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read nothing but cereal boxes。〃
〃It's the only avant…garde we've got。〃
〃Not that I'm plaining。 I like it here。 I'm totally enamored of this place。 A small…town setting。 I want to be free of cities and sexual entanglements。 Heat。 This is what cities mean to me。 You get off the train and walk out of the station and you are hit with the full blast。 The heat of air； traffic and people。 The heat of food and sex。 The heat of tall buildings。 The heat that floats out of the subways and the tunnels。 It's always fifteen degrees hotter in the cities。 Heat rises from the sidewalks and falls from the poisoned sky。 The buses breathe heat。 Heat emanates from crowds of shoppers and office workers。 The entire infrastructure is based on heat； desperately uses up heat； breeds more heat。 The eventual heat death of the universe that scientists love to talk about is already well underway and you can feel it happening all around you in any large or medium…sized city。 Heat and wetness。〃
〃Where are you living； Murray？〃
〃In a rooming house。 I'm totally captivated and intrigued。 It's a gorgeous old crumbling house near the insane asylum。 Seven or eight boarders； more or less permanent except for me。 A woman who harbors a terrible secret。 A man with a haunted look。 A man who never es out of his room。 A woman who stands by the letter box for hours； waiting for something that never seems to arrive。 A man with no past。 A woman with a past。 There is a smell about the place of unhappy lives in the movies that I really respond to。〃
〃Which one are you？〃 I said。
〃I'm the Jew。 What else would I be？〃
There was something touching about the fact that Murray was dressed almost totally in corduroy。 I had the feeling that since the age of eleven in his crowded plot of concrete he'd associated this sturdy fabric with higher learning in some impossibly distant and tree…shaded place。
〃I can't help being happy in a town called Blacksmith；〃 he said。 〃I'm here to avoid situations。 Cities are full of situations； sexually cunning people。 There are parts of my body I no longer encourage women to handle freely。 I was in a situation with a woman in Detroit。 She needed my semen in a divorce suit。 The irony is that I love women。 I fall apart at the sight of long legs； striding； briskly； as a breeze carries up from the river； on a weekday； in the play of morning light。 The second irony is that it's not the bodies of women that I ultimately crave but their minds。 The mind of a woman。 The delicate chambering and massive unidirectional flow； like a physics experiment。 What fun it is to talk to an intelligent woman wearing stockings as she crosses her legs。 That little staticky sound of rustling nylon can make me happy on several levels。 The third and related irony is that it's the most plex and neurotic and difficult women that I am invariably drawn to。 I like simple men and plicated women。〃
Murray's hair was tight and heavy…looking。 He had dense brows； wisps of hair curling up the sides of his neck。 The small stiff beard； confined to his chin and unacpanied by a mustache； seemed an optional ponent； to be stuck on or removed as circumstances warranted。
〃What kind of lectures do you plan giving？〃
〃That's exactly what I want to talk to you about；〃 he said。 〃You've established a wonderful thing here with Hitler。 You created it； you nurtured it； you made it your own。 Nobody on the faculty of any college or university in this part of the country can so much as utter the word Hitler without a nod in your direction； literally or metaphorically。 This is the center； the unquestioned source。 He is now your Hitler； Gladney's Hitler。 It must be deeply satisfying for you。 The college is internationally known as a result of Hitler studies。 It has an identity； a sense of achievement。 You've evolved an entire system around this figure； a structure with countless substructures and interrelated fields of study； a history within history。 I marvel at the effort。 It was masterful； shrewd and stunningly preemptive。 It's what I want to do with Elvis。〃
Several days later Murray asked me about a tourist attraction known as the most photographed barn in America。 We drove twenty…two miles into the country around Farmington。 There were meadows and apple orchards。 White fences trailed through the rolling fields。 Soon the signs started appearing。 THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA。 We counted five signs before we reached the site。 There were forty cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot。 We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing。 All the people had cameras； some had tripods； telephoto lenses； filter kits。 A man in a booth sold postcards and slides—pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot。 We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers。 Murray maintained a prolonged silence； occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book。
〃No one sees the barn；〃 he said finally。
A long silence followed。
〃Once you've seen the signs about the barn； it bees impossible to see the barn。〃
He fell silent once more。 People with cameras left the elevated site； replaced at once by others。
〃We're not here to capture an image； we're here to maintain one。 Every photograph reinforces the aura。 Can you feel it； Jack？ An accumulation of nameless energies。〃
There was an extended silence。 The man in the booth sold postcards and slides。
〃Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender。 We see only what the others see。 The thousands who were here in the past； those who will e in the future。 We've agreed to be part of a collective perception。 This literally colors our vision。 A religious experience in a way； like all tourism。〃
Another silence ensued。
〃They are taking pictures of taking pictures；〃 he said。
He did not speak for a while。 We listened to the incessant clicking of shutter release buttons； the rustling crank of levers that advanced the film。
〃What was the barn like before it was photographed？〃 he said。 〃What did it look like； how was it different from other barns； how was it similar to other barns？ We can't answer these questions because we've read the。 signs； seen the people snapping the pictures。 We can't get outside the aura。 We're part of the aura。 We're here； we're now。〃
He seemed immensely pleased by this。
4
When times are bad； people feel pelled to overeat。 Blacksmith is full of obese adults and children； baggy…pantsed； short…legged； waddling。 They struggle to emerge from pact cars； they don sweatsuits and run in families across the landscape； they walk down the street with food in their faces； they eat in stores； cars； parking lots； on bus lines and movie lines； under the stately trees。
Only the elderly seem exempt from the fever of eating。 If they are sometimes absent from their own words and gestures； they are also slim and healthy…looking； the women carefully groomed； the men purposeful and well dressed； selecting shopping carts from the line outside the supermarket。
I crossed the high school lawn and walked to the rear of the building and toward the small open stadium。 Babette was running up the stadium steps。 I sat across the field in the first row of stone seats。 The sky was full of streaking clouds。 When she reached the top of the stadium she stopped and paused； putting her hands to the high parapet and leaning into it to rest diagonally。 Then she turned and walked back down； breasts chugging。 The wind rippled her oversized suit。 She walked with her hands on her hips； fingers spread。 Her face was tilted up； catching the cool air； and she didn't see me。 When she reached the bottom step she turned to face the seats and did some kind of neck stretching exercise。 Then she started running up the steps。
Three times she ascended the steps； walked slowly down。 There was no one around。 She worked hard； hair floating； legs and shoulders working。 Every time she reached the top she leaned into the wall； head down； upper body throbbing。 After the last descent I met her at the edge of the playing field and embraced her； putting my hands inside the sweatband of her gray cotton pants。 A small plane appeared over the trees。 Babette was moist and warm； emitting a creaturely hum。
She runs； she shovels snow； she caulks the tub and sink。 She plays word games with Wilder and reads erotic classics aloud in bed at night。 What do I do？ I twirl the garbage bags and twist…tie them； swim laps in the college pool。 When I go walking； joggers e up soundlessly behind me； appearing at my side； making me jump in idiotic fright。 Babette talks to dogs and cats。 I see colored spots out of the corner of my right eye。 She plans ski trips that we never take； her face bright with excitement。 I walk up the hill to school； noting the whitewashed stones that line the driveways of newer homes。
Who will die first？
This question es up from time to time； like where are the car keys。 It ends a sentence； prolongs a glance between us。 I wonder if the thought itself is part of the nature of physical love； a reverse Darwinism that awards sadness and fear to the survivor。 Or is it some inert element in the air we breathe； a rare thing like neon； with a melting point； an atomic weight？ I held her in my arms on the cinder track。 Kids came running our way； thirty girls in bright shorts； an improbable bobbing mass。 The eager breathing； the overlapping rhythms of their footfalls。 Sometimes I think our love is inexperienced。 The question of dying bees a wise reminder。 It cures us of our innocence of the future。 Simple things are doomed； or is that a superstition？ We watched the girls e round again。 They were strung out now； with faces and particular gaits； almost weightless in their craving； able to land lightly。
The Airport Marriott； the Downtown Travelodge； the Sheraton Inn and Conference Center。
On our way home I said； 〃Bee wants to visit at Christmas。 We can put her in with Steffie。〃
〃Do they know each other？〃
'They met at Disney World。 It'll be all right。〃
〃When were you in Los Angeles？〃
〃You mean Anaheim。〃
〃When were you in Anaheim？〃
〃You mean Orlando。 It's almost three years now。〃
〃Where was I？〃 she said。
My daughter Bee； from my marriage to Tweedy Browner； was just starting seventh grade in a Washington suburb and was having trouble readjusting to life in the States after two years in South Korea。 She took taxis to school； made phone calls to friends in Seoul and Tokyo。 Abroad she'd wanted to eat ketchup sandwiches with Trix sticks。 Now she cooked fierce sizzling meals of scallion bushes and baby shrimp； monopolizing Tweedy's restaurant…quality range。
That night； a Friday； we ordered Chinese food and watched television together； the six of us。 Babette had made it a rule。 She seemed to think that if kids watched television one night a week with parents or stepparents； the effect would be to de…glamorize the medium in their eyes； make it wholesome domestic sport。 Its narcotic undertow and eerie diseased brain…sucking power would be gradually reduced。 I felt vaguely slighted by this reasoning。 The evening in fact was a subtle form of punishment for us all。 Heinrich sat silent over his egg rolls。 Steffie became upset every time something shameful or humiliating seemed about to happen to someone on the screen。 She had a vast capacity for being embarrassed on other people's behalf。 Often she would leave the room until Denise signaled to her that the scene was over。 Denise used these occasions to counsel the younger girl on toughness； the need to be mean in the world； thick…skinned。
It was my own formal custom on Fridays； after an evening in front of the TV set； to read deeply in Hitler well into the night。
On one such night I got into bed next to Babette and told her how the chancellor had advised me； back in 1968； to do something about my name and appearance if I wanted to be taken seriously as a Hitler innovator。 Jack Gladney would not do； he said； and asked me what other names I might have at my disposal。 We finally agreed that I should invent an extra initial and call myself J。 A。 K。 Gladney； a tag I wore like a borrowed suit。
The chancellor warned against what he called my tendency to make a feeble presentation of self。 He strongly suggested I gain weight。 He wanted me to 〃grow out〃 into Hitler。 He himself was tall； paunchy； ruddy； jowly； big…footed and dull。 A formidable bination。 I had the advantages of substantial height； big hands； big feet； but badly needed bulk； or so he believed—an air of unhealthy excess； of padding and exaggeration； hulking massive…ness。 If I could bee more ugly； he seemed to be suggesting； it would help my career enormously。
So Hitler gave me something to grow into and develop toward； tentative as I have sometimes been in the effort。 The glasses with thick black heavy frames and dark lenses were my own idea； an alternative to the bushy beard that my wife of the period didn't want me to grow。 Babette said she liked the series J。 A。 K。 and didn't think it was attention…getting in a cheap sense。 To her it intimated dignity； significance and prestige。
I am the false character that follows the name around。
5
Let's enjoy these aimless days while we can； I told