Without a stitch he looks lamentable. Like a broken-down nag. It’s not merely that he’s potbellied, full of sores and scabs, but that his skin has an unhealthy look, is spotted like tobacco leaf, has no oil, no elasticity, no glow. He looks like one of those derelicts one sees in the washroom of a Mills hotel, like a bum that has just crawled out of a flophouse on the Bowery. His flesh seems never to have been in contact with air and sun; it looks half-smoked.
The physical examination over, and nothing seriously wrong except that he’s run-down, anemic, bilious, weak heart, erratic pulse, high blood pressure, spavined and double-jointed, it’s now time to investigate the itch.
It’s the doctor’s opinion that he’s suffering from an allergy, perhaps several allergies. Allergies are his specialty. Hence his certitude.
No one demurs, not even Moricand. He’s heard of allergies but never attached any importance to them. Neither have I. Neither has Lilik. However, today it’s allergies. Tomorrow it will be something else. Allergies then. Go to it!
While assorting and arranging his test tubes, syringes, needles, razor blades and what not, in preparation for the tests, the doctor plies Moricand with questions.
“You’ve had the drug habit, haven’t you?”
Moricand nods.
“I can tell,” says the doctor, pointing to Moricand’s legs, arms, thighs, where traces of the needle still showed.
“What did you use?”
“Everything,” said Moricand. “But that was some years ago.”
“Opium too?”
At this Moricand seemed somewhat surprised. “How did you know?” he asked.
“I’ve treated thousands of cases,” said the doctor. He fiddled with something behind Moricand’s back. As he wheeled around, he said swiftly: “How did you break it, tell me that!”
“By my own will,” said Moricand.
“What’s that?” said the doctor. “Say it again!”
Moricand repeated: “By my own will. It was not easy. It almost killed me.”
“If that’s true,” said the doctor, taking his hand, “you’re the first man I’ve known to accomplish it.”
Moricand blushed as a man might who was being given a medal for a deed of valor he had never performed.
Meanwhile the doctor had begun the game of ticktacktoe on Moricand’s back. He started up near the left shoulder, worked clear across to the right shoulder, then down and across. Each time he finished a game he waited a few minutes. The first game was all in blue ink, the second in pink, the third in green, and so on through the spectrum. Nobody was winning. Since Moricand’s back was only human size, and since it was completely covered with welts from neck to waist, there was nothing to do but call it a draw for the day. There were still thirty or forty more tests that could be given. One of them had to turn out positive. At least, that was how the doctor regarded it.
“And now what about a bed?” said Moricand, slipping into his shirt and trousers.
“A bed?” said the doctor, looking at him in astonishment.
“Yes,” said Moricand. “A place to rest … to recuperate.”
The doctor laughed as if it were a good joke.
“We don’t have beds enough for our serious cases,” he said.
“There’s nothing very wrong with you. Come back day after tomorrow and I’ll give you some more tests.” He wrote out a prescription for a sedative. “You’ll be all right in no time.”
I explained that we lived in Big Sur, that it wasn’t easy to make frequent trips to Salinas.
“Why don’t you put him up in town for a while?” said the doctor. “In a week or so I’ll know what’s what. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s been through much worse, I can tell you that…. Just a bit dilapidated. Hypersensitive.”
Outside we decided to look for a bar. We all needed a drink bad.
“How does your back feel?” said Lilik, raising his hands as if to give him a clap.
Moricand winced. “It feels like a hot grill,” he said.
We found a dingy bar and, while putting away a few drinks, discussed the opium habit. An illuminating subject, if one penetrates deeply enough.
In Monterey I engaged a room for him at the Hotel Serra. A room with a private bath. In comparison with the cell he had been living in this was luxury. We tested the bed to see if it was soft and springy enough, switched the lights on and off to see if they were good enough to read and write by, showed him how to manipulate the window blinds, assured him that he would get fresh towels and soap every day, and so on. He was already unpacking the small valise he had brought along. Already the dresser was arranged as he invariably arranged things wherever he might find himself. As he was getting out his manuscripts, his writing tablet, his ink and ruler, I suddenly realized that the table beside the bed would be too small to work on. We called the manager to find if he couldn’t supply a bigger one. In a jiffy the bellhop arrived with a table just the right size.
Moricand seemed really overcome with joy. He looked around as if he were in Heaven. The bathroom especially put him in ecstasy. We had explained that he could take a bath as often as he wished—no extra charge, as in France. (This was the good side of America again. “A wonderful country!”)
It only remained now to hand him some money and arrange with someone who had a car to drive him back and forth to the hospital. I didn’t know, as I said au revoir, that it would be the last time I would see him.
He had grown ten years younger in the space of a few minutes. As we shook hands, as I promised to look him up in a few days, he said: “I think I’ll go down in a little while to have a porto.”
Walking down the street, Lilik and I, we ran into the painter, Ellwood Graham. After a few words we learned that he was making trips to the County Hospital every day. It would be a pleasure he informed us, to drive Moricand back and forth.
We ducked back to the hotel immediately only to find that Moricand had already left, presumably to have his porto. We left a note explaining that he would have the use of a car and a private chauffeur.
The feeling of relief I experienced on arriving home was beyond words. It was high time we were rid of him, for my wife was already pregnant several months. Yet she had borne up under the ordeal better than I.
A few days passed but I simply could not bring myself to go to Monterey and look him up. Instead I wrote him a note, making some excuse or other. He wrote back immediately to say that he was feeling better, that the doctor hadn’t discovered yet what was wrong with him, but that he was enjoying his most comfortable quarters. A postscript reminded me that the rent would be due in a few days, also that he would need some fresh linen soon.
We exchanged notes for about two weeks or so, during which time I did go to town but without looking him up. Then one day I received word that he had made up his mind to go to San Francisco; he thought he could find something to do there, and, if not, he would make efforts to return to Paris. He added that it was obvious I didn’t wish to see him any more.
On receipt of this message I immediately packed the remainder of his belongings, had someone deliver them to him at the hotel, and sent him enough money to last him a couple of weeks at least. That he was putting this much distance between us gave me a still greater feeling of relief. And the fact that he had at last found enough gumption to do something on his own.
I then fumigated his cell, as Leon had recommended.
In writing him I had given him elaborate explanations and instructions. I told him where to look for modest French restaurants, bars, and so forth. I even went to the extent of telling him that if he could not make himself understood he was to write the address down and show it to the cab-driver, the policeman, or whoever it might be. I told him where to find the library, the avant-garde cinemas, the museums and art galleries.
I soon learned that he had found a suitable hotel, but at a much higher rate than I had named; he had also discovered a little bar where he could get his meals and where there were
a few congenial French people. His money was going fast, he explained, because wherever he wanted to go he had to take a cab; he wouldn’t trust himself to take streetcars and buses, his English was too poor.
To all this I gave a patient ear, thinking that he would soon adjust himself and settle down to a less expensive routine. The business about the cabs nettled me. Paris was a far bigger city than San Francisco and I had managed to find my way about in it with less money in my jeans and less knowledge of French than he had of English. But then I had no one to fall back on. Ça fait une différence!
He had, of course, reported to the Swiss Consul and had quickly learned that there was no question of finding employment, not with a visitor’s visa. He could, to be sure, take steps to become an American citizen, but he was not interested in becoming an American citizen.
What was he going to do, I wondered? Would he request the Swiss Counsul to ship him back to Paris?
Perhaps he had asked the Swiss Consul to ship him home and perhaps they had told him that was my responsibility. At any rate, the impression I got was that he was simply drifting with the tide. As long as I could keep him in food, cigarettes, taxi fares, a comfortable room and bath, he was not going to get panicky. San Francisco suited him far better than Big Sur, even though he found it somewhat “provincial.” At least there was solid pavement under his feet.
It was after he had been there over a month that the effort to maintain him in his own style became a strain. I had the feeling that the arrangement could continue indefinitely, so far as he was concerned. Finally I suggested that if he were seriously of a mind to return to Europe I would see what I could do to get him a passage back. Instead of being elated he replied in gloomy vein that if it came to a pinch, why yes, he would go back. As if he were doing me a great favor to even consider the thought!
It so happened that shortly after this exchange of views my good friend, Raoul Bertrand, came to visit us. He had met Moricand at our home several times and knew what I was up against. When I explained how matters now stood he volunteered to see if he could not secure passage for Moricand on a French freighter plying from San Francisco. A free passage, moreover.
I immediately apprised Moricand of the good news and drew an alluring picture of a long sea voyage through the Panama Canal, with stopovers in Mexico and Central America. I made it sound so enchanting that I began to wish I could change places with him.
What his reply was precisely, I no longer recall, only that he gave a grudging acquiescence. Meanwhile Bertrand had set to work. In less than a week he had found a freighter which offered Moricand passage. It would leave in thirty-six hours—just time enough to send Moricand a wire. In order to circumvent any misinterpretation of the message on the part of the telegraph company, I wrote the message out in English: a fifty-word telegram giving full details.
To my utter astonishment, I got a reply by mail after the boat had sailed, saying that his Highness was not to be rushed that way, that he should have had a few days’ warning at least, that it was most inconsiderate of me to send him a message of such importance in a language he didn’t understand, and so on and so forth. Extremely hoity-toity, to put it mildly. Besides, as he went on to explain in a postscript, he was not at all certain that he would relish a long sea voyage; he was not a good sailor, he would be bored to death, etc., etc. At the very end—would I please send him some more money!
I was thoroughly incensed. And I let him know it in no uncertain terms. Then I wrote a profuse letter of apology to Raoul Bertrand. Here he was, a French consul, not Swiss, putting himself to all this trouble, and that louse, Moricand, hadn’t even the decency to be grateful for his efforts.
Bertrand, however, understood better than I the manner of man we were dealing with. He was not at all perturbed or dismayed. “We’ll try again,” he said. “You’ve got to get him off your hands!” He added: “Perhaps next time we’ll get him a plane passage. He can hardly refuse that.”
And by God, in about ten days he did come up with a plane passage. This time we gave Moricand ample notice.
Once again he agreed, grumblingly, to be sure. Like a rat that had been cornered. But when the time came to depart he was not on hand. He had changed his mind again. What excuse he gave I no longer remember.
By this time a number of my intimate friends had got wind of “the Moricand affair,” as they called it. Everywhere I went people would ask—“What’s happened to your friend? Did you get rid of him yet? Has he committed suicide?” A few had the courage to let me know in plain language that I was nothing but an idiot. “Cut him loose, Henry, or you’ll never get him off your hands! He’ll bleed you dry.” That was the general tenor of the advice I received.
One day Varda came to see me. He was now living in Sausalito on a ferry boat which he had converted into a houseboat, dance palace and studio. He was all agog about the Moricand business, having received all the juicy details from a dozen different sources. His attitude was one of high amusement and genuine concern. How could he get in touch with Moricand? He referred to him as some sort of parasitic monster for whom saints and simpletons were easy prey.
Regarding me as an utterly helpless victim, he then proposed a typical Varda solution. He said he knew a wealthy woman in San Francisco, a Hungarian or Austrian countess, still attractive though aging, who loved to “collect” bizarre figures such as Moricand. Astrology, occultism—that was just her meat. She had a huge mansion, money to burn, and thought nothing of having a guest remain a year or two. If Moricand were as good a talker as I said he was, he would be an attraction for her salon. Celebrities from all over the world converged there, he said. It would be a real haven for a man like Moricand.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he went on. “As soon as I get back to Sausalito I’ll ask her to arrange a soiree. I’ll see that Moricand is invited. The man has only to open his mouth and she’ll be hooked.”
“Are you sure she won’t expect something more of him?” said I. “An aging countess, and still attractive, as you say, may make demands Moricand is no longer able to satisfy.”
“Don’t worry about that!” he cried, giving me a knowing look. “She has only to wave her hand and she can have the pick of San Francisco’s finest young blades. Besides, she has a pair of the most lecherous-looking lap dogs you ever laid eyes on. No, if she takes him, she’ll use him for her salon.”
I regarded Varda’s proposal as a huge joke. Thought no more of it, indeed. Meantime another letter arrived from Moricand, a letter full of recriminations. Why was I in such haste to pack him off? What had he ever done to deserve such treatment? Was it his fault that he had fallen ill chez moi? He reminded me caustically that I was still responsible for his welfare, that I had signed papers to that effect, and that he had these papers in his possession. He even insinuated that if I didn’t toe the mark he would inform the proper authorities of the scandal my books had created in France. (As if they didn’t know!) He might even tell them worse things about me … that I was an anarchist, a traitor, a renegade, and what all.
I was ready to hit the ceiling. “That bastard!” I said. “He’s actually beginning to threaten me.”
Meanwhile Bertrand was making efforts to get him a second plane passage. And Lilik was getting ready to go to Berkeley on a business errand. He too was going to do something about this damned Moricand business. At least he would see him and try to talk some sense into him.
Then came a letter from Varda. He had arranged a soiree chez the Countess, had primed her for the jewel she was to get, found her sympathetic to the idea, and. … To make it short, Moricand had come, had taken one look at the Countess, and then had avoided her like sin for the rest of the evening. He had remained silent and glum the whole evening, except to unleash a cutting remark now and then about the vanity and stupidity of wealthy émigrées who exploited their salons to rustle up fresh bait to whet their jaded appetites.
“The bastard!” I said to myself. “Couldn’t even take on a mi
llionairess to help a fellow out!”
On the heels of this incident Bertrand came up with another plane passage, this one a good week off. Once again I informed his Highness that a silver bird of the air was at his disposal. Would he be so gracious as to give it a trial?
This time the response was clear and definite. All mystery was ripped away.
I give the gist of his letter…. Yes, he would consent to accept the passage which had been proffered him, but on one condition, that I first put to his account in a Paris bank the equivalent of a thousand dollars. It should be easy to understand the reason for such a request. He had left Europe as a pauper and he had no intention of returning as one. It was I who had induced him to come to America, and I had promised to take care of him. It was not his wish to return to Paris, but mine. I wanted to get rid of him, renounce my sacred obligation. As for the money I had spent thus far—he referred to it as if it were a bagatelle—he begged to remind me that he had left with me as a gift an heirloom, his one and only material possession, which was priceless. (He meant the pendule, of course.)
I was outraged. I wrote back at once that if he didn’t take the plane this time, if he didn’t get the hell out of the country and leave me in peace, I would cut him off. I said I didn’t give a shit what became of him. He could jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, for all I cared. In a postscript I informed him that Lilik would be there to see him in a day or two, with the pendule, which he could shove up his ass, or pawn and live on the proceeds for the rest of his days.
Now the letters came thick and fast. He was in a panic. Cut him off? Leave him destitute? Alone in a foreign land? A man who was ill, who was getting old, who had no right to seek employment? No, I would never do that! Not the Miller he had known of old, the Miller with a great, compassionate heart who gave to one and all, who had taken pity on him, a miserable wretch, and sworn to provide for him as long as he lived!
“Yes,” I wrote back, “it is the same Miller. He is fed up. He is disgusted. He wants nothing more to do with you.” I called him a worm, a leech, a dirty blackmailer.
Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch Page 39
