Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe Read Free

said.
    That made me laugh.
    “My name’s Dante,” he said.
    That made me laugh harder. “Sorry,” I said.
    “It’s okay. People laugh at my name.”
    “No, no,” I said. “See, it’s just that my name’s Aristotle.”
    His eyes lit up. I mean, the guy was ready to listen to every word I said.
    “Aristotle,” I repeated.
    Then we both kind of went a little crazy. Laughing.
    “My father’s an English professor,” he said.
    “At least you have an excuse. My father’s a mailman. Aristotle is the English version of my grandfather’s name.” And then I pronounced my grandfather’s name with this really formal Mexican accent, “ Aristotiles. And my real first name is Angel.” And then I said it in Spanish, “ Angel. ”
    “Your name is Angel Aristotle?”
    “Yeah. That’s my real name.”
    We laughed again. We couldn’t stop. I wondered what it was we were laughing about. Was it just our names? Were we laughing because we were relieved? Were we happy? Laughter was another one of life’s mysteries.
    “I used to tell people my name was Dan. I mean, you know, I just dropped two letters. But I stopped doing that. It wasn’t honest. And anyway, I always got found out. And I felt like a liar and an idiot. I was ashamed of myself for being ashamed of myself. I didn’t like feeling like that.” He shrugged his shoulders.
    “Everyone calls me Ari,” I said.
    “Nice to meet you, Ari.”
    I liked the way he said Nice to meet you, Ari . Like he meant it.
    “Okay,” I said, “teach me how to swim.” I guess I said it like I was doing him a favor. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
    Dante was a very precise teacher. He was a real swimmer,understood everything about the movements of arms and legs and breathing, understood how a body functioned while it was in the water. Water was something he loved, something he respected. He understood its beauty and its dangers. He talked about swimming as if it were a way of life. He was fifteen years old. Who was this guy? He looked a little fragile—but he wasn’t. He was disciplined and tough and knowledgeable and he didn’t pretend to be stupid and ordinary. He was neither of those things.
    He was funny and focused and fierce. I mean the guy could be fierce. And there wasn’t anything mean about him. I didn’t understand how you could live in a mean world and not have any of that meanness rub off on you. How could a guy live without some meanness?
    Dante became one more mystery in a universe full of mysteries.
    All that summer, we swam and read comics and read books and argued about them. Dante had all his father’s old Superman comics. He loved them. He also liked Archie and Veronica . I hated that shit. “It’s not shit,” he said.
    Me, I liked Batman, Spider-Man, and the Incredible Hulk.
    “Way too dark,” Dante said.
    “This from a guy who loves Conrad’s Heart of Darkness .”
    “That’s different,” he said. “Conrad wrote literature.”
    I was always arguing that comic books were literature too. But literature was very serious business for a guy like Dante. I don’t remember ever winning an argument with him. He was a better debater. He was also a better reader. I read Conrad’s book because of him. When I finished reading it, I told him I hated it. “Except,” I said, “it’s true. The world is a dark place. Conrad’s right about that.”
    “Maybe your world, Ari, but not mine.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” I said.
    “Yeah, yeah,” he said.
    The truth is, I’d lied to him. I loved the book. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever read. When my father noticed what I was reading, he told me it was one of his favorite books. I wanted to ask him if he’d read it before or after he’d fought in Vietnam. It was no good to ask my father questions. He never answered them.
    I had this idea that Dante read because he liked to read. Me, I read because I didn’t have anything else to do. He analyzed things. I just read them. I