Worlds (13 page)

“All right, Marianne.” He took my hands in his warm ones. “If we see something that takes in oats at one end and gives out horseshit at the other, and you say it’s a Buick, well,
I
say it’s a Buick, too.”

I resisted the impulse to pour the jug of wine in his lap. “You have such a poetic way of putting things. But don’t condescend to me.”

“You were condescending to me.”

“I’m sorry if you think so. But I think you’re confused.”

“Now you’re getting warm.” He released me and finished his glass, and sat back with a thoughtful look. He was composing. “I am confused, but not about that. Anyone who sees clearly sees chaos everywhere. Art is a way of temporarily setting order to confusion. Temporary and incomplete; that’s why we never run out of new art. Anyone who comes to the tools of art without that sense of confusion is an invader.”

“That’s not really fair.”

“Nothing against dabblers,” he said quickly. “Cheaper than psychotherapy. But supposedly serious artists who
think they know,
know
, what a human being is and where he stands in relation to the universe, they’re nothing but hacks. Propagandists for false values.”

I filled his glass to shut him up. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t apply to your drawings. It would apply if you were writing jingles for commercials or something. But you’ve said yourself that you don’t take the drawing seriously. You’re a dabbler yourself.”

“There you have it. I do them to relax and don’t care to keep them afterward. It pleases me to give them to friends; it amuses me to give them to strangers in exchange for an occasional dinner or a few days’ rent. This gallery deal amounts to doing it for a living.”

“Well? It would be an easy living.”

“All right. You enjoy screwing, and you’re good at it. Why don’t you get a low-cut dress and join those slits at the bar? One night a week, and you’d go back to New New York with twice what you brought here.”

I gripped the edge of the table and took a deep breath.

“But you only give it to friends,” he said softly. “And your friends do appreciate it.”

Before I could decide whether to wound him—he was no better at analogy than at sex—I heard someone tapping on the window next to us and looked up. It was Hawkings; I waved him in.

“Be on your best behavior, now,” I said. “This is that FBI agent I told you about.”

“Jesus! Does this place have a back door?”

“Don’t be silly,” I whispered.

“Nothing silly about healthy paranoia. Don’t you think there’s some small chance we’re being watched?”

“They don’t have an army. But even if we are, there’s nothing suspicious about Jeff passing by on his way to class—”

“But then there
is
something suspicious about our being here.”

“So speak clearly. We don’t have anything to hide.”

He rubbed his throat. “So why do I feel this noose, tightening around my neck?”

“Anxiety reaction. Shut up.” Hawkings had stopped at the bar before coming over, and was bringing a liter of wine. For all his cool detachment, he was always polite and considerate. That was welcome now.

I dragged a chair over for him and made introductions.

“I’ve never met a poet before,” Hawkings said. “What have you published?”

That was the right question. Usually people asked, “Have you published anything?”—to which Benny would reply, “No, I just
call
myself a poet.”

Benny told him the names of his books. “Haven’t written much lately. It comes and goes.”

He nodded. “I have to admit I don’t envy you. It must be a very uncertain way to live.”

“More certain than yours, I think. At least in the sense that no poet ever was killed in the line of duty.”

Hawkings smiled. “I could take issue with that. It seems to me that the death rate for poets from suicide is rather high.”

“Touché.” Well, at least they had found something in common. Morbidity.

“I don’t actually encounter very much violence. It’s mostly footwork and paperwork. There are scuffles and threats, often enough, but it’s not serious. In four years, I’ve only been fired at once.”

“Safer than the subway,” I said.

“You shot back?” Benny said. Hawkings nodded. “Did you kill him?” He nodded again. “I don’t know if I could live with that.”

“Well, you’re not trained to.” Jeff’s voice was quiet and dry, classroom style. “It was almost purely reflex. It wasn’t even an FBI matter, technically.”

His brow furrowed as he poured himself half a glass of wine. “I was snooping around a warehouse, after hours, but with a warrant. Some burglar had picked the same night.

“The place was brightly lit. I walked around the corner of a stack of crates and this man was standing there, about three meters away, with a pistol pointed directly at me. If he’d taken a moment to aim, he would have killed me. Instead, he started blasting away in my general direction. He got off four or five shots, two of which struck me, before I could draw and fire.”

“And you did take time to aim?” Benny said.

“Not at three meters, not with a laser.”

“Were you hurt badly?” I asked. He’d never mentioned this to me.

“Technically. Chest and abdomen. But I stayed conscious long enough to call for a floater. My heart stopped twice on the way to the hospital, but once I was there I was
out of danger. You know how good they are at that sort of thing.”

“I do indeed.” I tried to match his dispassionate tone.

“But that’s when I decided to go back to school and get out of field work. Just another fourteen months.”

“I don’t suppose they were quite as, ah, efficient in trying to save the burglar’s life,” Benny said.

“No, they just left him for the meat, for the morgue floater. That’s not as callous as it sounds. Science can do wonders, but they haven’t yet figured out how to unscramble an egg.”

I shuddered. “Can’t—”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Benny said.

“Should it?” He sipped his wine carefully, looking at Benny over the rim of the glass. When Benny didn’t say anything, he added: “I know he didn’t grow up wanting to be a burglar; I know he didn’t spend years in school studying how to shoot FBI agents. I know that it was a complex of social pressures, perhaps social injustice, and plain bad luck, that led him to that warehouse.

“And it was plain dumb bad luck that he saw me first. If I’d seen him, I would have taken a picture, then let him finish his work and leave; I was after bigger game. Still, when he pulled that trigger he committed suicide. If there’s a moral dimension to his death, it starts and ends there.”

“I take it you’re saying you don’t think there
was
a moral dimension,” Benny said.

“Not insofar as it concerned him and me. I am what I am and he was what he was; if we replayed that scene a thousand times, it could only have one of two outcomes. Depending on whether he could kill me before I could clear my weapon.” He looked at me. “There was no moral decision on my part. Both of his effective shots had hit me before I pulled the trigger. I would like to meet the person saintly enough not to kill under those conditions.”

Benny poured himself another glass of wine. He was speeding up, which sometimes meant he was going to get funny.

“I follow your logic, but I don’t think I would see it that way. Haven’t you ever wondered about his family, for instance?”

“What about my family? My stepmother had a nervous breakdown. One of my line sisters said she’d never speak to me again if I didn’t quit the Bureau. She hasn’t.

“I don’t even know if he had a family. I’m a policeman not a social worker.” He pointed at the knife on Benny’s belt. “That’s no nail file. Doesn’t wearing that declare your willingness to kill?”

“Not to myself. Maybe to a potential attacker—I never wore one until I got hit a couple of years ago. But it’s just a bluff.”

Hawkings smiled slightly. “You can’t say that for sure until the next time you run into a hitter.”

“I’ll concede that. But I think I know myself.” I resisted the impulse to point out that he’d just been trying to convince me that that was not possible.

“You should carry one, too,” Jeff said to me. “Even if it’s just for show. And you know enough fencing to help, if you did have to use it.”

“I’ve got a can of Puke-O in my bag.” I’d had it when I was raped, though. “Can’t we talk about something more unpleasant?”

I did manage to steer the conversation to more mundane regions, and it moved into politics soon enough. Benny was very restrained, understandably, but Jeff was surprisingly critical of the government, even to the point of bitterness.

After about a half-hour we had to go on to class, leaving Benny with his wine. The freezing air was wonderful after the stuffiness in the bar, and a few flakes of snow whirled around in the traffic breeze.

“Are you always such a radical, out of uniform?”

He hunched his shoulders under the heavy cape. “Well… I was exaggerating a little. Trying to put him at ease. But the Bureau doesn’t much care about an agent’s politics so long as they’re just opinions. I can’t join any political groups, of course, not even a Lobby.”

“Not even a Lobby? How can you vote?”

“You didn’t know that?” He looked at me oddly. “We can’t. Police and soldiers don’t vote, except on local and nonpartisan referenda. Soldiers, not even those.”

“But how can they do that?”

“Well, it’s not the law, it’s the mechanics. If you don’t belong to a Lobby, you can’t register approval or disapproval. At least I’m a resident citizen of New York, so I can vote on garbage collection and so forth. A soldier can never be a permanent resident of any state or city, no matter how long he lives there. He can make his opinions
known in the annual census, but that’s it. It’s unfair, but I think the logic behind it is clear.”

When I didn’t say anything, he went on. “After a revolution, the people who get into power are pretty conscious of the forces that brought them there, and if they’re smart, they’ll do something to make sure the tables don’t get turned. People’s Capitalism, before the Second Revolution, mainly appealed to the lower middle class; you know about that.”

I thought back. “Because of inflation. It gave them the same sort of safeguards that the upper classes enjoyed.”

“That’s right. And it’s the lower-middles who run the military and the police forces. The people who
command
may belong to the upper classes, but their orders aren’t worth anything if the sergeants and privates won’t follow them.”

We queued up for the Tenth Avenue slidewalk. “That’s why it was such a short war. All the stirring rhetoric aside, Kowalski had all the guns, long before the Fourteenth of September. When the private soldiers and noncommissioned officers joined the general labor strike, it was all over. Even though it took a month for Washington to fall.”

“So the Lobbies didn’t want the same thing to happen to them; all right, I can see that.” He took my elbow and we stepped on the ‘walk together. “And I can see that disenfranchising the military would be a kind of insurance—but how could they get away with it?”

“It takes a close reading of the history of the first few months after the Revolution to see it. Watch for ice, here.” We moved to the right and stepped off; I slid a half-meter but kept my balance, with Jeff’s help.

“That was a confusing time, anyhow. Step by step, the measures seem logical and innocuous—remember, the Lobby system didn’t spring full-born from the forehead of Kowalski; there were some months of martial law, and then about a year of hybrid chaos.

“At first, it looked as if they were protecting the general public by not allowing the soldiers to unionize, which didn’t seem so outrageous, since they hadn’t been allowed to before. And they laid down an effective smokescreen by lionizing the military and police, and giving them liberal social benefits. It’s still about the most secure job you can get.

“When the smoke cleared, though, we were a highly
honored bunch of citizens who somehow couldn’t find any appropriate column on the voting machine.”

It was bright and warm inside the Russell building. We stopped alone in the foyer to brush off snow. “But you still have all the guns,” I said.

Jeff smiled and put one finger to his lips.

4 December.    Too brazen. Somebody got into my locked room today and left a note on my desk: Meet us at 8:00 p.m. Tues. usual place, tell B. ¶My nerves are about to snap. Ten days left in the quarter, papers and exams piling up, and now this. I quit.

5 December.    Lunch with Benny and told him I had had enough of James’s bunch and was pulling out. He had some good suggestions. ¶Benny is in too deep to simply walk away. Not only the letters, but another thing he says he can’t tell me about. He says that he’s tempted to turn informer, go to the FBI with what he knows. But doesn’t think he knows enough to make it worth the risk, especially if what we fear about Katherine is true (he didn’t talk like this until we were out of the restaurant, walking through the park). ¶He says that if worse comes to worst, a friend of his has a small farm in South Carolina, where he could hide. Shave off his beard, get new papers, start over. I told him I thought he should do it now. I think they’re capable of anything.

6 December.    The meeting went smoothly. I followed Benny’s advice and tried not to let my anger or fear show. Very mundane: I was nearing the end of the quarter and
academic work has to take precedence; then I would be traveling for more than two months. I would use that time to “order my priorities” for the rest of the year. ¶That I’ll be in and out of New York the third quarter, on field trips to various cities and states, didn’t discourage James. He thought that might be useful.

7 December.    I have a feeling I shouldn’t leave this cigarette-paper diary in storage with the rest of my things. If they can get into my room, they can get into my locker downstairs. I certainly can’t take it with me, crossing dozens of borders. I was going to ask Benny to keep it for me, but decided he doesn’t need any more trouble. I’ll hide it in the library, back where they keep the old bound periodicals.
Time
magazine, 100 years before my birthday.