by John Barth
The deal was struck. When the widower went, Father repeated the injunction a number of times.
“Now that is damned clever, considering. ‘Build not your house upon the shifting sand.’ ”
The more he reflected on it, the more it amused him, until at length migraine was flown, battered marble forgot. By lunchtime he had resolved to enter the field of foundation building and general stonemasonry, as a contractor. Within a week he had borrowed what capital he could, on Grandfather’s credit and despite his skepticism, from the failing banks; ordered tools and materials; apprised the local building firms of our availability. Before the first snow fell and Franklin Roosevelt was inaugurated, the firm of Mensch and Son, Foundations and Stonemasonry (changed on Karl’s return to Mensch Masonry Contractors), had received its first subcontract. And the newly lettered office door, together with the drays and the flatbed wagon, enjoined their beholders to build not upon the shifting sand.
Alas for any who took to heart our motto and engaged our services in those days: he built twice over on the sand he fled. Not alone because our foundations resled ineluctably on ihe loam of the Eastern Shore, but because Hector, once he’d abandoned the Muse for Mammon, resorted to every economy known to corner-cutting builders, to the end of meeting his notes. If the contract (particularly in the private sector, where there were few building inspections) specified a twelve-inch concrete footing under a brick pier, he would tamp the ground extra well and make do with eight. His mortar (as well I knew, having mixed it in my youth till my hands were callused and my spine near cracked) was inordinately rich in sand, wherein the county abounded, with cement enough barely to bind the grains that were to bind the bricks. Finally, in order to make his deadlines he would lay stone and brick in every winter weather; despite his heating both sand and mix-water, his economical mortar not infrequently froze before it set, and when it was dry one could crumble it between one’s fingers. In time that same sand shifted indeed, carrying flag and fieldstone with it; what with out-of-court settlements and court-ordered repairs, Mensch and Son, by the time of Karl’s return, found themselves with little money, few contracts in hand, and a yard full of building stones and flagstones too small to make monuments of and too large to forget about.
“One more epitaph we got to pick out,” Grandfather said. “For Hector’s company. But we can’t afford to bury it.”
Time and again it seemed certain we must fail, even after Uncle Karl cut down the corner-cutting: the phrase “pass into the hands of the receivers,” dimly ominous, haunts my memory of the Menschhaus. At first I fancied the Receivers to be of a family with that troll who was so nearly the death of the Billy Goats Gruff, and to live therefore in the neighborhood of the Dorsel Creek Bridge, which I could not be induced to cross thenceforward without Peter at my side, and which still twinges me on wee-hour walks with Angie. Grandfather’s dealh in 1935 modified this fancy. Peter sneaked me in to survey him, laid out in the Good Parlor. As always the room smelled of coal oil from the space heater—to light which, for the comfort of the forenoon’s mourners, was Peter’s errand. Grandfather lay drawn and waxen upon the daybed. I cannot recall his face, but I know that although his white mustache still bore, like seasoned meerschaum, the familiar stain of much tobacco, his great nose was red no more: it was pinched, and as glazy ivory yellow as the keys of our player piano or Wilhelm’s plaster castings, the permanent tenants of the room. I contemplaled this detail.
Peter meanwhile was absorbed in the Easter egg. After a time I whispered: “Dare me to touch him?”
“Sure I dare you. Better not.”
The muscled ivory panther, couchant atop the mantel, prepared to spring upon me if I moved a hair; the Groaner raised sightless eyes to Heaven in plaster anguish at the thought.
“Dee double dare you,” Peler offered, and solemnly pinched Grandfather’s cheek. Surely he must snort and toss his head as he had done on many a napful Sunday; look ’round him vainly for his cane, and, knowing we were hid somewhere about, call upon Gott in Himmel to witness how His latest creatures prepared their place in Hell. But he did not stir even when, dee-double-diddly-die-dared, I drew my finger across his folded hands and found them—not soaked in perspiration like my own, but scarcely any colder. He slept on undisturbed, as I was not to do for many a night after; and the naked Biscuit Thrower in the foyer (my corruption of Wilhelm’s discus’d Greek Athlete) turned from me as we left; and when Miss Stocker expressed her sympathy next day in school, I declared to her and to the first-grade class in general my conviction that Grandfather was more to be envied than mourned, he having been by that hour joyfully received by the Receivers. I’ll not describe what fears beset me as to the nature of my own reception on the day when, without Peter to shield me, I too should pass into their waiting hands.
But presently Father would dream up a new way to sculpt his dead twin’s headstone with one arm. A fresh block of alabaster would appear in his office, or in the toolshed, or in the art room of Dorset High; new tools of his design would be forged by Joe Voegler the oyster-dredge builder down by the creek; Uncle Konrad (before Karl returned from Baltimore) would drop by on his book-laden bike, find Father engrossed in sketching and chipping, and ask permission to straighten out the files a bit. Sooner or later a contract would appear for a random-rubble chimney or a patio of Pennsylvania flag; for a time we’d hear no more of the Receivers.
Our enthusiasm for the seawall project, then, and for Karl and Hector’s resourceful management of it, was commingled with relief, for it seemed to herald a general improvement of our fortunes. War production was at its peak: Colonel Morton’s canneries made army rations around the clock; “rescue boats” of white oak and cypress, beautiful before they were painted battleship gray, were being built by the Dorset Shipyard, erstwhile boatwrights to the oyster fleet. The citizenry had more means for patios, terraces, tombstones—and of our materials, unlike some, there was no great shortage. No longer did we polish headstones with wet sand and railroad iron, or letter them by hand with maul and chisel: they were bought wholesale—already shaped, polished, and decorated in stock patterns—from a national concern by whom we were enfranchised; the inscriptions, stenciled out of sheet rubber, were quickly and perfectly sandblasted onto the face. With the nozzle in one hand and his mind on Erdmann’s Cornlot, Peter could execute in a minute the H’s with which Grandfather had used to take such loving pains, and do them just as well. Father installed a secondhand water heater in our summer kitchen and no longer rubbed his nose when Mother spoke of radiators and indoor toilets—though, to be sure, such frivolities were not available in wartime.
All summer we worked on the wall, under Karl’s supervision, Hector gimping down from school or stoneyard from time to time to inspect our progress. To their joint resourcefulness there was no end. When it became clear that cleaning the Baltimore rocks by hand was ruinously expensive (it took me half an hour, with the best will in the world, to scrape the moss from one), Father rented and experimented with, in vain, equipment to spray them with boiling water or live steam, or soak them in a weak solution of hydrochloric acid, or air-dry and sand-clean them: all either ineffective or inefficient. In the end, not to throw good money after bad, we carted them to the yard as they were, hoping they might clean up more readily when long dry. They did not. When our crusher broke beyond immediate repair on what looked to have once been the quoin of a major Baltimore bank, and we were forced to buy commercial smallstone for our concrete, Karl softened our loss by loading the forms with whole boulders, moss and all, before we poured. And when the city council belatedly challenged our removing the Baltimore rocks at all, and the mayor shamefully refused to acknowledge any previous verbal agreement about a municipal bathing area, Father demanded and received permission, in order to forestall an action against us, to take out at least the ones from our own frontage on the Cornlot.
I voiced my opinion of these expedients to Peter, who upon his graduation had assumed the foremanship of our yard
in order to free Karl for the wall. But my brother, then as now, though he deplored poor workmanship like ill character, could attend to but one thing at a time, and was entirely preoccupied with our house. In July he finished purchasing the lot; in August he hired his excavator; and between us, working evenings and weekends with advice from Karl and head-shakings from Father, we put up the forms and poured the basement floor and walls. Magda came down every evening to watch, often with Mother and Aunt Rosa and bottles of home brew in a galvanized bucket. For the first time my body grew as brown and tough as Peter’s; I prized my muscles and my right to drink the yeasty beer. All day I toted boulders for the seawall, all evening barrowed concrete for the house; but so agreeable was it to be fifteen and strong that when dusk ended our labors I would wrestle with my brother in the clover. Our hard flesh smacked; our grunting hushed the crickets. When the last of our strength was spent we would tumble, washed in dew, at Magda’s feet, there to bathe further in her grave smile before our final rinse in the nettled river.
The last twenty dollars of his inheritance Peter spent on a tree and two rosebushes.
“A weeping willow tree,” Father reported to Aunt Rosa. “Twenty feet tall. It will shed many a tear before Peter gets his towers up.”
Aunt Rosa grabbed her gut.
“Mensch’s Folly isn’t built yet,” Father went on. “But when the receivers take this house away from us, we’ll all go down to the Cornlot and sleep under Peter’s willow tree.”
“Ach! No more, Hector!”
If it was my brother’s hope that the family would take up where his legacy left off, he was disappointed: work on the house ceased with the August meteor showers. In September Peter announced his engagement to Magda and enlisted in the Corps of Engineers. I had our bedroom to myself; no longer needed to masturbate under the covers when my brother, I hoped, was asleep. Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth smiled from the walls, hung too with plane spotters’ silhouettes of Messerschmitts, Focke-Wulfs, Heinkels. But it was Magda Giulianova I dreamed of, by me rescued from the holocaust that incinerated all dear obstacles to our love. In the shelter of the unfinished basement of the unbuilt castle, we mourned our losses in each other’s arms.
M
“Mulch Peter’s rosebushes, better, against the Onion Snow.”
Aunt Rosa’s final words, as reported by Mother. She never rested under our tree, though in her last weeks she enjoyed looking down from the hospital solarium upon its bare young withes. From her uterus the cancer spread like an ugly rumor; it was the willows of the Dorset Cemetery she soon slept under, beside her Konrad. Her small estate she had long since conveyed to Father except for her third of Mensch Masonry, divided equally between him and Uncle Karl, and the ancient egg, expressly devised to Peter and me.
But I, I rested often under Peter’s tree in nineteen forties five and six and seven, as the nation finished its war, my brother his term of military enlistment, Mensch Masonry its seawall project and the foundations of Mensch’s Castle, and I my high school education.
Say, rather, my education at high school age: not much book learning was accomplished in rural Southern public schools at that time, when ablebodied male teachers were in the military and many of the married women left to follow their husbands. What passed for schooling one could dispatch with the left hand; my right ransacked the public library, no treasure house either in those days. But in the shade of our willow I contrived to read Sophocles and Schopenhauer, and bade farewell to my youthful wish to be an architect. There too, with Magda, I read John Keats, Heinrich Heine, and her beloved rueful Housman, and in time said good-bye to boyhood.
Magda’s face is round, her complexion white: not my preference. But her eyes and mouth are rich, her nose is finely cut, her voice deep, soft, stirring. She has grown heavy in motherhood; at forty she’ll look like an Italian peasant; even at eighteen she was displeased with her hips, her backside, her legs—too large by modern standards, but (as I learned to remind her) the ideal in other centuries, especially combined with her graceful neck and shoulders, her delicate breasts. When I appraised her—I was seventeen—it was not in the lustful humor with which one sized up the slim tan girls of beach and boardwalk. The frivolity of her summer cottons was belied by that grave voice and figure; those thighs and buttocks were serious as her eyes. Magda played no sports; was self-conscious in slacks or shorts or swimsuit; wore her dark hair long and straight or wound handsomely in a bun when all the fashion was for short and curly. Yet one guessed her able to stand unclothed before a lover with perfect ease, unbinding that hair for him without joke and tease and giggle. Similarly, one could imagine an affair with Magda, but no flirtation. And the affair, one understood, would be nothing sportive…
Of late she has become a complainer, speaks of the republic’s decline in the tone of one hectoring a foolish husband. But at eighteen and nineteen she brooded stoically upon grand problems; her pessimism was cosmic and impersonal, a tidewater Tragic View. I read her the science page of the Sunday Times, which moved her even more than Housman’s verse. The population was increasing past our means to support it. The planet’s skin of vital topsoil was washing into the sea. The century would see the end of our fossil fuel reserves. Our science had thwarted natural selection, with the result that our species degenerated year by year. Our antibodies were breeding supergerms, our insecticides superinsects, and poisoning the waters as well. The incidence of violent crime was soaring. Half the entering class at Columbia University would not distinguish Hagia Sophia from the Taj Mahal.
“We’re adding so much carbon dioxide to the air that the winters are getting warmer,” I read to her. “A little more will melt the polar ice cap, and the whole Eastern Shore will be under water.”
We would be sitting under the willow tree or leaning against the new foundations of the Castle on a Sunday morning, while our elders were in church. Magda’s legs, stubbled or razor-nicked, would be crossed, the large calves flattened in their nylon sheaths. She would shake her head soberly at the river and observe: “You can’t just sit by. But every single thing you do costs more than it’s worth.”
Those brown eyes saw what general truths were implied by particulars. “Here’s an anthropologist,” I reported, “who defends the idea of national characters. He says the Germans are the most ingenious people in Europe and the most barbarous, and that the two go together.”
Magda concurred: “We’ve every one of us got the vices of our virtues.”
And on the day we first put my penis into her vagina, she having stood naked and unwound her hair for me quite as I’d imagined, and I lamented that our pleasure must be at my brother’s cost, she sighed unsmilingly: “Every silver lining has a cloud.”
This was in late spring 1947, and by way of a commencement gift. While work on the Castle had resumed and was progressing rapidly, the family’s fortunes, so bright not very long before, had fallen to their lowest point since the year of my birth and Hector’s confinement. Had Peter not managed a construction loan through an army friend whose father was a local banker, and hired Mensch Masonry to complete the house, our firm would have been all but idle. Several fresh misfortunes had beset us, not least of which was Father’s resigning his principalship in 1945 and devoting his energies full-time to the company. Carting and cleaning the Baltimore rocks for reuse as exterior masonry had proved finally more costly than buying fresh stone from the mainland quarries; in the end they had to be sandblasted on all six surfaces, and even then, despite their historical interest, our customers usually preferred new stone. What was perhaps our last chance to use them profitably came early in the year, when fire destroyed a wing of East Dorset Grace Methodist Protestant Southern Church: Mensch Masonry bid to rebuild the facade with the Baltimore rocks, many of which approached the hue of the original granite. Father pled the poetry of saving East Dorset souls with what had once preserved East Dorset property; of building as it were for Zion with the rubble of Babylon. But by that time we were so discredited i
n the town that the lay leaders rejected our bid and raised instead a brick-veneered structure in the modern fashion, to our minds (but we are neither architects nor true believers) devoid of spirituality.
The cause of our latest disfavor was again the seawall, which by V-J Day, before we’d completed its improvement, had in places already cracked, and was all but breached when Magda relieved me of my sexual virginity. Two hurricanes had pounded at the seam between the old wall and the new; nor’easters had driven water into every crevice, which frozen had heaved and humped the concrete. Damage was especially heavy along the Cornlot, from which the Baltimore rocks had been entirely cleared, and in those portions of the wall where we had piled them as filler when our crusher broke. Great chunks of concrete came away entirely; twenty-foot lengths of wall leaned out of plumb; the spring tides broached them and dissolved the land behind into muddy depressions; salt water then killed the grass, and the soil washed out with remarkable celerity. Along with rose pollen and cottonwood poplar seeds, litigation was in the air: owners of waterfront lots, who had paid their assessments and confidently invested in tons of fill, were closing ranks against the city council, which in turn was preparing an action against Mensch Masonry. There was talk of collusion between us and the mayor to defraud our town. That latter worthy, a Dixiecrat, charged the “liberal” Democratic councilmen with fabricating issues for the ’48 elections. In fact, no suits were finally filed, but the publicity served us ill, as did the repairs we undertook at our own cost—extensive repairs, but mainly cosmetic—in the interest of improving our public image and forestalling litigation.
Finally, despite Colonel Morton’s and the shipyard’s government contracts (now expired), many Dorset families moved in the war years to work in the steel mills and the aircraft factories across the Bay. Erdmann and the other general contractors were fairly busy, but the demand was for low-cost stock-design houses with concrete slab foundations and walkways, even concrete patios, in our judgment an eyesore. After the first flush of war prosperity, people lost interest in flagstone terraces, stone chimneys, marble headstones: they bought government bonds against the day when automobiles and electrical appliances would return to the market. By the time they did, along with such fresh diversions as television, everything made-do-with during the war was worn out or obsolete and had to be replaced.
