332
SAUL BELLOW
birth, infancy-I'm tired, do you hear? tired of them all. Sick–
Imogen, be sure you get this all down. It's a breakthrough.
IMOGEN:
Mother, breast, birth ... I'm right with you, Mr. Bummidge.
BUMMIDGE:
(As analyst)
You're sick
from
them, Mr. Bummidge. Of
course. We know you are.
If
you weren't sick, things wouldn't be well
with you. We are all sick. Man is a sick creature.
(On the couch
again)
Why would my father-figure have a beard? Papa had only
a moustache. During his last illness, he shaved it. His lip looked so
naked. Pa.... Oh, Pa, your lip is so white. Age and weakness have
come over you suddenly. Your strength is going. Age and weakness
coming over my father. I drive up to the old candysrore in my white
Dusenberg. I'm a bigshot now, and there's my father counting out the
Daily Mirrors.
Papa, I'm sorry for you.
(As analyst)
Don't be de–
ceived by your feelings, Mr. Bummidge. Maybe they aren't as com–
passionate as you think. Ambivalent? Part of you overjoyed? An old
enemy
is
down.
(As patient)
You aren't serious?
(As anahyst)
Dead
serious.
(As patient)
I deny it.
(As analyst)
Come, Mr. Bummidge,
you really don't allow anyone to tell you anything.
(BUMMIDGE
lies on
the couch, his eyes covered)
IMOGEN:
He's really giving it to himself today.
BUMMIDGE:
(With a profound groan)
Maybe ... He was a hard man.
SHELDON
enters with the sandwich. He stands by the door.
Couldn't stand the sight of me. He hit me because I had adenoids.
Killjoy he was. So I showed him. I made a million at joy and pleasure.
But was I ever gay? Really, was I gay and free? No, I had the lousy
Pagliacci gangrene-laughing with catch in the throat. So maybe,
when I saw the old man weakening I ...
(He resumes the analyst's
position, making a detour to take a bite of the sandwich and pat
Sheldon on the shoulder)
I think that's correct as far as it goes. You
are not a real sentimentalist, Mr. Bummidge.
(BUMMIDGE
throws down
the visor, and leaps on the couch)
Now I could have my mother all
to myself-is that what you mean? And pity for poor Pop hides my
criminal joy. The mother who used to bathe me in the little tin
tub, and comb my hair with the thick comb and crack the lice with
her fingernails. . . . Ah, how can a man live for so long ignorant of
the unconscious? Just blind.
Enter
MOTI'. MOTI'
is a rather unsavory man in his fifties. He
was an early recruit to the
BUMMIDGE
system, and is his most
reliable collaborator.
BUMMIDGE
keeps him on a salary.
Ah, here's Louis Mott.
