Back in the city, I joined a bus tour with my fellow Americans, enjoying the sights of the capital, including St. Stephen's Cathedral and the vast Schönbrunn Palace, where, as a six-year-old, the prodigy Wolfgang Amadeus astonished Empress Maria Theresa. In what was for me an unusual flight of imagination, I could imagine the small feet tapping across the shining floors, and the small fingers, cold as mine today in the graveyard, whispering over the keys, the fresh music of a young genius resounding through the hard walls. Too young to have any idea of how short his life would be, he would have been feeling immortal, maybe dreaming of puppies as he played for the jaded oldsters who barely preceded him into a coffin.
Refreshed with my thoughts, as I always am when I consider mortality and how it brings all of us, sycophants, tyrants, and talents, to the same home, I found a candlelit dining room and filled up on delightful Viennese schnitzel. The continuing drizzle that had escorted me to the hotel did not dampen my spirits.
My plans floated around my head, suspended like the soft eiderdown under which I later went to bed. I saw myself as I drowsed, spiraling down toward the cemetery, then veering toward its forest. Once there, in the shadows of my dream, I thumbed through the cracked yellow pages of the Dostoyevsky opus that would soon be mine, the glare of his haunted intelligence my night-light, as exciting as good sex.
At three A.M. I arose. Putting on the rain gear and boots I had left beside my bed, I shouldered the long bag which held the tools of my trade. The walk to the cemetery took forty minutes, with only one policeman to avoid. Even the taverns had closed and a cool vaporous rain obscured the severe gothic lines of the granite buildings so favored by the city burgermeisters.
The lock to the main wrought iron gate I picked without incident, and made my way within, treading cautiously along the graveled path, words of the Master lingering in my mind: “I know that I am going to a graveyard, but it's a most precious graveyard.”
At Mozart's grave, I swiftly unpacked my spade and dug. Several hours passed. I had stripped to the waist, oblivious to the cold. If the cherubim in the sky lamented, if the composer himself watched infuriated, I remained oblivious, chained to my task, intent upon my work and its own rhythms. Only an amateur would allow the cries of owls to suggest such things. Only an amateur would shiver at the gauzy haunts that passed through me as I worked. The regular chink of the spade followed by the sifting sound of dirt falling in a pile were the only sounds I heard, and they were cozy sounds, soothing even, sounds of my father, sounds of my youth.
Flashes of movement near the trees, I could swear I saw them, but the coffin came into view, and all such childish imaginings fled at the sight of it.
Made of flimsy wood and rotted through from two hundred years in the dank Viennese earth, the box was quite deeply embedded. I had to climb into the hole to get closer. From my small dirt ledge, I lifted the lid with my spade handle, and gazed upon the composer.
Like all the rest, a grinning skull, bones enfolded in half-disintegrated bits of frippery, lace and velvet and… A short sword, still entangled between the fingers of the right hand, lay along what had once had been a thigh, a final gift, no doubt, from some noble friend. I could not resist. I took hold of the hilt and tried to disengage my prize from its encumbrance but to my dismay the desiccated appendage detached itself at the wrist and came loose with the sword. Surprised, I cried out, then brought myself under control, removing the musician's possessive palm and fingers with gentle force. I held his hand for a brief moment in my own, marveling at the small size that had exerted such crescendos of originality in life, before returning it to its owner. I then climbed out of the pit and thrust the sword into my pack.
Back again into the boggy grave I crawled, snipping a bit of hair that clung to the grayish skull and scraping bits of bone into a zipper-lock plastic bag. My task was almost complete. Standing for a last moment in the grave I decided to examine the coffin lid further. Were those words I saw there? Last bits of wisdom to consider? In a foolish gesture that cost me everything, I bent and was struck from above.
No, I did not die, although my dream died. I awoke covered with earth, my bones commingled with Mozart's, his cold and disturbed, mine fortunately still ignited by flesh. I was only loosely coated with the earth. Above me, dawn spread, a faint streak of red after rain. Taking the time only to replace the lid and grab my spade, failing to bid my usually gracious adieu to the man who owned this spot, I climbed quickly out.
Gone! Pack, tools, samples-and sword! Gone while I had succumbed to a moment of humanity, a craving to know more than I needed to know. All that was left above was my spade and a flashlight. I freely confess I danced around the grave shouting obscenities and kicking the spot where there should have been a headstone for some minutes, but my rage was soon replaced by fear. Even my shirt had been stolen. The gray light of morning crept up around me and the morning rounds would soon begin.
Gathering my wits, I shone my flashlight along the ground, observing impressions in the mud, small boot marks. Haunts did not wear boots. If they did, they would be larger, I said to myself, picturing the thief and the laughter. An easy job, taking full advantage of my overconfidence.
Shaken, but determined in my task, I started back for the grave. A shout and heavy footsteps turned me away. I ran, following the tracks that led away from the grave, diminutive footsteps deepened by the heavy pack and easy to see. Strong, swift, silent as death she had been… remarkable in every way. My heart pounded as I visualized her, trim in her jeans and boots, observing me from the trees, watching the rain stream down my straining back, joyful at outwitting me…
I flew back to New York the next morning, scrutinizing my fellow passengers, alert for the small, smart, strong, and solitary female. But she had too much sense to take the same plane.
Sabatich, my unhappy client, got a refund. Two weeks later I fought melancholy, with the news that a Japanese corporation had purchased Notes from Underground at a record auction price for a literary ms. of $1.2 million.
I took comfort in three observations. First, Professor Arnhem published no further attacks on Professor Sabatich's arsenic poisoning theory. Clearly, the samples she provided had tested positive, and the man had some modicum of professional honor.
Second, I now know I have a female counterpart in the world. In her no doubt exquisite home hangs an old decorative sword, casually displayed, its value, its meaning, known only to two people in the world. Her, I shall seek out and… ravish, yes, ravish as I ravish my graves…
And third, Mozart's last sad gesture inspired an idea, and led to pleasure far greater than the mere handling of the Master's manuscript. A whole new level of collecting-
Direct from my recent nocturnal visitation to the Tikhov Cemetery in St. Petersburg -
I am caressing it now, running my hand over its bony yellow protuberances-
The Master's hand!
Gertrude Stein Solves a Mystery
Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas during July of 1933 motored to the new country house at Bilignin in their ancient Ford named Godiva during a hot spell when there was no there at 27 Rue de Fleurus in Paris. At this time Gertrude Stein was still only a legend in her own mind and perhaps the minds of Picasso and Matisse and young insecure black haired Hemingway and Fitzgerald who had long known her crew cut immensity but before the year was out she would become definitely a legend and not perhaps a legend.
At Bilignin Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas had servant trouble. The servants were sickly and sickly servants serve badly and must go so they went.
At this time near the new house at Bilignin there lived a mannish neighbor who wore the pants and her dear friend a not so mannish Englishwoman. The mannish neighbor offered to help find a housekeeper and gardener a local couple married if possible for Gertrude Stein to hire as servants.
This offer caused Alice B. Toklas to invite the mannish neighbor who wore the pants and the not so mannish Englishwoman to tea at the new house at Bili
gnin tea of the broad shouldered English kind in hopes that good servant advice would be given.
On this fine July afternoon with some humidity so that a storm was expected the four ladies drank English tea on the lawn at the new house at Bilignin. Alice B. Toklas had to serve it herself but the not so mannish Englishwoman helped with the cleanup while Gertrude Stein and the mannish neighbor discussed the servant problem with reference to Marx Voltaire and Emerson. Soon however Gertrude Stein saw the expected storm and the seeing made them hurry inside from the lawn outside the new house at Bilignin.
Eau de vie a colorless liqueur tinged with the fragrance of raspberries was served in the parlor by Alice B. Toklas who by now was glowering at the serving but Gertrude Stein in her immensity did not notice. Typical remarked the not so mannish Englishwoman to Alice B. Toklas we have to do all the work while they discuss the servant problem eh Alice.
To which remark the broad shouldered mannish volatile neighbor whose name was Madame Caesar and who wore the pants replied you are lucky I keep you you English sheep I have seen you seeing little Fleurette at the post office in Bilignin. And it was true the Englishwoman had the melting eyes of a sheep whether French or English.
On this fine July afternoon with increasing humidity as if summoned by these harsh words a pretty little bicycle bell was heard outside the new house at Bilignin causing Madame Caesar the mannish neighbor to drop her monocle in the seeing that she was having.
The seeing that she was having was of little Fleurette of the post office at Bilignin dismounting from her bicycle and being seen by the not so mannish Englishwoman whose seeing was a glint and a fish and a rose and a bicycle. And this vivid English seeing was seen very well by Madame Caesar who said what the hell is that girl doing here.
She can cook said the not so mannish Englishwoman with a petulant toss of her head well that is a start said Alice B. Toklas gathering up the bottle and glasses onto the tray and Gertrude Stein heaved her imperturbable ego off the parlor sofa and said let us talk to her why not.
Then little Fleurette of the post office at Bilignin stepped up prettily into the parlor and inquired if a housekeeper was needed for twenty francs a week she could cook and keep house and Raymond her brother could garden the roses badly needed cutting.
During this speech little Fleurette's lubricious sharp black eyes stayed fixed on the melting sheep like eyes of the not so mannish Englishwoman as thunder rolled across the sky because in surreal fashion they were back outside again staring at the threatening clouds perspiring in unladylike fashion from the humidity.
Let us go inside I feel the influence of an extraneous literary movement said Gertrude Stein whose eyes were also sharp under the tanned brow and gray crew cut and while they hurried inside Gertrude Stein saw and could hardly believe and looked again and without question saw and could hardly believe she saw the not so mannish Englishwoman reach out a white heavily ringed left hand and pat the charming bottom of little Fleurette of the post office at Bilignin.
Gertrude Stein's seeing was not a glint a fish a rose or a bicycle. It was an oh shit trouble ahead kind of seeing because the mannish neighbor with the volatile temper named Madame Caesar had also seen. And so under a threatening sky they all hastened to follow the charming bottom of little Fleurette into the new house at Bilignin some with placid thoughts some with calamitous thoughts.
Deep within an overstuffed chair leaning forward her hands on her soon to be legendary thighs as painted by Picasso and Vallotton and sculpted by Lipschitz Gertrude Stein quizzed little Fleurette about whether she would mop and cook and sew and scrub for twenty francs a week and whether her brother Raymond would garden while weather sounds of a moist plopping nature were heard through the open door. Alice B. Toklas made a sound at the answers of Fleurette an approving sound heard by Gertrude Stein.
So little Fleurette with her tender buttons and sharp black eyes and charming bottom was hired on that no longer fine July afternoon with numerous small wet objects beginning their falling. No one stared at the sky as they had all hastened inside.
When little Fleurette left a vivid argument erupted between the mannish neighbor who wore the jodhpurs and the not so mannish Englishwoman who by the way wore a cream colored georgette shirtwaist with a peach colored cameo at her white neck. This argument was much more vivid than a glint a fish a rose or a bicycle for after all such things are charming things like the pretty little bicycle bell bottom of Fleurette but now Madame Caesar and the not so mannish Englishwoman with the white neck accused each other of many things that were not charming and many domestic failures.
A flush mounted to the white cheeks of the cameoed Englishwoman as Madame Caesar accused her of having the hots for little Fleurette and causing her to be employed chez Gertrude Stein where her charming bottom could be seen by all who wished to be seeing especially certain sheep eyed neighbors.
At this the plump lip of the not so mannish Englishwoman trembled and she flung out her heavily ringed left hand and cried your jealousy makes me sick knocking over the bottle of eau de vie concocted after many failures from ripe raspberries grown at the new house at Bilignin the previous summer by Alice B. Toklas.
While Gertrude Stein generally enjoyed a fine argument even a drunken confrontation among geniuses on a hot July afternoon with wet objects falling outside she had a rule in her perhaps legendary immensity and this rule had to be observed by all she invited including mannish neighbors in jodhpurs and not so mannish Englishwomen with flushed cheeks and this rule was that anyone who upset Alice B. Toklas who by now was sitting on the floor amid spilled eau de vie her eyes threatening to let fall small wet objects must leave right now and no more gracious hostess.
The volatile neighbor in black linty jodhpurs and her dear friend who were no longer speaking to each other were seen to the door by sullen exotic Alice B. Toklas who was not speaking. No one was speaking on this moist July afternoon though little Fleurette's bicycle bell could still be heard down the lane for those who were hearing.
What ill behaved women lovey said Alice B. Toklas swabbing at the oriental rug in the parlor and Gertrude Stein said well pussy at least we have servants coming tomorrow Fleurette can vacuum with the new vacuuming machine and Raymond the brother can trim the roses. But the august tanned brow of Gertrude Stein was obscured by a line of worry as Gertrude Stein looked out toward the neighboring house obscured by the dropping of wet objects. And even the knowing by Gertrude Stein that she was perhaps a legend to Joyce her archrival and Lawrence and Sherwood Anderson who at this time was at the height of his fame did not ease this line of worry.
Next morning a scream was coming. The scream was coming from the neighboring house so in haste Alice B. Toklas in her exotic wrapper and Gertrude Stein following in her brown corduroy robe and sandals slogged through the mud caused by abstract teardrop shaped objects falling to the jodhpured neighbor Madame Caesar who was pointing to the ditch by her house her eyes wide with horror.
Meantime a bicycle bell was ringing and some were screaming at the seeing of the not so mannish Englishwoman lying in the ditch shot twice in the right side of the head the muddy gun still clutched in her right hand her sightless eyes as moist and abstract as the sky.
The line of worry obscuring the august tanned brow of Gertrude Stein deepened. Gertrude Stein made a sound and the sound was heard by Alice B. Toklas who made a corresponding sound. The soon to be legendary writer and the long nosed companion saw the constabulaire in its arriving and returned to the new house. Numerous wet objects were still falling and it was still a hot July.
Are you thinking what I am thinking pussy inquired Gertrude Stein as Alice B. Toklas ruffled the wet gray crew cut with a towel in front of the fireplace in the parlor. Are we thinking that Madame Caesar used and then put the pistol in the hand of her dear friend replied Alice B. Toklas. Just so said Gertrude Stein and they both had a hefty swig of eau de vie.
In two days the inquest was over in its overing and the verdict wa
s suicide.
Twice in the head not likely said Gertrude Stein as the two ladies motored home from the inquest in Godiva the ancient Ford. We shall stay away from the jodhpured one she won't be invited to tea don't worry exclaimed Alice B. Toklas. That evening Gertrude Stein called a French lieutenant named Rambouillet whom she met in the Great War and learned that military men always shoot themselves twice in the head if they can manage it so for the evening she stopped thinking the thing that she had been thinking.
And all this would have been and actually was merely a curious footnote in the vivid life of Gertrude Stein except that little Fleurette started work at the new house at Bilignin the following day and exhibited the troublesome charming bottom which was hard not to be seeing as she bent over frequently.
And even the devoted proper immense crew cut Gertrude Stein who was rewriting her legendary never ending thousand page book in the upstairs bedroom during this French summer was distracted by the bent over bottom and for a moment intensely wished to reach out and pat it and even extended her right hand which caused her to remember that the charming bottom had been patted by the left hand of the no longer living Englishwoman.
Pat with a left hand shoot with a right hand. Right shoot pat left. Ditch right pat heavily ringed sheep bottom. Left fish bicycle hand pat shoot right bell. No. No no not likely. Gertrude Stein observed but did not pat the calamitous bottom of little Fleurette while dust bunnies disappeared into the efficient maw of the new vacuuming machine which made a loud and unpleasant sound in the French afternoon unlike the pleasant whisk whisk whisk whisk of a good French broom.
Sinister Shorts Page 11
