Candy

by Terry Southern

  “It looks very nice,” said the receptionist, perhaps slightly more interested than she should have been.

  Candy did a little pirouette of joy, twirling the skirt just above her sweet knees.

  “Oh, I feel younger than I have for years!” she cried. “And alive, really alive for the first time in my life!”

  She handed the bundle of clothes to the receptionist.

  “Here,” she said, “I won’t be needing these! Give them to someone . . . to some very old person, to someone still living in the Stone Age!”

  She was ecstatically happy in her new garb. It was made of a heavy sort of canvas sackcloth, shaped somewhat like an inverted funnel, and came almost to her ankles.

  “Now tell me all about the Crackers!” she gaily demanded.

  “Well,” said the receptionist, “I’m afraid there isn’t time for me to tell you, I see your transportation to the airport has just arrived out front. But here . . .” She took some booklets and folders out of her desk and gave them to Candy. “You can browse through these on the plane.”

  “Oh wonderful!” said the girl, glancing through them. She was going to read a bit aloud, but the receptionist took her up again:

  “I think you’d better go now,” she said, “so you’ll be in good time for your plane.”

  “All right,” said Candy with real cheer, “thanks so much for everything, for having me, and . . . for everything!”

  She leaned forward and kissed the receptionist.

  “Good-bye,” said the receptionist, “and good luck!”

  “Good-bye,” said Candy, running a few steps, and turning to wave, “good-bye, good-bye!”

  Then she hurried on, calling out ahead of her to the car in front of the Foundation:

  “Wait for me! Here I come!”

  13

  ON THE PLANE, Candy settled herself comfortably, and thought about the events of the day. It had been a full day for her, and a tiring one; now she was glad to relax. She was impressed by Pete Uspy; his great head and quiet voice were with her still. He had seemed so self-sufficient, and Candy felt that he contained some secret and unspoken power. She wondered if she were falling in love with him, and she quickly turned her thoughts to Derek. No, she would not betray Derek, she could not betray him.

  She got out the booklets and various literature the receptionist had given her and began to leisurely leaf through them. She suddenly found herself very tired though, deliriously drowsy, and so she let her lovely big eyes close in rest. She dropped into a light sleep almost at once, and began to dream:

  She dreamed that she and her father were together in a great wide field of wild flowers on a beautiful summery day. He was lying there reciting poems of Mallarmé but it was as if he himself had written them; and Candy was much younger, and she ran about the fields picking flowers, and though she would sometimes be at quite a distance from her father, she could hear every line he spoke. He spoke the lines perfectly, with exactly the right intonation and feeling for each word. Sometimes when he finished a poem, he would say: “That wasn’t a bad poem. Now here’s another—this is one I wrote for you, sweetheart; it came to me in a flash—in a terrible, beautiful flash just as I was releasing the sweet powerful seed from my testis that made you!”

  “Oh Daddy,” she would cry peevishly, “it isn’t for me—it’s for some other little girl!” And she would feel very sad, and standing before him with her pretty head bowed she would hold her tiny bouquet of flowers down in such a way that everything seemed helpless and pathetic. Then as she slowly raised her head and a big golden tear began to tumble down her cheek, she would say: “It’s for Mommy!”

  “Oh you silly sweetheart!” Daddy would cry gaily, holding his arms out to her. “It’s for you! For you alone! You’re my mommy and my sweetheart and my little darling girl!” And she would fly to his arms and nestle there while he began stroking her hair, her neck, her shoulders . . . and then she awoke, feeling cool and refreshed for the first time in her life, she thought, but blushing a little when she recalled the part about “the sweet powerful seed of my testis.” It was true poetry, and she wished so much that she could share it with Daddy. Perhaps she could call him from the Cracker camp; but no, of course he would never understand, not in a million years, especially not in his present condition. But she could tell Derek; he would understand, and her heart warmed and throbbed with the idea. She mustn’t forget it, she told herself.

  When the big plane touched down at Mohawk, Minnesota, a few minutes after nine, Candy straightened her shift, saw to her facial appearance—she had removed all her makeup, but her lips were naturally as red and full as a great crimson gash—and flounced her lovely ringlets a few times before leaving her seat.

  To her joy, there was a jeep to meet her at the edge of the simple airstrip. It was clearly marked along its side: CRACKER, and there were several young people in it already, who dismounted and came genially forward to welcome her. They introduced themselves and helped her into the jeep. “Well, let’s don’t sit here yakking,” said one of them, “I’ll bet this Cracker could use some chow!” “I’ll say!” said Candy, quick to take hold of their exuberant spirit. And they were off like the wind, flying along the dark country roads outside Mohawk. The top of the jeep was down, and it was a lovely moonlit night. Soon they were singing, joyfully, at the top of their voices:

  “We are the Crackers, the Crackers are we!

  True to each Cracker as Crackers can be!

  We’ve got to build, boys and girls,

  for a world of peace!

  A world of peace, a world of peace,

  without silly police!

  without silly police!

  QUACK—QUACK! CRACKER!

  QUACK—QUACK! CRACKER!”

  It was a rousing tune, and Candy was quick to join in the merriment—rocking her body back and forth in unison with the others, and singing happily. These kids were lots of fun, she decided.

  Mohawk is a coal-mining region and they passed a number of small mining towns en route to the camp, which was, as it turned out, situated just on the edge of one of these small villages—for that was the nature of the project which Candy had joined: to help with mining. The mines were shorthanded at this particular moment, and just when the country most needed its every ounce of coal to step up steel production and get cracking on the clean-fallout missile program.

  The camp consisted of two large tents with many-tiered bunks; one tent for boys, the other for girls. Besides those, there were two small tents: the chow-tent and the rec-tent, the latter containing simply a Ping-Pong table and half a dozen paperback books.

  Candy was shown directly to her bunk after being welcomed by those who had not been at the airport to meet her.

  “This is where you’re bunking down,” said a friendly but impassive girl with dark hair which came to her waist, as she showed Candy the place. “The head,” by which she meant the toilet, “is just over there,” and she pointed to a little bucket behind a screen in the corner. “Stow your gear, and we’ll get some hot chow into you.”

  “Roger!” said Candy, and a minute later she and the dark-haired girl left the dormitory-tent and crossed over to the chow-tent nearby.

  “This trooper could use some chow,” said the dark-haired girl to the jolly fat cook who was there.

  “Roger-dodger!” said the cook and ladled out a nice bowl of hot broth for Candy.

  “Oh wonderful!” said Candy, holding the bowl in both hands and drinking it, allowing just her big lovely eyes to show above the rim. “Broth and porridge are my favorite dishes.”

  “Mine too,” agreed the dark-haired girl.

  After the simple meal, Candy felt refreshed and ready for her Cracker work to begin. Although it was about ten o’clock, some of the shafts were still open and it was agreed that she could go down into “No. 9” and work for a while that night if she wished. She was all too keen for it.

  “You can have some coveralls if you want,” said the
dark-haired girl, “though most of us like to work in our regular clothes, and then keep them on—it gives us a real sense of the work we’re doing, and isn’t so hypocritical as changing.”

  Candy saw now that the girl’s clothes were quite black from coal-dust, as were her hair and face.

  “That’s for me!” said Candy.

  She was taken to the elevator of the shaft by the dark-haired girl, who said:

  “Now, when you get down to the third level, you get off and walk straight ahead of you till you come to the end of the shaft. You can dig there for a while, it’s lots of fun. It’s about a mile to the end.”

  “Wonderful,” said Candy. “Will anyone else be there?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said the dark-haired girl, then added with a frown: “Unless they’re goofing off. We’ve had a lot of goofing off lately—especially among the boys.”

  “They’d better get on the ball!” said Candy, cross at the thought of these boys goofing off.

  “I’ll say,” said the dark-haired girl, “it isn’t funny! All they care about is getting into your pants—and then they’re too tired to help with the mining. A pretty girl has to be very careful with boys.”

  “You’re telling me!” said Candy. “And how!”

  They would have liked to stay together and talk some more, but the elevator had reached the top of the entrance.

  “You’d better go on now,” said the dark-haired girl, “it takes about an hour to get to the bottom. We can talk some more when you get back. By the way, you’ll find a little green-handled pick there. That’s the one I always use.”

  “Roger,” said Candy. She wished she could salute, but thought it would be silly since everything was so informal. She got into the elevator and pressed the button marked 3RD LEVEL, and was on her way down, waving back up at the dark-haired girl who watched the rapid descent from above.

  Down, down went the little platform Candy was standing on, down, down and it was soon flying through absolute blackness. It was plenty exciting for the young girl and made her dear young tummy tingle.

  Finally the elevator reached the third level, and Candy got off and started walking. The shaft was quite dark, but from one bend to another she could always just make out the faint glow of light ahead. At last she came to a long, unbroken stretch of shaft and she could see the soft light glowing at the end. As she got nearer, she could also make out the figure of a man there. He was sitting on a camp stool reading a paperback novel by the lamp overhead.

  When Candy reached him he acknowledged her with a nod.

  “Hi,” said Candy, a bit breathless but more keen for her work to begin. She looked around for the little green-handled pick that the dark-haired girl had told her about, found it, and started hacking at the wall of coal.

  The man watched her curiously.

  “So, you have come,” he said at last.

  Candy wondered why he wasn’t helping with the work instead of sitting there reading, and she decided that he might be one of the boys the dark-haired girl had complained about.

  “Yes, and we’d better get cracking on this work!” she said without looking at him.

  The man nodded.

  “I have been expecting you,” he said.

  There was something in his odd tone that caused Candy to turn and look at him now for the first time. He wasn’t a boy at all she saw then, but a man of . . . though as she scrutinized his face for a clue to age she felt she had never seen anyone whose age was so indeterminate. Anyway, she thought, with an urgent flutter somewhere behind her precious labia, he was not a boy but a man. Large, with a great bald head, and huge black mustache, his eyes blazed at her in the half-light; and if Pete Uspy had been impressive with his strange eyes, this man was a veritable Svengali. She knew at once that he was the man Pete Uspy had spoken of, and she knew too somehow that he was to be very important in her life.

  “Are you . . .” she faltered.

  “I,” he said with soft drama, “am . . . Grindle.”

  Candy was confused and embarrassed by his piercing look, which seemed to her to be undoing the top buttons of her shift and moving across her bare breast where the nipples now began slowly distending and throbbed painfully. She turned her eyes back to the wall and hacked at it some more, and the man looked down at his novel again. Candy was sure that he was the most spiritually advanced person she had met and she wondered what she should say to him. She tried to lose herself for the moment in her work and began a furious peck and flurry with the little pick. From time to time she would stop to get her breath and to scoop the chips she had done into a tiny pile. About the fourth time she stopped to do this, the man on the camp-stool raised his eyes from the book.

  “That is enough chopping the coal,” he said. His accent, like Pete Uspy’s, was very strong, though not at all unpleasant. In fact it seemed to add a certain poetic seriousness and drama to his words. Candy had no doubt that he was in charge of this section of the mine, so she was quite ready to obey; also she was tired of the work now. “Roger,” she said, and gathered her remaining chips into the little pile she had begun.

  “Your work is well,” said the big man watching her.

  “Thanks,” said Candy, brushing her hands; she felt the warm sustaining glow of accomplishment within her. “We could use some chow after that work,” she said.

  The big man put the novel in his pocket.

  “I do not care to eat,” he said, standing up. “However, let us leave this mine now.”

  “Right,” said Candy, “. . . but what about the coal?” She was looking at the pile she had dug.

  “Yes, you’d better bring that along. Here . . .” He took out his handkerchief and spread it on the ground so that Candy could scoop her coal onto it; then she tied it in a little bundle and held it up by her shoulder, but it was awkward there, so she put it in the pocket of her shift, and they started walking back to the elevator.

  The big man beside her began absently humming the Cracker song, and Candy joined in. This seemed to bring him out of his reverie.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize I was humming that song. As a matter of fact I don’t like to hear it. Not for the moment anyway. I hope you understand.”

  “Yes, of course,” said the girl. She was confused by this, yet it was not wholly an unpleasant sensation.

  Soon enough, considering the distance, they were at the elevator shaft once more and got in it.

  “I will operate the machine,” said the big man. It was the first thing he had said since objecting to the song about a mile back, and after scrutinizing the buttons for a moment, he pressed the top one, marked GROUND LEVEL.

  The elevator started rising.

  “Good,” said the big man. “Up we go. Up, up, up!”

  It seemed to Candy that he was in a jovial mood now, and she decided to risk a question.

  “Did Mr. Uspy write to you about me?” she asked, not realizing for the moment that of course there had hardly been time for a letter.

  The big man looked at her a few seconds without speaking. Then he said: “I am in telepathic communication with Mr. Uspy, from time to time during the night and day. I knew that you were coming. Yes. And that you have good spiritual advancement.”

  “Gosh,” said Candy, “he said that?”

  “I know that it is so—you have come, seeking truth, have you not?”

  “Oh yes,” the girl was quick to assure him.

  “Then you have come to the right place—we will begin at once. Tonight.”

  The attention of the great man, denied her up to this moment, was now like a luxurious bath to the young girl.

  “I . . . I hardly know what to say,” she began with gratitude.

  “He who knows need not speak; he who speaks does not know.”

  “That’s what Mr. Uspy says!” cried Candy with the delight she always derived from knowledge.

  “He got that from me,” said the big man. “He is my secretary.”

&nbs
p; He stated it factually, as a child would, without pride or embarrassment; but it was a fact quite impressive to Candy even so, because of her strong memory of Mr. Uspy and the day behind her, so much of which was connected with Derek and the warmth of her own joyous heart.

  14

  IN THE REC-TENT, after a cup of hot chocolate, Candy and great Grindle sat talking—he on the edge of the Ping-Pong table, and she at his feet.

  “What stage of spiritual advancement are you in at present?” he asked the girl.

  “Gosh, I have no idea,” she said.

  “Ah yes, the heart knows,” he said. “And the heart knows best.”

  “I think I’m in an early stage of some sort,” said the girl with perfect candor.

  “There are six stages along the mystic path,” said great Grindle, “and you are in one of them or another, at all times. Now your first stage is this: to have read a large number of books on the various religions and philosophies, and to have listened to many learned doctors profess the different doctrines—and then to experiment seriously yourself with a number of doctrines.”

  “That’s only the first stage?” asked Candy, hardly able to believe it.

  “Yes. The path is arduous, you see—many take it; few arrive.”

  “What is the second stage?”

  “The second stage is to choose one doctrine from among the many one has studied and discard the others—just as the eagle carries off only one sheep from the flock.”

  “Gosh,” said Candy.

  “Then does the path become truly arduous. The third stage is to remain in a lowly condition, humble in one’s demeanor, not seeking to be conspicuous or important in the eyes of the world—but behind apparent insignificance, to let one’s mind soar above all worldly power and glory.”