Slow Homecoming (10 page)
The worst of it was that there no longer seemed to be anything for people to do. The city was inconspicuously automated, as though for all time; only here and there was there room for a few improvements. In this perfected city, day and night seemed to turn each other on and off, without the dawn and dusk of the old uncertain times; and from inside the machine (instead of the sorrowful voice of a “people”) came an all-purpose answer that helped one to go on.
Toward evening the mist, usually coming from the sea, took hold of the city and the back country. It evaporated in the next day's sun, which burst like a chariot through the whirls of mist, and grew larger and larger. In an instant the day grew hot and glaring, the houses white, and the sky blue. No autumn colors on the thick leaves, which fell quickly and almost vertically from the trees, and in this “sun of reprieve”âthat was Sorger's feeling about itâhe moved this way and that, never without
his burden (after all, he could revoke his reprieve at the next corner), and never afraid (for he was not confronting a superior outside power), butâsuddenly aghast at himselfâalways resolutely irresponsible.
his burden (after all, he could revoke his reprieve at the next corner), and never afraid (for he was not confronting a superior outside power), butâsuddenly aghast at himselfâalways resolutely irresponsible.
He was not idle, and yet he would never have claimed to be working; what was lacking was the daily exertion it would have cost this ordinarily sluggish man to transform himself into someone else; as long as he was doing something, he was agile, as though engaged in one job among others, or in a pastime.
In this sort of solitary occupation, he needed no one (his neighbors had ceased to be anything more than distant sounds in the woods), and (just as he wished) no one needed him. Though he knew the city well, every time he set out to go somewhere it ended in a detour, as though he had gone astray; he would “stray” into a church, to the ocean, to a nightclub. True, he never lost his sense of direction, but it made him wander instead of keeping him awake as usual. Wherever he ended up, he had got there without a decision; it was only afterwards that he thought to himself: Oh well, now I'm here.
The two cardinal points which had always meant something to Sorger were north and west. But at present the words West Coast seemed to apply not to the whole length of the continent but only to a small zone distinct from everything else, not to a vast expanse but, like the term West End, to a mere part of a city. Here too, to be sure, Sorger found the polygons of dried mud known to him from the northern bank of the river (in the networks of asphalt cracked by earthquakes or in the sun-resistant coating of certain shop windows, which in peeling seemed to form deliberate patterns); but their similarities struck him as fortuitous, derisive. This world was not “old” like the river landscape of the Far North
(which went on aging visibly, and the viewer with it), but remained unsuspectingly young, thrusting Sorger back into a time when, as he now recognized, he had been no better than an obstinately frivolous consumer. “Who is the king of this town?” he heard himself asking.
(which went on aging visibly, and the viewer with it), but remained unsuspectingly young, thrusting Sorger back into a time when, as he now recognized, he had been no better than an obstinately frivolous consumer. “Who is the king of this town?” he heard himself asking.
Often in the Far North, and particularly in the wilds, it had pleased him, in contemplating the vastness of the country, to know that he was in a nation. But this city on the coast remained a place apart. There was no particular character in its look, no unity in its confusion. Once upon a time, even the traffic noises had spoken to the inhabitants, saying: “See what we can do together”âthat at least is what the trains rattling along the coast had once seemed to sayâwhereas now, even if the city seemed to offer itself in the sunshine, there was no other sound than the tooting of foghorns in the still-opaque bend of the bay. Of course there were houses and cars, resplendent as only luxury items can be, but there was nothing to carry the gaze farther, over land or sea, to similar people in a larger world. In the North, the distances to other points on the earth's surface had been fairy-tale numbers (in the tiniest settlement, signposts with bundles of arrows pointing in all directions indicated the distance in miles to all the world capitals), but Sorger had never felt as remote from all connection with anything as he did here. Thinking back later, he had difficulty visualizing an airplane rising above the houses or landing, but he could always see the colored paper tails of kites twisting and turning beyond the rooftops.
And yet, in passing, he often felt that someone was waiting for his sympathetic glance. When he turned away, he seemed to turn a second time as though to see into a distance which often enough was not there at all, his
true purpose being to prevent people from noticing him; at other times, he would sit alone, grave and attentive, in a dark striptease joint, wishlessly daydreamingâ“the man with the wineglass”âto the rhythmic movements of naked bodies. Or he would sit with other unknowns in a porno movieâ“the man with the folded arms”âand recognize himself as one of the performers on the screen. He withheld all personal communication, not by lying, but by corroboratingâalways with a secret feeling of triumphâthe many misstatements he heard people make. He kept appointments with strangers, determined to forget their faces before he had finished looking at them, and he, too, in leaving, was often asked: “What was the name again?”
true purpose being to prevent people from noticing him; at other times, he would sit alone, grave and attentive, in a dark striptease joint, wishlessly daydreamingâ“the man with the wineglass”âto the rhythmic movements of naked bodies. Or he would sit with other unknowns in a porno movieâ“the man with the folded arms”âand recognize himself as one of the performers on the screen. He withheld all personal communication, not by lying, but by corroboratingâalways with a secret feeling of triumphâthe many misstatements he heard people make. He kept appointments with strangers, determined to forget their faces before he had finished looking at them, and he, too, in leaving, was often asked: “What was the name again?”
Rediscovering the “thundering interior of the jukebox,” Sorger converted himself into a player. Thus he became many-sided and discovered that he could be differentâentirely differentâanything and everything. Later, it seemed to him that all through these weeks he had understood no one but that with a gambler's instinct he had foreseen every reaction. He no longer experienced the momentary shifts between strength and weakness that ordinarily gave him a feeling of endurance; he just roamed unsteadily, accompanied by a clinking of coins, through this city, where autumn leaves figured as permanent decorations in shop displays. He was glad to have stopped passing himself off as a scientist, glad that, though he worked every day at his science, it had lost its professional character; that at last he was going through the motions of his life, as he wished, with the uncommunicative, somnambulistic gravity of a layman; averted from all, sharing his time with no one, he sometimes felt surrounded by a magical beauty.
Detached from the nation and indifferent to the self-confident world religions, the West Coast city was a festival of sects, a ballet of cryptic symbols. Here no one seemed related to anyoneâbut persons who chanced to be like-minded for a short time would get together and hastily hide in meeting halls. Thus one evening Sorger found himself moving down the street in a long line. Then he was standing in a spacious, darkened auditorium surrounded by “the masses,” who like him were waiting for the singer, who had been a hero of their youth.
He had no great desire to go there; rather, he was fulfilling a self-evident, rather burdensome duty. Not for years had he been able to let someone else think, feel, and act for him. Now he required the guidance of forms which, unlike the final measures of songs, gave him the idea of a perpetual new beginning, something on the order of the first age-old, poetically appealing rather than coldly demonstrative literature of his science, or the formal investigations of painters, in which he could lose himself as in the music of this singer, but at the same time find himself again, strengthened by his own resources.
The singer was a short, broad-shouldered man; he seemed excessively strong and totally absent. He came out on the stage, stared at the light, and immediately began to sing. At the very first measure, the entire auditorium imitated the twining cord of the microphone, which the singer held in his hand. His voice was powerful but never loud. It didn't come from inside his chest but existed independently of him, firm yet impossible to localize. What that voice produced was not song but rather the sounds made by someone who after long, intolerable brooding suddenly lets loose. Only as a whole did each
of his numbers have a tone; its elements were quick, strident, bitter, menacing, sometimes stuttering and repetitive cries of pain (never, in any case, of relief).
of his numbers have a tone; its elements were quick, strident, bitter, menacing, sometimes stuttering and repetitive cries of pain (never, in any case, of relief).
He never smiled. Once, with his heavy body, he jumped high into the air. Staring vacantly, he was able, with a voice which he took from outside and drove deep into himself, to tell about the people he had inside himâwhat he wanted most of all was to have nothing in common with anyone. He didn't sing with feeling but searched frantically for a feeling which was as puzzling to him as to anyone else.
For a long while, partly because he was accompanied only by rhythm instruments, he seemed lifeless, damned by his own machinery; but little by little the steady mechanical beat gave his voice the vibrant undertone with which, toward the end of his performance, though inwardly raging, storing up his almost vindictive disdain of the world, he broke through to a hymn that embraced his entire audience. Along with everyone else, Sorger learned what a “hymn” can be and saw this ungainly man, who resembled no one else, as a reluctant freedom singer. In earlier years he had revered him, though strictly speaking he had no right to; but now, as no more than an interested listener, he felt upraised to the singer's level. Going out into the crowded but quiet street, he wondered why he had forgotten almost all the heroes of his youth, and was glad that, body to body in the slowly moving crowd, he could still hear the singer's voice in its sounds, even in the scraping of his own shoes on the pavement.
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In the end, something changed after all: the city split into two parts, both of which became steadily stranger (and Sorger with them).
Beyond the flat, narrow coastal strip and the pine woods where Sorger's house was situated, the land rose gently to a densely populated, woodless hill and then sank to the level of the narrow bay that delimited the university campus. The road leading there crossed the hill in a barely perceptible trough, which daily use had transformed into a “pass.” The campus was not far from the Pacific (Sorger often walked there), and yet in time he came to feel that in crossing the little pass he was moving in and out of a mysterious gateway that held some vague meaning for him. On reaching this “summit,” he would involuntarily stop still or at least cast a brief glance over his shoulder. Though lined with the usual bungalows, identical on both slopes, this pass was to Sorger an important place where a “decision” would be made (though the only striking thing about it was the fog bank which in late afternoon rolled over it like a slow-moving avalanche and descended to the center of the city).
Sometimes, when Sorger thought about the city, he saw the pass rising from it, unreal, uninhabited, and even without vegetation, sunk in the somber-gray granite of a stony mountain range; and toward the end of his stay his own person became just as unreal to him. Talking to no one, he had finally stopped talking to himself. For a time, long and short breaths had conveyed secret code messages, and he was almost relieved at the thought that he could manage without speech; it gave him a sense of perfection. Then he sensed a danger in his inner mutenessâas though he were an inert object whose sound had died away foreverâand he longed to have back the suffering of speech. Unreality meant that anything could happen, but he was no longer able to do anything about it. Wasn't he resisting an overwhelming power? Sorger
feared the decision, because he would have no part in it. He had lost his image of himself (which ordinarily enabled him to take action); and there was no oneâthough he often looked around for the women from Earthquake Parkâto set limits for him by touching him. He consistently did his work (preliminary notes for his projected paper), without side glances at anything else, without stopping, in a state of frenzied concentration. And the city moved away from him, as though, little by little, all the windows had been closed to him. Yet “being forgotten” had once been a pleasant thought, and “arranging to be forgotten,” an art.
feared the decision, because he would have no part in it. He had lost his image of himself (which ordinarily enabled him to take action); and there was no oneâthough he often looked around for the women from Earthquake Parkâto set limits for him by touching him. He consistently did his work (preliminary notes for his projected paper), without side glances at anything else, without stopping, in a state of frenzied concentration. And the city moved away from him, as though, little by little, all the windows had been closed to him. Yet “being forgotten” had once been a pleasant thought, and “arranging to be forgotten,” an art.
Far from creation, unapproachable in his pride, always running off without saying goodbye, he awaited his “punishment”; and meanwhile one of the singer's hymns ran through his head. “The day of my greatness is at hand.”
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The days were still warm. Like most such rooms, his workroom on the campus could also serve as living quarters. He sometimes spent the night in the lab and slept on a cot. (His house was up for sale, people were already going in and out.) Next to the microscope there was a shaving brush, and next to that a coffee maker. The lab was situated in an unusually long, one-story glass building, which in the architect's intention may have suggested a great skyscraper lying flat on a lawn. Sorger's window looked out on the aluminum wall of a shed where research animals were kept (for another science), and right behind it lay the rippling, almost always calm water of the bay.
The institute was divided lengthwise by a corridor; across from Sorger were the lecture halls, connected by double doors, which were always open when the halls were not in use, so that the eye could look from end to
end of the long row of halls. To one side of Sorger was the windowless triple-locked room with filtered air where softly humming machines measured the age of rocks; to the other side, on heavy marble tables that would remain in place despite the most violent tremors, stood the seismographs, whose metal rollers ordinarily revolved slowly and quietly but could suddenly start racing with a shrill whistling sound. (One machine received sound waves from inside the earth, which produced a distant throbbing and intermittently, within the throbbing, a high, almost singing note.)
end of the long row of halls. To one side of Sorger was the windowless triple-locked room with filtered air where softly humming machines measured the age of rocks; to the other side, on heavy marble tables that would remain in place despite the most violent tremors, stood the seismographs, whose metal rollers ordinarily revolved slowly and quietly but could suddenly start racing with a shrill whistling sound. (One machine received sound waves from inside the earth, which produced a distant throbbing and intermittently, within the throbbing, a high, almost singing note.)
Here, too, Sorger had “his domain”; that was outside in the direction of the bay, the lawn between the aluminum shed and the lab, which (like some railway compartments) had a separate door leading into the open. Beyond it there were eucalyptus trees and, protected by a fence, a special variety of fern, one of the oldest species in existence. There was a table on the grass and beside it an iron chair.
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