“I have a colleague, a woman in the literature department, she says that the mystery, or, no, I guess, the detective story, that’s it, the detective story, is the most fitting mode for expressing our contemporary situation. What did she call it? Very clever woman. Something about — post-God, post-humanist, post-holocaust, post-literate, numbing void. Something like this—”
“Actually, I was a criminology major.”
“Of course.”
“And that was a hell of a long time ago.”
“Another symptom of our times. We live longer than any humans to walk the planet, yet we start thinking we’re elderly soon after adolescence.”
“I don’t think I’m elderly. Believe me, I know where I stand. I’ve got a good grip on my age. I’m better at thirty, both mentally and physically, than any rookie the department took on this year. I guarantee that.”
“I don’t doubt you, Lenore.”
“But the fact is, I work at it. I mean, there’s an awful lot of effort.”
“Self-evident.”
“I think, you make the effort, your body responds. And the things you can’t change, they’ll follow along. You see one grey hair in my head? Go ahead, look close. Not a one. Now, it’s not like I use any coloring or anything, but my brother, Ike, okay, same exact age, we’re twins, okay, you should see all the grey ones he’s sprouting. Another five years and forget it. That’ll be the whole head. Now, same age, same genes, for Christ sake, and look at the difference.”
“Perhaps it’s stress. Is your brother in a very stressful environment?”
“More stressful than narcotics? Jees, Freddy, c’mon.”
“You have a point.”
“You know where Ike works? You’ll love this. Directly above our heads. I’m not kidding you. He’s a letter carrier. Mailman. Right her at Sapir Street.”
“Such a coincidence.”
“Maybe. I don’t really believe in coincidence.”
“You know, Lenore, for some reason I didn’t think you would. What is it you go for? Fate? The karmic wheel?”
“The thing I hate most with you is I really can’t get a bearing on when you’re making fun of me.”
“I can’t recall one instance since we’ve met when I made fun of you. The mistake you make, Lenore, is to overcomplicate things. You can take me at face value. I’m a very simple man.”
“I’ve heard that said half a dozen times before and it’s never been true.”
“Think about it, Lenore. You see in front of you a man who’s spent nine-tenths of his adult life inside enormous libraries. In terms of theories of language, well, perhaps, maybe, possibly I’m a bit involved. But, I swear to you, in terms of just day-to-day routine, these common dynamics of meeting and speaking with people — Waitress, I’d like a cup of coffee; Bill, good to see you; Ms. Dixon, how’s the new baby? — I’m so ill at ease, I’m constantly second-guessing myself, overpreparing for every minute encounter.”
“God, that’s terrible.”
“I don’t sleep well.”
“Oh, c’mon. You were deep into dreamtime the past two hours.”
“Well, pardon me, but, again, that just shows how comfortable I am in your presence.”
“Now, that’s something I don’t hear very often.”
“You’re out to confuse me, Lenore. One compliment will bring me an insult and an obscenity, the next you let pass.”
“You just don’t get it. We’re a little out of sync here. I don’t think you always pick up on sarcasm or irony or, I don’t know.”
“Yes, this is true. I know what you’re saying. There’s sort of an urban hipness — self-deprecation, detached absurdism, mock horror set next to a bored complacency.”
“Whatever. Now you’re the one thinking too much. I had this nun in grammar school used to try to teach us French. She’d always say, ‘Let the words wash over you.’ I always took that as — don’t think so much, get the flavor, get the rhythm. You think too much, you miss the forest for the trees.”
“You speak French?”
“No way.”
“Too bad. I always enjoy a little practice.”
“Practice?”
“I speak six languages. I’m working toward eight.”
“Ambitious guy. You’ve impressed me.”
“I didn’t mean. I was simply …”
“Take it easy, Freddy. I’m serious. I’m pretty serious. That’s an achievement. I’m not running you down here. Ease up.”
“Both my parents were fluent in a variety of languages. I was somewhat destined for my field.”
“Are you saying there was a lot of pressure? You were pushed—”
“Not at all. I had an extremely happy childhood. A very happy family life.”
“I feel that way too. I look back and just can’t remember any bad times, which is ridiculous. All I can see is my parents in their living room chairs and Ike and me on the floor. All of us staring at Ed Sullivan or something.”
“I’m saying that due to both genetic and environmental influences, I was predisposed to language.”
“Yeah, well, that has its advantages. A lot of people flounder around looking for something to do. Most people fall into something.”
“But I get the impression this is not the case with Lenore. You knew what you wanted, yes?”
“Not from birth, but yeah, I knew pretty much what I wanted. Let’s say I knew exactly what I didn’t want.”
“Tell me.”
Lenore pauses, looks up toward the lines of piping near the ceiling, then says, “This will be strange to you, a word guy like you, but sometimes, a lot of times, I hate putting words to feelings you’ve known for a long time, feelings you’ve known forever. It’s always so inexact. It’s worse than that.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I didn’t want to be controlled. I didn’t want to be dominated. I didn’t want to be restricted, directed. I didn’t want to be dominated. Forget it.”
“No, that’s good. That has to be close.”
“That’s like ten miles from home. And then some.”
“It’s a starting point.”
“It’s like pretending you have a starting point.”
“Not meaning to be rude, Lenore, but this is my specialty.”
“Then you give me the word.”
“It’s your feeling.”
“Bingo.”
“I just can’t help but wonder, though—”
“Think about what you’re about to say here. Ask yourself, Would a normal person take what I’m about to say as insulting?’”
“You’re saying censor myself, think before I speak.”
“I just feel something bad coming.”
“I was simply going to ask if you’d ever considered the fact that many would call police work the most restrictive job of all. The policeman becomes a tightrope walker and all. Dominated by her ostracism from the masses. Controlled by ever-increasing rules and regulations.”
“That’s good, Freddy. That’s what I would want you to believe.”
“This is not the case.”
“Not for me. It’s a state of mind. It involves the imagination. If you’re stupid, forget it. You’re exactly right. Take Zarelli. A genuinely stupid man, okay? He’s a walking definition of constipation. He’s an absolutely controlled man. He’s totally dominated from all directions. Family, job, the general population, Lenore. But Zarelli’s an idiot. He’s the cause of his own condition.”
“You’re saying you can outwit your condition?”
“I think I manage.”
“It’s an idea with promise. Imagination as the key to freedom.”
“Okay, let’s not take it too far. You’ll deplete the whole thing. I’m just wondering, at the dinner table growing up, you’re sitting there with the folks, you ask someone to pass the rice, right? What do you say? What language do you use?”