The Collected Stories

by Leonard Michaels

  “Was he killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “What a pity. Well, I agree completely. You must read and speculate. But is it coming along?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m sorry if I sound worried. I am confident that you will write the paper. A good paper, too. Do you mind if I phone now and then?”

  “Phone any time,” said Nachman.

  He liked Ali’s voice — the way feelings came first and sense followed modestly, a slave. The voice was consistent with Ali’s looks. Nachman wanted to ask, jokingly, if he had a sister, but of course he couldn’t without embarrassing Ali and himself.

  “Can I invite you to dinner?” Ali asked. “You can’t speculate all the time. It will give us a chance to talk.”

  “Sure. Next week.”

  Nachman went back to the reading.

  Metaphysics was words. Nachman had nothing against words, but as a mathematician, he kept trying to read through the words to the concepts. After a while, he believed he understood a little. Bergson raised problems about indeterminate realities. He then offered solutions that seemed determinate. Mathematicians did that, too, but they worked with mathematical objects, not messy speculations and feelings about experience. But then — My God, Nachman thought — metaphysics was something like calculus. Bergson himself didn’t have much respect for mathematics. He thought it was a limited form of intelligence, a way of asserting sovereignty over the material world, but still, to Nachman’s mind, Bergson was a kind of mathematician. He worked with words instead of equations, and arrived at an impressionistic calculus. It was inexact — the opposite of mathematics — but Bergson was a terrific writer, and his writing was musical, not right, not wrong.

  By Monday of the second week, Nachman had read enough. He would reread, and then start writing. He would show that Bergson’s calculus was built into the rhythm and flow of his sentences. Like music, it was full of proposals, approximations, resolutions — accumulating meaning, building into crescendos of truth.

  Ali phoned.

  Nachman said, “No, I haven’t started, but I know what I’m going to say. I love this stuff. I’m glad I read it. Bergson is going to change my life.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. You are marvelous, Nachman. I think the writing will go quickly. Perhaps you will be finished by tomorrow, almost two weeks ahead of time. I never doubted that you would do it.”

  Ali’s faith in Nachman was obviously phony. He was begging Nachman to start. Despite his assertions, Ali lacked confidence. More troubling was Ali’s indifference to Nachman’s enthusiasm. That he didn’t care about metaphysics was all right, but he also didn’t care that Nachman cared. Nachman’s feelings were slightly hurt.

  “It’s only been a week, Ali. Tomorrow is too soon. I still have two weeks to write the paper. I could tell you what I’ll say. Do you want to hear?”

  “I am eager to hear what you will say. So we must have dinner. The telephone is inappropriate. At dinner you can tell me, and I can ask questions. How about tonight? We will eat and talk.”

  “I’m busy. I have my own classes to think about. My work.”

  Surprised by his reproachful tone — was he objecting to a dinner invitation? — Nachman tried to undo its effect. “Tomorrow night, Ali. Would that be good for you?”

  “Not only good, it will be a joy. I will pick you up. I have in mind dinner at Chez Monsieur. The one in Brentwood, of course, not Hollywood.”

  “I never heard of Chez Monsieur in Brentwood or Hollywood. But no restaurant music. I can’t talk if I have to hear restaurant music.” Nachman sighed. He was being a critical beast. Couldn’t he speak in a neutral way? “Oh, you decide, Ali. If you like restaurant music, I’ll live with it.”

  “I’ll tell the maitre d’there must be no music. Also no people at tables near ours.”

  “Do you own the place?”

  “Tomorrow night I will own the place. Have no fear. We will be able to converse. When I make the reservation, I will also discuss our meal with the maitre d’, so we will not have to talk to a waiter. What would you like, Nachman? I can recommend certain soups, and either fowl or fish. Chez Monsieur has never disappointed me in these categories. I don’t want to risk ordering meat dishes. I’ve heard them praised many times by my relatives, but personally, I’d rather not experiment.”

  “Ali, please order anything you like.”

  “But this is for you, not me. I want you to enjoy the meal.”

  Ali’s solicitousness made Nachman uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to being treated with such concern for his pleasure. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

  “And the wine?”

  “The wine? You would like me to decide on the wine? If they run out of wine, I’ll settle for orange soda.”

  “That’s very funny. I’ll come for you at eight. Give me your address.”

  Promptly at eight, Nachman stood outside the house. The limousine appeared one minute later. A door opened. Nachman saw that Ali was wearing a dinner jacket. Nachman was wearing his old gray tweed jacket, jeans, and a white shirt open at the collar. He hadn’t been able to find his tie. In jacket, shirt, jeans, and no tie, Nachman climbed into the limousine.

  Ali greeted him in a jolly spirit, “As you see, Nachman, I’m incapable of defying convention. Not even in California, where defiance is the convention. I must tell you a story. It will make you laugh.”

  There was no uncertain, embarrassed smile flashing and vanishing in the dark face. There was nothing apologetic or needy in his manner. The limousine went sliding down Highland Avenue into the thrill of the city’s billion lights, and Ali talked cheerily. Nachman sank into the embrace of soft gray leather and studied the back of the driver’s head. The limousine smelled good. It seemed to fly. Tinted windows made Nachman invisible to the street. Such privilege and sensuous pleasure. He felt suspicious of it, as if he were being made to believe that he liked something he didn’t like and could never have.

  Ali said, “One evening not long ago — this was after I came to America — when I first started to go out with Sweeny … Have I told you about Sweeny?”

  “No.”

  “She is my girlfriend. Do you go to football games? You would know who she is.”

  “She plays football?”

  Ali paused. He lost his storytelling momentum and seemed to sneer faintly, but the expression quickly changed, became a smile.

  “Sweeny is a cheerleader.”

  Nachman had been unable to resist the joke. The limousine, Ali’s dinner jacket, and Nachman’s embarrassment at his inappropriate attire had made him feel — yes, he named it — like a jerk. Hence, he became a comedian, keeping his dignity by sacrificing it.

  “As I was saying, Nachman, I picked her up at her apartment and I arrived wearing jeans. Sweeny shrieked. Why is Sweeny shrieking? I asked myself. It was because my jeans had been ironed, you see. I laughed. I was being a good sport, laughing at myself. In my heart, I was bitterly ashamed. When she stopped shrieking, Sweeny was able to explain. Ironed jeans, you see, are horrifying. An American would know this, but I had just arrived and I had never before worn jeans. Naturally I had had them ironed. Can you imagine my shame?”

  Ali wanted to make Nachman feel that his outfit was all right. Nachman appreciated his intention, but the word “shame” was telling. Ali thought Nachman looked shameful.

  The limousine stopped in front of a white stucco building with a tile roof. There was no sign, no window, no doorman. Ali led Nachman through an ordinary wooden door, and voilà! Chez Monsieur, a restaurant reserved for those in the know. It was two rooms, one opening into the other, neither very large. The decor was subtly graded tones of gray and ivory. A panel of black marble, like a belt, swept around the rooms. Nachman instinctively recoiled, but tried to cover by asking, “Do you come here often?”

  Ali seemed not to have heard him. Maybe the question was contemptible. A man appeared and shook hands with Ali, then led them through the first room,
which had a bar and several tables occupied by men and women in beautiful evening clothes. Not one head turned to look at Nachman, despite his shameful attire. This crowd, Nachman thought, is as cool as the decor. In the other room, Nachman saw empty tables. All had cloths and plates and napkins, but only one was set with silver and glasses. Ali had reserved the entire room.

  Waiters came and went. Dishes were placed before Nachman, wine was poured, dishes were removed. Everything was done with speed and grace, in silence. Ali chattered happily from one course to the next, describing the preparation of the soup and fish. He was playing the gracious host. Nachman glanced up now and then and said, “Good.”

  “I’m so pleased you like it,” Ali said.

  Nachman was beginning to feel resentful again. He disliked the feeling. It had surprised him repeatedly in the past few days. That afternoon, before meeting Ali, Nachman had imagined with excitement how he would talk about the paper. But Ali was absorbed by the food and the sense of himself as a man who knew where and how to eat. Nachman thought the restaurant seemed too old for Ali, who was in the prime of life, the lover of the mythical Georgia Sweeny. Did he really care so much about food? Nachman remembered Norbert’s comment about Georgia Sweeny. It now seemed less vulgar than healthy.

  They finished a bottle of wine. Another bottle was set on the table. Ali had signaled for it with a nod or a glance. Nachman hadn’t noticed. He’d already had a lot to drink. His attention was diffuse. He forgot about the paper. Ali now talked about Sweeny. He wanted to spend some years in Teheran, but Sweeny refused to live with restrictions on how she could dress. It was a perplexity. The chador was peasant attire, of course, but even at the higher levels some women found it pleasing. Ali laughed at the idea of Sweeny in a chador. After all, she appeared nearly naked before a hundred thousand people on Saturday afternoons. Nachman laughed, too, though he wasn’t sure why. Intermittently, he said things like “I see” and “Is that so?” He was hypnotized by pleasant boredom. It struck him that lots of people go through life without ever talking seriously about anything, let alone Bergson’s metaphysics.

  The table was cleared, the cloth swept clean, and reset with fresh glasses and an ashtray. Ali ordered port. He settled back in his chair. A fine sheen of perspiration appeared below his dark eyes. The port arrived in a black bottle with a dull yellow label. It was held over a small flame and decanted. The taste was thick and sweet, sliding along the tongue. Ali offered Nachman a cigar. Nachman didn’t smoke cigars, but he accepted it anyway. They clipped the ends. Ali held a cigarette lighter to Nachman’s cigar and said, “Tell me, Nachman. It must be nearly finished, am I right?”

  Nachman drew against the flame. He flourished the cigar and exhaled a stream of white smoke. “It’s finished,” he said, an air of dismissive superiority in his tone.

  “Marvelous. I’ve been dying to hear about it.”

  “Hear about what?”

  “The paper.”

  “Right. Well, it’s coming along.”

  “You just said it was finished.”

  “I mean in my head. Writing is a tedious chore. I’ll put it in the mail by Friday.”

  Ali reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small card. He handed it to Nachman. Ali’s name, address, and telephone number were inscribed in brilliant black ink. He said, “Could you give me a sense of the paper?”

  Nachman cleared his throat, then laid the cigar in the ashtray and brushed his napkin across his lips. Earlier, he’d been eager to talk about the paper. He had no heart for it now. Ali sensed Nachman’s reluctance. His dark eyes enlarged by a tiny degree and his mouth shaped itself with feeling. A subtle swelling, almost a pout, appeared in the lower lip. Nachman suddenly felt an intense desire to give Ali a pleasure that was worth ten thousand dinners, the undying pleasure of an idea. Nachman decided to say everything, to make it felt.

  “I will begin the paper with a discussion of Zeno’s paradox, then move swiftly to Leibniz’s invention of calculus. Then, then comes the metaphysics, but a good deal, Ali, depends on how I imitate Bergson’s musical style, particularly as I elucidate his idea of intuition. I could put it all in a simple logical progression, but the argument would be sterile, unnatural, and unconvincing. Don’t misunderstand me. Bergson is not some kind of rhetorician, but it is critical to understand what he means when he talks about intuition, and for this you must see why his style, his music, his way of advancing an argument by a sort of layering …”

  Ali interrupted: “I told Sweeny about your extraordinary grasp of metaphysics.”

  Nachman hesitated. Ali raised an eyebrow and smiled. His expression intimated that, speaking man to man, Sweeny was relevant to metaphysics.

  “She said she would love to meet you.”

  “Me?” A sensation of heat suffused Nachman, filling him with a confusion of hurt and rage.

  “It isn’t inconceivable that you would enjoy her company.”

  The remark had a provocative thrust.

  “I don’t object to meeting Sweeny.”

  “You sound reluctant, Nachman.” Ali was teasingly ironic, with an edge of contempt.

  “I wasn’t thinking about meeting anyone.”

  “Sweeny would be the first to admit that she isn’t an intellectual. Don’t imagine otherwise. She has no pretensions of that sort. Perhaps you object to wasting time with people who aren’t intellectuals.”

  “I know plenty of people who aren’t intellectuals.”

  “Sweeny has other virtues. There is more to life than intellect.”

  “I’m not crazy about intellectuals. Norbert is my best friend and he is an idiot. What are Sweeny’s other virtues?”

  “She is a woman who exists for the eyes. Some things shouldn’t be described in words; among them are women like Sweeny. It cannot be done without desecration. That’s the reason for the chador. A man shouldn’t share his woman with other men, but I will make an exception for you. The three of us will go out some evening. Do you like to dance?”

  “I can’t dance.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t intellectual enough.”

  “I also can’t swim. These things are related.”

  “How are they related?”

  “I’m deficient in buoyancy, you know what I mean? To dance you must be light on your feet. Buoyant, as in water.”

  “There is something heavy in your nature, Nachman.”

  “I can’t even float, Ali. If I lie down in the water, I sink.”

  “Well, Nachman, you don’t have to dance. It would be enough to talk to Sweeny about metaphysics. She has never met a man who could tell her about metaphysics.”

  The conversation was more like Ping-Pong than a fight with knives, and yet the hostility was obvious. Ali didn’t want to hear about the paper. Ali didn’t want to hear about Bergson or metaphysics. He was flaunting Sweeny, even giving her to Nachman, though not quite as he had given him the superb dinner. Ali’s generosity had been reduced to an insulting message. Nachman could have wine and port and a Cuban cigar. Some night he could dance with Sweeny. But with all the metaphysics in the world, he could never have a girlfriend like her.

  There was no business with the check. There was no check. Ali simply stood and walked away from the table. Nachman followed him. The limousine was waiting. They climbed inside. It slipped away from the building and gained a dreamlike speed. Nachman felt an impulse to lean over the seat in front of him and look at the driver’s face. But what if there were no face, only another back of a head?

  He wondered how much Ali had paid for the dinner. The room at Chez Monsieur must have cost at least a few thousand dollars. And the dinner itself? Another two thousand? A bottle of wine could be five hundred. Nachman was guessing, but he couldn’t be far off. Two bottles of wine, and then the port. There was also the tip.

  “Ali, do you mind if I ask a question? How much did you tip the headwaiter and the others?”

  “One doesn’t tip servants.”

  Nach
man should have known that waiters were servants. He was embarrassed, but he was also high, and he continued blithely thinking about the cost of dinner. Even if Ali didn’t tip servants, he’d probably spent five thousand dollars, and not even the faintest shadow of a thought related to the cost of anything had appeared in his eyes. Nachman suddenly felt illuminated by a truth. Why not spend five thousand dollars on dinner? They had eaten well. The service had been magical. They had sipped port and puffed on their cigars, which must have cost a fortune, perhaps even the lives of Cubans who smuggled them past the Coast Guard. Nachman felt that he was on the verge of grasping the complexities at the highest levels of the universe.

  Ali looked splendid and triumphant. He had allowed Nachman to see him as a man who knows how to live and how to include a person like Nachman in the experience of living. He hadn’t listened to anything about the paper. He’d made Nachman feel meaningless. The idea of himself as meaningless compared with Ali made Nachman chuckle.

  Ali said, “What’s funny?” He was smiling, ready to enjoy Nachman’s funny thought.

  “I’ve never had an evening like this. Thanks, Ali.”

  “We must do it again soon. With Sweeny.”

  Nachman was awakened the following day by the telephone. He slid out of bed and stood naked with the phone in his hand.

  “I wish you had been there, Norbert,” he crowed. “You wouldn’t believe how much Ali spent on dinner.”

  “How much?”

  “Eleven, maybe twelve.”

  “Twelve hundred. Wow.”

  “Thousand.”

  There was silence.

  Nachman continued, “As for the paper, by the end of the week it will be in the mail to Ali.”

  “That’s fantastic, Nachman, but don’t bother mailing it. I’ll come pick it up. You’ve done enough.”

  Nachman detected a strain of reservation in Norbert’s voice. What a person says isn’t always what a person means. If Norbert said what he was thinking, fully and precisely, he might have to talk for an hour. And yet Nachman heard everything in that tiny reservation. Norbert was jealous. Ali had spent thousands on a dinner for Nachman. Norbert wanted to be the one to give the paper to Ali. Personally.