A woman-model anyway and Grace knew the way would partly come to her. She relocated to magical Manhattan—and swam in a pool; met "her husband" (as she and an interviewer later identified him with backward prophecy) and he had RR on his combination-lock attaché case (before self-destruct optional became a standard item); who swam fast laps his head down watching his lane painted on the tiles of the pool bottom but sometime veered all over the joint like a motor without a boat; he was in the market, he (no) he was in market research, that was how he got off, and he could and would sell— read travel—and weekends was training to be a Long Island realtor; but market research, he was good; she knew it; she was sure, and she was right as always in her time.
Oh clean break! That’s the dream. What you won’t remember can’t hurt you.
Really.
O.K. you agree in principle.
But what if clean break bring circulatory problems? You know?
Don’t go looking for trouble. Fall toward the horizon with us, that’s where the market is. You’ve earned your trip, babe. Don’t go looking for obstacles. We’ll set your sheets to the wind.
Who is this "We"? We have but to ask when lo! it curves piecemeal off breakneck into nowhere, we shouldn’t have asked. Was it these angel relations trying to change their lives, adopting the local language cum customs? Have we learned to breathe together? Breathing is waiting. The mother who said to go away but who left first—Jim would not forget her yet does not quite know her. We have to learn all over again. And isn’t this hard when we ourselves are always at the beginning of ourselves?
The child looks up from its work and no one knows if this is that unknown child who said, I know what’s been going on, don’t think I don’t know. For we can’t tell except that this child is one of us. The child doing homework. Homework that is new to us at least if not to the angels rumored circulating in us. Whose child is this? There may be others in the next room, and are; and we, of whom these children are parts as if we were the whole, note that this child who looks up at the dust-sheened gray screen of a small TV and reaches and turns it on and then off, and looks down again at the math workbook, studies rotation. Which, if we let ourselves, we at once grasp, and with regret as odd, vague, wide, and bodily as this child’s studies in rotation are to us abstract. For R equals apparently almost any number. But we are in the next room now where another is copying homework information on those giant molehills to be seen several hundred feet apart in Persia, now Iran; mark the well-known qanats, your system of underground canals that irrigate the desert by drawing moisture from the earth: and these channels under the desert go on as surely as they have been insufficiently understood these five thousand years. How they collect water from the dry desert and return it.
The unknown child has not quite yet asked why these desert canals need to be studied; the child writes on, and is part of our larger concentration taking the form we now see of dispersal, though the curve of this dispersal we don’t quite nail down but at least point to—and feel the pointing inward, don’t we?—to two chief specialists so far: the opera singer’s Fifth Avenue physician and his Ojibway medicine man (one third Sioux in fact) between whom our concentration shifts because drawn either way: for instance, toward the Ojibway Indian, who had guaranteed there would be at least one tapeworm in the belly of the pike tank-loaded narrowly by him in its own M’Lacs water to take its own high road airborne from Minnesota to New York. This guarantee was backed by his long sporting acquaintance with the diva’s physician, who fished with him regularly and had arranged, through his star patient (and star friend) the singer herself, who was of South American extraction, for a South American government to sponsor along with several of its young nationals this native American healer in an aeronautics program at a small college within shooting distance of Lake Superior as the diva’s doctor put it.
This doctor likewise siphons off this concentration we achieve and suffer as a community were there not here like force a way between these two medicine men that—as we pass a woman combing her hair, a random submarine conning a beach, a dark man traversing a whole continent tracking a mystery for all of us but also tracking a beloved woman who nonetheless never moves from her night chair except to pause in her combing and stare at the window—condenses and multiplies our speed and us and even at an illusion of length travels so blindingly well that we spin (we think), finding what else but the diet tapeworm in our way: a worm that has female and male capabilities, yet by itself will only grow, not reproduce. But while the Ojibway-Sioux (for he is part Sioux, which takes him in his past westward) would not guarantee that the pike-aged tapeworm came without a companion (one or maybe more), which even so would have to lie close alongside for anything to happen between them, the diva’s doctor swore on bended knee that when the time came and the desired weight loss had been achieved, a dose of good old-fashioned atabrine would flush out any number of worms as neatly as the dramatic soprano’s system all along would regularly eliminate terminal segments of worm as they ceased functioning and dropped off, which happened more slowly than new segments formed up forward just below the tapeworm’s neck.
Yet forward? below? Which way is up? For the worm may stay hooked on one pasturage for weeks and the thrust of its growth be backward.
And should diva watchers on both far shores of Oscillocean see their star barmaid, princess, vengeful mother, priestess, lover, prima donna contract— yes, lose weight from week to week, from role to role, some said—seeing through her secret means from end to end, we saw her not recede but be there more than ever.
The infamously gifted general officer of a South American republic’s navy told her offstage in Spanish (vaguely both of her slimmer self and of that evening’s role which was new to her) in essence that she seemed exactly as if she had more than found herself inside her now eternal beauty; meanwhile she with roses in her arm and sweat on her brow stared at the pen (a late-model Japanese ballpoint pen with fountain capability) in the South American officer’s raised hand and she feared in his sweeping compliment an inquisitor’s next question—Was the tapeworm story true? So she turned away into the known obstetric jolt of a flashbulb, hearing the man at her elbow whom she had met at diplomatic dos but never till tonight in civilian clothes (read civvies) ask her something different from what she’d feared; so now she’s relieved, inspired (and we potential relations with her) to feel inside her her secret hunger to forget herself.
Forget herself? She doesn’t believe it; she’s implausible to herself, flashing back magic at the officer whose name and politics back home do not bear inspection (she is certain) and whose eyes and words touch her and recall she can’t tell what histories of passion she aroused in him, one unknown member of the broad dark living house she played to for three hours from memory herself. (What’s she doing here? The path between the two medicine men led through a tapeworm not the tapeworm’s host.)
Tonight, a note or two below her range, and to tell the truth below her status, desiring to sing a lesser role in company with a great, not greater, goddess, she sang the Kavalier who, attentive to the older Princess, poses as a chambermaid; is flirted with by the bass Baron yet in Act Two as Kavalier proper again bears the loutish Baron’s silver rose love token to the Baron’s betrothed to be beloved at first sight—and will leave the older lady for the younger. So we ask the unknown child if silver roses grow in the Persian desert, but the child has gone to bed.
So much for the customary token and its loutish sender’s message; and so very much for the Kavalier, sung by this dieting diva, the boyish bearer who becomes the borne, who gets the girl who got the real message which was not the Baron’s silver rose but the singing messenger himself, who, in the mezzo-persona of a female artiste the South American diva who’s been a Swiss citizen for thirty months, could forget for three hours if not that endangered species her father back home in Chile at least her own flesh, and at least one tapeworm, and never know that if her notorious backstage inquisitor (as it happ
ens, of the regime—fellow- if officially former countryman) seeks her out not for her voice alone, we now like her—we whose growing voice breaks into many voices we have always known, many breaths, all shadow of (was it our?) former prism—we like her for herself if there were time, and not just for her tapeworm, its lighted path, thoughtlike through embedded night, its own tunnel or "wormhole" (to be quite as blunt as the obstacle out its far end). Obstacle? But why would the tapeworm track take us anywhere if it is in the diva’s beloved body? Is there an answer for us as we seek another pause?
A cuffless trouser. Whose? All together we don’t yet know but the knowledge is loose in us—and the heel of a shoe half off a slender platform, call it a running board, hear the noise, and hear that backfire.
Whose? Who’s looking at a photograph?—the noise is of a male, breathing; not our communal breath and yet of us, and we’re breathless spun upon the instant through a far end of what we already remember we were accepting as our known diva’s internalized tapeworm but in us turns waste compaction into time’s momentary tunnel; but someone is breathing for sure.
Which has no effect on the photo’s black and white, which blows up as we reach the end of whosever wormhole so fast we go from too little to too large and for a second don’t see, and like an interesting snapshot feel ourselves part of the computed grain of what pocked interplanet’s ground, but now what is it? it is a young man not quite himself.
Not quite himself in top hat, cutaway, striped dark trousers.
More than a wedding guest, less than the groom—he’s riding after all on the running board. The brownish photo holds and hides the strain tightened along the left arm, that goes with the right trouser stiff behind with wind, some starch of motion, and this extra-wide-loaded car must be turning with a squeal of tires, a vintage, top-up convertible, and the young man’s sliding like a skater, one leg out behind, one hand (the left) inside the car window; and above his top hat and the quiet breathing heard above the old photo, a white steeple leans upward, it’s done its part, car and rider make for the hotel downtown and the human breather we are too close to knows at a glance a generation and more later that this is the Best Man five minutes away from first meeting a young woman whose family like a multiple dwelling in time own the town newspaper and who moves as if she would like to not quite put her feet down upon the floor, the carpet, the flagstones, the grass. The breather holds his breath. He is almost born, less than a year away. Curled in another body like a clef he must be hearing Caruso underwater which is how it sounded on the heavy records on the crank-up Victrola which his father played. It was his father playing Caruso, not his mother, his father was tone-deaf. But who could have told from the photo of him on the running board the day of his best-manhood when he met the mother-to-be of the breather here? Whose mother was the musician and played the brown violin, yes he (because a person he is here examining photographs with put the idea in his head) feels himself tilt with his mother, inside her, bass clef, rebel clef, as she leans and lowers the neck of the instrument bearing down frowning in love with the bite, the mad delicacy of freedom between the fingertips of her left hand and the wrist and elbow of the right (though none of this private musical event is in the photo of the young man on the running board bound from wedding to reception)—and yet down this time tunnel’s light bursting terribly with planes upon planes that only the camera contemplates with equanimity, the breather Jim Mayn who was hardly able to observe the event has been born—that’s it.
Free to grow up strong. A humble, reckless fighter and friend in a New Jersey town. Grandma’s rough pet. Deeply, secretly rewarded by her, which his younger brother who materialized unexpectedly one year never was able to be, though definitely loved, while the grandmother’s daughter the violinist— mother of the two sons—told this older son Jim, with twigs and dirt sticking to him, to go ahead and be the animal, the mountain lion or flying squirrel of the family (he could get right up into one slender, high, sinewy cherry tree in the grandmother’s backyard and get across into its companion; his father told him not to) and his mother also (but don’t quote her) but Jim’s grandmother would never have told him, as his mother Sarah did, to go ahead and be the hedgehog or coon or eavesdropper of the family under the front porch if he felt like it, he would have to cope with his father, and she said Oh if his father knew how to roar and growl—Hey, Mom, who roars and growls around here? . . . (hey Mom?)—but, as it fell out after that, Jim did not eavesdrop under the porch any more because here again—again?—he was not able—(so free?) in the midst of friends and varsity football and varsity baseball and the odd jobs he always had pruning an old lady’s lilacs, tending her furnace coal; mowing the soft lawn of the Historical Association so flat it seemed to sink and then (double-header across the street) the everywhere-sloping lawn of the Revolutionary War monument; or painting the horse-drawn wagon of the silent ice-cream man vanilla white who came by at twilight—when Jim could hear a cousin across the wide street playing the piano; or helping a social-studies teacher who was baseball coach retouch with dark and light green and dark, bark-brown paint a glittering reptilian relief layout of North and South America—jobs always as if in order to miss helping out his father in the office of the newspaper—Jim wasn’t able in the midst of a legitimate life and upbringing to hear—Christ! let’s not—Christ, Mahomet, and Thomas Alva Edison! let’s not make too much of it, there’s such a thing as—wait, able to hear some words he knew were there, with sounds like voices, in the long interim between his parents that he took for granted. Interim? His parents did not talk much to each other; she gardened happily—mostly inside—and played duets, trios, quartets, quintets, played at the Cecilian Club concerts (which you had to think was about Sicily) twice a year which his father hardly attended, being tone-deaf, he said, though the occasions were noted in the paper, the mother’s family paper that his father published weekly, while the second son, Brad, Jim’s three and more years younger bro who looked like no one in the family, ass-white face, did everything and nothing right; helped at the paper running messages, delivering printing jobs, and sitting in the big street window as if waiting for the messages to come from outside; practiced the violin all through high school almost (skinny and pale enough for it, certainly) and gave it up, to his mother Sarah’s relief, she said; was apt at figures and opportunities and imagined he would go into the haberdashery business someday (now there was a window!) because Brad’s girl’s father (who was dead—her "late" father) had been in the haberdashery business—a girl not the prettiest but you looked at her, you looked to her, you reached out toward her with your cheekbones and she had been shy (probably sincerely shy) till she met Brad —and come to think of it, afterwards—and had been nice to Braddie from eighth grade on, good to him you really thought then though without quite that sound, that word; and her mother, a widow who was half Jewish, had kept up the business and was prettier than her daughter though both were quiet—both of them!—and the window down the street from the newspaper was lighted up at night so you could look (obviously!) but also feel they were eerily alive the waiting neckties, stiff rep silk stripes for Sunday, corduroy shirts (for Thanksgiving Day! for Christmas! why?); argyle socks that could make you happy enough to stay in one place all your life yet the next moment got you moving; loafers with the finest-quality (dummy wooden) ankles; eventually regular clothes, checked sport coats and dark blue suits, on the way home from the movies you could look, and the older brother Jim who thought you either saved your dough or you spent it would sometimes see a light at the back of the newspaper office by the old press from the last century and the newer one his father had to theoretically pay for with ads that the new competitor paper was taking away from his father (from him personally, was how it felt to his son who years later understood he had felt his father Mel’s feelings much more than he thought), a father who late on a movie night could be seen—his square, heavy head talking on the phone—grinning come to think of it late at night, which he never did
at home: and Jim’s friends sloping up the street with him to stop at the drugstore by the Jersey Central tracks, seemed—hold it—like his father of all people. Which didn’t make any sense at all to Jim because he didn’t gravitate to his father, whereas the guys were his friends. His father had a way of showing up at places with a sour or indifferent eye as if he felt the same seeing Jim get hit and knocked out of bounds onto a pail as he did seeing him dropkick a field goal against the cold wind that brought the peanut-and-vinegar scent of horses, their hides, their dust, their hardening fields. (In attendance, though, was Mel.)
Women and Men Page 3
