The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  But mostly they talked about his nose.

  “My nose? You want to know how I got my nose?”

  “Yes.”

  “You really want to know how I got—”

  “Tell me—tell me!”

  “You’re absolutely positive you’re interested in hearing how—”

  “Yes-yes-yes.”

  “God gave it to me personally.”

  “No, he didn’t either.”

  “Since you obviously already know the story,” Old Turk said, leaning back in his soft wooden chair, “there doesn’t seem to be much point in going on with it.”

  “But you’ve got to go on,” the boy said. He was sitting on the floor by the chair and he reached forward and pulled the old man’s trousers like a bell rope.

  “You called me a liar. I said God gave it to me personally and you said no he didn’t either. A man likes to be believed.”

  “But you always lie when you tell about your nose.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this time I’ll tell the truth.”

  “Promise?”

  “Of course not. I’m a man of my word. I don’t have to promise. So anyway, one day when I was nine years old, I was plowing the fields and—”

  “When you were nine? You said you came over on the boat when you were eight, so how could you be plowing the fields when you were nine?”

  “In the old country we counted differently.”

  “Oh,” the boy said. He moved in closer to the chair.

  “So, this particular day when I was plowing the fields God came up to me and said—Good morning, Widow Kramer.”

  The boy jumped to his feet and ran toward the woman. “What do you need? Tell me and I’ll get it.” And she gave him the order and almost before she was done telling it was filled.

  “Add,” the boy said.

  “The service is certainly improved,” the Widow allowed. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same about the food.”

  “Always a pleasure, Widow Kramer,” Turk said, and he gave the money to the boy, who threw it into the money drawer, then pulled the old man back to the chair.

  “God came—I hate those interruptions—God—”

  “You never interrupt?”

  “Never. God came—”

  “Yes, he came up to me one day when I was plow—”

  “How did you know it was God?”

  “What you just did, that wasn’t an interruption?”

  “A question. I asked a question. Go on.”

  “How did I know? Well—”

  “I mean, he could have just been somebody pretending he was God. A practical joker. Or a movie actor maybe.”

  “I doubt that He was a movie actor, since when this happened no one had yet invented movies. And although what you say is possible, I think He was legitimate.”

  “Why?”

  “There was this blinding light around Him,” Old Turk said. “And it was a cloudy day.”

  “Oh.” The boy nodded. “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  “I should have. I’m a poor storyteller. My apologies.”

  “That’s all right. Goon.”

  “So I’m in the fields plowing and all of a sudden God came up to me and He said, ‘Hello there, Joel Turk,’ and I said, ‘Hello there, God,’ and He said, ‘How are things?’ and I said, ‘You mean, You don’t know?’ and He said, ‘Of course I know. I know everything. I was just making conversation, that’s all. Let me tell you something, Joel Turk. This business of knowing everything, it doesn’t leave much room for surprises. If I didn’t make a little conversation every now and then, I think I’d go meshugah’.”

  “Means?”

  “Meshugah?”

  The boy nodded.

  Old Turk whirled his index finger around his temple.

  The boy nodded again. “And what did you say?”

  “ ‘Well,’ I told him, ‘God,’ I said, ‘we could all of us do with a little more strudel, even You.’ And He said, ‘Joel, you are so right. Being God, it’s like being the family doctor, except the whole universe is your family.’ And I said, ‘Have You ever thought of delegating the authority?’ and He said, ‘I tried that once, only it didn’t work out so good. No; if you want to get something done, you’ve got to do it yourself, and I’ve got a lot to do. So, much as I’d like to stand and schmoose with you—’ ”

  “Schmoose?”

  “Chat. Talk. Pass the time.”

  “Thank you.”

  “ ‘Much as I am enjoying our conversation,’ God said, ‘it’s time we got down to business. I’m worried about your village, Joel. I am genuinely concerned.’ ‘Our village?’ I said, and He said, ‘Yes. Have you noticed that in your village no one smiles, no one laughs?’ ‘Since I’ve lived here all my life,’ I said, ‘it has come to my attention.’ And God said, ‘Do you know why?’ and I answered, ‘Well, God, no one has any clothes, and no one has any money to buy any clothes, and the weather is stern, and in the winter everyone freezes, and the fields are solid rock, and nothing grows, and everyone is dying of starvation; I think that might have something to do with it.’ And God said, ‘Well, I’m going to change all that,’ and I said, ‘You mean You’re going to make things grow, so we can have food, and money for clothes; You’re going to change the solid rock into topsoil, yes?’ and He said, ‘I could. I could do all that and more. But I don’t want to spoil you.’ ‘You know best, God,’ I said, ‘but it sure sounded nice while I was saying it.’ ‘If I did it for them,’ God said, ‘then they would become lazy; they would become fat. But if only their hearts would buoy, then their spirits would swell, and their strength would be as the strength of ten, and the rock would crumble, and there would be nothing but rich black topsoil for as far as the eye could see and instead of being fat they would be youthful and instead of being lazy they would be proud.’ ‘Oh, that’s beautiful, God,’ I said, and there were tears in my eyes, ‘but why would that happen? Why do their hearts buoy?’ ‘Joel Turk,’ God said, ‘what do you think of yourself?’ Well, I thought a minute, and you must realize, monkey, that when I was young I was pretty special, not ugly like you, but I didn’t want to sound cocky to God, so I just said, ‘I guess I’m not so bad.’ ‘You’re nothing!’ God said. ‘A shadow. A lump. A cipher, Joel Turk, is what you are, and as you age you’ll disappear and when you die no one will care because no one will know you were around.’ ‘I’m that bad?’ I said. I wish you hadn’t told me. Getting the word from you, God—that banishes hope. I can’t even dream anymore; not now. What have I got to look forward to?’ ‘Misery,’ God said. ‘Misery, loneliness and grief, coupled with gradual decay.’ ‘Please, God, stop!’ I said and I couldn’t help crying. ‘No more. I beg you.’ And then God came right up next to me, blinding He was, and He said, ‘Would you like a different fate, Joel Turk?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Anything.’ And God said, ‘Would you like to be much admired? Would you like to be much adored?’ ‘Yes. Yes. Much admired, much adored, yes.’ ‘And would you like to help your village, Joel Turk? Would you like to make them strong and proud?’ ‘Yes, but what can I give them? What do they need?’ ‘They need only one thing. One thing alone.’ ‘What, God? What?’ ‘They need something to smile at, Joel Turk; they need something to make them laugh.’ ”

  “Your nose!” the boy cried. “Your nose!”

  “Yes.” The old man nodded. “God’s words exactly. But I didn’t understand. ‘I’ve got a nice nose,’ I said. ‘It’s small and cute.’ ‘Agreed,’ God said, ‘but if you like, I could change that. I could give you such a nose. Such a nose! And when the people of the village see it they will smile and then laugh and then their hearts will buoy and the rock will turn into topsoil and you will be much admired, much adored.’ ‘You mean You’re going to make me funny-looking, a buffoon?’ ‘Something like that,’ God said. ‘Along those lines, anyway.’ ‘But, God,’ I said, ‘why the nose? I mean, the nose, it’s so ... visible. Co
uldn’t you maybe do something clever with my ears instead?’ ‘Has to be the nose,’ God said. ‘Don’t you know that famous Shakespeare poem, perhaps the greatest poem he ever wrote?

  ‘The ears are for hearing,

  The lips are to smile,

  The nose is for laughing,

  The tongue is for guile.

  “ ‘Now do you see, Joel Turk? The nose is for laughing. Has to be the nose.’ I see, God,’ I said. ‘And that certainly is a great, great poem but—’ And God said, ‘Make your choice, Joel. A free choice. A life of unbelievable, incredible agony against a life of being much admired, much adored. Choose!’ ‘God,’ I said, ‘You are indeed a true God, a fine God, fair and in all ways sublime ... ’ ” Old Turk quieted. Go on.

  “No more. My choice, I believe, is obvious to this day.”

  “You mean all of a sudden you had a nose? Just like that?”

  “As I remember, there was an accompanying flash of light.”

  “The people in the village, did they laugh at you?”

  “They laughed at me.”

  “And did the rock turn into topsoil?”

  “Well, the next morning there was a little dust.”

  “Have you been much admired, much adored?”

  “Sometimes God is given to exaggeration,” the old man said.

  The flag stood in the corner of the first-grade classroom. Mrs. Witty gestured toward it. Rudy stared down at his desk, listening as Mrs. Witty said, “Now, this morning is our first assembly, so we’ll need someone to carry the flag. I could pick that someone if I wanted to, but I don’t do that in my classes. You will pick that someone. Right after recess, we’ll have our own election; we will make nominations and then we will vote. And whoever we select will carry the flag into assembly at the head of the class. Yes, Naomi?”

  “Can a girl do it?”

  “I won’t say absolutely no,” Mrs. Witty replied, “but I will say that generally boys carry the flag. I have never, in all my years here, had a girl carry the flag, but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t carry the flag. Whoever you select, he or she, will have my wholehearted approval. Does that answer your question, Naomi?”

  Naomi indicated that it did.

  “Well then,” Mrs. Witty went on. “Once we get into the auditorium our flag-bearer will carry the flag up the steps onto the auditorium stage, and he—or she”—a smile toward Naomi—“will remain there along with the other flag-bearers while the principal addresses the school. So, although this is our first election, it is a very important one. And I know we’ve only known each other for less than a week, and that isn’t much time, but it will have to do. Now go to recess and think about your vote. Dismissed.” Mrs. Witty sat down at her desk as the class fled toward the door. “Gently, gently,” Mrs. Witty cautioned, not looking up. “Nobody likes a pusher.” And she continued filling out the daily attendance report. She had been filling out daily attendance reports for twenty-seven years, and she loathed the chore, especially in the early fall, before names had attached themselves to faces and faces had attached themselves to desks. So although she wrote with undue speed, it still took time, and her finishing sigh would have been louder than usual had it not suddenly changed into a start of surprise. “Oh,” Mrs. Witty said. “Oh.” Then: “Rudolph, you didn’t go to recess.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “You’ve been here all this time?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, Rudolph, what is it?”

  “I don’t think I should carry the flag.”

  “I’m sorry, Rudolph, I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “I don’t think I should carry the flag.”

  “Well, I guess I did hear you. I don’t understand, Rudolph.”

  “The flag.” The boy pointed to the corner. “I don’t think I should carry it.”

  “I understand that, Rudolph. But don’t you see, you haven’t been elected yet.”

  “I will be,” the boy said.

  “Well, confidence is a wonderful thing, Rudolph, and I’m not trying to destroy yours, but there are, after all, thirty students in this class, and that makes your chances one in thirty, so I don’t think we need get excited.” Mrs. Witty opened her purse, making sure her cigarettes were inside.

  “Please.”

  Mrs. Witty stood. “I’d like to help, Rudolph, but there’s really nothing I can do.” She started for the door.

  “Please.”

  Turning, Mrs. Witty looked at the boy. “Are you all right, Rudolph? I mean, do you feel well?”

  “Yes. Yes. But I don’t think I should carry the flag.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Witty said. “This is just too premature,” and she hurried from the room toward the Teachers’ Lounge.

  After a moment the boy moved to the window and stared out at the playground. Hidden, he watched the others as they talked, their lips moving, heads nodding, arms waving in the air. He stared until he heard Mrs. Witty ringing the recess bell and then he hurried to his desk and sat down, his hands in his lap, his eyes on his hands.

  “All right now,” he heard Mrs. Witty say when it was quiet. “I hope you’ve all thought carefully. Nominations are open. Yes?”

  “Petey Steinem.”

  “Peter Steinem. Yes, Naomi?”

  “Rudy Miller,” and she reached forward from the desk behind Rudy, pulling at his shirt.

  “Rudolph Miller. Yes?”

  “Naomi Finkel.”

  “But I’m a girl,” Naomi said.

  “As I explained to you earlier, Naomi, this is a free country. Anyone else?”

  “Dopey Sternemann.”

  “Daniel Sternemann,” Mrs. Witty said over the giggling. “All right now, anyone else? No? Then nominations are hereby closed. All right, everybody, shut your eyes. No peeking. As I say each candidate’s name, raise your hand when I come to your choice. Ready? Peter Steinem Rudolph Miller

  Naomi Finkel. ... Daniel Sternemann. ... All right, you may open your eyes. Now we none of us like being kept in suspense—”

  “Rudy, Rudy,” Naomi whispered. “I peeked. You won. It was practically unanimous.”

  “—that Rudolph Miller has been elected. Now if you will all stand and form two rows we—”

  “I don’t think I should carry the flag.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Witty said, “but we don’t answer people who don’t raise their hands. Now we haven’t much time so ... Yes, Naomi, what is it?”

  “Rudy’s got his hand up now,” Naomi said.

  “Thank you, Naomi. All right, Rudolph.”

  “I might do it wrong.”

  “There is nothing to do except carry the flag.”

  “But I might drop it.”

  “The flag is not that heavy.”

  “But I might trip. On the steps. The steps up to the stage. I might trip and drop the flag. Let it touch the ground.”

  “Stand up!”

  The boy stood.

  “Are you ashamed to carry the flag of your own country? Is that what I’m to understand? That you’re ashamed. Is that it? All right, class, there’s no reason for any whispering—I’m really out of patience with you, Rudolph. You’re making us late for our very first assembly and in all my twenty-seven years of teaching I have never never had a student who was ashamed to carry the flag of his own country. Class! For the last time stop that whispering! Class! Oh, now I’m upset—you’ve got me upset. And we’re late. If I didn’t believe in doing everything democratically—Rudolph, get the flag! Everybody up—two lines—all right. Right. Let’s go.” And they straggled out of the classroom and down the hall, the boy leading them, Mrs. Witty ranging down the line, “No talking, no talking,” and when they reached the auditorium most of the seats were filled but she guided them to an empty area and then pointed to the stage. “Down the aisle, Rudolph. Get up there now. Hurry. Hurry.” The boy carried the flag down the long aisle. Ahead lay the steps. Five of them. He glanced around. His was the last flag. Everyone was
watching. Five steps. The boy took a deep breath and started up, but the steps were very slippery and before he was halfway there his sense of balance started to go, the flag and his body tilting ...”

  “So,” Old Turk said. “After you dropped the flag, what happened?”

  “I didn’t drop it,” the boy said. “I started to, but I didn’t.”

  “Were you trying to drop it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So they wouldn’t ask you anymore?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “In other words, all that happened that needn’t have happened is that you upset your teacher and acted a fool in front of your fellows.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was the role of the fool so alluring?”

  “Who am I to carry the flag?”

  “Who is anybody to ... You’re not listening to me.”

  The boy moved across the floor, avoiding the cracks. “No.”

  “If I were a man of action, you would listen, because when a man of action speaks, that in itself is unusual. But since I am a man of speech, you pay no attention. Consequently, in order that you will remember what I say, I am going to hit you. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come here.” The old man waited until the boy stood close in front of him. “It will be a soft hit. A mere touch. But I think you will remember what I say. Now, I could answer your questions any number of ways—philosophically, historically, et cetera. But I will be brief instead and you will never again ask such a question. Who are you to carry the flag? You are you to carry the flag. Now for the slap. Are you ready?”