The Instructions (151 page)

Emmanuel turned right and the scholars turned with him, and as all of them headed toward the top of the screen, away from 1433

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the camera. The cops stayed still, slouching in the street, and one of them was actually scratching his head. They continued like that for about twenty seconds, til the cop who’d manned the mike turned and looked in the camera, then pointed it out for the others to see, and they all came charging, batons still gripped, bigger and bigger.

The camera angled downward, 90 degrees, and evergreen needles, tinily icicled, filled the whole frame before the screen blacked.

Cut to newsroom.

The pursed-lipped anchor, caught offguard, eyes squinted to papercuts, straightened his face out and started to talk. Who knows what he said? The scholars beat the cops, we were cheering our heads off, jumping up and down, cheering so loud that I could barely feel Botha’s celly vibrate, let alone hear it. Its screen read: UNKNOWN.

I hit the green button, shouted, Hold on!

I ran out to B-Hall to pretend to negotiate.

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Persphere? I said.

“This is Roth,” said a man.

Really, I said.

“We exchanged letters, you and I, a little over a year ago.”

What did mine say? I said.

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“Yours?” he said. He said, “Mostly, it talked about
Operation
Shylock
—nice things—and then went on to tell a story about some boys who were sexually obsessed with Natalie Portman.”

What else did it say?

“Is this how you want to spend our three minutes? Verifying?”

I wrote an essay for class once where I talked about our letters, I said. Maybe the cops got hold of it and read it. And don’t sweat the three minutes: I’m the one who decides how long we talk—

not the cops.

“No,” Roth said, “I decide. Two more minutes, I’m hanging up.”

You sure you’re Roth? You sound a little more patrician—a

lot
more patrician than—

“Patrician, he says, the boy who thinks cops want to read his essays.”

I didn’t mean it mean.

“Boychic, we’ve got very little time here, and what I want to tell you is you should let these kids go. This stunt you’re pulling’s sealed fame for you forever, or at least a few years, and now it’s time to give up peacefully. Everyone knows someone else killed the gym teacher—they’re playing that video left and right—so you won’t get pegged for anyone’s murder, and on top of that, they’re telling me you have ADHD, and I’m sure a good lawyer like your father can spin that into something bigger—temporary insanity, something like that; maybe the school nurse forgot to give you your meds, who knows? You’re not a hard case, though, 1435

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not by any means, so even if they lock you up, it’ll be somewhere safe, and you’ll write your books, and hopefully they’ll outshine this moment and you’ll live it down. If you can’t live it down, you can always grow a beard and use a pseudonym. It’ll all work out if you end this now.”

Do you think you’re bad for the Jews? I said.

“
This
conversation? Really?
This
one?”

Okay, I said.

“Okay what?”

I’m starting to think you’re actually Roth.

“So what do you want from me?”

Nothing, I said.

“So why’d you want to talk to me? Surely not just to hear what you already know, let alone in so dismayingly patrician a baritone.

There must be something you’d like to discuss in the remaining ten seconds you’ve been alotted. Unless maybe you’re a stalker? I hope you’re not. I didn’t take you for a stalker when you sent me that letter—I wouldn’t have responded if I—”

I said, I’m really sorry I bothered you, Mr. Roth. I
didn’t
want to talk to you. I like your books too much to want to talk to you, and you have my word that I’ll do everything I can to forget what you sound like when you’re speaking.

“You didn’t want to talk to me.”

You’re hard to get a hold of. You bought me fifty-something minutes.

“You’re being serious, now.”

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If I didn’t have a girlfriend who might have taken it wrong, I’d have asked them to get Natalie Portman on the phone.

“So I bought you some time. So what happens next?”

We’re past three minutes.

“Don’t be a wiseass. What happens next?”

Next I’ll talk to Persphere, or whatever he’s calling himself.

Do you think his accent’s real?

“You’re asking the patrician-sounding Jew about accents?”

That was just an observation I made—I didn’t mean it mean.

“You said that already.”

Well it’s true, I said. I just thought you’d sound different, like…

“Like?”

It’s hard to describe now. Like Groucho Marx, I guess, but not as fast.

“Like a first-generation American Jew. Not shtetl, but tene-ment.”

Maybe, I said.

“Like my parents instead of ‘what’ said ‘vot.’”

That’s taking it too far. Forget Groucho Marx. I thought you’d sound hairier.

“Hairier?”

Much, much hairier. And more verklempt. Less amused and more willing to attack, less concerned about what he sounds like than what he says—like those guys with hairy shoulders who wear U-shirts cause it’s hot out and function trumps form.

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“U-shirts,” he said.

Dago-T’s, I said.

“I know what a U-shirt is.”

Please stop being offended, Mr. Roth. You’re my favorite writer and what I’m telling you is I thought you’d sound like my father, who doesn’t, by the way, have hairy shoulders, but does wear U-shirts when it’s really muggy, and would wear them when it was muggy if he
did
have hairy shoulders.

I thought you’d sound like my father, who I love, is what I’m saying.

“This being the lawyer, Judah Maccabee, goes to bat for civil liberties.”

Him.

“Who I
don’t
in fact—you’re telling me now—sound like.”

Not on the phone, but who cares, Mr. Roth? Who cares what you sound like on the phone? Who cares about anything you do off the page? You’re a writer.

“You’re a writer, too. Obviously you want us to care what you’re doing. The taking of hostages, if nothing else, demands that others care about what you’re doing.”

I write scripture, I said. It’s different than fiction. You have to read it different. It matters what I do.

“And what will you do now? Will you do the right thing?”

What disappointing questions, Mr. Roth. Really.

“Disappointing how?”

You’re not taking me seriously. You were faking umbrage to 1438

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get information.

“I
was
faking umbrage to get information, but only because I do take you seriously. Everyone does. The question was serious.

Will you do the right thing?”

Whatever seems proper in my eyes is right. There’s no king in Israel. Thanks for your time. Good Shabbos, Philip Roth.

“Wait,” Roth said. “Let’s not end like this. Let’s not end with ugliness.”

I told you ‘Good Shabbos.’

“You
said
‘Good Shabbos.’ You told me ‘Fuck you.’”

Good Shabbos, fuck you, but good Shabbos nonetheless because you wrote all those books. Good Shabbos, really. Okay? Good Shabbos.

“Backatcha, I guess.”

Some silence. I waited. I looked at the screen; the call hadn’t ended.

Persphere, I said, I know you’re listening.

“I’m here,” said Persphere.

The prisoners are safe.

“Prove it,” he said.

When my friends get here, you let them inside. I’ll come out with the prisoners and surrender myself.

“Can’t do it,” said Persphere. “I can’t let civilians—
kid
civilians… You’ve gotta be kidding me. No fucken way, kid.”

I’m not asking, I said, and you’re suck at bluffing—probably you should have kept that accent for cover. You’ll let them in, 1439

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we’ll come out and surrender.

“Have you looked outside?”

Have I what? I said.

I said it to stall, and raced up toward the junction.

“Have you looked outside?”

A line of cops in riotgear were standing the perimeter.

I said, A line of cops in riotgear are standing the perimeter.

“A line of a hundred,” he said. “Now listen.”

I listened; heard chopping.

A helicopter? You brought in a helicopter? You’re cracking me up.

“Come again?” said Persphere.

This is overkill, Persphere. Too asymmetrical. You’ve got an advantage that’s too big to use. To tell you the truth, I’ve been a little scared of what you might do, but now? A hundred cops in riotgear—them just out front—and a
helicopter
? You’re stuck. You could’ve, thirty minutes ago, raided the school with five or six cops and hurt us a little in the process of saving us, maybe gotten some of the prisoners killed while saving the others—true—and then later made a convincing argument that it was crazy in here, that I was crazy, and that you did the only thing you could have. It would’ve been hinky, but you probably could’ve managed it.

Now, though, you’re live on television everywhere, a helicopter chopping and plexiglass shields, not to mention, I’m sure, the requisite snipers and reinforced vehicles, and even if your cops
are
willing to shoot at or teargas or beat on some kids—and 1440

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probably some are, but certainly not most of them… You know what a Chow is? Chow’s a big, mean guard-dog from China that a fascist I know’s mother keeps as a pet. You’re a Chow and we’re a lapdog. One offhanded swipe on your part and we’re dead, no doubt about it, but as soon as you kill us, every neighbor on the block’ll demand you put down. And there’s lots of good neighbors in that parking lot, there. Lots of good parents behind that cordon who might want to put you down themselves, so listen up: I appreciate the complexity of your position—I’m the one, after all, who put you in your position—and even knowing that you’ve got nothing, I’m telling you that all you have to do is let my friends in when they get here, and this will all end without any more bloodshed. I’m telling you I’m your only hope.

“So you’re saying you’re angry at Philip Roth for the way he spoke to you, and now—”

What? I said.

“You’re saying you’re angry at Philip Roth for the way he spoke to you, and now you’re gonna start executing hostages, one every five minutes, til we get you a plane with a pilot you’re saying, like in—what did you say? Like in
Dog Day Afternoon
?

Your parents let you watch that? I’m expressing surprise here.

You want a plane like Pacino, except you also want a Nintendo on board? And Natalie Portman? Is that what I heard you say?

You want Portman to do you ‘favors’ on the plane? If that’s what I heard you say, please say it again so that I can record it in order to justify the raid we’re about to bring down on 1441

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your arrogant, terrorist head, because I just realized that—

check this out—I just realized that, all along, though I thought I was recording this conversation, what I was actually doing was erasing our earlier conversation, and no one except you and I’s ever gonna know what got said here.”

You’ve got that gluggy Biggie Smalls thing in your voice, I said. You’re obese, right? You’re a fatguy with facial flush, dry-mouth, and perpetually sweaty nosewings, and the one thing you’re
not
gonna do, Wayne, after threatening such an over-the-top deception, is use that deception. Nice last desperate try, though. Goodbye now, to you, and to all you good neighbors listening in, as—

“Gurion, you must kill no one,” my mother said.

Ema? I said.

“I want you to listen to me, Gurion. I want you to stop talking and listen to me very, very closely. Your father and I love you.

We know that you were already upset about what happened to your father last night and we are sorry that—”

Ema, you don’t have to—

“Listen. Closely. Please. Gurion. Please do not interrupt me again.”

Okay, I said.

“I do not like to discuss these kinds of things when other people are listening either, but it is important we discuss this right now: We are, first of all, sorry, very sorry that it took us so long to get in contact with you today. Despite your father’s injuries, 1442

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we did end up meeting with our lawyers this morning, and our phones were turned off. We did not know about any of this until only fifteen minutes ago. We are even more sorry, your father and I both, that we chose last night to tell you about the divorce.

We are sorry that we did not take into account how upset you already were about what happened to your father at the courthouse, and we are sorry that we did not take your feelings into account regarding where you would live. As a mental health professional, I of all people should have known that you would want to live with me, your mother, even though I am the one at whose feet lay the blame for our marriage’s disintegration. Our only excuse for our rash behavior, and it is not a very good one, for you are our son who we need to put before ourselves and protect at all costs—our only excuse is that we were upset, ourselves, and we were being selfish. Me especially. It is not a good excuse, but it is the truth. And you do
not
have to live with your father, not if you don’t want to. You can live with Yakov and me and all of Yakov’s children at Yakov’s house, just as long as you don’t kill anyone.

Are you listening? This is important.”

I said, Ema, I feel like I’m going crazy.

“You have my word, Gurion, that you are
not
going crazy. You just need to pause for a moment and
think clearly
about what I have told you, and you will see that everything, though it will be different from now on, will be nonetheless fine, at least eventually, just as long as you do not kill anyone. Yakov is a kind, forgiving man, and just as soon as this is all over, and just as long 1443