Island of The World

  Josip smiles, recognizing a joke.

  “Then you are a professor.”

  “No, I am a clerk at the Bank of India on Park Avenue. And may I be so forward as to inquire of your profession?”

  “I am not unlike you, sir, in that I was a doctor of mathematics in my homeland, before emigrating to America.”

  “And are you suitably employed in that profession?”

  “I regret I am not.”

  “The language barrier?”

  “Yes, and the difficulty in obtaining my education records from the government of Yugoslavia.”

  “You are, then, not in their good favor?”

  “This is so.”

  “I see.”

  Josip wonders if the other will end the conversation abruptly. But the man leans closer.

  “Am I correct in guessing that you are a person who searches for truth?”

  Josip gives this some thought before replying. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “I am the same. However, you will doubtless agree that intellectual brilliance is not everything. Indeed, a global intellectual in search of truth may be handicapped in his pursuits due to displacement—disorientation, if you will permit me a pun.”

  Josip does not detect any pun in the comment but replies with a grave nod, “Yes, I think it is a great problem.”

  “Do you mean the pun or the displacement?”

  “The displacement.”

  “You have passed the second test. You are not only a nice man, you are an honest one.”

  It is hard to know how to respond. What sort of fellow is this, really? He is rather strange. Brilliant but strange. And what does he want from the encounter?

  “Consider,” says the man from India, “consider the causality and the odds necessary for this configuration of yourself and myself in a city such as this, which is a vast and perplexing amalgamation of human enterprise. Here we are, two minds, both exiles, one Christian (I presume so because the indelible mark is upon your forehead), one not a Christian, myself, in other words. Thus the dialogue will be multidimensional: origins, race, reason, soul, religion, identity—universality and particularity in human nature, filtered through human perception.”

  Josip chuckles and says nothing.

  “You laugh?” says the other with curiosity. “Why do you laugh?”

  “We do not know each other.”

  “Do you think that if we were to spend the next thirty years sharing golf games and barbecues we would know each other better than we do now?”

  “You are a philosopher, not an economist”, says Josip with a smile.

  “A pleasant epithet, though inaccurate. But we can discuss it another time. Where, may I ask, do you live?”

  “On West 52nd Street.”

  “Really!” says the man with a look of surprise. “So do I? What number?” Josip tells him.

  Astonishment replaces surprise. The man stands and leans forward with both hands on the knob of his cane. “This is extraordinary! Absolutely incredible. That is my building as well. I moved in a week ago today.”

  A week ago today was Josip’s day off. Perhaps a new tenant moved in while he was fishing on the Hudson.

  The man sits down again and gazes at Josip with wonder. He continues to shake his head as if trying to compute the statistical odds or an impossibly convoluted theorem.

  “Do you live with your family?” he asks.

  This generates so much pain in the cellars of Josip’s soul that he merely shakes his head mutely.

  “Ah, the Balkans. Exile or loss?”

  What a question! Exile is loss.

  “Unfortunately, I lost my family after the Communists came to power in Yugoslavia. They have all perished.”

  “I am so sorry”, says the man, with a look of profound sympathy. He glances at Josip’s wrists. Usually Josip takes care to wear only long-sleeved shirts, which hide the jagged scars—the loud proclamations of his suicide attempt. Today, however, he has been feeding pigeons with his sleeves rolled up. He now rolls them down and buttons the cuffs.

  “These are terrible times”, the man from India continues. “It is estimated with some degree of accuracy that in this century one hundred and seventy million people have been murdered by their governments.”

  “Is it so?” says Josip, casting about in his mind for other topics, anything to pull the conversation out of its downward spiral.

  The stranger sighs. “Yes, tragically it is so. And here we are coolly discussing the murders, which seem to us from this vantage point to be true yet unreal. Is this perhaps another kind of murder that has been committed?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that every such crime murders more than the immediate victims, it murders the consciousness of survivors.”

  Josip does not answer. How to explain to the man that a bomb was detonated on his childhood and that he is still dealing with his altered consciousness.

  A silence ensues. Is the conversation over? How will this tenant treat him when he discovers that he has been discussing profound and personal topics with the building’s janitor?

  “I want to reassure you, sir,” says the man, “that continued dialogues would not be a case of my plundering your mind or your life for reflective material. I seek understanding, not information. I seek a coherent system for knowing the world.”

  “I do not think I have much to offer”, says Josip.

  “A doctor of mathematics has nothing to offer?”

  “I should correct your impression. I am—”

  The man sighs. “Yes, yes, but you see, though I know many Oriental exiles, I do not really know any Occidental, or accidental, exiles from regions east of the Mediterranean.”

  With a sudden bright smile, he says: “Would you care to join me for a cup of tea?”

  “I would be pleased to”, says Josip.

  “I have come prepared.”

  From the wicker hamper he extracts two china cups and two napkins, a stainless steel thermos bottle, and a jar of milk, all of which he carefully sets on the bench, between himself and Josip. He pours milk into each cup, and then the tea is poured into the milk. He offers one to Josip first. Josip takes it, then hesitates.

  “Ah,” says the man, “we have only just met. Who is this stranger who offers me a beverage, you ask yourself. Perhaps the thought crosses your mind that I am an extremely intelligent thief. You suspect that I have read in ornithology and economics all morning as an elaborate preparation for the act I am about to commit. After all, it is not against the weight of statistical probability that a trusting scientist would appear in the park today, considering the decline of the humanities in the Western world and the promotion everywhere of science, and that such a person, given over as he is to the myth of pure gnosis, would also be somewhat naive. Theoretically, let us say, I have drugged the tea with a sedative. I will pretend to sip from my cup, and you will swallow all of yours. Then, when you have drifted off to sleep, I will remove your wallet from your pocket. I will extract any money I find within it, as well as your credit cards. This will give me approximately one hour in which to make a great many purchases until you awake. With a certain margin of error, I may have perhaps a second hour of rampant purchasing, during which time you will gradually realize that you have been deceived and robbed. We will never see each other again, for to your chagrin you will discover that I do not really live in your apartment building. I warn you, I am extremely clever.”

  Josip drinks down the entire cupful of tea in three swallows.

  “This is excellent”, says Josip. “I much prefer its taste to tea into which the milk is added afterward.”

  “It is a British custom. Some say it is Irish. There is much debate over this.” He pauses. “You will not fall asleep.”

  The man beams with satisfaction. “We have progressed very far with each other. Still I do not know your name.” He extends a hand, “I am W. V. R. Kanapathipillai.”

  Josip shakes it. “How do
you do, Mr. Kanapath . . . I’m sorry, it’s hard to pronounce.”

  “Then, if you wish, please call me Winston V. It is Churchillian, for victory.”

  “Thank you, Winston V. I am Josip Lasta.”

  “Josip Lasta. Considerably more easy for me than it is for you. Ah, the human tongue, so conditionable, yet so intractable once it is conditioned. The children of Noah scattered across the face of the earth.”

  “You know Sacred Scripture.”

  “Yes, of course”, says Winston V. “Though I was born and raised in a Hindu family, I attended an elite Anglican college in Bangalore when I was a boy. I played cricket passionately and remain to this day very fond of Shakespeare, especially King Lear, though I dislike rugby and Shelley. I am not so good at horseback riding. I liked polo when I was younger, but, alas, my physical stature is not suitable to that sport.”

  “What floor do you live on?”

  “The seventh”, says Winston, with a smile.

  “Would you care to join me for a dinner in my home?”

  “I would be delighted.”

  So they walk side by side back to the apartment building, saying little, both quietly musing on the improbabilities of life. Arriving at the front steps, Josip thinks to himself that it is now Winston V’s turn to take a test.

  “What floor do you live on?” Winston asks as they enter the lobby.

  “’Lo, Joe”, says Gus-the-doorman before Josip can answer.

  “ ’Lo, Gus.”

  In the elevator, Winston smiles to himself. “What a country! Even in New York City they behave as if this is small-town America.”

  “It’s just human, I think, and most pleasant.”

  “It is undoubtedly better than massacres. But don’t presume they won’t massacre us if the political-economic situation worsens.”

  Josip glances at Winston out of the corner of his eyes.

  “We are going up to which floor?” the latter asks, his index finger poised over the number buttons.

  “We are going down to the basement,” says Josip mildly, “for that is where I live. I am the janitor.”

  “Splendid”, says Winston with real enthusiasm, pressing B. “Most splendid.”

  So they enter Josip’s little cell and have a supper of rice and fish, finished off with more tea. And throughout it all, Winston gazes with discreet interest at the shelves of books.

  “May I ask you an intrusive question?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  “When I offered you the tea in the park, you took the cup, but then you hesitated. Why did you?”

  “It was not because I felt any suspicion”, Josip replies after some thought. “I was recalling that it has been several years since anyone offered me something to drink. I was remembering the last time it happened.”

  “Then you are really alone in this world?”

  “I have no family, as I said.”

  “I too am without family. All connections to my past have been—how do I express it concisely?—terminated by my lack of interest in high-level economic and social advancement. For an eldest son, this is a disgrace. Not for any practical reason is it a disgrace, because it is purely symbolic. My family is quite wealthy. They have no need for my economic and social advancement, other than a perceived need based in unreality and ancient fears that long ago became groundless. The 1919 Amritsar massacre syndrome. Fear of the colonial power, alternating with aggressive overreaction to that power. A bristling pride, a bristling ambition.”

  “They have cut the ties?”

  “They have.”

  Josip ponders this for no more than a few moments. “Would you honor me with your friendship, Winston V?” Winston V’s face registers astonishment, which he quickly hides.

  “It is you who honor me”, he murmurs, in a subdued voice.

  Later in the evening, Winston invites Josip to visit his apartment. Sure enough, a business card taped to the hall side of the door proclaims: Dr. W. V Ramamurthy Kanapathipillai, D.Sc., Ph.D. Econ. He unlocks and they go in. Winston deposits his cane among a bouquet of umbrellas in a brass stand by the front door.

  “Please, enter the temple of the elephant god”, he says, throwing his keys onto a little table. Winston has a one-bedroom flat, with a window facing west toward the river. Not much of a view because there are a lot of buildings blocking it. A telescope at the window points heavenward.

  “Useless”, says Winston. “Its role in my life is purely symbolic.”

  The walls are lined with books. The furniture is antique British, and the rug is a garden of Tudor roses. There is nothing Indian.

  As Winston makes a pot of tea for his guest in the kitchenette, Josip browses through the bookshelves. Economics and literature, astronomy and history, even some physics. He quickly pulls out one of the latter and flips its pages, translating concepts in his mind and matching the English words with the vocabularies of Croatian and German physics—the scraps still lingering in his memory.

  Observing Josip’s intense interest in something he has found in the book, Winston says, “You may borrow it.”

  “That is very kind of you.”

  Josip continues to devour the contents as they sit together without much social expectation, facing each other across a coffee table piled high with The New York Times and The Times of India. They are enjoying the rather unusual experience of it all—the sensation of a time-tested and comfortable friendship that is only hours old.

  Winston nods at the book in Josip’s hands. “Are you aware that many scientists assert that the only realities in the subatomic world are the De Broglie waves? For them, matter is an illusion.”

  “I must say, Winston, that it sounds very close to Hinduism.”

  “I agree with you, Josip”, he chuckles. “What the rational scientist and the irrational cultist forget is that perception is limited. Of course, they both declare that they understand the limitations. The scientist tries to measure what can be measured, and the cultist promotes the cultic symbols as a mode through which the supra-physical may be apprehended. Yet both types of men are present within their modalities, thus altering the very modalities they assert as the means for attaining objective knowledge or objective experience.”

  “Yes, it is a problem in scientific method.”

  “A universal problem of perception, I think. Consider only one aspect of reality: the visible light spectrum. It tells us much, but we did not realize how little we knew until instruments were developed for registering forces beyond the sensory.”

  “So, you’re saying there may be other dimensions.”

  “I’m saying I do not reject the possibility that they are there, that’s all. I make no judgment about what they may be or what they may mean.”

  “Then you will admit the existence of meaning in the world.”

  “That is a big topic. Should we attempt it so soon in our friendship? Perhaps I will offend you by my critical doubts.”

  “On the contrary, I am heartened by your willingness to admit the possibility of the metaphysical.” Josip pauses. “Have you ever heard of diatoms?”

  And so it goes for three more hours. By ten o’clock, Josip is yawning. Tomorrow is Sunday, and he wants to attend the early Mass at the parish, which means setting the alarm clock. They shake hands, arrange a next meeting, and part.

  Today is his feast day, March 19. He was born on the feast of St. Josip in 1933. This makes him, if his computations are correct, forty-two years old. This morning he receives a birthday card from Slavica and Emilio. It is, as usual, full of heartwarming news. Paolo will begin studies at the University of Bologna in September and hopes to major in medicine. He is presently tormented by a parallel desire to become a professional soccer player. They are a little worried about Chiara. She is so beautiful that all the Italian boys from Venezia to Padova are in love with her, but fortunately she has no interest in the suitors, who must be batted away incessantly. She thinks of nothing but her flute and piano. She is longing to begin h
er studies at a music college in Firenze. Emilio eats too much chocolate. His mother died this year, and they miss her greatly.

  Slavica and Emilio have sold their home and moved to Padova, where they now live in a modest apartment. They have opened a private refuge for young prostitutes. Two houses: one for girls, one for boys. She is working together with the priests to heal minds and souls. It is a great challenge because the damage done to these young people is severe, mostly psychological. They feel worthless, often hopeless, and certain that they have ruined their lives. So much love is needed, so much healing—everywhere it seems.

  Slavica asks if Josip recalls the American woman, Mrs. Conway, who was so helpful in obtaining his refugee status and eventual citizenship in the United States of America. She and her husband are in Vietnam but soon will be transferred to a European city where her husband is to become ambassador. This news is confidential for the time being. The situation in Saigon is very bad, and the remaining Americans will probably soon withdraw from the country.

  In the afternoon, Josip and Winston share another cup of tea in the park. Winston is trying to teach Josip British manners, which his Slavic mind cannot, will not, accept. He, in turn, is trying to teach Winston to be more relaxed, by mastering the art of the temporary capture of pigeons. He is a slow learner and has not yet succeeded. Today he is not interested in any of this and seems uncharacteristically angry. He is outraged by a statement in The New York Times posted by a group of scientists who demand the reduction of the planet’s population, either by cooperation or by force. Josip points out to him that the Church’s censure of Galileo was rather mild in comparison to this. The new high priests of scientism are much more intolerant than the old hierarchy ever was. Winston stares at Josip, then laughs. They play chess together sometimes. Today Winston merely replies, “You win, Josip. Checkmate.”

  Later, he comes down to the basement for a birthday supper. Josip had caught a fat trout on Saturday with the new fiberglass rod and stainless-steel reel that he purchased at Abercrombie and Fitch—an extravagance, but one he paid for by cutting back on luxuries for six months. He had no coffee or jam during all that time and did not indulge in a single book purchase. He is not sure how he survived it. But what a rod and reel this is!