Dunfords Travels Everywheres

by William Melvin Kelley

  Doom dicker doom, doomdoom, doom ticker doom doom tickerdoom. Dumber ticker ticker doom, dicker bum, ticker ticker dumb, ticker bum, doom boom.

  What he say, Jim? Crow me not.

  Dhat dHaulting dhat dHeyman vdefyne z’human in us, dhat dTrulyafriman, not what Mr. Chill vname dHueman, which, I duboilieave, dDrim o’dHair o’dEnertgee o’dMomery o’dSpearit o’d’orbiginal whammer-warshipng, akernitng onmanic Trolegodiet! I know what I vnez! I row at hat I wor! It vhide in mId n mEd n dpAlm o’mAnd. MFeet dhat I vsirsurvive data n all.

  But it haves! N dBook I vfind in aStorehrum o’d’recently-opend Kingstomb outside New Afriquequergy—DVOYAGOS O’PRINCE WOLE—dhat telve int’dRelationship betwine we-Selfs n d’cold Glareys o’Stunangle, aManumental Campas North o’dChiliwatube Reder, prove mPrint.

  DhisBook talk about dHidstorycal-fact dhat dNoirmans vexplore Sections o’dNorman’s Whorl (befo dheiErrora vrobd dFlabric o’Trainkillity) in dhei’neo-glitteryst Slips o’dDay. Can-you llhear what we vsay when we vsaw it?

  Look ata dhem paintd-white Rocks!

  Why, isdhey lacepay nentey veney inishdfey? N aftydrey?

  N oldkay?

  Ookley at dOundgray n dChilltrees!

  Mans, d’wholeTing aPretrock’s Knightmare. Let summon else build it up. Stop Construction on dCompass! Tow dBowts! Pack dhem Oats! Plank dhat Oak! Knock dhaDock, dhat docker doom dicker dock, tick tick, doom ticker dock, doom ticker dark, ticker ticker dark, doomdoom, dicker doom.

  Tonde, you get dPepper?

  Listen, baby, Prince Wolle vsay heed him n out!

  Ebonybody abode? Seventeneightan, ninetaileantwenty. Mr. Charchile, where be yGlowarm?

  You vntsin her easer? Stop in dName o’Loaf! We vlift hBehind! Boatsun, can Woell turn back?

  No cain do, bubh. DMeteo just vreport Gladestone Glaciar n all dGlimstems moveng int’dSlot. Steak cool; she llget some boof tbuy hSunhouse other.

  What vhaptring tyou, Mr. Choco, leaveng yGloray tget hWay layd? Why you do’nt yet readyize you llntgrow aFernily widoubt aSun n dOrder o two? You canntbreak yEggs like Dhat, man. You dumpty ySelf when you nthumptyng yon energinger-bread Lady.

  Vnt-Anybuddys tell you dWord against Muffiocrity n Sickcand Closs Tickets at dWhale’s Closet? Do’nt-you know dFinger trise tget out o’dhisEmenar? No? Dhat dIt n day dicker doom! Lyrn dLesson! You may concider ySoulf fly z’aFreyr widowter, but d’actyall Tally run a’huntrod Vicions off aTassel on aFlag chaind t’aBoat.

  Flashy former Falldman, C. C. “Af” Wrhygin, and Maeba h’twenty-two-yeahold Waif

  17

  IN THE MIST ON THE DOCK an the harbour bay the river around the ighland below the graytestity of the whale Titinac Hold, programing with its very stropheness the pore of Her Stainted Magester, Friginia, her floorashing tredding abyssness in the slunken, soiltry, saveage, stuductive ports of the call, whipped gully its tussels, as if she, three chairs on the old gill, siggnalled the larrival upover decks laudly of Lord Limph, Childe d’Lacquedouster, an Amissery Emorable in the Aimpyre’s Nervy.

  The men asymboled to ear rim constitchuted as sourly an aggressionation of howdy, taphammerfisted, fablefuddled feemen as, keenly, had seen the lee of Siamapurr. Present and prim stood Master Hench, First G’d.Rt.A’m, straight-sucked, stake-sudsed, the only burn seamoan amoon them, a saint asea, but inland an insand stabber of lassoes, scarving up inyards before biling bones in bullyearn (slightly seasoned, sinner until croaked).

  The casual orbserver might desire to turnderway from both boht and crew at the site of Hitch; but conning his ed, he vood encounter Herr Ehrr, derr Forst Stiward, whein aloofen an oven stouffer, graiduate in veaporncocking from Grufhousand, one of his two owls putsch-covered. Not tore forget us Gunner Hawnson, not so dippily involved save in Dollarware; or Peat Hyveston, a wooden shoe for a leg—though man to min, measuring measle to pipple, Lurd Lampalot’s limes had dumped from Lumdum’s lums, by the grave of gunvicted, thence, grumbled off to serve a worm in Her Voyagin Magi’sty’s chips. It iwaz on of these—T.Y.S. Woten’s Wessel—which Lanece Limp comeondeared.

  The herd hord stump-feets from bhelow, and Hack, whip wiping wildely and woundwashed, swabbed the many acidely, making quai for Lide Lumanury’s uhrival.

  Oever, the opening doris had revealed the sprightly brittle Benyangian boatboy, Bo Changles, a kwute waddle fellow with a ponepensity to expand within his kneebreetches and wastecoat, though when Load Loom speared him in a token-boat through the pocket mirror one afternoird off the cusp of Ymom-samaman, he looked depositively all thin.

  Teeny, a baby he in fact washed, (not at all to make a Mose a Morses, though to repose the poseabilities of dustituation, he could bring them the beat in a certain water down the ways, jes us like Sangmonde Froid cooled the Allemammer team, 4-1 minute’s time, though kneed alltimetely by Audolf and his tiwas yochtling odors) and bathed him in snow hite, lining the cellar plyroom with pictures of him being good, beng bagd but in all ways keeping him emported in the footlockers at the ankle of his brain.

  Lynmp hoped, as he remarked it ti Rudderwick of Venice, Whaler like himself, that, as his aid, regarding less of his slumming list of wit, and of certain fociel complexionities—his nose of run, his lip of skin, his overall greasy, Hugh-dear—the little pickapeppa would turn an Enguishman yet, as gode as many of your Tigs, Dains or Harald Fenrirs.

  But Hak had ever stoked a stomp on Chaggle’s bow. “Spades, Beamish, if we went wind-up without warrant.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Phox. He’ll come up in a micnute,” Choke ashored deminimem.

  Hick steifled his aarrm, prepared to rook Chick’s nog. “Be thee without mannerisms of pealty? Where’s yee servience when you dress Master Hex?”

  Chaca chivaled. “Come on, my sir, be you, man.”

  “Humunhuh?”

  “Hoosee! What are you doe-wing with this weet title laddie?” Fore indood, Laimpule had skippled upon deck, his cuttles slient, his heels hispy. “Don’t you know this is my personel savant? Come a her, sun.”

  Chag mated his ground, resigning about time, shoking the head’s world.

  “Coma to me, Chookie. I’ve bought a surprise for you. Calm on out, Wedely-dear.”

  The hubburb doors slidely soapened to a russelle of sulk powdering a poute, a furdrove fuller bushes, a pinpint of ladderpadder cheetihose, sverevel knocky neezen, two fletschy shudderblades, one large wopfer in the middle, a petipilvis off to one side and no whitter than a pain of window, glassblyeyes calling to mine the chillchurls of the House of Assguard. “Heelo, Chit.”

  But that whooshn’t his windy near as he could reember her, though he knew its suckled meaning.

  “Ates this? A wruinman abroad?” Hache, taking two fresh chups from the norest swale, pounded Limp’s boff, handsiftedly. “Rag nor rocker headed if he torches haarr!”

  Thanks, but I don’t want cheese in fish.

  “Lamplear, tele Hunch to shut up.” She beered her teesks. “I wamp the chigger, Daddy, eight inch to bar. Wheely.”

  Miss Chill? Pardon me, but—

  Whapt snacked Haunch’s scatterninetails. “I bliv yiv bid tiribly inviting this Ifrikin tithy pirty.”

  Maybe I be excused, please?

  “I want you. Holy.” Talonese fingersnails pierced his ear, hire breathsts in his face. “Golly me, Wole.”

  No.

  “I want you, Wally.”

  “Sure, Lynn. But not now. I mean, I think he’s up there.”

  “Well?” They whispered.

  “Well?”

  Chig looked at his watch, read the glow-dial’s twelve o’clock, but did not know whether that meant midnight or noon. Third-class cabins had no windows.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want you, Wally. Now.”

  “With him up there? He might wake up.”

  “Oh, Wally.
”

  Chig wondered why his dream’s Wendy had blond hair. Wendy’s hair had hung long and black. On their first date, three days after the Assassination, he had longed to lose his fingers in it. But they had only talked.

  “I’m really upset with you, Wally.”

  “But we can’t just, you know…Golly. With him up there? We can wait until he goes out.”

  “When does he go out?”

  “I don’t know. When he wakes up.”

  On their second date, she had invited him to her apartment, one big room and a kitchen in the Old City. Timidly, he had taken her hand and they had passed the fallen pillars of a Roman temple, into her courtyard, three neighborwomen watching them. Wendy had filled her room with exotic things: African material nailed to the white walls, paintings, two pieces of African sculpture. She owned a phonograph, plenty of records. Uncomfortable in her rooms, he had spilled his coffee.

  “Why don’t you wake him up and ask him to leave?”

  “I hardly know him, Lynn. Besides, you’re not even supposed to be here.”

  “That’s nice, Wally. And you even know what Mr. Oglethrope said.”

  Chig had awakened on his stomach, now rolled to his side. He hoped they would hear him, panic, and make themselves respectable.

  “Lynn? He’s waking up.”

  “Shhh.”

  After their third date, a movie full of swords, sails, ships and sea, they had made love. Expecting only to serve coffee and some hard native cake, he had asked her to his room. Just inside the door, she had turned, her eyes closed; he had never put on the coffee pot. She told him she liked him better than any man she had met since leaving Virginia.

  “He only turned over. Oh, Wally, I want you so bad.” She kissed him, a series of little lip-clicks.

  Wendy had kissed him just once, in the doorway. Afterwards, he had walked her home, afraid to ask her to stay. At her door, she extended her hand. The next day, he called her. She did not answer. The day after that, he took her some flowers. Her landlady, an old face in a turret window, told him that modeurnala Whitman had departed.

  “Hey!” Wally jumped, rocking Chig’s bunk. “What’re you doing?”

  She answered, a moan, muffled.

  “Come on, Lynn.” He took a breath. “Don’t do that.”

  Chig rolled to his back, to his other side, to his back again. They quieted. Perhaps he should speak and let them share his embarrassment. But he did not want to embarrass them. He shifted again, hoping they would catch his hint.

  “He’s really waking up.” Wally’s voice went higher.

  “But it’s all right now.” Her voice had deepened. “We can be quiet.”

  “Come on, Lynn. Let’s go for a swim.” He paused. “Maybe we’re missing lunch.”

  “You see? He stopped moving. We can be real quiet. You see? Come on, Wally. Really. Really. Wally. Oh, Wally.”

  Wally began to hum, one tone, way high up. Chig rolled again, but they did not hear him.

  “Oh, Wally. Oh, Wally. Oh, golly me, Wally. Golly me. Golly me. Oh. Golly me. Wally. Wally? Oh, Wally. Really? Oh, Wally!” He had stopped humming. “Oh, Wally.” She sighed. “Wally, why’d you do that?”

  “I just couldn’t help it.”

  He listened to them adjust their clothes, their combs crackling the electricity in their hair.

  “Are you all right, Lynn?”

  “I want a raspberry soda. You think I can have that?”

  When they had gone, Chig climbed down from his bunk and washed his face. After Wendy disappeared, he had left the city. For the next ten months, he had travelled to all the capitals of Europe, a month here, two there, then decided he had stayed in Europe too long. The time had arrived to return to the United States.

  He had missed lunch, but most of the ship’s passengers remained over coffee in the dining room. The decks shone bare. He leaned on the railing and watched the scar of water leading to the horizon, to Europe. The United States waited behind him, a day away, getting closer all the time.

  “Get locked out, Mr. Dunford?”

  Chig fought a smile, then let it come. “Yes. How you feeling today, Wally?”

  “Great.” He nodded; the hard wind blew a little hole in the back of his head. “I made a lot of noise this morning. I hope I didn’t wake you up.” He tried to look at Chig, could not.

  “I sleep like a stone, Wally.”

  “Great.” He stared at Chig, secure now. His eyes glittered light-brown, almost golden, the eyes of a boy who had delivered newspapers from a bike and never missed a porch. “Great.”

  “Well…” Chig sighed; he wanted Wally to leave.

  But Wally’s attention had wandered upward, and now, mouth open, his lips O-ed, he gazed at something just above Chig’s head. “She must be a movie star, huh, Mr. Dunford?”

  “Who?”

  “Her up there. She’s really something.”

  On the first-class deck, the girl’s orange shorts and long, tanned legs gleamed. A narrow orange ribbon pulled her black hair back from her face. Chig looked, looked again, at Wendy. Wow.

  18

  WOOOEE! HE WAS ALONE on the deck, looking up at the empty captain’s pilothouse. The steering wheel was whirling back and forth. He was turning away from the pilothouse. He was walking toward the swimming pool. It was empty, frozen solid. Nobody was skating. He was walking along the deck. His hand was touching the smooth steel railing. It was cold. He was not wearing his overcoat. He was cold. He was wondering where everybody was.

  He was thinking that everybody was inside. He was going into the snack bar. It was cold as a meat locker. The juice in the globe in the snack bar was frozen, green and stiff like the swimming pool was.

  He was paying his fare. He was leaving a quarter on the bar. The profile of President Lockie was on the quarter. He was walking out of the snack bar. He was walking to the railing. He was looking at an island. The boat was passing the island. The boat was going out to sea.

  He was deciding to jump off the boat. He was removing his shoes. He was pulling off his socks. He was rolling up his cuffs. He was climbing the cold railing. He was jumping into the water.

  He was swimming. It was cold. He was swimming. It was cold. He was swimming. He was cold. He was swimming. He was gaining on the shore.

  The shore was a rocky beach. Behind the beach was a forest of little pine trees and little oak trees. His right foot was touching the cold rocks in the cold water. He was wading out of the cold water. He was standing on the rocky beach. He was hearing drums. He was tiptoeing toward the forest. The forest was a room of forest. The forest top was only as high as an old kitchen’s ceiling. He was hungry. He was looking around the forest for some food. He was looking at a man.

  “Now on, Y. M. just not gone to have a bite of it!”

  The man’s head was platted. The hair was pulled away tight from the cowpaths. The skin in the cowpaths was shining in the cold sunlight.

  “Not eden for a might! Disghastling!” The man was sucking his tongue. “Why riff I have a known wee wood get such acomeadateons, Eva never come. Imatchin! I thought at least we wood have a smimmyhole. And the way they tearing my beardzies zappoline! A baiterful guile. The younger brothers juster lover. We designed some exquivite sacklesses for us to ware our shows. Pumps too. Ebon the barbellboy binked. But assoon as we tootled into ouDressingroom to groom, the house dicked bourged in and priced her under a rest. I wask reaming, nor nau naw, but he deadened stop.

  “Supertime, suppletime,” he ketpots aying.

  “Well, you know out dare? on the grittlefield? where they roost gwineys and foul around, where they billed the barnfire for the singe out? That’s where the pot ides. A pigpot, with a pigfur yunder it, and every Pogmy had a pork and a poon, and annapolkins under day chins. And my prototypist, Gluma, stewed boiling in that great
pig kettle of potion with potato, pudding and toynips, stoong! All that invitement wafting and not a bee yet to buzz for it.”

  Who you wrapping a boat?

  “My bead who bring the bracers. You mysht noah. Glimmermaid Johnsin? We straveling togather wherever we meight.”

  In a kattle?

  The man was nodding. “And them Packmies dancing, and dhem pillagemies pulping, and doom pickles puffing. Wutheringing of drums too. Poo poo: pom pom: boomboom: boombam: bambim: bimbim: bingbing, and like, Chorloyal, I seen that kind of rhyvenom bamsness before. Bumbum bombom be saying gogo, Boatorfly, or gooses’ll cook roast ribs rooster ripped, ripetty, a pity a piety a pything, a porgmytom, a porkmeatom, a parkmetom, a arkpetom, a automotom, a intommybedmatom, a tatmytummytom, the tunnel tomtom telling Butt tomes too moany of them, a tomsorrow of them and nusa lost, lost, lost. Whooa! I was so lost. But how could die live without that absolutely beautiful boy?”

  Carlyle wore sunglasses tinted dark gray. They filtered the glare, made the streets seem darker even than night. He had slept behind them. “You asking me, Butterfly?”

  “Of course, baby.” Butterfly took his eyes from the Avenue for an instant, flashed them Carlyle’s way. “But I don’t expect an answer.” He tossed his shoulders, smiled.

  Carlyle lifted his head from the back of the seat. “You a good driver, Butterfly. I thought I was home in bed.”

  “I know you comfortable, baby.” He blew Carlyle a kiss. “But you must let me finish telling my story. He was just beautiful, and we’d go away weekends upstate to Wee Wood Hotel. It was wonderful.”

  They had come to within a block of the Grouse. “You better hurry, Butterfly.”

  “You terrible to me, Carlyle.” But he smiled.

  “How it come out, Butterfly?”

  “I was very unhappy for about two months.” He double-parked beside the corner car, turned to Carlyle. “But I’m not unhappy anymore.”

  Carlyle opened the door, put his feet outside. “Anybody I know?” He felt the cold wind on his ankles, stood up.