Boswell (55 page)

“Are we all here?” I asked. “Who’s minding the world?” I motioned for silence.

“Okay,” I said, “the way I see it is this. There’s a symbol involved. We’re behind closed doors, as Green says, but in a deeper sense we’ve always been behind closed doors, if you see what I mean. Well now, I don’t think that’s a very satisfactory way to have to live. Personally I think I’m missing a lot that I might otherwise be getting out of life. Incidentally, I want you to notice that I’m addressing you in clichés. That’s the deliberate oratorical style I’ve adopted in order to reach the greatest possible number with the least possible misunderstanding. It’s going to be my
lingua franca
with you. I tell you this because my cards are on the table and I don’t intend to pull the wool over anybody’s eyes. I’m not that kind of person. As a matter of fact I have absolutely nothing to hide. Indeed, I never had. But the rest of you—
my God!
Ask anybody here if Boswell hasn’t always been open and aboveboard in his dealings. I think you’ll find that if the truth were known I certainly have.

“Now you ask what my purpose is and I tell you it’s simply this. I can’t stand the idea of your knowing something I don’t know. Now I know why that is. I haven’t lived this long in the world for nothing. It’s just that you people have to die. I understand that. If you people lived forever you’d be better people than you people are. But you don’t live forever so you become all shut up inside and you rush around hither and yon from pillar to post, keeping your own counsel, living your own lives, with no regard for me and what I might require of you. I know, I know—it’s a rat race. But I’m of the opinion that it doesn’t have to be that way, that if we just use a little common sense and try a little harder to help the other fellow we can change all that. Just as an example, look what we have not fifty feet away from us right out there on Broadway. Open the drapes please, Nate.”

Nate pulled back the drapes and we could see the crowds outside surge forward, swinging their heads around each other’s necks to get a better look at us.

“Okay, Nate, you can close them now. You see? That’s what I mean. You create this wake of curiosity wherever you go. Now these are just little people and you might think they don’t count for much and I grant you that, but the principle is unchanged.

“All right. What I’m asking you to do is to forget your own deaths for a minute and think about mine. That isn’t selfish or unreasonable of me as it might sound. I mean, when you come right down to it I never had anything very much to do with death, and the same can’t be said for a lot of you people. As a matter of fact, some of you folks have been making a pretty good profit out of it for years. Don’t get the wrong idea—I’m not condemning you. You have to make a buck, a name, wherever you can; I appreciate that. General Manara here, for example, has four stars on each shoulder of each suit in his closet. Now just as an approximation, General, how many lives do you suppose each of those stars represents? Just as an approximation, now.”

The general blushed and looked away.

“Just so,” I said. “And it’s pretty much the same story with most of you. Perlmutter here deals in dying cultures. He won’t touch them unless they’re unspoiled. Well, how many of you have ever stopped to consider what an unspoiled culture actually is? It’s one without proper facilities for sanitation, without electricity, without hospitals or a balanced diet or a vaccination program. Anything, in fact, which might extend longevity by a single day may be said to contribute to culture spoilage.

“But I don’t mean to bring this down to a personal level. What’s true of General Manara and Morty here is just as true of a lot of others. Quick, Black Pope, how does a Christian get into your Heaven?”

“He must first die,” the Black Pope said.

“There—you see? And that’s not all. Some of you who are doctors, haven’t you sometimes sent a bill to the next of kin after you’ve already lost the patient? There are lawyers among us, prosecuting attorneys.” I pointed to a famous district attorney.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he said. “I’m not even in favor of capital punishment.”

“There is no other kind, sir,” I said. “But that’s not the point. As I said before, I’m not attacking anybody. It’s just that I’m trying to get across to you that I come to you with my hands clean, a veritable Switzerland among men.”

I paused while they nodded to each other like people who find themselves in agreement about a good pianist. Some of them even winked. I could see that I had impressed them; even Lano was concentrating intently upon me. Only Morty, that egoist, seemed a little bored; I saw him pop a pill onto his tongue. It seemed to me he frowned but of course it may just have been the bitter taste of the dissolving chemicals. Which was an example of what I meant: it was impossible to know what was really happening to someone else.

“Now in a kind of way,” I went on, “all I mean to get across to you in this little talk is that I exist. I don’t really think you’ve been as cognizant of that fact in the past as you might have been. No, don’t protest—I think that if you’ll just look into your hearts you’ll see that what I’ve said is quite true.”

I gave them time to consider this. “He’s right, you know,” I heard the President of the United States say. “I haven’t been as cognizant of him as I might have been.”

The Party Whip patted his arm reassuringly. “You can’t keep every campaign promise. No one expects you to.”

“Now let me emphasize again, I’m not attacking you,” I said. “You’ve had your reasons, little as I might think of them, and I’m perfectly willing to let bygones be bygones.” I held out my hands as if to bless them. “Let us look upon this night as a new dawn, my friends—the dawn of a fresh start, a second chance.” Disappointingly, they did not applaud here, and I rushed on. “I speak from this platform to you world leaders—and later, I trust, from a still wider platform to a still more inclusive group—of a second chance.” I lowered my voice. “But let no man here think that this is my only object,” I warned. “Indeed, I would be less than honest with you if I left you with the impression that this was all I expected.”

“It’s quite the most remarkable speech I’ve ever heard,” someone said. “What do you think, Perlmutter?”

“It’s atavistic, archetypal,” Morty said offhandedly. “I’ve heard it all before.”

“The fact is,” I said, “I am quite as much aware of your own existences as I have asked you to be of mine. Had I the time I should ask you to listen as I revealed to you every thought I have ever had, each variegated personal impression, intuition, in the wide, but alas not wide enough, kaleidoscope of my consciousness. I should urge upon you in detail the panorama of James Boswell’s experiential life. But”—here I shrugged—“I haven’t the time, and surely this is all our loss, for what splendid release there would be for you in knowing
in toto
another’s experience, another’s vision! No savior could do more! Nor would
that
be all, for then I should require of you each in turn to reveal yourselves in just such a way to me, ‘and I should give, step by step, my reactions to your own and ask of you yours to mine and then offer to you mine to yours to mine, and so on and so forth. Nor would that even
then
be all. I would not be content that this should be done only here where the fire laws allow the seating of a mere two hundred people. We would gather on a great plain where all might come, black and white, gentile and Jew, rich and poor, believer and Turk, young and old, quick and dead, without regard to race, creed or color. There, all would partake of the gentle communion I speak of. Then might we
know one another
indeed, and begin to dissipate the unwholesome—I say
unwholesome
—mystery which hangs now like a miasma about each separate, solitary life!”

“Quite remarkable,” the man who had spoken before said.

“Ho hum,” Morty said. “Archetypal. Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny.”

“It does not,” I yelled. “Hear me out,” I demanded.

“Hear, hear,” the Queen of England said. Others took the cry up and Morty, looking amused and superior, shrugged.

“Give the man a chance, there,” Harold Flesh shouted after everyone had quieted down, his timing a little off.

“All right,” I said, “all right. There
isn’t
time. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know there isn’t time—there isn’t that much time in the world. Only I think it very peculiar that a certain party could already have forgotten what the proper study of mankind finally is. I won’t go into that— this isn’t the time and place for indulging in personalities. I am content that you all know who I mean.

“All right, then. What I’m getting at is this. Since there isn’t time for the other thing, we’re going to have to find a kind of shorthand for it, and it’s occurred to me that one way we might do that is by looking upon each other as metaphors. That’s right. I’ve been working on this for some time now and I think it’s a breakthrough. Do you follow me here? It would be like a morality play. You know. Only much more sophisticated. We’d be using metaphors to reveal ourselves to each other.

“Now it’s not for me to say what metaphor each of you is. It’s a free country and of course I have my opinions, based on sensitive, scientific observation, but admittedly one has to allow a certain margin for error. It’s that margin, ladies and gentlemen, which I hate! Which of us can afford to be wrong about which of us? Do you see what I mean? Do you see how important this is? As I see it there’s only one alternative, the one I’ve just suggested. Every man his own anthropologist! That would be our cry. Do away with the middleman entirely. Okay. Don’t speak out at once. Consider your essences, your basic properties as men, the individual quality of your lives, before you make your metaphorical reductions. Let no secret be sacred, no area of your soul undefiled. The watchword is Trespass! Trespass, gentlemen, trespass!

“Now synchronize your watches. Begin!” I was sweating as I waited for one of them to make a start. I searched their red faces for a sign. I had touched them, I knew that. They were silent, concentrating. A red smile played unconsciously across several mouths, perhaps touched off by some memory of what they were or had once been. In a few eyes red tears appeared and flowed like blood down the burning cheeks. Only Morty’s face seemed clear, unconcerned, with that nauseating look of self-containment I had come to despise in men.

I waited, giving them as much time as I could. At last I saw that though many of them had found the metaphor that would express themselves—their very faces shone with their solutions—each was reluctant to be the first. Or perhaps that was giving them the benefit of the doubt. I had put them in touch with something valuable they had been unaware of, had indicated to them where a treasure lay buried, and now they stood before me stiff with greed.

Pretending that I misunderstood I resumed my speech. “Come, come,” I said, “it isn’t that hard. As thus: ‘As egocentric as Harold Flesh.’ Or in another vein, ‘As egocentric as Morty Perlmutter.’” Here Morty put another pill into his mouth. “I feel absolutely seized with inspiration,” I confessed. “Here’s another one: ‘As egocentric as James Boswell.’ That might be even further compressed. ‘As egocentric as Boswell.’ ‘Egocentric as Boswell.’ These are only rough approximations—I’m not a poet, you understand. They need polishing, of course, and I’ve no doubt that many of you can do as well if not better than that, but it’s the sort of thing I mean. How’s this one—‘As self-centered as Jim Boswell’? Well?”

They seemed to admire my analogies, and I thought that perhaps I had misjudged them; perhaps they had merely been struck dumb by the aptness of my thought,
the
happiness of my language, and were reluctant to compete with me on that basis. At any rate, I saw that I would have to be patient. “All right,” I said, “this isn’t the last time we’ll be getting together. I expect you to do your homework and be prepared to recite your metaphors when we meet again.”

I looked around. They seemed relieved that I had left them off so easily. Only Morty’s expression had not changed. I owe you one, I thought, as I looked at him.

“Well then,” I said, “we’ve been pretty serious tonight. I’ve made some rather heavy demands on you, I think, and it occurs to me that one reason may be that my speech has been without much humor. Most public speakers like to sprinkle a few jokes into their talks. Usually those jokes come at the beginning, but to demonstrate that I’m not atavistic and that ontogeny doesn’t always recapitulate phylogeny—
and never has in my own case
—I’d like to reverse the usual order and tell you one right here at the end.”

They were smiling, already prepared to like my story, but I ignored them and looked directly at Morty. “There was this
Jewish
lady,” I began, “whose husband died and left her a lot of money. So one day she got into this huge Cadillac convertible and drove down to Miami Beach to the biggest, flashiest hotel they had there.”

Morty glowered at me and put out his tongue to receive another pill.

“When she pulled up in front of the hotel she leaned on the horn until a bellboy came around to open the door for her.”

The color had begun to drain from his face. “‘Look here,’ she says in a loud voice, ‘I’m Mrs. Ginsberg, and I’ve reserved the biggest suite in the hotel. You’ll carry up my bags to it, yeah? And you shouldn’t forget the
MINK COAT
in dee t-r-ronk!’”

Watching me, Morty was now desperately putting one pill after another into his mouth.

“So the woman rides up in the elevator to her penthouse suite and waits for the bellboy to come up with her bags.”

Now Morty’s was the only face that was not red. He had taken the bottle of pills from his pocket and unscrewed the cap. Raising the bottle to his mouth he began to pour the pills directly onto his tongue. He chewed obscenely, his pale jaws working automatically, rapid
and
clumsy as an infant seeking a breast.

“In a little while the bellboy comes up loaded down with so many suitcases you can’t even see his face. He puts them down and the woman starts to take a dime out of her purse to give it to him, but all of a sudden she stops. ‘Vere’s de boy?’ she asks.