The Ninth Wave (42 page)

Grover liked Professor Moon at once. He liked the neatness of the office,
the absence of ashtrays and cigarette butts, the neat piles of lecture
notes on the shelf, the orderliness of card catalogues. He liked the
simple black suit that Professor Moon wore. He even liked the way
Professor Moon's eyes swam uncertainly behind thick glasses.
"Professor Moon, my name is Robert Grover, political reporter for the
'Los Angeles Post,'" Grover said. He shook Moon's cool small hand and
sat down in the chair that Moon pushed forward.
"You can smoke if you want to," Professor Moon said and he took an
ashtray from a drawer and put it at Grover's elbow.
"No thanks. I don't smoke," Grover said.
Professor Moon nodded his head with approval and they smiled at one
another with understanding.
"What does the 'Post' want of someone like me?" Professor Moon asked. He
smiled deprecatingly, but his eyes focused behind the thick lenses and
peered sharply at Grover. "I'm just a professor of classics you know. No
political expert."
"Just a background story," Grover said. "A sort of think piece. We
understand that you are doing some interesting work and the city desk
thought it might work up into a good article."
"A political-article?" Professor Moon asked. "I don't see how . . ."
"Well, you've done some research on communism and religion and art,
haven't you? That sort of thing?"
"Yes, but it doesn't have much to do with modern politics. I don't really
think your readers would be interested in my sort of thing."
"Just tell me a little about it," Grover said. "Just describe the work
generally."
Professor Moon smiled. He shook his head modestly, deprecatingiy, but
Grover could see he was flattered. Professor Moon reached in a drawer
and took out a thin typewritten manuscript.
"These are the first few chapters of a large work I intend to do on the
subject," Pr6fessor Moon said. He glanced shyly at Grover. "It's very
slow work, you know. There is a tremendous amount of material. These
few chapters are based on thousands of pages of notes. The whole work
won't be finished for years, I'm afraid. Very difficult subject."
"Why don't you just describe it to me?" Grover said. "In simple language,
of course. Just as simply as you can."
"All right, in simple language," Professor Moon said. He was pleased. He
leaned back in the chair and held the manuscript in his hand. "I got
interested in the subject of property relations through my study of
art. I discovered that whenever you have a good and free art you have
communal ownership . . . communism, you might call it. And when you
have good art and communism you also have a strong religious faith. In
the time of the Torah, for example, which regulated the life of the
ancient Jews, you find communist ownership and very good art and strong
religion. And in primitive Catholicism, in the early days of the church
you find that natural law, good art and communal ownership all emerged
at the same time. Then I found that whenever private ownership emerges,
art starts to decay and then, almost inevitably, the religious faith
starts to crumble. Now that's it. Put much too simply of course."
"Would that mean that Christianity, primitive Christianity that is,
was communistic?" Grover asked.
"That's right," Professor Moon said enthusiastically. "You've caught
it. And whenever private ownership emerges the religious faith
diminishes."
"What about modern Christianity, Professor Moon? Is it communistic?"
"Not yet," Professor Moon said. He leaned forward, laid the manuscript
on the table, smoothed it out. "But it's becoming more communistic. Just
look at the Social Encyclicals of Pope Leo the Eleventh. Why they're
just full of communist notions of ownership and social relations. And
Protestant theology is the same way. It's leaning more and more toward
communal ownership. And the more it does the deeper the religious faith."
"Do you think that Communism and Christianity are compatible then?" Grover
asked.
Grover took out his notebook. He unscrewed his Sheaffer pen and made a
few quick notes in shorthand.
"I've always wished I had learned shorthand," Professor Moon said. "It
would save so much time taking notes in the library. Especially from
the rare books which you can't remove from the library."
Grover smiled at Professor Moon and nodded.
"I was asking if you thought that modern Communism and Christianity are
compatible?" Grover said.
"Oh, yes. Sorry. I don't really know much about modern communism, you
know," Professor Moon said doubtfully. "But just speaking off the cuff I'd
say that Christianity and communism are having an effect on one another;
they tend to soften one another. Maybe if it continues we'll find that
the simplicity of the primitive Christians will return and adopt some of
the ideas of communism. I never thought about it much . . . the problem
of modern-day relations between them."
"Could you tell me your best opinion though?" Grover asked.
"Well, I think they are compatible," Professor Moon said. "Communism
and Christianity will probably come together and each adopt the best
features of the other and we'll have something like what we had after
the fall of the Roman Empire: communist ideas of property, religious
enthusiasm and good art."
"Would you say, Professor Moon, that you are a Communist?"
"Of course. I'm a communist. Just as I'm a Catholic. Part Catholic and
part communist. That's what I tell my classes," he said. He looked at
Grover and then leaned forward confidentially. "It rather shocks them
at first. They find it difficult to deal with antinomies."
Grover made notations with his pen. He filled one page with sharp angular
marks and turned the notebook over. Just as he looked up again there
was a knock on the door.
A young man pushed through the door. He was breathing hard. He stood
spraddle-legged. There was a press card stuck in the brim of his hat.
"Is one of you Moon?" the young man asked.
Grover closed his notebook and screwed his pen shut. He stood up.
"I'm Norton from the United Press," the young man said. "John Cromwell
has just been endorsed by the Democratic Pre-Primary Convention for
governor. In a speech he made this afternoon he stated that you were
a Communist."
"Me?" Professor Moon asked.
Professor Moon looked at Grover and his eyes diffused completely behind
his glasses. His lips trembled and he seemed to be asking Grover for
instructions.
"Yes, you," the United Press man said.
"I don't know who Cromwell is," Professor Moon said. "I've never heard
of him."
"What difference does' that make?" the United Press man said. "Are you
a Communist?"
Professor Moon looked around for Grover, but he was already in the doorway,
his hat in his hand. Professor Moon was suddenly defenseless.
"I guess I am a communist," he said. "But a very special kind. A kind
of scholarly interest led me . . . "
"Professor Moon, I have to leave," Grover said. "Thank you for your time."
As Grover walked across the Quad, two men came loping across the asphalt.
He knew they were reporters. He hurried to find a phone.
CHAPTER 26
A Monday Morning Ride
On Monday morning Hank and Georgia drove back to Los Angeles alone. Mike
flew to San Francisco from Fresno. He was meeting with some members of
the State Central Committee to talk over Cromwell's campaign.
Georgia was driving. Hank was asleep. When they were just outside of
Bakersfield, Hank groaned once and turned over.
"Do you want something to eat, Hank?" she said.
"Sure. What I need is some chili," Hank said. His eyes were bloodshot. He
was hung over. They had already stopped three times so that Hank could
eat. Each time he wolfed down a sandwich or a piece of pie ŕ la mode
and walked back to the car and promptly went to sleep.
"I'll pull in at the next restaurant," Georgia said. "You're the first
person I ever saw who wanted to eat when he had a hangovers. Most people
just want black coffee." Hank said nothing; he stared out at the fields,
watched a truck load of pickers jog across a corduroy road. "Where did
you go last night?"
"Out. Someplace in Fresno," Hank said. "A couple of bars and then a dance
hall. God, I haven't danced for years. I must have danced thirty dances
last night. I think I had a good time. I feel good now. As if I had a
good time. Maybe I did."
"You're sure you want something to eat?" Georgia asked.
"Yes. I'm sure. I like to eat when I'm hung. Also I like to talk. I've
been sleeping so I wouldn't talk. I get boring. It's funny, I feel
miserable physically, but inside I feel sort of weak and purged. Like
after you take a cathartic. It makes me want to talk. Just tell me to
stop if I get boring or euphoric."
Georgia pulled over and parked by a small restaurant. They went in and
Hank ordered a bowl of chili beans. Georgia had a cup of coffee. Hank
gulped down the beans and ate three cellophane packets of crackers. He
picked up a half dozen packets of the crackers when he left. Georgia
continued to drive. Hank munched on the crackers.
"Mike told me that you were going to specialize in psychiatry, but you
switched to surgery," Georgia said.
"That's right. There's more money in psychiatry, but I decided that surgery
was more interesting."
"Really? I would think psychiatry would be very interesting."
Hank opened another packet of crackers. He ate them before he replied,
"I was lying. It is more interesting than surgery. I've never talked
it over with anyone, not even Mike. But I don't care now. I went into
surgery because I couldn't stand psychiatry."
"Do you really want to talk about it?"
"Sure I want to talk about it," Hank said. He leaned back in the corner
of the seat, closed his eyes and talked through the crackers. "I spent
three years studying psychiatry, why shouldn't I talk about it? I was
the hottest psychiatry intern they had. A real whiz. Superego, id,
ego, narcissism, insulin shock, Rohrschach test, T.A.T., hydrotherapy,
Méničre's Syndrome, hypertonia, ataxia, stuttering, paranoia, negativism,
regression, metrazol, hypnogogic reverie, oneirosis . . . Jesus, I knew
everything. I was going to be the boy wonder of psychiatry. I was going
to save a tortured world . . . ole Hank Moore, all by himself."
He opened his eyes, reached for another packet of crackers. He opened
the packet and put two crackers in his mouth.
"Then they gave me my first case," Hank said. "Jesus, I went at it
carefully. She was thirty-five years old, married, four kids, a
Catholic. I found out everything about her, just the way I'd been
taught. Not forcing her, but letting her bring it out. She complained
of headaches, walked with a limp, had occasional tinnitus and almost
constant scintillating scotoma . . . "
"What's that?" Georgia asked. "Scintillating scotoma?"
"Bright spots before the eyes," Hank said and laughed. "Silly, eh? But she
had more, much more than that. And I put it all down, the way you're
supposed to. Neatly in a notebook. Subject was one of six siblings. Cruel,
dominant father. Beat the kids on Saturday night before he went out
and got drunk. Retiring mother. Subject had great fear of sex during
menarche. Didn't know where babies came from until she was three months'
pregnant. Married a shy linoleum salesman. Never experienced orgasm.
Associated sex with pain, rape, bleeding. Subject suffered from intense
depression, pains in abdomen, and fear of high places. That's just part
of it, just a fraction. I got it all down, worked it over, slaved on it,
consulted with experts, went through the books, listened endlessly to
this fat whining woman talk and put down every single thing she said."
"What was wrong with her?" Georgia asked.
"I never found out. I gave her the most thorough physical that any person
ever had. Blood count, urinalysis, regular X-rays, barium meal X-rays,
spinal tap, Stanford-Binet I.Q. test, an ataxigraph, campimeter...
there Was nothing I didn't do to that lady. I thought she might have
Méničre's Syndrome so I tested for sludging of the blood in the labyrinth
of the ear. No results. I discovered she had an enormous amount of water
in her body and she said she ate salt in quantities . . . half a cupful
a day. She heaped it on meat, eggs and potatoes. So I rushed to Freud
and read about the symbolic meaning of salt arid concluded that she was
suffering from a suppressed desire for immortality. She was literally
trying to pickle herself, make a brine out of her blood and lymph. So that
she could keep that defective, hulking, worn-out body of hers forever. The
notebook got bigger and bigger. They gave me a secretary to transcribe
the notes. Everyone thought it was going to be one of those epic cases;
go down in all the textbooks. Moore's Syndrome they would call it."
"Did you cure her?" Georgia asked.
"Let me finish, Hank said. "I put her on a salt-free diet and nothing
happened except she lost thirty pounds. She just liked salt. She didn't
protest when I put her on the diet. She said the food was a little flat,
but that was all. Matter of fact she didn't mind anything. She'd sit
there, smiling a little anxiously, trying to be co-operative. She said
her headaches were worse at certain times. It took me a month to discover
that she had them worse in intercourse. Whenever she felt her husband
tighten up and knew he was having orgasm, the headache would hit; flash
through her head like a bullet. So back to the books I went; Reik, Freud,
Carveth, Alexander. Hatred and revenge on Father, I concluded. Suppressed
and emerged physically in the form of a crashing, instantaneous headache
whenever she knew that any man was experiencing pleasure with her body.
"I was sure of the diagnosis, but she didn't respond well to treatment. I
probed her about her feelings during intercourse, tried to get her to
admit that she hated it. But she would just blush and say, no, she really
liked intercourse. In fact she was after her husband all the time for
a little extra piece.
"I gave a long wordy diagnosis and everyone smiled and agreed that ole
Hank Moore was on his way. Then she jumped off the Arroyo Seco Bridge
in Pasadena. I never did find out what was wrong with her. And I gave
up psychiatry."