One

by David Karp

  “Good heavens, man, you don’t think I have them, do you?”

  “You can get them, though, can’t you?”

  “It’s four o’clock in the morning, Professor. There isn’t anyone around who could open the wardrobe room, much less select your clothes bundle. Anyway, there are half a hundred forms and releases and papers to be filled out and signed before you can go home. That’ll all be taken care of in the morning.”

  “Red tape again?”

  “Red tape,” the doctor smiled. “Let me get you that sedative.”

  “I don’t want any, Doctor.”

  “Professor Burden, as a qualified physician I feel that you ought to take some sedation. You’re not exactly a young man and a day of some strain combined with a sleepless night isn’t the best regimen for someone your age.”

  “I’ll want to leave as soon as possible in the morning, Doctor, so I think I’ll stay up the rest of the night, if you don’t mind.”

  “My dear Professor, you don’t imagine that you’ll be processed at the crack of dawn, do you? Tomorrow’s Saturday; that means only half the clerical force is on duty. It will be nearly noon by the time they get around to you. Thank your lucky stars I did Mr. Richard a special favor by taking you on now. Otherwise you’d have to wait hours for your examination and then begin your wait for the paper work. Now, be a good fellow, put your pajama jacket on, and lie down here for a few moments. I’ll be right back. Some six hours of rest now would do you a world of good.” The doctor turned then and walked down the length of the room toward the desk with the burning lamp. His footfalls were heavy and slow in the examining room.

  Burden buttoned his jacket, his hands trembling. Perhaps the doctor was right after all. A good night’s rest would do wonders for him. In a way, the doctor was being quite thoughtful and he shouldn’t be so suspicious and contrary. And yet he could not shake off the sense of something sinister, something very wrong approaching him on silent feet.

  The doctor returned with a warm woolen blanket that he spread carelessly over Burden. “Cover yourself up. The warmer you are the quicker the sedation will take effect. Once you’re asleep we’ll put you on one of the wheeled stretchers and take you back to your room.”

  When Burden saw the light glint off the barrel of a hypodermic he started to rise from the table. “I thought it would be a pill or a powder.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the needle,” the doctor said with a tired smile as he held the point of the hypodermic up and gently pressed the plunger to fill the hollow needle. “This is much quicker than any pill or powder. Now, keep covered up. You don’t want to catch a chill.” He reached under the blanket and drew Burden’s arm out. He pushed up the pajama jacket sleeve and Burden felt the cold, alcohol-wet pad being briskly rubbed on his forearm. Then the slightest stab of pain and the weight of the needle pulling slightly at his flesh as the plunger was depressed. “That’s all there is to it,” the doctor said with a smile, pulling down the sleeve and putting Burden’s arm back under the blanket. “You’ll be asleep in a little while and I’ll have the attendant take you back.” He tucked the blanket around Burden much in the manner that he recalled his mother doing when he was a child. He stared up at the ceiling that seemed dizzyingly high, a long pale oblong with many recessed bars of light so that they looked like the ties in railroad tracks.

  Burden felt a deep, suffusing flush as if his blood were being heated. He wanted to push the cover away from his chin but the doctor’s hand pushed it back. His body felt warm and a sense of stifling overcame him. He put up his hand to push at the cover.

  “You leave that alone,” the doctor said softly, “you’ll cool off in a few moments. You don’t want to catch a chill now. Let yourself relax a little and you’ll be asleep in no time.” The doctor’s voice seemed remote, as if he had retreated a few paces. But, of course, he hadn’t. Burden could still see that. The doctor’s face was close enough for him to see that he hadn’t shaved too carefully under the rounded point of his chin, which bore a thin line of gray bristles like a minute fringe. Now his eyes began to sting and burn, his limbs grew heavier. Somehow he got the impression that the doctor was looking at his eyes. Not at his face, but only at his eyes. Desperately he wanted to tear off the cover. But when he tried with the tips of his fingers he couldn’t. The doctor was holding it down against his chest, just under his chin. It shouldn’t have been difficult to push the doctor’s fingers aside, they seemed to be resting so lightly on the blanket. But Burden found it impossible to summon any strength in his fingers. He felt as if he were floating from the table, the warmth began to disappear, and a sense of chill began to settle in him. Almost at once an overpowering surge of nausea swept into his throat and he waited for the retching­.

  “Take it easy,” the doctor said quietly, “that’ll pass. In a few moments you’ll just feel lazy. Just relaxed and lazy.”

  The nausea disappeared and then, as the doctor had said, he began to feel lazy, luxurious, disassociated from himself; a wonderful feeling of passive pleasure began to seep through him and he wondered if he had ever rested so comfortably. It was like lying in bed of a Sunday morning after breakfast, with spring bright and promising outside the window, birds making their tender, high piping sounds on the grass of the front lawn, and the miraculous sensation of having nothing to do. The doctor’s face grew indistinct and he began to forget where he was. He could almost swear that he was at home again, his father still alive, his brother Ralph humming as he shaved and showered, his mother working on the garden. They must have had breakfast already. Strange they hadn’t called him, he thought. He was always being badgered to get out of bed on Sunday morning and have breakfast early so that they could all go to church. But there was no church this morning, no dull droning in a dark, cold building, no breakfast in the kitchen with the sense of hurrying. No one cared if he got out of bed at all. Perhaps it was a holiday from breakfast and church. A holiday, he decided delightedly. Well, what sort of holiday? Not Christmas, not anyone’s birthday. But it was a holiday. Well, who cared which one? He was snug and cozy in bed, no one was bothering him, and he didn’t have to have breakfast if he didn’t want to. When Ralph came out of the shower he’d ask him to bring something up—if he should feel hungry. And he knew Ralph would smile and say, “Sure”—not that Ralph always did, but he would this time. He would because it was a holiday.

  “The early recollections are typical,” someone said and he wondered who had said it. Was it Ralph? Not Ralph. He was still in the shower. But surely, that couldn’t be right. Ralph was dead. He was crushed to death on that farm by a tractor. He had been sleeping on the ground and no one had noticed him.

  “Ralph was important to you, wasn’t he?”

  Well, of course he was. He was my brother. Now who asked that?

  “Was it because he was just your brother?”

  What? What nonsense. He was my brother and I loved him. He was honest and strong and he hated a liar. He hated anything that was false or impure or wrong. Like my father. A thing that is wrong is like a thing that is sick or stunted.

  “Then to be sick is to be wrong?”

  No, no, not at all. You don’t understand. Who is asking these foolish questions, anyway? Not that. My father never said that at all. You are reversing it. It doesn’t mean that at all. It means that a thing that is wrong contains a sickness, a kind of malaise. A thing can be sick and not be wrong. A person might be sick and not be wrong or impure or a lie. Don’t you see that? It’s quite simple. No, I don’t have to explain that. Why should it have to be explained? You can see it at once, like a nail that has been driven improperly. It’s not too complex. It’s quite simple.

  “Go on.”

  Go on about what?

  “Anything.”

  Now that’s nonsense. Only a fool goes on and on. What shall I go on about?

  “About the nail.”

  Don’t be a fool.

  “Is it easy to recognize something th
at is wrong or impure or a lie?”

  Of course it is. My father said any man who can call his soul his own can tell about those things. There’s no trick to it. All you have to do is to use your eyes and your ears and your soul.

  “Is it a lie to report your friends and colleagues?”

  Report them for what?

  “Heresy.”

  Only a fool would ask that.

  “Is it wrong?”

  Don’t be childish.

  “Is it?”

  Don’t ask that.

  “Why not?”

  Don’t ask it.

  “But why?”

  Don’t.

  “Why?”

  No. Don’t.

  “Try something else.”

  Try what else? What should I try?

  “It’s concealment. Deep concealment. He won’t tell you.”

  Who is concealed? What won’t he tell you?

  “Is there such a thing as heresy?”

  Oh.

  “Is there?”

  They brought my brother’s body back on the hottest day of the summer and I could smell him right through the coffin. It was awful. I wished that my nose had fallen off. I wished that I had been struck blind or crazy or dead. He stank and I didn’t want to think that. It was wrong to think. He was my own brother. It was an awful thing to think of your own brother who was dead and would never talk or listen or laugh or read his books or go on to important things that everyone was so sure he would do. I wished I was blind or dead or something. I couldn’t stand the idea that I could smell him and the smell was awful. Oh, God, it was a sin.

  “Won’t he answer that one, either?”

  Answer what? If you want to know—ask. Ask and ye shall be given. Who are you?

  “You’ll hear more of his childhood if you ask questions like that. He won’t answer them. Ask him things he’s consciously thought out.”

  You are certainly impolite, whoever you are. I don’t want to hear about anyone’s goddamned childhood, least of all yours.

  “He must have been in his teens when his brother died.”

  Did someone’s brother die? That’s an awful thing. It happened to my brother, you know. My brother, Ralph. He was going to be an artist. They had great hopes for him. I know how you feel about that. It happened to me. Such a horrible accident, too. So unnecessary in the way it happened. A tractor—

  “Do you enjoy the reports?”

  The reports?

  “The reports you write for the Department.”

  Yes, I like to write them.

  “Why?”

  Oh.

  “Is he going to start that again?”

  Start what?

  “Ask him again. The hesitation is sometimes only a momentary block.”

  Hesitation is a momentary thing. Hesitation by its very definition means a pause, an interruption in something that is in motion. I suppose you’re a freshman student. That would explain the confusion over such a simple word.

  “Why do you like the reports you do for the Department?”

  Oh, they are pleasant. Like literary exercises. You show off so much.

  “How, show off?”

  To show off. It’s an old English slang expression. It means to demonstrate one’s powers with a sense of vanity or pride in one’s own accomplishments.

  “Then it is your vanity that is involved in your work?”

  Yes, of course. Every man is vain about something.

  “What do you hope to get from your reports?”

  Nothing.

  “What do you hope others will think of you?”

  Oh, that I am a cultured, intelligent sort of person with a soul.

  “Different from others?”

  Different?

  “Different in that you are intelligent and cultured?”

  Well, yes, I mean that.

  “Do you feel superior to others?”

  Yes.

  “Many others?”

  Yes.

  To everyone?

  Don’t be a fool. Of course not.

  “But superior to most?”

  Yes.

  “Superior to Mr. Frank Conger?”

  Absolutely. He’s a fool, that man.

  “Superior to Mr. Richard?”

  Yes. He has no soul. He seems to have a soul but he doesn’t. There’s a quite a difference. He wouldn’t understand the bent nail as a lie. He didn’t understand how much of a lie the paper flowers were.

  “What upset you about the paper flowers?”

  They were false.

  “But why should it upset you?”

  False, wrong, a lie. Don’t those things upset you, too?

  “But they were only flowers.”

  They were like everything in the place.

  “What place?”

  The Department. They were all a lie.

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  They, the people. The people in the restaurant. They seemed to be enjoying themselves but they weren’t. They were frightened. Conger said I had done badly and he had lied, too. He was trying to frighten me. And Richard. He lied, too. He pretended to be my friend but he wasn’t. He pretended he understood but he didn’t. The flowers tripped him up. He was lying. He wasn’t of our sort.

  “Our sort?”

  Yes, of course.

  “What do you mean by our sort?”

  I mean the people with souls, the people who understand what a lie means, what a soul means. People who understand how false it is to put paper flowers in fresh water.

  “These people with souls, who understand about the falsity of things—are they friends of yours?”

  Yes, of course. All of them.

  “Are they all members of the college faculty?”

  Don’t be a fool.

  “These people—our sort—what are their names?”

  I can’t tell you that.

  “Why not? Are you forbidden?”

  Of course not. What sort of question is that?

  “Then tell their names.”

  There are too many of them. And so many of them are strangers to me.

  “You know some of the names, don’t you?”

  Well, of course I do.

  “Then tell the names you do know.”

  Oh, people like Emma.

  “Emma who?”

  My wife, Emma. You are dense. And Middleton. Doctor Middleton. He’s a good sort even if he does have a foul mouth. I think deep down Middleton is one of our sort.

  “A colleague of yours?”

  Yes. On the staff of the English Department. Haven’t you met Doctor Middleton?

  “Are there other colleagues of—our sort?”

  Oh, I don’t know. Most of them are frightened. Middleton speaks out too much for his own good. He’ll be caught for heresy someday. I wouldn’t like that. I think Middleton’s a man with honesty, with a soul, deep down.

  “There must be others of—our sort. Who are they?”

  Oh, I don’t know. Probably that Drake girl in the art department. I’m glad I didn’t put her on the report that time. She had spirit, that girl. A rare thing these days, spirit.

  “Others?”

  Oh, I don’t know. Professor Kloetter, probably. He talks too much for his own good, too. Someday I will have to tell him to keep his opinions to himself. They’re heretical. Minor heresies, to be sure. But I suspect that deep down he’s our sort. I suppose it would shock him if I told him I had been reading his lips for ten years.

  “These people—do you meet with them?”

  Oh, occasionally. At lunch and between classes, things like that, you know. Only rarely a social evening at home. Emma doesn’t care for Middleton’s jokes. She thinks they’re vulgar. They probably are, although I notice she laughs at them. They are funny sometimes.

  “At these meetings—do you discuss plans?”

  Plans? What sort of plans?

  “Plans to spread your heresy further?”

  What nonsense. Why sh
ould we spread heresy?

  “Is it not a plan directed at the government?”

  Oh, you must be out of your mind. We would never dream of a thing like that. You’re speaking of conspiracy, are you not?

  “Aren’t you a conspirator?”

  Of course not. I can see the semantic confusion. You must have come from an especially poor local school. They turn out some wretched products. It’s unfair how much the children have to miss. Those local schools and that ridiculous, watered-down religion.

  “You mean the Church of State religion?”

  Hogwash. It’s a religion without meaning. It teaches people to be obedient sheep, to ignore their individuality, their immortal souls. It substitutes some sort of mass soul of which everyone has a share. It’s ridiculous. Don’t they know that God gave each human a soul to call his own? Each of us is a separate miracle, one quite as miraculous as the other. We owe that debt to God to retain our separate, personal identities. Otherwise we behave like some segmented insect—a caterpillar, or a centipede, or a barnacle. Man is uniquely one.

  “Then men owe allegiance to no one but God?”

  No, I didn’t say that. Allegiance is owed in a certain order. Above all a man owes allegiance to himself. To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. That’s one of the commonest quotes in ancient literature. True to one’s self, to one’s God, to one’s loved ones, to one’s fellow human creatures. That’s all the allegiance any man owes.

  “You put the State last.”

  I did not include the State at all. It doesn’t belong except in so far as it is part of a man’s self or his conviction, or part of his fellow men and their convictions. But, in any case, it comes last. A man gives up certain privileges of will to the State so that he may pursue his more important allegiances, but when the State interferes in those more important allegiances he has a right to ignore the State and the right to break off his contract.

  “Tell more of that feeling about allegiance.”

  What else is there to tell? It’s perfectly clear.

  “Illustrate it.”

  Well, it’s simple. A man owes an allegiance to his own sense of self-respect. No state has the right to order a man to betray his own sense of what is right by asking him to swear to one thing when he believes another.