Herman Wouk - Don't Stop The Carnival

by Don't Stop The Carnival(Lit)

  Under a yellow insect-repelling lamp, a wooden scroll-sign hung over the entrance: Surrender. Insects swarmed around the light. "Honest, if that dumb sign hasn't embarrassed me more than once," exclaimed Iris. She turned to him, arms folded, and leaned against the door, her twisted smile blackly marked by the light from above. "Well, this has been fun. I hope you liked the fish."

  Paperman was wondering, as almost any man under seventy would in these circumstances, whether he would be invited into Iris Tramm's cottage, and if so, what would happen inside. He said unsteadily, "My wife's wonderful, Iris."

  "Is she pretty?"

  "I think she is."

  "Tall?"

  "No. Not like you. You see, I like them short. Henny informed me of this fact when we got married. Once or twice she has reminded me."

  "She sounds all right."

  "Henny's a terrific woman."

  "Would you like to come in for a drink?"

  "Yes indeed."

  "Come along. It's a hell of a time to end an evening, quarter to eleven." She opened the unlocked door, and he followed her in. As she flipped on a wall switch, Paperman heard a growl. "All right, it's just me and a friend, so shut up," she called, whereupon somewhere out of sight a dog began to snarl and bark, clanking a chain and scrabbling strong claws on wood. "My protector. Just stand your ground. You're not afraid of dogs, are you? -Okay, okay, I'm coming, shut your yap, darling." She went out to the porch. There were leaps, thumps, clanks, barks, and into the room bounded a large black German shepherd dog. It charged straight for him, eyes as red as its tongue, teeth gleaming in rows like a shark's. Paperman stood still; to retreat one step before this animal, he was certain, meant the loss of all of his throat that mattered. The dog halted an inch or two from him, glowering and slavering. Iris came in and cuffed the beast on the nose. "I said he's a friend, stupid. Don't you want out on the beach? Beach? Beach?"

  The big animal looked at her, then at Paperman, and with a bound it catapulted out the back door.

  "He's very clever," said Iris, "and he's lots of company. His name is Meadows. When he comes back he'll be all right. Sit down. What'll it be, more brandy?"

  "Scotch with-ugh, with ice, if you've got it." Paperman was annoyed at his involuntary swallow.

  "Unnerving, isn't he?" she said, from the kitchenette. "That's the idea. I bought him two years ago, after my divorce from Mr. Tramm, when I was alone in a big house in the Santa Barbara hills."

  Paperman now became aware of how different this cottage was from the one he and Lester occupied; no hotel furnishings, no room divider. There was a large peach-colored divan with black throw cushions; an enormous round rug of lacy yellow straw; chairs, couches, and a dinette in modern Swedish; gaudy oil abstractions on the walls. One far wall in shadow was all books and phonograph records, floor to ceiling, except for the space taken by a formidable hi-fi. On that dim side of the room stood a plank table on sawhorses with clay figures, stained cloths, and sculpturing tools; and beside it an open portable typewriter and a stack of yellow paper on a wheeled stand. The place seemed split into a working, studio side, and a living side; and the smell on this living side was a strange mixture of delicate boudoir and coarse dog.

  "Here's your booze," Iris said.

  "What's this? I'm drinking alone?"

  "I don't drink much, Norman. Coffee for me."

  Meadows trotted into the room, favored Paperman with an absent-minded snarl, and flopped at the feet of his mistress. "Hello, fool. Were you a good dog out on the beach?" He looked up into her face with bright adoration.

  Iris was curious about Atlas, or said she was, so Paperman described Lester's business; a flat topic, but with Meadows at her feet, any latent romance in the evening seemed to have died. Iris got more coffee after a while, refilled Paperman's drink, and brought out of the kitchenette a meaty beef bone, saying, "Bedtime for little doggies." The beast capered after her out to the porch, and Paperman heard the clank of a chain and some cooed silly endearments.

  He wandered around the dark side of the room, inspecting her books and records; also the sculptures-a clenched hand, the head of a Negro boy, a sleeping dog. He said as she came in, "Is this what you do?"

  "I play at it."

  "You go in for heavyweight books."

  "I read."

  He had noticed grouped on a high shelf, above dozens of austere highbrow paperbacks and a shelf of mysteries, some worn books from a buried time in his own life: Marxist treatises of the thirties, thick tomes which he had once plowed through with dogged energy and -he now realized-unwitting religiosity. How long ago that was! He had gotten rid of those books during the McCarthy panic. Now he was ashamed of having done so. Henny had given him hell, but at the time it had seemed simple prudence. He said, "I'm surprised you bother your pretty head with economics."

  "A heritage from my first marriage. I have four times this many in storage back home. An old book brings back memories. When I read John Strachey, I'm seventeen and in love again, and the smell of jonquils in a window box on Perry Street rises from the pages." She took up a guitar leaning in a dark corner. "Do you play?"

  "No."

  "I think I'm going to have to give it up. I liked cowboy music and folk songs long before they got to be the thing."

  Paperman said, "That happens to everything in the States these days, Iris. The avant-garde can't keep ahead of the squares."

  "Isn't it the truth?" Iris swept her hand over the guitar in a rich chord. "Well, let's pretend every second college boy isn't doing this, okay? It used to be fun."

  She played and sang a lively Caribbean song he had never heard, The Zombie Jamboree:

  "Back to back, belly to belly, I don't give a damn 'cause I done dead a'ready-"

  All she did was strum chords, she was an inexpert player, but her singing was surprisingly good. Paperman was stung with a sudden notion that he knew this woman; whether she was really a performer, or the wife of an old friend, or-hardly conceivable-someone he had had a fling with in the dead past; but could you forget somebody like Iris Tramm? Perched on the edge of the divan, her charming legs tucked to one side, she struck strong low chords, and began to sing TB Blues; then Streets of Laredo; then It Makes No Difference Now. He sat in a low chair opposite her, sipping his drink, awash in nostalgia. She shot him a mischievous glance, and plucked out the first bars of a melody, very slowly, single note by single note: tonk. tonk. atonk torik. tonk. atonk-

  He sat up, shocked. "Recognize it?"

  "Recognize it!" She sang:

  "I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night Alive as you or me; Says 1, Why Joe, you're ten years dead- 'I never died,' says he. 'I never died,' says he."

  "Iris, where do I know you from?" said Paperman.

  " 'The copper hosses killed you, Joe, They shot you, Joe,' says 1; 'Takes more than guns to kill a man,' Says Joe, 7 didn't die.' Says Joe, 'I didn't die.'"

  Paperman had not heard Joe Hill for perhaps a dozen years. The prosperous ex-communists he knew didn't sing it, even if they got very drunk. But this song, especially in the throaty, sad way Iris was singing, brought back to Paperman the feeling of being young, strong, and throbbing with sexual drive; the wonderful comradeship of the left-wingers at the smoky boozy parties for Loyalist Spain, the exaltation of being on the inside of a movement that was going to save the world from Hitler and bring on the golden age; the excitement of conspiring against the evil bosses for the cause of the common people, the naive workers, who were hoodwinked followers of the capitalist press; above all it was a song of youth. Of youth! Of spaghetti dinners and red wine, of the kisses and embraces of many girls and at last the different kisses of little Henrietta Leon, and their love affair that burned through Marxist discussion meetings and picket-line marches and all-night arguments in cafeterias; yes, and through protest rallies on Union Square and in Manhattan Center, and in left-wing night clubs and at the "social significance" cabarets and shows-those gay biting shows that he had helped to stage, and Henny h
ad danced in, when he had still dreamed of being a producer-and after the shows, the late Chinese meals, and then the walk up spangled Broadway to his tiny shabby room in a fleabag hotel on West Forty-eighth Street, just Henny and himself, holding hands and singing with the once-in-a-lifetime joy of young lovers on their way to make familiar and perfect love:

  "Says I, Why, Joe, you're ten years dead,' 'I never died,' says he. '1 never died,' says he"

  -singing so happily that even morose Broadway strollers smiled through the rain at them-

  Paperman stood, scanning the woman's face. "I'll be damned," he said in a quiet wondering tone. "That's who you are. Iris, you're Janet West. Aren't you?"

  Chapter two

  Janet West

  I

  The new white convertible was only a Chevrolet, but it seemed enormous on the narrow highway to the airport, whizzing past little European cars, and rust-rotted old American machines. Meadows sat erect and pompous on the front seat. Atlas, in his black silk suit, slouched in the back beside Paperman, who wore new water-buffalo sandals, a pink-and-white striped sport shirt, and white shorts.

  "Sixty miles an hour, and it's boiling hot," said Atlas. "And it isn't even eleven in the morning. Tell me again about the trade winds, Norm."

  Iris said without turning around, "It's the sun, Lester. Shall I put up the top?"

  "No, I want the burn, prove at least that I've been down here." Atlas mopped his naked head. "What do I tell Henny, Norm"? When will you be back?"

  Paperman's eyes met Iris's for a moment in the driver's mirror. "Tomorrow, Lester, or Friday. I'll phone her tonight."

  The airport, ten minutes from town, was a flat field full of waving guinea grass and assorted brambles. One tarred strip ran east and west through the greenery. The terminal was a spacious brown wooden shed, open to the field. Inside was the ticket counter of an obscure airline, and a tin refreshment booth offering dusty candy, last week's New York papers, and scuffed copies of Time going back to September. About a dozen brightly clad tourists sat on wooden benches, looking hot and hung-over. Several hundred yards away there was a sound like a riot. In the concrete shell of a half-finished building laborers swarmed, abusing each other with great good cheer.

  "Governor said last night Pan Am's going to route its Venezuela run through here once that terminal's up," Atlas said. "Figure what that'll do to your land values. Three hours non-stop from New York."

  They were standing at a window where there was a little breeze, and Paperman was watching Iris approach from the parking lot. He said absently, "Oh, the boom's got to come. One day this'll just be a hot Larchmont."

  "You made out better than I did last night," said Atlas.

  Paperman took his eyes off Iris and faced into Atlas's wise grimace. "I didn't make out. Look, Lester, if I decide to go ahead with the hotel, what do I do? What kind of deal will it be?"

  "Norm, just make up your mind first."

  "But there's a plain big question of money."

  "I know. If you want to do it, tell Amy I'm the money man and she'll hear from me. We'll work something out that won't be too hard on anybody. Let me worry about the money end."

  "Your plane's landing," Iris called to Atlas. "Get up to the gate so you can grab a front seat. The tail on these planes sort of whips around."

  Atlas groaned. "Who ever heard of an airport without a bar? I want a drink. I hate flying. Anybody who ever said he didn't is a liar. That goes for the Wright brothers and Lindbergh."

  At the gate he held out his hand to Iris and put on his courtly manner. The small blue plane was swooping in with a roar. "Well, so long, Iris. Thanks for driving me to the airport, that was very thoughtful. Take good care of Norm, now. So long, Norman. Have fun."

  A sudden gust of wind whirled dust and papers all over the airport. Thick gray rain began hammering the tin roof, making starry splashes on the concrete apron. The sun continued to shine, and a low rainbow arched over the mountains. A loudspeaker squawked at the passengers to board the plane at once. Atlas exploded with foul talk, apologized to Iris, and then lumbered out of the terminal and into the downpour. He heaved himself up the plane steps, and once inside he turned, waved his fist at Paperman, and shouted something clearly uncomplimentary about the trade winds. The rain continued until the plane started to taxi down the ramp; then Paperman could see the shower drifting along the airstrip and out to sea, a blowing curtain of gray under a single billowing cloud in a serene blue sky.

  "Odd weather you have here," he said.

  "We have half a dozen different weathers, all at the same time."

  "How's the weather going to be for our picnic?"

  "Well, Pitt Bay is the place where it doesn't rain even in the rainy season. We should be okay."

  With the departure of the plane, desolation shrouded the terminal. The porters, the mechanics, the girls at the counters and the booth all vanished. Nobody was in sight; not one living thing except the flies and a single dust-colored dog lying in the middle of the building, fighting off flies with sad, loud thumps of his tail. The distant noise of the laborers on the new terminal suggested that blood was being spilled in rivers, but walking out into the blaze of the sun Paperman could see about half of them moving slowly and peaceably, and the other half standing quite still, watching them.

  The airport lay in the flattest part of Amerigo, amid unbroken square miles of sugar cane. An old stone mill humped its brown cone out of the green carpet, the one structure between the airport and the mountains. The only sounds close by were the cries of birds, and the footfalls of himself and Iris on the cinder path to the parking lot.

  "I hope Meadows isn't roasted alive. I have to put up the top and keep the windows half shut or he gets out and terrorizes people."

  Meadows was all right, as he demonstrated by howling and lunging in the closed car at Paperman.

  "Shut your big face," she shouted, opening the door, and the dog quieted. "Well, now, Norman, where to? I'll take you up through town and around the long way to Pitt Bay, so you'll get a pretty good look at the island. Anything special you want to see?"

  "How about that sugar mill? Can we visit it?"

  "Not that one." She started the car, and drove out of the lot. Iris drove fast, nervously, but well. "It belongs to one of our rich homos. He has it fixed up as a guest cottage. Quite delightful-Victorian furniture, Corots, and what have you. Marvelous place for parties."

  "Are there many of the gay boys here?"

  "Whole prides of them, sweetie. They live on the income of uncounted shares of U. S. Steel, Allied Chemical, A. T. & T., and so forth, most of them, and their taxes go to meet a good part of the island's budget. Of course we have poor ones, too."

  "Balanced economy," said Paperman.

  They were driving down the highway between high straight walls of cane. They passed a withered black woman riding a donkey loaded with pineapples. Meadows growled. "There's more to Amerigo than meets the eye," Norman said.

  "More than you'll find out if you spend the rest of your life here. Just this little island of twelve thousand people. Layers under layers under layers."

  He said after a silence, "Do you think you'll act again?"

  "I expect not."

  "Why not? You were marvelous. Such a gift doesn't disappear."

  "Well, you're very kind, Norman, but the sort of reputation I got myself seldom rubs off. And besides-" Iris glowered at the road, driving very fast. "Oh, hell, if I do ever act again, just make sure you're not around, that's all. The fallout poisons reservoirs five hundred miles away. Anyway, what am I talking about? The next time would be the death of me. It's absolutely out of the question."

  Talking about her career, she now seemed more like the Janet West he remembered. Motions of her head, a trick of pushing out her lips, the powerful rise and fall of her voice brought back to his mind moments of her performances in movies. He could recall how awed he had been, seeing the skyrocketing young film star backstage at the rehearsals of the sec
ond Follies for Free Spain. Her hair had been light brown then, rippling to her shoulders. Hardly more than nineteen, she had moved like a squaw in the wake of her husband, Melvin Swann, a suspected communist, but such a success at playing brutal likable villains that Hollywood was then tolerating him. He was either dead now, or drifting around Europe. Paperman was reluctant to ask Iris about him. He knew that some time during her public crack-up, so pitifully early in her career, they had been divorced.

  My God, what a beauty she had been! How touching her inexpert willing efforts to sing and dance in the radical skits! Iris Tramm, as a thirtyish blonde encountered on a tropical island, was attractive enough. As the red embers of the briefly incandescent Janet West she was pathetic, startling, and even more appealing.