Free The Matter With Morris by David Bergen

and whispering conspiratorially that he now worked for the CIA. This did not surprise Morris. As a young man, Samuel had studied to be a missionary and had learned Arabic as an aid worker in the Sudan and then he’d married an American woman, become an American citizen himself, divorced, and found a job in the States where he could apply his Arabic. Samuel had always loved America and things American. He considered Canadians to be weak and dependent. Morris left Samuel a message on his machine: “Samuel, Morris here. I’m thinking of converting to Islam. Give me a call.”
    Then he sat down and typed a letter to Ursula. He said that he would be delighted to join her in Minneapolis. Perhaps in late October, a month from now, though there was nothing in his life at the moment to keep him from seeing her sooner, should she prefer. “This letter,” he wrote, “will arrive at your house in a few days, and then your response, should you decide to respond, will take another week, and so it seems practical to plan for a month from now.” He said that her letter had pleased him greatly. He missed her. He said that he was less aware these days of Martin’s absence, but that might be because he was filling his life with material things and material thoughts, and what a distraction this could be. He said that he had much to tell her, some things that might surprise her. “I am a difficult man,” he wrote. Then he wrote “Love, Morris,” as if that would compensate for admitting that he was difficult. Or perhaps he wanted to scare her. He did not understand himself. Ever since he had spent that night with her, first smelled her from headto toe, and then slept on the bed next to hers, he had had little desire for anyone else. She kept appearing in his mind. On the back of his eye. She surrounded him and this was frustrating his erotic life. There was a need to clear up the problem and his sense of relief made him feel capricious and volatile.
    When he had told Dr. G that he paid women for sex, Dr. G had shifted in his chair and looked slightly bored.
    “It’s only been a while now,” Morris said. “I started, almost by chance, after Lucille left me.”
    Dr. G lifted his head. “When you say things like ‘by chance’ and ‘Lucille left me,’ you make yourself out as a puppet.”
    Morris ignored this. “You’re not shocked? You don’t find me pathetic? Dirty?” “Should I?”
    “Well, most people would find it reprehensible. And yes, I do enjoy it. Most of the time.” “And you’re not most people.” Morris shrugged. “No, I’m not.”
    “Why stop there? Why don’t you drive downtown on a Saturday night and pick up a fourteen-year-old girl? Or hire three women at the same time?”
    Morris sighed. “Lucille says I gorge myself. On grief and sex. She says that I was unprepared for Martin’s death. That I should have seen that Martin was going to a death-dealing event, not a feast. She prepared herself, as if she knew that some rehearsal was required. I didn’t, and so I was surprised by the unexpected.” He paused, then said, “She’s right.”
    “You’ve told her about hiring women?”
    “Oh, no.” He brightened. “Chekhov hired prostitutes.”
    “So you and Chekhov, you’re equals. And your daughters? What about them? Wouldn’t they be surprised?”
    Morris leaned forward and touched the dog lying at his feet. A shudder. The wet mournful eyes pondered him. You poor fucker.
    On Saturday, he picked up Libby at her mother’s house and took her to a Vietnamese restaurant. They ate pho and spring rolls and drank green tea and they talked about Libby’s debating team; she was the leader, and she told him about argument and riposte and speech. She said that often the content was inconsequential, like political debates, where flow and ebb and smoothness of the words could beat out intelligence. She didn’t like that. She thought she might quit. It was taking time away from her reading, her pre-cal,