Y

akov has a peculiar way of worrying, eyes always set on immortality. He walks as if hunched by the weight of yet-to-be-born thousands, who all have a claim to some part of his being. He speaks as if hesitance were to ruin a potential aphorism, believing his colleagues variants of Boswell. And, of course, he is cautious not to bring too much attention upon himself; long ago he must have resolved that to play the dandy would be unbecoming of someone as plain-featured as he. But has it been wise to play the misanthrope, to sigh at the view of a living world?

I caught a glimpse of his green checkered shirt at one of Karla’s gatherings. Most of the attendees had an academic connection to philosophy, so it is easy to imagine the atmosphere: no gravitas, only irreverence. It was an act of unusual boldness to maintain a scowl amid the grins. And there he was, atypical, gripping his cup of anything but wine, exchanging the occasional word with Karla, who took her time before presenting us.

“So you do care once in a while, sæti. Look, here’s your match.”

“It’s nothing personal. I like to work at night. What can one do?”

“This is a habit of his, Yakovlevich. Silva is rude that way.”

“Pay no attention. You must know her by now.”

“Silva. Like the poet?”

“You like literature?”

“Ha! That is an understatement.”

“I do, yes.”

“Refreshing. One hears about it only in journals. Mainly as a way to illustrate some obscure philosophical point.”

“Is that right? I guess you enjoy it, then.”

“There’s a caveat: when I have the time.”

“Oh, Silva, always the gentleman. It’s nice to see both of you share some common ground. I will be leaving. I’m positive I’ve heard whatever is to follow.”

I expected Karla’s quirky jab to lighten the mood, but Yakov did not budge. His seriousness, however, contrasted with his voice, which grew high-pitched as we delved deeper into other subjects.

“I would rather live like your namesake, yes.”

“Now I see what captured Karla’s imagination.”

“What do you mean?”

“She gets bored of the chatter. Have you had a chance to speak with someone other than her?”

“No.”

“Great. You would be bombarded with Socratic irony. ‘Ah, intensity, that is a rather opaque term. Do we not also use it to describe trifles? Please do tell how is it that its use in poetry differs.’ And so on. They don’t really care. At least not in my experience. What matters is showing that you’re as confused as any bumbling idiot.”

“I am familiar with the type. I studied philosophy years ago.”

“That seems to me an important detail. Why didn’t you mention it?”

“I gave it up after a while. It is a trivial part of my life. Nothing good came of it.”

“And here you are, speaking with a specialist in Dewey’s philosophy of mind.”

Yakov’s faux-deep voice crept back and not much else was said.

Even if our conversation was too casual then, there were details that in hindsight appear significant: the deliberate pause between each sentence, the subtle nudge toward time-honored obsessions, the fluctuations of tone, the adamantine scowl. I liked him despite the I-would-rathers.

We saw each other only at Karla’s gatherings, which meant that any possibility of friendship was low. He always sat in the same corner, near the same chair. And Karla was always hovering by. She talked with him for long intervals, offered him drinks and underlined books. I had imagined he was laconic with her, but no. Were her displays of affection maternal, fraternal or romantic? Hard to say. As soon as I went for maternal, she played with his hair; for romantic, she annoyed him with some practical joke; for fraternal, she rubbed his shoulder while gazing at him with condescending eyes. In all instances, he seemed uncomfortable. Suddenly, I had before me another telling detail, or rather an explanation. His seriousness was not organic. It was a way of dealing with his body. I believed my conjectures to be sound.

“But these intellectual types are always a bit awkward, right? Look around.”

“They are no more awkward than anyone at any party. Aside from the extroversion machines that make a point of their presence, of course.”

“You mean that? Both of us are living proof of those not very comfortable in their skin.”

“I disagree.”

“If there are extroversion machines, surely there are introversion machines.”

“Yes, and there are none here.”

“Okay, I’ll be blunter. Laughing is a sign of being socially at ease. How often do you laugh?”

“I understand. Your example was not inadvertent.”

“This is not personal. Really, it isn’t.”

“If you have to know, I find humor in simple things. People falling, for example. Otherwise, it feels contrived.”

I could not take these words at face value; he was patently irritated. But they left me more curious. Here was an educated man defending his dignity by appealing to slapstick.

Karla thought little of my speculations. She gave him greater leeway than I did. The roulette kept spinning—maternal, fraternal, romantic.

“I’ve known him for years. You’ve just known him for months. So I have the upper hand.”

“How unphilosophical, K. You’re actually at a disadvantage. You’re too close. You are more familiar with the way he wants to portray himself. I have a clearer view.”

“Silly, silly Silva. What do you know about him? Go ahead, tell me.”

“Let’s see. He says he loves literature, poetry specifically. I think that has more to do with trying to distance himself from professors of philosophy. He says he also loves philosophy, analytical specifically. Easy: he doesn’t want to be classed with soft-minded littérateurs. He says he cares little for worldly success. Easier: he wants to distance himself from us.”

“Very articulate handling of stereotypes. But I’m sorry to say that Yakovlevich is absent.”

“Is he? Illuminate me, then.”

“You see, something important is missing. He’s a person, not an abstraction. But you can’t find this obviously true. The fact that you don’t know a thing about his life messes with your attempts at explanation. And this applies to all you’ve said about his seriousness too.”

“That’s why you’re struggling for tenure.”

“Oh, Silva, what would I do without your idiotic jokes?”

“Believe I’m not unlike the Yakovs of the world.”

“You’re a person, Silva, no doubt about that.”

Karla did emphasize a partial truth. I knew almost nothing of Yakov’s life. This was a subject toward which his nudges never pointed. He had studied philosophy once and wrote poetry (and perhaps some philosophy). Yet life isn’t just a series of exercises for memory; it also comprises our day-to-day thoughts and foibles. Our conversations were part of his life, make-believe and everything. Though slight, I had a hold of Yakov.

Predictably, Karla got tired of the crowded evenings. She moved out to a smaller place and rescaled the old routine. Twice a month Yakov, Irene, Thomas, and I went over. Irene and Thomas were an obvious choice. Thomas was a close friend of Karla’s in high school. He became an entrepreneur (therapy on demand, test preparation, café, used bookstore). Irene, whom he married, studied law and helped out early on. Their cosmopolitan sensibilities worked perfectly to check everybody’s provincial attitudes but Yakov’s. And in this more intimate atmosphere I grasped what was missing.

“Where’s the lure of posterity? I suspect it always follows a pattern of disappointment. In an arid life it must be a comforting mirage.”

“A mirage? Just look at us, continuing the genuflection to heroes.”

“Right. But they will never taste this posthumous glory. The present you can taste.”

“I take it, Thomas, that you’re making a case for your life.”

“No. I’m not in the business of justifying my zest.”

“Any thoughts, Yakovlevich?”

“I disagree. The scope of the present is poor. One can reach out to few. Casting your work into the future guarantees sympathetic ears, however disagreeable.”

“Does that matter other than in an abstract way? It is a tortuous route toward pleasure.”

“It is vaguely related to pleasure. I would rather believe it has to do with multiplying one’s possibilities. Here, I can be a modest number of Yakov’s: Silva´s, Karla´s, Thomas’s, Irene’s. There, I will be boundless.”

“Which is pleasurable.”

“No. It is a metaphysical thirst. I resist tying it to something as homely as pleasure.”

“You see, this is the type of discourse I find baffling. It’s relentlessly abstract. Life is left aside.”

“Life. That word’s connotations are baffling—sense stimulation, excess, haste.”

“Energy. That is it.”

Those were the usual disagreements between Thomas and Yakov. And so long as I didn’t intervene, Yakov remained polite. He knew I pursued questions of theory until they collapsed into psychology. His psychology. This subject, posterity, proved important. There was the center I sought. So I led Thomas and waited for their discussions. Thomas shared the way in which I approached reality. Both of us lived oblivious to a future judgment. We had no invisible beads hanging from our necks.

Yakov’s religious upbringing became steadily visible. His father insisted on God’s watchfulness. Soon Yakov felt the inhibition of his will. All acts and thoughts had an audience. What’s more: a discriminating and uptight audience. If he swore, his impious words were heard through the chambers of heaven. If he bore ill-will, the heat of his heart enraged the overseer. The prison formed in childhood is a perennial prison.

The novelty of Yakov ceased, and Thomas had no interest left for more facts of life. Irene, owing to her politeness, was the only one who asked about this or that biographical detail.

The gatherings also came to an abrupt end when Yakov was hired as a teacher of poetry in some nameless high school thirty minutes east of Palm Springs. Now he was in the habit of inviting us to visit separately. It was in one of these visits that I felt compelled to inquire at length about his ways.

We met at a charming little park, unlike most you find in California. There were no traces of Park Advisory Council regulations, just an entanglement of wooden benches, rustic seesaws, and bull thistle. There, Yakov sat on a trunk, a navy blue rundown briefcase at his side. He was drinking from a thermos.

“How long have we known each other?”

“Three, four years? I don’t count.”

“Strange. This has been something of an impersonal friendship.”

“Always from your end.”

“I . . .”

“Disagree? I’d imagine.”

“Your eyes are too open. I feel myself a case study in your presence.”

“You seem to wish for that treatment. I’m sure you’re self-aware.”

“We all are when we understand that others also devote their time to remembrance.”

“In a bookish sense, Yakov.”

“I forget. You and Thomas, ever the lovers of clear-cut distinctions.”

“You’ve been in touch with him?”

“No. I wish him well, though.”

“Anyway, bookish, deliberate. I never bought your idea of possibilities.”

“I was not selling, clearly.”

“You are unambiguous.”

“That would be foolish of me, wouldn’t it? I’m not that coarse. But I’ve been meaning to make a concession to you.”

“I’m here.”

“I do have a pronounced sense of discomfort. It has followed me around most of my life. That is all I can concede. I don’t understand its nature. Your conjectures are as good as any.”

“There’s a lot to work with.”

“Unfortunately, I am skeptical about the uses of autobiography. Right here, talking with you, I have a guess. I am too in love with the past in which I had no business existing. The past of the poets, of the novelists, of the philosophers. Yes. I am not concerned with the undeveloped present, with the would-be monuments. Yes. But let us stop. This is all there is to it. An old-school egoist.”

With a mystifying nod he settled the matter. We had a pleasant afternoon, perhaps the very first one that I enjoyed in his company. And more would follow.

So, Yakov, are you wise? Only if the real lies elsewhere.