by Max Shulman
The next day he read The Heart of Midlothian, and the tree was still empty. Waving aside the boy’s protests, he wrote a second letter demanding $100,000 and posted it.
Esther, suspecting that another letter would follow, was waiting when the postman arrived. She intercepted the letter and burned it when her parents were not looking.
In the next several days Cowcatcher Nose read The Bride of Lammermoor, The Legend of Montrose, The Two Drovers, and The Fortunes of Nigel. When he still did not receive a reply to his letter, he began to think that perhaps he was asking too much ransom. He wrote another letter, reducing his demand to $75,000. This letter, like the others, was intercepted by Esther and destroyed.
The days passed with the reading of Guy Mannering, The Antiquary, The Black Dwarf, The Abbot, The Pirate, and Peveril of the Peak. Still the hollow tree remained empty. To make matters worse, the stock of canned beans was running low and Cowcatcher Nose had no money to buy more. He put himself on half rations, but continued to give Marvin his full share. Marvin noticed this and protested.
“Yea and verily,” said Marvin, “if food is not a-plenty, then let me also do without. Zounds!”
“Nay,” smiled Cowcatcher Nose, patting Marvin’s curly head. “Thou art a growing knight. I pray thee, say no more.”
That night Cowcatcher Nose wrote a letter cutting the ransom to $50,000. When he received no reply after reading Marmion, Kenilworth, St. Ronan’s Well, and Lady of the Lake, he lowered the ransom further to $25,000. Red-gauntlet and The Talisman were read when he made the ransom $10,000. After The Betrothed and The Surgeon’s Daughter he cut to $5,000.
By this time Marvin was reading aloud to Cowcatcher Nose, for Cowcatcher Nose was too weak with hunger to read any more. Only a few cans of beans remained, and these were carefully husbanded for the boy in spite of his protests.
“Sirrah,” cried Marvin, much concerned, “thou appearst not well to me. Thou betterst eat something.”
But Cowcatcher Nose only smiled and patted the boy’s head.
Marvin read Anne of Geierstein and Auchindrane, and Cowcatcher Nose reduced the ransom to $1000. It dropped to $500 after Tales of the Crusaders, $250 after Count Robert of Paris, $100 after Vision of Don Roderick, and $50 after Tales of a Grandfather.
One afternoon while Marvin was reading Castle Dangerous, Cowcatcher Nose stopped suddenly in the middle of writing a letter asking for $1.50. He felt the last of his strength ebbing out of him, and he knew that the end was at hand. “Farewell, fair knight,” he said to Marvin. Then he closed his eyes forever.
Marvin sat quietly for a long time. At length he rose and walked out of the shack and back to his own home.
What a hue and cry greeted him there! His mother wept, his father wept, his sister pinched him, photographers took pictures, reporters and policemen fired questions, everyone shouted and shoved. Marvin stood quietly through all this uproar, a slight smile on his lips, a curious look in his eyes.
Finally everyone fell quiet. “Where,” asked Mr. Mainwaring, “have you been?”
“I have been,” said Marvin, fending off his sister, “on a journey to the past—to the days of chivalry and jousts and mortal combat, of knights in armor and damsels in distress, of castles and white chargers and heraldic trumpets, of lances and battle-axes … I shall never forget it.”
Nor did he ever forget it. When Mr. Mainwaring died and Marvin inherited the real-estate business, the very first thing he did was to build an entire suburb in the form of a medieval village. Each house had plastic battlements on the roof, a tile-lined moat in front, an electronically operated drawbridge over the moat, and a neon coat of arms on the front door. Although the other realtors in town laughed at Marvin and called him a romantic dreamer, he made a profit of three and a half million dollars on Ivanhoe Gardens, as he named the development.
This is where Esme Geddes lived.
CHAPTER 6
It was with some misgivings that I crossed the moat to Esme Geddes’s door. This was, so to speak, my debut into society. How, I wondered, would I acquit myself? My previous social experience had been entirely with people of low estate, boors and vulgarians whose idea of pleasure was to drink whisky and sing raucous ballads and neck. This sort of thing, I thought with a wry smile, had scarcely prepared me for one of Miss Geddes’s soirees.
I stood hesitantly on the stoop. Inside the door were tycoons and littérateurs, captains of finance and industry, legislators, sportsmen, artists, eminent members of the professions. What had I to offer this distinguished company? A pleasant disposition, yes. An ingratiating personality, yes. A good heart, an alert mind, sympathy, understanding, intelligence, loyalty, honesty—all these things, yes. But that was not enough. In this glittering gathering one needed also to be attractive, quick, amusing. And was I?
Well, was I not?
Perhaps I could not be called handsome in the ordinary sense, being rather too bulletheaded to conform to the popular conception of good looks. Nevertheless, I was attractive to many women, particularly women interested in ballistics.
As a conversationalist I was not without ability. In repartee I had always given as good as I received. “Oh yeah?” I would say in a duel of cutting remarks, or sometimes “Sez you!” when the situation called for an especially acerb retort. When a philosophical observation was indicated, I would say “That’s life” or “That’s the way it goes,” depending on which seemed more appropriate. I also improvised humorous remarks for special occasions and was known in some quarters as “a regular Bob Hope.”
As a parlor entertainer my repertory was limited, but what I did I did well. I will wager that I imitated Lionel Barrymore far better than he could have imitated me.
All in all I had a quite respectable inventory of social assets. Besides which I had a pleasant disposition, an ingratiating personality, a good heart, an alert mind, sympathy, understanding, intelligence, loyalty, and honesty. Truly I had no cause to worry about making a good impression on Miss Geddes’s guests. All I had to do was to come in with a warm smile and a kind word, to be charming, gallant, gay, and witty—in short, to be myself. Confidently I pressed the doorbell.
To the distinguished-looking young woman who answered the doorbell I gave a warm smile and a kind word. “My dear,” I said, “what a chic dress!”
“Thanks, mister,” she replied, blushing with pleasure. “It’s the latest thing in maid’s uniforms. These here pockets in the apron are for canapés.”
“Chic,” I murmured again and handed her my cap and went into the living room.
How shall I describe the scene that greeted me there? Eh? I had known, of course, that the upper classes had a talent for relaxation, but I had not imagined that they could be that relaxed. Some, in fact, were quite unconscious. But most of them were relaxing vertically or diagonally. Some relaxed at the bar, consuming quantities of the fine spirits that are such an important part of gracious living. Some relaxed around the piano, singing a hellishly clever ditty entitled “Roll Me Over.” Some relaxed in pairs on divans and demonstrated the affection they bore each other. What a difference, I thought, between the gentility of this party and the disgusting drunken orgies in which the lower classes foregathered.
I wandered about the room with a warm smile until I spied my hostess over in a corner. I went immediately to her, pausing on my way to tell a well-dressed gentleman, “My dear, what a chic suit!”
Miss Geddes was balancing a fish bowl on her head when I reached her. I waited politely until she had completed her trick and the maid had swept up the broken glass and dead fish before I made my hello. “Good evening, my dear,” I said. “What a chic party!”
“Wipe me off,” said Miss Geddes.
“Delighted,” I murmured. I wiped her spirally from her collarbone to her sphincter ani, trying desperately as I sloshed off water and bits of kelp to control the excitement which her proximity awoke within me. Faint though I was with desire, I knew that a breach of decorum would forever estra
nge her from me, and this I should not be able to abide.
“Now if I had some brushes,” I said with a warm smile, “I could curry you.”
“Go get me a drink,” said Miss Geddes. “No soda.”
“Honored,” I breathed. I elbowed my way to the bar and returned with a glass of fine spirits. She drained it in one delicate draught.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked, looking at me narrowly.
“Surely you remember,” I replied with a warm smile. “I’m Harry Riddle.”
“Oh yes.” She stopped a distinguished-looking woman who was walking past. “Harriet,” she said, “this is the pauper I was telling you about.”
I lowered my eyes modestly.
“Him,” said the woman, with the perfectly concealed interest which is the mark of true breeding.
“You’re Harriet and I’m Harry. Quite a coincidence,” I said with a warm smile.
“Is it?” she said and walked away before I had a chance to tell her how chic her dress was.
“Charming woman,” I said to Miss Geddes.
“Go get me a drink,” she replied. “No soda.”
I was back in a moment with another glass of spirits. “Your drink, madame,” I said, bending over in a courtly bow and spilling the spirits on the floor. “No matter,” I chuckled. “I’ll fetch another.”
When I returned Miss Geddes was dancing with a well-dressed gentleman of distinguished mien. I followed them around the floor with the drink, knowing that Miss Geddes would be thirsty when she completed the dance. They ground their bodies together in a modish two-step I had not previously seen and then went through a pair of french doors to a handsome flagstone terrace. I followed with the drink. They sat down on a glider and proceeded to kiss one another with great good nature. Old friends, I assumed, and, not wishing to intrude, withdrew behind a potted palm.
In a short while a woman in a chic dress appeared, scratched Miss Geddes, and took the young man away, leading him by one finger crooked under his upper lip. I was sure it was all a misunderstanding but, not knowing the details, was unable to help clear it up. All I could do was to offer Miss Geddes her drink with a warm smile. She threw it in my face and walked away.
Chuckling at her exuberance, I went back into the living room to mingle with the guests. With things going so well for me, my original timidity about meeting all these high-type people had quite vanished. With great self-assurance I walked up to a portly, distinguished-looking gentleman and introduced myself. “How do you do? I’m Harry Riddle.”
“Unions,” he said.
“Sir?” I said.
“Mind you,” he said, “I’m not a union baiter.”
“I daresay you’re not,” I daresaid.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that I object because they’re getting tremendous wages for no work?”
“Well—” I said.
“Or because they’re all controlled by Red Russia?”
“I—” I said.
“Or because they’re destroying free private enterprise, which is the very foundation of this great country?”
“Sir,” I said, “one could scarcely blame you if you objected.”
“Ah,” he exclaimed, prodding my thorax with his forefinger, “but I don’t! That isn’t what I object to.”
“What, then?” I asked, consumed with curiosity.
“They’ve dehumanized business, that’s what,” he declared. “They’ve taken all the warm personal relations out of industry.”
“That’s the way it goes,” I observed.
“It used to be,” he continued, “when I wanted to fire a man, I would call him into my office and give him the sack, man to man. But now—shop stewards, grievance committees, red tape. It’s so cold and mechanical.”
He sighed, and so did I to put him at his ease.
“And Christmas,” he said. “That’s what I miss most of all—those old-fashioned Christmases. In the old days I would visit every one of my workers’ houses personally and hand him a Christmas basket. Wearing heavy gloves, of course.” He blinked back a tear.
“Sweet,” I said. Here was a simple, sentimental man who was living negation of all the lies one hears about hardhearted capitalists. I felt that I should like to know him better, but he turned his back abruptly and opened a conversation with someone else—with his own reflection in a mirror, actually—and I wandered away.
I approached a stately, distinguished-looking lady and introduced myself with a warm smile.
“Gas,” she said.
“Ma’am?” I said.
“Gas on my stomach.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Burning sensation under my heart.” She tapped her diaphragm. “Coated tongue.” She showed me.
“Vertigo?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Hm,” I said.
“Acid condition,” she said. “Dull, logy, under-par.”
“Have you made a will?” I asked.
“No.”
“I’m an attorney,” I said, seeing no harm in combining business with pleasure.
“No use making a will,” she replied. “You can’t leave alimony.”
“Oh, then you’re divorced.”
She belched affirmatively.
“How chic! Would you care to tell me about it?”
“He sued,” she said. “Told the judge that I denied him a husband’s privileges. But I couldn’t help it.”
“Gas?” I asked.
She nodded.
“That’s life,” I said.
“First divorce case on record,” she said, walking away, “where a duodenum was named as correspondent.”
I crossed the room to a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman. “I’m Harry Riddle,” I said. “How do you do?”
“Maxfield Parrish,” he replied.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Parrish.”
He frowned. “I was referring to the blue of the Mexican sky. You’ve been, of course.”
“Well, no.”
He took a sheaf of photographs from his breast pocket. “My wife and I at Oaxaca,” he said, handing me a picture.
“Handsome woman,” I remarked.
“You’re holding it upside down.”
I righted the photo and looked again. “She’s not so handsome at that,” I said.
“Ugly as sin.” He gave me another picture. “Here we are at Sabancuy. That’s Pedro, our Mexican guide.”
“He seems very devoted to you,” I said.
“Stole my car and all my clothes,” he said.
“A gentle, carefree people,” I said.
He handed me another picture. “Fiesta at Zacatecas.”
“What volcano is that in the background?”
“That’s my wife in a sombrero,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“How long were you in Mexico?” he asked.
“You misunderstand,” I said. “I never—”
“Didn’t you love San Luis Potosi?” he said. “That funny little bridge there? I understand some fellow wrote a book about it.”
“But I never—”
“Do you remember that crazy little café at Tuxpan where they served iguanaburgers?”
“But—”
“I see you’ve got pictures. May I?” He took back his pictures and examined them. “Terrible focus. What kind of camera do you have?”
“A brownie,” I said. “I made it myself.”
“This woman at the fiesta,” he said, “looks a little like my wife. I must show you my pictures sometime. We’ll have lunch at your club.”
“They don’t serve lunch at the Settlement House,” I said. “Sometimes they have hot dogs when there’s a basketball game.”
“Hasta la vista,” he said as he walked away.
“Blasco ibáñez,” I replied. I know a little Spanish.
I continued my circuit of the room, moving from one conversation to another, each as rewarding as the last. After I had spoken t
o all the guests, a few of whom had replied to me, I asked Miss Geddes whether I might take a look around the house. “I don’t give a good goddam,” she answered. Taking this cryptic statement for affirmation, I thanked her and proceeded to make a leisurely tour of the house.
I had seen well-appointed rooms before—in furniture stores—but I was not prepared for the magnificence I now encountered. Wide-eyed with wonder, I went from one splendid chamber to the next, tiptoeing quietly in the bedrooms so as not to disturb the guests taking their pleasure there. What lovely things I saw—damask table-clothes, sterling silver, Sèvres china, rugs from Trebizond, Chippendale chairs, Duncan Phyfe escritoires, flush toilets.
I was filled with admiration—but more than admiration. There was an acute longing in my breast—a longing for a home like this, for appointments like these, for a life such as all the people led whom I had met this night. How fine it would be to be well-housed, well-clothed, well-fed, to be urbane and polished. How splendid to live graciously.
And why shouldn’t I? I had all the graces. All I lacked was money. I’ll get it, I thought with a surge of determination. I hammered my fist into my palm. I’ll get money, no matter what!
Suddenly I was gripped by a cold fear, horrified at the savagery of my determination. I’ll get money, no matter what, I had thought. No matter what! Could I truly have meant that? Was I so covetous of wealth that I would not shrink from any means of obtaining it? Would I sacrifice principle, integrity, and honesty for money? Would I? Faint, I sank weakly into a chair.
Money corrupts. Somebody had said that to me long ago. Who? Ah, I remembered. The young man at the cafeteria where I had worked—the intense young man who read big, fat books and worried about the world. What was his name? George Overmeyer, that was it.
Money corrupts, George had told me back in my busboy days, and I had been sorely troubled by his statement. But I had decided that by becoming a lawyer I would avoid the danger of corruption. Obviously it hadn’t worked. If the very thought of money could arouse such passion in me—“I’ll get money, no matter what”—then I stood in mortal peril of being corrupted. Clearly the only way for me to remain pure was to remain a pauper. It was a hard prospect, but there was no other way to preserve my integrity. That was the important thing—preserving my integrity.
