PAGE 2 - N.C.ESSAY
THE N. C. ESSAY
VOLUME V, NO. XVI
NORTH CAROLINA SCHOOL OF THE ARTS
MAY 3, 1971
The Reluctant Inunigrant
A Short Story ByPAULMEm
Bill Grundy, his head splitting,
was not happy. He was sprawl^
inelegantly in an armchiair, the
heels of his hands pressed to his
eyeballs, trying to i^ore the
world. He was listening reluc
tantly in anguished incredulous
amazement to the church bells.
They had been ringing out peal
after peal of joyously unskillful
music ever since he’d arrived
home two hours ago, and of
course unlike a symphony, a peal
of bells offers no clue to the
listener as to whether the recital
has just started, is somewhere
halfway through or is drawing to
a close. At this time looking at it
from Bill Grundy’s point of view,
the experience must have
resembled having his most
sensitive incisor drilled; he knew
logically that it must end
sometime, but ‘when’ was a
difficult question. Had it been
Wednesday evening, he might
have accepted odds that it was
about to finish, for having lived
under the shadow of the church
for three years, he knew that
Wednesday night was when the
bellringers practiced and it was
usually for only two hours. But
today was Thursday and he could
think of no reason for this extra
vigorous assult upon his senses,
unless the old verger, who always
cast black looks at Bill on Sunday
mornings as he mowed the lawn
instead of attending church, had
ordered the vicious attack, ar
med with diabolic intuition of
Bill’s migraine. He dismissed
this unchristian theory thinking
that perhaps the Queen’s bir
thday or a record take at the
bring-and-buy sale was the reason
behind this camponological
marathon. Bill toyed with the
fantasy of discharging a bazooka
at the church tower from his
bedroom window, but eventually
jumped up in agony and yelled,
“Hell and Danuiation” instead.
This proving ineffectual except
as far as aggravating his head
was concern^, he merely stood
swaying slightly. From a habit of
thinking, he’d expected his wife to
evince sympathy at this outburst,
but then he recalled that she was
in the kitchen weeping softly over
the stove. “Blast”, he muttered ,
and stomped off into the bedroom
where he lay face downward on
the bed. He was angry. His anger
was not chiefly at his headache
nor at the bells which were in fact
strictly innocent, but at himself.
He’d been a bastard today and he
knew it. That’s why his wife was
weeping. “But hang it all, it’s
bloody difficult to be diplomatic
when your head’s about to drop
off!” This was addressed to his
conscience which told him that he
ought to go and comfort the
tearful Mrs. Gnmdy. He felt
himself to be the aggrieved
party. In fact his headache was
probably the result of his desire
to play this role. “Danunit, I
didn’t want to go to America in
the first place”, he exclaimed
peevishly to his conscience.
“Don’t be foolish”, the other
replied, “You shouldn’t have
married an American, if you
weren’t prepared to leave
England for a while at some time
or other.” “Now you tell me”,
groaned Bill prosb'ated by this
ace.
You will gather from this
dialogue that Bill Gnmdy had
taken to wife a young American
lady. He had come four years
before straight from college to
teach history in the granmiar
school of a small market town in
Essex. There was an American
airforce base nearby and Julia,
his wife, was the daughter of an
airman. Three years before, they
had married and rented this
cottage next to the church. From
the start Julia had scoffed at the
pittance Bill has received from
the school authority in return for
his services, but Bill was a
happily complacent young man
and was content with both Uie pay
and their pleasant rural
existence. He ^dn’t want to go
flying off to Texas even if he
would be earning ten times his
present salary. He loved this
little Essex village, he usually
even loved the bells, but today
he’s sealed his fate. Mr. and Mrs.
Grundy were soon to fly off to
Texas. Bill winced at the thought
because he enjoyed the two mile
cycle ride to school every mor
ning and the musty old-fashioned
smell in the 17th century
classrooms. He’d have to say
goodbye to all this for a while, for
today he had become a reluctant
immigrant.
Today he’d finally capitulated
under Julia’s persuasion and
taken the train up to London and
the American Embassy. Julia
had for the past few weeks
‘escalated’ as the saying goes,
her campaign in Essex. She’d put
forward all the powerful
arguments that, from her Im
perialist position, she’d been
capable of, and the British
Empire a tiny part of it anyway,
had crumbled.
They had known in advance
that to obtain Bill’s visa was to be
an all day process. Julia had
gathered all Bill’s documents,
photocopied them at the base
office, obtained affidavits of
support in triplicate from her
father, typed out Bill’s answers to
the len^hy questionaire, un
dertaking on his behalf that he
wasn’t to the best of his
knowledge a member of any
totalitarian organization, a drug
addict or peddler, a trafficker in
vice, an alcoholic, a convicted
criminal and that he wasn’t
certifiably insane. Seriously
doubting this last fact. Bill had
allowed himself to be taken on the
7:33 to Liverpool Street. He was
groaning inwardly at the thought
of the London rush hour with
which they would have to com
pete, loathing in his timid country
way the ratrace exemplified by
the Picadilly tube line at and
around nine o’clock.
It was all that he’d expected
and more and his mood was
savage when they’d arrived at
the Embassy. In this mood he’d
done everything he could to fail in
his application for a visa. That
this attempt had been un
successful diminished only
slightly the grim pleasure he took
from recalling it now. First he’d
demanded a receipt for the
syringeful of blood taken from
him, telling the girl blandly that
his la^er wanted legal proff of
the ri^ts he surrendered by
becoming an immigrant. For the
chest X-ray, he had entered the
room with a convincing tuber
cular cough which incorporated a
hollow rattle. He had often used
this with results on his mother in
his childhood. The nurse asked
him the usual questions as to
whether he’d experienced trouble
with his chest. Bill replied that he
was perfectly fit, but that he was
allergic to air conditioning. Later
when the doctor submitted him to
the indignity of the cough-and-
drop test, he had repeated his
tubercular performance with
extra vigor hoping secretly that
he had succeeded in making his
genitals do whatever they are
supposed to do if you have a
rupture. He didn’t know if
defective testicles precluded one
from entering the States but he
wasn’t going to take any chances.
The doctor seemed pleased with
them and looked in his ears in
stead. Having made a token
gesture of defiance Bill sub
mitted to the rest of the
examination without histrionics.
Next they had to go and get his
picture taken, and when the
photographer said “Smile
please”. Bill scowled in his best
English stiff upper lip fashion.
When the immigration officer at
Kennedy airport inspected his
visa and pictwe Bill didn’t want
to seem happy or grateful, so he
scowled. However, when the
photograph came through, he
merely looked sick and Julia
laughed which put him in an even
worse mood.
From here they had to go to yet
another section of the building
where Bill was genuinely
outraged to find that his
fingerprints were required of
him. “Look here”, he said, “This
is really going too far. Who do you
think I am? Some wretched
member of the Mafia or
something? I am only doing this
to stop my wife nagging.” The
man who was doing the finger
printing was a middle aged
Cockney employed by the U.S.
Government to do nothing but
this all day long. He was of weary
aspect and this obviously wasn’t
the first time he had encountered
objections. “Look mate”, he said,
“I don’t care why the ‘ell yer
goin’, but if yer want to get a visa
yer’ve got to ‘ave yer fingerprints
took.” Bill reluctantly allowed
the man to put his fingers on to a
block of black ink and then to
transfer them on to a form
containing his details. Bill looked
at the prints and felt that he’d
surrendered his freedom for
ever.
Now came a long wait before
their interview with the consular
officer. This was where they
would learn finally whether or
not Bill was desirable or un
desirable as an alien. It was still
technically possible that even if
his documents were in order and
his medical examination proved
him healthy, the official, after a
few judicious questions, might
turn him down. Julia, therefore,
waited anxiously and Bill with
malicious anticipation. “Now
don’t you go and say something
stupid, will you”, said Julia.
“You mean that I mustn’t say
what I feel?” “No, I don’t, I just
mean for you to be a little
diplomatic for once ... for me,”
“What if he asks me my political
views or about the Vietnam war
or something? I shall say exactly
what I think, and if he asks me
my reasons for wanting to go, I’ll
tell him I don’t want to go. I don’t
want them thinking that they’re
doing me any favors.” This was
where the strain started to tell on
Julia and she made a discreet,
though swift, exit to the ladies’
room.
Julia returned shortly with a
fresh face, but Bill wouldn’t look
at her. He imagined his finger
prints being reduced to computer
tape and automatically checked
against criminal files and his
blood being analysed for possible
unAmerican traits. He could
already hear a friendly American
voice saying, “Ah’m right sorry
Mr. Grundy, but it’s my dooty to
tell you that your blood is sub
standard. Ah’m afraid you can’t
come in.”
Eventually his name was
called and accompanied by a
very flustered Julia, Bill entered
the official’s plush office. They
were cordially invited to sit, and
they sank down almost out of
sight in front of his desk, which of
course put Bill at a slight
disadvantage. The interview
consisted almost entirely of the
official flirting with Julia who of
course simpered diplomatically.
The official expressed great
elation at interviewing a ‘nice
young couple’, and joked around
for five minutes in Johnathan
Winters’ style. He confided that
he spent most of all day in
terviewing Jamaicans. “Oh, we
kid around a while. I have some
fun, make ’em laugh. I reject
them, but we have fun! ” Bill was
horrified and couldn’t say a word.
Then the official, omitting to say
that Bill had been accepted,
which because Julia was
American, was a foregone
conclusion anyway, started
telling them the procedure Bill
should take for becoming an
American citizen. Bill, forgetting
all the clever things he’d intended
to say, merely replied, “Actually,
I don’t intend to become a
citizen.” Julia and the official
seemed mortaUy offended at this
and the interview was brought to
a speedy conclusion. Bill was
directed to the cashier who gave
him a receipt for the fifteen
pounds, which he had to pay for
his visa.
However, the trials of the day
were far from over, the tube was
still there to test his character
once again. It was again the rush
hour and when they descended
into Hyde Park Comer they
found, cJi joy, that there was a go-
slow or a ‘work-to-nde’ by all the
train drivers. It was physically
impossible to get on the first train
or anywhere near it as the crowds
lined the platform ten deep.
Gradually they found themselves
a little nearer the edge. Bill felt a
bit like a leming, that species
which annually rushes en masse
to the nearest cliff top and
tumbles into the sea, guided
instinctively to this method of
coping with over population. Bill
stood at the edge resisting with
difficulty the temptation to
imitate the lemings’ behavior
and make the noble gesture of
throwing himself on to the
electric track. A train came in,
packed already to bursting point.
A guard yelled, “Let the
passengers out first please”, and
Bill watched fascinated as one by
one the passengers wishing to
alight emerged Uke shelled peas,
or popcorn as it pops. Then it was
their turn and plucking up
courage, Bill towing Julia by the
arm assaulted the wall of flesh,
and succeeded in finding an
opening more by the pressure of
the crowd behind than by efforts
of his own. However, they were
in. Julia being short was standing
stiff with glazed eyes, her chin
between the breasts of a ^1
slightly taller than herself. Bill,
himseif experiencing pressure on
his body considerably in excess of
the usual fifteen pounds per
square inch, wondered how the
doors would ever shut, the crowd
being still ten or more deep on the
platform and no apparent gap
between the passengers and
those who by their presence in
this forcing bag of a tunnel,
implicitly wished to be so. There
was a hi^ as the invisible guard
released the doors and a muffled
rumble as other compartments
sealed themselves, but the one in
which Bill and his wife were
jammed remained open. “Mind
the doors”, a voice shouted
hoarsely, and there were minor
rearrangements of arms and
legs, but the doors remained
open. A guard could be seen half
swimming, half hacking his way
towards toeir carriage where he
started pummelling ttie flesh into
the requisite shape to ac
commodate the sliding doors
which eventually rolled together.
Somewhere Bill and JuUa had
to change trains, repeating the
process of being canned and
uncanned, in order to reach their
destination, Liverpool Street.
When they were almost there,
Bill was suddenly aware that
Julia was giggling softly. By
tilting his head back slightly and
rolling his eyeballs down he could
just about see her profile. She
was apparently muttering “Quit”
out of the comer of her mouth and
wriggling slightly. At that
moment &e train lurched and he
could see that a young man,
smartly dressed was tickling the
underside of Julia’s right but
tock.
On the bed Bill shifted in acute
embarrassment, as he recalled
the scene he’d made on the train.
Julia hadn’t realized until Bill
had started yelling at the top of
his voice at someone, that it
wasn’t her husband who was
responsible for this intimate
caress. He’d gone purple in the
face and was roaring in
coherently at a total stranger,
while confined in an attitude of
rigid attention by the crush. This
is where the ridiculousness of the
situation lay. It’s all very well to
take exception to someone for
tickling your wife’s bottom, if you
can punch him on the nose and
stalk off outraged, but when all
you can do short or biting his nose
is to roar at him from a range of
four inches, one’s own dignity is
not a little compromised.
Especially so if one is obliged to
continue in this proximity for
another ten minutes, long after
one has exhausted aU the various
verbal possibilities and is
reduced to inevitable silence.
This is how it iiad been;
nevertheless Bill was hurt to his
very soul by Julia’s attitude when
they at last had alighted from the
train. Her reaction was as if Bill
had cordially invited tiie stranger
to inspect her private parts. She
had been deeply outraged by the
embarrassment her husband had
caused her and was furious. This
seeming illogicality caused him
to inwardly see the even now as
he remembered it. Dammit, he
didn’t want to go to London in the
first place.
Now they were home and Bill
was in the dog house. He had put
up a good fight, but he wasn’t
sure if he’d won or lost. In cricket
terms “He’d kept his wicket up”,
and in his opinion had maintained
his English dignity too.
The bell ringers had stopped
now. He wondered if the verger
was giving them the drop-and-
cough test. They’d certainly
risked double rupture in the
marathon of the last two and a
half hours.
“Oh well”, Bill signed as he got
off the bed, after a raging battle
with his conscience, “I’d better
practice the gentle art of British
compromise”, and he strolled out
to negotiate a peaceful set
tlement with the American forces
encamped in the kitehen.
The other day I went into a
mental hospital. Now to be mad is
one of the national charac
teristics of the poet. Americans
expect it of them and Jesus, we
never let them down. To Uie
gypsy or the Apache Indian there
is no such word as madness.
Madness only means that ttie
gods have taken the person’s
mind. And a poet must have a
great mind when the gods have
need of it, for the gods have
everything. Madness is the
highest form of .intelligence, and
combined with common sense,
madness is genius.
Bobby Dardin
My thanks to Mick Ferguson,
contributors, and readers.
Robin Kaplan, Editor