Donald Barthelme

by Donald Barthelme

  That guy in the back room, she said. He’s eating our potatoes. You were wonderful last night. The night before that, you were wonderful. The night before that, you were terrible. He’s eating our potatoes. I went in there and looked at him and he had potato smeared all over his face. Mashed. You were wonderful on the night that we met. I was terrible. You were terrible on the night we had the suckling pig. The pig, cooking the pig, put you in a terrible mood. I was wonderful in order to balance, to attempt to balance, your foul behavior. That guy with the eye patch in the back room is eating our potatoes. What are you going to do about it?

  What? he said.

  What are you going to do about it?

  He’s got a potato masher in there?

  And a little pot. He holds the little pot between his knees. Mashes away with his masher. Mash mash mash.

  Well, he said, he’s got to live, don’t he?

  I don’t know. Maybe so, maybe not. You brought him home. What are you going to do about it?

  We have plenty of potatoes, he said. I think you’re getting excited. Getting excited about nothing. Maybe you’d better simmer down. If I want frenzy I’ll go out on the street. In here, I want calm. Clear, quiet calm. You’re getting excited. I want you to calm down. So I can read. Quietly, read.

  You were superb on the night we had the osso buco, she said. I cooked it. That seemed to strike your fancy. You appreciated the effort, my effort, or seemed to. You didn’t laugh. You did smile. Smiled furiously all through dinner. I was atrocious that night. Biting the pillow. You kept the lights turned up, you were reading. We struggled for the rheostat. The music from the other room flattered you, your music, music you had bought and paid for, to flatter yourself. Your good taste. Nobody ever listens to that stuff unless he or she wants to establish that he or she has supremely good taste. Supernal good taste.

  Did you know, he said, looking up, that the mayor has only one foot? One real foot?

  Cooking the pig put you in a terrible mood. The pig’s head in particular. You asked me to remove the pig’s head. With a saw. I said that the pig’s head had to remain in place. Placing the apple in a bloody hole where the pig’s neck had been would be awful, I said. People would be revolted. You threw the saw on the floor and declared that you could not go on. I said that people had been putting the apple in the pig’s mouth for centuries, centuries. There were twenty people coming for dinner, a mistake, of course, but not mine. The pig was stretched out on the counter. You placed the pig on two kitchen chairs which had been covered with newspaper, the floor had been covered with newspaper too, my knee was on or in the pig’s back, I grasped an ear and began to saw. You were terrible that night, threw a glass of wine in a man’s face. I remember these things.

  Kinda funny to have a mayor with only one foot.

  The man said he was going to thump you. I said, Go ahead and thump him. You said, No one is going to thump anybody. The man left, then, red wine stains staining his pink cashmere sweater quite wonderfully. You were wonderful that night.

  They say, he said, that there are flowers all over the city because the mayor does not know where his mother is buried. Did you know that?

  Captain Blood

  WHEN CAPTAIN BLOOD goes to sea, he locks the doors and windows of his house on Cow Island personally. One never knows what sort of person might chance by, while one is away.

  When Captain Blood, at sea, paces the deck, he usually paces the foredeck rather than the afterdeck—a matter of personal preference. He keeps marmalade and a spider monkey in his cabin, and four perukes on stands.

  When Captain Blood, at sea, discovers that he is pursued by the Dutch Admiral Van Tromp, he considers throwing the women overboard. So that they will drift, like so many giant lotuses in their green, lavender, purple and blue gowns, across Van Tromp’s path, and he will have to stop and pick them up. Blood will have the women fitted with life jackets under their dresses. They will hardly be in much danger at all. But what about the jaws of sea turtles? No, the women cannot be thrown overboard. Vile, vile! What an idiotic idea! What could he have been thinking of? Of the patterns they would have made floating on the surface of the water, in the moonlight, a cerise gown, a silver gown . . .

  Captain Blood presents a façade of steely imperturbability.

  He is poring over his charts, promising everyone that things will get better. There has not been one bit of booty in the last eight months. Should he try another course? Another ocean? The men have been quite decent about the situation. Nothing has been said. Still, it’s nerve-racking.

  When Captain Blood retires for the night (leaving orders that he be called instantly if something comes up) he reads, usually. Or smokes, thinking calmly of last things.

  His hideous reputation should not, strictly speaking, be painted in the horrible colors customarily employed. Many a man walks the streets of Panama City, or Port Royal, or San Lorenzo, alive and well, who would have been stuck through the gizzard with a rapier, or smashed in the brain with a boarding pike, had it not been for Blood’s swift, cheerful intervention. Of course, there are times when severe measures are unavoidable. At these times he does not flinch, but takes appropriate action with admirable steadiness. There are no two ways about it: when one looses a seventy-four-gun broadside against the fragile hull of another vessel, one gets carnage.

  Blood at dawn, a solitary figure pacing the foredeck.

  No other sail in sight. He reaches into the pocket of his blue velvet jacket trimmed with silver lace. His hand closes over three round, white objects: mothballs. In disgust, he throws them over the side. One makes one’s luck, he thinks. Reaching into another pocket, he withdraws a folded parchment tied with ribbon. Unwrapping the little packet, he finds that it is a memo that he wrote to himself ten months earlier. “Dolphin, Captain Darbraunce, 120 tons, cargo silver, paprika, bananas, sailing Mar. 10 Havana. Be there!” Chuckling, Blood goes off to seek his mate, Oglethorpe—that laughing blond giant of a man.

  Who will be aboard this vessel which is now within cannon-shot? wonders Captain Blood. Rich people, I hope, with pretty gold and silver things aplenty.

  “Short John, where is Mr. Oglethorpe?”

  “I am not Short John, sir. I am John-of-Orkney.”

  “Sorry, John. Has Mr. Oglethorpe carried out my instructions?”

  “Yes, sir. He is forward, crouching over the bombard, lit cheroot in hand, ready to fire.”

  “Well, fire then.”

  “Fire!”

  BAM!

  “The other captain doesn’t understand what is happening to him!”

  “He’s not heaving to!”

  “He’s ignoring us!”

  “The dolt!”

  “Fire again!”

  BAM!

  “That did it!”

  “He’s turning into the wind!”

  “He’s dropped anchor!”

  “He’s lowering sail!”

  “Very well, Mr. Oglethorpe. You may prepare to board.”

  “Very well, Peter.”

  “And Jeremy—”

  “Yes, Peter?”

  “I know we’ve had rather a thin time of it these last few months.”

  “Well it hasn’t been so bad, Peter. A little slow, perhaps—”

  “Well, before we board, I’d like you to convey to the men my appreciation for their patience. Patience and, I may say, tact.”

  “We knew you’d turn up something, Peter.”

  “Just tell them for me, will you?”

  Always a wonderful moment, thinks Captain Blood. Preparing to board. Pistol in one hand, naked cutlass in the other. Dropping lightly to the deck of the engrappled vessel, backed by one’s grinning, leering, disorderly, rapacious crew who are nevertheless under the strictest buccaneer discipline. There to confront the little band of fear-crazed victims shrinking from the entirely p
ossible carnage. Among them, several beautiful women, but one really spectacular beautiful woman who stands a bit apart from her sisters, clutching a machete with which she intends, against all reason, to—

  When Captain Blood celebrates the acquisition of a rich prize, he goes down to the galley himself and cooks tallarínes a la Catalana (noodles, spare ribs, almonds, pine nuts) for all hands. The name of the captured vessel is entered in a little book along with the names of all the others he has captured in a long career. Here are some of them: the Oxford, the Luis, the Fortune, the Lambe, the Jamaica Merchant, the Betty, the Prosperous, the Endeavor, the Falcon, the Bonadventure, the Constant Thomas, the Marquesa, the Señora del Carmen, the Recovery, the Maria Gloriosa, the Virgin Queen, the Esmerelda, the Havana, the San Felipe, the Steadfast . . .

  The true buccaneer is not persuaded that God is not on his side, too—especially if, as is often the case, he turned pirate after some monstrously unjust thing was done to him, such as being press-ganged into one or another of the Royal Navies when he was merely innocently having a drink at a waterfront tavern, or having been confined to the stinking dungeons of the Inquisition just for making some idle, thoughtless, light remark. Therefore, Blood feels himself to be devout in his own way, and has endowed candles burning in churches in most of the great cities of the New World. Although not under his own name.

  Captain Blood roams ceaselessly, making daring raids. The average raid yields something like 20,000 pieces-of-eight, which is apportioned fairly among the crew, with wounded men getting more according to the gravity of their wounds. A cut ear is worth two pieces, a cut-off ear worth ten to twelve. The scale of payments for injuries is posted in the forecastle.

  When he is on land, Blood is confused and troubled by the life of cities, where every passing stranger may, for no reason, assault him, if the stranger so chooses. And indeed, the stranger’s mere presence, multiplied many times over, is a kind of assault. Merely having to take into account all these hurrying others is a blistering occupation. This does not happen on a ship, or on a sea.

  An amusing incident: Captain Blood has overhauled a naval vessel, has caused her to drop anchor (on this particular voyage he is sailing with three other ships under his command and a total enlistment of nearly one thousand men) and is now interviewing the arrested captain in his cabin full of marmalade jars and new perukes.

  “And what may your name be, sir? If I may ask?”

  “Jones, sir.”

  “What kind of a name is that? English, I take it?”

  “No, it’s American, sir.”

  “American? What is an American?”

  “America is a new nation among the nations of the world.”

  “I’ve not heard of it. Where is it?”

  “North of here, north and west. It’s a very small nation, at present, and has only been a nation for about two years.”

  “But the name of your ship is French.”

  “Yes it is. It is named in honor of Benjamin Franklin, one of our American heroes.”

  “Bon Homme Richard? What has that to do with Benjamin or Franklin?”

  “Well it’s an allusion to an almanac Dr. Franklin published called—”

  “You weary me, sir. You are captured, American or no, so tell me—do you surrender, with all your men, fittings, cargo and whatever?”

  “Sir, I have not yet begun to fight.”

  “Captain, this is madness. We have you completely surrounded. Furthermore there is a great hole in your hull below the waterline where our warning shot, which was slightly miscalculated, bashed in your timbers. You are taking water at a fearsome rate. And still you wish to fight?”

  “It is the pluck of us Americans, sir. We are just that way. Our tiny nation has to be pluckier than most if it is to survive among the bigger, older nations of the world.”

  “Well, bless my soul. Jones, you are the damnedest goatsucker I ever did see. Stab me if I am not tempted to let you go scot-free, just because of your amazing pluck.”

  “No sir, I insist on fighting. As founder of the American naval tradition, I must set a good example.”

  “Jones, return to your vessel and be off.”

  “No, sir, I will fight to the last shred of canvas, for the honor of America.”

  “Jones, even in America, wherever it is, you must have encountered the word ‘ninny.’”

  “Oh. I see. Well then. I think we’ll be weighing anchor, Captain, with your permission.”

  “Choose your occasions, Captain. And God be with you.”

  Blood, at dawn, a solitary figure pacing the foredeck. The world of piracy is wide, and at the same time, narrow. One can be gallant all day long, and still end up with a spider monkey for a wife. And what does his mother think of him?

  The favorite dance of Captain Blood is the grave and haunting Catalonian sardana, in which the participants join hands facing each other to form a ring which gradually becomes larger, then smaller, then larger again. It is danced without smiling, for the most part. He frequently dances this with his men, in the middle of the ocean, after lunch, to the music of a single silver trumpet.

  A woman seated on a plain wooden chair under a canopy. She is wearing white overalls and has a pleased expression on her face. Watching her, two dogs, German shepherds, at rest. Behind the dogs, with their backs to us, a row of naked women kneeling, sitting on their heels, their buttocks as perfect as eggs or 0’s—00 00 00 00 00 00 00. In profile to the scene, Benvenuto Cellini, in a fur hat.

  Two young women wrapped as gifts. The gift-wrapping is almost indistinguishable from ordinary clothing, perhaps a shade newer, brighter, more studied than ordinary clothing. Each young woman holds a white envelope. Each envelope is addressed to “Tad.”

  Two young women, naked, tied together by a long red thread. One is dark, one is fair.

  Large (eight by ten feet) sheets of white paper on the floor, eight of them. The total area covered is about four hundred square feet; some of the sheets overlap. A string quartet is playing at one edge of this area, and irregular rows of formally dressed spectators sit in gilt chairs across the paper from the players. A large bucket of blue paint has been placed on the paper. Two young women, naked. Each has her hair rolled up in a bun; each has been splashed, breasts, belly, thighs, with blue paint. One, on her belly, is being dragged across the paper by the other, who is standing, gripping the first woman’s wrists. Their backs are not painted. Or not painted with. The artist is Yves Klein.

  Nowhere—the middle of it, its exact center. Standing there, a telephone booth, green with tarnished aluminum, the word PHONE and the system’s symbol (bell in ring) in medium blue. Inside the telephone booth, two young women, one dark, one fair, facing each other. Their naked breasts and thighs brush lightly (one holding the receiver to the other’s ear) as they place calls to their mothers in California. In profile to the scene, at far right, Benvenuto Cellini, wearing white overalls.

  Two young men, wrapped as gifts. They have wrapped themselves carefully, tight pants, open-throated shirts, shoes with stacked heels, gold jewelry on right and left wrists, codpieces stuffed with credit cards. They stand, under a Christmas tree big as an office building, and women rush toward them. Or they stand, under a Christmas tree big as an office building, and no women rush toward them. A voice singing Easter songs, hallelujahs.

  Georges de La Tour, wearing white overalls (Iron Boy brand) is attending a film. On the screen two young women, naked, are playing Ping-Pong. One makes a swipe with her paddle at a ball the other has placed just over the net and misses, bruising her right leg on the edge of the table. The other puts down her paddle and walks gracefully around the table to examine the hurt; she places her hands on either side of the raw, ugly mark . . . Georges de La Tour picks up his hat and walks from the theatre. In the lobby he purchases a bag of M & Ms which he opens with his teeth.

  The world of
work: Two young women, one dark, one fair, wearing web belts to which canteens are attached, nothing more. They are sitting side-by-side on high stools (00 00) before a pair of draughting tables, inking-in pencil drawings. Or, in a lumberyard in Southern Illinois, they are unloading a railroad car containing several hundred thousand board feet of Southern yellow pine. Or, in the composing room of a medium-sized Akron daily, they are passing long pieces of paper through a machine which deposits a thin coating of wax on the back side, and then positioning the type on a page. Or, they are driving identical Yellow cabs which are racing side-by-side up Park Avenue with frightened passengers, each driver trying to beat the other to a hole in the traffic. Or, they are seated at adjacent desks in the beige-carpeted area set aside for officers in a bank, refusing loans. Or, they are standing bent over, hands on knees, peering into the site of an archeological dig in the Cameroons. Or, they are teaching, in adjacent classrooms, Naked Physics—in the classroom on the left, Naked Physics I, and in the classroom on the right, Naked Physics II. Or, they are kneeling, sitting on their heels, before a pair of shoeshine stands.

  Two young women, wearing web belts to which canteens are attached, nothing more, marching down Broadway again. They are followed by an excited crowd, bands, etc.

  Two women, one dark and one fair, wearing parkas, blue wool watch caps on their heads, inspecting a row of naked satyrs, hairy-legged, split-footed, tailed and tufted, who hang from hooks in a meat locker where the temperature is a constant 18 degrees. The women are tickling the satyrs under the tail, where they are most vulnerable, with their long white (nimble) fingers tipped with long curved scarlet nails. The satyrs squirm and dance under this treatment, hanging from hooks, while other women, seated in red plush armchairs, in the meat locker, applaud, or scold, or knit. Hovering near the thermostat, Vladimir Tatlin, in an asbestos tuxedo.