Page 85 - The Myth and the Moment

Evening

her imaginative faculties. Never underestimate the power of an
imaginative faculty, Nathan. No doubt she’s tapped into one of the
great myths of America: character perfectibility. Comes out of
Calvinism, I suppose; the soul looped into the farther end of a lesser
chain of being, buried deep within or without the body; anxiety about
eternal damnation relievable only through attainment of visible
salvation. Manifest purity, obtained at the expense of (a) the
supposedly nastier bits of one’s own personality; (b) one’s fellows,
from whom one has become invidiously distinguished; and ultimately
(c) the natural world, a source of plunder in the quest. The great
religious philosophies like Zen haven’t got a chance in this infertile
soil; the masses clamor for Hindu/Catholic priesthoods and Boy
Scout badges of merit. It’s funny: the whole shebang must be in
everybody’s head; I mean everybody who’s observed the flow of
time, the decay of organisms, the endless shifting patterns of desire
and revulsion. Even in my head; right, Herr Doktor Freud? All it
takes is someone who knows how to draw it out of me, nurture one
or another of those latent beliefs with assurances of absolute validity.
I could have fallen into any of those traps; remembering that fact is
the source of humility, of course. The enlightened pinball apprehends
its world-line as a function of its original vector and velocity. And
that is just a matter of chance. Ah, the elevator disgorges.
What little dignity remains I must gather up like slightly soiled,
twice-mended garments and pose expectantly: not quite a mendicant
monk, begging for table scraps; not quite a shabby old doorman,
anticipating his gratuity; not quite a familiar friend, fallen upon hard
times—ah, you don’t know what she told them about you, nitwit.
Just give ‘em the frank stare and slightly ironic smile of the born
aristocrat; just came from the Marina, right? Just been scraping the
barnacles off the yacht, you know; can’t trust anyone else to do it.
Mmm. Two men and a woman, not that old. Catch the door, Nate,
but don’t lunge.
“Oh, are you Nate Evangelino? Aestheria told us all about you.”
“Uh, yes, Ma’am.”
Gack! She’s shaking my hand! Told you what, dammit!
“Well, we must be getting home. So nice to meet you.”
“Ah, nice to meet you. Nice to meet you.”

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