Angelica Lost and Found

by Russell Hoban

  My mind drifted in and out of the twists of the plot, Welles’s dreadful brogue, the horrible voice of the actor who played George Grisby and the passionate whispers of Rita Hayworth. Part of the film was set in San Francisco, and Welles obviously liked the noirish melancholy of the horns on the Golden Gate Bridge because he kept them blowing even when there was no fog.

  The picture wound up rather like the last act of Hamlet: Rita Hayworth died along with the evil husband and his evil partner, and she herself was revealed as no better than she should have been. Welles and his dreadful brogue survived the whole mess – after all, he directed. The film left me unmoved but internally I was weeping for Rita Hayworth of the Dancing Cansinos who grew up to become Fred Astaire’s favourite partner. I ejected the Welles film from my mind and inserted the scene from You’ll Never Get Rich in which she and Astaire are practising a dance routine from a show they’re working on. She was wearing rehearsal shorts that allowed her leg action to be fully seen. The gallantry of that trained perfection! It made the world seem a better place. Not content with my mental playback, I put the DVD of the film in the player and watched it tearfully. To give so much and end with so little! I poured myself a large Laphroaig and raised my glass. ‘Thank you, Rita Cansino,’ I said, ‘for making the world a better place while you were in it.’ Then I drank it down and woke up the next morning with a bad taste in my mouth but no regrets.

  Chapter 51

  Faintness of Volatore

  Dimness and silence. Everything is moving away from me. The world and Angelica, where have they gone? I am losing the idea of me, whatever it was. Smaller and smaller I grow. I am disappearing into the nothingness of things forgotten. My name, what is it? There was one who would remember me; where is she? Who is she?

  Chapter 52

  All at Sea

  ‘Well,’ said Dr Long, ‘in our last session it emerged that you weren’t sure you wanted to be with Volatore again.’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything right now,’ I confessed. ‘I may be a figment of my own imagination.’

  ‘But that’s all anyone is; it’s the human condition. We’re given a name at birth and photographs are taken. We come to be known by name and face and from this we piece together an identity and fix it in memory. This identity is not physically part of us; a knock on the head can make it go away.’

  ‘I think mine might go away without the knock on the head. Some nights I’m afraid to go to sleep for fear that I’ll disappear altogether.’

  ‘You won’t though. Who are you in your dreams?’

  ‘Me, Angelica Greenberg.’

  ‘There, you see?’

  ‘I know that what you’re saying is meant to reassure me but it doesn’t.’

  ‘It really doesn’t?’

  ‘Yes, it really doesn’t.’

  ‘Perhaps I should take up another line of work.’

  ‘What else can you do?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll run away to sea.’

  ‘Doc, you’re being frivolous on my time.’

  ‘Actually, what you need is a frivolous day and a change of air. A little sea voyage on the bay might be just the thing.’

  ‘In what? Have you got a boat other than Dos Arbolitos?’

  ‘I do, and I provisioned it this morning.’

  ‘What kind of boat is it?’

  ‘A yawl. It’s a replica of Joshua Slocum’s Spray in which he was the first man to sail alone around the world.’

  ‘Have you sailed alone around the world?’

  ‘Only the world in my head.’

  ‘What’s your boat called?’

  ‘Mariposa.’

  ‘Butterfly.’ I sang two lines of Dolly Parton’s song about the butterfly character of love.

  ‘This butterfly,’ said Dr Long, ‘is from way back. There was a Chinese philosopher called Chuang Tzu. While pondering the meaning of life he dozed off under a tree and dreamt that he was a butterfly. It was a beautiful dream and the flying was a special delight. When he woke up he said to a friend, “I am puzzled.” And he told his dream.

  ‘ “So what’s puzzling?” said the friend. “You had a nice dream and that’s that.”

  ‘ “But it was so real,” said Chuang Tzu, “just as real as this conversation we’re having. I thought I was Chuang Tzu dreaming of being a butterfly. But what if, at this very moment, I am a butterfly dreaming of being Chuang Tzu?” ’

  Here Dr Long paused and looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Does it matter which he was?’ I said.

  ‘Very good, Angelica. You think the same as Chuang Tzu. He said that all things are united by the life force within them, that all are one.’

  ‘There you go,’ I said. ‘Great minds.’

  We got into Dr Long’s old Citroën 2CV and it rattled into life.

  ‘Please call me Jim now that we’re out of the office,’ he said.

  ‘OK, Jim. Where are we going?’

  ‘Schoonmaker Point Marina.’

  ‘Now that we’re outdoors, can I ask you some personal questions?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Forty-one.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘She was one of the dos arbolitos?’

  He nodded.

  ‘We’re divorced now. She left me for a happiness guru.’

  ‘Then she couldn’t have been right for you in the first place.’

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s always a comfort to know what’s what.’

  ‘Good, I want you to be comfortable. I think I already know most of the personal facts about you.’

  ‘All the pertinent ones, I don’t think ephemera need to come into it.’

  ‘What kind of ephemera?’

  ‘The kind that don’t last as long as it takes to tell about them.’

  ‘Then don’t tell about them – I don’t want anything to interfere with this outing.’

  ‘I won’t let anything do that, Jim, I like being out with you; you’re a comfortable man to be with.’

  ‘Thank you, all encouragement gratefully received. In my office I’m reasonably confident, but out of doors with a beautiful woman I revert to my default position which is pretty shaky.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of that but thank you for the handsome compliment.’ We had turned into a parking area and I saw a lot of water and a lot of boats. The salt breeze was full of promise. ‘Are we there?’

  ‘Yup, this is Schoonmaker Point.’ After parking the car he took an insulated bag out of the boot. ‘I thought we might have a picnic,’ he said. ‘Do you like burritos?’

  ‘Love ’em.’

  ‘Carne asada and Jerry’s burritos from Balazo?’

  ‘My favourites.’

  ‘That’s the food. The drink is on board.’

  ‘Mariposa has a fridge?’

  ‘Yes. Can you guess what’s in it?’

  ‘Bollinger?’

  ‘Right! How did you do that?’

  ‘I thought, if I were Jim and wanted to give Angelica a really great picnic, I’d get Bollinger and burritos for the occasion.’

  ‘What a mind! Beautiful! And the rest of you’s not bad either.’

  ‘You’re very kind. But we’d better go aboard before your compliments go to my head.’

  ‘And what happens then?’

  ‘Who knows? I’m a creature of impulse.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Every day is a winding road, Jim.’

  ‘Then let’s not delay. Mariposa’s berthed over there, past the beach.’

  There she was. When you get up close to any boat, even a rowing boat, you see that it’s a serious thing, the self of it bigger than the size of it. Because the sea is a serious thing and all water leads to it. Mariposa was thirty-six feet long, a proper seagoing vessel whose original had sailed around the world in all weathers. ‘Let’
s do it,’ she whispered brazenly. ‘Let’s just do it.’

  ‘She’s very forthright,’ I said to Jim as we stepped aboard.

  ‘Only way to be,’ he said, and pointed out the mainmast, mizzenmast, and the halyards for mainsail, jib and spanker as well as those for main gaff. Also the topping lifts. Under his guidance we hoisted sail and eased out of the dock trailing the dinghy. The prevailing wind in the bay is from the west, and Mariposa heeled to it a little as the sails filled.

  ‘We’re going to Angel Island,’ he said. ‘It’s a beat all the way there, sailing as close to the wind as we can. Coming back we reach with the wind on the beam or we run with the wind behind us. The lines that control the sails are called sheets, so if I tell you to go forward and haul in the jib sheet you’ll know what to do, yes?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘When we tack, I put the tiller down and I say, “Ready about!” so you’ll know that the boom is going to swing to the other side and you’ll get out of its way.’

  ‘Can I jump into your lap to be safe?’

  ‘Later, when we anchor. Ready about! Lee oh!’ The boom swung around with no danger to us in the cockpit.

  ‘Who’s Leo?’ I said.

  ‘That’s just an extra bit I read in a book. I learned my sailing from books. I started out with a twelve-and-a-half-foot Beetle Cat and worked my way up through a Chuckles 18 before I made the jump to Mariposa. I’ve always favoured gaff-rigged boats. They look more like boats to me, though I also like luggers.’

  ‘Albert Pinkham Ryder painted luggers, some of them on cigar-box lids.’

  ‘Probably not a lot of people know that. I’ll google for him when I have time.’

  Alternately on starboard and port tacks we beat our way to Angel Island. I mentally rehearsed various conversational gambits, rejected them all, and sat there like a sixteen-year-old on her first date, watching Jim’s easy handling of the tiller and the mainsheet. His hands were large and strong but they did everything gently. The sunlight on the water was dazzling; I saw Jim through veils of brightness, and I had lapsed into a reverie when he startled me out of it.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said sharply.

  ‘What? Where?’ I responded dozily.

  ‘Three points off the port bow,’ he said nautically. ‘There!’ he pointed.

  ‘Walk on by,’ I said when I saw what it was. ‘Let it be.’

  ‘I can’t, it’s a hazard to navigation.’ He reached for the boat hook. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s what Volatore Three paid a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for.’

  ‘Wow! That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘It’s a lot of tiny, tiny dancing bad luck too. I think we’ll both be sorry if you pick it up.’

  ‘Why? What could happen?’ He was lifting it aboard.

  ‘I don’t know but I’ve got a bad feeling about it.’

  ‘How’d it get here?’

  ‘Jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, I should think. Possibly an assisted suicide.’

  ‘You’ve got some history with this painting, right?’

  ‘Right, but let’s save that for another time, OK?’

  ‘OK. I’d like to take it home, though, to have a proper look at it. Take the tiller for a moment, will you – I want to tie it down so it won’t blow away.’

  The tiller was in my hand as he laid the painting on the cabin roof. I don’t know what I did wrong then but the boom suddenly swung across to the other side and knocked Jim into the water.

  ‘Jim!’ I screamed.

  I let go of the tiller and the boat came up into the wind, losing most of its forward motion as the jib fluttered indecisively and the spanker spilled its wind. The current was very strong but it carried him towards me instead of away and he was able to grab the dinghy that was trailing astern. He clambered aboard it, hauled himself up to Mariposa and was in my arms.

  ‘Oh Jim!’ I sobbed with relief.

  The tiny, tiny dancing giants smirked in the dim red caverns of sleep on the cabin roof. Jim dropped anchor and tied down the painting. Then we took off our wet clothes and went below, where we found ourselves naked and holding on to each other.

  ‘We are in danger of endangering the therapeutic relationship, I think,’ said Jim.

  ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,’ I murmured into his neck.

  Chapter 53

  Hopefulness of Volatore

  Is she near? I think I feel her presence! Ah! Be near, my Angelica! Soon, perhaps, no longer apart?

  Chapter 54

  42nd Street Buck-and-Wing

  Well, it was what it was, wasn’t it! I mean, sleeping with Jim was all that I wanted it to be but it didn’t resolve all my problems and it didn’t wrap up the story of me and Jim and tie it with a pink ribbon.

  Confusion is the medium in which I live, like a fish in water. If clarity suddenly happened I don’t think I could breathe. There we were with our sun-dried clothes back on. WHAT NOW? flashed on and off in the air like an invisible neon sign, seen perhaps by the tiny, tiny giants dancing on the cabin roof.

  Why had the painting floated out to meet us? Had Volatore Three jumped off the bridge with it? He hadn’t seemed a suicidal type. I was sniffing the air. No smell but maybe … No, nothing.

  ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ said Jim, ‘to Cyd Charisse who died yesterday. One more beauty gone from the world. Here’s to you, Cyd. We’ll stay danced with.’

  ‘Here’s to you, Cyd,’ I echoed as my eyes filled with tears. We touched glasses and sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Her death hit you pretty hard?’ said Jim.

  ‘I cry very easily, and about more things all the time.’

  ‘A burrito will dry your tears.’

  I was crying because I was thinking of Ruby Keeler. My collection of DVDs of Hollywood musicals includes Fred Astaire and all the women he danced with, but further back too, the thirties and films like 42nd Street, Footlight Parade and Gold Diggers of 1935. In 42nd Street Ruby Keeler sings the title song and dances to it. Busby Berkeley of course designed the big numbers but this one looked as if Ruby Keeler was doing her own buck-and-wing, glowing with innocent pride in her tap dancing; her moves were such as a child might invent, full of high spirits and joie de vivre. This in the height of the Depression. But the general hope was that just around the corner was a rainbow in the sky. The atom bomb did not yet exist, nobody had heard of global warming and polar bears had miles and miles of ice on which to hunt seals. That’s why I was crying.

  Angel Island seemed, as we approached it, more crowded than we required, so we anchored well offshore and ate and drank contentedly while gently rocked on the cradle of the deep. I must have fallen asleep then because I became aware of waking up. The sky was red with sunset and Jim was watching me.

  ‘You looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to disturb you,’ he said. ‘You must have been having pleasant dreams.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’ But there had been something: not a dream but an awareness that Volatore hadn’t lost me, nor I him.

  ‘I have a headline running through my mind like a tune that won’t go away,’ said Jim. ‘ “SHRINK PLIED PATIENT WITH DRINK IN DATE-RAPE”.’

  ‘If you’re having guilt fantasies please do it in your own time. This is still my picnic outing.’

  So we picnicked and fooled around until the moon came up and we get under way again. It was a big round full moon, riding quietly in the sky with a big smile on its face.

  ‘I arranged this for you,’ said Jim.

  ‘You think of everything,’ I said, and kissed him. It was a little like faking an orgasm but you can’t always be completely honest.

  Jim hauled up the anchor and we headed for home. He sensed a change and became thoughtful at the tiller. The sails filled and I could see by our wake that we were moving right along but the air seemed perfectly still.

  ‘That’s because we’re running now,’ said Jim, ‘and we’re moving at the same speed as the
wind.’

  ‘Life is full of metaphors,’ I said, moving at the same speed as my stillness.

  Chapter 55

  Base Metal of Gold

  So much to think about! I couldn’t separate my Jim thoughts from my Volatore ones. Alone in my apartment where Volatore had first appeared at the window, I went through my regular exercise routine, did my bathroom things, downed a large Laphroaig, put de Sainte-Colombe’s Pièces de viole in the Bose, moved Irene & Co over to give me a little room, and got into bed. Lying enveloped in those shapely shadow-sonorities centuries old. I put my mind back to that night when I saw Volatore at the window. Where was I in my life at that moment? Why was I go ready to let him in? I had to dig deep into my memory to come up with a name – it seemed to belong to a time long gone although it was actually quite recent: Michael Gold. Dr Michael Gold.

  Everybody thought I was going to marry him. We were an obvious match: he was young, handsome, a brilliant neurosurgeon, the catch of the year, and I was considered the ideal wife for the above. It was a foregone conclusion that we were going to tie the knot pretty soon but it was not my foregone conclusion.

  The peer-pressure and the Michael-pressure didn’t leave me much wiggle room but life is not completely predictable. I was rummaging through the unindexed remnant of Dad’s tottering CD stacks when I found Der Freischütz recorded by the Berlin Philharmonic under Joseph Keilberth with the redoubtable Rudolf Schock as Max plus a programme of the 1964 San Francisco Opera production. Also a torn-off bit of sketchbook paper on which my father had written ‘the white dove’. I wondered if Dad had seen the SFO production.