“But I don’t play anything.”
Maude sat up. “Not anything! Dear me, who was in charge of your education? Everyone should be able to make some music. It’s the universal language of mankind. It’s rhythm, harmony, the cosmic dance. Come with me.”
She went into the bedroom and opened a large closet, full of all kinds of musical instruments—horns, strings, drums, tambourines. She rooted about for a while and pulled out a banjo.
“Here we are,” she said. “Just the thing. Now, you hold it like this and put your fingers like that.”
She showed him how to play a couple of chords, and then they went back to the living room.
“Now, remember,” said Maude, sitting down at the piano. “Don’t just strum it. Be impulsive. Be fanciful. Let the music flow out of you freely, as though you were talking. Okay?”
“All right.”
“Okay. From the top. Let’s jam!”
With a flourish she began the song, singing the lyrics while Harold strummed carefully along. He managed to keep up with her and they ended together.
“But the cuck-cuck-cuckoo,
’Spite his rote note yoo-hoo,
The cuck-cuck-cuckoo
SINGS THE LIVELONG DAY!”
He looked at her, beaming with delight.
“Okay?” he asked.
Maude whistled. “Superb,” she said.
AFTER BREAKFAST HAROLD SAT by the pool and practiced his banjo. He played Maude’s song over and over but never to his satisfaction. His unlimber fingers kept missing the chords, and the tune was practically unrecognizable.
“Harold,” called his mother from the terrace. “Harold!”
He hid the banjo behind a bush.
“Ah, there you are,” said Mrs. Chasen, coming through the rose garden. “I have the most wonderful surprise for you. It’s a little present which I know you’ll enjoy. Come with me.”
Harold followed his mother around to the garages.
“There we are,” said Mrs. Chasen, gesturing dramatically. “Isn’t it darling?”
She pointed at a brand-new green Jaguar XKE.
“It’s for you, dear. I had them tow away that monstrous black thing of yours and leave this in its place. This is so much nicer, don’t you think? And so much more appropriate for you.”
Harold started to say something.
“Oh, one more thing,” interrupted his mother. “I’ve talked on the phone with your second computer date, and she seems a very nice, quiet young lady—not at all hysterical like the first one. She will be here tomorrow afternoon, and I thought we might have sandwiches and coffee in the library. Now please, Harold. Let’s be on our best behavior and make her feel at home. Good-by, dear. I’m off to the hairdresser’s.” She took a parting look at the XKE. “Cute little thing, isn’t it? I like it very much.”
Harold stood for a moment, looking at his new car. He made a decision and walked into the garage. He took off his jacket and wheeled out to the Jaguar a large acetylene torch. Scanning the car, he made a few rough calculations. Then he fired the torch and pulled the great welding mask over his head.
MAUDE ENTERED GLAUCUS’ STUDIO. “Good morning,” she said.
Glaucus, spryly dressed for autumn, chipped happily away at a new nine-foot-tall block of ice.
“Come in! Come in!” he shouted, not looking around. He made a sweeping scratch across the ice with a metal spoon and stood back to examine it.
“Have you seen Harold?” asked Maude.
“One moment,” said Glaucus, and made another scratch on the ice. He stepped back. This time he was satisfied and jumped down from his stand.
“Ah, Madame M! Greetings,” he cried, kissing her hand. “As Odysseus said to Penelope—”
“Sorry I’m late,” said Harold, rushing through the door.
Glaucus looked up. “A rather free translation, but none the less correct. And greetings to you, too, my gangling young friend.”
“Good morning,” said Harold. “Hello, Maude.”
“Hello, Harold. Ready for today’s Operation Transplant?”
“Well, I’m ready, if you are.”
“Aha!” said Glaucus, pounding him on the back. “The spirit of Agamemnon and the courage of Achilles! Come here, my boy. Now tell me,” he asked, gesturing at the ice. “What do you see?”
Harold looked. “A block of ice,” he said.
“Exactly! Now, ask me what I see.”
“What do you see?”
“I see the eternal goddess of beauty and love. I see Aphrodite, the consummate woman, full of warmth and fire—frozen.” He picked up a small pneumatic drill, shouting, “And it is I who shall set you free!”
Attacking the ice, he made an incision and stepped back to appraise it. He wiped his brow.
“Each morning I am delivered of a new block of ice. Each evening my eyes grow weary, my hands hang heavy, and I am swept down Lethe to slumber—while my goddess, half born, drips away—unseen, unsung, and unknown.”
He stopped, overcome with feeling.
“May we borrow a shovel?” asked Maude sweetly.
“Wait!” cried Glaucus. “Let me think. Do I need a shovel today? No! I need a blowtorch.” He grabbed a blowtorch, saying, “Take any shovel you want. You are welcome.”
“Thank you, Glaucus,” said Maude, picking up a shovel. “We’ll see you later. Come on, Harold.”
“Good-by, Glaucus,” said Harold, and they both left.
“Farewell,” cried Glaucus, absently. “Farewell, my friends.”
He fired the blowtorch and approached the ice.
“‘Where’er he moved, the goddess shone before,’” he quoted, adding in a reverent whisper, “—Homer.”
MAUDE DROVE THE PICKUP TRUCK at a steady speed along the highway. She looked over at Harold.
Harold smiled. “So far, so good,” he said, and glanced out the rear window at the little tree standing upright in the back.
“How’s the patient?” asked Maude.
“The tree’s fine,” said Harold, “but the cop looks kind of mad.”
“What cop?”
“The one following us,” answered Harold glumly.
The motorcycle policeman drove up alongside Maude and flagged her over to the side of the road. He parked his bike and came up to Maude’s window.
“Lady,” he said coolly, “you were going seventy miles an hour in a forty-five-mile zone. Could I see your license, please?”
“Certainly,” said Maude. “It’s on the front bumper.”
“No,” said the policeman patiently, “I want your license.”
“You mean those little pieces of paper with your picture on it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I don’t have one.”
“Come again?”
“I don’t have one. I don’t believe in them.”
The cop looked at his boots and then off down the road. He adjusted his sunglasses.
“How long have you been driving?” he asked.
“About forty-five minutes, wouldn’t you say, Harold? We were hoping to start sooner, but, you see, it’s rather difficult to find a truck.”
“Could I see your registration?”
“I just don’t think we have one, unless it’s in the glove compartment. Would you look, Harold?”
“Isn’t this your vehicle?”
“No, no. I just took it.”
“Took it?”
“Yes. You see, I have to plant my tree.”
“Your tree?”
“Well, it’s not really mine. I dug it up in front of the courthouse. We’re transplanting it. Letting it breathe, you know. But, of course, we would like to get it into soil as soon as possible.”
The cop adjusted his gun belt and scratched his nose. He looked down at his boots again.
“Lady,” he said slowly, “let me get this straight.”
“All right, then,” said Maude, starting up the engine. “And we won’t take any more of your time.” S
he threw the gear into first. “Nice chatting with you,” she cried, and zoomed off.
The cop spun around as the truck sped by. He watched for a moment, speechless. Then he ran to his motorcycle, hopped on, and gave chase.
“I think he’s following us,” said Harold, uneasily shaking his head.
“Is he?” said Maude cheerfully. “Is that his siren? My, my. How they do like to play games. Well, here goes.”
Maude changed gear and accelerated to top speed. Careening down the highway, she dodged cars and changed lanes. The cop on the motorcycle stayed with her, his siren screaming like a soul from hell. Suddenly, Maude made a hard left turn, sending the truck screeching in a half circle. She raced back down the highway, passing the cop on the other side of the road. Cars pulled over out of her way, while the cop made a similar U-turn and darted after her. Maude immediately made another screeching U-turn and flew off in her original direction. The cop, taken unawares, tried to follow her, but the traffic around him was in total confusion. He dodged an oncoming Ford, ran up over the embankment, and finally halted, sliding and spinning, in a muddy ditch.
Harold turned around to face front and cleared his throat. “He’s stopped,” he reported.
Maude laughed and slowed down. “Ah, yes,” she said. “The old double U-turn. Gets them every time.”
She drove down the highway and turned off the road to the National Forest.
THEY FINISHED PLANTING the little tree in a pleasant glade, and Maude patted the earth around its trunk.
“There we are,” said Maude, standing up. “I think it will be very happy here.”
“It’s a nice spot,” said Harold, leaning on the shovel. “Good soil.”
“Yes, it is. I like the feel of soil, don’t you? And the smell. It’s the earth. ‘The earth is my body. My head is in the stars.’” She laughed. “Who said that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I suppose I did,” said Maude, and laughed again. “Well, farewell, little tree. Grow up tall, and change, and fall to replenish the earth. Isn’t it wonderful, Harold? All around us. Living things! Come. I want to show you something.”
She led him along a trail till they came to a large pine.
“How’s that for a tree?” she said.
“It’s a tall one.”
“Wait till you see the view from the top.”
“But you’re not going to climb it, are you?”
“Certainly. I do it every time I come here. C’mon, Harold. It’s an easy tree to climb.”
“But suppose you fall?”
Maude had already started up. “I don’t think about it,” she answered. “That’s unprofitable speculation and not worth my trouble.”
She looked down at Harold. “Are you coming yourself, or will you only hear about it secondhand?”
Harold shook his head. “Okay,” he said, and started up.
They climbed to about eighty feet. It wasn’t difficult, but, as he followed Maude up higher, he felt the tree swaying in the wind. He swallowed.
“Here we are, Harold,” said Maude. “It’s like a natural perch, just for us.”
She sat out on a bough and made room for Harold. He climbed alongside her and sat down, keeping a firm grip on the trunk.
“Isn’t it exhilarating?” said Maude, looking out over the forest that stretched for miles to the distant mountains.
“Yes.” Harold gulped. “It’s high.”
“Imagine! Here we are, cradled in a living giant, looking over millions of others—and we’re part of it.”
“It takes your breath away,” said Harold. “It’s also windy.”
“Yes. We should hoist sail and strike out for the horizon. Wouldn’t that be fun? I used to love sailing. Especially when we couldn’t see land, and we were all alone, surrounded by the wide, flat sea. Then we would harness the wind and cut through the waves like galleons bent on discovery.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, in the twenties, around the south of France and off Normandy. I remember it was frowned upon. Considered frivolous, or dangerous, or unbecoming—one of those terms that the moribund use to keep the adventurous in tow. But we’ll pull them along anyway, won’t we, Harold? We’ll hitch them to our balloon.”
“You could,” said Harold. “But I don’t know about me.”
“What do you mean?”
The wind died down. Harold loosened his grip on the tree. “Well,” he said. “Most people aren’t like you. They’re locked up in themselves. They live in their castles—all alone. They’re like me.”
“Well, everyone lives in his own castle,” said Maude. “But that’s no reason not to lower the drawbridge and go out on visits.”
Harold smiled. “But you agree that we live alone. And we die alone. Each in his own cell.”
Maude looked over the forest. “I suppose so. In a sense. That’s why we have to make them as pleasant as possible—full of good books and warm fires and memories. Still, in another sense, you can always jump the wall and sleep out under the stars.”
“Maybe,” Harold said. “But that takes courage.”
“Why?”
“Well, aren’t you afraid?”
“Of what? The known I know, and the unknown I’d like to find out. Besides, I’ve got friends.”
“Who?”
“Humanity.”
Harold smiled. “That’s a lot of friends. How do you know they’re all friendly?”
“Well, the way I figure it, we’re all the same, and it’s just a question of us getting together. I heard a story once in the Orient about two architects who went to see the Buddha. They had run out of money on their projects and hoped the Buddha could do something about it. ‘Well, I’ll do what I can,’ said the Buddha, and he went off to see their work. The first architect was building a bridge, and the Buddha was very impressed. ‘That’s a very good bridge,’ he said, and he began to pray. Suddenly a great white bull appeared, carrying on its back enough gold to finish construction. ‘Take it,’ said the Buddha, ‘and build even more bridges.’ And so the first architect went away very happy. The second architect was building a wall, and when the Buddha saw it he was equally impressed. ‘That’s a very good wall,’ he said solemnly, and began to pray. Suddenly the sacred bull appeared, walked over to the second architect, and sat on him.”
Harold started laughing so hard that he had to hold onto the tree. “Awww, Maude!” he cried. “You just made that up.”
“Well,” said Maude, laughing with him. “It’s the truth. The world needs no more walls. What we’ve all got to do is get out and build more bridges!”
THEY DROVE HOME in the late afternoon, taking the same roads as they took before. Maude drove at her usual pace and talked happily to Harold about children’s games and how she had taught Frederick to play marbles when they were in hiding after the Anschluss. Neither she nor Harold noticed the motorcycle cop giving out a ticket to a car parked by the side of the road.
“What happened to your husband?” asked Harold.
“He was captured,” she said, “and shot. Trying to escape. At least that’s what they told me later. I guess I never will know the real story.”
“Was that in France or Austria?”
Maude did not get the chance to answer. The motorcycle cop, his lights flashing and siren wailing, drew alongside and frantically gestured for her to pull over. She did, and he parked behind her. He got off his bike and with large steps walked to the truck.
“Okay, lady. Out!” he said.
“Hello,” said Maude, not quite recognizing him. “Haven’t we met before?”
“None of that, lady. Out.” He opened the door.
“Oh, well. It must have been your brother.”
“Out!”
Maude stepped out. “But there is a family resemblance,” she insisted.
“You too, buster,” the policeman said to Harold. “Stand over here.”
Harold came around the truck and stood by Maude. The
cop hitched up his gun belt and took out his citation book.
“Lady,” he said. “You’re in a heap of trouble. I have you down here for several violations: speeding, resisting arrest, driving without a license, driving a stolen vehicle, possession of a stolen tree—where’s the tree?”
“We planted it,” said Maude.
The cop glared at her through his sunglasses. He looked in the back of the truck. “Is this your shovel?” he asked.
“No,” said Maude.
The cop threw down the shovel. “Possession of a stolen shovel,” he noted.
“Officer,” said Maude, “I can explain. You see—”
“Lady, you don’t seem to realize. Resisting arrest is a serious criminal offense. Under the state penal code, section one forty-eight, paragraph ten—”
“Oh, don’t get officious,” said Maude, interrupting him. “You’re not yourself when you’re officious. But then, that’s the curse of a government job.”
The cop stared at her for a long count. He adjusted his stance. “Lady,” he said patiently, “is it true you are driving without a license?”
“Check,” said Maude, equally patiently.
“And that truck. Is it registered in your name?”
“Oh! Not in my name.”
“Then whose name is it registered in?”
“Well, I don’t know. Do you know, Harold?”
Harold didn’t know.
“Where are the papers?” asked the cop.
“I suppose they are in the truck. Uh, are you going to take a lot of time with this?”
“Wait here,” said the cop, and climbed into the front seat.
“Because if you are—”
“Lady! For Pete’s sake. Be quiet.”
The cop opened the glove compartment and began looking through the papers. Suddenly he heard the start of an engine. He looked up. Maude was on the motorcycle, revving it up and motioning Harold to jump on behind her.
“Get the shovel!” she cried.
Harold hesitated. The cop was sliding himself out of the front seat. Harold grabbed the shovel, climbed on the bike, and Maude shot off down the road in a cloud of dust.
The cop took out his gun. “Stop! Stop! Or I’ll shoot,” he cried.
He fired several shots after them.
Harold and Maude Page 5
