Nachman From
Los Angeles

by .newyorker.com/magazine/bios/leonard_michaels/search?contributorName=leonard%20michaels”>Leonard
MichaelsNovember 12, 2001

If Nachman was given
fifteen cents too much in change, he’d walk half a mile back to the newsstand
or grocery store to return the money. It was a compulsion—to make things
right—that extended to his work in mathematics. He struggled with problems
every day. When he solved them, he felt good, and he also felt that he was
basically a good man. It was a grandiose sensation, even a mild form of lunacy.
But Nachman wasn’t smug. He had done something twenty years before, when he was
a graduate student at U.C.L.A., that had never felt right and that still tugged
at his conscience. The memory of it came to him, virtually moment by moment,
when he went to the post office or when he passed a certain kind of dark face
in the street. And then Nachman would brood on what had happened.

It had begun when Nachman
saw two men standing in front of the library on the U.C.L.A. campus. One was
his friend Norbert, who had phoned the night before to make a date for coffee.
Norbert hadn’t mentioned that he was bringing someone, so Nachman was
unprepared for the other man, a stranger. He had black hair and black eyes, a
finely shaped nose, and a wide sensuous mouth. A Middle Eastern face,
aristocratically handsome. Better-looking than a movie star, Nachman thought,
but he felt no desire to meet him, only annoyance. Norbert should have warned
Nachman, given him the chance to say yes or no. Nachman would have said no. He
had the beginning of a cold sore in the middle of his upper lip. Nachman wasn’t
normally vain, but the stranger was not merely handsome. He was perfect.
Comparisons are invidious, Nachman thought, but that doesn’t make them wrong.
Compared with the stranger, Nachman was a gargoyle.

“Nachman, this is Prince
Ali Massid from Persia,” Norbert said, as if introducing the Prince to a large
audience and somehow congratulating himself at the same time. “The Prince has a
problem. I told him you could help and I mentioned your fee, which I said is in
the neighborhood of a thousand bucks.”

Nachman assumed that
Norbert was joking, but the Prince wasn’t smiling. With modest restraint, the
Prince said, “Norbert thinks of me as an exotic fellow. He tells people I am
from Persia or Jordan or Bahrain. I’ve lived mainly in Switzerland. I went to
school in Zurich, where there were a dozen princes among my classmates. I have
noble relations, but in America I am like everyone else. My name is Ali. How do
you do, Nachman? It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Nachman said, “Oh?”

The little word, “Oh,”
seemed embarrassing to Nachman. What did he mean by “Oh”? He added, “How do you
do? I’m Nachman from Los Angeles.”

Norbert said, “What is
this, the U.N.? Switzerland, Persia, Jordan—who cares? Ali’s problem is about a
term paper. He’ll explain it to you.”

Norbert walked away,
abandoning Nachman and Ali. Nachman grinned at Ali and shrugged, a gesture both
sheepish and ingratiating. “I don’t always know when Norbert is joking. I
thought I was meeting him for coffee. He didn’t mention anything else.”

“I understand. Norbert
was indiscreet. He is like a person at a séance who speaks beyond himself. He
has no idea how these things are done.”

What things? Nachman
wondered.

Ali smiled in a knowing
manner, and yet he seemed uncertain. The smile flashed and, before it was fully
formed, vanished. “Norbert is in my city-planning class, and we talk about this
and that. The other day, I mentioned my problem, you see, and Norbert said that
he had a friend who could write papers. He insisted that I meet his friend. So
here I am—you know what I mean?—and here you are. I want to ask you to write a
paper, you see.”

“I see.”

“I cannot write well, and
I have done badly in one class, which is called Metaphysics. I should never
have taken this class. I imagined it had to do with mysticism. Please don’t
laugh.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“It happens that this
class has nothing to do with mysticism, only with great thinkers in
metaphysics. I am not interested in metaphysics, you see.”

Ali nodded his beautiful
head as though he were saying yes, yes, providing a gentle obbligato to his
soft voice, and his hands made small gestures, waving about and chasing each
other in circles. It was distracting. Nachman wanted to say, “Stop doing that.
Talk with your mouth.” Only Ali’s eyes remained still, holding Nachman’s eyes
persistently, intimately.

“But I don’t write well
about anything, not even about mysticism, you see, and I have no desire to try
to write about metaphysics.”

“Why don’t you drop the
class?”

“Good question. I should
drop the class, but it’s now too late. I was hoping the professor would
eventually talk about mysticism. There are people, you know, who talk and talk
and never come to the point. The professor is a decent man and he is doing his
best, but if I fail I won’t graduate. This would ruin my plans for work and
travel. Your friend Norbert said that you would be sympathetic. He said that
you could write about metaphysics.”

“I don’t know anything
about metaphysics. I don’t even know what it is. I’m a student in mathematics.”

“Norbert said that you
could write about anything. He was sincere.”

Ali sounded as if he were
sliding backward down a hill he had just struggled to climb. Nachman felt
sympathy, because of Ali’s looks, but also because he seemed to engage Nachman
personally. It wasn’t strictly correct to write a paper for someone, but
Nachman already knew that he was willing to try.

“I’m sure Norbert was
sincere,” Nachman said. “Norbert wants to start a paper-writing business. Did
he tell you that?”

“No. But I applaud this
idea. Many students need papers. You will be partners with Norbert?”

“I never said that, but
you have to let a friend talk. Talking is Norbert’s way of life. He is always
broke, but he doesn’t think about getting a job. He schemes day and night. And
he dollars me. You know the expression? ‘Nachman, lend me a dollar.’ He never
pays me back. He had the idea about the paper-writing business. I don’t need
the money. I have a scholarship that covers books and living expenses.”

“Even so, you must go
into business with Norbert. Because of your friendship. Norbert loves you, and
he had a splendid idea. Norbert brings you poor students like me, and you write
the papers. He gets a percentage and soon he will owe you nothing. Will you do
it? A thousand dollars.”

“It’s not a question of
money. If I write a paper, it will be a good paper.”

“So you will help me?”

“What was the assignment?
Let me think about it.”

“I need a paper on the
metaphysics of Henri Bergson. About twenty pages. It’s due in three weeks.”

“Bergson writes about
memory, doesn’t he?”

“See, Nachman, you
already know what to write. If a thousand dollars isn’t enough, I’ll pay more.
Will you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know if you will
do it? Or if a thousand isn’t enough?”

“One, I don’t know. Two,
I also don’t know. The money is Norbert’s department. Talk to him about the
money.”

“So we have a deal?”

With a fantastic white
smile on his dark face, Ali put forth his hand. Reflexively, Nachman accepted
it. A line had been crossed. Nachman hadn’t noticed when he crossed it. Maybe
Ali had moved the line so that, to Nachman’s surprise, it now lay behind rather
than in front of him. Ali’s expression was deeply studious, as if he were
reading Nachman’s heart and finding reciprocity there, a flow of sympathy
equivalent to his need. For Nachman the reciprocity was too rich in feeling and
too poor in common sense. He felt set up, manipulated. But he’d shaken hands.

“I’ll phone you,” Ali
said. He nodded goodbye. Nachman nodded, too, and walked into the library, went
to the card catalogue, and pulled out a drawer. He found cards with the name
Henri Bergson printed on them, and he copied the titles of several books onto
call slips.

Nachman’s apartment was
in the basement of a house in the Hollywood Hills, near Highland Avenue. It had
a bedroom and a living room, a tiny kitchen, and low ceilings. It was cramped,
but not unpleasant. The windows, approximately at ground level, looked down a
steep hillside to a narrow winding street. Nachman could see ice plants, cacti,
rosebushes, and pine trees.

Sitting at the kitchen
table, he picked up a book by Henri Bergson. According to the jacket, Bergson
had won a Nobel Prize in Literature and had influenced the intellectual and
spiritual life of the modern age. He was a French Jew who had intended to
convert to Catholicism, but when the Nazis began rounding up Jews he decided
not to convert. His story was heartbreaking, but irrelevant to Nachman from Los
Angeles. To Nachman religious institutions were frightening. He believed, so to
speak, in mathematics.

That evening, when the
phone rang, Nachman picked it up and shouted, “Norbert, are you out of your
mind?”

“A thousand dollars,
Nachman.”

“Ali wants me to write a
paper about Henri Bergson.”

“Who is Henri Bergson?”

“You wouldn’t be
interested and I don’t want to talk about him. If you think writing a paper is
easy, you do it.”

“Nachman, I once tried to
keep a diary. What could be easier? Little girls keep diaries. Every night I
opened my diary and I wrote ‘Dear Diary.’ The next thing I wrote was ‘Good
night.’ Nothing comes to me. I’m a talker. Believe me, Nachman, I can talk with
the best, but I can’t write.”

“What does that have to
do with me, Norbert? You did a number on me.”

“Come on, man. A thousand
dollars. We’ll take a trip to Baja, hang out on the beach. It’ll be great.”

Norbert’s voice had a
wheedling, begging tone. It was irritating, but Nachman forgave him. He knew that
his friend needed money. Norbert carried books and went to classes, but wasn’t
a registered student because he couldn’t pay his fees. Norbert’s father refused
to help. He’d been alienated when Norbert got a small tattoo on the side of his
neck. Norbert’s father, an eminent doctor, considered tattoos low class.
Norbert still lived at home in Beverly Hills and drove one of the family cars,
a Mercedes convertible. He paid for gas with his mother’s credit card. But
until the tattoo was removed he would receive no money. Now he wandered about
campus with his tattoo. He didn’t want to look for a job. He felt he could
survive in an original manner. He had business ideas.

“I don’t know anything
about metaphysics,” Nachman said.

“What do you have to
know? It’s all in a book. You read the book and copy out sentences and make up
some bullshit. Finito. That’s a paper. Do me a favor, Nachman. Look at a
couple of books. Flip through the pages and you’ll know all you need.”

“I’ve been reading for
hours.”

“That’s good, that’s
good.”

“Norbert, have you ever
read a book?”

“Ali told me you
promised. He is very happy.”

“I said I’d try. It’s not
for the money, and not because I want to go to Baja and hang out on a beach.”

“I understand.”

“I’m doing it because I
like Ali. He’s a nice guy.”

“I feel the same way
about him.”

“After this, no more.
I’ll do this one time.”

“You’re O.K., Nachman.”

“You’re an idiot,
Norbert.”

“I’m glad you feel that
way. But don’t get too sentimental about Ali and forget the money part. Ali is
very rich, you know. I would write a paper for Ali every day, but I can’t
write. You should see Ali’s girlfriend, by the way. Georgia Sweeny. You ever go
to football games? She’s a cheerleader. An incredible piece. I’d let her sit on
my face, man.”

Nachman hung up.

Norbert was shockingly
vulgar. Nachman almost changed his mind about writing the paper, but then he
remembered the look in Ali’s eyes. It had had nothing to do with the
cheerleader or with being rich. Nachman’s resentment faded. He went back to the
books and read through the night.

For the next three days,
he did none of his own work. He read Henri Bergson.

At the end of the week,
Ali phoned.

“How are you, Nachman?”

“O.K.”

“That’s wonderful news.
Have you given some thought to the paper?”

“I’ve been reading.”

“What do you mean,
reading?”

“I can’t just start to
write. I’m in math. It’s not like philosophy. Math you do. Philosophy you
speculate. Did you ever hear of Galois? He was a great mathematician. He fought
a duel. The night before the duel, he went to his room and did math, because he
might be killed in the duel and not have another chance.”

“Was he killed?”

“Yes.”

“What a pity. Well, I
agree completely. You must read and speculate. But is it coming along?”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry if I sound
worried. I am confident that you will write the paper. A good paper, too. Do
you mind if I phone now and then?”

“Phone anytime,” Nachman
said.

He liked Ali’s voice—the
way feelings came first and sense followed modestly behind. It was consistent
with Ali’s looks. Nachman wanted to ask, jokingly, if Ali had a sister, but of
course he couldn’t without embarrassing both Ali and himself.

“Can I invite you to
dinner?” Ali asked. “You can’t speculate all the time. It will give us a chance
to talk.”

“Sure. Next week.”

Nachman went back to the
reading.

Metaphysics was words.
Nachman had nothing against words, but, as a mathematician, he kept trying to
read through the words to the concepts. After a while, he believed he
understood a little. Bergson raised problems about indeterminate realities. He
then offered solutions that seemed determinate. Mathematicians did that, too,
but they worked with mathematical objects, not messy speculations and feelings
about experience. But then—My God, Nachman thought—metaphysics was something
like calculus. Bergson himself didn’t have much respect for mathematics. He
thought it was a limited form of intelligence, a way of asserting sovereignty
over the material world, but still, to Nachman’s mind, Bergson was a kind of
mathematician. He worked with words instead of equations, and arrived at an
impressionistic calculus. It was inexact—the opposite of mathematics—but
Bergson was a terrific writer; his writing was musical, not right, not wrong,
just beautiful and strangely convincing.

By Monday of the second
week, Nachman had read enough. He would reread, and then start writing. He
would show that Bergson’s calculus was built into the rhythm and flow of his
sentences. Like music, it was full of proposals and approximations, and it
accumulated meaning, which it built into crescendos of truth.

Ali phoned.

Nachman said, “No, I
haven’t started, but I know what I’m going to say. I love this stuff. I’m glad
I read it. Bergson is going to change my life.”

“I’m glad to hear that.
You are marvellous, Nachman. I think the writing will go quickly. Perhaps you
will be finished by tomorrow, almost two weeks ahead of time. I never doubted
that you would do it.”

Ali’s faith in Nachman
was obviously phony. He was begging Nachman to start. Despite his assertions, Ali
lacked confidence. More troubling was Ali’s indifference to Nachman’s
enthusiasm. That he didn’t care about metaphysics was all right, but he also
didn’t care that Nachman cared. Nachman’s feelings were slightly hurt.

“It’s only been a week,
Ali. Tomorrow is too soon. I still have two weeks to write the paper. I could
tell you what I’ll say. Do you want to hear?”

“I am eager to hear what
you will say. So we must have dinner. The telephone is inappropriate. At dinner
you can tell me, and I can ask questions. How about tonight? We will eat and
talk.”

“I’m busy. I have my own
classes to think about. My work.”

Surprised by his own
reproachful tone—was he objecting to a dinner invitation?—Nachman tried to undo
its effect. “Tomorrow night, Ali. Would that be good for you?”

“Not only good, it will
be a joy. I will pick you up. I have in mind dinner at Chez Monsieur. The one
in Brentwood, of course, not Hollywood.”

“I’ve never heard of Chez
Monsieur in Brentwood or Hollywood. But no restaurant music. I can’t talk if I
have to hear restaurant music.” Nachman sighed. He was being a critical beast.
Couldn’t he speak in a neutral way? “Oh, you decide, Ali. If you like
restaurant music, I’ll live with it.”

“I’ll tell the maître d’
there must be no music. Also no people at tables near ours.”

“Do you own the place?”

“Tomorrow night I will
own the place. Have no fear. We will be able to converse. When I make the
reservation, I will also discuss our meal with the maître d’, so we will not
have to talk to a waiter. What would you like, Nachman? I can recommend certain
soups, and either fowl or fish. Chez Monsieur has never disappointed me in
these categories. I don’t want to risk ordering meat dishes. I’ve heard them
praised many times by my relatives, but, personally, I’d rather not
experiment.”

“Ali, please order
anything you like.”

“But this is for you, not
me. I want you to enjoy the meal.”

Ali’s solicitousness made
Nachman uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to being treated with such concern. “I’ll
trust your judgment.”

“And the wine?”

“The wine?”

“You would like me to
decide on the wine?”

“If they run out of wine,
I’ll settle for orange soda.”

“Orange soda. That’s very
funny. I’ll come for you at eight. Give me your address.”

Promptly at eight,
Nachman stood outside the house. The limousine appeared one minute later. A
door opened. Nachman saw that Ali was wearing a dinner jacket. Nachman was
wearing his old gray tweed jacket, jeans, and a white shirt open at the collar.
He hadn’t been able to find his tie. In jacket, shirt, jeans, and no tie,
Nachman climbed into the limousine.

Ali greeted him in a
jolly spirit. “As you see, Nachman, I’m incapable of defying convention,” he
said. “Not even in California, where defiance is the convention. I must tell
you a story. It will make you laugh.”

There was no uncertain
smile. There was nothing apologetic or needy in his manner. The limousine went
sliding down Highland Avenue into the thrill of the city’s billion lights, and
Ali talked cheerily. Nachman sank into the embrace of soft gray leather and
studied the back of the driver’s head. The limousine smelled good. It seemed to
fly. Tinted windows made Nachman invisible to the street. Such privilege and
sensuous pleasure. He felt suspicious of it, as if he were being made to
believe that he liked something he didn’t like and could never have.

Ali said, “One evening
not long ago—this was after I came to America—when I first started to go out
with Sweeny . . . Have I told you about Sweeny?”

“No.”

“She is my girlfriend. Do
you go to football games? You would know who she is.”

“She plays football?”

Ali paused. He lost his
storytelling momentum and seemed to sneer faintly, but the expression quickly
changed, became a smile.

“Sweeny is a
cheerleader.”

Nachman had been unable
to resist the joke. The limousine, Ali’s dinner jacket, and Nachman’s
embarrassment at his inappropriate attire had made him feel—yes, he named
it—like a jerk. Hence he became a comedian, keeping his dignity by sacrificing
it.

“As I was saying,
Nachman, I picked Sweeny up at her apartment and I arrived wearing jeans. She
shrieked. Why is Sweeny shrieking? I asked myself. It was because my jeans had
been ironed, you see. I laughed. I was being a good sport, laughing at myself.
In my heart, I was bitterly ashamed. When she stopped shrieking, Sweeny was
able to explain. Ironed jeans, you see, are horrifying. An American would know
this, but I had just arrived and I had never before worn jeans. Naturally, I
had had them ironed. Can you imagine my shame?”

Ali wanted to make
Nachman feel that his outfit was all right, and Nachman appreciated Ali’s
intention, but the word “shame” was telling. Ali thought Nachman looked
shameful.

The limousine stopped in
front of a white stucco building. There was no sign, no window, no doorman. Ali
led Nachman through an ordinary wooden door, and voilà, Chez Monsieur, a
restaurant for those in the know. It was two rooms, one opening into the other,
neither very large. The décor was subtly graded tones of gray and ivory. A
panel of black marble, like a belt, swept around the rooms. A man appeared and
shook hands with Ali, then led them through the first room, which had a bar and
several tables occupied by men and women in beautiful evening clothes. Not one
head turned to look at Nachman, despite his shameful attire. This crowd,
Nachman thought, is as cool as the décor. In the other room, Nachman saw empty
tables. All had cloths and plates and napkins, but only one was set with
silverware and glasses. Ali had reserved the entire room.

Waiters came and went. Dishes
were placed before Nachman, wine was poured, dishes were removed. Everything
was done with speed and grace, in silence. Ali chattered happily from one
course to the next, describing the preparation of the soup and the fish. He was
playing the gracious host. Nachman glanced up now and then and said, “Good.”

“I’m so pleased you like
it,” Ali said.

Nachman was beginning to
feel resentful again. He disliked the feeling. It had surprised him repeatedly
in the past few days. That afternoon, before meeting Ali, he had prepared with
excitement to talk about the paper. But Ali was absorbed by the idea of himself
as a man who knew where and how to eat. Nachman thought the restaurant seemed
too old for Ali, who was in the prime of life, the lover of the mythical Georgia
Sweeny. Did he really care so much about food? Nachman remembered Norbert’s
comment about Sweeny. It had shocked him, but it now seemed less vulgar than
healthy.

They finished a bottle of
wine. Another bottle was set on the table. Ali had signalled for it with a nod
or a glance. Nachman hadn’t noticed. He’d already had a lot to drink. His
attention was diffuse. He forgot about the paper. Ali now talked about Sweeny.
He wanted to spend some years in Teheran, but Sweeny refused to live with
restrictions on how she could dress. It was a perplexity. The chador was
peasant attire, but even at the higher levels some women found it pleasing. Ali
laughed at the idea of Sweeny in a chador. After all, she appeared nearly naked
before a hundred thousand people on Saturday afternoons. Nachman laughed, too,
though he wasn’t sure why. Intermittently, he said things like “I see” and “Is
that so?” He was hypnotized by pleasant boredom. It struck him that lots of
people go through life without ever talking seriously about anything, let alone
Bergson’s metaphysics.

The table was cleared,
the cloth swept clean and reset with fresh glasses and an ashtray. Ali ordered
port. He settled back in his chair. A fine sheen of perspiration appeared below
his dark eyes. The port arrived in a black bottle with a dull yellow label. It
was held over a small flame and decanted. The taste was thick and sweet. Ali
offered Nachman a cigar. Nachman didn’t smoke, but he accepted it anyway. They
clipped the ends. Ali held a cigarette lighter to Nachman’s cigar and said,
“Tell me, Nachman. It must be nearly finished, am I right?”

Nachman drew against the
flame. He flourished the cigar and exhaled a stream of white smoke. “It’s
finished,” he said, an air of superiority in his tone.

“Marvellous. I’ve been
dying to hear about it.”

“Hear about what?”

“The paper.”

“Right. Well, it’s coming
along.”

“You just said it was
finished.”

“I mean in my head.
Writing is a tedious chore. I’ll put it in the mail by Friday.”

Ali reached into the
inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small card. He handed it to Nachman.
Ali’s name, address, and telephone number were inscribed in brilliant black
ink. He said, “Could you give me a sense of the paper?”

Nachman cleared his
throat and brushed his napkin across his lips. Earlier, he’d been eager to talk
about the paper. He had no heart for it now. Ali sensed Nachman’s reluctance.
His dark eyes enlarged by a tiny degree and his mouth shaped itself with
feeling. A subtle swelling, almost a pout, appeared in the lower lip. Nachman
suddenly felt an intense desire to give Ali a pleasure that was worth ten
thousand dinners, the undying pleasure of an idea. Nachman decided to say
everything, to make it felt.

“I will begin the paper
with a discussion of Zeno’s paradox, and then I will move swiftly to Leibniz’s
invention of calculus. Then, then comes the metaphysics, but a good deal, Ali,
depends on how I imitate Bergson’s musical style, particularly as I elucidate
his idea of intuition. I could put it all in a simple logical progression, but
the argument would be sterile, unnatural, and unconvincing. Don’t misunderstand
me. Bergson is not some kind of rhetorician, but it is critical to understand
what he means when he talks about intuition, and for this you must see why his
style, his music, his way of advancing an argument by a sort of layering—”

Ali interrupted. He said,
“I told Sweeny about your extraordinary grasp of metaphysics.”

Nachman hesitated. Ali
raised an eyebrow and smiled. His expression intimated that, speaking man to
man, Sweeny was relevant to metaphysics.

“She said that she would
love to meet you.”

“Me?” Nachman flushed,
his mind filling with a confusion of hurt and rage.

“It isn’t inconceivable
that you would enjoy her company.”

The remark had a
provocative thrust.

“I don’t object to
meeting Sweeny.”

“You sound reluctant,
Nachman.” Ali was teasingly ironic, with an edge of contempt.

“I wasn’t thinking about
meeting anyone.”

“Sweeny would be the
first to admit that she isn’t an intellectual. Don’t imagine otherwise. She has
no pretensions of that sort. Perhaps you object to wasting time with people who
aren’t intellectuals.”

“I know plenty of people
who aren’t intellectuals.”

“Sweeny has other
virtues. There is more to life than intellect.”

“I’m not crazy about intellectuals.
Norbert is my best friend and he is an idiot. What are Sweeny’s other virtues?”

“She is a woman who
exists for the eyes. Some things shouldn’t be described in words; among them
are women like Sweeny. It cannot be done without desecration. That’s the reason
for the chador. A man shouldn’t share his woman with other men, but I will make
an exception for you. The three of us will go out some evening. Do you like to
dance?”

“I can’t dance.”

“Perhaps it isn’t
intellectual enough.”

“I also can’t swim. These
things are related.”

“How are they related?”

“I’m deficient in
buoyancy, you know what I mean? To dance you must be light on your feet.
Buoyant, as in water.”

“There is something heavy
in your nature, Nachman.”

“I can’t even float, Ali.
If I lie down in the water, I sink.”

“Well, you don’t have to
dance. It would be enough to talk to Sweeny about metaphysics. She will be
delirious with excitement. She has never met a man who could tell her about
metaphysics.”

The conversation was more
like a game of Ping-Pong than a fight with knives, and yet the hostility was
obvious. Ali didn’t want to hear about the paper. Ali didn’t want to hear about
Bergson or metaphysics. He was flaunting Sweeny, even giving her to Nachman,
though not quite as he had given him the superb dinner. Ali’s generosity had
been reduced to an insulting message. Nachman could have wine and port and a
Cuban cigar. Some night he could dance with Sweeny. But with all the
metaphysics in the world he could never have a girlfriend like her.

There was no business
with the check. There was no check. Ali simply stood and walked away from the
table. Nachman followed him. The limousine was waiting. They climbed inside. It
slipped away from the building and gained a dreamlike speed. Nachman felt an
impulse to lean over the seat in front of him and look at the driver’s face.
But what if there was no face, only another back of a head?

He wondered how much Ali
had paid for the dinner. The room at Chez Monsieur must have cost at least a
few thousand dollars. And the dinner itself? Another two thousand? A bottle of
wine could be five hundred. Nachman was guessing, but he couldn’t be far off.
Two bottles of wine, and then the port. There was also the tip.

“Ali, do you mind if I
ask a question? How much did you tip the headwaiter and the others?”

“One doesn’t tip
servants.”

Nachman should have known
that waiters were servants. He was embarrassed, but he was also high, and he
continued blithely thinking about the cost of dinner. Even if Ali didn’t tip
servants, he’d probably spent five thousand dollars, and not even the faintest
shadow of a thought related to the cost of anything had appeared in his eyes.
Nachman suddenly felt illuminated by a truth. Why not spend five thousand
dollars on dinner? They had eaten well. The service had been magical. They had
sipped port and puffed on their cigars, which must have cost a fortune, perhaps
even the lives of the Cubans who smuggled them past the Coast Guard. Nachman
felt that he was on the verge of grasping the complexities at the highest
levels of the universe.

Ali looked splendid and
triumphant. He had allowed Nachman to see him as a man who knows how to live
and how to include a person like Nachman in the experience of living. He hadn’t
listened to anything about the paper. He’d made Nachman feel meaningless. The
idea of himself as meaningless compared with Ali made Nachman chuckle.

Ali said, “What’s funny?”
He was smiling, ready to enjoy Nachman’s funny thought.

“I’ve never had an
evening like this. Thanks, Ali.”

“We must do it again
soon. With Sweeny.”

Nachman was awakened the
following day by the telephone. He slid out of bed and stood naked with the
phone in his hand.

“I wish you’d been there,
Norbert,” he crowed. “You wouldn’t believe how much Ali spent on dinner.”

“How much?”

“Eleven, maybe twelve.”

“Twelve hundred. Wow.”

“Thousand.”

There was silence.

Nachman continued, “As
for the paper, by the end of the week it will be in the mail to Ali.”

“That’s fantastic,
Nachman, but don’t bother mailing it. I’ll come pick it up. You’ve done
enough.”

Nachman detected a strain
of reservation in Norbert’s voice. What a person says isn’t always what a
person means. If Norbert were to say what he was thinking, fully and precisely,
he would have to talk for an hour. And yet Nachman heard everything in that
tiny reservation. Norbert was jealous. Ali had spent thousands on a dinner for
Nachman. Norbert wanted to be the one to give the paper to Ali. Personally.

“No trouble, Norbert.
Besides, I’m going out of town on Friday. My mother moved to San Diego. I have
to see her new house. I’ll stick the paper in the mail. When I return late
Monday, Ali will have read the paper, and you’ll have a thousand bucks.”

“A percentage.”

“Fifty per cent.”

“Too generous.”

“I wouldn’t have met Ali
if not for you. What’s money? It’s soon spent. A friendship never. What a
dinner.”

“Nachman. I don’t know
what Ali spent, but it wasn’t eleven thousand dollars, so don’t jerk me off.
I’m not stupid. I’ll accept an agent’s percentage. Say, twenty-five per cent.”

“Are we in business,
Norbert? If we’re in business, we’re partners.”

Nachman enjoyed the heat
of his feeling long after he said goodbye.

On Friday, he didn’t
leave town. He hadn’t finished writing the paper, but that was only because he
hadn’t begun.

Ali phoned on Monday. “It
didn’t arrive?” Nachman said. “I mailed it from my mother’s house in San Diego.
She had a nice house in Northridge, but decided to sell it, because real estate
in her neighborhood went way up in value. She said to sleep in Northridge was
like snoring money away. I used the address on your card. Is it correct?”

“Why would I put the
wrong address on my card?”

“You sound angry.”

“I am not a person who
feels anger. Do you think the postal service is reliable?”

“We will go to the post office
and initiate a search.”

“The paper is lost?”

“Ali, if the paper
doesn’t arrive tomorrow, we will go to the post office and you will see a man
who feels anger.”

“O.K. I appreciate your
sincerity.”

Nachman stayed home the
next day waiting for the phone to ring. The phone didn’t ring. Nachman began to
wonder why not. He was tempted to phone Ali and ask whether the paper had
arrived. He glanced at the phone repeatedly but didn’t touch it.

Late in the afternoon,
there was a soft knock at the door. Nachman hurried to open it. It was a girl.
She was average height, blond, very pretty. If Nachman had had to describe her
to the police ten minutes from then, he could have said only that. Average
height, blond, very pretty. She wore a blue cardigan the color of her eyes. She
had left the cardigan open, revealing a skimpy bright-yellow cheerleader’s
outfit.

She said, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Are you Nachman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“He sent you?”

“Can I come in?”

Nachman stepped back. She
walked in, glanced around the apartment, and said, “This isn’t bad. I mean, for
a basement apartment. The light is nice. It could be real dark in here, but it
isn’t.”

“Have a seat,” Nachman
said.

She sat on Nachman’s
sofa, her purse in her lap, her posture rather prim. She smiled pleasantly at
Nachman and said, “Ali doesn’t know what he did or said to offend you. But he
is sorry. He hopes you’ll forgive him.”

“He is sorry?”

“Yes, he is sorry. He
wants the paper.”

“The paper didn’t
arrive?”

“Is this happening,
Nachman?”

“What are you talking
about?”

“What do you think? What
am I doing in your apartment? Isn’t this crazy?” She laughed. Her expression
became at once pathetic and self-mocking. “Two men who, as far as I can tell,
aren’t brain-damaged can’t talk to each other plainly. And I’m late for
cheerleading practice.”

“Go, then,” Nachman said.

“Don’t you think you owe
Ali something? He took you to dinner. He intends to pay you a thousand bucks
for the paper.”

“It’s in the mail.”

“Nachman, come on, be
nice. Ali has an embassy job. He can’t leave the country until he graduates.
The paper is his passport. Won’t you give it to me?”

“It’s in the mail.”

“Even a rough draft would
do.”

“Let’s go to the post
office.”

“Oh, please, Ali went
yesterday. I’ve been there twice today. Look, I brought a tape recorder.” She
took it out of her purse and held it up. “See this little machine? You talk to
it. Tonight I’ll type up what you’ve said.”

Sweeny was clearly trying
to seem amusing, but her voice was importunate and rather teary, and then she
bent forward, her face in her hands. “I’m not good at this,” she said. “It
happens all the time. We go for a drive and Ali gets lost, so he pulls over at
a street corner and tells me to ask some guys for directions. Man, we’re in the
barrio. I don’t want to ask those guys anything. He says, ‘You’re a blond girl.
They will tell you whatever you want to know.’ “

Nachman wanted to embrace
her and say “There, there,” but worried that she would misinterpret the
gesture.

She said, “I’m in the
middle of this, Nachman. I don’t even know what’s going on. Ali is being mean
to me. All I know is it’s your fault. Do you hate Ali? He’s suffered so much in
his life.”

“Suffered? Ali is a
prince, isn’t he?”

“Ali descends from the
Qajar dynasty. It was deposed in 1921 by the Shah’s father, Reza Shah. Ali’s
father owned villages, and beautiful gardens around Teheran. So much was taken
away. They’re still multimillionaires, but they have sad memories. Can you
imagine how much they lost? It’s really sad. Don’t laugh. How can Ali think about
schoolwork? You’re laughing, Nachman. Please give me the paper. I’m really late
for cheerleading practice.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sweeny was on her feet.
She said, “I guess I should go,” and gave her head a small, defeated shake.
“Ali tells me you’re a smart guy, but I don’t believe you understand the
simplest thing.”

Nachman said, “Practice
can wait. I’ll tell you about the paper.”

Sweeny pursed her lips
and frowned. “All right.”

“Let’s start with the
idea of time. Tick tock, tick tock. That’s how we measure time. With a clock.
Do you follow me?”

“Yes.”

“Each tick is separate
from each tock. Each is a distinct and static unit. Each tock and tick is a
particle that does not endure. It is replaced by another particle.”

“Man, this is intense.”
She grinned. Her mood had changed radically. She was playing the moron for him.
Nachman felt charmed. He began to adore her a little bit.

“Each particle occupies
the space occupied by the previous particle, or tick or tock. Do you follow
me?”

“Like ‘hickory dickory
dock.’ “

“But the point is that
‘tick tock’ is an abstraction. A spatial idea about measuring time. It’s
nothing at all like the real experience of time. Real experience is fluid, as
in a melody—la-la-la. Real human experience is different from the idea of
experience. When you make love, time doesn’t exist, isn’t that true?”

“The paper is about sex?”
Her mouth dropped open with mock amazement, and Nachman wondered about what
could never happen between them.

“No. Making love is an
example. I just thought of it. The nursery rhyme ‘hickory dickory dock’ is
funny. It’s mechanical. Love isn’t funny. Love is an example of what’s real.”

“I’ll just turn on the
tape recorder.”

“Sit down.”

Sweeny sat.

Nachman was startled. He
hadn’t intended to order her to sit. But he had, and she had obeyed. There she
was, a pretty blond Sweeny sitting on his sofa. Nachman felt a surge of
gratification. Also power. He blushed and turned away so that she wouldn’t
witness her effect on him.

“As I was saying,” he
said, now addressing the ceiling. “We measure time by dividing it into tick
tock, and this has nothing to do with . . . Look, if you can measure a thing,
then you are talking about something that can change. Anything that can change
is subject to death. The opposite of death is not life, it’s love. How can I
talk to you about Bergson? This won’t do, Sweeny.”

“Why can’t you talk to
me?”

“No damn tape recorder.”

Nachman’s voice had
become hoarse. He felt a warmth in his chest and face, as if something had
blossomed within because of this girl with her naked thighs and short yellow
skirt. What he felt was the most common thing in the world, but Nachman didn’t
think it was uninteresting. He was inclined to do something. What? He could sit
down beside her. The rest would take care of itself.

“Why not?”

Nachman was jarred. The
question returned him to himself. He didn’t sit down beside her.

“Why not?” Nachman
sighed. “I don’t know why not. I suppose it’s because I want you to understand
me. I mean, I want you to get it. This is all about intuition, which is about
real experience, where everything begins. You simply have to get it. I don’t
know what I mean. Maybe I don’t mean anything.” Raising his voice, Nachman
said, “Please put the tape recorder away.”

Sweeny stood up, aghast,
the tape recorder in hand. She whispered, “Do you have something to say or
not?”

Nachman shouldn’t have
said “please.” He should have ordered Sweeny to put the tape recorder away.
He’d been cowardly, unsure of his power. Now he had no power. He reached for
the tape recorder and drew it slowly from her hand. She let it go. In the
gesture of release, Nachman felt their connection falter. Sweeny’s eyes
enlarged as if to make a sky, a vastness wherein Nachman felt minuscule.
Nachman was only a dot of being that subsisted within her blue light. A dot; no
Nachman at all beyond what Sweeny perceived. He’d never been looked at that way
by a woman. His knees trembled. He couldn’t think. She said, “I don’t believe
you are interested in talking to me,” and started toward the door.

Nachman called, “Hey!”

Sweeny stopped and looked
back at him. He held the tape recorder toward her. She took it and said, “Ali
ought to have his head examined.” An instant later, she was gone.

Nachman sat at his small
kitchen table and looked out the window. He rarely had visitors in his
apartment, and yet he had never felt so alone. As the light failed, the trees
became darker. Soon they were black shapes against the pink-green glow of
sunset. Just before twilight became full night, a ghostly-looking dog appeared,
sniffing about amid the ice plants. It sensed Nachman’s eyes and lifted its
head to face him. Nachman realized that it was a coyote, not a dog. He could
see a glistening patina of moonlight on the coyote’s nose. Nachman’s heart beat
with excitement, and his eyesight sharpened. His neck muscles stiffened as he
met the coyote’s stare.

The next morning, Nachman
went to the post office. He asked about an envelope addressed to Prince Ali
Massid. The clerk was unable to find it, and called for the supervisor. Nachman
told the supervisor about the envelope. The supervisor said he would initiate a
search. Nachman returned the next day. There was no envelope. There was nothing
the next day, either. Nachman went regularly to the post office in the weeks
that followed. He asked Norbert to go with him a few times. Norbert trudged
along sullenly at Nachman’s side. There was hardly any conversation. Once,
Nachman asked in a soft voice, “Did you really need that tattoo?”

“Did Ali really need a
paper?” Norbert said. He sounded unhappy.

Eventually, Norbert
stopped going to the post office, and Nachman went less and less frequently.
Then he, too, stopped. But over the years he continued to remember Ali’s
handsome face and Sweeny’s beseeching expression, and he remembered the supervisor
who had looked at him suspiciously and asked with a skeptical tone, “You’re
sure you mailed it?” Nachman wasn’t sure, but then he hardly even remembered
having written the paper, not one word.