(1969) The Seven Minutes

by Irving Wallace

  buy it. Which brings us back to the same question - whose idea of decency should we follow ? Being a librarian today is about as non-controversial a job as being a politician. It’s one of the most hazardous occupations on earth. No more room for mice. Oh, there are plenty of mice in the profession. But there are more tigers in these hallowed reading rooms, far more, believe me. And yours truly is one of them. I’ll growl and stalk and fight to the death to protect my brood, my book collection, my free and open shelves. And now, Mr Barrett, what in the devil are you doing here?’

  ‘Miss Hoyt, I’m here to ask a favor. Don’t buy and display The Seven Minutes.’

  Her eyebrows shot up. This - from you? You’re kidding?’

  ‘I’m serious as can be.’

  ‘I want this book made available for people who wish to read it’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Barrett fiddled with his pipe. ‘I’ll tell you why not We’ve already got one person who’s challenging the law over his freedom to display The Seven Minutes. We have our one martyr. Two martyrs would be a crowd. It’s as if, well, say two different Christs had been tried by Pilate, and there had been two Messiahs crucified that day on the Hill of Golgotha. Could Christians have been inspired by two martyrdoms? Would Christianity have sprung from that?’

  ‘An improper analogy,’ said Rachel Hoyt. ‘When you are defending a beleaguered bastion of freedom, you want all the volunteers you can get. I should think the more the merrier.’

  ‘An equally bad analogy,’ said Barrett. ‘Look, one Jew is persecuted and sent to Devil’s Island, and you can cry out “J’accuse!” and rouse the entire world over a single injustice. The world can identify with one helpless martyr. But six million Jews were persecuted and murdered in Germany and the world is intellectually disturbed but emotionally unmoved and tries to go about its own business, because who in the hell can identify with six million dead?’

  Miss Hoyt toyed with her paper cup. Then she crushed it. ‘Yes, I see,’ she said. ‘Exactly what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘You’re supposed to tell me you are willing to be an expert literary witness for the defense. Will you ?’

  ‘You couldn’t keep me off the stand with a machine gun.”

  ‘Okay, you’re enlisted. I gather you have read the Jadway book ?’

  ‘Three times. Would you believe it ? The first time a half-dozen years ago. I was on one of those chartered bargain flights. I think the plane was made to go by rubber bands - we librarians don’t have jet-set salaries, you know. It was a kind of art-museum tour, and after three days in the Louvre I had a free day. I went browsing among the bookstalls along the Seine, and there was this worn old copy of the Etoile edition of The Seven Minutes. I’d often heard about it, and I was curious. I sat in a cafe and spent the morning

  reading it. For the first time I realized how beautiful it was to be a female. Then, when I learned in Publishers’ Weekly that Sanford House was publishing the book here, I was thrilled. I thought, My God, thisol’ corn-pone country has come of age. When I got home, I reread my old Paris edition. The story was as beautiful as the first time. Then, when Ben Fremont was arrested, I knew I had to make a decision as a responsible librarian. So I read it a third time with a careful, objective librarian’s eye.’

  ‘And what did your objective librarian’s eye tell you?’

  ‘Unblinkingly, it told me my first two reactions had been right The book belonged on the open shelves, but immediately, if only to show the witch hunters that Ben Fremont was not alone. Now you’ve persuaded me to defer that gesture. But at least I’ll have an opportunity to tell the world where an intelligent librarian stands.’

  ‘Have you thought of the consequences?’

  ‘Mr Barrett, if I worried about consequences, I wouldn’t have taken this damn job in the first place. When I look at myself in the mirror each night, I don’t want to be ashamed of what I see. So to hell with the consequences. Do you have any idea of what the average librarian is up against every day, not once a month or once a year - not the big whooping issues, but the petty problems she contends with every day of every year ? I’m not speaking about the youngsters. They’re fine. They’re our only hope for saving this old mudball we live on from total extinction. It’s their parents and relatives. The wise ones, the elders, who claim they have the answer to what’s right and what’s wrong and they call it “common sense.” And what is common sense ? A conglomeration of folklore and fables and prejudices handed down from their parents and grandparents, and a pack of half-digested limited experiences and observations and thoughts. The parents are the ones who come into libraries - public libraries and school libraries - to protest how we’re destroying their young with this book or that, little realizing that they’re the ones who are subverting their offspring because they’ve gone through parenthood with crusts around their brains. Those people are simply afraid of anything new.’ . ‘I’m very well acquainted with them,’ said Barrett.

  ‘Of course you are. Yet we must live with them, deal with them, and you and I know the stifling limitation that results when society expects every book to meet contemporary community standards. Most of the truly great books became great because they once defied or exceeded formula, banality, community tradition. These were the books that dared say something new or say it in a new way. These were the writings by Copernicus, Newton, Paine, Freud, Darwin, Boas, Spengler, in nonaction, and by Aristophanes, Rabelais, Voltaire, Heine, Whitman, Shaw, Joyce, in fiction. These were the writings filled with fresh, sometimes shocking, ideas. And we absolutely must support similar writings today. But how? One library dean thought we should stand for selection

  as opposed to censorship - selection of the best books, based mainly on the presumed intent of the author and his sincerity of purpose. Selection, he said, begins with a presumption in favor of liberty of thought; censorship, with a presumption in favor of thought control.’

  Rachel Hoyt paused, as if to restain her indignation, and then she resumed more levelly. ‘Do you think any of those don’t-rock-the-boat people out there understand this? No sirree. We fight for selection, and they fight for censorship. You should hear the day-in, day-out complaints. They come from shame mongers and bigots of every stripe.’

  ‘Like what kind of complaints?’

  ‘Like I’ve been asked to remove Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter from circulation because it showed licentious behavior, and Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth because it described childbirth, and Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment because it contained profanity, and even Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind because Scarlett behaved immorally. I’ve read somewhere that one parent-teacher association wanted Classic Myths barred from the shelves because it dealt with incest -incest among the gods. Ye godsl In Cleveland they objected to Apuleius’ The Golden Ass because of the depraved title, and somewhere else they objected to Henry James’s Turn of the Screw because you know why. But the height of absurdity was about reached in Downey, California, when some literary vigilantes attempted to have Edgar Rice Burrough’s Tarzan series removed from library shelves because they thought Tarzan and Jane had never been married and were living in sin. Can you imagine anything like that?’

  Barrett shook his head. ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And don’t think for a minute it’s only the illiterates and eccentrics and bigots who give us trouble. Most people - supposedly normal people, I mean - instinctively want everybody else to conform to their own ideas of right and wrong. And since more people - how did Freud put it?- are upset by anything that reminds them unequivocally of their animal nature, they are upset by candor in literature and try to impose their upset upon the rest of us. So we get our share of certified normal people in here giving us trouble. Some perfectly respectable people get involved. Take our community leaders - a man like Frank Griffith, who’s now telling the press it was J J Jadway and not Jerry who raped that poor girl. It was neither Jadway nor Jerry who was responsible for th
e crime. It was a man like Griffith who was responsible.’

  Barrett sat up. ‘Griffith? What makes you say that? Do you know him?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Rachel Hoyt. ‘I had one encounter with him and that was enough. His son, Jerry, used to come in here to check out books or use our reference section. I got to know the boy slightly. A bright, quiet, lovely boy, but reduced to a kind of walking stutter by his overwhelming and know-it-all father. The last time I ever saw Jerry, maybe a year or more ago, he’d come in to do some reference work on a paper he was preparing for an American Lit class. He was having trouble finding what he wanted, and he approached me, and I knew just the book that might help him. It, was the Dictionary of American Slang, the one published by Crowell, and since it was late and Jerry didn’t have time to look up what he needed, I permitted him to take the reference book home for twenty-four hours. The next thing I knew, it was the following morning, and there was Frank Griffith on die phone giving me hell.’

  ‘Frank Griffith called you?’

  ‘You bet he did.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was apoplectic. How dare I recommend such a book to his son? I said there was nothing wrong with the book - it was a standard reference dictionary that had been used for years. Well, not for Frank Griffith, no sirree. Griffith said he recognized the dirty book. It was one that, in 1963, a San Diego Assemblyman had called “filthy” and our State Superintendent of Public Instruction had labeled “a practicing handbook of sexual perversion,” probably because it contained definitions of several lusty Anglo-Saxon words. Griffith wanted that dictionary removed from the shelves, and I refused, saying I couldn’t deprive students of a reputable and scholarly reference tool. Griffith told me that if he had the time he’d go to the mat with me over that book, but since he didn’t have the time, he was just warning me not to recommend anything questionable to his son again. If I did, he promised he’d have my job. Unfortunately, I never had an opportunity to recommend anything to Jerry again, because he never showed up again. He sent his boy friend over to return the book for him with thanks and apologies for any trouble he’d caused me. I suppose he was too embarrassed to return the dictionary himself, or to come in here again. No doubt he’s used the library facilities at UCLA ever since. How do you like that?’

  ‘Jerry’s boy friend,’ said Barrett, suddenly alerted. ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘His boy friend ? I’m not sure. You see, Jerry was pretty much of a loner, perhaps a few casual friends, but this bearded boy was the only one I saw him with more than once.’ She paused. ‘Is this important, Mr Barrett?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could be.’

  She leaped to her feet. ‘Let me see what I can find out.’ She hastened out the door, calling, ‘Mary …’

  Barrett rose, and had barely filled his pipe with tobacco before Rachel Hoyt returned. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, one of my clerks remembered Jerry’s friend. His name is George Perkins. He’s also a student at UCLA’

  Barrett made a note of this and returned his memorandum pad to his pocket. “Thanks. This may be useful. And thanks for enlisting as a defense witness. I’ll speak to you before it’s your turn to go on the stand. You won’t mind repeating that little anecdote about Frank Griffith in court, will you?’

  ‘Nothing would please me more.’

  ‘Miss Hoyt, on behalf of Sydney Carton -‘

  ‘Let’s not be formal. Me Jane. You Tarzan.’

  He grinned. ‘Okay. Me Tarzan thanks You Jane.’

  The counseling room that they were using was in the Adminstra-tion Building on the UCLA campus. It was no more than a cubicle, barren except for a swivel chair, a neat steel desk holding a file, folder, a telephone, and a green plant, and two straight chairs for visitors. For Mike Barrett it was as cheerless as a doctor’s examination room. He had been interviewing Mrs Henrietta Lott for fifteen minutes, and his surroundings were becoming increasingly claustrophobic and oppressive. He supposed this was so because the session with Mrs Lott had been, until now, unprofitable.

  Henrietta Lott was a kind, dumpy, overworked middle-aged woman, who seemed easiest when she was rattling off information about the curriculum in the College of Letters and Science. Her perception about her students, as best Barrett could make out, was shallow. Her major virtue was probably a lack of any sense of vice. That or her earnestness. She was assigned to advise undergraduates with family names classified in the letter group from G to /. Griffith was G, so she was Jerry Griffith’s counselor. She had met with him four times. Except for what was on the college card in her hand, she had no in-depth knowledge of Jerry nor any immediate clear picture of him (in itself a commentary, Barrett realized). She was apologetic about this, but there were so many, so very many students, fifteen thousand in the College of Letters and Science alone.

  She had seen Jerry on this date, on that day, then again, and once more. These interviews had been devoted entirely to academic discussions, about a change in classes, about instructors, about grades, about ROTC. Once, when Jerry had wanted to discuss his units in relation to the draft, she had referred him to the Office of Special Services.

  ‘I wish there was more I could tell you,’ said Mrs Lott unhappily, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t think of anything else.’

  Barrett decided to reframe a question he had posed twice before. ‘Do you have any impression at all of Jerry Griffith’s personality?’

  ‘Well, only that he was very serious and rather withdrawn.’ She stared vaguely at the college card in her hand, and then at the open student’s folder on the desk. ‘And… I suppose I can say he seemed to me rather unmotivated, like most of the youngsters today. Compared to the many students I see daily, I might say Jerry was more square or straight, to use the campus vernacular, than his peer group.’

  ‘Did you ever hear him speak of his family, Mrs Lott ?’

  “No, not really. Well, wait, there was one occasion.’ She seemed happier now. ‘Once he inquired about the intramural sports program. Yes, I recall. His father had been some kind of Olympic star - or maybe I just read about that in the papers? - anyway, his father wanted him to go in for sports, felt it would be good for him to get fresh air and exercise and not be just a grind and a bookworm. So Jerry felt he should make some inquiries. He said he wasn’t much good at sports, but I think he said he’d had tennis lessons in prep school. As for clubs, he belonged to some kind of bridge - or was it chess? - no, I’m sure it was bridge - some kind of bridge club in Westwood.’

  ‘I was told that Jerry took an American Literature course about a year ago. Can you provide me with any details?’

  Mrs Lott bent to her folder. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I have a note here that he has taken seven literature courses - rather, had taken five and is taking two now, or was, before he… when he dropped out of the university. Would you like the names of the classes and the instructors?’

  She read them off slowly, as Barrett jotted down the details in his notebook. When she was done, Barrett looked up. “That last course,’ he said, ‘American Expatriate Literature, being taught by Dr Hugo Knight. That sounds promising. What’s it about?’

  Mrs Lott was in her element now, and suddenly more self-assured. ‘It’s a popular course, and Dr Knight teaches it with great enthusiasm. Yes, Jerry had signed up for it, was taking it, until his trouble. It’s a shame he couldn’t see it through to the final exam and get credit for the course.’

  ‘What does Dr Knight cover in this course?’

  The approach is clever. In his lectures Dr Knight tries to show how the expatriate experience, the feeling of alienation as well as the absorption of foreign mores and backgrounds, the experience of living and creating abroad, has affected the mainstream of American literature, from Nathaniel Hawthorne to Henry James to Ernest Hemingway. The youngsters seem to like it, I gather from my meetings with them, because Dr Knight rather fearlessly touches on the history and influences of those
authors who were avant-garde and too realistic to be published in their native America. Instead they were published in Paris by Jack Kahane’s Obelisk Press, between 1931 and 1939, and by the Olympia Press which his son, Maurice Girodias, established in 1953. Between them, they published Frank Harris, Radclyffe Hall, Henry Miller, Lawrence Durrell, James Hanley, Jean Genet, William Burroughs, all at a time when no one else dared publish such authors. Of course, Dr Knight stresses the American authors.’

  ‘Do you happen to know whether the professor includes Editions

  Etoile, founded by Christian Leroux, and the book I represent, The Seven Minutes, by J J Jadway, in his lectures ?’

  ‘I don’t see how he could have helped but refer to Jadway, at least in passing. You really should ask Dr Knight that question personally. I’m sure you’d find him cooperative. I could set up an appointment for you during his office hours.’

  ‘Like maybe today, Mrs Lott, this afternoon while I’m on the campus ? Dr Knight sounds as if he has the makings of an excellent witness.’

  Almost with relief, Mrs Lott started to reach for her telephone, then thought better of it. ‘I should keep my line open for a call I’m expecting.’ She left her executive chair and hastened to the door. ‘I’ll be only a minute. Let me call Dr Knight’s office.’

  Barrett stood up and massaged his back, and waited.

  In less than a minute, Mrs Lott had returned. ‘You’re in luck, Mr Barrett. His next office period is a half hour from now. I told him who you were and what it is you wanted to know, and he said he’d be happy to make time for you. Here, let me jot down his location on the campus, and I’ll diagram the shortest way you can get there.’

  As she wrote and drew her diagram, something else occurred to Barrett. He waited until she had handed him the piece of paper.

  ‘Just one more thing, Mrs Lott,’ he said. ‘There is someone else I’d like to see, if possible - and undergraduate, a close friend of Jerry Griffith’s. If he’s on campus, and if I could find out where, I’d like to talk to him in the half hour before seeing Dr Knight or right afterward. The young man’s name is George Perkins. I hate to bother you further, but -‘