“You know all the details of the story, don’t you, Toca?” I said. “I’m surprised.”
“I’m in love with Captain Langsdorff,” he said. “The least I can do is my homework.”
“So then, once Captain Langsdorff got all his men safely ashore in Buenos Aires?”
“He took the Graf Spee out into the depths of the river and sank it,” Toca said.
“Right in the harbor?” I said.
“You have to understand that the river Platte is very wide there. Large ships like the Graf Spee had to stay in channels in the river to navigate out into the ocean, so Captain Langsdorff was just off the mouth of the harbor when he sank the ship in one of the channels. I recently saw a picture of it. I thought that it plunged to the bottom, but it was so shallow there that the superstructure never submerged. He set explosives with a skeleton crew, and then they took a small boat to Buenos Aires. The piers and shores of Montevideo were crammed with spectators. Evidently everyone knew it was going to happen.”
“I’m always interested in the people who knew it was going to happen but stayed home anyway because they had to do laundry or something like that,” I said.
“Well, first things first,” Toca said.
“You’re right. How important is a German battleship being blown up in front of your eyes in comparison to getting those whites whiter?” I said.
Toca said, “For a young person, you have a very good grasp of how the world works. Nothing is ever too small or irrelevant to not be concentrated on by someone.”
“Hitler must have been furious. And the British, too,” I said.
“Captain Langsdorff had no alternative except to commit suicide, which he did in Buenos Aires,” Toca said.
“Oh, God, how sad. Having been that brave, couldn’t he have been brave enough to keep living?”
Toca said, “From our point of view he would probably have been excused of everything by the Allies once the war was over. But of course, he didn’t know the Allies were going to win. Although he may have begun to have some idea. No, what was more important, I’m sure, is that he violated the code of naval honor and hadn’t gone down with his ship. And he had to prove that he was willing to die for his ship. He just wasn’t willing to take his men with him.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” I said. “Here’s this pillar of honor in the German navy disobeying Hitler, and Hitler was this almost show-business personality who had violated every role of honorable behavior to get where he was. Very apples and oranges. Two completely different worlds. The honor of the past reporting to the chicanery of the present.”
“Chicanery. That’s a good word,” Toca said. “You are full of surprises.”
“I read a lot,” I said.
“And there’s another thing, too. In all the books and pictures I’ve seen, Captain Langsdorff was always surrounded by handsome sailors who obviously adored him,” Toca said.
“Perhaps he was in love with one of them,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“And he didn’t want him to be drowned and lost. He saved his life,” I said.
“I think World War II was the end of the romantic legend period in world history,” Toca said. “People did things in a large-scale way. Now it’s all about hoodwinking the public, stealing large amounts of money from the companies you direct, and then retiring with no one thinking any the less of you for it.”
“And what’s worse, you don’t even think poorly of yourself for doing those things. Guilt is dead. You know that Native Americans think guilt is a little three-cornered piece of tin that revolves in your brain, cutting and hurting. But after a time, the points wear down and you don’t feel guilty anymore,” I said.
“The points have definitely worn down,” Toca said. “But I will always be in love with Captain Langsdorff. I wish I could have been with him when he put on his dress uniform, put the German flag down on the floor, lay down upon it, and put a bullet in his head. As long as I’m living, he will not be forgotten.”
There was something noble about Toca as he said that. Even sitting at a stupid little folding table in front of a French café on a hot afternoon in the Loire Valley.
“Were his sailors all right?” I asked.
“They were sent to a number of small cities in Argentina to work and spend the rest of the war there. Some went home, but a lot of them stayed there and married local women.”
“I would so like to know what happened to the handsome young man he loved,” I said.
“Of course, assuming that he did love a handsome young man,” Toca said.
“I have decided that he did,” I said.
“Well, let’s make up the story that he remained in some provincial city in Argentina, married a local beauty, and begat many gorgeous children, and that they are still living there, a whole tribe of beautiful Argentineans as a result of his remaining there, happy and safe,” Toca said.
“I hope so,” I said.
Fluffy Isn’t Talking
Here we all are at lunch. My first day in France. One big happy family. My mother making one of those lunches of hers where everything is pastry. Her husband, Graham, fresh out of the shower, hair all slicked back, Mister Stud. That weird guy who is the director over at the theater school they have at the Abbey this summer. That older lady, Estelle. She’s cool. She’s the only one who said she would like to play some computer games later.
And those two gay guys who are part of the theater festival. Hugo, the blond one. He was interested that I’m planning to study philosophy this year at Columbia. And his friend. Mister Cutie-Pie. And I’m not supposed to know they’re gay, I suppose.
When they heard my nickname was “Fluffy,” I’m sure they thought I must be gay, too. “Fluffy” is my nickname at home. Not everybody can use it. My mom. My grandmother. My father still uses it, too. But I don’t let my stepmother in New York use it. She knows it. I’ve never heard her try.
Graham calls me “Fluffy” from time to time, and I don’t really mind. And Theo calls me “Fuffy.” Which I like. He’s a sweetheart, Theo. So smart. And crazy about cars. Graham said he would teach me how to drive this summer. With the old Peugeot. He said if I could drive that I could drive anything. The black beast. He’s right about that. It will be cool when I start university this fall and tell people I learned to drive this summer in a 1959 Peugeot. It’s like driving a tank.
Grandma is coming over in a few weeks, and Mitzi is going to come about the same time. It is very annoying that I am still a virgin. I am hoping Mitzi will solve that problem. She seems to know her way around. She’s always talking about sex.
I’ve got to stop masturbating so much. It’s getting so I’m doing it more than once a day. I wonder if adults, grown-up people, have sex more than once a day? If I knew they did, it would make it easier not to worry about masturbating.
Jesus Christ, I’m eighteen years old. I should be having a regular sex life. Maybe I’m gay. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe the reason I haven’t got laid is that I really don’t want to. It is pretty weird to think about laying down on top of somebody and putting your thingus right into their body. It’s sort of like an operation or something.
Somehow what gay guys do seems a little more sensible. They just suck on each other. And I guess they stick it in each other’s poop-shoot. Ugh. That can’t be good. Well, maybe. What do I know?
And here Mom is having another baby. She’s kind of old to be doing that, but she told me that the doctor looked at some kind of x-ray or something and the baby is normal with nothing wrong with it. A girl. She’s going to name it for Grandma. My grandmother. So very cool. She gets right on the subway with me, and we go to the baseball games. My father would never do that. The new baby can come with us. And Theo.
Here comes the salad. I hate tomatoes. Why does every salad have to have tomatoes in it? Particularly those little red ball tomatoes. They make them so they can be shipped to the moon without spoiling. You try to cut them, and it’s impossib
le. You have to put your fork in them and even that isn’t easy. They get away and roll all over the place. And then you put them in your mouth and they squirt all over the place. Stupid.
So all these people sitting around this big table out here in the garden under this umbrella think I’m some kind of jerky kid who doesn’t know anything. Except maybe Hugo, who isn’t much older than I am. I don’t think he is. I don’t mind talking to him. But I’m keeping my mouth shut. No one is going to talk to me anyway. The old geezer the director has to be gay, too. He keeps giving the eye to Hugo. He probably has some very dated idea that he’s going to score if he gives a nice, juicy part in a play to Hugo. Like Hugo could care out here in nowheresville.
I like it because I can speak French and get my skills up so when I take it in college I can get good grades without having to study very much. It’s funny talking to Mom in French because she speaks it pretty well, but she has an American accent. Grandma, too. Grandma’s is different because she learned hers in college out in the Midwest fifty years ago.
Hugo and his friend have on some cool clothes. His friend has a Dolce and Gabbana belt I’d like to have. It would be very good with my new jeans. And Hugo has on those shoes I want. Tod’s. He must be doing okay in the acting business. They’re expensive.
I think I’ll get up and help carry some dishes into the kitchen. I’d start washing them, but Mom won’t let anyone do that. She always says her guests aren’t here to work. By that, she doesn’t mean me. It’s just that she wants everyone to remain at the table until the meal is over. She’s like Grandma. Very old-fashioned and correct. Except that she left Dad and went off with Graham. Which isn’t exactly how it went. Because Dad already had that girlfriend. Mom told me once that she never slept with Graham until she had moved out of the house. And I think that’s right. You can leave someone, but you shouldn’t cheat on them.
Let me help carry out the desserts. Cherry tart from the bakery here. Looks good. Where’s that Steve guy? Hugo’s friend. Guess he had to go to the bathroom. Hey, what was that crash?
The Red Mill
Steve fell downstairs and lost the lead in The Red Mill. I didn’t push him. Honestly.
It was in Nina and Graham’s old house on their ancient, twisting, slippery old staircase. Their house was built in 1600 supposedly, and the staircase was original. Its oak was very hard and slippery as metal. Graham explained to me that they used to cut oak trees and then leave the trunks in very cold running streams for several years to season and harden them. This was certainly the case with that blackened staircase, which showed remarkably little wear for all those feet that had trudged up and down it for centuries.
In addition, the steps curved and turned both at the top and bottom, the bottom step being stone. That especially hard Cornichons stone. Steve hit all of them going down.
Nina had mentioned that she thought there was an angry ghost in the house because a number of people had fallen on the stairs. Both Graham and she warned people. I guess they thought they’d warned Steve often enough when he left the luncheon table and went upstairs to use the bathroom. There was another toilet under the stairs on the ground floor, but he probably imagined it was too much within earshot of the table in the garden. People would hear him if he farted.
We all heard the thumpety-thump-thump-thump on the staircase. Why is it when someone falls the initial reaction is to laugh? Too many Bugs Bunny and Road Runner cartoons? I immediately knew what had happened and leaped up from the table and ran into the house. Steve was my lover, after all.
I had the same feeling I had had once before on Seventh Avenue in New York near Carnegie Hall. A badly crippled man got caught midway across the avenue when the light changed. He ran to get out of the street, spastic limbs flying in all directions, hobbling desperately for the curb. It was both heartrending and hilarious. It was a strange feeling, fighting the laughter through the horror. I felt that same way rushing to Steve, wondering what I’d find and laughing at what I had heard. It wasn’t nice.
Steve was sprawled at the foot of the staircase, one leg in the hall, the other leg caught at an awkward angle against the wall where the staircase turned. He was out. I know you shouldn’t move injured people so I stopped to stare for a moment. Graham was immediately at my elbow, the others mustering behind.
“Those damned stairs,” Graham said. “Let’s move him a little bit just to free his leg. Nina, call the ambulance,” he said over his shoulder. Her voice came from the living room. “I’m doing it.”
Even though Steve couldn’t hear me, I said, “You’re all right. You’re all right. The ambulance is coming.” I couldn’t kneel beside him because of the narrowness of the stairs. I had to hover over him, hanging onto the stair rail.
Even though it was Sunday, Mr. Pillot and his son were at the door in a minute or two with the ambulance. They were in the taxi, ambulance, and hearse business. They knew their business. They had a stretcher on the stone floor of the hall immediately. Mr. Pillot felt Steve’s twisted leg from ankle to crotch. “Pas brisée,” he said. “Not broken.” He crawled over Steve and straddled his head and shoulders while sitting on the step above him. He lifted him up by the shoulders; his son lifted Steve’s legs, and they deposited him on the stretcher, then whisked him into the ambulance.
“I’ll go with him,” I said. My position as official lover seemed to be unquestioned by anyone. I was a little surprised.
Graham said, “I’ll follow in the car so you can get back home.” To the others he said, “Please go finish your lunches. I’ll be back soon.” “Hopital de Blois?” he asked Monsieur Pillot and on being told “Oui” went off in the direction of the old Peugeot sedan parked across the street near the Abbey gates.
I clambered into the back of the ambulance and sat beside Steve. I held his hand. This ought to confirm for the two Messieurs Pillot what is going on at the Abbey, I thought. But then again, maybe not. The French are pretty touchy-feely. Men would hold a good friend’s hand under these circumstances.
Steve was coming to and groaning by the time we arrived at the hospital, about half an hour away in Blois. His leg must have hurt. The hospital orderlies at the emergency ward smartly took the stretcher and whisked Steve away for x-rays. There was no waiting. It was Sunday afternoon. There were no other emergencies in this part of the Loire Valley.
I waited in Steve’s room for him to return from the x-rays. Graham had gone back to Cornichons, saying he would send someone to get me, or Steve and me if that was possible, later. While I was sitting in Steve’s room looking out at the hospital garden and wondering if I was in love with Steve, Toca Sacar walked in.
“I had to come find out how Steve is,” he said. “We start rehearsals for The Red Mill tomorrow.”
I laughed. “You’re all heart, Toca,” I said.
“Well, of course, I’m concerned as to how he is, but we’ve got Kitty Carlisle Hart here and the sets and costumes are done and, come on, aren’t you concerned?”
“About the show? No,” I said. “Get real, Toca. We’re in the Loire Valley in a local theater festival. Must the show go on? We could substitute An Evening with Toca Sacar and you could tell your Tallulah Bankhead stories.”
“What a good idea,” Toca said.
As it turned out, Steve was covered in bruises but had only broken a small bone in his foot. The doctor said it would heal perfectly, but he would have to wear a cast. I told Steve, “Perhaps you could do this show sitting down. Or in a wheelchair. You’re an American tourist in the show. We could pretend you’ve just been injured.”
“Or I could always be behind a bush,” Steve said. “Or maybe wear a long dress that covers my foot.” We both laughed, and I hugged him lying there in that hospital bed. The phone rang. It was Graham. I gave him the story on Steve and added, “I’m going to stay here overnight.” Steve looked at me surprised as I went on. “There is another bed in the room. I’m not going to squeeze in with Steve.” I looked at him. “Actually I am,�
�� I said. Graham laughed.
The nurses understood perfectly and had no problem with my sleeping in the other bed. I told them Steve was my brother. “Et les deux si beau,” the older nurse said to the younger one as they left the room. “And both so handsome.”
Steve looked at me as I stood beside his bed. I slid my hand under the sheet. Those little shorty hospital nighties have their advantages.
“What would you like to do?” I said.
“Watch TV?” he said. “I’m supposed to be injured.”
“It doesn’t feel like you’re injured very seriously,” I said.
“I think I could use some massage therapy,” Steve said.
“Would you like to give someone a hot beef injection?” I said.
“I’m the one who is supposed to be sick,” he said. “Not you.”
“I just thought it might take your mind off your foot,” I said.
“Would you dare to get naked with the nurses running up and down the corridors? They might throw the door open at any moment.”
“Oh, look,” I said. “There’s Vaseline and latex gloves right here in the corner on the nightstand.”
“Handy,” Steve said, reaching out for me as I stood beside his bed with my clothes off. I said, “You can keep your nightie on. Just stay right there. We don’t have to crank the bed up or down or anything.”
“How about turning off the lights?” Steve said.
“Quelle bonne idée,” I said, doing so and then throwing the sheet off Steve and climbing up on his bed to straddle him.
Just as the doctor was releasing Steve the next morning and I was about to call a taxi, Toca came striding in. “It’s all set,” he said.
“Don’t tell me I am going to take over Steve’s role. I really can’t sing that whole show adequately,” I said.
Love in the Loire Page 11
