The Lacuna
Page 92
She stayed in the doorway. She doesn’t like to come in the study, for fear of disturbing. “Mr. Shepherd, why are ye not? A shocking thing ought to shock.”
A shocking thing. “The man I worked for in Mexico, I don’t even know how to tell you what the newsmen did to him. One night some gunmen broke into the house and attacked him with machine guns, attacked all of us, the staff and his family. His grandson got hurt. We were terrified they’d come back. But the press said Lev had organized this attack himself to get sympathy for his cause. They reported that as fact.”
“My stars.”
“It didn’t help us get police protection, I can tell you. And that’s just one thing, a case that comes to mind. The other man I worked for reportedly ate human flesh.”
“Well. That’s Mexican newspapers. We want to think ours are better here. But I suppose they say the same about us.”
“It was all over everywhere, about Trotsky staging the shooting attack. Europe, New York. It starts in one paper, and that’s the source. The others pick it up and pass it along. Lev used to say there are two kinds of papers, the ones that lie every day, and the ones that save it for special campaigns, for greater impact.”
“But a perforated eardrum. My stars. It’s like you said. It starts with one and then it goes. We’ve not heard the end of that one.”
“Like howler monkeys.”
“The Trumpet’s your own hometown. They could have asked.”
“If they had called, what would you have said?”
She looked like a model standing for a portrait of misery: shoulders squared, high eyebrows knit, hands tightly folded. “I would do as you ask. Mr. Shepherd has no comment to make on that.”
“Thank you.”
“But.”
“But?”
“When they have nothing, they fill in. If you don’t stop them, they fill in more. It’s like you’ve agreed to it. To their way of thinking, saying nothing is the same as agreeing.”
“Are you saying it’s my responsibility to stop another man from lying?”
“Well. No. It’s his to stop himself.”
“Dios habla por el que calle.”
“Meaning what, Mr. Shepherd?”
“God speaks for the man who keeps quiet.”
“If you say so.”
‘ “No comment’ means ‘no comment.’ It does not mean, ‘I hate to admit this, but yes, he has a punctured eardrum.’”
“Well, people think that. And taking the Fifth means you’re guilty.”
“Whatever they may think, it does not. A blank space on a form, the missing page, a void, a hole in your knowledge of someone—it’s still some real thing. It exists. You don’t get to fill it in with whatever you want. I’m staking myself on a principle, Mrs. Brown. This country promises us the presumption of innocence.”
“Presumptions we have got, Mr. Shepherd. Coming out our ears.”
“What would you have me say? Mr. Shepherd does not have a punctured eardrum, he does not have a friend from college days, he does look at pretty girls without whistling—oh, that’s a trap. Where does it stop?”
She had no answer.
“If the atl-atl was meant as a symbol for the atom bomb, can’t we let the reader have a chance to decide?”
“Well, I know what you’re saying. The reporters would have you put in the grinder and feed you to Baby with a spoon.”
“I don’t think the reporters really want to know the first thing about me. They fancy themselves artists. They’d rather draw freehand.”
“They do have questions.”
“I know. The one fellow wanted to ask me about Truman and the Soviet containment policy, remember? Collier’s, I think.”
“New York Times. Collier’s said they wouldn’t even run a review unless you spoke to them.”
“And did they?”
“A little one. It wasn’t very good.”
“If I talked, I would only end up giving them more blanks to fill in. ‘How do you feel about Truman’s new anti-Soviet position, Mr. Shepherd?’ No comment. ‘That Bette Davis is quite a looker, isn’t she, Mr. Shepherd?’ No comment.”
“So, the punctured eardrum. No comment.”
“Correct.”
“Next they’ll be reporting you died.”
“Imagine the peace and quiet.”
The telephone rang, and she ran to get it. Her stockings had seams down the backs. I tried out a wolf-whistle—a feeble one, but I heard her pause on the stairs.
A sample of the mail received May 15, 1947, seventy-five letters in all. After publication of Pilgrims of Chapultepec, Stratford and Sons posted the mail forward in boxes once or twice weekly.—VB
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
At the youthful age of seventy here is one codger who tips my hat to you. For years I have re-read the favorites because the new authors are not up to snuff. But some weeks ago I ran short and went to my corner bookstore for a suggestion. The fellow handed me two by Harrison W. Shepherd, a name unknown to me. I read both without a pause. Of course I blush at scenes of copulation and revelry. But you show that modern times are no different from the old, and people the same everywhere. I was stationed overseas in the first war and never learned to like it, but it did teach me a thing or two. Thank you for adding spunk to my life. I look forward to your other books.
Sincerely,
COLLIN THOMAS
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
Although we have never met I consider you a friend. You touch and inspire me. I read Vassals of Majesty twice and now the new one. Thank you for putting my own heart into words. I have wanted to show courage the way your characters do. You show that men at the top don’t always have any more smarts than the rest of us. I have been thinking of telling my boss to jump in the lake and look for better. (Secretary.) Now I just might achieve my goal.
With admiration,
LYNNE HILL
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
I had to read your book in history at Lancaster Valley High. I don’t read too many books but yours is okay. It gave me a lot to ponder about Poatlicue wanting to be a good citizen, and then ending up wanting to kill the King. Our teacher said to ask you three questions about ancient times of Mexico, for our report. My questions:
1. Is it true the Eagle gave the people their first weapon.
A shocking thing. “The man I worked for in Mexico, I don’t even know how to tell you what the newsmen did to him. One night some gunmen broke into the house and attacked him with machine guns, attacked all of us, the staff and his family. His grandson got hurt. We were terrified they’d come back. But the press said Lev had organized this attack himself to get sympathy for his cause. They reported that as fact.”
“My stars.”
“It didn’t help us get police protection, I can tell you. And that’s just one thing, a case that comes to mind. The other man I worked for reportedly ate human flesh.”
“Well. That’s Mexican newspapers. We want to think ours are better here. But I suppose they say the same about us.”
“It was all over everywhere, about Trotsky staging the shooting attack. Europe, New York. It starts in one paper, and that’s the source. The others pick it up and pass it along. Lev used to say there are two kinds of papers, the ones that lie every day, and the ones that save it for special campaigns, for greater impact.”
“But a perforated eardrum. My stars. It’s like you said. It starts with one and then it goes. We’ve not heard the end of that one.”
“Like howler monkeys.”
“The Trumpet’s your own hometown. They could have asked.”
“If they had called, what would you have said?”
She looked like a model standing for a portrait of misery: shoulders squared, high eyebrows knit, hands tightly folded. “I would do as you ask. Mr. Shepherd has no comment to make on that.”
“Thank you.”
“But.”
“But?”
“When they have nothing, they fill in. If you don’t stop them, they fill in more. It’s like you’ve agreed to it. To their way of thinking, saying nothing is the same as agreeing.”
“Are you saying it’s my responsibility to stop another man from lying?”
“Well. No. It’s his to stop himself.”
“Dios habla por el que calle.”
“Meaning what, Mr. Shepherd?”
“God speaks for the man who keeps quiet.”
“If you say so.”
‘ “No comment’ means ‘no comment.’ It does not mean, ‘I hate to admit this, but yes, he has a punctured eardrum.’”
“Well, people think that. And taking the Fifth means you’re guilty.”
“Whatever they may think, it does not. A blank space on a form, the missing page, a void, a hole in your knowledge of someone—it’s still some real thing. It exists. You don’t get to fill it in with whatever you want. I’m staking myself on a principle, Mrs. Brown. This country promises us the presumption of innocence.”
“Presumptions we have got, Mr. Shepherd. Coming out our ears.”
“What would you have me say? Mr. Shepherd does not have a punctured eardrum, he does not have a friend from college days, he does look at pretty girls without whistling—oh, that’s a trap. Where does it stop?”
She had no answer.
“If the atl-atl was meant as a symbol for the atom bomb, can’t we let the reader have a chance to decide?”
“Well, I know what you’re saying. The reporters would have you put in the grinder and feed you to Baby with a spoon.”
“I don’t think the reporters really want to know the first thing about me. They fancy themselves artists. They’d rather draw freehand.”
“They do have questions.”
“I know. The one fellow wanted to ask me about Truman and the Soviet containment policy, remember? Collier’s, I think.”
“New York Times. Collier’s said they wouldn’t even run a review unless you spoke to them.”
“And did they?”
“A little one. It wasn’t very good.”
“If I talked, I would only end up giving them more blanks to fill in. ‘How do you feel about Truman’s new anti-Soviet position, Mr. Shepherd?’ No comment. ‘That Bette Davis is quite a looker, isn’t she, Mr. Shepherd?’ No comment.”
“So, the punctured eardrum. No comment.”
“Correct.”
“Next they’ll be reporting you died.”
“Imagine the peace and quiet.”
The telephone rang, and she ran to get it. Her stockings had seams down the backs. I tried out a wolf-whistle—a feeble one, but I heard her pause on the stairs.
A sample of the mail received May 15, 1947, seventy-five letters in all. After publication of Pilgrims of Chapultepec, Stratford and Sons posted the mail forward in boxes once or twice weekly.—VB
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
At the youthful age of seventy here is one codger who tips my hat to you. For years I have re-read the favorites because the new authors are not up to snuff. But some weeks ago I ran short and went to my corner bookstore for a suggestion. The fellow handed me two by Harrison W. Shepherd, a name unknown to me. I read both without a pause. Of course I blush at scenes of copulation and revelry. But you show that modern times are no different from the old, and people the same everywhere. I was stationed overseas in the first war and never learned to like it, but it did teach me a thing or two. Thank you for adding spunk to my life. I look forward to your other books.
Sincerely,
COLLIN THOMAS
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
Although we have never met I consider you a friend. You touch and inspire me. I read Vassals of Majesty twice and now the new one. Thank you for putting my own heart into words. I have wanted to show courage the way your characters do. You show that men at the top don’t always have any more smarts than the rest of us. I have been thinking of telling my boss to jump in the lake and look for better. (Secretary.) Now I just might achieve my goal.
With admiration,
LYNNE HILL
Dear Mr. Shepherd,
I had to read your book in history at Lancaster Valley High. I don’t read too many books but yours is okay. It gave me a lot to ponder about Poatlicue wanting to be a good citizen, and then ending up wanting to kill the King. Our teacher said to ask you three questions about ancient times of Mexico, for our report. My questions:
1. Is it true the Eagle gave the people their first weapon.
