The Marriage Plot (23 page)

His busboy uniform consisted of brown polyester bell-bottoms, a brown polyester shirt with monster lapels, and an orange polyester vest that matched the upholstery of the restaurant booths. Every night the vest and shirt got covered with grease and his mother had to wash it overnight so that he could wear it the next day.

One night, Coleman Young, the mayor, came in with a group of mobsters. One of them, vicious with drink, directed his ragged gaze at Mitchell.

“Hey, you. Motherfucker. Come over here.”

Mitchell came over.

“Fill my water glass, motherfucker.”

Mitchell filled his glass.

The man dropped his napkin on the floor. “I dropped my napkin, motherfucker. Pick it up.”

The mayor didn’t look happy, sitting with this crew. But dinners like these were part of the job.

At home, Mitchell counted his tips, telling his parents how cheap India was going to be. “You can live on like five dollars a day. Maybe less.”

“What’s the matter with Europe?” Dean said.

“We’re going to Europe.”

“London’s a nice spot. Or France. You could go to France.”

“We’re
going
to France.”

“I don’t know about this India,” Lillian said, shaking her head. “You’re liable to catch something over there.”

“I’m sure you are aware,” Dean said, “that India is one of the so-called ‘nonaligned’ nations. You know what that means? It means they don’t want to choose between the U.S. of A. and Russia. They think Russia and America are moral equivalents.”

“How will we get in touch with you over there?” Lillian asked.

“You can send letters to American Express. They hold them.”

“England’s a nice spot,” Dean said. “Remember when we went to England that time? How old were you?”

“I was eight,” Mitchell said. “So I’ve been to England. Larry and I want to go someplace different. Somewhere non-Western.”

“Non-Western, eh? I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you go to Siberia? Why don’t you visit one of those gulags they’ve got over there in the Evil Empire?”

“Siberia would actually be pretty interesting.”

“What happens if you get sick?” Lillian said.

“I won’t get sick.”

“How do you know you won’t get sick?”

“Let me ask you this,” Dean said. “How long do you expect the trip to be? Two, three months?”

“More like eight,” Mitchell said. “Depends on how long our money holds out.”

“
Then
what are you going to do? With your degree in religious studies.”

“I’m thinking of applying to divinity school.”

“Divinity school?”

“They have two tracks. People go either to become ministers or theologians. I’d go the scholarly route.”

“And then what? Be a professor somewhere?”

“Maybe.”

“What does a religious studies professor make?”

“I have no idea.”

Dean turned to Lillian. “He thinks this is a minor detail. Salary range. Minor.”

“I think you’d make a wonderful professor,” Lillian said.

“Yeah?” Dean said, contemplating this. “My son the professor. I suppose you could get tenure with a deal like that.”

“If I’m lucky.”

“That tenure’s a good deal. It’s un-American. But it’s nice work if you can get it.”

“I have to go,” said Mitchell. “I’m late for work.”

What he was late for, actually, was his catechism class. Unbeknown to anyone, as secretly as if he were buying drugs or visiting a massage parlor, Mitchell had been attending weekly meetings with Father Marucci, at St. Mary’s, the Catholic church at the end of Monroe Street. When Mitchell had first rung the bell of the rectory, and explained his reasons, the stocky priest had looked at him dubiously. Mitchell explained that he was thinking of converting to Catholicism. He spoke of his interest in Merton, especially Merton’s own tale of conversion,
The Seven-Storey Mountain.
He told Father Marucci pretty much what he’d told Professor Richter. But either because Father Marucci wasn’t terribly concerned about making converts or because he’d seen Mitchell’s type before, he hadn’t pressed hard. Giving Mitchell some materials to read, he’d sent him on his way, telling him to come back and talk if he wanted.

Father Marucci was straight out of the old
Boys Town
movie, as gruff as Spencer Tracy. Mitchell sat in his office, overawed by the large crucifix on the wall and the painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus over the transom of the door. The old-fashioned radiators bore filigree. The furniture was heavy and solid, the pull rings on the window shades like miniature life preservers.

With narrow blue eyes the priest scrutinized him.

“You read the books I gave you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Any questions?”

“I’ve got more of a concern than a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking that, if I’m going to become a Catholic, then I’d better be able to obey the rules.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Most of them I can handle. But I’m not married. I’m only twenty-two. I don’t know when I’ll
get
married. It might be a while. So the rule I’m worried about, mainly, is premarital sex.”

“Unfortunately, you don’t get to pick and choose.”

“I know that.”

“Listen, a girl’s not a watermelon you plug a hole in to see if it’s sweet.”

Mitchell liked that. This was the kind of no-nonsense spiritual advice he needed. At the same time, he didn’t see how it made celibacy any easier.

“You think about it,” Father Marucci said.

Outside, the neon signs of Greektown were just coming on. Otherwise, downtown Detroit was empty, just this little block-long glow, and, across Woodward, a night game getting under way at Tiger Stadium. On the warm summer evening breeze Mitchell could smell the river. Tucking the catechism pamphlet into the pocket of his vest, he walked to the restaurant and went to work.

He spent the next eight hours busing tables. He assisted people in their feeding. Customers left chewed pieces of meat on their plates, gristle. If Mitchell found a kid’s retainer in a pile of pilafi, he returned it in a take-out carton to avoid embarrassment. After clearing tables, he set them again. He could clear a four-top in one shot, carrying the plates stacked in his arms.

Q: What does the term “flesh” mean when referring to the whole man?

A: When referring to the whole man, the term “flesh” means man in his state of weakness and mortality.

Geri, the owner’s wife, liked to commandeer a back booth. She was a large, disordered woman, like a child’s drawing that didn’t stay within the lines. The waiters supplied her with a steady stream of scotch and sodas. Geri started the nights bright with drink, as if expecting a party. Later, she became sullen. To Mitchell one night she said, “I never should have married a Greek. You know what Greeks are like? I’ll tell you. They’re like sand niggers. No difference. You Greek?”

“Half,” Mitchell said.

“I feel sorry for you.”

Q: In which shape will the dead rise?

A: The dead will rise in their own bodies.

This was bad news for Geri. In previous jobs, Mitchell had always found ways to goof off. Restaurant work made that impossible. His only down-time was the fifteen minutes when he bolted his dinner. Mitchell rarely ordered the gyros. The meat wasn’t lamb but a beef-and-pork composite, like an eighty-pound can of Spam. Three separate spits revolved in the front window, while the chefs poked and prodded them, carving off slices. The wife of one of the cooks, Stavros, had a heart condition. Two years ago she’d slipped into a coma. Every day before coming to work he stopped into the hospital to sit by her bedside. He was under no illusions about the prospects for her recovery.

Q: Who says that prayer is always possible even while cooking?

A: It is Saint John Chrysostom (around 400 AD) who says that prayer is always possible even while cooking.

And so the summer dragged on. Busing tables, scraping uneaten food, bones and fat, and napkins used for nose-blowing into the huge plastic-lined garbage bin, adding greasy plates to the never-diminishing pile dwarfing the Yemeni dishwasher (the only guy with a job worse than his), Mitchell worked seven shifts a week until he’d earned enough money to buy a plane ticket to Paris and $3,280 in American Express Travelers Cheques. Within a week he was gone, first to New York and, three days later, to Paris, where he now found himself with no place to stay, walking in the rain along Avenue Rapp.

The gutters were overflowing. The rain spattered against his skull, working its way down his collar. A late-night work crew was arranging rag bundles in the street to direct the flow of water. Mitchell walked three more blocks until he saw a hotel on the opposite corner. Ducking into the entranceway, he found it already occupied by another luckless backpacker, a guy in a rain poncho, water droplets falling from the tip of his long nose.

“Every hotel in Paris is booked up,” the guy said. “I’ve been to every one.”

“Did you ring the doorbell?”

“Three times so far.”

They had to ring twice more to summon the concierge. She arrived fully dressed, her hair in order. She looked them over with a cold eye and said something in French.

“She only has one room,” the guy said. “She wants to know if we’ll share.”

“You were here first,” Mitchell said generously.

“It’ll be cheaper if we split it.”

The concierge led them up to the third floor. Unlocking the door, she stood aside to let them inspect the room.

There was only one bed.

“
C’est bien
?” the woman said.

“She wants to know if it’s O.K.,” the guy told Mitchell.

“We don’t have much choice.”

“
C’est bien
,” the guy said.

“
Bonne nuit
,” the concierge said, and retired.

They took off their packs and set them down, water puddling on the floor.

“I’m Clyde,” the guy said.

“Mitchell.”

While Clyde washed up at the minuscule room sink, Mitchell took a guest towel and went down the hall to the WC. After peeing, he pulled the chain on the toilet, feeling like a train engineer. Returning to the room, he was gratified to find that Clyde had already got into bed and was facing the wall. Mitchell undressed down to his underwear.

The problem was what to do with his money pouch.

Not wanting to wear a fanny pack, like a tourist, and yet not wanting to carry valuables in his luggage, either, Mitchell had bought a fly-fishing wallet. It was waterproof, with a leaping trout design and a reinforced zipper. The wallet had elastic loops for wearing on your belt. But because wearing the wallet on his belt would be the same as wearing a fanny pack, Mitchell had tied the pouch to his belt loop with a string, slipping it inside the waistband of his jeans. It was safe there. But now he had to find somewhere to keep it for the night, while sharing the room with a stranger.

In addition to traveler’s checks, the pouch contained Mitchell’s passport, immunization records, five hundred francs exchanged from seventy dollars the day before, and a recently activated MasterCard. After failing to dissuade Mitchell from setting off for India, Dean and Lillian had insisted on giving him something for emergencies. Mitchell knew, however, that using a credit card would create a running balance of filial obligation, which he would then need to pay off in monthly or weekly telephone calls home. The MasterCard was like a tracking device. Only after resisting Dean’s pressure for a solid month had Mitchell given in and accepted the card, but his plan was never to use it.

With his back to the bed, he untied the pouch from his belt loop. He considered hiding it under the dresser or behind the mirror but finally carried it to the bed and put it under his pillow. He climbed in and switched off the light.

Clyde remained turned toward the wall.

For a long time they lay without speaking. Finally Mitchell said, “You ever read
Moby-Dick
?”

“Long time ago.”

“Remember where Ishmael gets into bed at the boarding house, at the beginning? He lights a match and there’s this Indian, all covered with tattoos, sleeping next to him?”

Clyde was quiet a moment, thinking about that. “Which one of us is the Indian?” he asked.

“Call me Ishmael,” Mitchell said, in the dark.

Circadian rhythms woke him early. The sun wasn’t up but the rain had stopped. Mitchell could hear Clyde’s deep nocturnal breathing. He managed to fall back asleep, and when he woke up again it was broad daylight and Clyde was nowhere to be found. When he looked under his pillow, the money pouch was gone.

He leapt out of bed, instantly panicked. While tearing off the blankets and sheets and feeling under the mattress, Mitchell had a thought. Traveler’s checks took the worry out of traveling. In the event of loss or theft, you presented the serial numbers of the checks to American Express and the company replaced them. This made the serial numbers just as important as the checks themselves, however. If someone stole your checks and you didn’t have the serial numbers, you were in big trouble. Since the checks came with a warning against carrying them in your luggage, it followed that you shouldn’t carry the serial numbers in your luggage, either. But where else could you carry them? The only safe place, it had seemed to Mitchell, was in the fly-fishing wallet along with the traveler’s checks themselves. And that was where Mitchell had stashed them until he could think of a better idea.

He had been aware of a central flaw in this reasoning, but it had seemed manageable until this moment.

The vision of returning home in humiliation, his round-the-world trip lasting two days, appeared to him in all its ghastliness. But then he looked behind the bed and saw the money pouch on the floor.

He was on his way out of the hotel when the concierge detained him. She spoke quickly, and in French, but he understood the essence of what she was saying: Clyde had paid half of the room rate; Mitchell owed the other half.