The Book of Daniel (37 page)

Daniel drank his own blood. It was Pentagon Saturday Night. He swallowed bits of his teeth. And he was lifted by the limbs and he was busted on Pentagon Saturday Night.

And I will tell now how one boy in the big cell, in this grand community of brotherhood bust, how this one boy is unable to share the bruised cheery fellowship of his companions or care for the gossip that Artie Sternlicht has topped everyone by landing in the hospital, or feel this group-sing spirit of gap teeth and seventy-six handkerchiefs dried crimson around the head; but sits in the corner, unable to stretch out full length, a spasm of wariness bowing his spine, knotting his fingers to his palms, his knees to his chest, his head to his knees. He
cannot enjoy such places. They are too familiar. He knows how far they are from home. He cannot survive such places in careless courage. He is sensitive to the caged air rubbing his skin, the night of this place nuzzling his ears. He sweats in a chill of possibilities knowing now what it means to do what is being done, and sweats every minute of just one night only one night, every second sweating it, a twenty-five-dollar ten-day suspended trip INNOCENT, I’M INNOCENT I TELL YA, eyesight skating up and down the walls like flies, interpreting the space between the bars, and Daniel discusses the endless reverberations of each moment of this time, doing this time in discrete instants, and discussing each instant its theme, structure, diction and metaphor with her, with Starfish, my silent Starfish girl

The next morning I paid my fine and was released. It was another lovely day. I got back to Washington and found the car and drove to the neighborhood of old American houses and found my wife in the quiet white room of the quiet American house. Phyllis immediately began to cry. My right eye was closed. My lips were crusted and swollen and I couldn’t open my mouth wide enough to eat. It hurt me to breathe, but I found I could ease it somewhat by holding my arms against my ribs. Blood was dried all over my shirt.

I didn’t want her to go on and on. “Listen,” I said, trying not to whistle through my teeth. “It looks worse than it is. There was nothing to it. It is a lot easier to be a revolutionary nowadays than it used to be.”

Early in December

Daniel Isaacson boarded an American Airlines 707 bound for Los Angeles. He wore his fleece-lined jacket, prison shirt and pants, and sandals. His beard was full, his long hair tied around with a headband of red cloth. His steel glasses shone. His teeth were large and white and shining and his toes, always rather large, looked immense in sandals—they were crude toes, prominently knuckled with thick yellow nails not entirely clean. He waved a big chilled toe at the fascinated lady across the aisle who looked up at him, blushed, and turned away.

A good many of the passengers believed Daniel was there to hijack the plane. He considered the possibility. Two businessmen conferred on the length of his hair. The stewardess found it difficult to maintain her smile when she passed him the
lunch menu. In fact she seemed to be angry with him. But she gave him that practiced eyeflick.

After a lunch of sliced steak and small green peas and apple cobbler Daniel received from the stewardess some sort of stethoscope in a plastic bag. For which The Foundation paid a dollar. It is to listen to the fantasy breathing.
The Spy Who Came In from the Cold
, with Richard Burton. Burton, an English intelligence agent, or spy, is manipulated and finally betrayed by his superiors in an involved plot designed to protect a double agent in East Germany. His innocent girl friend Claire Bloom is killed on the Berlin Wall and Burton chooses to die with her, standing up in turn to be shot. Life is never this well plotted but the picture is meant to be appreciated for its realism. It is photographed in black and white, always a sign of sincerity. Burton walks around like a man with a realistic load of shit in his pants. And The Wall itself is there, with its guard posts and striped gates and floodlights. But is it realism to show the Berlin Wall as a wall? The Berlin Wall is not a wall. It is a seam. It is a seam that binds the world. The entire globe is encased in lead, riveted bolted stripped wired locked tight and sprocketed with spikes, like a giant mace. Inside is hollow. Occasionally this hot lead and steel casing expands or cracks in the heat of the sun, and along the seams, one of which is called the Berlin Wall, a space or crevice appears temporarily that is just big enough for a person to fall through. In a world divided in two the radical is free to choose one side or the other. That’s the radical choice. The halves of the world are like the two hemispheres of Mengleburg. My mother and father fell through an open seam one day and then the hemispheres pressed shut.

Daniel stood at the curb in Los Angeles International Airport waiting for the Low Dollar Rent-A-Car Courtesy Cab. Looking down on the traffic the fringe tops of scrawny palm trees. Here he was in Southern California. The air a strange drink of balmy poison. The sky hazy blue overhead, solid phlegm toward the horizon.

Daniel thought renting a low dollar rent-a-car was a good idea. The courtesy cab came along with its big low dollar sign
on the roof and a young black guy got out and came around to the curb and looked for the customer.

“It’s me,” Daniel greeted him. “I called.”

“You? Just you?”

“Yeah.”

The black guy took off his hat and put it back on. “Well, no offense, but they’re not going to give
you
a car.”

“Oh shit,” Daniel said. He scratched his beard.

“That’s right. I mean I’ll drive you down there, it’s all the same to me, but I’m just saying what’s true.”

“OK, I appreciate that.”

“They’ll just hassle you, you know. Till you get the idea.”

“Right. Well, can you give me a lift someplace where I can thumb a ride?”

“Sure, which way you going?”

Daniel stood at Century Boulevard just before the turn to the San Diego Freeway. He stood with his bag between his feet and his thumb out. His chest hurt. Finally a VW camper pulled up. The driver was a blond kid with long mustaches and no shirt. The kid had a bed in the camper, a mattress with a sleeping bag on top of it, curtains on the windows, books in a bookshelf.

“Where you goin’?”

Daniel looked at his map. The wagon sped down the Freeway whining its way in the grey sun past oil refineries, billboards, power plants, industrial parks, furnaces, trailer parks, junkyards, storage tanks, ramps, cloverleafs, shopping centers, tract housing pennants flying, and on south into the country.

I don’t know what to write to convey the temperature change of the book. Take your coat off, it’s warm here. A headache passes through the eyes. It has to do with the atmosphere, the light. The light burns you. The sun warms you tans you but doesn’t burn you. The light burns you, chars the back edges of the vision. The sun has to be out in this part of the book. It is a chemical sun. It shines through a grey haze. It shines through a balmy stillness of air which lacks all natural smells. And to think all this was once only orange groves.

It was all together so much of itself, so completely what it
was I reveled in it. I was exhilarated, I took deep breaths of the balmy air. Power lines were strung through the sky. Sulfurous smoke rose over the flatland. Steel cities vibrated the earth. It was the country of strontium children.

LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT

    Daniel realized that though he’d come three thousand miles to a place he’d never seen before he felt right at home. That is the way it is. Everyone who lives there has just arrived. It’s a place you recognize immediately. On the Freeway we pass a convoy of army trucks. Helicopters cross the highway overhead. Gnatty jets loop in the sun high over the ocean. Electronic plants nestle in their landscaping. A highly visible military-industrial complex. Everything in the open in the wide spaces and bright light of California.

I sit in a trailer in a great plain surrounded by hills. In the great plain below the hills of the south a dark green helicopter rises and beats across the sky. It passes over the trailer, its compressions beating the white air till it’s thick. The helicopter flies down the sky toward the hills to the north. There, in the great plain, it sinks to a landing. It is a marine helicopter. I’m told all day and all night it rises and flies and sets in the great plain. Nobody knows why. All the students here look ragged and wizened. They wear shredded pants held up with rope and no shoes, and torn shirts and coolie caps of tented straw, tied with a string under the chin. Water is beginning to fill the plains. We are abandoning cars for bicycles.

The trailer belongs to the kid who gave me the lift. He’s a teaching assistant, a TA, and he shares this stationary trailer with three other TA’s. He has western ways of quiet self-attention. In the new life-style you value yourself and your feelings. You don’t ask questions. You don’t even ask a dude’s name if he doesn’t tell you. It doesn’t matter. There is a counter-world for us all to deal with. Let him use your office. This is the new University of California at Irvine, in Orange County. It is a ring of great concrete egg boxes with roofs of orange
tile, recalling Spain. It is still under construction. Lesser faculty have offices in trailers.

“Hello?” A feminine voice.

“Phyl?”

“Are you there?”

“Yes, I got a lift from the airport.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. It’s hot as hell out here.”

“How weird. It just started to snow.”

“What’s the story?”

“She’s holding her own.”

“Come on, no bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit. I saw her myself. She looks the same.”

“Are the Lewins still there?”

“Just your father. We came home to fix dinner. Then your mother’s going back to the hospital to pick him up.”

“Is the baby all right?”

“Yes. We’re all fine.”

“But?”

“What?”

“You said we’re all fine as if something’s the matter.”

“Well, your mother keeps asking me what you’re doing. She wants to know why you aren’t here.”

“Did you tell her?”

“It’s not easy.”

“You think it’s weird, don’t you?”

“No—you know I don’t.”

“Well it is. The whole trip is insane. I don’t know if it can do any good even if I get what I’m after. But what else can I do? Can you tell me what else there is to do?”

“I’m not criticizing, Daniel.”

“What did she say?”

“She said: ‘Is the truth something you can give someone for pneumonia.’”

“Oh shit. No. The answer is no. But what the fuck does she expect me to do—sit the deathwatch with her?”

“You want to talk to her? She’s in the kitchen.”

“No. Tell her I called and that I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’s very rough for them. Do what you can.”

“I am.”

“Don’t let them wait on you.”

“I’m trying not to. But I think she wants to keep busy. She doesn’t confide in me, Daniel. Your father barely talks to me. He barely pays attention to the baby.”

“Well, their own baby may be dying, Phyl.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

“All right—I’m sorry. Don’t you lose your cool. Do I hear crying?”

“No. But I’m doing the best I can.”

“I know you are. I hope to be back late tomorrow. I’ll call you. OK? Phyllis, OK?”

“OK.”

      2ND PHONE CALL—NOT COLLECT

    “Hello?” A feminine voice.

“Is this the Mindish residence?” A silence. “Hello?” “What?”

“Is that you, Linda?”

Another silence.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong number.”

“No come on, listen, this is Danny Isaacson. This is Linda, isn’t it, Linda Mindish from Weeks Avenue?”

A hand covering the phone. A silence. A sense of someone listening with her hand over the mouth of the phone. Here is this sudden connection, this sound-hole. She’s falling.

“Hello? Hey, are you there? Isn’t this you?”

“This is not the Mindish residence. You have the wrong people.”

Daniel smiled. “Well, what residence is this?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” She is hanging up.

“Wait! I’ve got your address, 1099 Poinsettia, right? See? I’ve got your phone. You might as well talk to me.”

“It’s nothing,” I hear her answering someone, hand muffling the phone.

“Linda?”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Hey, Linda, you remember the way you used to poke me in the ribs? You remember how we used to bend each other’s fingers? Only you usually won because you were older. You were a strong girl, you had strong hands for a girl.”

“Goodbye.”

“Hey—if you hang up I’ll dial again. Or I can bang on your door. So what’s the point?”

“You better learn there’s a law against bothering people.”

“But we know each other. Can’t you talk for a second, is it going to hurt you to talk?”

“I have nothing to say to you. Just stay away. Leave us alone.”

“I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

The soft cup over the phone. “It’s nothing, a friend,” he hears her muffled voice.

“Linda?”