A New Life (37 page)
Authors: Bernard Malamud
“Excuse me for asking,” Levin said, “but surely you must have assumed they had—they had been intimate, because there’s no moral issue in going for a swim naked.”
“What I assumed is my own business.”
“I’m on my way,” Levin said, “but I want to be clear about one thing. Before you saw the picture—correct me if I’m wrong—you were willing to stand up for Duffy, but then you changed your mind. The main issue, the one that influenced you to offer your help was that he had been fired publicly for being a trouble maker. He had not been given notice, which I understand is contrary to universally approved policy. There was no bill of particulars, or a hearing by any organization on campus, so far as I know. Anyway, what I’m specifically asking is whether the issue on which you decided the matter in your own mind—the reason you wouldn’t go on defending him—whether it was based on the merits of the case or just on your seeing the picture?”
“I don’t see how you can separate one thing from the other. The evidence was clear.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Of his character, of their relationship—do I have to be franker?”
“But did you ask for—er—any other proof? I mean, could I ask whether you gave Duffy the benefit of a reasonable doubt—for instance that he might just have happened to go swimming in the nude with a woman—let’s say on impulse—hers—and otherwise the relationship might have been perfectly innocent? It’s possible.” Levin ended with his voice off pitch.
Fabrikant testily answered, “I decided he was a pestiferous nuisance, not worth the fuss he had kicked up, and washed my hands of the whole annoying business.”
“Ah,” said Levin. He put on his hat.
Night had fallen. The fragrant warmth of late spring rose from the fields. A crescent moon and single green star glowed overhead as a garden of blue stars evolved in the sky.
Levin sighed. “I’m sorry, CD, but after thinking it over I’m not sure I can support your candidacy any more. I want you to know I like you personally but it’s the principle involved.”
Fabrikant’s big-pupiled eye, reflecting a star, throbbed and sparkled. His horse moved restlessly as he tried to steady her.
“Mr. Levin,” he said, cold, aloof, “as you grow older, and I hope wiser, you’ll learn there’s more to mature behavior than snap absolute judgments. Are you being principled in supporting Gilley?”
“Not him,” said Levin.
“Then who?”
His dry lips parted. “Myself.”
“That smacks of sickening pride.” Fabrikant rose in his stirrups and flung his cigar away. He galloped thunderously across the dark field.
Why should an unlocked door make Levin itchy in his pants, prurient? To say nothing of how the heart throbbed in anticipation.
He knew why but pretended not to, to stay put in his office. Coming in just before eleven, after hours of walking after he had visited Fabrikant, on going down the hall to the water cooler he had noticed Gerald’s door ajar, his office dark; this rarely happened. Back at his desk, temptation tempted Levin. Gilley’s lock did not respond to the common key so it was now or never. He knew that inside Gerald’s office was a filing cabinet with a drawer marked “composition personnel.” In it was Duffy’s folder, probably his history and imperfections described, possibly with pictorial illustrations. This thought roused Levin’s prurience. He decided to go home and be done with temptation, but once in the hall he walked the wrong way. For safety’s sake he knocked first, softly, and listened to utter silence throughout the building. Levin’s legs were so wobbly he had to trek back to his office. He rested his head on his arms on the desk. Go home, he warned himself. In the distance a church bell thinly tolled midnight. What’s the sin, he asked, in knowing the truth? Is it ever wrong to know? He rose from his seat at the thought and hastened down the hall, non-stop into Gilley’s office, leaving the door partly open in case he had to make a quick exit. I’m always breaking into something of his, he thought, someday he will justifiably shoot me. In the dark he tugged at the top drawer of the filing case. Locked. Good. Levin go home! But he stayed, ensnared in flouting verboten. A door, for some unknown reason, had been left open. You walked in if you were the type. A drawer was closed, you hunted the key. If he found it, what Pandora’s horrors would he fall into? A boxful of doors, Levin. The nature of evil: one wrong door opened untold others.
He knew why but pretended not to, to stay put in his office. Coming in just before eleven, after hours of walking after he had visited Fabrikant, on going down the hall to the water cooler he had noticed Gerald’s door ajar, his office dark; this rarely happened. Back at his desk, temptation tempted Levin. Gilley’s lock did not respond to the common key so it was now or never. He knew that inside Gerald’s office was a filing cabinet with a drawer marked “composition personnel.” In it was Duffy’s folder, probably his history and imperfections described, possibly with pictorial illustrations. This thought roused Levin’s prurience. He decided to go home and be done with temptation, but once in the hall he walked the wrong way. For safety’s sake he knocked first, softly, and listened to utter silence throughout the building. Levin’s legs were so wobbly he had to trek back to his office. He rested his head on his arms on the desk. Go home, he warned himself. In the distance a church bell thinly tolled midnight. What’s the sin, he asked, in knowing the truth? Is it ever wrong to know? He rose from his seat at the thought and hastened down the hall, non-stop into Gilley’s office, leaving the door partly open in case he had to make a quick exit. I’m always breaking into something of his, he thought, someday he will justifiably shoot me. In the dark he tugged at the top drawer of the filing case. Locked. Good. Levin go home! But he stayed, ensnared in flouting verboten. A door, for some unknown reason, had been left open. You walked in if you were the type. A drawer was closed, you hunted the key. If he found it, what Pandora’s horrors would he fall into? A boxful of doors, Levin. The nature of evil: one wrong door opened untold others.
He was feeling for the key in Gilley’s drawer when steps going down the stairs froze him. He went quickly to the door and listened as someone walked slowly down from the third to the first floor. Then the footsteps moved in his direction. Yet they were going down the stairs to leave the building. He realized there were two sets of footsteps. Too late to escape,
Levin ducked behind the desk. If Gilley came in, what in God’s name could he say he was doing there in the pitch dark? He pictured himself caught. Total disgrace as a thief, his father’s fate, not unexpected. The steps stopped, the door slowly creaked open. A light played on the wall, filing case, desk. Someone waited, breathing heavily. Levin, cowering on the floor, pictured a cop. That was it, the campus police! He had forgotten their midnight inspection of buildings, putting off lights, shutting doors. He held his breath to the point of madness. When the door shut, for a desperate moment he thought the cop had closed it to prevent his escape; but as the lock snapped he felt he had exploded into freedom. Ten minutes later he dragged his mangled self to his office.
Levin ducked behind the desk. If Gilley came in, what in God’s name could he say he was doing there in the pitch dark? He pictured himself caught. Total disgrace as a thief, his father’s fate, not unexpected. The steps stopped, the door slowly creaked open. A light played on the wall, filing case, desk. Someone waited, breathing heavily. Levin, cowering on the floor, pictured a cop. That was it, the campus police! He had forgotten their midnight inspection of buildings, putting off lights, shutting doors. He held his breath to the point of madness. When the door shut, for a desperate moment he thought the cop had closed it to prevent his escape; but as the lock snapped he felt he had exploded into freedom. Ten minutes later he dragged his mangled self to his office.
At one A.M., Levin opened Gilley’s door, cunningly left ajar; he drew the blinds, put on the light, and located the key to the filing cabinet. In the file in his own folder was his letter of application and signed loyalty oath. Duffy’s folder was empty.
Professor O. Fairchild, on his way home, bent to pick a daisy at the edge of someone’s lawn. Levin, dawdling half a block behind, saw him stoop for the flower in a wavering way. Slowly rising, the professor tottered as though the daisy were too much for him. He paused to draw its stem through his buttonhole, smoothing the white petals; always meticulous, everything where it should be. Then he strolled on as though concentrating on a line drawn to infinity. Possibly the sidewalk boxes made the long line difficult to follow. When he walked off it, trying to get back, he put his foot in the wrong place. He stepped on the grass. This happened twice. The professor looked at the sky, loosened his collar, then neatly drew his tie tight. A passing car honked. His arm half rose in greeting; he almost turned to watch it go by. With his neatly folded silk handkerchief he patted his forehead. For half a minute he
studied his watch and then walked on, slowly. Could he be drunk? Levin wondered. Does he secretly tipple from an office bottle, his father’s fate long since caught up with him? The instructor shivered. He had left the office late, and seeing the old grammarian walking on ahead, had not wanted to catch up.
studied his watch and then walked on, slowly. Could he be drunk? Levin wondered. Does he secretly tipple from an office bottle, his father’s fate long since caught up with him? The instructor shivered. He had left the office late, and seeing the old grammarian walking on ahead, had not wanted to catch up.
A few days before, Levin had been summoned into the professor’s offices (Strangers are still welcome … ) via a short typed note in a sealed envelope, sure trouble. He had knocked nervously, not because he had much of a career to lose (although he had foolishly been wondering would the old gent, in a burst of pre-retirement good will, write him at least a mild recommendation “to whom it may concern”?), but because he felt he had earned his displeasure. Professor Fairchild sat at his desk scanning galleys, the sun flaring his white hair; he looked as though he hadn’t budged since the time Levin had visited him in this many-windowed room last August. He had the impression he had seen him then for all time. Since summer he doubted they had exchanged a hundred words. The old man, bags heavy under his eyes, laid down a galley page and focused on Levin a watery blue frown.
Maybe I should have worked up a little hatred of him, the instructor thought. If he had been strong we would all be stronger. He created the wrong past:
Here Lies Orville Fairchild, Lost Leader He Ran the Cheapest English Department on the West Coast Requiescat and Please Omit Flowers
Now the head of department was supporting Gerald Gilley for his place, as Gilley was grooming George Bullock, his man Saturday, for his. (Levin’s Law I: Weak leaders favor weak leaders, the mirror principle in politics). He saw himself sternly accusing the old man of a lack of concern for those who came after him, the professor cowering as S. (for Savonarola) Levin lectured him.
Instead Levin stared at his shoes. The professor, after inviting
the instructor to sit, said in his vibrant voice, not unkindly, “Mr. Levin, I have asked you into this office not to protest your enmity to my grammar text—which in its twenty-eighth year, thirteenth edition, and twelve hundred and sixth adoption, needs no defense; nor your disrespect for Dr. Gilley, your immediate superior, and the person most responsible, may I say, for putting you on here; nor because of your presumption in other matters which do not concern you; but to insist you show a decent respect for the opinions of mankind.”
the instructor to sit, said in his vibrant voice, not unkindly, “Mr. Levin, I have asked you into this office not to protest your enmity to my grammar text—which in its twenty-eighth year, thirteenth edition, and twelve hundred and sixth adoption, needs no defense; nor your disrespect for Dr. Gilley, your immediate superior, and the person most responsible, may I say, for putting you on here; nor because of your presumption in other matters which do not concern you; but to insist you show a decent respect for the opinions of mankind.”
If he forgives me, I’ll forgive him.
“And I advise you,” the professor said sternly, “not to have anything more to do with the wives of your colleagues. They’re married women.”
All is lost, I lost it.
“Yes, sir.”
“My wife tells me there’s talk you’ve been seen with several faculty wives. Is that true?”
“Several, sir?”
“That’s right.”
“No, sir. I did—ah—see one but that’s all past tense.”
“Well, keep it so. I warned you very strongly against that sort of thing and I renew my warning. I am being tolerant only out of charity, to keep you from destroying your career at its inception. To subdue your passion to interfere with others as well as criticize everything in sight, you might profitably begin with some much-needed reforms of yourself.”
“How true, sir.”
“Remember the sad fate of Leo Duffy.”
“I do.”
“I speak to you as a father to a son.”
Levin, choked up, had to blow his nose. “Thank you, sir.”
“Be humble. We must all be, especially those who teach others.”
Levin nodded.
“Be good—”
He promised faithfully …
The old professor, lifting his coattails, had without a backward glance, sat down on the grass. He sat in the shade of a leafy linden tree on a small round grassy island amid three intersecting streets deserted at the supper hour. A little girl in a red dress, on one skate, was watching him as Levin came by. The professor had lain back, his eyes watery, lips blue, nose shrinking.
“Oh God,” cried Levin.
On his knees he loosened the old man’s collar, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. Levin ran across the street, frantically pushed a door bell and asked the woman to call an ambulance. He returned to tell her to call Mrs. Fairchild, then raced back to the island. The little girl had skated away.
Although he seemed not to know where he was, the old man appeared to recognize Levin. He hoarsely whispered something and Levin bent low to hear.
“‘—Shot—an arrow—into the—air, it fell—’”
“Don’t say a word,” Levin begged. “I’ve called an ambulance. You’ll surely get better.”
He’s dying, he thought. Where’s everybody?
“‘All are—archi-tects—of—fate—’”
The old man smiled with wet eyes. His face was smaller now. His lips twitched as he tried to speak. Levin leaned very close.
“Try to rest.”
“The mys—mystery—of the in-fin—in-fin—in-fin—”
“Infinite.”
“In-fin-i-tive. Have—you con-sidered—its possi-bil-i-ties? To be—”
He paused, gazed intently at Levin, and muttered, “Poor papa.” His mouth shut sternly. He died.
Gerald made all the funeral arrangements. Pauline, at the church and graveside on a coldish day clung to her husband’s arm, a thin-faced mourner unable to look at an open grave. The department was present en masse, including all the young
instructors and their wives who looked like girls. President Labhart, pink-skulled and grim-visaged, Dean Seagram, ex-Dean Feeney, small and unpressed after retirement, were present with their modest wives. Fabrikant and his sister came in white faces and dark clothes. Probably the saddest man present was Joe Bucket, who had lost an old friend and benefactor. Gilley bore up. Bullock’s face was serious but inexpressive. Pauline looked lost in the crowd, in black dress, small veilless hat, nose aimless, her hair dark gold in the afternoon sun. Levin gazing across the coffin met her sad eyes. He felt regret, a sense of loss beyond all loss, like death in childhood, that somehow passed. She looked away. His heart remained heavy. The professor was buried at the foot of two gnarled fir trees in a new section of the cemetery, not too far from the graves of pioneers with their weather-beaten wood, and eroded stone, markers.
instructors and their wives who looked like girls. President Labhart, pink-skulled and grim-visaged, Dean Seagram, ex-Dean Feeney, small and unpressed after retirement, were present with their modest wives. Fabrikant and his sister came in white faces and dark clothes. Probably the saddest man present was Joe Bucket, who had lost an old friend and benefactor. Gilley bore up. Bullock’s face was serious but inexpressive. Pauline looked lost in the crowd, in black dress, small veilless hat, nose aimless, her hair dark gold in the afternoon sun. Levin gazing across the coffin met her sad eyes. He felt regret, a sense of loss beyond all loss, like death in childhood, that somehow passed. She looked away. His heart remained heavy. The professor was buried at the foot of two gnarled fir trees in a new section of the cemetery, not too far from the graves of pioneers with their weather-beaten wood, and eroded stone, markers.
Afterwards rumors flew that Gerald, Fabrikant, Leopold Kuck, George, and even Bucket were being considered for acting head; and Levin hoped for Joe or anyone who wasn’t Gilley or Bullock; even CD. It turned out, according to Avis, who had got it from a reliable source, that although the dean was considering everyone, President Labhart, after reading a sealed letter left by Professor Fairchild, “in the event of my death before retirement,” proposed Gerald because he knew the department from A to Z, where everything was and went. Gilley was duly appointed, Levin’s hopes for a change for the better suffering a not unexpected blow. Almost at once Gerald moved across the hall. People going into Milly’s office for a stencil or to get their mail could see him through a connecting door, closed during Fairchild’s tenure but now always open, sitting at his predecessor’s desk. He had got a haircut and new brown suit and was no longer visible in shirt sleeves. It seemed strange to see him where the old professor had been but Levin soon got used to it. Gerald’s first official communication was a dittoed sheet in praise of the late head, followed by an announcement that department policy for the few weeks he
was acting head would remain unchanged. He expected everyone would, of course, pitch in to keep things moving as usual. In a subsequent notice he announced that the departmental elections, contrary to false rumors, would take place as scheduled. In the meantime he was at your service. “Feel free to come in.”
was acting head would remain unchanged. He expected everyone would, of course, pitch in to keep things moving as usual. In a subsequent notice he announced that the departmental elections, contrary to false rumors, would take place as scheduled. In the meantime he was at your service. “Feel free to come in.”
Although department policy remained ostensibly as usual, Gilley himself showed an alteration or two, nothing serious. Though he looked smaller in a large room, he seemed to have gained weight in a matter of days, noticeable around the middle and jowls; wore bright bow ties and button-down collars, and looked surer of himself, less preoccupied than in the recent past. He was healthy, happy, flourishing. His color had picked up, brilliant in the light that swirled around his red head. He still impressed Levin as everybody’s boy, but modified, as if events had proved his mettle, fait accompli, no hands on his part; for hadn’t the mantle of office fallen smack on his shoulders? He strove less yet managed to campaign without seeming to do so, whereas Fabrikant, according to Bucket, hardly talked of his aspirations. Wasn’t it politicking when Gerald sent out, more often than necessary, notices signed “Gerald Gilley, Acting Head”? He functioned with assurance, to be expected considering his long apprenticeship for the role. What he was doing he had done for years—perhaps a few more decisions to make, and his signed notices more prominently displayed on the bulletin board; otherwise his activities were as before, emphasis on freshman comp. He looked as if he were ready to stay forever where he was unless someone did something about it.
Things were the same only more so. A few days after Gerald had entered the new office, he had his own large desk moved in and continued to clip pictures for his book. He put in the usual time in the coffee room, alone meditating on the twists and turns of fortune; joking with instructors; or discussing the college baseball picture with Marv Beal and Doug Womack, Milly’s husband, in cowboy hat and black windbreaker, who
waited hours to transport her in his one-ton truck, wherever she had to go. Gerald was friendly as ever to anyone who approached him, the same congenial democratic soul, five-eighths affection for people, Levin guessed, three-eighths fear, as though his well-being depended on
everybody’s
good will. Besides clipping and pasting, he read
Field and Stream,
liked to enter in his class record book the objective test scores of his students, which he also graphed; and sometimes read popular fiction to light music on the radio. On days it wasn’t seriously raining he golfed during the lunch hour, napped after eating, and returned to the office raring to go. Whenever Cascadia College scheduled a home baseball game he was there as official scorer, reward for years of perfect attendance.
waited hours to transport her in his one-ton truck, wherever she had to go. Gerald was friendly as ever to anyone who approached him, the same congenial democratic soul, five-eighths affection for people, Levin guessed, three-eighths fear, as though his well-being depended on
everybody’s
good will. Besides clipping and pasting, he read
Field and Stream,
liked to enter in his class record book the objective test scores of his students, which he also graphed; and sometimes read popular fiction to light music on the radio. On days it wasn’t seriously raining he golfed during the lunch hour, napped after eating, and returned to the office raring to go. Whenever Cascadia College scheduled a home baseball game he was there as official scorer, reward for years of perfect attendance.
The acting head made no attempt to hide his dislike of Levin. Apparently he told Avis, who told someone who slipped it to the instructor, that he was annoyed with him for “campaigning for Fabrikant behind my back.” As a result of Levin’s underhandedness, Gilley seemed to have grown doubts of his honesty. The doubts were valid if grown in truth; he was admittedly dishonest but not in the small, ratty ways Gilley seemed to think. For instance, when in Milly’s absence Levin extracted a three-cent stamp from the cigar box in her drawer, a customary procedure when she was not at her desk, Gerald watched him hawk-eyed through the open door to see that he paid three pennies. When the instructor came in for paper, pencils, chalk, the acting head, peeking out, noted on a pad what supplies Milly gave him. And Gerald once sent her to ask Levin if “he had happened to see” two missing rolls of scotch tape. Levin was often reminded he was a chip off his father’s block.
Gilley’s suspicions of the instructor were perhaps evidence of an increased sensitivity to him as implied “chief critic of everything,” particularly when the acting head was diddling at something that wasn’t work. At times Gerald seemed nervous in Levin’s even momentary presence. He became conscious of his cup of coffee if the instructor happened to be
passing while he was imbibing. Once at Levin’s approach to the water cooler Gerald, standing in the hall, quickly thrust into his pockets some film negatives (Pauline in the bathroom?) he was showing Leopold Kuck. Even Kuck seemed embarrassed. The next day Gerald hurriedly removed his feet from his desk when the instructor walked into Milly’s office to inspect his generally useless mail. In a further complication of cause and effect Levin had a sudden desperate feeling he was Gilley’s unwilling nemesis. (Levin’s Law II: One becomes his victim’s victim. III. Stand for something and somebody around will feel persecuted. )
passing while he was imbibing. Once at Levin’s approach to the water cooler Gerald, standing in the hall, quickly thrust into his pockets some film negatives (Pauline in the bathroom?) he was showing Leopold Kuck. Even Kuck seemed embarrassed. The next day Gerald hurriedly removed his feet from his desk when the instructor walked into Milly’s office to inspect his generally useless mail. In a further complication of cause and effect Levin had a sudden desperate feeling he was Gilley’s unwilling nemesis. (Levin’s Law II: One becomes his victim’s victim. III. Stand for something and somebody around will feel persecuted. )
The cold war between Gerald and himself, plus the hot between his conscience and natural timidity, was exhausting Levin. One morning he went very reluctantly into the acting head’s office to report the selections of the textbook committee at their final meeting. Gilley slipped a magazine into his top drawer, locked it with a key, and glumly faced Levin.
“I just came to tell you,” Levin said, aware of the thick beat in his breast, “that our committee has voted to recommend the use of
The Elements
in the ‘Grammar for Teachers’ course. In the comp classes we’d like to substitute Smith and McGin-nis’
Composition and Handbook of Grammar.
We also suggest a better—more suitable reader, Guffey’s
Experience in Fact and Fiction
.”
The Elements
in the ‘Grammar for Teachers’ course. In the comp classes we’d like to substitute Smith and McGin-nis’
Composition and Handbook of Grammar.
We also suggest a better—more suitable reader, Guffey’s
Experience in Fact and Fiction
.”
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