by Tove Jansson
Stein said nothing, but he looked frightened.
“Don’t worry,” Carter went on. “None of it’s your headache. All you have to do is draw and the paper will take care of all the rest of it.”
“But how do you know all that?” Stein said. “He didn’t talk to people.”
“I’ve got eyes in my head,” Carter said. “And I draw my own strip. But, you see, I can say no. And it’s no skin off my nose if they mess around with my work. Do you get a lot of letters?”
“Yes,” Stein said. “But they’re all to him. Fried told me to give them to the department. They’ve got a stamp with Allington’s signature and they’ve got people who sit there and answer them. And if I’m going to write letters,” Stein went on angrily, “I’ll sign my own name to them, not someone else’s.”
“You’re awfully careful with your name, aren’t you?” said Carter with a grin.
They said no more about Allington. Stein had meant to ask if he’d ever been found, but he felt suddenly dejected and said nothing.
Later they saw one another in the bar from time to time, in passing.
Sam Stein came to his third outline. He would work them up in pencil sketches with a little dialogue and give them to Fried. Five or six days later, they’d come back with corrections and he’d find them on his desk. “Better, but you need to pick up the pace.” “Cut the references to toilet paper and cemeteries.” “Numbers sixty-five to seventy too subtle.” “No jokes about the government and the manufacturers.” And so on.
People at the paper started to recognize him; he began to belong. It was mostly Johnson he talked to in the bar. Johnson was in advertising, and sometimes when he had the time he’d answer Allington’s fan mail.
“Oh, Carter,” said Johnson. “I know. All he cares about are his pigs and those snakes – and money. He’s so fabulously talented, the drawings run out of him like diarrhea, but he has absolutely no ambition. And why should he? Did you know he also grows vegetables and some cousin of his sells them at a farmers’ market?”
“He never answers fan mail,” Stein said. “He doesn’t give a damn. You know what? These cartoonists – either they’re all touchy and conscience-stricken or else they don’t give a damn about anything. Am I right?”
“Maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong. I don’t know if they’re all nuts to begin with or if they get that way from drawing comic strips. Shall we have another?” It was evening and they were lingering in the bar. It was really too late to go back and get anything done.
“This thing with Allington,” Stein said. “I can’t get free of him. He’s everywhere. What actually happened?”
“He went nuts,” Johnson said.
“You mean, really?”
“Well, sort of, more or less.”
Sam Stein leaned over the bar and looked into the mirror behind the bottles. I look tired, he thought. But in a few weeks, I can take it easier. I could have Blubby go to a bar. It’s been a long time since he did that. He’d gone through four years of Allington’s old strips. No one remembered further back than that.
He said, “Is there anyone who knows where he is? I want to talk to him.”
“Why? You’re doing fine.”
“That’s not it. I want to know why he couldn’t go on.”
“But you know that,” said Johnson amiably. “You’ve already figured it out. It’s like drummers in jazz bands. After a certain number of years, it’s just over. What do you say? Shall we have another?”
“No,” Stein said. “I don’t think so. I thought I’d do some laundry this evening.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The next morning, Stein went into the storage room behind Allington’s office and started pulling down cartons from the shelves, bundles of letters, bags, and boxes. He lined them up on the floor in order to go through all of it. There was fan mail in four boxes and a suitcase. On three of them was the word “Done”. One said “Sent things”, and on the suitcase was written “Pathetic Cases.” On yet another little box Allington had written “Good Letters” and on another, “Anonymous.” Product samples, Blubby in every possible material and packaging, all of them with wide blue eyes with big black pupils. Outlines crossed out with a felt-tip pen, all except one, something about the Wild West. A notation: “Not used”.
Stein smoothed out Allington’s manuscript and put it on his desk. Maybe he could use it. The next carton was “Unsorted” and it broke when he pulled it out and a sea of paper flowed out across the floor. Poor man, Stein thought. How he must have hated paper. Messages, queries, bills, exhortations, pleas, accusations, declarations of love … There was an address book with neatly noted names and in parentheses the wife’s name or the husband’s, names of the children, of the dog, or the cat … Maybe the courtesy of remembering made letters a little shorter for him – it got him off the hook more easily.
Suddenly Stein didn’t want to know more. All he wanted was to try and find Allington. He needed to understand. He had a seven-year contract and he needed to be calmed or alarmed, one or the other, but he had to know.
The next day Stein tried to find Allington’s address, but no one could help him.
“My dear boy,” Fried said, “you’re just wasting your time. Allington has no address. His apartment was essentially untouched and he never came back.”
“But the police,” Stein said. “They searched for him. They did a lousy job. Here’s his address book. A thousand names or more. Have they seen it?”
“Of course they have. They called a few people, but no one knew anything. What do you want with him?”
“I don’t know exactly. I want to talk to him.”
“I’m sorry,” Fried said, “but we’ve got better things to do. He left us in the lurch, and now we’ve fixed it. You need to stop brooding about Allington.”
♦ ♦ ♦
That same evening the boy appeared, a kid six or seven years old. Stein had put his work away and was ready to leave.
“It was hard to find you,” the child said. “I’ve brought you a present.”
It was a large flat package, wrapped with lots of pieces of string. When Stein had untied them all, he found inside a new package tightly circled with tape. The boy stood quietly as he cut and tore it, until he reached yet another package, which was bound together with plastic bands.
“This is getting more and more exciting,” Stein said. “It’s like a treasure hunt!” The boy was solemn and silent. The packages grew smaller and smaller, but each wrapping was as hard to open as the one before. Sam Stein began to be uneasy. He wasn’t used to children and it bothered him pretending to be Allington. Finally he came to the end and opened a Blubby drawn on silver paper and wearing an astronaut’s spacesuit. He blurted out admiring comments that were much too exaggerated. The child didn’t move a muscle.
“But what’s your name?” Stein said and knew at once that it was the wrong question, utterly and completely wrong.
The boy said nothing. Then, in a hostile tone, “Where have you been?”
“I was on a trip,” Stein said quickly. “A long trip to a foreign country.”
It sounded idiotic. The boy looked at him very quickly and looked away again.
“Do you draw a lot?” Stein asked.
“No.”
It was awful, totally hopeless. His eyes wandered across the cluttered room looking for help, something to say to this child who admired Allington. He picked up the Wild West from his desk and said, “This one isn’t done yet. I don’t really know how to go on. Come and have a look.”
The boy came closer.
“You see, Blubby’s in the Wild West,” he said, feeling suddenly relieved. “The bad guys are trying to take his spring, which is his only source of water. They’ve hired a lawyer, and the lawyer has come up with a wicked plan. He’s going to say that the spring doesn’t belong to Blubby at all. It’s owned by the state.”
“Shoot him,” the boy said calmly.
“Yes, mayb
e you’re right. On the street or in a bar?”
“No. That’s too ordinary. Have them ride after each other and the lawyer shoots first.”
“Good,” Stein said. “It’s important that he shoots first, so he’s had his chance. So it’s okay if he dies.”
The boy looked at him and eventually said, “Your new place is too far away for me. When are you coming to mine? I made an altar for you, with pictures.”
“How nice,” Stein said. “Maybe I will soon. I’ve got so much work to do right now. Have you ever drawn with India ink?”
“No.”
“Give it a try. Write your address and my address. Side by side.”
“But you already know them.”
“Yes, but write them anyway. Names and all.”
The boy wrote, slowly and neatly.
When he’d gone, Samuel Stein returned all of John Allington’s things to the back room. They were the possessions of a dead man. But he had the address now of the Allington who was alive.
♦ ♦ ♦
Allington was living in a hotel in a suburb. He was middle-aged, a perfectly ordinary man, one of the invisible people on a bus. Dressed in something grayish brown. Stein introduced himself and explained that he was his replacement for the comic strip.
“Come in,” Allington said. “We can have a drink.” The room was clean and seemed very empty.
“How’s it going?” Allington asked.
“Quite well. I’m on my fourth outline.”
“And how’s Fried?”
“There’s his bad back, of course, but otherwise he’s fine.”
“Funny,” Allington said. “All of that was so important. How long is your contract?”
“Seven years.”
“Sounds right. They don’t want to drag it out longer when the strip’s been running for such a long time. Sooner or later, people are going to want something new.” Allington went out to the kitchen to get their drinks. When he came back, he asked how Stein had found his address.
“There was a boy, Bill Harvey. He came in with a drawing for you. For that matter, here it is.”
Allington looked at Blubby the astronaut. “I know,” he said. “He was one of the hardest to answer. Never stopped writing. Did he believe you were me?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I pulled it off.”
“Do you get your mail directly or does it go to Johnson?”
“To Johnson.”
“That’s better.”
“One thing,” Stein said. “It doesn’t feel good pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m not used to it.”
“I understand,” Allington said. “But you get into the swing of it and it gets to be just another part of the game. You spit out letters faster and faster and they take them at face value. You anticipate their reactions and accept their inexhaustible silliness. The same ideas over and over again. With stupid variations.”
“Nevertheless,” said Stein carefully, “it’s a question of responsibility, isn’t it? I mean, all these people open their newspapers and read the comics. They read them and they’re influenced. Maybe they’re not aware of it, but they can’t help themselves. You could sneak in a whole lot of stuff that was …” He paused. “Positive, somehow. Teach them something. Or comfort them. Or scare them – make them think. Do you know what I mean?”
“I know,” Allington said. “I did that sort of thing for four or five years.”
They were silent for a moment.
“We never found your last outline,” Stein said. “Did it get lost?”
“Probably.”
“But I found one about the Wild West. I was thinking of using it. Shame to waste it.”
“The usual story?”
“More or less. Only sixty strips. Maybe a few more.”
“Well, well,” Allington said. “I think it was something they turned down. You can only use the Wild West maybe once a year. But put it in with the rest; it won’t matter. Where do you work?”
“In your room.”
“Is it still just as cold?”
“I’ve put in an electric heater.” Stein was quiet for a moment and then asked what he should do with all the stuff in the closet and the desk drawers.
“Have someone carry it out in the yard.”
“But I can’t do that,” Stein said. “After all, it’s a life. You can’t just dump it in the yard.”
Allington started to laugh, and his face was suddenly very appealing. “Stein,” he said, “not a life. A little piece of a life. See, I’m not done yet. What is it that bothers you? That I quit and just walked away from all of it? You’ve only got seven years. You’ll get through it somehow. You’re not going to hang yourself.” He filled their glasses and said, “There was one who did. A villa on the Riviera and a yacht and all the rest of it, and then he goes and hangs himself. Maybe it’s not that unusual, but he wrote a letter to other cartoonists and warned them against long contracts. They’ve got the letter at the paper in their secret museum. Do you want ice?”
“No thanks,” Stein said. “I take it straight. What shall I do with this kid? Bill.”
“Nothing. He’ll grow up and start to admire something else. Believe me, it doesn’t pay to go soft in this game.”
“You’re one to talk,” Stein said. “I’ve looked in your drawers.”
“And what did you think?”
Stein hesitated. Then he said, “That you got very tired.”
Allington stood up and walked to the window. It was getting dark. He made a movement as if to draw the curtains but then let them be. He stood looking down at the street.
“I think I should be going,” Stein said. “Thought I’d go back and work for a while.”
“It was their eyes,” said Allington without turning around. “Their cartoon eyes. The same stupid round eyes all the time. Amazement, terror, delight, and so on – all you have to do is move the pupil and an eyebrow here and there and people think you’re brilliant. Just imagine achieving so much with so little. And in fact, they always look exactly the same. But they have to do new things all the time. All the time. You know that. You’ve learned that, right?” His voice was quiet, but it sounded as if he were speaking through clenched teeth. He went on without waiting for a reply. “Novelty! Always something new. You start searching for ideas. Among the people you know, among your friends. Your own head is a blank, so you start using everything they’ve got, squeezing it dry, and no matter what people tell you, all you can think is, Can I use it?” Allington swung around and stared at Stein, suddenly silent, the ice cubes tinkling violently in his glass. His hand had started shaking. Slowly he said, “Do you understand? Do you see that you can’t afford it, that you don’t have time to be in a hurry?”
Sam Stein had risen from his chair.
“Every day,” Allington went on, “every week and month and year and new year and it never ends – the same creatures with the same pupils creeping around you and over you and never stopping …” Allington’s face was changed, swollen, and a muscle was twitching by his mouth.
Stein looked away.
“Forgive me,” said John Allington. “I didn’t mean to … Mostly things are fine. In fact they’re getting better and better. I’ve been doing well recently. They tell me I’m much improved. Sit down. Let’s sit for a while. Do you like evening?”
“No,” Stein said. “No. I don’t like it.”
“Do you ever see Johnson?”
“Yes, in the bar sometimes. I like him.”
“Collects stamps. But only with boats on them. I heard about a man who collected stamps with musical instruments. Funny about collectors. I’m interested in mosses. You know, moss. But then I’d have to live in the country.”
“They grow very slowly,” Stein said. “And then, as you say, you have to live in the country. And they say the birds destroy them if they have a bad year.”
He stopped talking. He wanted to go. The visit had depressed him.
Allington sa
t and played with a pencil, letting it roll across the table a little way in one direction and then back again.
He drew so beautifully, Stein thought. No one had prettier lines. So light and pure. It always looked like he was having fun drawing them.
Suddenly Allington asked, “How do you find the time?”
“Find the time? Well, it goes along all right. You develop a rhythm.”
“I just thought,” Allington said, “I just happened to think that, if you get stuck, I might be able to do a couple of strips. Sometime. If you’d like …”
White Lady
They were probably about sixty years old and had clearly dressed for the evening. All three were exhilarated; the man driving the boat guessed they’d had a drink or two before leaving home. As he took them across, they talked a great deal and called him captain, and when they reached the dock they made a great to-do about going ashore and pretended to be afraid of falling in the water.
The restaurant lay on an islet in the middle of the harbour, an odd wooden pavilion with spire-topped towers and tall, extravagantly decorated windows. Now at dusk, the pale grey building was very pretty in a melancholy way. Ellinor said that it lay like a forgotten dream among its dark trees. Or maybe like a wedding cake on a plate that was too small. Ellinor loved similes.
“Yes, you’re right!” May exclaimed. “That’s just exactly what it looks like. A decorated cake. A gateau. Isn’t that what we used to call them?”
“Good heavens, how pretty this is,” Regina said. “Just look at the boats.” They had walked onto the lawn, May, Ellinor, and Regina, and were standing in a row on the wet grass. The harbour lights were soft and blurred in the evening fog, and against this backdrop of quivering lights, boats were gliding past, all of them on their way out to sea. Black coasting smacks and ketches, their sails like swans’ wings, as Ellinor put it. And behind them came the overnight boat to Stockholm, tall, radiantly white, adorned with glowing strings of pearls. Slowly, slowly the great luxury liner glided out from the harbour with all the other boats around it, and every one of them had to swing wide to get past the islet where the three ladies stood. “Now let’s go in,” Regina said. “It’s getting chilly.”
