Call Me Brooklyn

by Lago, Eduardo

  So this is how time comes to an end. I travel with my pockets full of silence, through huge holes that leave no room for color, precipices that leave no room for echoes, hallways that leave no room for words, spaces in which light is lost, and I feel like I am being dragged to the edge of dawn by the morning star. I always suspected that I’d end up swallowed by some blob of light. On the other side are empty ponds and wells full of snakes. That’s where they throw the prisoners, their bones crack as they strike the rocks at the bottom. The snakes begin their work without delay, entering the orbs of the eyes, but they can’t make it up the walls of the well—too slippery. They aren’t fond of blood, they prefer milk. The whole thing only takes a few elastic seconds that extend like flaming fingers reaching for the absolute. Finally, I see into outer space. I didn’t invent these shapes: they came to me and haunted me at night.

  Case #1867. The artist’s last name appears as Rothknow. Autopsy should really be a literary art, as necrology is. In England, they publish anthologies of obituaries—some of them are pretty damn good at that. The ones in the New York Times are all right, maybe not superb. In the city’s public libraries they keep them in the reference section, big black clothbound books. A gloved hand rests on the thorax of the painter. The pathologist, Dr. Judith Lehotay, records marked acute senile emphysema, acute gastritis due to the ingestion of barbiturates, and irreversible cardiac dysfunction. He wouldn’t have had much time to live anyhow. He must have known it, after the aneurysm. Two years, at the most? One cut was two and a half inches long and half an inch deep on the artist’s left forearm and the other two inches long and one inch deep on the right—deep enough to cut into and practically sever the brachial artery. Both cuts were made just below the crook of the arm, reports, in turn, Rothko’s biographer.

  SELF-INFLICTED INCISED WOUNDS OF THE

  ANTECUBITAL FOSSAE

  WITH EXSANGUINATION

  ACUTE BARBITURATE POISONING

  SUICIDAL

  You did a good job. Surely everyone will be convinced this was a suicide, will see that I left no room for doubt. Not an accident, not murder. With Jackson Pollock and David Smith, it was different. They were blind drunk when they got behind the wheel. They looked death in the face, all right, but behind glass, if you follow me—at a remove. There should be no doubt, as with Arshile Gorky. Rotten with cancer, alone in his house in Connecticut, deeply depressed, abandoned by his wife, he hanged himself from a rafter in a little shed. He was forty-four years old. He chalked his suicide note on the side of a crate. Me, I won’t leave a single word. The living cling to the words you leave behind, looking for hidden meanings in them. Silence is much more accurate.

  [February 26, the Frank E. Campbell

  Funeral Home. 2:30 P.M.]

  Some decide to go to the funeral parlor on foot, their shoes stamping the asphalt, passing by puddles that reflect the winter light. Others arrive by limousine. Friends, family, predators. Among the artists: Willem de Kooning, a year younger, still attractive, his body slim and agile; Adolf Gottlieb, Robert Motherwell and his wife, Helen Frankenthaler; Philip Guston, who is beginning to explore new paths; Barnet Newman, a partner in thousands of conversations; Lee Krasner, the widow of Jackson Pollock, and an artist in her own right; the Menils, patrons who will erect a chapel for his most mysterious works; Elaine de Kooning, Willem’s ex-wife. Malamud was there, and the one observation of his to come down to us—he was always prone to such peculiar fillips—was that the corpse was wearing glasses. Some of the mourners bring along objects to which the painter was particularly attached. His children don’t want him to be buried without the musical accompaniment that, in life, filled his every hour. His oldest child Kate puts Rothko’s favorite recording of The Abduction from the Seraglio into the coffin, while the young Christopher has brought along “The Trout Quintet.” Finally, Theodoros Stamos places a flower on Rothko’s chest. Really a gala event, très chic, the performance of the season, as a reporter might say—my kingdom for a one-liner. Fur coats, perfectly tailored suits to pay respect to someone who didn’t know how to dress, who would drive his friends crazy talking about this coat he was thinking of buying. He would call at the most unholy hours, hosanna! and begin talking about this damn coat. Ridiculous. All of them have good reasons for being here. Some people cry, others are in shock, lost in a circle of silence, and others still have come just because they smell money. Sorrow mingling with avarice. Stanley Kunitz, the poet, is the first to speak. The last ones are his older brothers, Albert and Moses Roth, who together sing the Kaddish: Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispa-ar, v’yisromam, v’yisnaseh, v’ysadar, v’yis’halleh, v’yis’hallal sh’meh d’kudsha, baruch hu. The black limousines return to their nests. Symmetries that reach beyond the grave: Mell will outlive her husband by only six months, exactly the same length of time that Jacob the pharmacist lasted after his youngest son arrived in Portland. Mell Rothko will be found dead one morning. It will be the young child, little Christopher, six years old, who will discover the body and have to run to tell his mother’s lover.

  Sunday, May 18, 2008; 1:25 P.M.

  I understand what you say about the story he published in the Atlantic Monthly, Néstor, how could I not? But try to make an effort and put yourself in my place. I’m afraid we’re just not on the same page—I don’t mean inherently, as people, but it’s like I told you: it’s the end of the semester, and I have an insane amount of work to do. I have no time for anything but the papers I have to write. And I’m afraid I’ve hit a dead end in one of them. Nothing could be further from my mind right now than literary matters, and of which, I must confess, I know very little. Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m not being selfish. I just don’t have a choice. But I’m really happy to hear that Frank is feeling better and will be home again soon. So, anyway, I expect to be able to give you my full attention very soon. Wish me luck, Néstor!

  PS. I almost forgot. No, I don’t have the slightest idea what “τπ” is about. I know as much as you do, that Ackerman wanted the two pieces next to each other for some reason, at least that’s what he himself hints in the novel. But because I feel that I’m beginning to know you, and for my own good—so that you leave me alone with my work, I mean!—I’m going to go ahead and send the story to you before you begin to bug me about it. I see you coming miles away, mister. You’re transparent. I’d prefer to leave everything till when we can finally meet. So you have to promise not to insist for more things after you get your copy of “τπ.” I’ll ask Amanda to scan it, like “Kaddish,” then forward it to you. After that, you can invent whatever stories about me you want. There’s no way you’ll be getting anything else after that.

  Your friend—in spite of your stubbornness.

  τπ

  [A Farce]

  At the table in the corner there was this grumpy-looking fucker whose freakish height didn’t register with me till he took to his feet. He had thick curly sideburns running down to his chin, and a piratey sort of mustache, although his general demeanor made me think more of a werewolf. He must have been over six foot two. He was rather thin, his eyes a light blue, and his nose remarkably straight if somewhat thick. I went up to the bar, and as I sat on the stool, I heard someone make a hissing sound, and naturally turned around to see what the hell was going on. It was him. He raised his hand and grimaced at me. He had wide, yellow rabbit teeth that made him look rather ridiculous. He must have realized that I was looking at them, because he closed his mouth right away.

  Psst, he called again. Here, my amigo! He was summoning me, arm still raised, and for some reason, I obeyed.

  On top of his table, I saw a black leather briefcase with these two Greek characters embossed in gold:

  τπ

  Those gap-toothed incisors of his peeked out from under the lank bristles of his mustache.

  I think I have one Hamilton left, I’m almost sure, he said, speaking Spanish, to my surprise.

  A Hamilton?

  He stuck his hairy
hand in his pocket, rummaging around until till he pulled out a bank note wrinkled into a ball. He flattened it into a rectangular shape. A ten-dollar bill.

  Mr. Alexander Hamilton, he said, smoothing out the bilious face on the bank note. Now if you’ll do me the favor of moving your ass in the general direction of the bar, I’ll buy a round. Tequila sour for me.

  He was clumsy, uncoordinated. When he stood up, he almost sent his chair flying. He left his briefcase on the table, apparently unconcerned that any of the other customers—by no means respectful of other folks’ property, by the look of them—would take an interest in it. He was off to the pissoir.

  So I came back with two tequila sours, planted them on the table, and waited. Two minutes later, the stranger came out of the toilet still pulling up his fly.

  Mercibocu, he said and dipped his finger into a tequila sour and left it there. Code three, he said, taking out his finger and watching it as if it weren’t his. He took a deep breath and added cryptically: I’m dedicated to mocking them. I make a point of slaughtering them up, raising my rhododendrums.

  He took no notice of my confusion. Reclaiming his finger, he sucked the sour off it before asserting: They’re after me, you know. They want to take my mug shot. He smiled. Some years ago, my editor alertacted me that Time magazine had sent a photoharvester to Mexico City with the mission of erranding into me, so I made myself scarce. I vamoosed to Guanajuato, got on a meningitic bus that took fourhundredfiftysix rattling minutes to shake through the sierra. But the worst thing was when they started with the motherflocking awards.

  This was all entirely impenetrable to me, but I asked:

  Is that where you learned Spanish? I mean, in Mexico?

  No, that’s where I forgot it. The Spanish of Castilla I learned in Cascadilla.

  Cascadilla?

  Cascadilla Hall. It’s the name of my old dorm at Cornell. He looked up and his teeth reflected the stream of light falling from the ceiling.

  Prrost, he said, taking another sip of his cocktail. And where, pray, do you hail from? Where did you learn Spanish?

  In Brooklyn, I said. What were you doing in Mexico?

  I went to finish a novel. What’s your favorite letter?

  I’ve never given it any thought.

  Mine’s V. I have the Corvair outside. Let’s go check out the other side of the night, he said, chugging down his tequila sour. Aw, shit.

  He had a thing for light, I guess.

  At the entrance to the bar he paused and positioned himself at the precise spot where two streams of light crossed each other, one yellow, the other blue. His striated figure floated indecisively in the liquid light.

  There she is, he said, turning on his heels and stumbling toward a green Corvair with California plates.

  He got behind the wheel, fastened his seatbelt, and reached over the sun visor on the passenger’s side, where he kept a half-smoked joint that he referred to as a damselfly. He lit it with a purple lighter, and took a long, deep drag, shaking his legs as if he were about to piss his pants. He passed me the joint, still holding in his smoke, and it seemed a few forevers before he finally let out a cloud of bittersweet smoke that expanded until it filled up the inside of the car. It was my turn. A shiny silver scalpel sliced open my esophagus lengthwise, making way for the brightness that slipped in, slithered down, then came out again through my belly button.

  τπ watched me gleefully.

  Strong, huh? A drag is enough to gravebeyond you, he said as he put out the damselfly and shoved it back behind the sun visor.

  I bet you’ve never tried nothing like this? He took a plastic bag from the glove compartment and opened it. Black ganja. The weed was the color of tar. Indians grow it at high altitudes. They beat the plantbushes with barges braided with silver threads so they can get the most retsin out of them. His voice sounded as though it were coming to me from a distant place. Where his eyes should have been I saw two live red embers. Brazilian fuckgrass, shilder than fuck.

  His voice had become distorted. His words began to fuse into each other. The last thing I heard was:

  Qu’est-Ce q [yilph kiameth] ue tea faye?

  Then all sound became equally muted, unintelligible. It was like going through a tunnel. Coming out, all I could make out was this sentence:

  Do you like jazz? Then: Thelonious Monk is playing today in the Village, he said, one voice dancing in a void. In a crypt. He hasn’t played in years, you know. He ran down. Silence got him. He just stopped playing. Just like that. Rawturkey. Where he’s at now has nothing to do with his gigs back in the fifties, when he played places like the Five Spot. And, shit, his sidemen. Bird. Coltrane. Anyway, Oedipa told me about today’s gig. That’s why I’m in New York.

  At the club door, this gorilla bouncer has the gall to card τπ. The guy looks around forty but he needs to prove it, see. American literalness.

  There’s no birthdate here, the gorilla bouncer huffs.

  τπ pulls out a handful of other IDs and fans them out. The bouncer goes through them till he comes across a driver’s license, then grunts, satisfied:

  Welcome, Mr. Lippincott.

  Inside, at one of the front-row tables, there was a woman seated next to a skinny man who was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. They waved to us. τπ introduced them as Oedipa Maas and Don. We found seats and sat. Monk came on stage, wearing a leopard-skin hat. The room went church quiet.

  Kneel down before the mystery, τπ told me. Monk over the keyboard. Another few forevers till he played the first note. The gremlins of entropy spare us even a single nervous cough. Don, in my ear: What he’s listening to, we can’t hear.

  No doubt Monk’s band knew the score. They weren’t even scratching their noses. Everyone was waiting for the Man to give the high sign. Waiting for the great sphere to burn.

  He’s a genius, τπ said, a fuckingfagmotherlickingenius, that’s what Thelonious Monks is. Extranversy. An extra transfaerial ecstasy.

  When he gets like this, Oedipa said, when he goes into one of these, what? Linguistic trances. There’s nothing you can do. She put one of her hands in τπ’s pockets.

  Driving, said Don, is out. Not like this.

  I’m one ahead of you, Oedipa said, and she clinked in midair the keys she just liberated from our ward’s pants.

  Let’s go to my place, she said. I have some mescaline.

  Don said thanks all the same, he had to get to the Bronx. Oedipa got behind the wheel. τπ began to play the bongos in the back seat. I was about to ask him whether he was doing “A Night in Tunisia” when he passed out. So much for the rhythm section.

  And where did you meet? Oedipa asked, once we were out in traffic.

  In a bar a few hours ago. He brought me here.

  So you don’t know who he is.

  Not a clue.

  She named a name I’d heard around a few times, and asked if I’d heard of him.

  I turned to look at the wreck snoring in the back seat.

  I read one of his stories in a magazine about ten years ago. It stuck in my head. I think it even got into my dreams, once. There’s this guy who winds up in a garbage dump, and a midget lives there, and she falls in love with him and won’t let him go.

  Name’s Nerissa, I was told. Then: By the way, mine’s not Oedipa, said Oedipa—It’s Mel. Oedipa’s another character of his. He loves playing games.

  I was treated to what would wind up the only sane conversation that night. Mel told me what happened when our backseat bongoer’s huge third novel won the National Book Award in fiction, a year and a half before. Apparently he shared it with A Crown of Feathers by Isaac Bashevis Singer.

  Singer and this guy, I said. Now that’s a schizoid pairing. Night and day.

  That’s right. Later it won I don’t know what Medal from some Academy, not that he accepted the award. Then came the Pulitzer meltdown. The fiction jurors were pretty big names, that year: Elizabeth Hardwick, Benjamin DeMott, and Alfred Kazin, no less. Their decis
ion was unanimous: give it to τπ. But the bigwigs on the board were so frustrated or disgusted or who knows what, trying to read the book, that they declared no prize would be given that year at all. But the funniest thing was when it won the National Book Award. He wouldn’t go to the ceremony. His publisher suggested they get the comedian Irwin Corey to pick up the prize. And he did, and he gave an acceptance speech too. You should have heard it. It was like a cross between Finnegans Wake and a Lord Buckley routine. Corey pretty much slaughtered the English language and left it there to die. One half of the audience laughed, the other half looked like it was doing the Times crossword puzzle . . .

  Oedipa, τπ piped from the back seat, would you get me a beer and roll us gentlemen a joint?

  You roll one, shithead, can’t you see I’m driving.

  Then τπ insisted we all sing “One-Eyed Riley,” a song that appears in T.S. Eliot’s The Cocktail Party. He happened to have the score on him, and so made us memorize it and then perform to his bongo accompaniment.

  By the time he let us stop, we’d reached our destination on Riverside Drive. More music was leaking out of the entrance of the building in question.

  Shit, I completely forgot about Amy’s party. I think her thesis advisor is up there. I’m sorry, Tom.

  Non ti preoccupare di niente. Arriviamo un momento, prendiamo la mescalina, un po da bere e partiamo.

  There was a living room next, and in the middle of that room was a middle-aged man with a fair-to-middling goatee. I pegged him right away as a white tube-sock-and-jockey-shorts kind of guy, though I have to admit that this deduction was helped along by the fact that he didn’t have anything else on. A guy with an overpowering French accent and hard-on bolted out from one of the bedrooms as we came in—seems he’d been fucking someone or something and at le moment suprême had had the misfortune of overhearing someone in the party pronounce this or that literary opinion—that Mickey Spillane was twice the writer Manly Wade Wellman ever was, perhaps (unless it was vice versa?). To let such a statement pass unchallenged was more than he could bear, so out he’d popped, and you’d better believe everyone got out of his way in a hurry.