The Matlock Paper

“Time will tell, won’t it?… One thing I should make clear, however. We don’t need your endorsement.”

  Johnny returned with Matlock’s cup of Swahili punch. “Hey, you know what? Brother Davis, that’s Bill Davis, says you told him you were going to flunk him, then at midterm you gave him a High Pass!”

  “Brother Davis got off his fat ass and did a little work.” Matlock looked at Adam Williams. “You don’t object to that kind of endorsement, do you?”

  Williams smiled broadly and placed his hand on Matlock’s arm. “No, sir, bwana.… In that area you run King Solomon’s Mines. Brother Davis is here to work as hard as he can and go as far as his potential will let him. No argument there. Bear down on the brother.”

  “You’re positively frightening.” Matlock spoke with a lightness he did not feel.

  “Not at all. Just pragmatic.… I’ve got some last-minute preparations to look after. See you later.” Williams hailed a passing student and walked through the crowd toward the staircase.

  “Come on, Mr. Matlock. I’ll show you the new alterations.” Johnny led Matlock into what used to be Alpha Delt’s common room.

  In the sea of dark faces, Matlock saw a minimum of guarded, hostile looks. There were, perhaps, less overt greetings than he might expect outside on the campus, but by and large, his presence was accepted. He thought for a moment that if the brothers knew why he had come, the inhabitants of Lumumba Hall might turn on him angrily. He was the only white person there.

  The alterations in the common room were drastic. Gone were the wide moldings of dark wood, the thick oak window seats beneath the huge cathedral windows, the solid, heavy furniture with the dark red leather. Instead, the room was transformed into something else entirely. The arched windows were no longer. They were now squared at the top, bordered by jet-black dowels an inch or two in diameter, which looked like long, rectangular slits. Spreading out from the windows into the walls was a textured pattern of tiny wooden bamboo strips shellacked to a high polish. This same wall covering was duplicated on the ceiling, thousands of highly glossed reeds converging towards the center. In the middle of the ceiling was a large circle, perhaps three feet in width, in which there was placed a thick pane of rippled glass. Beyond the glass shone a bright yellowish white light, its flood diffused in ripples over the room. What furniture he could see through the mass of bodies was not really furniture at all. There were various low-cut slabs of thick wood in differing shapes on short legs—these Matlock assumed were tables. Instead of chairs, there were dozens of pillows in vibrant colors scattered about the edge of the walls.

  It didn’t take Matlock long to realize the effect.

  Alpha Delta Phi’s common room had been transformed brilliantly into the replica of a large thatched African hut. Even to the point of the blazing equatorial sun streaming through the enclosure’s vent to the skies.

  “This is remarkable! Really remarkable. It must have taken months.”

  “Almost a year and a half,” Johnny said. “It’s very comfortable, very relaxing. Did you know that lots of top designers are going in for this sort of thing now? I mean the back-to-nature look. It’s very functional and easy to maintain.”

  “That sounds dangerously like an apology. You don’t have to apologize. It’s terrific.”

  “Oh, I’m not apologizing.” Johnny retreated from his explanation. “Adam says there’s a certain majesty in the primitive. A very proud heritage.”

  “Adam’s right. Only he’s not the first person to make that observation.”

  “Please don’t put us down, Mr. Matlock.…”

  Matlock looked at Johnny over the rim of his cup of Swahili punch. Oh, Christ, he thought, the more things change, the more they remain the same.

  The high-ceilinged chapter room of Alpha Delta Phi had been carved out of the cellars at the farthest end of the fraternity house. It had been built shortly after the turn of the century when impressive alumni had poured impressive sums into such hobbies as secret societies and debutante cotillions. Such activities promulgated and propagandized a way of life, yet assuredly kept it selective.

  Thousands of starched young men had been initiated in this chapel-like enclosure, whispering the secret pledges, exchanging the unfamiliar handshakes explained to them by stern-faced older children, vowing till death to keep the selected faith. And afterward, getting drunk and vomiting in corners.

  Matlock thought these thoughts as he watched the Mau Mau ritual unfold before him. It was no less childish, no less absurd than the preceding scenes in this room, he considered. Perhaps the physical aspects—the simulated physical aspects—were more brutal in what they conveyed, but then the roots of the ceremony were not based in the delicate steps of a cotillion’s pavanne but, instead, in harsh, animal-like pleas to primitive gods. Pleas for strength and survival. Not supplications for continued exclusivity.

  The tribal rite itself was a series of unintelligible chants, each one growing in intensity, over the body of a black student—obviously the youngest brother in Lumumba Hall—stretched out on the concrete floor, naked except for a red loincloth strapped around his waist and legs, covering his genitals. At the finish of each chant, signifying the end of one canto and the commencement of the succeeding song, the boy’s body was raised above the crowd by four extremely tall students, themselves naked to the waist, wearing jet-black dance belts, their legs encased in spirals of rawhide strips. The room was lighted by dozens of thick candles mounted on stands, causing shadows to dance across the upper walls and the ceiling. Adding to this theatrical effect was the fact that the five active participants in the ritual had their skins covered with oil, their faces streaked in diabolical patterns. As the singing grew wilder, the young boy’s rigid body was thrown higher and higher until it left the hands of its four supporters, returning split seconds later into the outstretched arms. Each time the black body with the red loincloth was flung into the air, the crowd responded with growing volumes of guttural shouts.

  And then Matlock, who had been watching with a degree of detachment, suddenly found himself frightened. Frightened for the small Negro whose stiff, oiled body was being flung into air with such abandon. For two additional blacks, dressed like the others, had joined the four in the center of the floor. However, instead of helping toss the now soaring figure, the two blacks crouched between the rectangular foursome—beneath the body—and withdrew long-bladed knives, one in each hand. Once in their squatting positions, they stretched out their arms so that the blades were held upright, as rigid, as stiff as the body above them. Each time the small Negro descended, the four blades inched closer to the falling flesh. One slip, one oily miscalculation on the part of just one of the four blacks, and the ritual would end in death for the small student. In murder.

  Matlock, feeling that the ritual had gone as far as he could allow, began scanning the crowd for Adam Williams. He saw him in front, on the edge of the circle, and started pushing his way toward him. He was stopped—quietly but firmly—by the blacks around him. He looked angrily at a Negro who held his arm. The black didn’t acknowledge his stare; he was hypnotized by the action now taking place in the center of the room.

  Matlock saw why instantly. For the body of the small boy was now being spun, alternately face up and face down with each elevation. The danger of error was increased tenfold. Matlock grabbed the hand on his arm, twisted it inward, and flung it off him. He looked once more in the direction of Adam Williams.

  He wasn’t there. He was nowhere in sight! Matlock stood still, undecided. If he raised his voice between the crowd’s roaring crescendos, it was entirely possible that he might cause a break in the concentration of those handling the body. He couldn’t risk that, and yet he couldn’t allow the dangerous absurdity to continue.

  Suddenly Matlock felt another hand, this one on his shoulder. He turned and saw the face of Adam Williams behind him. It startled him. Had some primitive tribal signal been transmitted to Williams? The black radical gestured with his head
for Matlock to follow him through the shouting crowd to the outer edge of the circle. Williams spoke between the roars.

  “You look worried. Don’t be.”

  “Look! This crap’s gone far enough! That kid could be killed!”

  “No chance. The brothers have rehearsed for months.… It’s really the most simplistic of the Mau Mau rites. The symbolism is fundamental.… See? The child’s eyes remain open. First to the sky, then facing the blades. He is constantly aware—every second—that his life is in the hands of his brother warriors. He cannot, he must not show fear. To do so would betray his peers. Betray the confidence he must place in their hands—as they will someday place their lives in his hands.”

  “It’s childish, dangerous stupidity, and you know it!” cut in Matlock. “Now, I’m telling you, Williams, you put a stop to it or I will!”

  “Of course,” continued the black radical, as if Matlock had not spoken, “there are anthropologists who insist that the ceremony is essentially one of fertility. The unsheathed knives representing erections, the four protectors guarding the child through its formative years. Frankly, I think that’s reaching. Also, it strikes me as contradictory even for the primitive mind.…”

  “Goddamn you!” Matlock grabbed Williams by the front of his shirt. Immediately other blacks closed in on him.

  Suddenly there was total silence in the eerily lit room. The silence lasted only a moment. It was followed by a series of mind-shattering screams from the mouths of the four Negroes in the center of the crowd in whose hands the life of the young student depended. Matlock whipped around and saw the shining black body descending downward from an incredible height above the outstretched hands.

  It couldn’t be true! It wasn’t happening! Yet it was!

  The four blacks suddenly, in unison, crouched into kneeling positions away from the center, their arms slashed to their sides. The young student came crashing down, face toward the blades. Two further screams followed. In a fraction of a second, the students holding the huge knives swung their weapons across one another and in an unbelievable display of wrist strength, caught the body on the flat of the blades.

  The crowd of blacks went wild.

  The ceremony was over.

  “Do you believe me now?” Williams asked, speaking in a corner with Matlock.

  “Whether I do or not doesn’t change what I said. You can’t do this sort of thing! It’s too goddamn dangerous!”

  “You exaggerate.… Here, let me introduce another guest.” Williams raised his hand and a tall thin black with close-cropped hair and glasses, dressed in an expensively cut tan suit, joined them. “This is Julian Dunois, Mr. Matlock. Brother Julian is our expert. Our choreographer, if you like.”

  “A pleasure.” Dunois extended his hand, speaking with a slight accent.

  “Brother Julian is from Haiti.… Harvard Law out of Haiti. A most unusual progression, I think you’ll agree.”

  “It certainly is.…”

  “Many Haitians, even the Ton Ton Macoute, still get upset when they hear his name.”

  “You exaggerate, Adam,” said Julian Dunois with a smile.

  “That’s what I just said to Mr. Matlock. He exaggerates. About the danger of the ceremony.”

  “Oh, there’s danger—as there’s danger if one crosses the Boston Commons wearing a blindfold. The pet-cock of safety, Mr. Matlock, is that those holding the knives watch closely. In the training there is as much emphasis on being able to drop the knives instantly as there is in holding them up.”

  “That may be so,” Matlock acknowledged. “But the margin for error terrifies me.”

  “It’s not as narrow as you think.” The lilt in the Haitian’s voice was as reassuring as it was attractive. “Incidentally, I’m a fan of yours. I’ve enjoyed your works on the Elizabethans. May I add, you’re not exactly what I expected. I mean, you’re far, far younger.”

  “You flatter me. I didn’t think I was known in law schools.”

  “My undergraduate major was English literature.”

  Adam interrupted politely. “You two enjoy yourselves. There’ll be drinks upstairs in a few minutes; just follow the crowd. I’ve got things to do.… I’m glad you’ve met. You’re both strangers, in a way. Strangers should meet in unfamiliar areas. It’s comforting.”

  He gave Dunois an enigmatic look and walked rapidly away through the crowd.

  “Why does Adam feel he has to talk in what I’m sure he considers are profound riddles?” Matlock asked.

  “He’s very young. He strives constantly to make emphasis. Very bright, but very young.”

  “You’ll pardon me, but you’re not exactly ancient. I doubt more than a year or two older than Adam.”

  The black in the expensively cut tan suit looked into Matlock’s eyes and laughed gently.

  “Now you flatter me,” he said. “If the truth were known—and why shouldn’t it be?—and if my tropic color did not disguise the years so well, you’d know that I was precisely one year, four months, and sixteen days older than you.”

  Matlock stared at the Negro, speechless. It took him nearly a full minute to assimilate the lawyer’s words and the meaning behind those words. The black’s eyes did not waver. He returned Matlock’s stare in equal measure. Finally, Matlock found his voice.

  “I’m not sure I like this game.”

  “Oh, come, we’re both here for the same reason, are we not? You from your vantage point, I from mine … Let’s go upstairs and have a drink.… Bourbon and soda, isn’t it? Sour mash, if it’s available, I understand.”

  Dunois preceded Matlock through the crowd, and Matlock had no other course but to follow.

  Dunois leaned against the brick wall.

  “All right,” Matlock said, “the amenities are over. Everyone’s acknowledged your show downstairs, and there’s no one left for me to impress my white skin on. I think it’s time you started explaining.”

  They were alone now, outside on the porch. Both held drinks.

  “My, aren’t we professional? Would you care for a cigar? I can assure you it’s Havana.”

  “No cigar. Just talk. I came here tonight because these are my friends. I felt privileged to be invited.… Now, you’ve attached something else and I don’t like it.”

  “Bravo! Bravo!” said Dunois, raising his glass. “You do that very well.… Don’t worry, they know nothing. Perhaps they suspect, but believe me, only in the vaguest terms.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Finish your drink and let’s walk out on the lawn.” Dunois drained his rum and, as if by reflex, Matlock drank the remainder of his bourbon. The two men walked down the steps of the Lumumba Hall, Matlock following the black to the base of a large elm tree. Dunois turned suddenly and grabbed Matlock by the shoulders.

  “Take your goddamn hands off me!”

  “Listen to me! I want that paper! I must have that paper! And you must tell me where it is!”

  Matlock flung his hands up to break Dunois’s grip. But his arms did not respond. They were suddenly heavy, terribly heavy. And there was a whistling. A growing, piercing whistling in his head.

  “What? What?… What paper? I don’t have any paper.…”

  “Don’t be difficult! We’ll get it, you know!… Now, just tell me where it is!”

  Matlock realized that he was being lowered to the ground. The outline of the huge tree above him began to spin, and the whistling in his brain became louder and louder. It was unendurable. He fought to find his mind again.

  “What are you doing? What are you doing to me!?”

  “The paper, Matlock! Where is the Corsican paper?”

  “Get off me!” Matlock tried to yell. But nothing came from his lips.

  “The silver paper, goddamn you to hell!”

  “No paper … no. Haven’t paper! No!”

  “Listen to me! You just had a drink, remember the drink?… You just finished that drink. Remember?… You can’t be alone now! You don?
??t dare be alone!”

  “What?… What? Get off me! You’re crushing me!”

  “I’m not even touching you. The drink is! You just consumed three tabs of lysergic acid! You’re in trouble, Doctor!… Now! You tell me where that paper is!”

  From his inner recesses he found an instant of clarity. From the spinning, turning, whirling spirals of mind-blasting colors, he saw the form of the man above him and he lashed out. He grabbed at the white shirt between the dark borders of the jacket and pulled it down with all the strength he could summon. He brought his fist up and hit the descending face as hard as he could. Once the face was jarred, he began hammering at the throat beneath it mercilessly. He could feel the shattering of the glasses and he knew his fist had found the eyes and crushed the glass into the rolling head.

  It was over in a period of time he could never ascertain. Dunois’s body was beside him, unconscious.

  And he knew he had to run. Run furiously away! What had Dunois said?… Don’t dare be alone. Don’t dare! He had to find Pat! Pat would know what to do. He had to find her! The chemical in his body was going to take full effect soon and he knew it! Run, for Christ’s sake!

  But where?! Which way?! He didn’t know the way! The goddamn fucking way! The street was there, he raced along the street, but was it the right way?! Was it the right street?!

  Then he heard a car. It was a car, and it was coming close to the curb and the driver was looking at him. Looking at him, so he ran faster, tripping once over the curb and falling into the pavement and rising again. Running, for Christ Almighty’s sake, running till the breath in his lungs was gone and he could no longer control the movement of his feet. He felt himself swerve, unable to stop himself, toward the wide gulf of the street, which suddenly became a river, a black putrid river in which he would drown.

  He vaguely heard the screech of the brakes. The lights blinded him, and the figure of a man reached down and poked at his eyes. He didn’t care any longer. Instead, he laughed. Laughed through the blood which flowed into his mouth and over his face.

  He laughed hysterically as Jason Greenberg carried him to the car.