Death Kit

by Susan Sontag

  But he can’t sleep; he can barely manage to keep his eyes closed for more than a few moments. A wide-angle photograph of the workman fallen across the track projecting itself on the inside of his eyelids, though this is (now) a stop-action shot repeatedly interpolated into a sequence of moving images, filmed with a shaky hand-held camera, that Diddy just watched on the “News”: a dead GI, a large body on a stretcher covered from head to foot with a coarse blanket or tarpaulin, being loaded into the maw of a waiting helicopter which has alighted, blades flashing, motor roaring, body shuddering, in some alien rice field. Terrible to die, terrible to have life revoked before one is willing to give it up. And Diddy has done that to someone. Panicked, played the terrible landlord, foreclosed a life. Over and over, this time without picturing, he reimagines the encounter with the workman. Yet, it might be argued that what Diddy has done was excusable, even legitimate. The workman had, for no reason, provoked him. Was inexplicably menacing; was armed. Still, Diddy wasn’t convinced that he’d acted simply in self-defense. Were Diddy his own judge, at a real trial, he would never have accepted that plea. The workman was uncouth, insolent. Yes. But insolence couldn’t be assumed to augur more, more than just further insolence. And hadn’t the man shrugged off his own behavior and, as if to prove the harmlessness of his intentions, turned his back to Diddy? To be sure, some suspicious movements had then followed. But maybe the man was just preparing to toss the ax in with his other tools, gather them all together, and go off. Where? To board the train? Unless he was too anarchic, too much of a loner, to have been one of the train’s crew, submitting to group discipline. In that case, his destination was probably wherever the solitary laborer on duty was lodged, like a sentry, ready for any emergency or breakdown—perhaps in some chamber branching off the main space of the tunnel.… At this moment, Diddy inclined to give to the workman the benefit of the doubt. The only certainty: that Diddy the Good will never be able to establish, to his own satisfaction, what the man had actually intended. Nor could he know then, in the tunnel. Either astutely observing or blindly assuming that a sneak attack was imminent, Diddy struck first. His opponent either a murderous bully who had dropped his guard or a defenseless human being. But either way, a cowardly assault; since the workman, formidable as he was, never had a chance.

  Diddy has left on the small night-table lamp. He doesn’t want the dark. He’s been in the dark enough today to last a lifetime. No darkness! He must remain alert and perceptive, to fend off the bloody ghosts, to repel the creatures who thrive on the absence of light. Even if it means banishing all creatures. Even if it means being alone. Diddy is alone. Which is almost bearable. He’s been much alone the last three years, since Joan walked out. But “alone” seems undignified, pitiable, weak. Again, as he has so often, he tries to convert loneliness into something noble, when freely elected: solitude. Solitude is strong. Yet there is a great difference between solitude in a space with an immense horizon and solitude in a small space. Diddy cornered. Cooped up in a small antiseptic space with pastel walls and maple furniture; and on the wall, daintily framed, “O beauteous land, O gracious land.” Solitary, with no lines out to the world. He thrashes about in the narrow bed, sweating, each purposeless turning of his naked body further loosening the sheets and creasing them. Thinks of phoning his brother. But Paul’s out on tour; and Diddy left behind in his apartment Paul’s letter containing the schedule of concerts. Paul’s agent in New York, from whom he could find out where the great virtuoso is tonight, probably wouldn’t be home at this hour. And Paul, wherever he is out there in the beauteous gracious land, has the fans and musicians and celebrity-collectors who crowd backstage to look over for possible pleasures, sexual or professional, as well as the after-concert parties to reconnoiter. Is unlikely to return to his hotel until long after midnight. Anyway, having reached Paul, what would Diddy say? Such a call would be an evasion of manhood’s responsibilities, a childish bid for sympathy from someone close who had never been genuinely sympathetic or close. If there is a telephone call to be made, Diddy thinks, shouldn’t he just get it over with? Diddy considers calling the police.

  Still, there’s no hurry. If Diddy even suspects a little that the murder of the trackman was just a nightmare or, as Hester Nayburn suggested, a daydream, then he ought to make sure. He can wait at least until he checks the papers. Nothing served by making a fool of himself. Something he’s done a good deal this past month. If he contacted the police at this late hour, they’d rush over in a squad car to arrest him, stick him for the rest of the night in a cold cell, an even smaller space than this. And if it turned out in the morning that the murder Diddy claimed as his was a phantom-murder, it would not be easy just to walk out of the jail. The police would undoubtedly insist that Diddy undergo psychiatric tests. He’d be taken from jail and deposited at the local Bellevue, missing the ten o’clock opening of the conference tomorrow morning, and probably the whole day’s session. His absence would be remarked, inquiries made, and when the company discovered where he was being detained and for what reason, he’d be fired. Needless to say, no one at Watkins & Company knew why Diddy took a week’s leave last month. He’d told Duva an old virus infection had flared up, requiring hospitalization.

  Diddy resolved not to panic again. He’s decided not to call the police, to be patient, and to await the newspaper’s verdict. Still, he can’t sleep. But (now) doesn’t really expect to.

  At two o’clock the phone rings. The bell’s sound sears his nerves. “Is it here? Yes! Thanks very much.” Diddy has ordered the paper to be brought to him immediately. He hurries out of bed, puts on his trousers, opens the door, and peers down the hall. A teenager in a red suit is ambling along the carpeted corridor, bearing the precious document.

  “Here! Here!” Diddy calls out hoarsely. He gives the boy a quarter, grabs the paper, and steps back into the room, bolting the door behind him. Where shall he settle to examine this bundle, smelling of wet ink, that will decide his fate?

  Sitting cross-legged on the white pompon spread covering the bed near the door, Diddy resolutely begins to read. Nothing on the first page. Or on the second. Or the third. He doesn’t allow himself, in his impatience, to scatter the disappointing pages as he finishes with them; each page, once thoroughly perused, is neatly aligned with its predecessors.

  International disasters!

  Department store ads!

  National electioneering!

  Newest model home appliances!

  Local bond issues, the municipal council debates over the new cultural center, a scandal in the sanitation department!

  A sale on sheets and towels!

  Editorial on air pollution and syndicated columns on genocide!

  Society page!

  Ads for movies and road-show theatre!

  Woman’s page!

  TV and radio listings!

  Sports!

  Comics!

  Real estate!

  At Obituaries, his heart jumps. But nothing there, either. Stock market averages, and the paper is done. Nothing. Nothing! Hands trembling, Diddy folds it all up. Wants to hurl the paper into the wastebasket, but.… Maybe he ought to do it again, from first page to last. The mind is a malicious sovereign. Can arrange matters so you simply don’t see what’s right in front of you, if it’s what you most fear to see. Even with the aid of a magnifying glass or a microscope.

  But Diddy knows he can look over the paper later. And doesn’t want to dispirit himself excessively. Better (now) to find a new goal. He phones down again to the lobby. “This is room 414.” Hang on! The night clerk mustn’t notice how distraught Diddy is, mustn’t hear the rabidly demanding edge to his voice. Slowly! “Could you tell me when the next edition of the Courier-Gazette comes out?” The words emerge rather skillfully.

  “There’s only one more edition, sir. Usually delivered to the hotel around 7 a.m., and I don’t think you’ll find it on the streets any earlier. The truck comes straight from the printing plant.”


  Diddy is grateful, painfully grateful, for the innocence of facts. “You’ve been extremely helpful. Thanks. Good night. Oh, and I want to be awakened at six-fifty.”

  Diddy trying to fill the unresponsive room with his attention. There’s nothing to do but wait. Unless.… He tries the television again. On one channel, the Late Show. On another, the nightly sermonette that closes the broadcasting day. A bespectacled priest in an arm chair looks straight out of the screen at Diddy the Guilty. Does he sit in a studio set or the parish library of a real church? The priest earnestly invokes blessings upon this great land of freedom, and on our boys fighting overseas to extend those freedoms to the entire world. Slow dissolve at that point: the vanishing priest was replaced by pounding seas, and in the background organ music began to rise faintly. But the voice went on without its body, as confident and cheerful as before. “Bless those who are strong, that they employ their strength wisely.” Was this for the President, or for America? “Bless those who are weak, that they receive succor and care from their more fortunate brothers.” The sea continued to thrash against the beach, the invisible priest intoning: “Life? you ask. Life is a journey that each of us must make.…” A journey! “If in the day’s journey, differences occur between neighbors, try to remember that your neighbor is your brother.” Differences! And the final anticlimax: “Peace be with you.” To which was appended the celebrated name of the sponsoring firm, a family firm consisting of stern father, compassionate son, and the principle of unpredictability. Mere nature could not decorate so grand a signature. The sea was succeeded by a silhouetted cross—an image sustained for about a minute while church bells tolled.

  Diddy couldn’t take his eyes from the set. Why was he looking? What fascinated the veteran atheist, who’d long outgrown the secret, incoherent asceticisms of his childhood? Diddy’s secret conversion to the Catholic faith at the age of twelve had left him exhausted at fifteen, drained of all energy for such glamorous, deceiving exaltations. A relapse (now)? Had the wounds of this day so unnerved him that he could be consoled, or in any way inspirited, by inane pieties? Unlikely.

  Suddenly, Diddy understood. He’d connected this priest with the paunchy one on the Privateer, who was another witness to his first absence from the compartment. Why hadn’t he confided in him when he came back from the tunnel, instead of in that girl? A priest is accustomed to receiving lurid confessions, and pledged to keeping them absolutely secret. And a priest can instruct the sinner on how to become innocent again, can tell him, Go, and sin no more. Not that Diddy could ever really believe in the literal validity of a priest’s absolution. But it was at least more shapely, more definite than the vague informal quittance or release from his crime which he had sought in carnal intimacy with the girl. What a fool he’d been. Crawling back for the familiar tender indulgence of women.

  A sentimental fool, lacking all tough-mindedness or proper self-respect. He’d been put off by the priest’s impersonal voice, his lifeless fleshy face. Why, it was just those qualities that accredited the man and should have given a sinner confidence in the impartiality and scrupulous fairness of any judgment he might render.

  As this fretful thought was subsiding, Diddy noticed with a start that he’d lost track of what was on the screen. For how long? The cross had been replaced by a disk, partly shaded in and branded with the channel’s number and network affiliation; and the church bells by an unpleasant buzz. Both were unchanging, unmodulated. Diddy twirled the dial to the Late Show. Mid-plot, a familiar story:

  Peaceful cattle ranchers being done out of their land by brutal railroad men. Good versus bad? Yes and no. The coming of the railroad signified progress, the brutes had on their side the ultimate justification of history. At this moment, most of the gunslingers hired by the railroad to terrorize the ranchers are shooting up the saloon. Cross-cut. At the same moment, two of them are setting fire to the house of the most intransigent of the ranchers. A kid gallops up the dusty street, flings himself from his pony, bursts into the saloon to shout the news. “Paw! They’re burning down the ranch!” The brawlers instantly break apart; the bad guys grip their sides with laughter, as ranchers and loyal hired hands stream out of the saloon like water plunging headlong down a drain, leap on their horses.…

  Diddy has switched off the TV. No more about wicked railroads, please. (Now) everything conspires to speak to Diddy. If only the world of the tunnel had been so eloquent. If only the swarthy laborer on the track had replied to Diddy’s questions right away, in any tone he liked. But he hadn’t. And the priest on the train hardly spoke to Diddy, either.

  There was something wrong with that priest, something besides his flabby body and odd voice and dead face that put Diddy off. What was it? Diddy, straining to remember, remembered. The stamp collecting. It had bothered him strongly, he realized (now). But why it had bothered him wasn’t clear. The hobby hadn’t seemed objectionable in the man in the tweed suit. But he, after all, was a stamp dealer. Those arbitrarily valued little colored paper rectangles were his business, trade in them his means of livelihood. Whereas, in the possession of the suave priest, they indicated the presence of whim, frivolity, an indulgence of self. A priest’s business was his priestly office; all his energies should be employed in healing, consoling, remonstrating, forgiving.

  The television is off, dead. Just about (now), Diddy guesses, the Western’s plot has galloped to its conciliatory conclusion, all virtues triumphing. No reason to turn the set on again, since there’s nothing on the other channels. Well, Diddy’s done what he could. Done all that an ingenious mind might propose short of flinging himself straight to destruction, without even allowing for the chance of reprieve, a saving error, or delusion. (Now) will simply have to be patient. He is pledged to wait for the morning edition of the Courier-Gazette. If the story isn’t there, then Diddy will have to acknowledge that his own urgent, unambiguous memory stands in serious question. Still, later in the morning, he can visit the offices of the railroad and make inquiries. He will. And, if that doesn’t turn up any confirmation of the workman’s death, he can also.…

  But no use in thinking that far ahead. The story is bound to be in the paper. Must be. At this point, Diddy would rather discover that he is sane and guilty than innocent and mad.

  Diddy undresses and wearily reenters the rumpled bed, kicks off the blanket and pulls the sheets up under his chin. The night-table lamp kept on. Again, unable to stop tossing, sweating, sighing. Another light begins to attract, and ends by distressing him. The sulphur-yellow neon sign flashing on and off outside his window. Somehow Diddy’s heart has gotten locked in step with it, and Diddy begins to propose to himself the mad conceit—he knows it’s mad—that when the sign is turned off, say, at dawn, his heart will stop, too.

  This fancy reminds him of the way in which the sexual rhythm of his body that afternoon had meshed with the plunging effortless rhythm of the train’s wheels. The difference was that the train’s rhythm was not merely accurate, marking time; it was supportive, aiding Diddy, buoying him up. What bewilders Diddy is that it was the same train whose heavy brutish structure must have mauled the workman’s body, finishing off Diddy’s treacherous assault. The same train whose weight and ponderous velocity, when it first started up again and burst out of the tunnel into the air, Diddy had sensed so keenly and painfully he could almost feel it scraping his flesh, treading on his viscera, grinding his bones. Yet that same train, when he and Hester were embracing in the lavatory, had seemed almost freed from gravity, producing a voluptuous speed that resembled flying more than racing earthbound along iron tracks. His body, his and the girl’s, had flown, too. The train had made it possible.

  (Now) Diddy didn’t want his heartbeat to be guaranteed by the pulsing of that insensate yellow sign. Call it a sick fancy, if you will. Diddy the Daft is taking no chances. He throws off the bunched damp sheets and gets up, dresses again; goes downstairs. Maybe for something to eat. From his last stay at the Rushland, months ago, already in his insomnia
c period, he recalls an all-night place several blocks down the street, the Café Miami, patronized by truck drivers and college students. Once there, however, seated in a booth, hungry Diddy finds everything proposed on the menu disgusting. If he allows himself even to picture a real egg salad sandwich or a real hamburger or real bacon and eggs, his stomach begins to heave. But he’s thirsty, and that can be dealt with innocuously. Diddy orders a whole pot of coffee. Since he obviously isn’t going to sleep, might as well get more awake, so he can move through tomorrow without collapsing. After drinking two cups of the hot, watery coffee, Diddy feeling calmer, less anxious. Also, curiously enough, starting to feel really tired. Tired enough to sleep. It isn’t only the coffee that’s making him feel better. He’s begun thinking of the girl, moving her about in his mind with irrepressible tenderness. If he is very attentive and inward, he can still smell the musky flavor of her body, taste her slightly salty flesh in his mouth, find the odor of her sex on his fingers. At this moment she must be warm with sleep, lying on her back, clad in an ungainly cotton hospital smock, secured under the coarse unwrinkled sheets of a tightly made hospital bed, her milky eyes shielded by the delicate skin of her eyelids, her mouth slightly open, a few strands of blondish hair strewn across her face. Diddy sure this is exactly how she’s lying (now) miles away in that bleak, streamlined fortress of healing and dying. He can see the table by her bed, and on the table her dark glasses folded in a leather case, perhaps a plastic jug of water and some paper cups. And a lamp for the convenience of the nurse who might begin the day’s first ministrations as early as 6 a.m.