Heinrich's hairline is beginning to recede. I wonder about this. Did his mother consume some kind of gene-piercingsubstance when she was pregnant? Am I at fault somehow? Have I raised him, unwittingly, in the vicinity of achemical dump site, in the path of air currents that carry industrial wastes capable of producing scalp degeneration,glorious sunsets? (People say the sunsets around here were not nearly so stunning thirty or forty years ago.) Man'sguilt in history and in the tides of his own blood has been complicated by technology, the daily seeping falsehearteddeath.
The boy is fourteen, often evasive and moody, at other times disturbingly compliant. I have a sense that his readyyielding to our wishes and demands is a private weapon of reproach. Babette is afraid he will end up in a barricadedroom, spraying hundreds of rounds of automatic fire across an empty mall before the SWAT teams come for himwith their heavy-barreled weapons, their bullhorns and body armor.
"It's going to rain tonight.""It's raining now," I said.
"The radio said tonight."I drove him to school on his first day back after a sore throat and fever. A woman in a yellow slicker held up traffic tolet some children cross. I pictured her in a soup commercial taking off her oilskin hat as she entered the cheerfulkitchen where her husband stood over a pot of smoky lobster bisque, a smallish man with six weeks to live.
"Look at the windshield," I said. "Is that rain or isn't it?""I'm only telling you what they said.""Just because it's on the radio doesn't mean we have to suspend belief in the evidence of our senses.""Our senses? Our senses are wrong a lot more often than they're right. This has been proved in the laboratory. Don'tyou know about all those theorems that say nothing is what it seems? There's no past, present or future outside ourown mind. The so-called laws of motion are a big hoax. Even sound can trick the mind. Just because you don't heara sound doesn't mean it's not out there. Dogs can hear it. Other animals. And I'm sure there are sounds even dogs can'thear. But they exist in the air, in waves. Maybe they never stop. High, high, high-pitched. Coming from somewhere.""Is it raining," I said, "or isn't it?""I wouldn't want to have to say.""What if someone held a gun to your head?""Who, you?""Someone. A man in a trenchcoat and smoky glasses. He holds a gun to your head and says, 'Is it raining or isn't it?
All you have to do is tell the truth and I'll put away my gun and take the next flight out of here.'""What truth does he want? Does he want the truth of someone traveling at almost the speed of light in another galaxy?
Does he want the truth of someone in orbit around a neutron star? Maybe if these people could see us through atelescope we might look like we were two feet two inches tall and it might be raining yesterday instead of today.""He's holding the gun to your head. He wants your truth.""What good is my truth? My truth means nothing. What if this guy with the gun comes from a planet in a wholedifferent solar system? What we call rain he calls soap. What we call apples he calls rain. So what am I supposed totell him?""His name is Frank J. Smalley and he comes from St. Louis.""He wants to know if it's raining now, at this very minute?""Here and now. That's right.""Is there such a thing as now? 'Now' comes and goes as soon as you say it. How can I say it's raining now if yourso-called 'now' becomes 'then' as soon as I say it?""You said there was no past, present, or future.""Only in our verbs. That's the only place we find it.""Rain is a noun. Is there rain here, in this precise locality, at whatever time within the next two minutes that youchoose to respond to the question?""If you want to talk about this precise locality while you're in a vehicle that's obviously moving, then I think that's thetrouble with this discussion.""Just give me an answer, okay, Heinrich?""The best I could do is make a guess.""Either it's raining or it isn't," I said.
"Exactly. That's my whole point. You'd be guessing. Six of one, half dozen of the other.""But you see it's raining.""You see the sun moving across the sky. But is the sun moving across the sky or is the earth turning?""I don't accept the analogy.""You're so sure that's rain. How do you know it's not sulfuric acid from factories across the river? How do you knowit's not fallout from a war in China? You want an answer here and now. Can you prove, here and now, that this stuffis rain? How do I know that what you call rain is really rain? What is rain anyway?""It's the stuff that falls from the sky and gets you what is called wet.""I'm not wet. Are you wet?""All right," I said. "Very good.""No, seriously, are you wet?""First-rate," I told him. "A victory for uncertainty, randomness and chaos. Science's finest hour.""Be sarcastic.""The sophists and the hairsplitters enjoy their finest hour.""Go ahead, be sarcastic, I don't care."Heinrich's mother lives in an ashram now. She has taken the name Mother Devi and runs the business end of things.
The ashram is located on the outskirts of the former copper-smelting town of Tubb, Montana, now calledDharamsalapur. The usual rumors abound of sexual freedom, sexual slavery, drugs, nudity, mind control, poorhygiene, tax evasion, monkey-worship, torture, prolonged and hideous death.
I watched him walk through the downpour to the school entrance. He moved with deliberate slowness, taking off hiscamouflage cap ten yards from the doorway. At such moments I find I love him with an animal desperation, a need totake him under my coat and crush him to my chest, keep him there, protect him. He seems to bring a danger to him.
It collects in the air, follows him from room to room. Babette bakes his favorite cookies. We watch him at his desk,an unpainted table covered with books and magazines. He works well into the night, plotting chess moves in a gamehe plays by mail with a convicted killer in the penitentiary.
It was warm and bright the next day and students on the Hill sat on lawns and in dorm windows, playing their tapes,sunbathing. The air was a reverie of wistful summer things, the last languorous day, a chance to go bare-limbed oncemore, smell the mown clover. I went into the Arts Duplex, our newest building, a winged affair with a facade ofanodized aluminum, sea-green, cloud-catching. On the lower level was the movie theater, a sloped and dark-carpetedspace with two hundred plush seats. I sat in shallow light at the end of the first row and waited for my seniors toarrive.
They were all Hitler majors, members of the only class I still taught, Advanced Nazism, three hours a week,restricted to qualified seniors, a course of study designed to cultivate historical perspective, theoretical rigor andmature insight into the continuing mass appeal of fascist tyranny, with special emphasis on parades, rallies anduniforms, three credits, written reports.
Every semester I arranged for a screening of background footage. This consisted of propaganda films, scenes shot atparty congresses, outtakes from mystical epics featuring parades of gymnasts and mountaineers—a collection I'dedited into an impressionistic eighty-minute documentary. Crowd scenes predominated. Close-up jostled shots ofthousands of people outside a stadium after a Goebbels speech, people surging, massing, bursting through the traffic.
Halls hung with swastika banners, with mortuary wreaths and death's-head insignia. Ranks of thousands offlagbearers arrayed before columns of frozen light, a hundred and thirty antiaircraft searchlights aimed straightup—a scene that resembled a geometric longing, the formal notation of some powerful mass desire. There was nonarrative voice. Only chants, songs, arias, speeches, cries, cheers, accusations, shrieks.
I got to my feet and took up a position at the front of the theater, middle aisle, facing the entranceway.
They came in out of the sun in their poplin walk shorts and limited-edition T-shirts, in their easy-care knits, their polostyling and rugby stripes. I watched them take their seats, noting the subdued and reverent air, the uncertainanticipation. Some had notebooks and pencil lights; some carried lecture material in bright binders. There werewhispers, rustling paper, the knocking sound of seats dropping as one by one the students settled in. I leaned againstthe front of the apron, waiting for the last few to enter, for someone to seal the doors against our voluptuous summerday.
Soon there was a hush. It was time for me to deliver the introductory remarks. I let the silence deepen for a moment,then cleared my arms from the folds of the academic robe in order to gesture freely.
When the showing ended, someone asked about the plot to kill Hitler. The discussion moved to plots in general. Ifound myself saying to the assembled heads, "All plots tend to move deathward. This is the nature of plots. Politicalplots, terrorist plots, lovers' plots, narrative plots, plots that are part of children's games. We edge nearer death everytime we plot. It is like a contract that all must sign, the plotters as well as those who are the targets of the plot."Is this true? Why did I say it? What does it mean?