The fascinating part, the challenging part, what is for me the esthetically rewarding part, is that two of us must perish if the other two are to be exempted from mortality. Such are the terms offered by the Keepers of the Skulls, always assuming, first, that Eli’s translation of the manuscript is accurate, and, second, that there’s any substance to what he’s told us. I think the translation must be correct — he’s terribly precise in philological matters — but one must always allow for the possibility of a hoax, perhaps engineered by Eli himself. Or that it is all nonsense. Is Eli playing some baroque game with us? He’s capable of anything, of course, a wily Hebrew, full of tricky ghetto lore, concocting an elaborate fiction so that he might inveigle three hapless goyim to their dooms, a ritual bloodbath in the desert. Do the skinny one first, the gay one, thrust the blazing sword up his ungodly asshole! More probably I’m giving Eli credit for more deviousness than he has, projecting into him some of my own feverish warped androgynous instability. He seems sincere, a nice Jewish boy. In any group of four candidates who present themselves for the Trial, one must submit voluntarily to death, and one must become the victim of the surviving two. Sic dixit liber calvariarum. The Book of Skulls so tells us. See, me spikka da Caesarish too! Two die, two live; a lovely balance, a four-cornered mandala. I tremble in the terrible tension between extinction and infinity. For Eli the philosopher this adventure is a dark version of Pascal’s gamble, an existentialist all-or-nothing trip. For Ned the would-be artist it is an esthetic matter, a problem of form and fulfillment. Which of us shall meet what fate? Oliver with his ferocious midwestern hunger for life: he’ll snatch at the flask of eternity, he’ll have to, never for an instant admitting the possibility that he might be among the ones who must exit so that the others may live. And Timothy, naturally, will come out of Arizona intact and undying, cheerfully waving his platinum spoon. His kind is bred to prevail. How can he let himself die when he has his trust fund to look forward to? Imagine, interest compounding at 6, percent per annum for, say, 18 million years. He’ll own the universe! Far out! So those two are our obvious candidates for immortality. Eli and I therefore must yield, willingly or otherwise. Quickly the remaining roles designate their players. Eli will be the one they kill, of course; the Jew is always the victim, isn’t he? They’ll honey him along, grateful to him for having found the gateway to life everlasting lying in the musty archives, and at the proper ritual moment, wham, they seize him and give it to him, a quick whiff of Cyklon-B. The final solution to the Eli problem. That leaves me to be the one who volunteers for self- immolation. The decision, says Eli, citing appropriate chapter and verse from the Book of Skulls, must be genuinely voluntary, arising out of a pure wish for self-sacrifice, or it will not release the proper vibrations. Very well, gentlemen, I’m at your service. Say the word and I’ll do my far, far better thing. A pure wish, perhaps the first one I’ve ever had. Two conditions, however, two strings are attached. Timothy, you must dip into your Wall Street millions and subsidize a decent edition of my poems, nicely bound, good paper, with a critical foreword by someone who knows his stuff, Trilling, Auden, Lowell, someone of that caliber. If I die for you, Timothy, if I shed my blood that you may live forever, will you do that? And Oliver: I require a service from you as well, sir. The quid pro quo is a sine qua non, as Eli would say. On the last day of life I would have an hour in private with you, my dear and handsome friend. I wish to plough your virgin soil. Be mine at last, beloved Ol! I promise to be generous with the Vaseline. Your smooth glowing almost hairless body, your taut athletic buttocks, your sweet unviolated rosebud. For me, Oliver. For me, for me, for me, all for me. I’ll give my life for you if you’ll lend me your bum a single afternoon. Am I not romantic? Is your dilemma not a delicious one? Come across, Oliver, or else no deal. You will, too. You aren’t any puritan, and you’re a practical man, a me-firster. You’ll see the advantages of surrender. You’d better. Humor the little faggot, Oliver. Or else no deal.
Eli takes all this much more seriously than the rest of as. I suppose that’s fair; he was the one who found out about it and organized the whole operation. And anyway he’s got the half-mystic quality, that smouldering Eastern European wildness, that permits a man to get worked up really big over something that in the last analysis you know is imaginary. I suppose it’s a Jewish trait, tied in with the kabbala and whatnot. At least I think of it as a Jewish trait, along with high intelligence, physical cowardice, and a love of making money, but what the crap do I know about Jews, anyway? Look at us in this car. Oliver’s got the highest intelligence, no doubt about that. Ned’s the physical coward; you just look at him and he cringes. I’m the one with the money, although Christ knows I had nothing to do with the making of it. There are your so-called Jewish traits. And the mysticism? Is Eli a mystic? Maybe he just doesn’t want to die. Is there anything so mystic about that?
No, not about that. But when it comes to believing that there’s this cult of exiled Babylonian or Egyptian or whatever immortals living in the desert, believing that if you go to them and say the right words they’ll confer the privilege of immortality on you — oh, lordy! Who could buy that? Eli can. Oliver too, maybe. Ned? No, not Ned. Ned doesn’t believe in anything, not even himself. And not me. You bet your ass, not me.
Why am I going, then?
Like I told Eli: it’s warmer in Arizona this time of year. And I like to travel. Also I think it might be an amusing experience, watching all this unfold, watching my roommates scrabbling around looking for their destiny on the mesas. Why go to college at all if not to have interesting experiences and increase your knowledge of human nature, along with having a good time? I didn’t go there to learn astronomy and geology. But to watch other human beings making pricks of themselves — now, there’s education, there’s entertainment! As my father said when he sent me off as a freshman, after reminding me that I represented the eighth generation of male Winchesters to attend our grand old school, “Never forget one thing, Timothy: the proper study of mankind is man. Socrates said that three thousand years ago, and it’s never lost its eternal truth.” As a matter of fact it was Pope who said it in the eighteenth century, as I discovered in sophomore English, but let that pass. You learn by watching others, especially if you’ve forfeited your own chance to build character through adversity by having picked your great- great-great-grandparents a little too well. The old man should see me now, driving around with a queer, a Jew, and a farm boy. I suppose he’d approve, so long as I remember I’m better than they are.
Ned was the first one Eli told. I saw them huddling and whispering a lot. Ned was laughing. “Don’t put me on, man,” he kept saying, and Eli got red in the face. Ned and Eli are very close, I suppose because they’re both scrawny and weak and belong to oppressed minorities. It’s been clear from the beginning that in any grouping of the four of us, it’s the two of them against Oliver and me. The two intellectuals versus the two jocks, to put it in the crudest way. The two queers against the two — well, no, Eli isn’t queer, despite Uncle Clark who insists that all Jews are fundamentally homosexual whether ,they know it or not But Eli seems queer, with his lisp and his way of walking. Seems queerer than Ned, as a matter of fact. Does Eli chase girls so hard because he wants to camouflage something? Anyway, Eli and Ned, shuffling papers and whispering. And then they brought Oliver into it. “Do you mind telling me,” I asked, “what the crap you’re discussing among yourselves?” I think they enjoyed excluding me, giving me a taste of what it’s like to be a second-class citizen. Or maybe they just figured I’d laugh in their faces. But at last they broke it to me. Oliver serving as their ambassador. “What are you doing over Easter?” he asked.
“Bermuda, maybe. Florida. Nassau.” Actually I hadn’t thought about it much.
“What about Arizona?” he asked.
“What’s there?”
He took a deep breath. “Eli was examining some rare manuscripts in the library,” he said, looking sheepish and uneasy, “and came upon something called the Book of Skulls, which apparently has been here for fifty years and nobody’s translated it, and he’s done some further research now and he thinks—”
That the Keepers of the Skulls actually exist and will let us in on what they’ve got. Hi and Ned and Oliver are willing to go out there and look around, anyway. And I’m invited. Why? For my money? For my charm? Well, matter of fact, it’s because candidates are accepted only in groups of four, and since we’re all roommates anyway, it seemed logical that -
And so on. I said I would, for the hell of it. When Dad was my age, he went searching for uranium mines in
