The Ninth Wave

by Eugene Burdick

  "Why do you want to know something like that, Mike?" Hank asked." What difference does it make if people are scared?"

  "I don't know. It's just important to me. That's all," Mike said. Behind his eyes his skull felt empty; filled only with the crawling black dots and a sort of warm redness. He did not know where his words were coming from. They seemed to come just from his lungs and lips; as if his mind were being short-circuited. "You're interested 'in one thing, I'm interested in another. You're brain-clever, Hank. It's part of being a Jew. You're reasonable and logical and calm. Like something was chilled out of you. I think a different way."

  Mike looked away from the Quad. Between his feet he could see the asphalt surface of the Quad. Little bright pieces of stone embedded in old soft asphalt. The little pieces of stone seemed very far away and Mike put his hand down; reached for what seemed an endless distance until his knuckle rested against one of the stones. He pushed against it until he felt a slight pain and he once again felt anchored to the earth; released from the heat and brilliance of the sun.

  "In six weeks we'll graduate, Hank, and I've only learned two things and one of them I knew before I got here," Mike said. "At first I thought there was a lot more and I kept reading all the books, listening to the lectures, trying to find out what the other things were. I really got confused. Even when I was getting A's in all my courses I was confused. They didn't make sense. Neither did the books. It was all crazy. You couldn't add up all the books and get agreement. I soaked it all in and coughed it back up for the examinations, but it didn't make sense. But if I just stuck to two things, then the whole thing made sense."

  "They must be pretty terrific things," Hank said. "What are they?"

  "They're kind of like principles," Mike said slowly. "Like things I know are true . . . or at least I haven't seen anything that proves them wrong. Maybe I'm wrong and I don't care if you believe me or not, but I'll tell you what they are. The two principles are the only things that make sense out of all the lousy lectures in economics and politics and philosophy and history. The first principle is that everyone is scared."

  "We can call that the Principle of Fear, eh?" Hank said.

  "I don't care what you call it. That's as good a name as any: The Fear Principle. The second principle is that everyone hates. Call it the Hate Principle if you want. I've never given them a name."

  "Fear and hate sound pretty much the same thing to me," Hank said.

  "But they're not," Mike said. He felt excited, as if he were at the edge of a discovery. "Take a family. A kid might hate his mother, but he doesn't fear her. Or take a big businessman. He might hate his workers, but he might not fear them. Or the workers might fear him and think he is a pretty good guy, even like him."

  "It doesn't explain anything, Mike," Hank said. "It sounds impressive, but what does it mean?"

  "Well, take something like a revolution. Take the French Revolution. All of a sudden the streets of Paris are full of a bunch of people who are willing to kill the king, slaughter one another, change everything. Marx takes a look at it and says it was just one economic class trying to overthrow another. A regular historian looks at it and says it was a fight for power between the Jacobins and the Royalists and the Babouvists and a lot of other groups. Someone else looks at it and says it was the triumph of the Enlightenment, the inevitable result of the spread of rationality. Christ, there are thousands of books on it. Each one giving a slightly different reason. But they don't add up; they don't make sense."

  "And your two principles do make sense?" Hank asked.

  "Maybe they do. I'm not sure. But just take a look at the heads that were being carried around on the tips of pikes during the Revolution. At first they were the princes and the landlords and the mayors. The mob chopped their heads off and put them on pikes because everyone hates the people in charge. I don't know why, but they do. Then after this has gone on for a while the people who made the revolution, the real revolutionaries, decide that things have gone far enough and tell the people to stop. Then a strange thing happens. They discover that the people hate them, too. They find out that overnight the people can transfer their hate from the old regime to the new regime. That's what they mean when they say that old revolutionaries always die first. The successful revolutionaries are the ones that are able to make the people transform their hatred into direct action. But then orders; execute opposition; pass edicts; take over. They wind up with a guy like Napoleon . . . the most precise contradiction of the revolution. And they love him. Because now they're looking for a way to escape their fear. The hate is pushed below the surface; now they're scared. And because Napoleon will take over, because he'll ease their fears, they rush to die in his armies, freeze in Russia, burn in Africa, starve alongside of every road in Europe . . . with a great big glow of pride and love in their eyes as they stare at the Little Corporal riding off without them. Jesus!"

  Mike stopped. He pressed his knuckle against the sharp stone. He looked sideways at Hank.

  A bell rang, sharp and glasslike clear, peculiarly distinct in the hot air. People came from classes and moved slowly down the covered passageways. Two nuns stepped into the Quad, hesitated and then scurried across the hot cement. Their small black shoes twinkled in the sun, their heavy black habits swayed provocatively. Hank waited until the Quad was still again.

  "What about the Russian Revolution?" he asked. "They didn't kill the revolutionaries there."

  "That was different," Mike said. "They hated the Czar and the Germans and their landowners and just about everyone else. Christ, at first they didn't even know who to kill. They went around shooting everybody; they discover that hate is indiscriminate. The people just hate. And so for a few days the heads of the revolutionaries appear on the pikes."

  "Of course, there are some people who revolt on rational grounds," Hank said. "Tom Paine and Jefferson and . . . "

  "Sure they do. And they are the ones that are always knocked off first. They start the revolution and then they are either killed or pushed aside and someone else takes over."

  "Nice situation," Hank said. "What stops everyone from killing everyone else until just one guy is left?"

  "Fear. The second principle. The Fear Principle," Mike said. "They've even got a name for it. The 'thermidor': the revolutionary July. After a while fear sets in. Then everyone starts looking around for some way to end the fighting. Not because they're tired of it or feel ashamed or the hate is gone. But because they're fearful. Fearful that they won't get food, fearful that they might be invaded, fearful that their property might be taken away, fearful that they might be the next ones to get the guillotine. It happens in every revolution. In, a spasm of fear they strangle the revolutionaries and then they start to look desperately for authority. They turn to someone like Robespierre or Babeuf. Exactly the sort of tough, dominant guys that they thought they were getting rid of when they made the revolution. Guys that are willing to act tough; Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, soldiers, sailors, mayors, policemen, everybody. But then a guy came along with a spike beard and hard gray eyes and he knew how to hate and to fear. And they turned the revolution over to him. Not because they loved him, Hank, but because he could control the fear and the hatred. One day he would tell them who to hate . . . work out a nice slogan for it. The next day he would give them something to fear . . . the Cheka or the army. So he sat on top of the situation; opening the spill-gates of fear one day and hate the next. Hank, make no mistake about it. There is one thing that the masses know: real authority. And a real authority is someone who can satisfy their desire to hate and their fear. A good authority works the two of them together. He plays on 'em like they're an organ. He pulls out the stop labeled Hate and they run screaming through the street shooting up landlords and shopkeepers. Then the next day he pulls out the Fear stop and lets them see that if they're not careful he'll have the Cheka or the GPU chewing their ass. He sits at the console and gives 'em what he thinks they need; a little fear today, a little hate tomorrow
. Some days he gives 'em both. And they stand together and shiver and think he's the greatest guy in the world and love him."

  "But they don't like that crap, Mike," Hank said. "They hate it. The Russians hate it."

  "The hell they do," Mike said. "They love it. We'd like to believe all that stuff they write about loving Lenin and adoring Stalin is written by a bunch of frauds in Moscow. But we're wrong. The Russians love it. One day they get the 'hate' theme and they all start sending in secret letters on the manager of their collective. The next day they get the 'fear' theme and they start looking over their shoulder scared pissless that the manager might have a brother in the Cheka. But the big thing is that they like it; it gives a kind of crazy tension and shape to each day. The fear and the hate complement one another; fold into one another. They feel complete, filled up, whole."

  "Sometimes people go along for a long time without seeming to me to be very fearful or very hateful," Hank said. "Like right here in America. Right now."

  "Take another look, Hank," Mike said. "Sometimes it's hard to see. Sometimes because everyone is well fed and no one is too high above anyone else the hate and fear come into balance. But they're there. Do you think Roosevelt talks about Wall Street bankers because he really believes they want to dominate the country? Of course not. He does it because they're easy to hate. Same with the businessmen. They don't really think Roosevelt is trying to socialize the country or that he's a Commie. They just sense that people are scared of socialism or communism. So that's what they say: Roosevelt is a socialist or communist or both."

  "It's just not enough to explain everything that happens, Mike," Hank said. "I wouldn't get excited about it."

  "I'm not excited," Mike said. "I'm just trying to find things out. Maybe there's a pattern to things. Look at politics. You can see the hate principle working out. If you have the best ruler in the world, doing the best possible job for everyone, he still gets kicked out after a while. Not because he's bad or evil or inefficient, but because the hatred just starts welling up."

  "Mike, how do you know this stuff?" Hank said. He stirred on the warm concrete; suddenly itched with restlessness. "You sound crazy."

  "I feel it. That's how I know it. I sound crazy because people are crazy. The only way you can describe it accurately is to sound crazy. This is a senseless, irrational, unorganized, inarticulate thing, Hank. Maybe the craziness is the only orderly thing about it. Maybe if you understand the craziness you understand the whole thing."

  "O.K., O.K., Mike," Hank said. "I'm not interested in changing your mind. But why aren't you interested in doing something that will improve the process? Assume that you're right. Why don't you try and change it? Make it better?"

  "Why?" Mike asked. "Change it to what? Maybe I'd change it and it would be worse than it is now. Everyone wants to change things; make them better. Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Roosevelt, Father Coughlin, the Pope, trade union leaders, Think they'll make things any better? Maybe so, but I doubt it. Anyway, I don't know how I want things changed. I just want to live in the world the way it is now."

  "You're probably right," Hank said wearily. He reached down to the warm asphalt surface, tried to scrape a few pieces of gravel together. He managed only to get three small pieces of stone. He poured them from one hand to the other. They were hot against his palms. "Every tyrant in the world has thought he was doing good. Matter of fact some of the worst tyrants are the boys who get the idea that God is on their side. But, Mike, what's the alternative? Is everything good? Do you give up trying to find out what is right just because a lot of people have been mistaken about it before?"

  "You don't worry about what's good," Mike said. "Maybe there isn't any such thing as good. And when you start to worry about that you get like Moon and all the thousands of birds like him in the world: politicians, messiahs, bureaucrats, prophets. They start worrying about what's good and what's bad and pretty soon all alone and in isolation they've built a perfect little world of what ought to be. It's like one of those clocks you see inside a glass dome; all of the beautiful wheels and gears whirring and clicking together and lifting little levers and moving other things. In that private little world you can cut out anything you don't like, you can make everything match. And then these poor bastards turn to the world and announce that they've got a new system, a new morality, universe, a new interpretation. And nobody even listens, Nobody cares. See, Hank, I don't care about these guys and their little worlds. Sometimes they even do good. But I'm interested in something else. I'm interested in what is actually happening."

  "You can say that again," Hank said. He stood up and threw the three pebbles in his hand far out into the Quad. He pounded his hands against his pants. He was unbearably nervous, anxious to go. "Let's get going."

  Far across the Quad the shadows were starting to lengthen and there was the first breath of chill. When they stood up they were dizzy for a moment from the heat and the sudden rush of blood through their veins. They started to walk.

  "I told Connie I'd meet her by the bookstore at five o'clock," Mike said. "What time is it?"

  "Quarter to five."

  "I better get going. You want to come along? We're going up to the City tonight to hear a speech. Come on along."

  "Who's going to talk?"

  "Cromwell. John Cromwell," Mike said.

  "You going in Connie's car?" Hank asked.

  "Sure. Do you want us to go on the train just because I don't have a car?"

  "O.K., O.K. Only someday I want to see you buy a tankful of gas for that car. The only time you give it back to her is when it's out of gas."

  "She gets a fair return on her investment," Mike said and grinned. "A very fair return."

  They left the Quad and walked into the shade of the oak trees. They saw Connie's car in front of the bookstore. By the time they reached the car, evening had fallen and suddenly it was much cooler. They shivered as they walked toward the car.

  CHAPTER 9

  Vox Populi, Vox Dei

  It was dark when they arrived in San Francisco. Mike drove slowly out to North Beach and found the square in which the speech was to be given.

  "It's only seven," he said. "The speech probably won't start until eight. Let's get something to eat"

  "Let's have spaghetti," Hank said. "North Beach is supposed to be good on spaghetti. How about that restaurant over there?"

  They parked the car and walked across to the restaurant. The square was big, stony and almost empty. There were a few patches of grass protected by low wire fences, but the wire was kicked loose and hung down in loops. The grass was thin and brown. A group of Italian men stood in the middle of one of the grass plots, smoking rat-tail black cigars and talking.

  Around the square, the street lights made weak puddles of light. Most of the buildings had small businesses on the ground floor: salami factories, wine dealers, bars, a travel office and warehouses. The upper floors were apartments, most of which had small iron balconies.

  Women stood on the balconies. They were fat, petulant, irritated with the work of preparing the evening meal. Children stood behind them, waving moist pieces of bread. The faces of the women softened as they sniffed the cool air off the Bay. Most of them wore dirty chiffon dresses that gave their bulky bodies a wispy, fragile quality.

  In the middle of the square was a statue of Garibaldi. It was an equestrian statue and the huge bronze horse and rider rose so high into the night that all one could see was the pawing hoofs of the horse and a huge booted foot stuck into stirrups. Occasionally a pigeon flew down to the base of the statue, picked through the litter of peanut shells and then soared back up into the blackness again.

  Mike led the way into the restaurant and sat down at a table in front of the large flyspecked window that overlooked the Garibaldi statue.

  "How about some wine?" Mike asked.

  "See if they have Chianti," Connie suggested.

  "We'll have three orders of spaghetti with meat sauce and two bottles of dago
red," Mike said to the waiter.

  The waiter turned and walked toward the kitchen.

  "Mike, they don't like to hear the word 'dago,'" Connie said. "It's like 'nigger' or 'kike.' You shouldn't use the word."

  "Hey, waiter," Mike called."

  The waiter turned away from the kitchen and walked over. He was a young man with a small round belly and a mustache.

  "Do you mind people calling you 'dago'?" Mike asked.

  "Hell, no," the waiter said. "Dago, wop, ginny; they're all the same to me. I'm a dago, ain't I? Why should I care?"

  "Damned if I know," Mike said. "I just wanted to find out."

  The waiter looked down at Connie, ran his eye over her and and the swell of her bosom, studied her clothes. He grinned at Mike.

  "She's worried, eh?" he asked.

  "That's right," Mike said.