Part 32 (1/2)
”But we'll see each other. Let's not turn this into a funeral. Here's a hanky. You give me yours. Maybe I feel like a tear. This is just great. Sitting bawling into the sauerkraut.”
”Sorry to behave like this, Miss Tomson.”
”I like it. Feel free. Don't mind crying, it's the guys who pray. I don't like. Nice to see you break down.”
”Thanks.”
”Don't mention it.”
”Kiss you on the nose, Miss Tomson.”
”Sure. Anywhere you want.”
”Covers a lot of ground.”
”Good, I want it to. Why don't you buy horses, Smithy, and sport around the resorts. We might meet up. Spend an evening on a verandah watching the fireflies. Was my favorite as a kid. Wait for a shooting star, holding hands on a porch swing. Ask you to come back to my place now, but my fiance is going to be there, the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, got in a rut inheriting millions. That makes you smile. That's better. Say you'll see me later. Come on.”
”I'll see you later.”
”That's it. Black tie, but you come as you like. Building opposite corner where we met tonight. I'm at the top, i A. Floors are numbered, the highest first.”
”Let me get Herbert for you to take you back.”
”No thanks, I'll catch a cab Smithy. No one's trying to rub me out.”
Miss Tomson leaning across the table. Gathering her seal skin up round her black silk and kissing George Smith on the brow. Her tingling perfume. Ache to reach up and hold her breast. A last shred of feeling.
Goodbye.
21.
ACROSS a black bridge, web of trestles over the river cold. Past the tops of warehouses and factories and down into dingy intersecting streets. Further to faintly lurking people along a rialto lined with stores blaring neon lighted bargains of socks, camping equipment, batteries and used parts of cars. Sad rows of houses east and west. a black bridge, web of trestles over the river cold. Past the tops of warehouses and factories and down into dingy intersecting streets. Further to faintly lurking people along a rialto lined with stores blaring neon lighted bargains of socks, camping equipment, batteries and used parts of cars. Sad rows of houses east and west.
Herbert steering the dreadnaught limozine through the night, black cap on his black head. Dusty dark sky hanging over the upturned teeth of a cemetery. Sign of a can company rearing up, laying a carpet of orange light on the headstones. George Smith hands enlaced in lap. Lines darkening down the face. Leaving deep chasms of care.
One hour ago Miss Tomson left me. World gets gloom again. Red light stops the car. Old bearded gentleman crossing the street. Towards a glowing star over a temple entrance. If ever there was a place to hide. Out on these dismal flat lands. Feel all my blood is up for sale. Offered alive to medical science. Body steeped in bottles.
A highway lit with snakelike haunting lanterns. Blocks of buildings. Plastered box living rooms. Evening ap.r.o.ns and s.h.i.+rtsleeves. Where the men are sick and brides are brave returning from the honeymoons. While I was busy in another land. Poised with s.h.i.+rl over a canape. Instead of in these cardboard sprawls of charm and beauty. Where wives lean just gently over the coffee table. Taken from behind. Whisper what's your role in our relation.
Herbert raising his hand at a sign. Car pulling off the highway past a dark little park in a blanket of leaves. Under a bridge, the highway above streaming with the lights of cars. Herbert pointing. A forlorn brick apartment above a window display of medicines. Another window of a bar full of darkness with colored lights blinking far inside.
From the sidewalk Smith looks up. A few yellow lighted windows. Gla.s.s double doors into a dim tiled hall. Line of bra.s.s mail boxes on the wall. Running a gloved finger on the mottled metal. White square envelope sticking out. Between two names an engraved card from another world. C. C. B. Clementine, Apartment 6C.
Smith pressing the b.u.t.ton for the bell. Waiting in the hollow emptiness. Door slamming inside. Sound of feet down the stairs. Someone talking to a child. Woman opening the door. Gasps, recovers and takes a little girl by the hand.
”You want in.”
”Please.”
”Sylvia hold the door for the man.”
”Thank you.”
Smith with barren steps climbing the stairs around empty landings to a brown metal door on the sixth floor. Knocking. Evening newspapers and empty milk bottles on mats by other doors. Roar of cars floating up from the highway down below. A dead squeak, the door opening a brief inch. Peer of a red eye. Part of a pink arm.
”My G.o.d, George. Come in. Thank heavens my message got through. Tell your Miss Martin I'm deeply and forever grateful. Welcome. Forgive me while I crawl Just this length of the hall And my attire. Only thing I have left is my hunting pink. My iron has burned holes in my airport uniform.”
Smith walking slowly behind Bonniface crawling with an odd bark towards a sitting room. Through an open green curtain, a stove bubbling a pot of spaghetti.
”George I'm trying to teach Mr. Mystery to walk and bark again. I crawl to encourage him. Sit there, on the box. Which used to have oranges only I ate them all. Full of suns.h.i.+ne.”
Bonniface pouring out a jar of wine. Handing it to Smith, who crossed his knees and tilted his head to listen.
”Smith it can't go on. Woeful things have befallen Mr. Mystery and me. We're nearly prisoners in here. We have spaghetti, we have each other. Woof woof.”
Bonniface with white silk cravat stuck with a pin of pearl. Smelling into the spaghetti steam. Popping a handful of shattered black olives in the pot.
”George, I have not deserved what has happened to me. Have a plateful of this.”
”I've just had frankfutters and sauerkraut.”
”Combine it with this mixture. Blast off to heaven.”
Bonniface ladling out the squirming starch. A trembling face throbbing with veins around the brow. A little bowl. As he opened French curtained doors a mite, to slip through from the sitting room. To return and smile.
”An entree for Mr. Mystery.”
”What's your trouble Clementine.”
”Smith you're nervous and anxious. You tremble to go.”
”It's a long way here.”
”You rushed away from the beer and onions. Smith I do not want to give you distress. See you unhappy. As your great mausoleum rises a beacon to your cunning. Your astute mind and grave habits. I am your friend. I know the sorrow you suffer with your lonely austere richness. Have more wine. I don't question what goes between you and Her Majesty. I have Mr. Mystery. We go bow wow together into the future. The cold blank heart you have Smith. Come with me out to the airport. See the multi motored birds spread their throbbing wings and go away into the sky. Watch me in action as I check their tickets. I am a clerk. At the bottom of the ladder. You hear that, Smith. I give service to the best of my ability. But now I fade. I must get out/'
Bonniface digging into the spaghetti pot. Forking out more wiggling whiteness. Looking sadly down and shaking his head. With a trembling hand to the neck of a great wicker wrapped bottle. Pouring out the red sublime. Looking across a musty carpet at Smith wiping lips with his square of linen.
”Before moving here, I took up lodging with a person who could not read nor write. She steamed open my letters and took them to a relative to translate the contents. A little group was formed, other relatives were invited. Letters which I had written and torn up were pasted back together again. My little incident in the transit tracks came to light. They are blackmailing me. Tracked me here.”
Clementine, standing lifting a piece of spaghetti from his cravat. A gla.s.s to his lips. Years ago he was thirsty. Took his own bride under the marriage bells and crossed swords of his regiment. Raised his little kiddies to the tune of finer things. Strutting through his rented castle marvelling at the damp contortion of each antique. Took George Smith by the hand to lead him to wedded bliss, with s.h.i.+rl. From the vintage arms of Her Majesty.
”George, it's not funny. No longer amusing to be poor. I came here to catch my breath and reorganise. Promised a future at the airport. They demoted me. The winter comes. I lost my eye gla.s.ses on the subway on the way to Golden Avenue all the way from the airport when a departing pa.s.senger came through with the news. The train was so crowded at Breevort Street no one could get off off or on. Mr. Mystery was being trampled. You threw that money off the roof. Why in G.o.d's name did you do it. Answer me. All right. I don't ask for much. Just a life preserver in the present tribulation and trial. I don't want to add to your troubles. But I need instant help. If not hard currency. Then spiritual peace. Unless I get out of here I'm doomed. Three minutes on the street brings me some misfortune. Without my gla.s.ses, I ask for directions, unable to see. I meet with unspeakable ignorance and implacable stupidity. Then on a bus I met a woman. We were sitting together. Travelling in some G.o.d forsaken direction. We looked out the window our knees pressing. We struck up a conversation. She asked me home. She lived miles and miles away in an attic. An area regrettably called Fartbrook. Took three hours, changing trains and buses. When we got there we climbed a fire escape in the back of the house. A window opened downstairs. A man and woman started shouting out wretched and unseemly words at her. I should have been warned. But I climbed on. In the kitchen she made me coffee and gave me a bun. I listened to her over the table. She had married a policeman. He made her commit variations at gun point. Unwholesome suggestions as to how his organ should be played. And even where it might be put. She had no b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The doctors took them away. Cost her all her money. The gas company squeezed off the gas. Electric company switched off the juice. Strong men took the furniture. Loansharks cruised outside, jaws snapping.” or on. Mr. Mystery was being trampled. You threw that money off the roof. Why in G.o.d's name did you do it. Answer me. All right. I don't ask for much. Just a life preserver in the present tribulation and trial. I don't want to add to your troubles. But I need instant help. If not hard currency. Then spiritual peace. Unless I get out of here I'm doomed. Three minutes on the street brings me some misfortune. Without my gla.s.ses, I ask for directions, unable to see. I meet with unspeakable ignorance and implacable stupidity. Then on a bus I met a woman. We were sitting together. Travelling in some G.o.d forsaken direction. We looked out the window our knees pressing. We struck up a conversation. She asked me home. She lived miles and miles away in an attic. An area regrettably called Fartbrook. Took three hours, changing trains and buses. When we got there we climbed a fire escape in the back of the house. A window opened downstairs. A man and woman started shouting out wretched and unseemly words at her. I should have been warned. But I climbed on. In the kitchen she made me coffee and gave me a bun. I listened to her over the table. She had married a policeman. He made her commit variations at gun point. Unwholesome suggestions as to how his organ should be played. And even where it might be put. She had no b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The doctors took them away. Cost her all her money. The gas company squeezed off the gas. Electric company switched off the juice. Strong men took the furniture. Loansharks cruised outside, jaws snapping.”
Smith jumping to his feet. Gla.s.s of wine splas.h.i.+ng on the floor. Closing his coat and tucking his shoulders into the sable collar. Pulling on a glove quickly, gripping his walking stick. The Clementine eyes, wild and red. Burning with specs of glittering fire. A curtain fluttering at the open window. And the waves of light spreading across the concrete upturned palms of highway. For the rubber wheels hummingeast and west.
”What's the matter George. Sit down. You'll want to know about this. How she bought a set of encyclopedias, signed her name to a form at the door. Man told her a whole new world would open up of knowledge leading to extra earnings. She read till she was so tired she lost her job at the bakery. They tried to take the books back. But she clung to her treasure trove of learning. Put down that stick George, take off those gloves. Give them to me. Me Bonniface. Her name, Euphemia. She tried to dry her underwear on a string hooked to the attic ceiling. Which leaked. I blessed her. The clothes line collapsed. I nearly strangled. It was cold. Rainy. We got under the covers in the bed. We read the encyclopedia under the letter S, for sued, staggered, screwed, soul, swine, syringe. Then a crash as the kitchen door came right off its hinges. In the doorway was her husband behind his service revolver. I turned to D. To read under death and deliverance. I looked him right in the eye and introduced myself. Said I could not help finding his wife attractive. He stood there boggle eyed. We went out to a saloon. All three. We got drunk. I was only sorry I had not looked up flatfoot in the encyclopedia. As well as flog, frenzy, fondue and fandango not to mention fulminate, and fustigate.”