Mickelsson's Ghosts John Gardner (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📖

to the pock-marked Marxist he’d seen at the party—there was another of them with him, a small, timid man with hair down to his shoulders; also the two young Marxists’ wives, potentially angry though at the moment expressionless—Mickelsson had said, merely for politeness (and because no one in his right mind could deny it), though maybe he’d put a little edge in his voice, making it a challenge, and maybe he’d widened his eyes a little, and lifted his eyebrows, daring the son of a bitch to disagree: “Nice movie!”

The pock-marked one had looked at him, grinning, and had raised his head, pulling his chin in, like a horse on checks. “There are no nice movies,” he said. “There are stupid movies and movies that wake you up.”

“Maybe so,” Mickelsson had said, and smiled. He slowly rubbed his palms together. The scene was going well.

“ ‘Maybe so.’ Listen!” The young man raised a finger, somewhat cautiously, to touch Mickelsson’s tie.

The crowd was all around them, so that Mickelsson couldn’t have backed off if he’d wanted to. He smiled on.

The young man said, pretending to be merely reasonable, “Come on, what’s it about? These stone-cutters build buildings that are better than they are. What kind of shit is that? And then the business dies, the stone-cutting, and what are they? Used-car salesmen! Crap!” He ran his tongue over his teeth, then grinned again, glancing around as if anxiously. “You liked that? What the fuck!”

“That’s true,” Mickelsson said. “They should have organized.”

With a jerk, the man turned his head away. But then, unable to resist, he turned again to Mickelsson. “Young love. That’s what the movie’s about. First the kid loves this girl, then he loves that girl. That’s what it’s about. Let me tell you something. That’s the real opiate of the people!”

“You’re right,” Mickelsson said. “Love is crap.”

The man looked at him. “You’re something,” he said. “Don’t worry, I read your book. You’re either part of the problem or you’re part of the solution.” He laughed.

“I agree with you,” Mickelsson said. Without his approval, his heart was pounding and blood stung his cheeks. He could not deny that he was enjoying himself. What would these good, patient people say if he were abruptly to reach out and strangle the man?

The pock-marked man sensed Mickelsson’s pleasure, apparently. No doubt he too was enjoying himself, though he’d probably have denied it. He tapped twice on Mickelsson’s tie, as if intending to provoke. His wife moved closer to him, scowling like a child, and the other woman smiled, blank as pie. The small man was staring at the floor, trying to get his pipe lit. “You agree with me. That’s nice,” the pock-marked one said. “As long as we have movies like this we’ll have a country like this.”

“I agree with you,” Mickelsson said again.

“Terrific,” the man said, nervous, and turned away again, seething but definitely uneasy, and this time he did not turn back.

Mickelsson considered hitting him in the ear with his fist, like one of those Brazilian torturers. He could think of no good reason not to; but he refrained.

The small man said, “De gustibus non disputatus, right?” He glanced at his wife, maybe to see if his Latin was correct, then at the other man’s wife.

“I agree with you,” Mickelsson said.

But now, staring up at the not quite visible ceiling of his bedroom, Mickelsson envied the Marxists. Their truth might be moronic, but ah, what joy to believe whole-heartedly! One couldn’t even honestly claim that they were stupid. Einstein’s whole achievement had come down to simply this, from one point of view: that he refused to consider any theory of the universe that ruled out God. Working within that limit, ruling out vast areas of the possible, he’d discovered what he’d discovered. When serious physicists of the next generation had begun to answer him, proponents of chaos against the old-style Jew, Einstein—angry and possibly confused—had quit the business, turned Zionist.

The pock-marked Marxist materialized at Mickelsson’s bedside, a little like a grudging relative at a death-bed, a large, darker hulk in the darkness of the room. With the lightest flick of the will Mickelsson could have banished him, but it was of course his own wish that had brought him. He allowed him to remain.

He waited for what the man would say, or rather for what he might imagine the man would say. The man said nothing, looking down, morose, at his thick, folded hands.

“It’s true, of course,” Mickelsson thought, “that you give students a position, maybe not objective, but a solid foundation they can move away from on their own when they see their way past it, assuming they’re not fools.”

The man said nothing.

“And it’s true that, however ridiculous your opinions, the motivation’s real enough—admirable enough—the rage against injustice, the conviction that there must be something better. Though of course self-righteousness and prejudice are somewhat mixed in.”

Still the man said nothing.

“I understand your background,” Mickelsson said. “Poverty, victimization, superstitious love of ideas, hatred of ‘the stupid middle class’ and all it stands for—your class, if you’d admit it, though you call yourself ‘blue collar,’ stealing your father’s innocence, perhaps afraid he’d hate you—”

Below him in the night, there was a loud banging at Mickelsson’s front door. Mickelsson’s heart quaked and, forgetting the Marxist seated at his bedside, he quickly got out of bed, crossed to the window, and peeked out. He could see nothing—no car, only the snow in the yard and on the porch roof. He heard the knocking again, louder, more violent or desperate than before. Then the person who’d been knocking moved down the porch steps and out onto the snowy yard where Mickelsson could see him. It was the fat man—crooked-mouthed, gross, greenish, gouty—peering up near-sightedly through his steel-rimmed glasses at Mickelsson’s window, reaching toward him with both arms, pitifully, his fingers extended, fat as the teats of a cow. Mickelsson squeezed his eyes shut, then open again, all strength gone from his legs, and strained