Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [122]
“So it’s about half a million dollars more. And even if she remarries she wants a guaranteed income of ten thousand dollars?”
“True.”
“And Mr. Pinsker is asking for a fee of thirty thousand—ten thousand dollars for each month he spent on the case?”
“That’s not really so unreasonable,” said the judge. “You haven’t been hurt hard in the way of fees.”
“It doesn’t come to more than five hundred dollars an hour. That’s what I figure my own time to be worth, especially when I have to do what I dislike,” I said.
“Mr. Citrine,” the judge said to me, “you’ve led a more or less bohemian life. Now you’ve had a taste of marriage, the family, middle-class institutions, and you want to drop out. But we can’t allow you to dabble like that.”
Suddenly my detachment ended and I found myself in a state. I understood what emotions had torn at Humboldt’s heart when they grabbed him and tied him up and raced him to Bellevue. The man of talent struggled with cops and orderlies. And, up against the social order, he had had to fight his Shakespearian longing, too—the longing for passionate speech. This had to be resisted. I could have cried aloud now. I could have been eloquent and moving. But what if I were to burst out like Lear to his daughters, like Shylock telling off the Christians? It would get me nowhere to utter burning words. The daughters and the Christians understood. Tomchek, Srole, and the judge didn’t. Suppose I were to exclaim about morality, about flesh and blood and justice and evil and what it felt like to be me, Charlie Citrine? Wasn’t this a court of equity, a forum of conscience? And hadn’t I tried in my own confused way to bring some good into the world? Yes, and having pursued a higher purpose although without even getting close, now that I was aging, weakening, disheartened, doubting my endurance and even my sanity, they wanted to harness me to an even heavier load for the last decade or so. Denise was not correct in saying that I blurted out whatever entered my head. No sir. I crossed my arms on my chest and kept my mouth shut, taking a chance on heartbreak through tongue-holding. Besides, as suffering went, I was only in the middle rank or even lower. So out of respect for the real thing I clammed up. I shunted my thoughts onto a different track. At least I tried to. I wondered what Kathleen Fleisher Tigler was writing to me about.
These were very tough guys. I had their attention because of my worldly goods. Otherwise I would already have been behind the steel meshes of the county jail. As for Denise, that marvelous lunatic with the great violet eyes, the slender downy nose, the breaking martial voice—suppose I were to offer her all of my money? It would make no difference whatever, she would want to get more. And the judge? The judge was a Chicagoan and a politician, and his racket was equal justice under the law. A government of laws? This was a government of lawyers. But no, no, inflammation of the heart and burning words would only aggravate matters. No, the name of the game was silence, hardness and silence. I wasn’t going to talk. A rose, or something that glowed like a rose, intruded itself, it wagged for an instant in my skull, and I felt that my decision was endorsed.
The judge now began to strafe me in earnest. “I understand that Mr. Citrine has been leaving the country often and is planning to go abroad again.”
“This is the first I hear of it,” said Tomchek. “Are you going anywhere?”
“For the Christmas holidays,” I said. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t go?”
“None,” said the judge, “if you’re not trying to escape jurisdiction. The plaintiff and Mr. Pinsker have suggested that Mr. Citrine is planning to leave the country for good. They say he hasn’t renewed his apartment lease and is selling his