“Broop.”
“Now bite hard.”
My mouth shut on the barrel of a gun. My eyes popped open.
“No noise,” he said, and kept the gun close.
“Nagle, I presume. How did you track my spoor?”
“By checking room-for-rents in the papers on the days after you left us, Harold. By asking around. From the ZIP code on a certain letter to a certain lady who sells poodles. ” “You are nobody’s fool. Nobody’s.”
“Thank you,” the Nagle said, appreciating my large heart. “It’s a shame we couldn’t come to a more civilized agreement. I hope, Harold, that you comprehend my motivation. Take my father, a man who spent his whole life contributing bits and pieces. Imagine, fifty years of droppings, footnotes in American Scholar, a few ibid’s and some op cit’s. Nothing to make headlines, never once. Then one day in comes your fat friend Hikhoff carrying a genuine, fertile Glak egg. Tell me, Dr. Nagle,’ he growls in that meretricious voice of his, ‘what do I have here?’ Harold, at that moment, in the fading evening of my father’s life, the sun rose. On the brink of shadow, my father saw blinding rays. Understand?”
“Yes. It’s not hard to understand.”
“Do you have any concept of what a fertile Glak egg means to an aged anthropologist?”
“A small grasp.”
“Immortality. For the first time, my father begged. For what? For halfies. No more. Not fifty-one percent, just fifty. The Hikhoff-Nagle Discovery is how he put it. Hikhoff laughed at him.”
“The egg was full of meaning for Dr. Hikhoff,” I said. “I swore at the funeral, Harold, that my father’s memory would be based on more than just mummy swatches from the graves of second-string Egyptians. Now I fulfill my vow.”
“Nagle,” I said, “are you in this for your father or for your own need to up the ante on your ancestors?”
“How would you like a loose scalp?”
“Sorry. But I am vow fulfilling, too. You read the letter marked FIRST.”
“And tonight I will read FINALLY.”
“Impossible,” I said, “that letter was lost. When I woke up in the hospital after you. …”
The Nagle scratched his ear. “It could be,” he said. “Does it matter? What can FINALLY be except more of Hikhoff’s Old English ravings. Virility of the vocal chords, which was the only place he had it.”
“Have some taste,” I said. “The man is among the dead.”
“Let FINALLY blow along the Utica-Mohawk tracks. The egg is what matters.”
“We could go partners,” I said.
“Ha. You are a gutsy one, Harold. Too late for partners. Now give me the Nagle Discovery. Any hesitation, reluctance or even a bad breath and you join Hikhoff for choir practice.”
He was a nice fellow, the Nagle, with a face like Don Ameche, not the killer type, but you never know.
“The egg is here under my pillow,” I said.
My luck held. The Nagle had never seen the egg before. He lit up when I showed him that pink-splotched pullet, balancing it in his palm.
“Slow and easy,” I said, with wild eyes.
“It’s been a pleasure,” he said, tucking the egg in a towel and putting it into his medical bag. “Maybe when this is over and done with, you and I can sit and play chess.”
“I would like nothing. …”
Pong. I was hit so hard on the head I flew half off the bed. I saw ferris wheels turning at different speeds. I tumbled too, spinning like a bobbin. Then later, there was another crash. A gooshy sound, a wetness. I woke.
“Bye, bye. Poor thing,” Cynthia was saying, lifting my blanket, observing the destruction.
“What, what, what?”
“Harold, it had to be this way. Even that specialist said all you needed was complete rest. Better the egg should never see light, even in the free world, than you should die in your prime.”
Cynthia never noticed the Scotch tape in the goo. She was so self-satisfied.
The next days passed smoothly.
Myma had my Glak. Cynthia had her pleasure unshared. The Nagle was accounted for, squatting on his chicken. Mrs. Fonkle avoided me like doom. Mr. Fonkle, served like Farouk by his wife, brought cards to my room and we played.
Out of respect for her promise and a sense of my need for quiet, Myma came gently only to report on the Glak. It was hopping all the time now, making tiny sounds. She described the sounds as like chalk on the blackboard, and 1 knew how happy Hikhoff would be if he could hear, as maybe he could.
While Myma warmed Glak, Cynthia warmed Harold. Her vision of recovery was not based on abstention.
My only discomfort came from Mrs. Fonkle, and it was mild. Out of suspicion, she fed her daughters garlic and Ox Tails and other odiferous, glutenous foods that made their lips stick or filled them with protective cramps. I kept Turns and Clorets at bedside.
March went like the best kind of lamb. The windows unfroze. A bird sang on the telephone line. I had to move again and make plans again.
How did Chaucer say it? APPPRRRILLE WITHE HER SHOWERRRS SOUGHT THE DRAUGHT UFF MARS HATH PIERCED TO THE RUCHT. Like that. Up I came like a crocus.
Now it came time for partings and farewells. Cynthia was easy to leave, so easy it hurt. When the month turned, she met a podiatrist of good family. Her prospects improved. When we had our confrontation, she brought knitting along. In the tense air she knitted like a factory. A sweater for him.
“I am called back to D.C.,” I said. “And will be punished.”
“Punished, heh?”
“Forget it. Nothing painful. Chastised is more the word.”
The thought of my punishment made it easier for Cynthia to say goodbye. Really, she had never been the same since the breaking of the egg. I think she thought less of me for not breaking it myself. Who can fathom a woman’s heart? While we talked, she compared me to her podiatrist, and found him better. The mystique of new weather.
“No reason to prolong this suffering,” I said. “I will always remember you and what we had together and how you sustained me.”
Cynthia dropped a stitch, but caught it. Her reflexes had gained from our acquaintanceship.
It was harder to leave lanky Myma.
“I know you must go,” she said, “I know and I won’t make scenes. Do you plan to return?”
“My life is a question mark,” I said honestly. “What can I say?”
“It won’t be the same without you two.”
“Or for me. Ever.”
“Send an announcement if it hatches. Nothing too fancy. A simple card.”
Mrs. Fonkle, who had taken to charitable activities, said a swift goodbye. She was full of dignity and adorable poise. Such an ego.
The air was balmy on the day I left the Fonkle home. I had a new suitcase, the pudgy executive type, and in it my Glak had room enough. The egg was practically a bowling ball now, straining to pop.
The Fonkles stood in a family group when I entered the cab. I waved and wished them well. I was full of emotion, with watering eyes. They did so well by me and mine.
We live in a time of shortening distances, except between people. How easy it is to reach the most remote comers of the imagination. A person like myself can go from Utica, New York, to Labrador for $120.35 by bus and by plane. The facts made me swoon. Utica to Labrador. We are only hours from the place where the world ends.
To reach Labrador you go First to a travel agent. You tell him you wish to visit Labrador. He does not flinch.
“Where,” he says, “Goose Bay?”
“No,” you say, having studied maps and folders. “Maybe the Mealy Mountains.”
“We have a special on the Mealys,” he says.
“Or Lake Melville,” you go on, “Fish Cove Point, White Bear, Misery Point, Mary’s Harbor, Chidley on Ungave Bay, Petissikapan Lake, Nipishish, Tunungayluk or perhaps Gready. I haven’t made up my mind.”
“Go to Goose Bay,” the agent says. “From there you can go any place.”
&n
bsp; “Can I jump off to Kangalakksiorvik Fiord?”
“In the Tomgat region?” he says. “Naturally.”
By intuition I had already chosen Kangalakksiorvik Fiord as the place where my Glak would be bom. Not that Canadian citizenship could not be gotten closer, but Kangalakksiorvik felt right.
“The scenic route,” the agent said, stamping tickets. “By Greyhound from Utica to Syracuse leaves 10:50 AM, arrives Syracuse 12:05 PM. Leaves Syracuse 2:30 PM, arrives Montreal 10:20 PM. You have a bite, see a picture. At 4:00 AM, Air Canada flies out, and at 7:20 AM you are in Goose Bay for a total cost, including economy air fare, of $120.35 plus a little tax.”
“Then?”
“Then in Goose Bay ask around, hire a charter, and zoom you are in Kangalakksiorvik. The Tomgats are lovely this time of year. ”
From the agent’s convenient uncle I bought $10,000 in travel insurance. My policies were divided between Myma and Cynthia, deserving souls.
At long last, with my Hikhoff snug in a pocket and my Glak bag in my hand, I headed for the terminal. On the downhill slope of responsibility, time is sweet.
For me a bus ride is only slightly removed from sexual intercourse. Since a child, I am prone to vibrations, put to sleep, handed the same dream. In the dream I drift in a washtub on a silver pond. This pond is populated by stunning things, all color and light, who knock themselves out for my amusement. I look forward to this dream like a friend.
My bus dream began and expanded to include my Glak. Each time the bus bumped or took a hard curve, the pond produced a three-headed lizard who nuzzled my nose. His triple grin woke me. I reached to see if the egg was intact, then, assured, slept again.
The bus went smoothly, as did my transfer to Air Canada.
There was some worry about how my Glak would like flying, especially under someone else’s power, but there was no problem. The egg did not jiggle, except for takeoff. Since there were empty seats, I belted the Glak beside me and reclined my chair. The silver pond is strictly an automotive fantasy. In planes I dream of crashing.
Here in the clouds over eastern Canada, I was allowed no repose. Behind me sat a couple who were touring the world.
I had seen their luggage, a mass of labels, in the terminal. Now, on the way to Labrador, I deduced from their talk that they were running out of places. After Saskatchewan, there was nothing left.
“See there, in small print,” the man said, showing a guide book. “See there, a fellow named Bjami discovered Labrador in 986. Imagine. Bjami the son of Herjulf. See there, he sold his boat to Leif Ericson, who later used the identical craft in his explorations.”
“How do they know?”
“See there, ifs in the guide. Helluland, land of stones.”
“Where?”
“Fish and fur are the two major industries.”
“Oh.”
Labrador did not sound bad. There were trees, according to the guide, conifers, birch, poplars, spruce, lichens, moss, red azaleas, blue gentians, even white orchids. And they had chickadees, geese, ducks, lemmings, lynx, wolves, ermines, martins, otters, foxes, seals, bears, owls, red gulls, and Patagonian terns. There were some Eskimos, the ones not shot by fishermen, Algonkins, Nascapees, Englishmen and Scotch. Not bad for a bird. Activities, company, a little conflict. A nice subarctic community.
It was a foggy morning. Helluland, land of stones, fish, furs,.etc., lay like a lump. Our plane began its descent. 1 could -see no ermines or white orchids, only* patches of smoke and the lights of the Goose Bay Airport. No wonder Bjami unloaded the ship.
“Are you sure we haven’t been here?” the lady said.
“See there,” said the man, “it does look familiar.”
Familiar it looks, like your own subconscious laid out to dry.
Goose Bay may be a fine place. I don’t know. I checked my egg in the airport men’s room. There was a crack in the shell, the tiniest fissure, not the kind that swallows grandmothers in Sicilian earthquake stories, more like a hairline. But it was there. If I were a first time mother, a primagravid as they say, with a broken bag of water, I could have acted no worse.
I collared the first Lab I saw and screamed at him about renting a plane to Kangalakksiorvik.
“Matter of fact, there’s a plane leaving now. Pilot is by the name of Le Granf. He currently drinks coffee in the coffee place. You will know him to see him by his enormity. Also, he has one arm.”
I found Le Granf in the coffee place, and there was no missing him. In a red and black mackinaw, he looked like a science fiction checkerboard. Built in blocks, head, chest, middle, legs, he was made from squares. His one arm held a pail of coffee, black.
“Mr. Le Granf?” I said.
“Yas,” he said, a Frenchman monophthongizing his diphthongs, “who are you, Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre Dame?”
“I am Harold North,” I said.
“Beeg news. Vive Quebec libre.”
You basically insecure vowel shifter, I thought. You son of a bitch. It’s your plane.
“I understand that you pilot a plane up to Kangalakksiorvik.”
“The world’s puke.”
“I’ve got to get up there.”
“Why? You have a yen to bug seals?”
“Why is my business.”
“True. How come this rush on Kangalakksiorvik? I got passenger for there. OK. We fit you in for a hundred dollars.”
“Done.”
“I swallow this sweat, we go.”
Le Granf gulped the coffee and we went. We walked to a hangar in front of which sat something which must have been an airplane.
“Meet Clarette, the old whore,” said Le Granf. “My saggy express. The snatch of the wild blue. You change your mind to go?”
“No.”
“Stupid. My passenger is not here yet. Get in and we wait for him.”
We climbed into Clarette’s belly. There were four seats, two at the controls, two just behind.
“Clarette has a terrible cough,” said Le Granf. “I worry for her tubes.”
He pressed a button and the propeller turned. Puffs of ; smoke shot from the nose. The cough began, a hack.
“Phew. Not good.”
I stopped noticing because Le Granf s other passenger arrived, it was the Nagle carrying a duffle bag. We saw each : other head-on, and both of us made the sound of old doors closing.
“Acquaintances,” said Le Granf. “Then we have stimulating conversation of the past.”
I was sitting next to Le Granf, but when the Nagle came aboard, I did the prudent thing and shifted next to him in back. He put his duffle bag in the storage space and saw my executive suitcase.
“Are you armed?” I said.
“Don’t make nasty personal jokes,” said Le Granf.
“I was talking to my friend,” I said.
“Ah.”
“No, of course not,” said the Nagle. “What are you doing here, Harold?”
“Same as you. Same as you.”
“But I have the egg.”
“You have the chicken.”
“I get it,” the Nagle said. “The goal-line stand. I admire your persistence, Harold.”
“You have a chicken, Nagle.”
“Sure, Harold. I have a chicken.”
“Where is this chicken?” said Le Granf. “Include me in the discussion.”
“Go ahead, tell him,” I said.
Le Granf informed the tower that we were ready for takeoff by yelling out the window. Then Clarette fought her bronchitis, and slowly we were moving.
“She will rise,” Le Granf said. “We will have our jollies.”
She rose, after a fashion, and the Nagle told Le Granf his story of the Glak. I must admit, he presented his case objectively, as he saw it, keeping all things in proportion.
“So, well, then one has a chicken and one a Glak?” said Le Granf, after I explained the complications. “Marvelous.”
I began to feel oddly ill. I got violent cramps. I had flashes.
My stomach swelled. In a flash of insight, the kind Hikhoff taught me, I knew I was feeling the symptoms of labor. This condition is not unusual in emotional kinds like myself, but still it is embarrassing.
“So,” said Le Granf, “tell me. Which of you poppas is the real father, that I want to know. What kind of educated man would fornicate with a feathered friend?”
“Nobody fornicated with a feathered friend,” I said.
“Love is love,” Le Granf said. “But a bird.”
“Fly the plane,” I said, doubled over with pain.
Le Granf found a bottle of brandy and passed it around.
“I have heard tell many strange tales under the Northern Lights, you bet,” said Le Granf, “but two men infatuated with the same pigeon, oh boy!”
“Ignore him,” said the Nagle.
“Tell me,” I said, “what made you pick Kangalakksiorvik?”
“The galakk, I suppose, which sounds like Glak.”
“I never noticed that.”
“And you followed me all the way up here with nothing but the chicken story, Harold? I keep expecting you to play a trump card. Are you waiting until we land to hit me on the back of the neck?”
“Follow you? Why should I follow you ? What you have there in the sack is a rooster, maybe a hen, but no Glak.”
“Harold,” said the Nagle, “I hope I find a friend someday as loyal to me as you are to Hikhoff.”
Bouncing like an elevator, Clarette flew us to the dead heart of winter, over fields of blue ice.
The Nagle and I fell into bemused silence. Under my pains, I had thoughts of Hikhoff, out of place, out of time, out of focus, tossing vowels like darts at the passing parade. Was Hikhoff himself involved in a pregnancy, kindled by food? Could it be that he felt himself with child, some kind of child? Were Hikhoff’s bellows labor pains too, for an invisible offspring? The Glak. Some son. Some daughter. Some product, at least, of Hikhoff’s perpetual pregnancy.
Le Granf sang dirty songs about caribou and snowshoe rabbits. They helped pass the journey.
“There it blows,” said Le Granf. “Look down. Nothing, eh?”
Clarette lost altitude, such as there was, as Le Granf searched for a landing place. He flew us off to the left of what seemed to be a settlement, circled, dipped, banked.
Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves Page 8
