’s manuscript delivered. Popper changed the title to Hoosier Wizard, with the subtitle of Conversations with Mr. Jimmerson, and whisked the pages away to a job printer before the Master could look them over. His work finished and the balance of his $1,200 fee in hand—paid by Fanny Jimmerson—W.W. Polton moved on, this elfin artist in elevated bootees, anxious to begin work on a new Vince Beaudine thriller he had sketched out in his head while listening to Mr. Jimmerson, or pretending to do so.

  “It was all so fast,” said Mr. Jimmerson.

  “Time is short,” said Popper.

  He spoke of “seeing the book through the press,” and with the Gnomon Press no longer in existence, the Letts scattered, he had the printing and binding contracted out on a low-bid basis.

  He did not speak of paying for it. Popper claimed to have a rich wife and, as Mr. Jimmerson remembered it, had suggested that he would underwrite both the book and the campaign, and yet now when the matter of financing came up, he went vague, saying only that his affairs out West were “unsettled.” He seemed to be short even of pocket money. Again Fanny Jimmerson had to foot the bill—$7,000 for 21,000 copies of Hoosier Wizard. But that was the end of it, she said. They could expect nothing more from her in the way of subsidies for these Gnomon projects.

  Popper told Mr. Jimmerson not to worry. “Funds will be rolling in soon from book sales and campaign contributions. You’re going to love this biography, sir. I read it at a sitting. Dub has done a beautiful job. When you consider how little time he had.”

  They were in the Red Room. Mr. Jimmerson received his freshly minted copy of the book with trembling eagerness. His life in print for all the world to study! He turned through the pages, stopping here and there to read a bit. His conversation, he saw, had been rendered very freely. He could not, in fact, recall having made any of these preposterous statements, nor could he recognize himself in Polton’s portrait of the Master of Gnomons.

  “Corpulent genius” was fair enough. “Viselike grip” was good. It was pleasing to see his oyster eyes described as “two live coals.” The fellow had a touch, all right, but how had he come up with such things as “the absolute powers of a Sultan” and “the sacred macaws of Tamputocco” and “Peruvian metals unknown to science” and “the Master awash in his oversize bathtub” and “likes to work with young people” and “a spray of spittle”? Why was he, Lamar Jimmerson, who never raised his voice, shown to be expressing opinions he had never held in such an exclamatory way that droplets of saliva flew from his lips?

  And why was there no mention, that he could find, of Hermes Trismegistus or the Jimmerson Spiral? Why was his name repeatedly misspelled? What was all this about the big bathtubs? Why was so little space devoted to the exposition of his thought and so much space given over to Maceo—“the brooding darky”—who was presented falsely as that popular figure of melodrama, the sinister servant? Where did Polton get the idea that there was a gong in the Temple?

  Popper said, “Why don’t you read it later, sir? It’s probably not fair to the book, just dipping into it at random like that.”

  “He keeps going on about Peru, Austin. I know nothing whatever about Peru, its major cities, its principal exports, let alone its secrets. I was expecting something—”

  “Something quite different, I know. Don’t worry, sir, yours is a perfectly normal reaction. The blanching, the starting eyes, the rapid breathing, the hand groping about for support. You should see your face. It’s alarming, I know, like hearing your voice on a machine for the first time, but you’ll get used to it. This is the way these things are done now. Some of that stuff you mustn’t take too much to heart. We have to allow the writer his little fillips. He has to keep the readers moving along. Lazy bums, most of them, as you well know, and fainthearted to boot. A little diversion before nodding off is all those bozos are looking for. You must try to see it as a whole.”

  “Then you think it’s a good book?”

  “I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I approve of every single word. Frankly speaking, and just between us, there is more than one passage in there that I don’t understand. I know for a fact that Dub has worked in some odds and ends he had left over from a book he did on South America, but that’s a common practice now, I’m told, widely accepted, and really, when you get right down to it, where’s the harm? I will say this. That work has its own Polton integrity. Give it some time. Believe me, Hoosier Wizard will grow on you. I’ll tell you something else. It’s going to make some people sit up.”

  But the thing that made them sit up was not Hoosier Wizard; it was a paragraph toward the end of the campaign statement that had gone unread until now. This was the dread Paragraph 34, which declared that Governor Jimmerson, upon taking office, would move quickly to sponsor legislation that would close all the nursing homes and old folks homes in the state, and further, would force all householders in Indiana, rich and poor alike, to take in their aged parents and care for them at home “until death should supervene and they be carried away in the course of nature.”

  The first person to see the threat, and perhaps the only one ever to read the entire document, was the editor of a labor union bulletin in nearby Gary, a man with a keen eye for the sleeper clause in a contract. He sounded the alert by way of a front-page editorial in his paper, with the headline A NUT FOR GOVERNOR? The editorial began with these words: “Who does this guy Jimmerson think he is anyway?” and closed with these: “Let’s show this bum where he gets off!”

  Others took up the cry. A tide of fear rolled across the state. The householders had visions of their old mothers and fathers suddenly appearing on their doorsteps in cracked shoes, sheaves of medical prescriptions in hand, their goods tied up in bulging pasteboard boxes at their feet.

  The daily newspapers were unanimous in denouncing the proposal, calling it “hasty” and “zany” and “ultimately, when all is said and done, not in the best interests of our elder citizens.” The chairmen of the Republican and Democratic parties called it “a gross imposition” and “just a terrible idea.” In Indianapolis the Kleagle of the Wabash Klavern of the Ku Klux Klan told reporters he was looking over bus schedules in preparation for dispatching a small flogging squad to Burnette “to give this Mr. Jimmerson the whipping of his life.” The Thunderbolt, monthly organ of the Communist Party, said, “L. Jimmerson is perhaps the least progressive of all the candidates and there is really nothing to be done with such a hyena except string him up by the heels like B. Mussolini.” In country club bars there was angry murmuring and threats of taking to the streets in gangs to protest the Jimmerson family relocation scheme.

  Popper said nothing. He was in and out of the Temple. Inside, Mr. Jimmerson glided about as usual with a big book in his hand, looking things up. He seldom read the political news in his paper and so was unaware of the furor, until the afternoon the man came to put in the new telephone. The first call to come through to the Temple was a death threat, taken by the telephone installer, who passed on the gist of the message. Wrong number, Mr. Jimmerson assumed, for why should anyone want to “rip his belly open.” But then there were more calls, all from strangers and all abusive, and at the end of the day he knew he had done something to annoy a good many people out there.

  But what? What were they talking about? Was this another of Sydney Hen’s terror campaigns? Had Sydney broken out of Mexico? Perhaps these people were just disappointed buyers of Hoosier Wizard. If so, sales must have been brisk indeed, to judge from the number of infuriated callers.

  “It’ll blow over in a few days,” said Popper. “A tempest in a teapot. I wouldn’t worr
y about it. I’ve already sent out corrections to the papers.”

  “Some of those people sounded serious.”

  “All bluster. People who make threats never actually do anything.”

  They were in the Red Room. Mr. Jimmerson was looking over some of his old lecture material. He got a whiff of something off Popper’s breath that he couldn’t identify. It was rum. Popper’s face was flushed. He hurriedly explained about the offending paragraph in the position paper.

  “Then it’s not Hoosier Wizard?”

  “Not at all. It hasn’t really taken off yet. I doubt if we have sold four copies. This is something else altogether. But it’s old news and fading fast. Let me tell you what I have lined up for us.

  “Fanny didn’t think it was a very good book.”

  “Did she just skim through it?”

  “I don’t know. She said she couldn’t see where all the money went.”

  “Hoosier Wizard is not a woman’s book, sir. But that’s not what this fuss is all about. It’s about this Paragraph 34 that would close all the nursing homes. You told me how slack they were in rotating Mr. Bates on his bed. I simply expressed your concern and suggested a remedy. No real harm done. I’ve already repudiated it. I explained that it was just a trial balloon. That’s yesterday’s news and we must put it behind us. Here, let me tell you about my coup. I’ve lined up a major speaking engagement for us. On the twenty-fourth—mark your calendar—we kick off the campaign with a speech at Rainbow Falls State Park. You’ll be addressing the Busy Bees.”

  “Is that the lawyers’ club?”

  “The very exclusive lawyers’ club. Their annual retreat. It wasn’t an easy booking, I can tell you, and we must make the best of it.”

  “I’ve never been to Rainbow Falls. They say you have to watch your step down there on those slick rocks.”

  “Right here, see, two-thirty p.m., which was to have been free time, they’ve penciled you in on their program, between these seminars on ‘Making the Worse Cause Appear the Better’ and ‘Systematic Estate Looting and No One the Wiser.’ This is the break I’ve been looking for. It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

  “Will it be safe? Fanny thinks I should stay in the Temple for a while.”

  “Perfectly safe. A woodland setting, a secluded lodge, a select audience. Oh, they may be put off a bit at losing their free time. I suppose some of them would prefer to be out on the links knocking a ball around and telling off-color stories, but remember, these men are senior attorneys and distinguished members of the bench. We don’t have to fear catcalls or gunplay. They won’t be hurling buns at you. They won’t try to hoot you down and drive you from the podium. These Busy Bees have clout and money and we’re going to need some of those people in our camp.”

  “All the newspaper articles about Rainbow Falls mention that slippery footing. It seems there’s some kind of green stuff growing on those wet rocks down there.”

  “Yes, but you understand, sir, we’re not going down there for a dip. We won’t have time to wade the shallows with our trousers rolled up and our shoes in our hands. We’re going down there to cultivate some of the most important men in the state. We need to stake out some key ground early. Wasn’t it Bismarck who said, ‘He who holds the—something or other—controls the—something else’? Controls the whole thing, you see. It was Bismarck or one of those boys with a spike on his hat.”

  “Kaiser Bill had a spike on his helmet. One of his arms was withered, you know, but I forget which one.”

  “We’ll need a good strong speech. But not too strong. We don’t want to overwhelm our audience the first shake out of the box. A light note won’t be amiss, not in your opening remarks. An open, friendly tone. There’s no telling what weird notions they have about us out there.”

  “Did you say two-thirty?”

  “At two-thirty on the twenty-fourth, yes, sir. But I think we should leave early and allow some time for a little ‘Let’s get acquainted’ session when we get there.”

  “That’s when I have my nap. What about my nap?”

  “You can sleep in the car. Maceo will drive us down in the Buick. Will it run, by the way? I’ve noticed weeds and flowers growing around the tires.”

  “We don’t use it much.”

  Mr. Jimmerson had begun to move his papers about and hold them up to his eyes. “I’ve been looking over some of my old talks here, Austin. It’s surprising how well they have stood the test of time, if I do say so myself. What do you think about giving them ‘Gold, the Celestial Fire Congealed’? That was always well received.”

  “It would go right over their heads, sir. Something with broad appeal is what we want for the Busy Bees. Not too much about Atlantis. These men are clever but they are not attuned to higher thought.”

  “How about ‘A Stroll Through History’?”

  “Your survey of eleven civilizations? There won’t be enough time. They’re only giving us about twenty-three minutes and we’ll want to leave a little cushion at the end for a question period. But not too much of a cushion.”

  “‘Gnomonism Today’?”

  “I don’t think so. Hoosier Wizard gives us Mr. Jimmerson the Master of Gnomons. Out there on the stump we want to present Mr. Jimmerson the man. Our theme is change. ‘Why not Mr. Jimmerson for a change?’ That’s our pitch. Let’s try to work up something along those lines.”

  OVER THE following weekend Miss Naomi Hine made five trips across town in her little green Crosley car. She was moving her things into the Gnomon Temple. This was the beginning of the new arrangement, whereby the Temple, or part of it, was to become a rooming house, or “guest lodge,” as Fanny Jimmerson put it. With some paying guests, she had determined, the big place could pay its own way and thus relieve her of a financial burden. The Gnomon Society, now little more than a corporate ghost, remained the nominal owner, but Fanny felt free to make these dispositions since it was she who had paid the bills for so many years.

  Miss Hine, in exchange for a suite of rooms and a small salary, would act as manager. The guests were to be chosen with care. They were to be clean, quiet, nonsmoking, non-drinking Christian gentlemen of the kind that downtown landladies are forever seeking through the classified ads, and perhaps sometimes even finding.

  Mr. Jimmerson was to be inconvenienced no more than was necessary. He, Popper and Maceo would keep their bedrooms and bathrooms, along with the Red Room, the screened porch and the inviolable Inner Hall. They would share the kitchen with Miss Hine. The roomers would room upstairs and enter through a back door so that Mr. Jimmerson would not have to see them and nod to them in their comings and goings.

  No one had advised Maceo of the new arrangement and at first he refused to let Miss Hine into the Temple. His doorkeeping duties had become confusing. Mapes had instructed him to keep everyone out, by way of protecting the Master from insurance salesmen. Then Fanny Jimmerson had sent word down to let everyone in. Then Popper had come along and countermanded that order, ending the open-door policy. With all these threats in the air, Maceo was to screen out obvious thugs and yeggs, all newspaper reporters, which was to say all prowlers wearing shabby suits, and anyone else who looked the least bit odd. For Maceo this would be most white people. The Temple callers all looked more or less moonstruck to him and he could not be bothered trying to sort them out. A little wren like Miss Hine or a maniac with a machete, it was all the same to him.

  But Miss Hine’s entry was not delayed long and she was soon moving freely about inside the Temple, opening windows, pulling down old calendars and offering decorator tips. She even talked of “knocking out” interior walls.

  Mr. Jimmerson had reservations about the new arrangement. He was concerned about careless roomers who might let bathtubs overflow above his head or doze off with burning cigarettes in their yellow fingers. He was suspicious of Miss Hine, the organ player, and her background in public entertainment. The woman was getting on in years but she was clearly a coquette, a flapper, with those scarlet f
ingernails and blue eyelids. Such women were blazing inside and he feared that at the earliest opportunity she would try to back him up against the kitchen table and press her paps against him and try to nuzzle him and kiss him, married man or not. Would she be parading around the house in her step-ins? Hardly a fit sight for Maceo to see. What could Fanny be thinking of, to put him in such an awkward position? It could only lead to the tawdry spectacle of two women, and old friends at that, fighting over him.

  Several days passed and Miss Hine made no improper advances. At no time did she attempt to pin Mr. Jimmerson’s ample hams against a tabletop, or touch him in a suggestive manner. But he remained wary and took care to stay just beyond her grasp, sometimes moving crabwise in a quick little shuffle that startled her.

  Miss Hine had her own fears, and of course her own little ways. She wrote her name on bits of paper and strips of adhesive tape and tagged all her food. This, from long experience with female roommates, who, without permission, had guzzled her milk and gobbled her cherry tomatoes and pineapple rings and cottage cheese. Here in the Temple it was a needless precaution. Just as she had no designs on Mr. Jimmerson’s person, neither did he have designs on her food, all very light fare.

  Largely a leaf eater, she could make a meal out of a salad of sickly white shoots. She ate her supper at the cafeteria and such cooking as she did at home ran to cold soup, jellied soup, underdone fish and canned vegetables warmed up in a pan of tap water. Her bread was dry toast. Nothing there to tempt Mr. Jimmerson, no likely medium into which a love potion might be introduced.

  On the morning of the twenty-fourth he was ready with his speech, despite the domestic upheaval. He was waiting on the screened porch. He looked at his watch. Austin was sleeping late again. He looked out over the grounds. Maceo was tinkering with the Buick. “The Burick,” he called it. The builders of the elevated highway were standing about chatting and smoking. It was hard to catch them in the act of working, of actually joining one structural member to another, but somehow their work got done. The big concrete pilings had now risen to such a height as to block out the Chicago skyline, the higher crags of which had once been just visible through the industrial haze. The loss of the vista meant nothing to Mr. Jimmerson. The soaring handiwork of Chicago Man was less substantial to him than the orichalcum spires of Atlantis.