Joe Gould's Secret (14 page)

“It's entirely too bulky,” Gould said.

“Bring it in a little at a time,” said Pearce. “When I finish reading one batch, I'll drop you a line and you can bring in another. I've often worked that way with authors of long books.”

“It's stored in a place out on Long Island that's hard to get to,” Gould said.

“We could hire a car over at Carey's limousine service, at Grand Central,” Pearce said, “and drive out and get it. If you aren't too busy, we could drive out right now.”

“I don't want to bring it back into New York City,” Gould said. “I don't think it would be safe here. I don't think anything is safe here. I expect the whole place to go up in smoke any day now.”

“We have some fireproof cabinets in the office that we keep manuscripts in,” Pearce said, “and you could store it in one of them. We also have a big fireproof safe that we keep contracts in, and other important papers, and you could store it in there.”

“What's the use?” said Gould. “After you got it, you probably couldn't read my handwriting.”

“That's no problem,” said Pearce. “We have a secretary in our office who's a wizard at reading hard-to-read handwriting. She prides herself on it. You could come in for a day or two and sit down beside her and help her until she got the hang of your handwriting, and then she could type up some chapters from various sections, and then, eventually, maybe we could publish a book of selections from the Oral History.”

“No, indeed!” said Gould. “Absolutely not! It has to be published in its entirety. All or nothing.”

“Well, now,” said Pearce, “unless you let me read it—and you really don't seem to want me to—how can I tell if it's feasible to publish it in its entirety?”

Gould took a deep breath. “I've always been resolved in the back of my mind that the Oral History would be published posthumously,” he said, “and I'm going to stick to that.” He hesitated a moment. “There are revelations in it,” he continued, “that I don't want the world to know until after I'm dead.”

This stopped Pearce. He and Gould talked for a few minutes about things unrelated to the Oral History, and then he said he had to be running along.

“If you ever change your mind,” he said to Gould, “please give me a ring.”

Gould gazed at him morosely and said nothing.

I was exasperated. As soon as Pearce was out of the room, I turned on Gould. “You told me you lugged armfuls of the Oral History into and out of fourteen publishing offices,” I said. “Why in hell did you do that and go to all that trouble if you've always been resolved in the back of your mind that it would be published posthumously? I'm beginning to believe,” I went on, “that the Oral History doesn't exist.” This remark came from my unconscious, and I was barely aware of the meaning of what I was saying—I was simply getting rid of my anger—but the next moment, glancing at Gould's face, I knew as well as I knew anything that I had blundered upon the truth about the Oral History.

“My God!” I said. “It doesn't exist.” I was appalled. “There isn't any such thing as the Oral History,” I said. “It doesn't exist.”

I stared at Gould, and Gould stared at me. His face was expressionless.

“The woman who owns the duck-and-chicken farm doesn't exist,” I said. “And her brother who had the stroke doesn't exist. And her niece doesn't exist. And the Polish farmer and his wife who look after the ducks and chickens don't exist. And the ducks and chickens don't exist. And the cellar that the Oral History is stored in doesn't exist. And the Oral History doesn't exist.”

Gould got up and went over to the window and stood there looking out, with his back to me.

“It exists in your mind, I guess,” I said, recovering a little from my surprise, “but you've always been too lazy to write it down. All that really exists is those so-called essay chapters. That's all you've been doing all through the years—writing new versions of those chapters about the death of your father and the death of your mother and the dread tomato habit and the Indians out in North Dakota and maybe a dozen others or a couple of dozen others, and correcting them and revising them and tearing them up and starting all over again.”

Gould turned and faced me and said something, but his voice was low and indistinct. If I heard him right—and I have often wondered if I did hear him right—he said, “It's not a question of laziness.” Then, evidently deciding not to say any more, he turned his back on me again.

At that moment, one of the editors knocked on the door and came in with proofs of a story of mine. He said that some last-minute changes were having to be made in a story that had been scheduled to run in the next issue, and that because there might not be time enough to complete them, my story had been tentatively scheduled to run in its place, and that he would like to go over the proofs with me.

“Does it have to be done right now?” I asked.

“Well, as you might gather,” he said, rather sharply, “we're kind of in a hurry.”

I saw that I couldn't very well put this off, and I asked Gould if he would mind waiting in the reception room until I got through. He picked up his portfolio and went over and stood at the door. “No,” he said, “I don't think I'll wait. I think I'll go on back downtown. The only reason I came up here today was to ask you for a contribution.” I said that I would give him the contribution but that I wanted to ask him some questions about the Oral History first and that I hoped he would wait. He mumbled something and started down the hall toward the reception room.

The proofs took around half an hour. The second I got through with them, I went out to the reception room. Gould wasn't there. The receptionist said he had sat there for five minutes or so and had then left without saying a word. Well, anyway, I thought, I've got him off my back. God knows this wasn't the way I intended to do it, but I've probably got him off my back for good.

I returned to my office and sat down and propped my elbows on my desk and put my head in my hands. I have always deeply disliked seeing anyone shown up or found out or caught in a lie or caught red-handed doing anything, and now, with time to think things over, I began to feel ashamed of myself for the way I had lost my temper and pounced on Gould. My anger began to die down, and I began to feel depressed. I had been duped by Gould—I didn't think there was much doubt about that—and so had countless others through the years. He had led me up the garden path, just as he had led countless others up the garden path. However, I had thought about the matter only a short while before I came to the conclusion that he hadn't been talking about the Oral History all those years and making large statements about its length and its bulk and its importance to posterity and comparing it to such works as “The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” only in order to dupe people like me but also in order to dupe himself. He must have found out long ago that he didn't have the genius or the talent, or maybe the self-confidence or the industry or the determination, to bring off a work as huge and grand as he had envisioned, and fallen back on writing those so-called essay chapters. Writing them and rewriting them. And, either because he was too lazy or because he was too much of a perfectionist, he hadn't been able to finish even them. Still, a large part of the time he very likely went around believing in some hazy, self-deceiving, self-protecting way that the Oral History did exist—oral chapters as well as essay chapters. The oral part of it might not exactly be down on paper, but he had it all in his head, and any day now he was going to start getting it down.

It was easy for me to see how this could be, for it reminded me of a novel that I had once intended to write. I was twenty-four years old at the time and had just come under the spell of Joyce's “Ulysses.” My novel was to be “about” New York City. It was also to be about a day and a night in the life of a young reporter in New York City. He is a Southerner, and a good deal of the time he is homesick for the South. He thinks of himself as an exile from the South. He had once been a believer, a believing Baptist, and is now an unbeliever. Nevertheless, he is still inclined to see things in religious terms, and he often sees the city as a kind of Hell, a Gehenna. He is in love with a Scandinavian girl he has met in the city, and she is so different from the girls he had known in the South that she seems mysterious to him, just as the city seems mysterious; the girl and the city are all mixed up in his mind. It is his day off. He has breakfast in a restaurant in Fulton Fish Market, and then starts poking around the parts of the city that he knows best, gradually going uptown. As he wanders, he encounters and reencounters men and women who seem to him to represent various aspects of the city. He goes up Fulton Street and walks among the gravestones in St. Paul's churchyard, and then goes to certain streets on the lower East Side, and then to certain streets in the Village, and then to the theatrical district, and then to Harlem. Late at night, on Lenox Avenue, he joins a little group of men and women, some white and some Negro, who have just come out of a night club and are standing in a circle around an old Negro street preacher. He had seen the old man earlier, preaching at a street corner in the theatrical district, but had not listened to him. Now he listens. The old man is worldly wise and uses up-to-date New York City slang and catch phrases, but he also uses a good many old-fashioned Southern expressions, the kind that are mostly used by country people, and the young reporter realizes that the old man is also a Southerner, and, like himself, a country Southerner. His sermon is apocalyptic. There are fearful warnings and prophecies in it, and there are phrases snatched from bloody old Baptist hymns, and there are many references to Biblical beasts and fruits and flowers—to the wild goats of the rocks and to the pomegranates in the Song of Solomon and to the lilies of the field that toil not, neither do they spin. The old serpent is in it, and the Great Whore of Babylon, and the burning bush. Like the Baptist preachers the young reporter had listened to and struggled to understand in his childhood, the old man sees meanings behind meanings, or thinks he does, and tries his best to tell what things “stand for.” “Pomegranates are about the size and shape of large oranges or small grapefruits, only their skins are red,” he says, cupping his hands in the air and speaking with such exactitude that it is obvious he had had first-hand knowledge of pomegranates long ago in the South. “They're filled with fat little seeds, and those fat little seeds are filled with juice as red as blood. When they get ripe, they're so swollen with those juicy red seeds that they gap open and some of the seeds spill out. And now I'll tell you what pomegranates stand for. They stand for the resurrection. The resurrection of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ and your resurrection and my resurrection. Resurrection in particular and resurrection in general. All seeds stand for resurrection and all eggs stand for resurrection. The Easter egg stands for resurrection. So do the eggs in the English sparrow's nest up under the eaves in the ‘L' station. So does the egg you have for breakfast. So does the caviar the rich people eat. So does shad roe.” The young reporter intends to stay for only a few minutes, but he is held fast by the old man's rhetoric. Even though he feels that he has heard it all before a hundred times, he is enthralled by it. The old man reminds him of the Fundamentalist evangelists who were powerful in the South while he was growing up and who went from town to town holding revival meetings in big tents. He had hated and feared these evangelists—their reputations were based on the hideousness of their descriptions of Hell; the more hideous the description and the wilder the sermon, the better the evangelist was considered to be—but nevertheless they had left him with a lasting liking for the cryptic and the ambiguous and the incantatory and the disconnected and the extravagant and the oracular and the apocalyptic. He finds himself drawing oblique conclusions from the old man's statements in order to make them have some bearing on his own spiritual state. “All you have to do,” the old man says, “is open your eyes and see the light, the blessed gospel light, and you can enter into a new time. You can enter into it and live in it and dwell in it and reside in it and have your being in it. You can live in the three times in one time. At one and the same time, believing in Him, you can live in the time gone by, you can live in the time to come, and you can live in the now, the here and now.” As the young reporter listens, it dawns on him that it is not the South that he longs for but the past, the South's past and his own past, neither of which, in the way that he has been driven by homesickness to think of them, ever really existed, and that it is time for him to move out of the time gone by and into the here and now—it is time for him to grow up. When the sermon is over, he goes back downtown feeling that the old man has set him free, and that he is now a citizen of the city and a citizen of the world.

I had thought about this novel for over a year. Whenever I had nothing else to do, I would automatically start writing it in my mind. Sometimes, in the course of a subway ride, I would write three or four chapters. Almost every day, I would discard a few characters and invent a few new ones. But the truth is, I never actually wrote a word of it. Time passed, and I got caught up in other matters. Even so, for several years I frequently daydreamed about it, and in those daydreams I had finished writing it and it had been published and I could see it. I could see its title page. I could see its binding, which was green with gold lettering. Those recollections filled me with almost unbearable embarrassment, and I began to feel more and more sympathetic to Gould.

Suppose he
had
written the Oral History, I reflected; it probably wouldn't have been the great book he had gone up and down the highways and byways prophesying it would be at all—great books, even halfway great books, even good books, even halfway good books, being so exceedingly rare. It probably would have been, at best, only a curiosity. A few years after it came out, copies of it would have choked the “Curiosa” shelves in every secondhand bookstore in the country. Anyway, I decided, if there was anything the human race had a sufficiency of, a sufficiency and a surfeit, it was books. When I thought of the cataracts of books, the Niagaras of books, the rushing rivers of books, the oceans of books, the tons and truckloads and trainloads of books that were pouring off the presses of the world at that moment, only a very few of which would be worth picking up and looking at, let alone reading, I began to feel that it was admirable that he
hadn't
written it. One less book to clutter up the world, one less book to take up space and catch dust and go unread from bookstores to homes to second-hand bookstores and junk stores and thrift shops to still other homes to still other second-hand bookstores and junk stores and thrift shops to still other homes ad infinitum.