Lancelot

by Walker Percy

  In my new sobriety things were better and worse. My senses were acute, too acute. I became aware of the warp and woof of the tablecloth. My eyes followed one linen thread under and over, under and over. I noticed flecks of white porcelain showing through the worn gold leaf on the rim of the coffee cup where the lips touched it ninety degrees away from the handle. When Elgin touched me to see if I wanted more coffee, I nearly jumped out of my chair.

  I watched Margot. She ate like a horse and looked fine, not fat but firm and full-armed. Ten years had turned her from callow coltish skittish-mustang Texas girl to assured chatelaine and mistress of Belle Isle, more Louisianian than Louisianians for they didn’t know what they were like and she did. Her face was if anything more soft-eyed and voluptuous, as only a thirty-two-year-old woman can be voluptuous. There was now a fine freckling over her bare shoulders from her golfing, like a lady golf pro. In the thin clear translucent skin beside the nose bridge, the freckles had merged into a darkening and dampening which in any other woman might have looked like circles under eyes but in her was simply plum-shadow and ripeness. When she sat down she settled herself, broadening her bottom to fit exactly the shallow B-shaped scoop of her chair.

  Outwardly nothing was changed. Yet when I folded the newspaper and pushed back my chair to leave, she wiped the last crumb of bacon from her lip and said almost to herself: “I was tired afterwards—in fact I got sick as a dog so I stayed on at the Inn, barged in on Raine and just said, Sister, move over.”

  Nothing was changed except that when she said that, I was pushing away from the table and I stopped a second both arms outstretched to the table’s edge. More than a second, for my eyes were on the second hand of my watch. A fly crawled along the gold band (gift from Margot). I waited for him to step off onto my wrist. He did. I watched him touch a hair. He did, crawling under it, everting and scrubbing his wings. As he did so, he moved the hair. The hair moved its root which moved a nerve which sent a message to my brain. I felt a tickle.

  I went to my office as usual, came home for lunch as usual, returned to the pigeonnier as usual, but instead of having three drinks and taking a nap, I sent for Elgin.

  Tell me something. Why did I have to know the truth about Margot and know it with absolute certainty? Or rather why, knowing the truth, did I have to know more, prove more, see? Does one need to know more, ever more and more, in order that one put off acting on it or maybe even not act at all?

  But why? Why did it become the most important, the sole obsession of my very life, to determine whether or not Margot slept with Merlin when in fact I knew she had, or at least with somebody not me? You tell me, you being the doctor-scientist and soul expert as well, merchant of guilt and getting rid of it and of sorting out sins yet knowing as well as I that it, her fornication, anybody’s fornication, amounts to no more than molecules encountering molecules and little bursts of electrons along tiny nerves—no different in kind from that housefly scrubbing his wings under my hair.

  Well, for once you look very solemn and unironic. Did I love her? you ask.

  Love. Hm. The older I get, the less I know about such large subjects. I can say this. There was a time just before and after we were married when I could not not touch her. There was no getting enough of her. The very behavior I used to abhor in others I carried on with her and never a second thought or care in this world; touch her in public. Neck! Go to the A & P with her, heft the cold red beef flesh in one hand and hold her warm hand with the other and in the parking lot at four o’clock in the afternoon neck! Spoon! We’d drive down the road like white trash in a pickup truck, heads noodled together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. thigh to thigh, my right hand thrust fondly between her legs.

  Even later when we drank too much together, it was good, the drinking, drunkenness, and the coming together every whichway, on the floor, across the table, under the table, standing up in a coat closet at a party. There was no other thought than to possess her, as much of her with as much of me and any way at all, all ways and it seemed for always. Drinking, laughing, and loving, it is a good life. Not even marriage spoils it. For a while.

  Did I love her then, that day I speak of? Love. No, not love. Not hatred, not even jealousy. What do those old words mean? Emotions? Were there ever any such things as emotions? If so, people have fewer emotions these days. Merlin’s actors could register fifteen standard emotions and not share a single real feeling between them.

  No, my only “emotion” was a sense of suddenly coming alive, that peculiar wakefulness when a telephone rings in the middle of the night. That and an all-consuming curiosity. I had to know. If Merlin “knew” my wife, I had to know his knowing her.

  Why? I don’t know. I ask you. That’s what I want with you. Not knowing why, I don’t really know why I did what I did. I only knew for the first time in years exactly what to do. I sent for Elgin.

  Elgin was surprised to be summoned and more surprised to see me. No bottle, no drinks, no naps, no TV, no pacing the floor hands in pockets, but standing quiet and watchful.

  “Sit down, Elgin.”

  “Yes. sir.”

  We sat down in two slave chairs. Elgin. I remember, was doing tourist spiels that summer and still wore his guide jacket with the Belle Isle coat of arms on the breast pocket, a livery which no house servant had ever worn but which by my grandfather’s calculation should satisfy the tourist’s need for proper NBC guide and authentic Southern butler rolled into one.

  Elgin’s expression did not change. The only sign of his surprise was that though his face was turned slightly away, head cocked as if he were deaf, his eyes never left mine and had a wary hooded look.

  “Elgin. I’m going to ask a favor of you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It is not difficult. The point is, I want you to do it without further explanation on my part. Would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Elgin without a change of tone or blink of eye. “Even if it’s criminal or immoral”—slight smile now. “You know I’d do anything you axed.”

  Elgin was a senior at M.I.T. and had what he thought were two reasons to be grateful to me, though I knew better than to rely on gratitude, a dubious state of mind if indeed there is such a thing. And in truth I had done very little for him, the kind of easy favors native liberals do and which are almost irresistible to the doer, if not to the done to, yielding as they do a return of benefit to one and a good feeling to the other all out of proportion to the effort expended. That was one of the pleasures of the sixties: it was so easy to do a little which seemed a lot. We basked in our own sense of virtue and in what we took to be their gratitude. Maybe that was why it didn’t last very long. Who can stand gratitude?

  I helped him get a scholarship, which took very little doing what with the Ivy League beating the bushes for any black who could read without using his finger and what with Elgin graduating first in his class at St. Augustine and winning the state science fair with a project demonstrating electron spin which I never quite understood.

  So Elgin was smart, Elgin was well educated. Elgin could read and write better than most whites. And yet. Yet Elgin still talks muffle-mouthed, says ax for ask, sa-urdy for Saturday, chirren for children.

  He was a slim but well-set-up youth with mauve brown skin, a narrow intense face, a non-Afro close clip as high off his ears and up his neck as a Young Republican’s, and a lately acquired frowning finicky manner which irritated me a little just as it irritates me in a certain kind of scientist who does not know what he does not know and discredits more than he should. Elgin was one of them. It was as if he had sailed in a single jump from Louisiana pickaninny playing marbles under a chinaberry tree to a smart-ass M.I.T. senior, leapfrogging not only the entire South but all of history as well. And maybe he knew what he was doing. From cotton patch to quantum physics and glad not to have stopped along the way.

  But he and his family had yet another reason to be grateful to me, a slightly bogus reason to be sure, which I in my own
slightly bogus-liberal fashion was content not to have set straight. He thought I saved his family from the Klan. In a way I did. His father, Ellis, and mother, Suellen, our faithful and until recently ill-paid retainers, and his little brother. Fluker, had all been threatened by the local Kluxers because Ellis’s church (he was its part-time preacher) had served as a meeting place for CORE or Snick or one of those. They burned a cross, threatened to burn the church and come “get” the Buells. It is true I went to see the Grand Kleagle and the harassment stopped. The story which I never had quite the energy or desire to correct was that in the grand mythic Lamar tradition I had confronted the Kleagle in his den, “called him out” with some such Southern Western shoot-out ultimatum as “Now listen here, you son of a bitch. I don’t know which one of you is bothering Ellis but I’m holding you responsible and if one hair of a Buell head is harmed, I’m going to shoot your ass off for you,” and so forth and so forth. I put a stop to it all right, but in a manner more suited to Southern complexities and realities than the simple dreams of the sixties, when there were only good people and bad people. I went to see the Grand Kleagle all right, who was none other than J. B. Jenkins, a big dumb boy who played offensive tackle with me in both high school and college. He was as big and dumb and as good a tackle as can be, managing even to flunk out of a state school later, no small achievement in those days, and had ever since operated not a Gulf Oil service station but a Gulf Coast Oil service station. He was a good family man, believed in Jesus Christ, America, the Southern way of life, hated Communists and liberals, and was not altogether wrong on any count. At any rate, all I said to him in the sweltering galvanized tin shack of his Gulf Coast Oil station was: “Now, J.B., I want you to do me a favor.” “What’s that, Lance, old buddy?” “You know what I want. I want you to lay off Ellis and his church.” “Now, goddamn, Lance, you know as well as I do ain’t nothing but a bunch of Jew Communists out there stirring up the niggers.” “Will you take my word for something, J.B.?” “You know I will.” “I swear to you there’s no Jews or Communists out there and I will swear to you that Ellis is a good Godfearing Baptist like you and you have nothing to fear from him.” “Yeah, but he is one more uppity nigger.” “Yeah, but he’s my nigger, J.B. He’s been working for us for forty years and you know that.” “Well, that’s true. Well, all right. Lance. Don’t worry about nothing. Lets us have a drink.” So we had a drink of straight three-dollar whiskey in that 110-degree iron shack. Sweat sprang off our heads like halos. And that was that.

  Ah well. Like I told you, real life is more complicated and ambiguous than in the movies. Ellis Buell was grateful. Ellis Buell had seen too much TV and Gunsmoke. “You should have seen Mr. Lance call that white trash out.” And so forth.

  His son Elgin was a different matter. Actually Elgin was the only one who didn’t care much one way or the other about such matters. Like Archimedes he was more interested, exclusively interested, in writing out his formulae and would not have cared or even noticed whether it was a Kluxer or a Roman soldier who lifted his hand against him.

  Elgin. I do believe, would do what I asked, not out of gratitude (a very bad emotion as both he and I knew), but because he liked me and felt sorry for me. Unlike him I had been unable to escape into the simple complexities of science. All he had to do was solve the mystery of the universe, which may be difficult but is not as difficult as living an ordinary life.

  I had counted too on my request intriguing him as a kind of mathematical game, which it was. It did.

  Did it ever occur to you that after we went to college we never touched each other? Do you remember walking down Bourbon Street behind two Russian sailors who were holding hands? Do you remember sleeping in a motel bed in Jackson, Mississippi, with a whore between us? Why was it all right for us to simultaneously assault the poor whore between us but never once touch each other? Who is crazy, we or the Russians?

  Ah, you touch my shoulder. Do you know that I am embarrassed?

  Oh, Christ, there is something wrong with my mind. I’ve drawn a blank again. It’s a little frightening. I could use a drink. Everybody talks about the horrors of drink, which are real enough, but not about its beauties. Your God gave us wine, didn’t he, and threw good parties? Half-drunk, I can remember everything, see everything as it is and was, the beauty in it rather than the sadness. I could remember everything we ever did. There was a lovely looseness then and a letting go and a magical transformation of those sad Southern afternoons into a garden of delights. Wasn’t there? We had a good time, you and I. Then youth ended and you left for God. I joined the A.C.L.U. and became a liberal. Then a drunk. Sober, I could not bear to look at Belle Isle and the great oaks; they seemed so sad and used up and self-canceling. Five good drinks and they seemed themselves.

  It’s not that I can’t remember. It’s all there, what happened, spread out like a map, but I have trouble collecting my thoughts, focusing. Perhaps I remember too well like memorizing a speech, reciting it a dozen times before the mirror, then when the time comes to speak, you can’t come up with the first word.

  Once my father told me he had a recurring waking nightmare. What if one should simply fail in what one set out to do in life, fail utterly, cannot remember the first word, have the first thought, carry out the simplest action, complete the simplest task? Like an actor forgetting his lines and bringing the whole play to an awful embarrassing halt. What if one should rise to address the jury and forget? (My father had a Harvard law degree but never practiced.) Secretly I believe he was afraid that of all the people on earth he alone would fail and the world would come to an end out of shame for him.

  With such a fear, what happens to a man? Nothing. He didn’t, couldn’t, try anything for fear the world would come to an end if he failed. So he became editor of the second best of the two weekly newspapers in a country parish, suffered from “weak lungs” whatever that is, not tuberculosis but a “tendency” toward it, and was a semi-invalid, spending his days writing poems and little historical vignettes. The high point of his life came when he was elected Poet Laureate of Feliciana Parish by the Kiwanis Club.

  Let me tell you the family secret which not even you know, though you know everything else. But do you know that I honestly believe that his wife, my mother, Lily, cuckolded him too? I remember Uncle Harry, also called Buster, a distant cousin of hers, a handsome beefy Schenley salesman, ex-Realsilk salesman, who was always in and out of Belle Isle when I was a child. No one was gladder to see him than I because he brought the most expensive toys, Erector sets, scout knives with twenty blades, and would throw me ten feet in the air—happiness! squeals! Children are more easily bribed than cocker spaniels. And there was my father reclining on a lounge chair under an afghan on the upper gallery looking down the oak alley and writing poems which were not as good as Longfellow’s Evangeline, which is bad enough, but like it, and gentle historical vignettes whenever he located another old “non-Roman” church. Uncle Harry would come roaring up in his Buick convertible and holler out: I’m taking everybody joyriding to False River. My father would insist that Mother go: she needed the air: Suellen can look after me, can’t you, Suellen? “Sho now, you go on ahead. Miss Lily, you ain’t been anywhere all summer.” And off they’d go, we’d go—I sometimes but not always—“joyriding.” Christ, joyriding! Jesus, do you really imagine that—? Of course the question is not why but why not. Ha ha, what a laugh in a way. Because we were such an honorable family. And of course here is the most intriguing question of all: Did my father know all along?

  You look so unhappy. Who are you unhappy for? Me? Lily? My father? Sinful suffering humanity? Your own sunk melancholy family? Are you playing the priest now?

  Elgin? Yes, you’re right. It was Elgin I was talking about. Yes. No. Wait. I did mention a map. It wasn’t a map. It was a floor plan. I remember. I gave Elgin the floor plan of the Holiday Inn which I had gotten that very afternoon from my Uncle Lock. Bushrod Laughlin Lamar, who operated it.

  “Elgi
n, here is a floor plan of the Holiday Inn.”

  “Yes, sir.” He took it. It could have been his pay check for all the reaction he showed. Does anything white people do ever surprise blacks?

  “Here’s a problem where you might be able to help me. You don’t need to know the details. It is enough to say that I am concerned about my daughter Lucy, who is young and impressionable and may have gotten into some difficulties with drugs. But first I have to have the facts, beginning with where she goes, how she spends her time.”

  Elgin squinted hard at the floor plan as if he expected to see Lucy.

  “What I want you to do is this. I want you to register at the Holiday Inn for the next three nights and keep a log of her comings and goings. You know, the film crew is there, and she’s stagestruck and hangs around at all hours. In fact, make a complete record. Make a note of anyone you know: Merlin, Troy Dana, Janos Jacoby, Raine Robinette, even me and my wife. I want the whole picture. Do you understand?”

  His single swift opaque look told me he did understand. Understood and agreed. Understood even that there was something I needed to know but didn’t want to tell him, nor did he want me to.

  “Now here’s the problem. Think of it as a mathematical game. I want you to pick one of those rooms. I’ve fixed it up with Lock, you can have any room you want, he knows you’re in the film.”

  Placing the floor plan on the plantation desk between us, I wrote names in empty rooms.

  “The idea is to pick a room or any other vantage point which commands a view of the following: the inner door of the Oleander Room here—that’s where they view the rushes—Dana’s room here, Raine’s here, Merlin’s here, Jacoby’s here. Here’s the hitch (this should interest you—it baffles me): there would be no problem if the inner court were a simple quadrangle. You could simply sit at the window of nearly every room and see everything, even Merlin’s room, which is on the second story. All you would have to do is choose a room, say here on the first floor opposite. But as you see, it is not so simple. The court is L-shaped. So if you took this room, you could not see Raine’s room here. And if you took this room, you could see Raine’s room but not Merlin’s.”