Americana

by Don DeLillo

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “Out here in the Midwest. How’s everything in Gramercy Park? Bombs, strikes, riots, plague?”

  “Everything’s fine here but I’ve had some upsetting news from Turkey. Mother is in a hospital in Ankara. She’s been drinking again. I guess it got really bad. She fell down some steps.”

  “I wish I could be with you.”

  “So do I, David.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think we’ve both matured,” I said.

  “Has the trip been good for you?”

  “Whole new perspective.”

  “Before I forget, David, I saw my cousin Edwina a few days ago. You’ve heard me talk about her. She’s the cousin I stayed with when I was in London that time. Her husband is here on business and they just spent three days in New York. They’re in Boston now and they’re going to Toronto next and then to Chicago. They’re spending just two days in Chicago and I thought if you were close by you could go and see them. Edwina doesn’t know a soul there and Charles will be going to meetings all day long.”

  I wrote down the details and then commiserated with her some more about her mother’s health. I asked if there were any exciting new men in her life. She was noncommittal.

  “Listen,” I said. “Guess what? I dream in color.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I had a dream the other night about a big blue bus on a desert highway. When I woke up I was absolutely sure the bus was blue. It was the first time I knew for sure that I dream in color.”

  “David, that’s great.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take care of yourself now. Have a good time. Good luck with the Indians. And do try to get to Chicago.”

  “It was nice talking to you, Merry.”

  “It was sweet of you to call, David.”

  My father’s secretary said he was in a meeting. I told her I was calling long-distance and that it was a matter of some urgency. She said she’d get him.

  “What’s up, sport?”

  “How are you, dad? Working hard?”

  “We just picked up some P and G business. A whole new line of toiletries they’ve come out with. This country is toilet-oriented. You know that as well as I do. We spend all our time in the toilet. We do everything in there but shit and piss. Maxine, go type that call report. The toilet is holy soil. Understand what I’m talking about?”

  “Sounds like it might be a good account.”

  “What’s on your mind, Dave? Where the hell are you anyway?”

  “I’m out here in the Midwest.”

  “You need any money I’ll have Maxine wire it right out.”

  “No, no, I just called to ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You never talked much about your experiences in the war. All I ever knew was that you served in the Pacific and got wounded a few times and received several decorations for valor. I was just wondering if you could tell me a little more about it.”

  “I don’t talk about that,” he said.

  “That’s what everybody says. But they all talk about it in the end.”

  “Not me, pally.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s nothing to say. It’s all over. You want to know what it was like, there are plenty of books on the subject.”

  “I want to know what it was like for you, not for other people. It’s for something I’m writing.”

  “I buried a man alive,” he said.

  “Where was this, dad?”

  “Some cruddy island. And don’t sound so mournful.”

  “I won’t ask you about it anymore. I’m sorry. It was for something I’m writing. Any word from Jane?”

  “The kid’s better. And Jane’s knocked up again.”

  “I wonder if Mary has any children.”

  “Don’t talk about Mary. There is no Mary.”

  “Remember what you told me about the kite-soul? The thing mother said when she was pregnant with Mary? That it was the kite-soul of her mother? You thought there was something Oriental about the phrase. In a way you were right. It comes from one of the children’s books that mother used to keep in the bedroom. The book was so old it was falling apart. I just happened to be leafing through it one day and there was the phrase. It was a translation of a book for Japanese children. Beautifully illustrated.”

  “You like to hold on to small pieces of information, don’t you? What else do you know that I don’t? I’ll tell you something, kid—I know more than you think. A lot more.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You better believe it. What’s this thing you’re writing?”

  “Filmscript.”

  “Back on that kick again, are you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m growing a beard,” he said. “It’s coming right along. I’m not doing any trimming yet. I’ll let it grow out to a big white flowing mane. There’s a lot of white in it but it looks good. Wait’ll you get back. It’ll be all over my face by then.”

  “What are you growing a beard for?”

  “Every man wants to grow a beard before he dies. It’s one way of saying fuck you to everybody. Look, I’m nearing the finish line. I want a beard. It cheers me up just to look at it in the mirror. I’m not doing any trimming for at least another two weeks. If at all. If at all.”

  “I can’t picture you with a beard.”

  “What do you sound so upset about?”

  “I don’t know, dad. It just seems strange. It changes things. I can’t explain it.”

  “Look, I have to get my ass into that meeting. Give me a blast on the horn when you get back to the city. We’ll have lunch.”

  “Right, dad. Don’t work too hard.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” he said.

  I got my address book out of my wallet and tried to find some kind of listing for Ken Wild. I found his parents’ phone number and address, which was that of a Chicago suburb. I got his father and told him I was an old college friend who wanted to get in touch. He said Ken was living in Chicago and he gave me both his home and office numbers. He said it was nice to hear from any friend of Ken’s. He said any time I was in River Forest to drop over and use the swimming pool. I called Wild at the office.

  “You are cordially invited to a black mass at your local martello tower. Roman collar. R.S.V.P.”

  “Oh Jesus,” he said. “It can’t be.”

  “It is.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Nearby I think. At least relatively. I’ve been looking for your name, Wild. The Pulitzer committee has been strangely silent.”

  “My muse turned out to be a dike.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m a project manager for my father’s industrial systems outfit.”

  “I just talked to your father. He said I could use the swimming pool.”

  “Guilt,” Wild said. “How long’s it been? Six or seven years, hasn’t it?”

  “Seven,” I said. “You married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “So you’re a project manager.”

  “Secret glee in your voice. What are you doing?”

  “Making films,” I said. “I’ve made a few documentaries. Sort of working my way up to a feature. I’m doing it all on an independent basis. Tek-Howard’s been distributing my stuff. I’m on location now and I may have to get up there in a few days to pick up some equipment. That’s what made me think of calling. Maybe we can get together.”

  “Great,” he said. “Look forward to it, I really do.”

  I felt better than I had in quite some time. Once again I got the network. I asked for Weede Denney. I reached over, got a handkerchief out of my pants pocket and put it over the mouthpiece. Then I heard Mrs. Kling’s eternally reproving voice, a model for impeachment proceedings.

  “Mr. Denney’s office. He’s nowhere in sight.”

  “This is SDS. There
’s an invisible liquid device in your water cooler and it’s programmed to explode the very second you put your phone back on the cradle.”

  I hung up, checked the address book again and found a number for Leighton Gage College. I asked to be connected with Simmons St. Jean.

  “Still there, Simmons? This is David Bell. Remember me?”

  “Certainly. What do you want?”

  “I’m making films these days. Shooting in 16. Sort of working my way up to 35.”

  “Can you talk fast? I’m leaving for Marrakech in a matter of minutes.”

  “How are you, Simmons? Still saving every copy of Cahiers du Cinéma? Listen, have you seen the new Bergman? More depressing than ever. I saw it just before I left New York. I’m out here in the Midwest working on my film. It’s a very personal statement.”

  “Bergman is a prime example of the filmmaker as mortician. His films suffer from rigor mortis. I haven’t looked at anything of his since the first mention of the spider-god. The new Paramount comedy-western is worth any number of Bergman’s exegetical nightmares.”

  “Same old Simmons. Great to talk to you, Simmons. Remember Wendy Judd? She’s living in New York these days. Absolute wildcat in bed. Now here’s why I called. Remember the snowfall scene in Ikiru? The old man has cancer. He goes to a playground and sits on a swing. It begins to snow. I think it’s the most beautiful scene ever put on film. Now this is what I want to find out. One: did Kurosawa shoot up at the old man? Two: did he shoot the whole scene without cutting? Three: did the old man swing on the swing or did he remain stationary? I’ve seen Ikiru three times but the last time was almost five years ago. And the scene I’m talking about is so beautiful that I always forget to study it, to see how he did it. I thought if anyone would know, you would.”

  “I’ve never seen Ikiru,” he said.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “As for Wendy Judd, I tended to think of her as a sort of wild mouse rather than cat. I mean she loved to nibble, didn’t she?”

  “Simmons, you’re lying. You’re a lying sack of shit, Simmons. What do you plan to do in Marrakech—attend an Arab cartoon festival?”

  I hung up and took a nap. When I came to, it was after five. I called downstairs and gave them Jennifer Fine’s number.

  “Jennifer, it’s David. David Bell.”

  “Of course,” she said finally.

  “I wasn’t sure you were still living at the same place but I figured what the hell, what could it cost me. I’m out here in the Midwest. In case I’m not coming through too well, that’s why.”

  “I can hear you.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Maybe I shouldn’t have called. I just wanted to say hello. Nothing special. I’m naked and I’ve been calling people all over the country. I just wanted to say that I know how badly I treated you when we were seeing each other. You called me a fascist. Remember? That was a funny night in a way. At least it seems funny now, although at the time it was anything but. I think I’ve matured a lot since then, Jennifer. But I didn’t mean to bring that up. I didn’t have any special reason for calling. Just to talk. Sometimes on the phone the words just come out.”

  “My cat died,” she said.

  “I guess I didn’t know you had a cat. That’s too bad. I know how people sometimes get attached to animals. I’m really sorry to hear that. I’m out here making a film.”

  “She must have died this afternoon. The cleaning woman was in this morning and she didn’t call me at the office so she must have died this afternoon. I came home from work and she was dead.”

  “That really is a shame.”

  “She’s still on the floor. I can’t bear to touch her.”

  “Jennifer, I think the best thing for me to do would be to hang up so you can call somebody to come over there and give you a hand. I’m sorry about everything. I’ll get in touch with you when I get back to the city. We’ll have lunch. I’m going to hang up now. Goodbye.”

  I put down the phone and then looked up Weede Denney’s home number. I put the handkerchief over the mouthpiece again. Weede answered.

  “This is Ted Warburton,” I said. “I just want you to know that you’re an overbearing jabberwock. You’re a bloody fucking baldheaded sod.”

  I hung up, told the voice to get me Westchester information and asked for Valerio, Old Holly. The operator said there were two Valerios listed, Annette and Joseph. Annette, I recalled, was the name of Tommy’s mother. I wrote down the number. A man answered the phone.

  “Is this where Tommy Valerio used to live?” I said. “I’m trying to get in touch with Tommy. We’re old friends.”

  “Get in touch with Tommy?”

  “Can you tell me where he is?”

  “Tommy’s been dead three years.”

  “What happened?”

  “He got killed in the war.”

  “What happened?” I said. “I mean how did it happen?”

  “What can I tell you? K.I.A. He got killed in action. He was a second lieutenant. He had all these men under him. Annette, how many men Tommy had under him? Anyway the President sent a letter. The President himself sent a letter to Tommy’s mother.”

  “How’s Mrs. Valerio?”

  “She’s fine. We’re in the middle of dinner here.”

  “You must be Tommy’s uncle. I think we met once or twice. My name is Dave Bell. Tommy and I were buddies.”

  “I don’t recall him mentioning any Dave Bell. We’re in the middle of dinner but maybe you want to talk to his mother. She’s right here. It’s somebody named Dave Bell.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m talking to her. Friend of Tommy, he says. She’s right here. Hold on.”

  “Don’t bother. Tell her not to bother. I’m interrupting your dinner.”

  “She’s right here.”

  “I have to go now. Tell her I’m sorry.”

  “He said he’s sorry.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “She wants to know for what.”

  I called Wendy Judd at her apartment.

  “It’s David. I’m going to ask you something. I want a straightforward factual answer. Did you ever go to bed with Simmons St. Jean back in the old days at Leighton Gage?”

  “Who was he?”

  “Film theory and criticism.”

  “Pale attractive guy with spooky eyes?”

  “I guess that’s a fair description.”

  “It’s really none of your business, is it, David?”

  I hung up and called Carol Deming at McCompex. It was several minutes before she came to the phone.

  “How about a drink and then dinner?” I said. “We can meet at Buster’s. I don’t know where we can get something half-decent to eat in this town but maybe you can suggest a place. What’s the story on seafood out here? I’m about dying for some fried shrimp.”

  “I just saw Austin. He seems enthused about whatever it is you two did earlier today. When’s my turn?”

  “We can talk about it.”

  “David, that’s what I get all day in this place. Theater is talk. Motivations, sentiments, speeches, interpretations.”

  “The broken neck of the alphabet.”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “I’m still working things out in terms of what I need you for. Let’s have dinner and discuss it.”

  “David, I don’t want to talk. Really I don’t. Not to anyone. Just give me something to play. An idea, a role, a masquerade. Something the camera will understand even if no one else does. I’m trying to be direct.”

  “Look, a couple of drinks, that’s all. One drink. I’m at Ames House in the center of town. I can walk to Buster’s in fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  I had four drinks and she didn’t show up. Finally I went across the street to the camper. Brand was alone in there, reclining on one of the cots, hands behind his head.

  “It’s happening,” he said. “I can feel it in my skull. The old violence. I thought it
was gone but I can feel it coming back. Correctly or not I associate blandness with nonviolence. That’s why I want to be bland. To use bland words. Do bland things. I’ve been trying not to arouse the old instincts. You can arouse them with words, mainly slang words. The theory may seem stupid. Unproven at best. But it’s true for me. And the thing is back. The old urge. Better keep your eye on me.”

  “You keep appearing and disappearing and reappearing,” I said. “You’ve always been like that. I’ve never known exactly who you were. I’ve always liked you, Bobby. At least I’ve liked most of the different forms you take. But then you go away and come back different and I have to adjust. Which one do I keep my eye on?”

  “Blandness would seem to be the easiest thing in the world to achieve. Physically I’m there. I’ve made it. I look like a million other people. Ten million. But inside my head the action is constant. I went to hard stuff to slow it down. I smoke grass to slow it down. But I can’t slow it anymore. The old action. Zap those hostiles. Davy, you don’t know what it’s like to lay down some 20 mike-mike on a village. See it fall apart. Come down low and strafe a hootch or two. Your cans of nape. Your 500-pounders. Your rockets. I jumped a guy on a bike once. He was pedaling along outside a village. It was known to be hostile. I dropped down behind him, way behind him, and followed him up the road a bit, flying real low. When I was about a hundred meters behind him, I laid my fire all around him. He busted like a teacup. You see, there’s a primal joy to hitting a thing in motion. It’s one of the oldest pleasures there is. Something moves, boom, you wing it. Beast, bird or human, the thing to do is knock it down. It’s primal, Davy. It’s basic to the origin of the species. I’m learning to live with it.”

  * * *

  Spared the nervous motorized genius of his father’s eye, Bud Yost seemed typical in every way, the beneficiary of a morally solid upbringing, temperate weather and a balanced diet. He was somewhat large for his age and there was a slight quake to his movements, as if he were standing on a rocking chair. He came walking out of a passageway onto the empty floor of the high school gym, wearing his basketball uniform, white with gold trim and lettering. I had asked him to wear number nine if possible, my old number in prep school, but nine belonged to a kid six feet six and 235, so Bud wore his own uniform, eleven, Ft. Curtis High in gold script across the front. I took some readings and told him to do whatever he wanted out on the court and to pay no attention to the camera or to me. I shot first from above, from the row of seats high over the court. Alone on the slick and burnt-yellow floor of the gymnasium, weaving slowly downcourt, feinting, changing speed, he tossed in an easy lay-up. Then he went to jump shots, first from in close, then a few feet farther out, then farther, the ball sounding strange as it hit the floor or rim or backboard or slapped through the net, echoes melting into duplicates of original sounds. After a while I went down to court-level and got on one knee beneath the backboard and shot straight out at him. He pumped in four in a row from the top of the key, missed two, hit two more from the corner. He was good. He had a good eye and he was much less awkward running or shooting than he was just plain walking. Crouched low, left elbow hooked out, he dribbled around the key and hit from twenty feet. I stopped filming and took off my shoes and shirt. We had a one-on-one drill, taking turns on offense, and it went on for what seemed an hour, not a word passing between us. He was too fast for me and my shooting was way off. I was nearly in tears when I finally called a halt, bending over, trying to catch my breath, washed up at twenty-eight and resigned to a future of crumpled pieces of paper and khaki wastebaskets in the rooms of marooned hotels. I sat on the floor and began lacing my shoes.