“I beg pardon, my lord, my title does not stem from that particular line. My pedigree’s a much humbler one, with quite a few bastard elements,” replied Chicory with a straight face.
“But what about Princess van den … what’s her name? That was a trophy for Casanova himself to be proud of!”
“Oh, please don’t torment me, Maestro! Mercy! It was but a morganatic mistake for her.”
“But did you not, Chicory, once vouchsafe to me in the strictest of confidences that you had exchanged certain sexual instruments after all with our … what is it you call her, Eustachius the Chrysostom? with our Bibiana?”
“You overestimate me, I’m sure,” replied Chicory meekly, closing his eyes with modesty. Then both burst out laughing.
Melkior stood up, offended. No doubt the pair of them had arranged it all beforehand. Wordlessly he made for the door, only to bump into Don Fernando, who was just coming in.
“I’ve been looking for you all over the known world,” said Don Fernando with a kindness that understood all and forgave all, in advance.
“The world is large, if you’ve been looking for me in your world.” Don Fernando gave a patient smile. “To what do I owe the honor?” Melkior attempted a laugh.
“Seriously, now …” Don Fernando took his smile off, as if putting it away for later, and pulled Melkior outside rather hastily. “Pupo wants a word with you. He’s waiting for you at the Corso. That’s all. Goodbye.” And Don Fernando disappeared around the corner.
Pupo? He hadn’t seen the man for years. A chance encounter in the street, in a rush. He was always hurrying somewhere, somebody was waiting for him, he had to get somewhere on time. He would jerk his hand free of the sleeve, glance at his watch, hurriedly. Curly hair, a foppish pencil-thin mustache, his voice a melodious baritone, his dress purposely casual. He bestowed cordial smiles, he liked meeting with his friends but never had time for them. He seemed to be apologizing at every encounter, awfully sorry, old friend … He had a long-overdue exam to sit and was almost ridiculous. Pupo at the University, a seaman on dry land. Then he sank somewhere into the unknown.
And surfaced again tonight. Where from? Why? No questions allowed.
The mysterious life of Pupo. Pupo wants a word with you. Pupo’s waiting. Melkior was moving in Pupo’s magnetic field wrapped up in the force of his relaylike connection with an enigma, with a closed, illegible mystery which showed to the eye only very simple, primitive hieroglyphs. The Christian fish. Melkior knew only that, the fish, and he knew he was on his way to see Pupo about something fishy, but he was flattered by the trust, however minuscule. He felt a moral excitement, as if he were off to admit guilt for a deed for which an innocent man had been charged. The diaphragm nervous, the pulse quickened, the breathing deep, serious … as if it was Viviana who was asking for him. But he immediately rejected the comparison as … inadequate. As a feeling of an intimate, personal danger while the Earth trembled. No, it was beyond comparison, Pupo’s trust.
There was no Pupo in the Café. Melkior had made three or four sweeps of the entire seating area, but—no mustache, no hair … Only to be expected, of course, typical of them to keep us waiting … Then a newspaper dipped and he recognized the smile that was looking at him … But sans the foppish mustache. The hair very light, long, rather thin above the forehead. Plus glasses—oh yes? clearly a plain-glass mask. Melkior approached in excitement, prepared for a tempestuous encounter, a mashing embrace. But Pupo sensibly reduced it all to a cordial handshake.
“Hello, poet. How are you? It has been a long time.” Pupo’s baritone sounded somewhat muted, less fresh.
“Long indeed, yes …” Melkior noticed he no longer knew how to talk to Pupo. He did not know which questions were permitted, whether even asking after somebody’s health was not “forbidden.” He wanted to speak usefully. But he also wanted to show his joy at seeing Pupo again and to reestablish immediately the old easy familiarity, so he permitted himself a joke: “Long enough for you to get glasses and lose the mustache, not to mention exposing a stretch of forehead …”
Pupo kept his grin on, but he was plainly not enjoying the conversation. I’ve put my foot in it and no mistake. It’s camouflage. The … people around might’ve overheard me. He cast a glance around the surrounding tables—the band was playing—and sensed he was making another stupid mistake. Oh Lord, they are a hard lot to handle! Yes, aren’t they, replied the Lord, leaping at the chance.
“Aren’t you going to have a seat?” Well, well, Pupo was not in such a hurry after all.
“Of course I will, I just thought you might be pressed for time and didn’t want to …” he was saying with a smile, but Pupo did glance at his watch, out of habit.
“There’ll always be fifteen minutes to spare for an old …” but his mind was elsewhere, and the generosity was a throwaway; Melkior was insulted by it. Fifteen minutes! Why, that’s how long you spare for whores. Pupo has always been like that. Melkior now regretted his minutes. Why should his be the more valuable? I could have used them to do some thinking at least … or simply to do nothing, to wander about town, look at things. And here I am instead, wasting my time with this … Jacobin. The Revolution will be fifteen minutes late. Ah-tchoo!
“Have you got a cold?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re sneezing. Still going on binges? What about Ugo—is he still as crazy as he used to be? Or have you fallen out?”
“No. Why? We still see quite a bit of each other.”
“In that street-corner dive over there?”
“Yes. The Give’nTake. We drop in from the office every so often. I’m working for a newspaper—part time.”
“On a column-inch basis? What do you cover—literature?”
“Theater and film.” He’s sounding me out.
“Yes, you always liked those. Is Ugo working for the paper, too?”
“No, he isn’t.”
“What does he do then?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Well, I suppose it’s not bad as jobs go. Are you angry with me or something?”
“No. Why? You’re asking and I’m replying, that’s all.”
“Yes, indeed …” Pupo laughed again and glanced at his watch.
“So how do you live, writing your column inches?”
“I get by.”
“Do you still live like we used to—student digs sort of thing, sharing a room? Remember that time we …”
“No, I live alone,” Melkior coldly interrupted Pupo’s remembrance. He doesn’t give a damn anyway—this is just softening me up for something else. He waited for it.
“Got a nice room?”
“Nice. Separate entrance.”
“What have you got—a bed?”
“And a sofa.” Melkior laughed. “Why didn’t you say straight away? Do you need a place to sleep?”
Pupo gave an absent laugh.
“Not I.” His face turned into an undecided suspicious mask that studied Melkior long with a worried and sad look. “Listen,” said Pupo hesitantly, “you’re … um … a good man, I know. That is why I thought … Well, to come to the point: one of our people needs to sleep at your place, see, for … well, a couple of nights. I’m responsible for him, see. That’s what matters. Anything else to do with this business you’ll understand yourself. … See? Not a word to Ugo or any of your crowd … all right?”
“Right you are.” Melkior was feeling grandly emotional, ready to die at the stake. Kill me, you villains! He wondered at his own heroism.
“Whereabouts do you live?”
“Ah. That could be a bit of a snag. Across the road from 35th’s barracks.”
“On the contrary, it’s a good thing. The landlady?”
“Middle-aged widow. But you wouldn’t give her more than thirty-six or -seven to look at her.”
Pupo laughed: “That’s irrelevant to my purpose. Is she the nosy type? Likely to gossip?”
“Oh no, hardly. More the sadl
y contemplative type. Longing for love pure and tender—eternal, too, it goes without saying—but having nasty dreams all the while. Hence unhappy. Cares for nothing anymore.”
“Not even men?”
“Only in her dreams, apparently. However, there is this man friend who comes by twice a week. But it’s more of a spiritual liaison sort of thing. Truth to tell, you do hear a carnal sound or two at times … but that’s all to the good, isn’t it?”
“Ye-es, it is indeed,” said Pupo distractedly, glancing at his watch. “Thank you for the flowers, Doctor. Thank you for the flowers, gentlemen.”
A horribly emaciated elderly woman was weaving her way among the tables, curtsying and thanking everyone, one and all, most graciously, hand on heart, for the flowers. A thin moth-eaten fox boa had slid and hung on one shoulder only, exposing a thin, white wrinkled neck bending to the left and right: thank you for the flowers.
“Oh, Madame! Thank you so much for the flowers!” she suddenly addressed Pupo, offering him a hand in a badly torn black glove from which her fingers protruded in misery. “How are you, my dear? I haven’t seen you for ages. Why, you look years younger! Absolutely radiant. You were at my concert tonight, I’m sure. Wasn’t I marvelous?”
Everyone was looking at their table. Pupo was going alternately red and pale. Melkior clearly saw his jaw tremble … with rage … with fear … hell and damnation, all eyes were on him!
“Last Sunday I played at the Mozarteum, my dear. Oh, what a concert! Liszt’s Sonata in B minor. You like Liszt, don’t you? He’s simply marvelous. And how I played! The great Rubinstein was there, too. He said to me, ‘Brava, ma petite! You have the hands of God who made the world. God give me such hands!’ he cried out and melted into tears. The great Rubinstein. Brava!” she exclaimed in ardent exaltation and went on with her demure round of tables: “Thank you for the flowers, gentlemen. I’m most grateful to you, dear Countess, and to you, too, Baron, thank you for the flowers, you are most kind. Oh, what an honor, Monsieur le Comte. Thank you for the flowers. Thank you, thank you, one and all …” and with tears in her eyes she blew many kisses to the entire clientele, finally to gather her long silk gown and hurriedly step down from the dais with an enormous bunch of flowers in her arms.
“I think my concert’s over, too,” said Pupo in a near-whisper, glancing at his watch. “Some in the audience are quite musical. I’ll go, you stay. I’ll call on you tomorrow. How long will you be in?”
“Until nine, without fail.”
Pupo took his hand and gave it two hard squeezes without a word.
Businesslike. He had clinched a deal.
Expeditious, practical, cold. He was left there like a girl deceived. Call you tomorrow—the time-honored telegraphic goodbye after a tryst. That was how he customarily took leave of Enka—I’ll call you—and regretted it afterwards, in the street. Some other words were called for, after all, but he would always store them away “for later.” Then it would be another I’ll call you, he would again see the disappointment in her eyes but he was unable to tell her anything else, anything binding, committing, anything with a promise of a closer liaison. Let’s make it quite clear: this thing between us has gone as deep as it ever will. No tears, please. So it was with Enka. The polyvalent element, capable of forming many amorous bondings.
As for Pupo … Melkior felt he was retreating after a failed attempt at conquest. The conquest of Viviana. He was now accepting a comparison he had rejected as being out of place. As, hah, one unworthy … of Pupo. Where am I to spend the rest of this miserable evening? He began rummaging among the options. The Give’nTake he threw the farthest away. Home? … and find ATMAN lying in ambush on his landing to see the flower from this afternoon’s garden. Ring Enka? Perhaps Coco was on night duty … in the morgue, with the heart which had died that morning in hand … like a canary. That option he also … eliminated, cautiously. He knew he was going to wander off somewhere following his footsteps, pining for Viviana. A quiet place with well-behaved waiters. There’ll have to be poetry whispered … October’s gentle breath. He smiled, but sweetened the bitterness using Ugo’s tra-la-la-tra-la-la sonnet. With well-behaved waiters? The neon letters of the different Café signs lit up in turns. But he kept wrestling with the Give’nTake. Leave me alone, damn you! Like the shadow of a huge vulture the Give’nTake kept flying over the sweet flickering of Viviana’s name in a distant darkness. The thing to do would be to explore all the dark recesses of this night, strain the ocean to catch the plankton glowing in those two … Vivianic eyes. What was now the use of this entire superfluous night-cloaked space? The thing to do was walk all over the night, from end to end, peer into every dark corner, interrogate every owl, nighthawk, mouse, cat, whore, and thief, walk from bark to bark down to the farthest reaches of the night … Oh, where did they hide her? Gilda! Pietà, signori, prego Pietà. And tomorrow morning Duke Ugo would burst into song questa o quella per me pari sono … Tears welled in his eyes … and he let them flow. In the dense darkness of an old doorway Melkior succumbed to sobs. Oh God how unhappy I am!
“You and I both,” responded the darkness with a sigh. Embarrassment lashed Melkior. He turned toward the darkness enraged, irate:
“Who’s there?” he bellowed into the dark. “Speak up! Who are you?”
“Go ahead, sir, hit me.” Creeping toward him was something four-legged, crawling, down on the ground, on the uneven tiles, rattling huge hooves, armor, fearful machinery. A talking turtle.
“I’m down here, sir, at your feet,” grunted the being on the floor.
“What do you want?”
“You could help me without undue trouble to yourself.”
“Where are you? Stand up. Who are you?”
“Half a man, that’s my name … and my entire biography.”
“Are you drunk? Rolling on the ground like that?”
“I’m not rolling on the ground. I have no legs,” enunciated the man in a low, penitently shamed voice, like someone making a terrible avowal.
Melkior was horrified. He bent over pointlessly with the naïve intention of lifting the man, getting him to stand up straight, restoring his dignity. To stand him up on what? To elevate him to what dignity?
“What can I do for you then?” he asked politely.
“I didn’t tell you that to make you change your tone,” said the legless man with some arrogance. “You can go on despising me if you like. What I have in mind is nothing to do with that kind of mercy. I need your help in a specific matter, that’s all.”
“In what matter?”
“The stairs are too high for me to climb—my legs are cut off almost at the hip …”
“And you want me to …? But can’t you use your arms?”
“I could, but the steps are wooden, there would be the rattle of my hooves and the rest of my harness. She would recognize it. I walk about the house on all fours, she’s familiar with the sound. I say she—I mean my wife. I’m sure you’ll have guessed it by now, I might as well empty out the sack of my misfortune: she’s upstairs in a man’s flat. Her lover’s,” he added in pain.
“Are you sure?” Melkior felt like breaking into a kind of laughter.
“I’ve been lying in wait for her, here in the dark. She’s just walked in.”
“So what do you propose to do upstairs? Strangle her?”
“I couldn’t reach her neck,” the legless man joked grimly. “No, it’s nothing of the kind,” he went on in a serious tone. “I want you to help me upstairs without making a sound. His door is right at the top of the staircase. You needn’t feel any revulsion about touching me, in terms of cleanliness I mean. I’m clean, for all that I crawl along on the ground. She takes care of me, keeps me clean and neat. I’m an intellectual and a man of taste. I’m not poor either. I’m even wearing a new suit—half a suit, that is—complete with white shirt and a tie. You can’t see it in the dark, but you can take my word for it.”
“I believe you,” muttered Melkior. He was alre
ady feeling the urge to turn around and run for it. “Why are you going upstairs?”
“To listen in,” the legless man said greedily. “I want to hear her love, frank and true. I’ve never experienced that nor ever will … do you get my drift? I fear it’s not easy to explain to you people up there, you who are upstanding and whole. But I had a hope when I heard you. … Forgive me if it sounds offensive, but I said to myself, This one just might …”
“But you’d suffer all the worse when you hear them …”
“No, no, not at all!” the legless man interrupted instantly. “Try to put yourself in the position of half a man such as myself who loves a complete and quite shapely woman, a woman neither old nor ugly. I’ve no time to explain why she married me—it’s a long story. The point is, she’s my wife, a girl who married me for love. For my love of course. Because her love is something different, something that will never really blend, combine, commingle with mine. It will never fuse with mine into a single amorous entity which would completely engulf (after all, how could it, with me?) our separate selves, so that you could not tell the one from …”
“That, my dear fellow, never happens with any woman’s love,” muttered Melkior knowledgeably.
“Oh come on now! For an instant at least, for a brief moment of total self oblivion! That’s what I’m after. To hear her call to him, say his name … see? … speak that name with a wild yearning for union, melting, vanishing. That’s what I want to hear from her!”
“With another man?”
“What of it—she’s mine!” the poor man protested in surprise. “Don’t I myself sometimes get carried away by a piece of music, so much so that it’s a kind of mental orgasm (I’m very fond of music); well, couldn’t I, too, experience orgasm with another? With music, that is, in this case? And am I not then in a more exalted mode of being, a finer one, as it were? I’m talking about qualities, not about a commonplace (indeed a common) activity. It’s nothing to do with me, I don’t even think about it. When I listen to the violin in a Beethoven concerto (say the one in D major) do I think about a horse’s tail scraping upon sheep’s gut? I know those are the means, the indispensable means, for providing these wonderful harmonies, but it’s the harmonies that excite me, not the guts. But let’s face it, the guts are necessary. The guts of an anonymous sheep, at that. And the tail of some stupid nag—which indeed may not have been stupid at all, but that’s beside the point. Why should I be thinking about the horse upstairs (who for all I know may not literally be a horse), about the tails and bowels, about the scrapings and blowings and … the dirty business in general, if I want to listen to the love cantilena of a violin that has never sounded properly in my arms? All it has ever done was scrape, scrape, scrape … producing no music, that’s my stinking lot! I’m not a player, whereas he may even be a virtuoso. It takes an entire body, an entire man—which I am not. There you are, the tail and the guts are a must after all. … Am I to hate Menuhin for it?”
Cyclops (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) Page 24
