Stepping Westward

by Malcolm Bradbury

  The door opened and Mrs Bourbon came in. Her Bermuda shorts ought to have looked out of place in the room, but they didn’t. ‘Waal, we’re all set, sweetie,’ said Dr Bourbon, taking his feet out of the drawer and getting up. Walker followed them both to the car, and on the way Bourbon tapped a printed placard on the noticeboard. It said, ‘James Walker, British novelist and angry young man, will speak Wednesday, December 1, Fogle Auditorium, on The Writer’s Dilemma.’ A small passport photo, which Walker had submitted earlier in the year, had been blown up and set at the side of the legend, revealing traces of acne and wrinkle that he never before knew he possessed. The lecture worried Walker, because of its size and the fact that he had no notion what to say. His absence of literary ideas and beliefs had never been an issue to him before, but now, faced with the need to testify, he felt a blankness where his standards ought to be. More and more it occurred to him that in the public sense he wasn’t a writer at all. He was just a half-writer, a man who simply wrote, and it wasn’t going to do out here. The challenge to be himself excited him a bit, but depressed him rather more. He sat between the two Bourbons, the sun-visor shielding him from the afternoon glare, and tried to urge himself into growth. There was an impulse there, he found, an impulse that came from the uneasiness he had felt when, looking around this university, gazing at its students, listening to Bourbon talk, he had recognized that literature and literacy didn’t have the same permanence in this new world he had come to that he had always believed them to have in his old one. The winds of change, the winds of democracy and technology and an inhuman future, were blowing hard in these western plains, with its few bare sticks of civilization. There was testimony to be given. But the desire to give it didn’t entirely quench another feeling – the feeling that the lecture itself was something of a breach of hospitality. It had been foisted on him. He didn’t, he couldn’t, he shouldn’t be expected to do things like that. He sat still and said nothing until the car reached the ranch house and they all got out.

  After they had taken the supermarket sacks into the kitchen, Walker went straight to his bedroom. He wanted to read the letters, open Elaine’s telegram, know the future. The bundle of papers in his pocket had much to tell him. But when he opened the bedroom door, something had happened. The contents of his suitcases had been up-ended on the bed, and the two Bourbon twins, evident executors of the deed, were in the room. Brandy stood in front of the mirror wearing one of his sweaters, which came down to her feet. Alphonse had knotted all his ties together and was using them to pull one of the cases after him round the room. The experiences of the day suddenly crystallized into irritation.

  ‘Get out of here, you little fiends!’ he shouted.

  ‘Nerh,’ said Alphonse. Walker took Alphonse by the ear and led him out into the passageway. ‘Lemme go,’ said Alphonse, but Walker didn’t, so he said, ‘Do you want me to grow up repressed?’

  ‘I don’t think I want you to grow up at all,’ said Walker grimly.

  Alphonse looked frightened and kicked Walker on the shin. ‘It’s my house,’ he said, ‘I can do what I like here.’

  ‘I know it’s your house,’ said Walker, ‘but let me tell you something. You’re a child, and a child is a pretty stupid thing to be. Don’t come back to me until you’re socially responsible. And that goes for Brandy too.’ Alphonse began to cry; since he had never actually seen him do this before, Walker felt a certain satisfaction, until a shoe thrown by Brandy hit him in the small of the back. He went back into the bedroom and got hold of Brandy’s ear. ‘Now stay out of here and leave me alone,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some work to do.’

  He sat down at the desk and felt almost gay. It was the first time he had asserted himself for a while, and it gave him great pleasure. He was in a very positive mood as he took out the morning’s post and laid it out in front of him. The telegram seemed to promise another step in freedom; it was impossible to imagine, as he looked at it, that the world wasn’t even more his oyster, that Elaine hadn’t cut the cords that bound. But she hadn’t; the message said: DON’T BE SO DAFT STOP LOVE STOP ELAINE. The trouble with Elaine, thought Walker savagely, crumpling the telegram, is that she can’t take anything seriously. Nothing, for her, was really meant. She treats me like a small boy, Walker thought to himself, she doesn’t want me to grow up. But his were rightful claims, good claims. Grow he would, and free was what he intended to be. He could see a real prospect of that now, an infinity of futures. He lived now in an expanding universe, an America. It was not the country’s democracy, or its permissive child-rearing, or its wild technology, that gave the hope, but something grander and vaguer. It was that unformed, freestyle landscape and the hints of mountain beyond. Vague, yes; but not daft.

  Walker dropped the telegram into the waste-basket, a Mexican pot that stood beside the desk, and turned to look at the documents of his new aspiration, the introductory papers to the university, which said Welcome and Hi there and Good to know you. Here were identification cards and keys to unknown doors and passports to park and eat. He thumbed through wads of American-size quarto paper, packed with mimeographed promises and instructions. Here were his teaching materials. The creative writing classes were documented with a list of last year’s assignments, mainly reading assignments in texts with titles like Write That Novel and The Path to Poesy. The real bulk was the documentation on Course 101, Composition, T–Th 10–11 a.m., on which a mass of intellectual energy had clearly been expended. ‘There is no course more important than this in the university,’ said an opening brief by Bourbon. ‘We like to think all who teach it are good 101 citizens, thinking and working as a team, believing with such men as Sapir, Hayakawa, Wittgenstein and Margaret Mead that to learn one’s language is to GROW, not just in thought and organization, but in emotions and response to LIFE. People with linguistic skills live better. They also know how to write a good business letter.’ The course’s first aim, Walker read, was to reduce the students’ most serious errors of grammar and mechanics to a reasonable minimum; there were seven basic grammatical errors (GROSS ILLITERACIES), so abhorrent as to win an automatic F for Fail on any student theme. The Gross Illiteracies consisted of such syntactical follies as The Unjustifiable Sentence Fragment (‘I came to college. Having graduated from High School.’), The Fused Sentence (‘His bus was late he missed his train.’), and the Dangling Modifier (‘If thoroughly stewed, the patients will enjoy our prunes.’). To help students write their themes and so involve themselves in the penalties, they were given the stimulus of a Freshman Reader, composed largely of articles on ‘My Most Unforgettable Teacher’ and ‘My First Day in College’. Walker dug further into the pile, turning over the sheets, signing various contractual forms (LAST NAME: GIVEN NAME: ETHNIC GROUP). One paper was of a kind that worried him. It was headed ‘Oath’, and had to be signed before a public notary. Walker read it through again and went and knocked on the door of Dr Bourbon’s study.

  Bourbon had put on his oriental robe and was bent over his typewriter, making the keys rattle with two infinitely busy fingers. ‘Howdy,’ he said, stopping work.

  ‘It’s about this,’ said Walker, handing him the form.

  ‘Oh, the loyalty oath,’ said Bourbon, looking at it.

  ‘Do I have to sign it?’

  ‘Well, yes, sure, we get state funds here and that means that the state legislature can ask us to give a signature to our loyalty.’

  ‘Even if one isn’t an American citizen?’

  ‘Well, it don’t mean nothin’, it’s just a formality.’

  ‘Like the liquor store oath?’

  ‘That’s right, everyone signs it. The commies all sign it. Only people who don’t sign it are New York liberals and they don’t teach so good anyway.’

  ‘What happens to them?’

  ‘Well, we can’t appoint ’em. Have to ask them to go home. Most of ’em don’t like it here anyway. Miss the bagel shops, I guess.’

  ‘So I have to sign it.’

  ‘Well
, you don’t want to overthrow the government by force, do you, Mis’ Walker?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Waal, I don’t think I quite see your problem,’ said Bourbon, putting a sheet of carbon between two clean sheets of typing bond.

  ‘It’s just that I’m a British citizen. I shouldn’t be signing an oath of loyalty to another government.’

  ‘Don’t think they’ll let you back?’ asked Bourbon. ‘Thought we was in alliance.’

  ‘Oh, we are, as far as I know. No, I’m trying to define a scruple.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sayin’ I agree with this here oath,’ said Bourbon, ‘but it just don’t make no difference. No, take my advice, you just sign it and fergit about it, Mis’ Walker. Don’t mean nothin’.’

  At this moment the telephone on Bourbon’s desk rang; he picked up the receiver and listened to it. Then he reached out and passed the piece of bakelite over to Walker. ‘For me?’ said Walker, surprised, ‘I don’t know anyone.’

  ‘Someone askin’ fer you.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Walker into the phone.

  ‘Hi, Jamie, how are things?’ said a voice.

  ‘Who is that, please?’

  ‘Bernie,’ said the voice.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bern Froelich,’ said the voice.

  ‘Oh, hello, Bernard.’

  ‘Hi!’ said Froelich. ‘I want you to come over to dinner tonight. I have some people I want you to meet.’

  ‘Oh, I can hardly do that, the Bourbons are expecting me here.’

  ‘Ditch them.’

  ‘I can hardly do that.’

  ‘You don’t want to come?’

  ‘Yes, I’d be happy to, at longer notice.’

  ‘Well, tell Harris you’ve been invited to my place and you want a pass-out.’

  ‘But Mrs Bourbon’s in the kitchen cooking a meal now.’

  ‘You’re willing to come if I can fix it?’

  Walker looked at Bourbon, who was putting paper in his typewriter and affecting not to be listening. ‘I don’t have transport,’ said Walker.

  ‘I’ll fix that,’ said Froelich. ‘Just say you’ll come.’

  ‘Well . . .’ said Walker.

  ‘Is Harris there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, just put him on.’

  ‘It’s Dr Froelich,’ said Walker to Bourbon, ‘he wondered whether you’d have a word with him.’

  Bourbon reached out for the phone. ‘Bernard,’ he said. He listened for a while and said ‘I guess so’ a couple of times. ‘You want me to drive him over there?’ he asked at one point. ‘Okay, I’ll have him there right on seven,’ he finally said. ‘Oh, Bern, before you ring off, I want to ask you a question about the fender . . . Rung off,’ he said, turning to Walker. ‘Well, he wants you to meet someone. Says it’s important, it’s a dinner date. I’m going to drop you by at seven.’

  ‘I’m sorry if it’s any inconvenience to you,’ said Walker. ‘Actually I tried to put him off . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s Bern,’ said Bourbon. ‘Meant to ask him about the fender on my car. Rung off.’

  ‘I’d better go and get ready,’ said Walker, getting up.

  ‘Waal, boy, you don’t worry your head ’bout that oath,’ said Bourbon. ‘Could look into it for you, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, I’d be very grateful,’ said Walker.

  ‘’Kay, boy,’ said Bourbon, flapping his oriental robe, and then he added, putting his big head down, and looking shy, ‘Mind if I ask you a question, a friendly question?’

  ‘Do,’ said Walker.

  ‘You ain’t a communist, are you, Mis’ Walker?’

  ‘No, not at all, I’d call myself a liberal.’

  That word seemed to depress Bourbon a little, and his moustache dropped as his mouth went down. ‘It’s just that you realize it could look a little funny if you refused to sign this thing.’

  ‘Funny for a British citizen? Because that’s the point. Though I must say I don’t much like the assumptions behind it. I thought the McCarthy days were past.’

  ‘Oh, this ain’t nothin’ to do with that nut McCarthy.’

  ‘But that’s nothing to do with me, that’s your problem. Mine is simply that, well, the word loyal never did have a lot of place in my vocabulary, but if I’m loyal to anything I’m loyal to, well, Britain, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, fine, and I want you to know I respect your scruples. You gave me your word that you wasn’t a commie, and I’ll believe that until something convinces me different. But you got to watch the impression you make around here, Mis’ Walker. Like with kids for instance, you mustn’t go around beating up kids. Alphonse told me you just grabbed him by the ear.’

  ‘Oh, he told you that, did he? Well, I didn’t like to complain about him and Brandy, but they were both interfering with my things.’

  ‘Waal, you know how it is, Mis’ Walker, they’re just kids, healthy normal kids. We think a lot of our kids round here. It’s their life, Mis’ Walker, it’s their life. Mustn’t go around attacking folk’s kids, whatever you do at home. And, since we’re speaking frankly, Crispin just came by and told me somethin’ mighty disturbin’.’ Bourbon stopped, looked grave, and ponderously lighted his pipe. ‘Course,’ he went on, smacking his lips round the stem, ‘I know writers are mighty unusual people, and if I may say so, you look to me like one of the nicest we’ve had here. That’s why I’d be sorry to lose you on the oath issue. But Crispin says he heard you were divorcin’ your wife. Is that true, Mis’ Walker?’

  Hearing a public statement of his private deed, Walker felt deeply uneasy; he had never thought of this as a matter for others: but ‘I suppose it is,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s your own problem, Mis’ Walker. I always say marriage is like fishin’. Some folk are always content with what they caught, and some always figure there’s a better one that got away. But I’d say this. I know there’s a lot of divorcin’ and humpin’ goes on here, and Party looks like a kinda progressive sort of town. But there’s a lot of folk, responsible decent folks, who still look on marriage as a sacrament. My lady and me been together for twenty years. So don’t let this atmosphere go to your head. If you take my advice you’ll think it over, Mis’ Walker, for the sake of yore little lady and for yore own. Mrs Bourbon and I, we was just sayin’ last night, you’re a mighty nice fellar and we don’t want to see you make a bad start. I’m saying this all in friendship, Mis’ Walker.’ Dr Bourbon was now so embarrassed that he had nearly slid down from view behind his desk, and so Walker said nothing except ‘Well, thank you’ and went back to his room, the unsigned loyalty oath in his hand. He sat at the desk and looked at the place on the form where his signature ought to be; then he took out a piece of paper and wrote, Dearest Elaine, I know what I said was a surprise, but you must believe that I meant it all. I am asking you for my freedom, because . . . But no more words came, and he stopped and looked out of the window. The sun was tipping down below the mountains, and there were great creases of shadow in the foothills. In Bourbon’s study the typewriter was rattling again, but Walker looked inward and couldn’t find a word to say.

  ‘They chose a mighty funny place to live,’ said Dr Bourbon, stopping his car at the end of the Froelichs’ drive. On campus, the campanile was chiming; Bourbon’s sense of time was impeccable. Walker got out and stumbled up the steps on to the porch.

  ‘Hi, come on in,’ said Patrice, coming to the door. She saw Bourbon, shadowy in the car, and shouted, ‘Come in for a while, Harris?’

  ‘No, I gotta get back to a steak,’ boomed Bourbon. ‘Give me a call when you’re ready for me to pick him up.’

  They stood for a moment on the porch to watch Bourbon roar away. ‘I see someone hit his rear fender,’ said Patrice. ‘Well, now, want me to take your jacket?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s all right,’ said Walker.

  ‘I’m all alone,’ said Patrice. ‘Bernard had the Naughtys, that’s Robert and Eudora Naughty, drive him o
ut to the package store. We were right down on liquor, and our car’s at the repair shop. Actually, that’s nice, because I can get to talk to you. Sit down.’

  Walker sat in one of the tangerine canvas chairs and looked around the room. ‘There’s a little gin and some vermouth,’ said Patrice, rattling bottles. ‘How about a martini with the proportions reversed? That sound exciting? Still, I guess it’s just an English gin and It.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be fine,’ said Walker.

  ‘We were in England, you know. How is it?’

  ‘Oh, fair to middling.’

  ‘Fair to middling. Funny how you all talk the same. You know, I ought to tell you about the Naughtys. We wanted you to meet them because we figured you’d be getting the wrong impression of Party from Dr Bourbon and his set. They’re the old guard, you know. Been here for ever and are still living in the old America. Mrs Bourbon once asked me where I bought my antimacassars.’

  ‘Yes, they are a bit that way,’ said Walker. ‘Dr Bourbon is worried that I’ll get off to a bad start. Because I tweaked Alphonse’s ear.’

  ‘Yes, well, the Naughtys aren’t that way a bit. Bob’s from Chicago, a real union background. They’re both liberals. You know, the type who make their own shoes. They have a baby called Buber, after Martin Buber, and they don’t put diapers on it because they don’t want to repress it.’

  ‘I think I know,’ said Walker.

  ‘Bob teaches political science. He’s trying to organize the faculty, get them unionized. So they can have strikes and go picketing and have mob violence like everybody else does.’