Underworld

by Don DeLillo

  “This is the challenge, Dwayne. You have to read the mysterious current that passes in the night and connects millions of people across a continental landmass, compelling them to buy a certain product first thing in the morning. They gotta have it and you gotta be ready for them when they show up.”

  He said, “Package goods and painkillers. These are the things that keep the country running.”

  A swarthy male stood in the doorway.

  “Jou order oranjuice?”

  Charlie fished some money out of his pocket and paid the guy. He took an extra-strength antacid tablet out of the bottle in his desk and washed it down with the watery pulpless half-rancid juice, for whatever calmative effect it might have on his acidic backwash.

  He told a dirty joke to Dwayne and sensed the fellow going pink out there on the prairie. There was nothing left to do but leave. Charlie walked through the semiswank lobby, done in Babylonian art deco, and nipped around the corner to his Swedish masseuse, who karate’d his aching lumbar for ten minutes. Then he wheeled into Brooks Brothers and picked up a couple of tennis shirts because what’s more fun than an impulse buy? He double-timed it across Madison to the Men’s Bar at the Biltmore, where he massively inhaled a Cutty on the rocks and was out the door in half a shake and skating across the vast main level of Grand Central, the Bobby Thomson baseball jammed into the pocket of his topcoat—a Burberry all-weather that he loved like a brother and that went especially well with the suit he was wearing, a slate gray whipcord made for Charlie by a guy who did lapels for organized crime—because he’d decided the ball was no longer safe in his office and he wanted his son to have it, for better or worse, love or money, real or fake, but please Chuckie do not abuse my trust, I could fall down dead passing the stuffed mushrooms at dinner and this is the one thing I want you to take and keep and care for, and he went striding through the gate just in time to make his train, which was the evolutionary climax of the whole human endeavor, and he bucketed up to the bar car, filled with people who more or less resembled Charlie, give or take a few years and a few gray hairs and the details of their evilest dreams.

  The last express to Westport.

  3

  * * *

  JANUARY 11, 1955

  There were stories about the Pope. There were reports, a certain kind of underground rumor that can make its way across a country, parish to parish. Pope Pius was having mystical visions. That was the rumor going round. He was witness to a series of supernatural events, seeing things in the dead of night. That was the story people told, I don’t know, nuns, old ladies on novena nights, maybe well-heeled parishioners too, pink and fit, officers of the Knights of Columbus. People hear such a story and feel something turn in their souls, a leap out of dear old singsong life into some other reading altogether.

  In class a student mentioned the rumors to Father Paulus in the course of a discussion that touched on the subject of thaumatology, or the study of wonders.

  The old priest looked out the window.

  “If you’d been drinking dago red until three in the morning, you’d have visions too.”

  I went to see Father in his office later in the day. It was a three-hundred-yard walk through a billowing white storm. I had the edges of my watch cap unfurled over my ears and kept my forearm raised against the cutting sleet, against the whole hard physical thing, the snowstorms and open spaces, the reality of a mass of land called North America, new to my experience.

  Father started talking before I had my jacket off.

  “It’s when the hair in my nostrils begins going stiff. That’s when I want to retire to the south of France.”

  “The snow on the parade.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “The benches are buried.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I realized, just out the window there, I was walking over a bench.”

  “Yes. Sit down, Shay, and tell me how you’re doing. A young man’s progress. That’s the title of this session.”

  “I borrowed a pair of boots.”

  He liked that response.

  “Do they fit?”

  “No.”

  Even better. When he asked about the state of my mind and soul, which he did only rarely, and when I answered on a practical plane, as I always did, he seemed to think I was devising a down-to-earth reply out of some manly instinct when in fact I was only confused, forever trying to put together a suitable set of words.

  “What are you reading?”

  I recited a list.

  “You understand what’s in those books?”

  “No,” I said.

  Again he smiled. I think he was tired of gifted kids. He’d done work with boys of advanced standing and now he wanted to talk to misfits of the other kind, the ones who’d made trouble for themselves and others.

  “Some of it maybe. What I don’t understand, I memorize.”

  His arm was propped on the desk and he leaned his head into the canted hand. No smile this time.

  “That’s not why we started this place, is it?”

  “I study like a madman, Father.”

  “But you can’t memorize ideas the way you do the endings of Latin verbs.”

  His hands were unspotted and small. Some of the other jebbies wore flannel shirts and heavy sweaters but Father Paulus was not influenced by climate or geography or the sense of special freedoms at Voyageur. He went black-suited and roman-collared and I respected this and found it reassuring.

  “One of the things we want to do here is to produce serious men. What sort of phenomenon is this? Not so easy to say. Someone, in the end, who develops a certain depth, a spacious quality, say, that’s a form of respect for other ways of thinking and believing. Let us unnarrow the basic human tubing. And let us help a young man toward an ethical strength that makes him decisive, that shows him precisely who he is, Shay, and how he is meant to address the world.”

  You were always afraid of disappointing Father, being unequal to the level of discourse. Being bland when he wanted a more spirited sort of traffic, even a bullshit act, wiseass and slouchy. Bland and plodding when he wanted independence and open argument.

  “My own life, I confess—yes, why not, you’ll hear my confession, Shay. Who better than you? Took me all these years to understand that I’m not a serious man. Too much irony, too much vanity, too little what—I don’t know, a lot of things. And no rage, you see. Or a small ingrown toenail rage, a puny frustration. Eventually you get to know these things. Do you act out of principle? Or do you devise self-justifying reasons for your bad behavior? This is my confession, not yours, so you’re not required to come up with answers. Not yet anyway. Eventually, yes. You’ll know in your heart how well you’ve met the calling to be a man.”

  “No rage,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “No rage. Rage and violence can be elements of productive tension in a soul. They can serve the fullness of one’s identity. One way a man untrivializes himself is to punch another man in the mouth.”

  I must have looked at him.

  “You can’t doubt this, can you? I don’t like violence. It scares the hell out of me. But I think I see it as an expanding force in a personality. And I think a man’s ability to act in opposition to his tendencies in this direction can be a source of virtue, a statement of his character and forbearance.”

  “So what do you do? Punch the guy in the mouth or resist the urge?”

  “Point well taken. I don’t have the answer. You have the answer,” he said. “But how serious can a man be if he doesn’t experience a full measure of the appetites and passions of his race, even if only to contain them or direct them, somehow, usefully?”

  Who better than you to hear me confess? He’d said that, hadn’t he? Someone who’s been in correction. Someone who has the answer. Of course I had nothing that resembled an answer and wondered why he thought I carried a stain of special knowledge for having done what I’d done.

  “Have you come across the word
velleity? A nice Thomistic ring to it. Volition at its lowest ebb. A small thing, a wish, a tendency. If you’re low-willed, you see, you end up living in the shallowest turns and bends of your own preoccupations. Are we getting anywhere?”

  “It’s your confession, Father.”

  His office was in an old barracks building and the force of the wind made the beams shift and crick.

  “Aquinas said only intense actions will strengthen a habit. Not mere repetition. Intensity makes for moral accomplishment. An intense and persevering will. This is an element of seriousness. Constancy. This is an element. A sense of purpose. A self-chosen goal. Tell me I’m babbling. I’ll respect you for it.”

  We were about thirty miles below the Canadian border in a rambling encampment that was mostly barracks and other frame structures, a harking back, maybe, to the missionary roots of the order—except the natives, in this case, were us. Poor city kids who showed promise; some frail-bodied types with photographic memories and a certain uncleanness about them; those who were bright but unstable; those who could not adjust; the ones whose adjustment was ordained by the state; a cluster of Latins from some Jesuit center in Venezuela, smart young men with a cosmopolitan style, freezing their weenies off; and a few farmboys from not so far away, shyer than borrowed suits.

  “Sometimes I think the education we dispense is better suited to a fifty-year-old who feels he missed the point the first time around. Too many abstract ideas. Eternal verities left and right. You’d be better served looking at your shoe and naming the parts. You in particular, Shay, coming from the place you come from.”

  This seemed to animate him. He leaned across the desk and gazed, is the word, at my wet boots.

  “Those are ugly things, aren’t they?”

  “Yes they are.”

  “Name the parts. Go ahead. We’re not so chi chi here, we’re not so intellectually chic that we can’t test a student face-to-face.”

  “Name the parts,” I said. “All right. Laces.”

  “Laces. One to each shoe. Proceed.”

  I lifted one foot and turned it awkwardly.

  “Sole and heel.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  I set my foot back down and stared at the boot, which seemed about as blank as a closed brown box.

  “Proceed, boy.”

  “There’s not much to name, is there? A front and a top.”

  “A front and a top. You make me want to weep.”

  “The rounded part at the front.”

  “You’re so eloquent I may have to pause to regain my composure. You’ve named the lace. What’s the flap under the lace?”

  “The tongue.”

  “Well?”

  “I knew the name. I just didn’t see the thing.”

  He made a show of draping himself across the desk, writhing slightly as if in the midst of some dire distress.

  “You didn’t see the thing because you don’t know how to look. And you don’t know how to look because you don’t know the names.”

  He tilted his chin in high rebuke, mostly theatrical, and withdrew his body from the surface of the desk, dropping his bottom into the swivel chair and looking at me again and then doing a decisive quarter turn and raising his right leg sufficiently so that the foot, the shoe, was posted upright at the edge of the desk.

  A plain black everyday clerical shoe.

  “Okay,” he said. “We know about the sole and heel.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’ve identified the tongue and lace.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  With his finger he traced a strip of leather that went across the top edge of the shoe and dipped down under the lace.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “You tell me. What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s the cuff.”

  “The cuff.”

  “The cuff. And this stiff section over the heel. That’s the counter.”

  “That’s the counter.”

  “And this piece amidships between the cuff and the strip above the sole. That’s the quarter.”

  “The quarter,” I said.

  “And the strip above the sole. That’s the welt. Say it, boy.”

  “The welt.”

  “How everyday things lie hidden. Because we don’t know what they’re called. What’s the frontal area that covers the instep?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. It’s called the vamp.”

  “The vamp.”

  “Say it.”

  “The vamp. The frontal area that covers the instep. I thought I wasn’t supposed to memorize.”

  “Don’t memorize ideas. And don’t take us too seriously when we turn up our noses at rote learning. Rote helps build the man. You stick the lace through the what?”

  “This I should know.”

  “Of course you know. The perforations at either side of, and above, the tongue.”

  “I can’t think of the word. Eyelet.”

  “Maybe I’ll let you live after all.”

  “The eyelets.”

  “Yes. And the metal sheath at each end of the lace.”

  He flicked the thing with his middle finger.

  “This I don’t know in a million years.”

  “The aglet.”

  “Not in a million years.”

  “The tag or aglet.”

  “The aglet,” I said.

  “And the little metal ring that reinforces the rim of the eyelet through which the aglet passes. We’re doing the physics of language, Shay.”

  “The little ring.”

  “You see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is the grommet,” he said.

  “Oh man.”

  “The grommet. Learn it, know it and love it.”

  “I’m going out of my mind.”

  “This is the final arcane knowledge. And when I take my shoe to the shoemaker and he places it on a form to make repairs—a block shaped like a foot. This is called a what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A last.”

  “My head is breaking apart.”

  “Everyday things represent the most overlooked knowledge. These names are vital to your progress. Quotidian things. If they weren’t important, we wouldn’t use such a gorgeous Latinate word. Say it,” he said.

  “Quotidian.”

  “An extraordinary word that suggests the depth and reach of the commonplace.”

  His white collar hung loose below his adam’s apple and the skin at his throat was going slack and ropy and it seemed to be catching him unprepared, old age, coming late but fast.

  I put on my jacket.

  “I meant to bring along a book for you,” he said.

  His hands were still young, though, a soft chalky baby blush. There was a chessboard on a table in a corner, opposing pieces marshaled.

  “Come to Upper Red tomorrow and I’ll dig it out for you.”

  Upper Red was the faculty residence. They named the buildings at Voyageur after local landmarks—lakes, towns, rivers, forests. Not after saints, theologians or Jesuit martyrs. The Jesuits, according to Paulus, had been treated so brusquely in so many places for their attempts to convert and transform, decapitated in Japan, disemboweled in the Horn of Africa, eaten alive in North America, crucified in Siam, drawn and quartered in England, thrown into the ocean off Madagascar, that the founders of our little experimental college thought they’d spare the landscape some of the bloodier emblems of the order’s history.

  “By the bye, Shay.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Did I see you in that little group yesterday signing a petition in support of Senator McCarthy?”

  “I was there, yes, Father.”

  “Signing a petition.”

  “It seemed okay,” I said.

  He nodded, looking past me.

  “Do you know why the Senate condemned him?”

  “The others were signing,” I
said. “Some of the South Americans,” I said a little desperately, knowing how stupid this sounded but thinking, somehow, this was the way to exonerate myself.

  “So you signed. The others were shitting, Father. So I shat.”

  He looked past me, nodding reasonably, and I turned and left.

  I walked back and forth across the parade in the blowing snow. Then I went to my room and threw off my jacket. I wanted to look up words. I took off my boots and wrung out my cap over the washbasin. I wanted to look up words. I wanted to look up velleity and quotidian and memorize the fuckers for all time, spell them, learn them, pronounce them syllable by syllable—vocalize, phonate, utter the sounds, say the words for all they’re worth.

  This is the only way in the world you can escape the things that made you.

  OCTOBER 24, 1962

  They arrived in the rain, a young crowd except for the columnists from the Chronicle and Examiner and a couple of graybeard poets from City Lights, and they waited for Lenny Bruce to come out onstage.

  This was Basin Street West and the small stage had a backdrop of fake fieldstone. The wall was supposed to suggest a homey atmosphere but it resembled a mass of ugly bulging rock and it made the club seem dungeonlike or bunkeresque.

  They sat there and waited for Lenny, the jazz musicians emitting a faint reek of weed, a few monosyllabic chicks in existential black, the clean-cut college boys with secret deviant tastes, the entire staff of a little magazine called Polyester Wok, five righteous souls whose anger at the world was being undermined by the events of the past few days.

  Suddenly Lenny was there, without an intro, slipping into the spotlight and beginning to talk before he’d even lifted the mike from the stand.