Forty Stories (Penguin Twentieth Century Classics)

by Donald Barthelme

  Claire will continue to be wonderful.

  As will I, to the best of my ability.

  The New York Times will be published every day and I will have to wash it off my hands when I have finished reading it, every day.

  What? Claire said.

  Smile.

  What?

  Smile.

  The New Owner

  WHEN he came to look at the building, with a real-estate man hissing and oozing beside him, we lowered the blinds, muted or extinguished lights, threw newpapers and dirty clothes on the floor in piles, burned rubber bands in ashtrays, and played Buxtehude on the hi-fi—shaking organ chords whose vibrations made the plaster falling from the ceiling fall faster. The new owner stood in profile, refusing to shake hands or even speak to us, a tall thin young man suited in hopsacking with a large manila envelope under one arm. We pointed to the plaster, to the crevasses in the walls, sagging ceilings, leaks. Nevertheless, he closed.

  Soon he was slipping little rent bills into the mailboxes, slip slip slip slip. In sixteen years we’d never had rent bills but now we have rent bills. He’s raised the rent, and lowered the heat. The new owner creeps into the house by night and takes the heat away with him. He wants us out, out. If we were gone, the building would be decontrolled. The rents would climb into the air like steam.

  Bicycles out of the halls, says the new owner. Shopping carts out of the halls. My halls.

  The new owner stands in profile in the street in front of our building. He looks up the street, then down the street—this wondrous street where our friends and neighbors have lived for decades in Christian, Jewish, and, in some instances, Islamic peace. The new owner is writing the Apartments Unfurn. ads of the future, in his head.

  The new owner fires the old super, simply because the old super is a slaphappy, widowed, shot-up, black, Korean War-sixty-five-percent-disability drunk. There is a shouting confrontation in the basement. The new owner threatens the old super with the police. The old super is locked out. A new super is hired who does not put out the garbage, does not mop the halls, does not, apparently, exist. Roaches prettyfoot into the building because the new owner has stopped the exterminating service. The new owner wants us out.

  We whisper to the new owner, through the walls. Go away! Own something else! Don’t own this building! Try the Sun Belt! Try Alaska, Hawaii! Sail away, new owner, sail away!

  The new owner arrives, takes out his keys, opens the locked basement. The new owner is standing in the basement, owning the basement, with its single dangling light bulb and the slightly busted souvenirs of all our children’s significant progress. He is taking away the heat, carrying it out with him under his coat, a few pounds at a time, and bringing in with him, a few hundred at a time, his hired roaches.

  The new owner stands in the hall, his manila envelope under his arm, owning the hall.

  The new owner wants our apartment, and the one below, and the two above, and the one above them. He’s a bachelor, tall thin young man in cheviot, no wife, no children, only buildings. He’s covered the thermostat with a locked clear-plastic case. His manila envelope contains estimates and floor plans and draft Apartment Unfurn. ads and documents from the Office of Rent and Housing Preservation which speak of Maximum Base Rents and Maximum Collectible Rents and under what circumstances a Senior Citizen Rent Increase Exemption Order may be voided.

  Black handprints all over the green of the halls where the new owner has been feeling the building.

  The new owner has informed the young cohabiting couple on the floor above us (rear) that they are illegally living in sin and that for this reason he will give them only a month-to-month lease, so that at the end of each and every month they must tremble.

  The new owner has informed the old people in the apartment above us (front) that he is prepared to prove that they do not actually live in their apartment in that they are old and so do not, in any real sense, live, and that they are thus subject to a Maximum Real Life Estimate Revision, which, if allowed by the City, will award him their space. Levon and Priscilla tremble.

  The new owner stands on the roof, where the tomato plants are, owning the roof. May a good wind blow him to hell.

  Engineer-Private Paul Klee Misplaces An Aircraft Between Milbertshofen And Cambrai, March 1916

  PAUL Klee said:

  “Now I have been transferred to the Air Corps. A kindly sergeant effected the transfer. He thought I would have a better future here, more chances for promotion. First I was assigned to aircraft repair, together with several other workers. We presented ourselves as not just painters but artist-painters. This caused some shaking of heads. We varnished wooden fuselages, correcting old numbers and adding new ones with the help of templates. Then I was pulled off the painting detail and assigned to transport. I escort aircraft that are being sent to various bases in Germany and also (I understand) in occupied territory. It is not a bad life. I spend my nights racketing across Bavaria (or some such) and my days in switching yards. There is always bread and wurst and beer in the station restaurants. When I reach a notable town I try to see the notable paintings there, if time allows. There are always unexpected delays, reroutings, backtrackings. Then the return to the base. I see Lily fairly often. We meet in hotel rooms and that is exciting. I have never yet lost an aircraft or failed to deliver one to its proper destination. The war seems interminable. Walden has sold six of my drawings.”

  The Secret Police said:

  “We have secrets. We have many secrets. We desire all secrets. We do not have your secrets and that is what we are after, your secrets. Our first secret is where we are. No one knows. Our second secret is how many of us there are. No one knows. Omnipresence is our goal. We do not even need real omnipresence. The theory of omnipresence is enough. With omnipresence, hand-in-hand as it were, goes omniscience. And with omniscience and omnipresence, hand-in-hand-in-hand as it were, goes omnipotence. We are a three-sided waltz. However our mood is melancholy. There is a secret sigh that we sigh, secretly. We yearn to be known, acknowledged, admired even. What is the good of omnipotence if nobody knows? However that is a secret, that sorrow. Now we are everywhere. One place we are is here watching Engineer-Private Klee, who is escorting three valuable aircraft, B.F.W. 3054/16-17-18, with spare parts, by rail from Milbertshofen to Cambrai. Do you wish to know what Engineer-Private Klee is doing at this very moment, in the baggage car? He is reading a book of Chinese short stories. He has removed his boots. His feet rest twenty-six centimeters from the baggage-car stove.”

  Paul Klee said:

  “These Chinese short stories are slight and lovely. I have no way of knowing if the translation is adequate or otherwise. Lily will meet me in our rented room on Sunday, if I return in time. Our destination is Fighter Squadron Five. I have not had anything to eat since morning. The fine chunk of bacon given me along with my expense money when we left the base has been eaten. This morning a Red Cross lady with a squint gave me some very good coffee, however. Now we are entering Hohenbudberg.”

  The Secret Police said:

  “Engineer-Private Klee has taken himself into the station restaurant. He is enjoying a hearty lunch. We shall join him there.”

  Paul Klee said:

  “Now I emerge from the station restaurant and walk along the line of cars to the flatcar on which my aircraft (I think of them as my aircraft) are carried. To my surprise and dismay, I notice that one of them is missing. There had been three, tied down on the flatcar and covered with canvas. Now I see with my trained painter’s eye that instead of three canvas-covered shapes on the flatcar there are only two. Where the third aircraft had been there is only a puddle of canvas and loose rope. I look around quickly to see if anyone else has marked the disappearance of the third aircraft.”

  The Secret Police said:

  “We had marked it. Our trained policemen’s eyes had marked the fact that where three aircraft had been before, tied down on the flatcar and covered with canvas, now there were only two. Unfo
rtunately we had been in the station restaurant, lunching, at the moment of removal, therefore we could not attest as to where it. had gone or who had removed it. There is something we do not know. This is irritating in the extreme. We closely observe Engineer-Private Klee to determine what action he will take in the emergency. We observe that he is withdrawing from his tunic a notebook and pencil. We observe that he begins, very properly in our opinion, to note down in his notebook all the particulars of the affair.”

  Paul Klee said:

  “The shape of the collapsed canvas, under which the aircraft had rested, together with the loose ropes—the canvas forming hills and valleys, seductive folds, the ropes the very essence of looseness, lapsing—it is irresistible. I sketch for ten or fifteen minutes, wondering the while if I might not be in trouble, because of the missing aircraft. When I arrive at Fighter Squadron Five with less than the number of aircraft listed on the manifest, might not some officious person become angry? Shout at me? I have finished sketching. Now I will ask various trainmen and station personnel if they have seen anyone carrying away the aircraft. If they answer in the negative, I will become extremely frustrated. I will begin to kick the flatcar.”

  The Secret Police said:

  “Frustrated, he begins to kick the flatcar.”

  Paul Klee said:

  “I am looking up in the sky, to see if my aircraft is there. There are in the sky aircraft of several types, but none of the type I am searching for.”

  The Secret Police said:

  “Engineer-Private Klee is searching the sky—an eminently sound procedure, in our opinion. We, the Secret Police, also sweep the Hohenbudberg sky, with our eyes. But find nothing. We are debating with ourselves as to whether we ought to enter the station restaurant and begin drafting our preliminary report, for forwarding to higher headquarters. The knotty point, in terms of the preliminary report, is that we do not have the answer to the question ‘Where is the aircraft?’ The damage potential to the theory of omniscience, as well as potential to our careers, dictates that this point be omitted from the preliminary report. But if this point is omitted, might not some officious person at the Central Bureau for Secrecy note the omission? Become angry? Shout at us? Omissiveness is not rewarded at the Central Bureau. We decide to observe further the actions of Engineer-Private Klee, for the time being.”

  Paul Klee said:

  “I who have never lost an aircraft have lost an aircraft. The aircraft is signed out to me. The cost of the aircraft, if it is not found, will be deducted from my pay, meager enough already. Even if Walden sells a hundred, a thousand drawings, I will not have enough money to pay for this cursed aircraft. Can I, in the time the train remains in the Hohenbudberg yards, construct a new aircraft or even the simulacrum of an aircraft, with no materials to work with or indeed any special knowledge of aircraft construction? The situation is ludicrous. I will therefore apply Reason. Reason dictates the solution. I will diddle the manifest. With my painter’s skill which is after all not so different from a forger’s, I will change the manifest to reflect conveyance of two aircraft, B.F.W. 3054/16 and 17, to Fighter Squadron Five. The extra canvas and ropes I will conceal in an empty boxcar—this one, which according to its stickers is headed for Essigny-le-Petit. Now I will walk around town and see if I can find a chocolate shop. I crave chocolate.”

  The Secret Police said:

  “Now we observe Engineer-Private Klee concealing the canvas and ropes which covered the former aircraft in an empty boxcar bound for Essigny-le-Petit. We have previously observed him diddling the manifest with his painter’s skill which resembles not a little that of the forger. We applaud these actions of Engineer- Private Klee. The contradiction confronting us in the matter of the preliminary report is thus resolved in highly satisfactory fashion. We are proud of Engineer-Private Klee and of the resolute and manly fashion in which he has dealt with the crisis. We predict he will go far. We would like to embrace him as a comrade and brother but unfortunately we are not embraceable. We are secret, we exist in the shadows, the pleasure of the comradely/brotherly embrace is one of the pleasures we are denied, in our dismal service.”

  Paul Klee said:

  “We arrive at Cambrai. The planes are unloaded, six men for each plane. The work goes quickly. No one questions my altered manifest. The weather is clearing. After lunch I will leave to begin the return journey. My release slip and travel orders are ready, but the lieutenant must come and sign them. I wait contentedly in the warm orderly room. The drawing I did of the collapsed canvas and ropes is really very good. I eat a piece of chocolate. I am sorry about the lost aircraft but not overmuch. The war is temporary. But drawings and chocolate go on forever.”

  Terminus

  SHE agrees to live with him for “a few months”; where? probably at the Hotel Terminus, which is close to the Central Station, the blue coaches leaving for Lyons, Munich, the outerlands … Of course she has a Gold Card, no, it was not left at the florist’s, absolutely not….

  The bellmen at the Hotel Terminus find the new arrival odd, even furtive; her hair is cut in a funny way, wouldn’t you call it funny? and her habits are nothing but odd, the incessant pumping of the huge accordion, “Malagueña” over and over again, at the hour usually reserved for dinner….

  The yellow roses are delivered, no, white baby orchids, the cream-colored walls of the room are severe and handsome, tall windows looking down the avenue toward the Angel-Garden. Kneeling, with a sterilized needle, she removes a splinter from his foot; he’s thinking, clothed, and in my right mend, and she says, now I lay me down to sleep, I mean it, Red Head—

  They’ve agreed to meet on a certain street corner; when he arrives, early, she rushes at him from a doorway; it’s cold, she’s wearing her long black coat, it’s too thin for this weather; he gives her his scarf, which she wraps around her head like a babushka; tell me, she says, how did this happen?

  When she walks, she slouches, or skitters, or skids, catches herself and stands with one hip tilted and a hand on the hip, like a cowboy; she’s twenty-six, served three years in the Army, didn’t like it and got out, took a degree in statistics and worked for an insurance company, didn’t like it and quit and fell in love with him and purchased the accordion….

  Difficult, he says, difficult, difficult, but she is trying to learn “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” the sheet music propped on the cream marble mantelpiece, in two hours’ time the delightful psychiatrist will be back from his Mexican vacation, which he spent in perfect dread, speaking to spiders—

  Naked, she twists in his arms to listen to a sound outside the door, a scratching, she freezes, listening; he’s startled by the beauty of her tense back, the raised shoulders, tilted head, there’s nothing, she turns to look at him, what does she see? The telephone rings, it’s the delightful psychiatrist (hers), singing the praises of Cozumel, Cancun….

  He punches a hole in a corner of her Gold Card and hangs it about her neck on a gold chain.

  What are they doing in this foreign city? She’s practicing “Cherokee,” and he’s plotting his next move, up, out, across, down…. He’s wanted in Flagstaff, at a succulent figure, more consulting, but he doesn’t want to do that anymore, they notice a sullen priest reading his breviary in the Angel-Garden, she sits on a bench and opens the Financial Times (in which his letter to the editor has been published, she consumes it with intense comprehension); only later, after a game of billiards, does he begin telling her how beautiful she is, no, she says, no, no—

  I’ll practice for eighteen hours a day, she says, stopping only for a little bread soaked in wine; he gathers up the newspapers, including the Financial Times, and stacks them neatly on the cream-colored radiator; and in the spring, he says, I’ll be going away.

  She’s setting the table and humming “Vienna”; yes, she says, it will be good to have you gone.

  They’re so clearly in love that cops wave at them from passing cruisers; what has happened to his irony, which was supposed
to protect him, keep him clothed, and in his right mind? I love you so much, so much, she says, and he believes her, sole in a champagne sauce, his wife is skiing in Chile—

  And while you sit by the fire, tatting, he says. …

  She says, no tatting for me, Big Boy….

  In the night, he says, alone, to see of me no more, your good fortune.

  Police cars zip past the Hotel Terminus in threes, sirens heehawing. …

  No one has told him that he is a husband; he has learned nothing from the gray in his hair; the additional lenses in the lenses of his spectacles have not educated him; the merriment of dental assistants has not brought him the news; he behaves as if something were possible, still; there’s whispering at the Hotel Terminus.

  He decides to go to a bar and she screams at him, music from the small radio, military marches, military waltzes; she’s confused, she says, she really didn’t mean that, but meant, rather, that the bell captain at the Hotel Terminus had said something she thought offensive, something about “Malagueña,” it was not the words but the tone—

  Better make the bed, he says, the bed in which you’ll sleep, chaste and curly, when I’m gone….

  Yes, she says, yes that’s what they say….

  True, he’s lean; true, he’s not entirely stupid; yes, he’s given up cigarettes; yes, he’s given up saying “forgive me,” no longer uses the phrase “as I was saying”; he’s mastered backgammon and sleeping with the radio on; he’s apologized for his unkind remark about the yellow-haired young man at whom she was not staring— And when a lover drifts off while being made love to, it’s a lesson in humility, right?

  He looks at the sleeping woman; how beautiful she is! He touches her back, lightly.

  The psychiatrist, learned elf, calls and invites them to his party, to be held in the Palm Room of the Hotel Terminus, patients will dance with doctors, doctors will dance with receptionists, receptionists will dance with detail men, a man who once knew Ferenczi will be there in a sharkskin suit, a motorized wheelchair— Yes, says the psychiatrist, of course you can play “Cherokee,” and for an encore, anything of Victor Herbert’s—