A Pleasure to Burn (33 page)

“Impractical.”

“We could try.”

“The whole civilization must fall. We can't change just the front. The framework needs melting and remolding. Don't you realize, young man, that the Great Burning forty years back was almost unnecessary? By that time the public had stopped reading. Libraries were Saharas of emptiness. Except the Science Department.”

“But—”

“Can you shout louder than radio, dance faster than TV? People don't want to think. They're having fun.”

“Committing suicide.”

“Let them commit it.”

“Murdering.”

“Let them murder. The fewer fools there will be.”

“A war is starting, perhaps tonight, and no one will even talk about it.”

The house shook. A bomber flight was moving south. It had slowed to five hundred miles an hour and was trembling the two men standing there across from each other.

“Let the war take away the TVs and radio, and bomb the true confessions.”

“I can't wait,” said Montag.

“Patience. The civilization is flinging itself to pieces. Stand back from the centrifuge.”

“There has to be another structure ready when this one falls,” insisted Montag. “That's us.”

“A bunch of men quoting Shakespeare and saying I remember Sophocles? It would be funny if it were not tragic.”

“We've got to be there. We've got to remind those who are left that there are things more urgent than machines. We must remember that the right kind of work is happiness, instead of the wrong kind of leisure. We must give people things to do. We must make them feel wanted again.”

“They will only war again. No, Montag, go on home and go to bed. It was nice seeing you. But it's a lost cause.”

 

M
ONTAG PACED ABOUT
the room for a few moments, chafing his hands, then he returned and picked up the book and held it toward the other man.

“Do you see this book? Would you like to own it?”

“My God, yes! I'd give my right arm for it.”

“Watch.” Montag began ripping the pages out, one by one, dropping them to the floor, tearing them in half, spitting on them and rolling them into wads.

“Stop it!” cried Faber. “You idiot, stop it!” He sprang forward. Montag warded him off and went on tearing at the pages.

“Do you see?” he said, a fistful of pages in his tightening fist, flourishing them under the chin of the old man. “Do you see what it means to have your heart torn out? Do you see what
they
do?”

“Don't tear any more, please,” said the old man.

“Who can stop me? You? I'm a fireman. I can do anything I want to do. Why, I could burn your house now, do you know that? I could burn everything. I have the power.”

“You wouldn't!”

“No. I wouldn't.”

“Please. The book; don't rip it any more. I can't stand that.” Faber sank into a chair, his face white, his mouth trembling. “I see; I understand. My God, I'm old enough so it shouldn't matter what happens to me. I'll help you. I can't take any more of this. If I'm killed it won't make any difference. I'm a terrible fool of an old man and it's too late, but I'll help you.”

“To print the books?”

“Yes.”

“To start classes?”

“Yes, yes, anything, but don't ruin that book, don't. I never thought a book could mean so much to me.” Faber sighed. “Let us say that you have my limited cooperation. Let us say that part of your plan, at least, intrigues me, the idea of striking back with books planted in firemen's homes. I'll help. How much money could you get me today?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“Bring it here when you can. I know a man who once printed our college paper. That was the year I came to class one morning and found only two students there to sign up for Ancient Greek Drama. You see, that's how it went. Like an ice-block melting in the sun. And when the people had censored themselves into a living idiocy with their purchasing power, the Government, which of course represents the people's will, being composed of representative people, froze the situation. Newspapers died. No one cared if the government said they couldn't come back. No one
wanted
them back. Do they now? I doubt it, but I'll contact a printer, Montag. We'll get the books started, and wait for the war. That's one fine thing; war destroys machines so beautifully.”

 

M
ONTAG WENT TO THE DOOR
.
“I'm afraid I'll have to take the Bible along.”

“No!”

“Leahy guessed I have a book in the house. He didn't come right out and accuse me, or name the book …”

“Can't you substitute another book for this?”

“I can't chance it. It might be a trap. If he expects me to bring a Bible and I've brought something else, I'd be in jail very quickly. No, I'm afraid this Bible will be burned tonight.”

“That hard to accept.” Faber took it for a moment and turned the pages, slowly, reading.

“I've tried to memorize it,” said Montag. “But I forget. It's driven me crazy, trying to remember.”

“Oh, God, if we only had a little time.”

“I keep thinking that. Sorry.” He took the book. “Good night.”

The door shut. Montag was in the darkening street again, looking at the real world.

You could feel the war getting ready in the sky that night. The way the clouds moved aside and came back, and the way the stars looked, a million of them hovering between the clouds, like the enemy discs, and the feeling that the sky might fall upon the city and turn the homes to chalk dust, and the moon turn to red fire; that was how the night felt.

Montag walked from the subway stop with his money in his pocket—he had been to the bank which stayed open until all hours with mechanical tellers doling out the money—and as he walked he was listening abstractedly to the Seashell radio which you could cup to your ear (Buy a Seashell and hear the Ocean of Time!) and a voice was talking to him and only him as he turned his feet toward home. “Things took another turn for the worse today. War threatens at any hour.”

Always the same monologue. Nothing about causes or effects, no facts, no figures, nothing but sudden turns for the worse.

Seven flights of jet-rockets went over the sky in a breath. Montag felt the money in his pocket, the Bible in his hand. He had given up trying to memorize it now; he was simply reading it for the enjoyment it gave, the simple pleasure of good words on the tongue and in the mind. He uncapped the Seashell radio from his ear and read another page of the Book of Job by moonlight.

 

A
T EIGHT O'CLOCK
,
the front door scanner recognized three women and opened, letting them in with laughter and loud, empty talk. Mrs. Masterson, Mrs. Phelps, and Mrs. Bowles drank the martinis Mildred handed them, rioting like a crystal chandelier that someone has pushed, tinkling upon themselves in a million crystal chimes, flashing the same white smiles, their echoes repeated into empty corridors. Mr. Montag found himself in the middle of a conversation the main topic of which was how nice everyone looked.

“Doesn't everyone look nice?”

“Real nice.”

“You look fine, Alma.”

“You look fine, too, Mildred.”

“Everybody looks nice and fine,” said Montag.

He had put the book aside. None of it would stay in his mind. The harder he tried to remember Job, for instance, the quicker it vanished. He wanted to be out paying this money to Professor Faber, getting things going, and yet he delayed himself. It would be dangerous to be seen at Faber's twice within a few hours, just in case Leahy was taking the precaution of having Montag watched.

Like it or not, he must spend the rest of the evening at home, and be ready to report to work at eleven so that Leahy wouldn't be suspicious. Most of all, Montag wanted to walk, but he rarely did this anymore. Somehow he was always afraid that he might meet Clarisse, or not meet her again, on his strolls, so that kept him here standing among these blonde tenpins, bowling back at them with socially required leers and wisecracks.

Somehow the television set was turned on before they had even finished saying how nice everyone looked, and there on the screen was a man selling orange soda pop and a woman drinking it with a smile; how could she drink and smile simultaneously? A real stunt! Following this, a demonstration of how to bake a certain new cake, followed by a rather dreary domestic comedy, a news analysis that did not analyze anything and did not mention the war, even though the house was shaking constantly with the flight of new jets from four directions, and an intolerable quiz show naming the state capitols.

Montag sat tapping his fingers on his knee and exhaling.

Abruptly, he walked to the televisor and snapped it off.

“I thought we might enjoy a little silence.”

Everyone blinked.

“Perhaps we might try a little conversation …”

“Conversation?”

 

T
HE HOUSE SHOOK
with successive waves of jet bombers which splashed the drinks in the ladies' hands.

“There they go,” said Montag, watching the ceiling. “When do you suppose the war will start?”

“What war? There won't be a war.”

“I notice your husbands aren't here tonight.”

Mrs. Masterson glanced nervously at the empty TV screen. “Oh, Dick'll be back in a week or so. The Army called him. But they have these things every month or so.” She beamed.

“Don't you worry about the war?”

“Well, heavens, if there is one, it's got to be over with. We can't just sit and worry, can we?”

“No, but we can think about it.”

“I'll let Dick think of it.” A nervous giggle.

“And die maybe.”

”It's always someone else's husband dies, isn't that the joke?” The women all tittered.

Yes, thought Montag, and if Dick does die, what does it matter. We've learned the magic of the replaceable part from machines. You can't tell one man from another these days. And women, like so many plastic dolls—

Everyone was silent, like children with a schoolmaster.

“Did you see the Clarence Dove film last night?” said Mildred, suddenly.

“He's hilarious.”

“But what if Dick should die, or
your
husband, Mrs. Phelps?” Montag insisted.

“He's dead. He died a week ago. Didn't you know? He jumped from the tenth floor of the State Hotel.”

“I didn't know.” Montag fell silent, embarrassed.

“But to get back to Clarence Dove …” said Mildred.

“Wait a minute,” said Montag, angrily. “Mrs. Phelps, why did you marry your husband? What did you have in common?” said Montag.

The woman waved her hands helplessly. “Why, he had such a nice sense of humor, and we liked the same TV shows and—”

“Did you have any children?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Come to think of it, no one here has children,” said Montag. “Except Mrs. Bowles.”

“Four, by Caesarian section. It's easy that way.”

“The Caesarians weren't necessary?”

“I always said I'd be damned if I'd go through all that agony just for a baby. Four Caesarians. Nothing to it, really.”

Yes, everything easy. Montag clenched his teeth. To mistake the easy way for the right way, how delicious a temptation. But it wasn't living. A woman who wouldn't bear, or a shiftless man didn't belong; they were passing through. They belonged to nothing and did nothing.

“Have you ever thought, ladies,” he said, growing more contemptuous of them by the minute, “that perhaps this isn't the best of all possible worlds? That perhaps our civil rights and other previous possessions haven't been taken away in the past century, but have, if anything, been given away by us?”

“Why, that can't be true! We'd have heard about it.”

“On that pap-dispenser?” cried Montag, jerking his hand at the TV. Suddenly he shoved his hand in his pocket and drew forth a piece of printed paper. He was shaking with rage and irritation and he was half blind, staring down at the twitching sheet before his eyes.

“What's that?” Mrs. Master squinted.

“A poem I tore from a book.”

“I don't like poetry.”

“Have you ever
heard
any?”

“I detest it.”

Mildred jumped up, but Montag said, coldly, “Sit down.” The women all lit cigarettes nervously, twisting their red mouths.

“This is illegal, isn't it?” squealed Mrs. Phelps. “I'm afraid. I'm going home.”