Mao II - Don Delillo [28]
“I don’t think she considers herself a guest in the true sense. She came to work.”
“Damn strange work. Quixotic as hell. But I think I admire her.”
“You admire her for doing work that often goes unseen. Work that describes a kind of mission, a dedication. Exactly what I’ve been urging you to do. Keep this book out of sight. Build on it. Use it to define an idea, a principle.”
“What principle?” Brita said.
“That the withheld work of art is the only eloquence left.”
“This lamb is very nice,” Bill said.
Karen came back from the kitchen with bread on a cutting board.
Scott looked at Brita.
“Art floats by all the time, part of the common bloat. But if he withholds the book. If he keeps the book in typescript and lets it take on heat and light. This is how he renews his claim to wide attention. Book and writer are now inseparable.”
“Excuse me but it stinks,” Brita said.
“He knows I’m right. What puts him on edge is not when I argue with him but when I agree with him. When I bring his little wishes dancing to the surface.”
Bill kept a bottle of Irish whiskey flush against the right rear leg of his chair and he reached down for it now and refilled his wineglass.
He said, “We want to have a dinner with a theme. We’re four of us tonight. Four is the first square. Foursquare. But we also have a roundness, a rounding-out. Three plus one. And it happens that we’re halfway through April, or month number four.”
“We were almost five,” Scott said. “A woman tried to give me a baby yesterday. She took it out of her coat. A little thing only hours old.”
He was staring at Brita.
“Why didn’t you take it?” Karen said.
“Because I was on my way to meet Brita at a hotel where babies are not allowed. They have baby detectors at every door. They escort babies to the street.”
“We could have found a place for it even if we didn’t keep it ourselves. You should have taken it. How could you not take it?”
“People have always given away their babies. It’s old stuff. I more or less suspect that I was given away. It explains so much,” Scott said.
“My mother used to talk about God’s compensation,” Brita said. “When her heart began to fail, her rheumatism seemed to ease up. This was her idea of some almighty balance. I wonder about God’s compensation for babies that are given away in the street or left in the garbage or thrown out the window.”
Karen was talking to Scott about a road sign she’d seen on a walk that morning.
“Because I feel someone owes me something every time this happens,” Brita said, “but who can it be if there is no God?”
Scott said, “Karen believes. Bill says he believes but we’re not convinced. ”
“Our theme is four,” Bill said. “In many ancient languages, God’s name has four letters.”
Brita poured more wine for herself and Scott.
“I don’t like not believing. I’m not at peace with it. I take comfort when others believe.”
“Karen thinks God is here. Like walkin’ and talkin’.”
“I want others to believe, you see. Many believers everywhere. I feel the enormous importance of this. When I was in Catania and saw hundreds of running men pulling a saint on a float through the streets, absolutely running. When I saw people crawl for miles on their knees in Mexico City on the Day of the Virgin, leaving blood on the basilica steps and then joining the crowd inside, the crush, so many people that there was no air. Always blood. The Day of Blood in Teheran. I need these people to believe for me. I cling to believers. Many, everywhere. Without them, the planet goes cold.”
Bill spoke into his plate.
“Did I say how much I like this lamb?”
“Then eat it,” Scott said.
“You’re not eating it,” Karen said.
“I thought I was supposed to look at it. You mean actually eat. As in the dictionary definition.”
The dining room was small, with unmatched chairs around an oblong table, and there was a fire going in the old brick chimney corner.
“Do you want me to cut it for you?” Karen said.
Scott was still looking at Brita.
“If it’s believers you want, Karen is your person. Unconditional belief. The messiah is here on earth.”
“He’s