by Damon Knight
The hands worked down his body, the arms, back, buttocks, legs, turning his flesh into butter. Half asleep, he felt his shoes and socks being pulled off, heard Avila say, "Now the other side."
He rolled over with an effort. Avila, straddling him again, began to knead his chest, his biceps, then his sides, belly, groin. When the first kiss came, it seemed natural and unsurprising.
Afterward Avila pulled the sheet over them and lay against his back in a warm embrace. "Now you can sleep," he said. "It's okay, grandulÓn. Sleep."
Chapter Eleven
Three days later, when he came into the loft early in the morning, Avila and Darío were sitting beside the stove and he heard their voices, low and serious. They did not look up as he came in. And as he stood watching them, Darío said in the same low voice, "Me cago en tu lástima," I shit on your pity. He got up then and started toward the door; he looked through Gene as if he were not there, and as he passed, Gene saw that his eyes were blind with tears.
Later Avila said, "Don't worry about it. It is very bad, but there is nothing to be done."
After that Darío did not come any more; Avila said he had gone back to Uruguay. Peggy turned up once, with another man, at a party in the loft; Avila spoke to her briefly, and she left with her escort.
When the cold weather came, Avila and Gene moved their work space closer to the oil stove in the middle of the loft. It was never quite warm enough even there; the high ceiling drew the heat away, and cold drafts came from every side of the room. Often in the morning the big windows were frosted over, glittering in the sunshine like sheets of ice. There were fewer visitors now, and they worked in a quiet contentment, hardly speaking all day long.
On weekends, if the weather was clear, they took the bus uptown. They went to the Museum of Modern Art to see Tchelitchew's "Hide and Seek" and Calder's delicate mobiles, to the Guggenheim for Kandinsky. They toured the galleries together, and Avila made skeptical noises. There were no living sculptors he liked, and very few painters.
They looked at Greek and Roman sculpture in the Metropolitan, and Avila said, "Here is where most of the crap comes from. They paint their statues, bright colors, but when we dig them up the paint is gone, so for two thousand years we think sculpture has to be white. They make their sculptures to look alive, that's why they are so realistic in form, every proportion, every muscle, and what do we do? We make them look dead."
He had nothing but contempt for action painting and minimalist art. "A big mistake," he said. "In eighteen forty, they try to see if they can do without hard lines, invisible brush strokes and all that classical crap, so then everybody says, 'Oh, let's see what else we can do without.' First they do without perspective, then natural forms, then they do without drawing, and now if you get some house paint and paint a canvas gray, they call it art. Pretty soon the only thing left to do is leave the canvas blank."
In the evenings sometimes they went to the ballet with friends, or the theater, or to a movie. Avila was fond of the films of Chaplin and Buster Keaton that turned up occasionally at the Museum of Modern Art, or at the Apollo uptown; he could seldom be persuaded to go to a modern film. He liked everything that was choreographed, economical, and certain in movement; he detested the work of actors who were stars because they were handsome. "What you see makes what you are," he said. "Watch crap long enough, you are crap."
Sometimes when they had been to the Metropolitan Museum, or to a movie uptown, or to the Cloisters, they went back to Gene's apartment because it was closer than the loft. Avila's 'Hierophant' was on the bookcase, and Gene saw him looking at it whenever he entered the room. One day he said, "Don't you ever wish you could keep things instead of selling them?"
Avila shrugged. "Sure, I wish. If I was a rich man, maybe I keep everything, like Picasso. Or if I was a bird I would fly."
"I could give you back this one," said Gene.
"No. You bought it, it is yours. Let's talk about something else."
Gene thought about it for a long time. Next week, when they entered the apartment, there were two 'Hierophants' on the coffee table. Avila stopped when he saw them. He looked at Gene, then at the two bronzes. "What is this?" he said. He walked forward, picked up one of the statues and examined it minutely, then the other.
"It's for you, a present," said Gene.
There was something haggard in Avila's expression. "But how did you do it?"
"I had it copied."
"Copied, what do you mean? A mold, then another casting in bronze? No." He turned the two statues on the coffee table. "The patina is the same. Here, these are the marks of my tools. And here, the same. No casting could do this. Don't tell me, I know."
With a sense that he had made a catastrophic blunder, Gene said, "lt's my uncle, he has a special process -- I don't know how it works."
"I want to meet your uncle. What is his name, where does he live?"
"He's my uncle Walter. He lives out on Long Island, but he doesn't see anybody except me. He's real old and kind of eccentric."
"Now, more than ever I want to meet this uncle. Tell me his address, I write him a letter."
"No, I can't, Manolo; I promised."
Avila looked at him a moment. "You are lying, aren't you."
Gene did not reply.
"There is no uncle. And the money you have -- There is no trust fund either, and no parents dying in a plane crash. True? Is this how you get money, by copying things and selling them? How many copies of this have you made?"
"Only one, Manolo. Honest."
"Now you are crying. When a man cries, maybe he is telling the truth." Avila put his hand on Gene's arm a moment and withdrew it. "Show me how you make these copies."
Gene rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Do you want another copy of this?"
"No. I was worried there were others, that's why I was angry. If there is supposed to be one and there are three, four, then I am a liar. Make something else. Here."
He picked up a little brass bell. "Take this, we go to where you make them."
"I can do it here." Gene put his hand over the bell, reached and turned; when he withdrew his hand, there were two bells side by side.
Avila looked at them incredulously, picked them up, weighed them in his hands. He stared at Gene. "This is a trick?"
"No."
Avila put the bells down on the table. "How do you do it?"
"I don't know. I can't explain."
"And it is real -- not a trick."
"Yes."
After a moment Avila said, in Spanish, "By the Virgin and all the saints, I have seen many things, but never this. I am sorry that I have seen it, because I am a man who does not believe in magic or in supernatural things." He picked up one of the bells and set it down. "Listen to what I tell you. I know you did this for affection, to please me. I would show my gratitude and keep the 'Hierophant.' But I can't; it is a known piece, someone would see that there are two. You must destroy the one you made."
"Yes, Manolo."
"And promise that we will never talk about this again."
Avila had a record player and a large collection of records, most of them classical. Listening with him in the evening, Gene learned to love Satie, Pachelbel, Vivaldi. He bought these records for himself. Once when they were in his apartment, Avila looked them over and said, "These are all the same as mine. Why do you copy my taste? Buy other records, find out what you like yourself." He tried, but it was no good; the only things he could love were the ones he had heard with Avila.
In 1961, when they had been together for a year, Avila allowed him for the first time to cast one of his pieces in bronze. It was nothing like Avila's work; it was a standing figure made up of the shifting planes and curves that obsessed him then; when it was patinaed and polished, the light gleamed like water in the subtle intersections.
Gene wanted to offer it to a gallery, but this Avila would not permit. "You are thinking that you can sell it, if anybody wants to buy, and also retain
it for yourself. Even if you say you will not, maybe you will change your mind later. You know what I am speaking of. I said we would never talk about it, but now it is necessary. This power that you have, if you use it to make money, to live, that is nothing to me. But anyone can see that this is a bronze made by the lost wax process, that it is the only one, there are no others. If you make a copy, you cheat the man who buys it. Even if he never knows, that does not matter. Make serigraphs if you want, or etchings, if you want to sell your work; then there is no dishonesty. An artist must not be a criminal,"
At first Avila had made a joke of the difference in their height. Once he had said, "Why do you sit down when I talk to you?"
"I don't want to look down at you."
"But if you are not taller than I am, how can you look down at me?"
After a year or so, these jokes stopped. Gene had been a foot taller than Avila when they first met. By 1962 the difference was nearly a foot and a half. Avila, who was taller than most men, was so much shorter than Gene that they looked absurd together.
Year by year, the world and everyone in it was growing smaller around him. Ordinary chairs and tables were not big enough; plates, knives, and forks were like a doll's tea set in his hands. He was better proportioned now, and at a distance he could appear of normal height; he had learned to slump when he sat down, and to keep his hands in his lap as much as possible to avoid calling attention to their size. But it was impossible to walk on the street or in any public place without making people stare. They called, "Hey, Shorty!" or "How's the air up there?" and he had to pretend that he did not mind.
He could no longer travel on buses or subways; he had to jackknife himself into a taxi, and then he took up the whole back seat; Avila rode with the driver. In 1963, when he was not quite twenty, he was seven feet seven inches tall.
That was the year when Avila got a commission for a monumental work to be erected in a shopping plaza in Atlanta; he flew there several times for conferences with the architect and the committee. If it were not for these commissions, Gene realized, Avila would not be able to survive. Even though he had an international reputation and his prices were high, he could not make a living by doing small pieces because he worked so slowly and with such care.
On his return from one of these trips, Avila looked more tired than Gene had ever seen him. At lunch he complained of a pain in the chest, but it passed away quickly. Two days later, when they were eating breakfast together, Avila suddenly put down his coffee cup and bent over, grunting with pain. His face had taken on a grayish hue, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Gene took him in his arms. "Manolo, what is it?"
"Can't breathe," Avila croaked.
Gene felt for his pulse; it was fluttery and weak. He helped Avila out of the chair, carried him into the bedroom and put two pillows under his head. Avila was curled up in agony; his breath wheezed in his throat.
Gene ran to the telephone and called an ambulance. When he got back, Avila's color was worse and he did not seem to hear when Gene spoke to him.
Gene realized with cold clarity that there might not be time for the ambulance. He put his hand on Avila's chest and felt for the heartbeat. It was rapid and irregular. He closed his eyes and felt deeper. He could feel where something was the matter with the heart: the blood was going in the wrong place. He tried desperately to understand. There was a valve, opening and shutting, but it was working out of rhythm, and the blood was not moving through one side. He reached in and felt the nerves. For a moment Avila's heartbeat steadied; then it stopped. He was not breathing. Gene threw himself across the body, willing with all his soul, Make him well! Make him well! But Avila's heart did not beat and he did not breathe. By the time the ambulance came, it was much too late.
Afterward what he felt was not grief but emptiness. There seemed to be no reason to do anything in particular. It was not worth the trouble to go anywhere; there was no one he wanted to see.
In his wallet, preserved all these years, he found the card the carnival man had given him: Ducklin & Ripley Attractions, Ron E. Ducklin, Owner, and a box number in Orlando, Florida. On New Year's Day, 1964, he sent a telegram: CAN YOU USE GIANT?
Chapter Twelve
What does it profit us to preserve these bones, Pretending that the dead will rise some day Clotted with earth, like monsters in a movie, Knowing that underneath the stone The slow centuries leach them one by one away?
Why should it disturb us that a loved one's eye Tomorrow may become a coney's foot and join the dance? Let the molecules go, dispersing into earth and silence: Let them turn again to wrist and elbow, hip and thigh, Trying the old game again, taking another chance. --Gene Anderson
He found Ducklin in a house trailer fitted out as an office, parked among other trailers and semis on a muddy lot outside Orlando. The carnival owner was a little older and fatter; he still wore his baseball cap, pushed back over his balding head. He shook hands and then sat down behind his desk, staring up at Gene. "How tall are you?" he asked.
"Seven feet eight, about."
Ducklin squinted at him and rubbed his cheek with his hand. "Well, we can hype that up a little. Maybe put lifts on you. Now, our season starts March twenty-eight. What I'd like you to do, if you could get down here say about the twenty-sixth, then Mike Wilcox, he's the sideshow agent, he could start showing you the ropes. One thing I can tell you now, you'll need a gold ring that fits easy enough so you can take it on and off and show it to the marks. Just a plain ring, like a wedding ring. Get it made by a jeweler. Then you sell 'em brass copies. Mike might have a box of them brass rings around somewhere to get you started. You buy them by the gross, cost you about eight cents apiece, and you sell 'em for seventy-five cents. Then there's photographs -- eight-by-ten glossies -- you can get them made before you come down. You ought to have about two thousand to start. You sell them, too, autographed, for a buck a shot. Now about transportation, you probably noticed, we travel by truck. How did you come down here?"
"I flew to Orlando and took a cab."
"Uh-huh. Well, you'll need a trailer or something to live in. Tim Emerson, that was our last giant, he had a converted moving van -- he died in fifty-eight. His widow probably still has it; I'll get Mike to find out and let you know. Now, let's see." He opened a drawer of the desk and pawed through it with grunts of exasperation. "Can't find a damn -- Oh, here. Now this is our standard contract for performers." He took out a ballpoint pen, scribbled briefly, and handed the pages over. "You can fill in your name and address up there, and then just sign at the bottom."
"I don't have a permanent address; I thought I'd look around for something down here."
"Well, put down the old one, then, just so we have a mailing address. Then when you get settled, let us know."
Under "Salary," Ducklin had written in an amount that seemed very low, but Gene signed the contract without comment. Ducklin put the pages away in his desk.
"Well, that's about it, then," he said, and held out his hand. "Glad to have you with us, John, and we'll see you, say, around the end of March."
He rented an A-frame cabin on Lake Brantley, north of Orlando, and spent the rest of the winter there alone. He had some of his things shipped down from New York; there was not room for much. The A-frame was jerry-built, and the window wall in front dripped cold air like a slow invisible waterfall.
At the end of January, Ducklin sent him a telegram advising him that Mrs. Emerson still had the converted van and was willing to sell. She lived in Augusta, Georgia. Gene telephoned and arranged to meet her.
The dead giant's house was a tall white Victorian building. It needed a coat of paint, and some of the gingerbread was missing. An orange cat rubbed itself against his legs as he rang the bell.
Mrs. Emerson was a pale, auburn-haired woman with discolored pouches under her eyes. He could not judge her height, but she seemed to be a little taller than most women. "You must be Mr. Davis," she said. "Come in."
They sat in the high-
ceilinged living room, on faded plush chairs covered with antimacassars. "I understand you're with the Ducklin show now," she said, with a faint smile.
"Yes. I'm sorry about your husband, Mrs. Emerson."
"It's all right. It was hard on me at first, he was only forty-seven. We were talking about him retiring after the next season. It's a pretty poor life he had, on the road all the time, but what can you do?"
"Yes, I see."
"About the van, it's out in back, up on blocks. It's no good to me. It had an engine overhaul just before Tim died. it might need some more work, I don't know." She named a price.
The van was in the barn behind the house. There were pigeon droppings on the cab, and a starred hole in the windshield. The trailer had one door in the side, and no windows. Because of the dropped frame, there was a center section almost twelve feet high; in the front and rear, over the wheels, Gene found that he had about a foot of headroom. The floor and the steps were carpeted in greasy-looking green shag. The bed was set crosswise in the front, next to a discouraged brown loveseat. The dinette table and two chairs were in the center section; one of the chairs was giant-sized. In the rear were the gas range, aluminum sink, refrigerator, toilet, and shower.
