The Roy Stories

by Barry Gifford

  Yemen smiled at him. The janitor had big brown eyes that matched his clothing; they jiggled in their sockets as he spoke.

  “All Arab boys are expected to submit to circumcision in order to pass into manhood,” he said, “but I had witnessed this ceremony performed on my two older brothers and seen and heard their suffering, and I vowed then not to allow it to happen to me.”

  “Didn’t your father or mother try to make you?” asked Jimmy.

  “Not really. They had already decided to try to leave the country, and my mother, especially, was not a true believer in many traditional Muslim customs. It is thanks to her, not Allah, that I still have my foreskin.”

  “What about your ear?” Roy said.

  Again, Stan Yemen smiled.

  “I confess,” he said, “about that I lied. The truth is, it was bitten off by a lion one night when I was sleeping in the desert. In fact, on the same night I ran away from the circumcision ceremony to hide.”

  The janitor walked away, holding his rake over his right shoulder like a rifle.

  “No way,” said Jimmy Boyle. “A lion would have bitten off his whole head, not just an ear.”

  “You think he can hear out of the left side of his head,” said the Viper, “even though he don’t got an ear there?”

  The wind picked up and suddenly the sky darkened. Roy jumped off the bench.

  “Ask him next time,” he said.

  Last Plane out of Chungking

  The little plane was barely visible through dense night fog as it sat on the ground. Then the engine turned over and the single propeller started to rotate, scattering mist as the plane nudged forward, feeling its way toward the runway. Chinese soldiers suddenly burst out of the airport terminal and began firing their rifles furiously in an attempt to prevent the plane from taking off. Tiny lights from the aircraft’s cabin winked weakly from within its whitish shroud while the plane taxied, desperately attempting to gather speed sufficient for takeoff. The soldiers stood confused, firing blindly and futilely until the aircraft lifted into blackness and escape.

  Roy fell asleep with the television on after watching this opening scene of the film Lost Horizon. He liked to watch old movies late at night and in the early morning hours, even though he had to be up by seven a.m. in order to be at school by eight. On this particular night, Roy dreamed about four boys his age, fourteen, in Africa, who discover a large crocodile bound by rope to a board hidden in bushes, abandoned by the side of a dusty dirt road. A stout stick was placed vertically in the crocodile’s mouth between its upper and lower jaws in order to keep the mouth open as widely as possible and prevent its jaws from snapping shut.

  The crocodile could not move or bite, so the boys decided to drag it by the tail end of the board to a nearby river and release it. As they approached the river’s edge, it began raining hard and the ground suddenly became mushy and very slippery. To free the crocodile, they placed the board so that the croc’s head faced the river. One of the boys tore a long, sinewy vine from a plant and cautiously wound it around the stick. Another boy had a knife and prepared to cut the rope. The other two boys kept a safe distance. The boy with the knife sliced the rope in two at the same time the other boy tugged forcefully on one end of the vine, pulling out the stick. The crocodile did not immediately move or close its enormous mouth. The boys stood well away from it, watching. After a few moments, the crocodile hissed loudly and slowly slithered off the board and wobbled to the water’s edge, slid into the dark river and disappeared from view. The boys ran off as the downpour continued.

  When Roy woke up, it was a few minutes before seven. He turned off the alarm before it could ring and thought about both the plane fleeing Chungking and the African boys rescuing the crocodile. What was the difference, he wondered, between waking life and dream life? Which, if any, was more valid or real? Roy could not make a clear distinction between the two. He decided then that both were of equal value, two-thirds of human consciousness, the third part being imagination. The last plane out of Chungking took off with Roy aboard, bound for the land of dreams. What happened there only he could imagine.

  The Vanished Gardens of Córdoba

  Roy was a Chicago White Sox fan until 1956, when the Sox traded their shortstop, Chico Carrasquel, who was Roy’s favorite player, to the Cleveland Indians, to make room for a rookie, Luis Aparicio. Roy switched his allegiance to the Chicago Cubs, who had the home run–hitting newcomer Ernie Banks at shortstop, and he never forgave the White Sox for getting rid of Carrasquel. Aparicio, like Chico, was from Venezuela, and the Sox proved correct in exchanging one Venezuelan for another, since Little Looie, as he came to be called, went on to a Hall of Fame career, while Carrasquel quickly faded into obscurity. But Chico had been the first flashy Latin infielder in the major leagues and Roy, who was then a nine-year-old shortstop on his Little League team, never forgot him. Chico and Looie were the vanguard of Venezuelan star shortstops, to be followed by Davey Concepcion and Omar Vizquel, the latter being perhaps the best of them all. Roy became enamored of Ernie Banks, too, but more for his power stroke than his fielding. Banks had good hands—he set the major league record for fewest errors in a season (since broken)—but limited range. Carrasquel made more errors but he got to more balls, as did Aparicio, whom Roy eventually came to respect and admire. Alfonso “Chico” Carrasquel, whose father, Alex, had been a legendary pitcher in his native Venezuela, would remain Roy’s baseball hero. When he grew up, Roy decided, he would write a biography of Chico Carrasquel even if nobody else remembered him. Many years later, when Roy read in a book about Prince Faisal saying to Lawrence of Arabia, “And I . . . I long for the vanished gardens of Córdoba,” he pictured Chico Carrasquel on the vanished infield of old, since demolished Comiskey Park in Chicago, snagging a hard ground ball on the short hop and firing it to first base just in time to nail the runner. Roy knew exactly how Faisal felt.

  Benediction

  Years later, during the several days preceding her death, in her delirium caused by a stroke, Roy’s mother imagined that her father, whom Roy had called Pops, was with her. Pops, of course, had died fifty years before, but Kitty believed that he was now looking after her and that they were dining together in a great restaurant. In reality, it was Roy’s sister who sat by their mother’s bedside in a hospital, listening to Kitty talk about her father, whom Roy’s sister had never known.

  When his sister told Roy about this on the phone, before Roy got on an airplane to see his mother for the last time, he told his sister it was a good thing because Kitty had long felt guilty about having acted coldly, even cruelly, to Pops in the years prior to his own death, believing that he had been entirely to blame for the divorce from her mother when Kitty was ten. Nanny, Roy’s grandmother, had died when Roy was eight, so his sister, who was not born until four years later, had not known Nanny, either. This visitation from Kitty’s father on her deathbed was a miracle of reconciliation, a touching resolution to Kitty’s conflict. How wonderful, Roy told his sister, for their mother to release herself from what clearly had been her most profound regret.

  “Well, after all,” said Roy’s sister, “she was raised a Catholic.”

  “Pops forgave her,” Roy said, “not a priest.”

  As Roy stood in line waiting to board the plane, he remembered Pops standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel he lived in in Chicago, waiting for his daughter to pick him up to go to lunch with her and Roy, who was then nine years old. It was a cold, blustery, overcast Sunday afternoon, and Roy felt sorry for his grandfather, who was almost eighty, waiting there alone in the bad weather, a black woollen scarf wrapped around his neck underneath a long, gray overcoat. Pops always dressed well and Roy had wondered that day why he was not wearing his signature Homburg hat.

  After his mother had pulled her car to the curb and stopped, leaving the motor running, Roy, who was sitting in the back seat, opened the right rear passenger door
of the midnight blue 4-door Oldsmobile Holiday and got out to greet his grandfather.

  “Pops,” Roy said, “it’s really windy. Why aren’t your wearing your hat?”

  Pops smiled at Roy and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. Roy loved his grandfather more than any other person in his family. It always disturbed him when his mother spoke harshly to Pops.

  “You know what the banker said to the poor farmer who’d come to see him about a loan?” Pops asked.

  “No, what?”

  “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?”

  After they’d gotten into the back seat of the Oldsmobile and Roy closed the door, Kitty looked at her father in the rear view mirror and said to him, “Where’s your hat?”

  Pops put an arm around his grandson and said, “I must have left it in the bank.”

  Then he and Roy laughed.

  Roy’s sister told him not to expect that their mother would recognize him.

  “She’s lost at least thirty years of her memory,” his sister said.

  When Roy saw his mother on her deathbed, he asked her if she knew who he was.

  Kitty opened her eyes, looked into his and said, “You’re Roy. You run faster than anybody.”

  For God’s sake let us sit on the ground

  And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

  —William Shakespeare,

  The Tragedy of King Richard the Second

  About Barry Gifford

  Barry Gifford’s fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been published in twenty-eight languages. His novel Night People was awarded the Premio Brancati, established by Pier Paolo Pasolini and Alberto Moravia, in Italy, and he has been the recipient of awards from PEN, the National Endowment for the Arts, the American Library Association, the Writers Guild of America, and the Christopher Isherwood Foundation. His books Sailor’s Holiday and The Phantom Father were each named a Notable Book of the Year by the New York Times, and his book Wyoming was named a Novel of the Year by the Los Angeles Times. He has written librettos for operas by the composers Toru Takemitsu, Ichiro Nodaira, and Olga Neuwirth. Gifford’s work has appeared in many publications, including the New Yorker, Punch, Esquire, La Nouvelle Revue Française, El País, La Repubblica, Rolling Stone, Brick, Film Comment, El Universal, Projections, and the New York Times. His film credits include Wild at Heart, Perdita Durango, Lost Highway, City of Ghosts, Ball Lightning, and The Phantom Father. Barry Gifford’s most recent books are Sailor & Lula: The Complete Novels and Imagining Paradise: New & Selected Poems. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. For more information, visit www.BarryGifford.com.