The Collected Stories

by Leonard Michaels

  “No trouble, Norbert. Besides, I’m going out of town on Friday. My mother moved to San Diego. I have to see her new house. I’ll stick the paper in the mail. When I return, say late Monday, Ali will have read the paper, and you’ll have a thousand bucks.”

  “A percentage.”

  “Fifty percent.”

  “Too generous.”

  “I wouldn’t have met Ali, if not for you. What’s money? It’s soon spent. A friendship never. What a dinner.”

  “Nachman, I don’t know what Ali spent, but it wasn’t eleven thousand dollars, so don’t jerk me off. I’m not stupid. I’ll accept an agent’s percentage. Say twenty-five percent.”

  “Are we in business, Norbert? If we’re in business, we’re partners.”

  Nachman enjoyed the heat of his feeling long after he said goodbye.

  On Friday, he didn’t leave town. He hadn’t finished writing the paper, but that was only because he hadn’t begun.

  Ali phoned on Monday.

  “It didn’t arrive?” Nachman said.“I mailed it from my mother’s house in San Diego. She had a nice house in Northridge, but decided to sell it because real estate in her neighborhood went way up in value. She said to sleep in Northridge was like snoring money away. I used the address on your card. Is it correct?”

  “Why would I put the wrong address on my card?”

  “You sound angry.”

  “I am not a person who feels anger. Do you think the postal service is reliable?”

  “We will go to the post office and initiate a search.”

  “The paper is lost?”

  “Ali, if the paper doesn’t arrive tomorrow, we will go to the post office and you will see a man who feels anger.”

  “I appreciate your sincerity.”

  Nachman stayed home the next day waiting for the phone to ring. The phone didn’t ring. Nachman began to wonder why not. He was tempted to phone Ali and ask whether the paper had arrived. He glanced at the phone repeatedly, but didn’t touch it.

  Late in the afternoon, there was a soft knock at the door. Nachman hurried to open it. It was a girl. She was average height, blond, very pretty. If Nachman had had to describe her to the police ten minutes from then, he could have said only that. Average height, blond, very pretty. She wore a blue cardigan the color of her eyes. She had left the cardigan open, revealing a skimpy, bright yellow cheerleader’s outfit.

  She said, “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Are you Nachman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “He sent you?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Nachman stepped back. She walked in, glanced around the apartment, and said, “This isn’t bad. I mean, for a basement apartment. The light is nice. It could be real dark in here, but it isn’t.”

  “Have a seat,” said Nachman.

  She sat on Nachman’s sofa, her purse in her lap, her posture rather prim. She smiled pleasantly at Nachman and said, “Ali doesn’t know what he did or said to offend you. But he is sorry. He hopes you’ll forgive him.”

  “He is sorry?”

  “Yes, he is sorry. He wants the paper.”

  “The paper didn’t arrive?”

  “Is this happening, Nachman?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What do you think? What am I doing in your apartment? Isn’t this crazy?”

  She laughed. Her expression became at once pathetic and self-mocking. “Two men who, as far as I can tell, aren’t brain damaged can’t talk to each other plainly. And I’m late for cheerleading practice.”

  “Go, then,” Nachman said.

  “Don’t you think you owe Ali something? He took you to dinner. He intends to pay you a thousand bucks for the paper.”

  “It’s in the mail.”

  “Nachman, come on, be nice. Ali has an embassy job. We can’t leave the country until he graduates. The paper is his passport. Won’t you give it to me?”

  “It’s in the mail.”

  “Even a rough draft would do.”

  “Let’s go to the post office.”

  “Oh, please, Ali went yesterday. I’ve been there twice today. Look, I brought a tape recorder.” She took it from her purse and held it up. “See this little machine? You talk to it. Tonight I’ll type up what you said.”

  Sweeny was trying to seem amusing, but her voice was importunate and rather teary, and then she bent forward, her face in her hands. “I’m not good at this,” she said. “It happens all the time. We go for a drive and Ali gets lost, so he pulls over at a street corner and tells me to ask some guys for directions. Man, we’re in the barrio. I don’t want to ask those guys anything. He says, ‘You’re a blond girl. They will tell you whatever you want to know.’”

  Nachman wanted to embrace her and say, “There, there,” but worried that she would misinterpret the gesture.

  She said, “I’m in the middle of this, Nachman. I don’t even know what’s going on. Ali is being mean to me. All I know is, it’s your fault. Do you hate Ali? He’s suffered so much in his life.”

  “Suffered? Ali is a prince, isn’t he?”

  “Ali descends from the Qajar dynasty. It was deposed in 1924 by the shah’s father, Reza Shah. Ali’s father owned villages, and beautiful gardens around Teheran. So much was taken away. They’re still multimillionaires, but they have sad memories. Can you imagine how much they lost? It’s really sad. Don’t laugh. How can Ali think about schoolwork? You’re laughing, Nachman. Please give me the paper. I’m really late for cheerleading practice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sweeny was on her feet. She said, “I guess I should go,” and gave her head a small defeated shake. “Ali tells me you’re a smart guy, but I don’t believe you understand the simplest thing.”

  Nachman said, “Practice can wait. I’ll tell you about the paper.”

  Sweeny pursed her lips and frowned. “All right.”

  “Let’s start with the idea of time. Tick tock, tick tock. That’s how we measure time. With a clock. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Each tick is separate from each tock. Each is a distinct and static unit. Each tock and tick is a particle that does not endure. It is replaced by another particle. Like cards shuffled in a deck. Do you see?”

  “This is intense.” She grinned. Her mood changed radically. She was playing the moron for him. Nachman felt charmed, beginning to adore her a little bit.

  “Each particle occupies the space occupied by the previous particle, or card or tick or tock. Do you follow me?”

  “Like ‘Hickory dickory dock.’”

  “But the point is that ‘tick tock’ is an abstraction. A spatial idea about measuring time. It’s nothing at all like the real experience of time. Real experience is fluid, as in a melody — la, la, la. Real human experience is different from an idea of experience. When you make love, time doesn’t exist, isn’t that true?”

  Her mouth dropped open with mock amazement, and Nachman smiled and wondered about what could never happen between them.

  “Making love is an example. I just thought of it. The nursery rhyme ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ is funny. It’s mechanical. Love isn’t funny. Love is an example of what’s real.”

  “I’ll just turn on the tape recorder.”

  “Sit down.”

  Sweeny sat.

  Nachman was startled. He hadn’t intended to order her to sit. But he had, and she had obeyed. There she was, a pretty blond Sweeny sitting on his sofa. Nachman felt a surge of gratification. Also power. He blushed and turned away so that she wouldn’t see her effect on him.

  She continued to sit and watch Nachman, entirely natural except for the tape recorder which lay in her lap, waiting upon his next words.

  “As I was saying,” Nachman said, now addressing the ceiling, “we measure time by dividing it into tick tock, and this has nothing to do with … Look, if you can measure a thing, then you are talking
about something that can change. Anything that can change is subject to death. The opposite of death is not life, it’s love. How can I talk to you about Bergson? This won’t do, Sweeny.”

  “Why can’t you talk to me?”

  “No damn tape recorder.”

  Nachman’s voice had become hoarse. He felt a warmth in his chest and face, as if something had blossomed within because of this girl with her naked thighs and short yellow skirt. What he felt was the most common thing in the world, but Nachman didn’t think it was uninteresting. He was inclined to do something. What? He could sit down beside her. The rest would take care of itself.

  “Why not?”

  Nachman was jarred. The question returned him to himself. He didn’t sit down beside her.

  “Why not?” Nachman sighed. “I don’t know why not. I suppose it’s because I want you to understand me. I mean, I want you to get it. This is all about intuition, which is about real experience, where everything begins. You simply have to get it. I don’t know what I mean. Maybe I don’t mean anything.” Raising his voice, Nachman said, “Please put the tape recorder away.”

  Sweeny stood up, aghast, the tape recorder in her hand. She whispered, “Do you have something to say or not?”

  Nachman shouldn’t have said “please.” He should have ordered Sweeny to put the tape recorder away. He’d been cowardly, unsure of his power. Now he had no power. He reached for the tape recorder and drew it slowly from her hand. She let it go. In the gesture of release, Nachman felt their connection falter. Sweeny’s eyes enlarged as if to make a sky, a vastness wherein Nachman felt minuscule. He was a dot of being that subsisted within her blue light. A dot; no Nachman at all beyond what Sweeny perceived. He’d never been looked at that way by a woman. His knees trembled. He couldn’t think. She said, “I don’t believe you are interested in talking to me,” and started toward the door.

  Nachman called, “Wait!”

  Sweeny stopped and looked back at him. He held the tape recorder toward her. She took it and said, “Ali ought to have his head examined.” An instant later, she was gone.

  Nachman sat at his small kitchen table and looked out the window. He rarely had visitors in his apartment, and yet he had never felt so alone. As the light failed, the trees became darker. Soon they were black shapes against the pink-green glow of sunset. Just before twilight became full night, a ghostly-looking dog appeared, sniffing about amid the ice plants. It sensed Nachman’s eyes and lifted its head and faced him. Nachman realized that it was a coyote, not a dog. His heart beat with excitement, and his eyesight sharpened. He could see a glistening patina of moonlight on the coyote’s nose. Nachman’s neck muscles stiffened as he met the coyote’s stare.

  The next morning, Nachman went to the post office. He asked about an envelope addressed to Prince Ali Massid. The clerk was unable to find it, and called for the supervisor. Nachman told the supervisor about the envelope. The supervisor said he would initiate a search. Nachman returned the next day. There was no envelope. There was nothing the next day, either.

  Nachman went regularly to the post office in the weeks that followed. He asked Norbert to go with him a few times. Norbert trudged sullenly at Nachman’s side. There was hardly any conversation. Once, Nachman said in a soft voice, “Did you really need that tattoo?”

  “Did Ali really need a paper?” said Norbert. He sounded unhappy.

  Eventually, Norbert stopped going to the post office, and Nachman went less and less frequently. Then he, too, stopped. But over the years, he continued to remember Ali’s handsome face and Sweeny’s beseeching expression, and he remembered the supervisor who had looked at him suspiciously and asked with a skeptical tone, “You’re sure you mailed it?” Nachman wasn’t sure, even now, but then he hardly remembered having written the paper, not one word.

  Nachman at the Races

  PEOPLE CALLED NACHMAN NACHMAN, as if he were a historical figure. He couldn’t remember anyone ever using his first name, not even his mother. Maybe there were some kids in elementary school, but that was long ago. Now that he was a professor of mathematics, forty-eight years old, the name was famous among mathematicians. “Nachman,” they said, and that’s all, as if to use his title would diminish him. Having never been called by his first name, Nachman felt he’d never had a childhood, and he sometimes thought he was compensating for it by going to the races. It was a kind of playing, the only kind he knew — playing the horses.

  Being a mathematician, naturally Nachman had a system for betting, but he considered it sufficient to believe his system worked. He never tested it scientifically. He was confident of its power. It even frightened him a little to think he could name the winning horse almost anytime. Occasionally, after reading the Daily Racing Form and tip sheets, Nachman felt tempted to name the winner — but only out of curiosity — and he’d been right often enough to believe he could be right almost always. He had no intention of exerting himself further, and actually applying his knowledge.

  After looking at the forms, Nachman always walked to the ring where he studied the horses being displayed just before the race. In his eyes there was nothing more beautiful than a racehorse. The line of its neck and rump, the colors of its coat, the elegance of its slender ankles, and the light flashing along its muscles as it moved, and simply the way it moved. This collection of living elements, this singular and splendid life, this was a racehorse. Nachman knew the names of hundreds of racehorses, and he could tell you the statistics associated with their careers.

  He loved everything about an afternoon at the track, from the display of the horses to the sight of them walking to the gate and then the race itself. It was a grand ritual, and it stirred the deepest sense of gratification in Nachman. He loved the trumpet, the sound of the announcer’s voice, the people in the stands, and even how they lined up at the betting windows.

  As for Nachman’s system, it had simply come to mind one day. He wasn’t trying to invent a system. It had presented itself to him. This isn’t remarkable, he thought. Ideas come and go. The mind is an independent operator. But peculiar to Nachman’s mind was its recognition of problems, and its systematic attack on the unknown. Whether he liked it or not, his mind had produced a system. It was a matter of statistics, which were supplied by the Racing Form and various tip sheets. The statistics were based on different sorts of measurements, but Nachman didn’t need a computer to reconcile one set of statistics with another. He didn’t even need pencil and paper. His eyes took in the numbers, his mind adjusted the averages, and the winner emerged — almost always, it seemed, if he bothered to think about it and do the calculations.

  You could say, “Nachman, if you have a system and you don’t use it, you’re betting against yourself.” He would agree. But there would be no pleasure, no drama, no excitement in the betting. The races would be just a way to make money. Nachman cared little about money. His university salary was more than he could use. He also made money when he traveled and gave lectures. An unmarried man who lived alone, with no expensive tastes, Nachman had enough money.

  He went to the races and, unthinkingly, placed his bets like someone without a system, giving himself only as much chance of winning as anyone else. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. This is how it should be, he thought, and he cheered and shouted with everyone else, the regular people. It was Nachman’s deepest pleasure to feel like everyone else, regular, not like a freak, a mental monster, who, because of his mechanical gift for numbers, could know the winners before almost every race.

  It was also Nachman’s pleasure to say hello to people who recognized him as a regular at the track. He knew few of their names, but he recognized their faces and they recognized him, which made him feel at home. A black man named Horace sometimes called out to him: “Hey, Nachman, how you doing?” or “Hey, Nachman, that’s a snazzy tie.” Once, Horace bought Nachman a drink between races. There wasn’t much to talk about, but the company feeling was good. “Let me get the next one,” said Nachman. He
found out that Horace was a deacon, and his church was in Hollywood. He invited Nachman to attend some Sunday, and Nachman said, “I’d like that. Thank you.” Soon afterward they separated and were lost to each other in the crowd.

  When a race began, Nachman was thrilled by the sight of the horses lunging out of the gate, then flowing along the rail at the far turn, and then the sight of them coming around the turn in his direction, a flurry of churning legs, hooves pounding the track, jockeys bent low to the horses’ necks, whispering to them like lovers.

  Since Nachman believed he could know which horse was likely to win, it took a little bit from the thrill. If you told Nachman, “You could enjoy the full thrill if you didn’t let yourself read the Racing Form and tip sheets. Then you wouldn’t know anything,” Nachman would agree. He would even confess that he felt hypocritical, pretending that he didn’t know more than the next guy. But Nachman was fascinated by the Form and tip sheets. The information, the innocent scholarship, the whole idea of such literature was fascinating to Nachman. It intrigued him that you could publish a tremendous amount of statistical information about the horses and yet not reveal the name of the horse that would almost always win the race.

  People believed too many indeterminable factors enter into a horse race. Nachman was aware of this belief, and he also knew that skeptical philosophers, including the genius Hume, said the same thing as people who bet on horse races. Regardless of statistics, the future is a mystery. You can’t even be sure the sun will rise tomorrow. Nachman wished it were true. He was confident that it was mainly untrue.

  A jockey could ride badly, or a horse could get sick, or a race could even be fixed, but it was mainly untrue that the winner couldn’t be predicted much of the time, if not always. Nachman wasn’t a man who turned his back on truth, but he only played the horses, betting intuitively, making his choices by the look of a horse, the reputation of the jockey, the prevailing odds, and other considerations, what Nachman called “deep imponderables.” What a horse eats, for example, can affect performance, and who knows if a horse feels depressed? In short, Nachman had respect for the unknown. But he’d been born with a mind, and it had a great potential to know the truth. The truth was that many races were over before they started.