Authors: Bernard Malamud
A New Life (34 page)
Holy smoke, Levin thought, suppose
I
were head of the department?
I
were head of the department?
One morning shortly after his avowal of service, humility, good will to men, after the wars in the soul had more or less subsided, Levin ran into his old self across the hall in George Bullock’s office. Having knocked and got no answer, he had unlocked the door, to leave on George’s desk a reader he had asked Levin’s committee to consider for fall-term use. As he put the book down near the phone—Gilley’s gift to Bullock—the instructor’s eyes momentarily lighting on a picture of Jeannette in a bathing suit, fell on a typewritten list of names, among which, without trying, a second after sensing he would, he found his own. Stapled to the list was a note from George addressed to Lon Lewis, the head football coach: “For your personal information. These are lukewarm if not downright unsympathetic to athletes. I frankly can’t advise your key men to take their classes. In fact I’d say lay off unless emergency
threatens, and then not to unless they’ve talked to me first. Best ever, George.”
threatens, and then not to unless they’ve talked to me first. Best ever, George.”
After reading this twice and finding himself in a state of high excitement, Levin shut the door and studied the names on the paper, at the same time trying to think what he would say if Bullock walked in. With Levin on the list were Bucket, Fabrikant, O. E. Jones, Haddock, Scowers, Merdith Schultz, Sprinkle, and surprise—Farper. To rate inclusion, Levin figured, you had to be considered prejudiced to athletes, a tough marker, or an irritable pest like Farper. Conversely, those not listed, though not necessarily scoundrels, might be expected to give the boys an easier time and possibly a “break” if needed. What angered Levin was Bullock’s gratuitous defamation of his colleagues, the harm a list of this kind could do—probably had done, no doubt there had been others. Since shopping for grades was endemic at Cascadia College, there was already a good amount of prejudging professors and courses in terms of grades given, on other students’ say so; but George’s document worsened the disease as it destroyed reputations. Levin now understood why, this term, he hadn’t had one of the usual letters from the coaches asking how their boys were doing; simply, the athletes had avoided his classes. Alternating between flush and tremble, he felt feverishly eager to confront Bullock with his list. Levin began to copy down the names but had to stop. He tore up what he had written, picked up the book he had come to return and was about to leave when the postscript of a letter on George’s paper-cluttered desk caught his eye. This, after a swift unsuccessful pushing match with his conscience, turned out to be a financial report from George’s father: “Your personal worth as of today’s date is $104,337.31.” The telephone rang and Levin left.
Staring through his cracked window (Was Duffy cracked? flitted through his mind) he was unable to stop thinking of Bullock’s dirty list, going to the P.E. department, surreptitiously to most of the football players—only a few were good students—then no doubt to their girls,
their
sorority sisters,
and where not—everybody knowing who had been proscribed but the professors themselves. Something ought to be done and Levin tried to think what. He could of course speak to Bullock, but that had its disadvantages; Levin would be on the defensive simply in knowing about the list; and if Bullock said, “So what?” Levin was powerless to stop him. Somebody had strongly to tell him where he got off. Who? The instructor felt helplessly without a source of appeal. Gilley? He would find some way to defend Bullock. Fairchild? He would deny the list existed, then gently lecture Levin for having read George’s correspondence. The list seemed to imply more than an individual act of Bullock’s; it hinted at a way of life. Levin wasn’t sure, if he made a public issue of it, that he wouldn’t be jumped on by somebody in the administration “for impugning the integrity of the institution.” Then he’d be the traitor and Bullock would assist at the funeral—Levin’s. So he did nothing, unwilling to jeopardize his job—he shuddered at the chances he had taken with Pauline—a job that was more precious to him with every jeopardy. Here he had begun his career as college professor, sweet dream of his life; here, as a result of some miraculous batting of both eyes by fate he had gone almost a year without being kicked out. One more and he would have enough respectable experience to make a change to a better place. Therefore be prudent, the more the better. Easy does it, Levin thought, you’ve got to live with all kinds in this world.
their
sorority sisters,
and where not—everybody knowing who had been proscribed but the professors themselves. Something ought to be done and Levin tried to think what. He could of course speak to Bullock, but that had its disadvantages; Levin would be on the defensive simply in knowing about the list; and if Bullock said, “So what?” Levin was powerless to stop him. Somebody had strongly to tell him where he got off. Who? The instructor felt helplessly without a source of appeal. Gilley? He would find some way to defend Bullock. Fairchild? He would deny the list existed, then gently lecture Levin for having read George’s correspondence. The list seemed to imply more than an individual act of Bullock’s; it hinted at a way of life. Levin wasn’t sure, if he made a public issue of it, that he wouldn’t be jumped on by somebody in the administration “for impugning the integrity of the institution.” Then he’d be the traitor and Bullock would assist at the funeral—Levin’s. So he did nothing, unwilling to jeopardize his job—he shuddered at the chances he had taken with Pauline—a job that was more precious to him with every jeopardy. Here he had begun his career as college professor, sweet dream of his life; here, as a result of some miraculous batting of both eyes by fate he had gone almost a year without being kicked out. One more and he would have enough respectable experience to make a change to a better place. Therefore be prudent, the more the better. Easy does it, Levin thought, you’ve got to live with all kinds in this world.
But the decision to do nothing was like a bird imprisoned in his chest. A worrisome hour later he was in Fabrikant’s office, relating in confidence what he had discovered, and urging the associate professor to give George some fatherly advice; if possible, get him to destroy his list before it went out.
CD, not the least surprised to learn of the existence of the paper, after several minutes of reflection, urged caution.
“As I said before on a similar occasion, the way to fight this is not piecemeal but by getting at the source of a rotten situation.
In the meantime let’s not tip our hand but keep our powder dry.” He winked his big eye.
In the meantime let’s not tip our hand but keep our powder dry.” He winked his big eye.
“But why hide where we stand?” Levin asked. “Everybody knows there’s a contest between you and Gerald. Time’s fantastically short if it’s going to be held this term.”
“I’m not so sure that it is,” CD said gloomily. “So far as I am concerned it’s still no more than a rumor.”
“Gilley’s positive it’s coming off soon, so is Bullock.”
“I’ve already indicated to you why I must proceed carefully.”
“The promotion?”
Fabrikant nodded.
“Hasn’t that gone through yet?”
“I understand it’s in the president’s office now.”
“Avis told me you said I was supporting you. Surely you know she’s for Gilley and anything you tell her will get back to him?”
“I may have been indiscreet,” CD admitted. “I hope I didn’t cause you embarrassment by speaking of you as a possible ally?”
“No,” Levin said impatiently. “It would have to come out sooner or later. I hear there are others with us. Can I ask who?”
“Bucket, you, and I, as of now, but there are several who will join us when the time is ripe, Merdith Schultz and Jones, I have reason to believe, and others. As for tactics at present, we can keep a record of grievances, including this incident and the censorship of the textbook.” He laughed dryly. “I can supply a lot more of a similar nature going all the way back to 1932. Once the dean announces the election, whether my promotion has come through or not, we can begin to discuss these matters privately with various members of the department. Then if word of what we’re saying gets back to the higher-ups, as I don’t doubt it will, no one can accuse us of muckraking, or fuss for the sake of fuss. We’ll be engaged in the legitimate American activity of practical politics.”
“I see the point,” Levin said.
But the point—he didn’t see it steadily or whole—gave way
to an inspiration that made Levin nervous. After leaving CD he spent an hour trying to get rid of it, but inspiration prevailed. Late that afternoon, after Marv Beal had swept up and left, and even Avis had gone home, Levin sneaked across the hall. The letter and list, though he wished them annihilated, still lay on Bullock’s desk. Not allowing himself to think, the instructor slipped them into a folder and hurried to the library. There he had the papers photostated, then returned them to a memorized spot on the desk. “Practical politics,” he told himself. He had, however, a brutal headache, and went early to bed.
to an inspiration that made Levin nervous. After leaving CD he spent an hour trying to get rid of it, but inspiration prevailed. Late that afternoon, after Marv Beal had swept up and left, and even Avis had gone home, Levin sneaked across the hall. The letter and list, though he wished them annihilated, still lay on Bullock’s desk. Not allowing himself to think, the instructor slipped them into a folder and hurried to the library. There he had the papers photostated, then returned them to a memorized spot on the desk. “Practical politics,” he told himself. He had, however, a brutal headache, and went early to bed.
The next morning he found in his mailbox a letter from Dean Seagram and a folded note “from the desk of Gerald Gilley.” The dean’s mimeographed letter officially announced an election for a new head of the English department. It was cosigned, as a matter of form, by Professor Fairchild, who had more than once stated in the coffee room that it was foolish to make a simple thing complicated—seniority was the most sensible means of promotion. “If a man’s good enough to hold down a job for twenty years, he is good enough to advance to a position of responsibility. And if he’s already done that, he should have first choice at something higher.” The details of the election were at least simple. It was scheduled for the day after Commencement, in the office of the dean, by secret ballot. Nominations were open and would be received at once. If in the voting no candidate won a two-thirds majority (14 votes) after three ballots, a temporary chairman would be appointed by the dean and a new election held on the fifth of next January.
Gilley’s handwritten note asked Levin to drop in to see him at his convenience. Levin, knowing the two communications were related, shuddered. The election, for so long no more than a possibility, was about to become an event. He had looked forward to it—always enjoyed a contest—but now felt no pleasure in the announcement, although the thought of
Bullock’s list still irritated him and any even remote comeuppance for him, for instance through Fabrikant’s election, was something to look forward to. Although he would gladly have skipped seeing Gilley—forever, without missing him—Levin ran into him in the hall. The director of composition was his tall, loose-figured self, and although a bit reserved, still friendly in speech. He said at once, “Why don’t we just go into my office for a minute, Sy? What I have to say won’t take so long.” The instructor dumbly followed him down the hall.
Bullock’s list still irritated him and any even remote comeuppance for him, for instance through Fabrikant’s election, was something to look forward to. Although he would gladly have skipped seeing Gilley—forever, without missing him—Levin ran into him in the hall. The director of composition was his tall, loose-figured self, and although a bit reserved, still friendly in speech. He said at once, “Why don’t we just go into my office for a minute, Sy? What I have to say won’t take so long.” The instructor dumbly followed him down the hall.
Gilley looked uncertainly at Levin across his half acre of desk, covered with the apparatus of his picture history of American literature. On the desk lay a portrait of Henry Ward Beecher leering up at Levin. He shut his eyes. When he opened them, Gilley seemed tired to him and older by more than just the number of months that had gone by since they had met at the railroad station last summer. His face was motionless yet unsettled, the eyes mirroring Levin’s own unease. Whether he knew it or not, he had lived through much since January. He showed, however, not the slightest sign of suspicion, or knowledge of betrayal, and Levin doubted he could have hidden his wound once he knew he had it. It was as if gossip, if any, had stopped dead at his ear—so much for her anxious fears of exposure. A curious thing about a small town: if it didn’t destroy you, it protected you. He was of course glad she hadn’t been found out. Her luck was still running strong. But had or hadn’t, he felt shame before the man; yet when he thought of the picture he had taken of his naked wife, a betrayal perhaps worse than hers of him, Levin was conscious of renewed disgust, although who was he to measure sin? His own moral calipers were badly bent. In the end he boiled up a scum of sympathy for Gilley as victim-Levin’s (his favorite sport since Albert Birdless); he felt almost affection for the vulnerable hackee, cheated by his wife and a man he had surely hired to vote for him in the election, a fellow victim, taken over the rocks by the same woman and
somebody named Duffy; one’s fate is long on the loom before he knows what has happened to him. I owe him something, Levin thought, for the harm I’ve done him.
somebody named Duffy; one’s fate is long on the loom before he knows what has happened to him. I owe him something, Levin thought, for the harm I’ve done him.
Gilley, running his hand through his hair, spoke huskily, although pretending voice normal, relations unchanged, business as usual.
“Sy,” he said, evoking cheeriness, “though we’ve had our small differences they’re nothing I myself take too seriously, and I know that holds for you. You don’t seem to me to be the type that goes around holding grudges against people for not agreeing with him. Not only that, but as time goes by I am sure we’ll understand each other better and our occasional hassles will give way altogether.”
He beamed tentatively as Levin, about to stroke his beard, found it missing, and smiled vaguely.
“Anyway,” Gilley said, after a pause, “I thought I’d better ask you where you stand in the election we seem to be having in June. I suppose you’ve seen the dean’s notice?” Having stated the question, he pulled his handkerchief out of his back pocket and blew his nose.
Levin admitted he had seen the notice.
Gilley brushed his nostrils both ways, carefully tucked away the handkerchief and buttoned his pocket.
“Have you made up your mind who you’re going to support?”
Though the question basically insulted, Levin found it hard to look the man in the eye, although he attempted a decent approximation of the act after fighting down a suspicion that Gerald, probably through Avis, knew where he stood and was leading up to something else.
What shall I tell him? he thought. That I can’t vote for him because he’s a mediocre leader, no matter how many years he has coveted the job or been Fairchild’s Friday to get it? Or that I can’t trust him for the pictures he takes (my God, who can trust me?)? Or shall I say I can’t vote for him because I’ve betrayed him with his wife?
“First let me ask you something,” he said hesitantly. “Suppose you—er—had found out that somebody in this department had typed up a list of his colleagues he recommended for athletes to take; or possibly the names of ten people whose courses he told the boys to stay away from. And that he had sent these names to the P.E. department, specifically to one of the coaches, for distribution among the players. Could I ask you what you would do about that?”
“Is there,” Gilley asked, his eyes narrowing, “that kind of list?”
“Suppose there was?”
“I wouldn’t believe everything I heard around here. I don’t listen to most of it myself.”
“Suppose I saw it?”
Gerald leaned back in his chair. “I’m not for any such kind of list.”
“Could I ask what you would do about it? Would you, for instance, talk to the one who had compiled it, tell him he had made a serious mistake and the best thing he could do would be to withdraw and destroy it? And would you firmly say he must cut out that kind of thing in the future?”
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