Body & Soul

by Frank Conroy

  "What is this place? What's it like?" Claude asked.

  Ivan looked up sharply. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" He glanced at his wristwatch. "It's the least I can do."

  "Sure. Okay."

  "Splendid. We'll go up to the faculty lounge. Chances are it'll be empty just now."

  They passed the man at the desk, who did not look up, and mounted the stairs.

  "It seems very quiet for a school," Claude said.

  "Wait till the bell rings."

  Ivan led the way to the lounge and opened the door. The room was indeed empty, strewn with newspapers and overflowing ashtrays. They drew coffee from an urn and sat by the window.

  "If you're a student, how come you get to come in here?"

  "My status is unique," Ivan said. "That is, I teach as well. Introductory Greek. Old Dr. Ashmead got a little deep into the sherry one afternoon and broke his hip. They didn't have anyone to take over his class. I had years of Greek in the UK, so..." He gave a shrug. "Now what about you? What grade are you in?"

  "Ninth. But I don't always go. I don't know about school."

  Ivan's curly eyebrows rose. "What? How old are you?"

  "Fifteen. How old are you?"

  "Nineteen. But good heavens, man, what are you thinking of? You have to go."

  "So I've been told. Do you like it here?"

  "Here?" He cleared his throat. "Here? The Bentley?"

  "What do you think of it?"

  "Well, it's first rate, of course. It's famous. It's very good," he said quickly. "It's, er, quite expensive as well."

  "My teacher said something about scholarships. Do you have scholarships?"

  "Your teacher? I thought you said—"

  "My piano teacher," Claude said. "Something about scholarships and you don't have to pay."

  "That's right." Ivan stirred his coffee, staring down into the cup for a moment. "A few. Very difficult to arrange. You know, special students, mathematical prodigies, sons of alumni who died in the war, that sort of thing."

  Just then the door opened and a tall, thin, stooped-over man with horn-rimmed glasses swept into the room and strode to the coffee urn. "Andrews," he said with a nod.

  "Sir," Ivan responded.

  "And who do we have here?" the tall man said without looking.

  Ivan opened his mouth, hesitated, and then looked at Claude.

  "Claude Rawlings," Claude said.

  "He was asking about scholarships," Ivan said.

  "Oh, was he?" The tall man lighted a cigarette, took his coffee, and half sat on the windowsill, his leg swinging gently. He looked at Claude for the first time.

  "Aren't you on the committee, sir?" Ivan asked.

  The tall man didn't answer, but continued to examine Claude. "Scholarships are for people with special gifts and abilities." He took a sip of coffee. "Do you have any special gifts and abilities?"

  "Yes," Claude said.

  The leg stopped swinging. "Such as?"

  Claude looked at Ivan, who sat motionless, his cup frozen in the air. Then he looked at the tall man. "The piano," he said.

  There was a long silence. The tall man sighed and extinguished his cigarette. "All right, Andrews. You caught me at the right time. Let's take him down to the auditorium and see about this."

  Andrews blushed.

  On the way downstairs, as they followed the tall man, Claude leaned toward Ivan and said, "Don't worry. This is going to be fun."

  The bell rang as they approached the floor below street level, and boys burst into the hallways with their textbooks and notebooks, coming out of classrooms talking and laughing, but in an orderly fashion for all that. They wore jackets and ties, and quite a few stared at Claude in his sneakers, baggy trousers, undershirt, and oversized Eisenhower jacket. "An urchin," he heard someone say. "Andrews caught an urchin."

  The auditorium was small, perhaps a hundred seats, but there was a stage larger than the one at the Fisk mansion, and even a shallow U-shaped balcony. The piano, a beat-up Knabe baby grand, was off to the side, below the stage. The tall man waved his arm to indicate the instrument.

  "What is an urchin?" Claude asked Ivan.

  "I'll explain later," the older boy said.

  Claude sat down at the bench and regarded the keyboard. So familiar, that black and white pattern. He felt a mild, comfortable thrill. No matter how weird or mysterious the surroundings, whether the comfortable basement of Weisfeld's Music Store, the spooky living room of Maestro Kimmel, the dim chaos of his own room, the brittle splendor of the Fisks', no matter where he was, when he sat down at the piano the world around him simply didn't matter. His physical relationship was fixed. All else was transitory. He was located.

  It flitted through his mind to play something flashy. The last movement of the Chopin B-flat Minor Sonata, for instance, about as fast as anything he'd ever come across, but it seemed like giving too much away. And he would need the music. Instead, he found himself playing Bach's little Fugue in G Minor, not technically difficult but a strong and solid piece. At the third entrance of the three-note motive, back in the tonic, he let himself add some fire, as Herr Sturm would have it, and even a very slight, very smooth accelerando. He built to the finish and lifted his arms.

  Ivan, who had been looking at the floor, raised his head and smiled.

  The tall man said, "Who are you?" and then wheeled on Ivan. "Andrews, is this a prank? Where did you get this boy?"

  "I've never seen him before today, sir. I lost a notebook and he came here to return it, no more than half an hour ago."

  "What?" He seemed almost angry. "You mean he just walked in?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Claude said, "I wanted to find out about scholarships."

  The tall man was momentarily speechless. Ivan stood waiting and no one seemed to know what to do, so Claude played Chopin's Etude no. 5, op. 10, easily, as Mr. Fredericks had taught him.

  The tall man turned out to be Dr. Morris, who taught history, and who made Andrews responsible for walking Claude through two days of tests.

  First, a repeat performance of the Bach and the Chopin for Dr. Satterthwaite, head of the music department, a grim, chunky man in his forties whose square face remained entirely expressionless during the playing. It was a different piano this time, a Steinway upright in Satterthwaite's classroom. At the end Satterthwaite turned to Dr. Morris.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Your opinion, obviously."

  "About what?"

  "Oh, come on, George," Morris said, pursing his lips impatiently. "His playing. His playing. How good is he?"

  "We've never had anyone near his level." Satterthwaite turned toward the door. "He plays quite a lot better than I do. Better than I could ever hope to." He opened the door and left.

  "Well, good heavens," Ivan burst out. "You'd think he'd want to shake hands or something. Ask a few questions."

  "Andrews!" said Morris.

  "Sorry, sir," Ivan said.

  Later, outside the door to a small office where Claude would be left alone with the Stanford-Binet, various aptitude tests, and drills, Ivan gave him a few words of advice. "These things are all nonsense, actually, so don't be intimidated. Go through the multiple choice quickly the first time, answering the easy ones. Then go back for the more difficult. Leave the impossible ones for the end and just fill in any answer."

  "What?"

  "You're not penalized for a wrong answer, so you might as well put something down—A, B, C, or D. You might get lucky."

  "Oh, I see." Claude nodded. "Thanks."

  "See you at four." Ivan gave him a pat on the shoulder.

  The next day, a gray-haired woman showed him a series of elaborate inkblots on cardboard panels and asked him what he saw in them. Claude enjoyed it—the woman's manner was calm and reassuring. "Good," she would say, or "Fine," or "Very good," as if rewarding him for effort, when what he was doing was as easy as breathing. When he'd gone through the entire stack of panels she gave him a bla
nk one, and a pencil. "Now I'd like to ask you to draw a person."

  He looked at the blank panel. He did not pick up the pencil beside it.

  "Please draw a human figure."

  "I can't draw," he said.

  "That doesn't matter. This isn't about how well you can draw. Please give it a try."

  He knew whatever he did would look foolish. Childish. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

  She waited a moment, and then took back the panel. "Okay. That's all right. We're finished now."

  Ivan was waiting outside in the hall. "How did it go?"

  "Okay, I guess. I saw a lot of bats."

  "Bats? Oh, dear." When he saw Claude frown he said quickly, "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I saw butterflies."

  "You took that test?"

  "Oh yes," Ivan said. "They give it to everyone." He gave a little snort of laughter. "Weeds out the barmies."

  "What's a barmy?"

  "A crazy. Not like you and me, my boy."

  A week later, after a brief interview with Dr. Phelps, the ancient palsied headmaster, Claude was admitted to the Bentley School with a full-tuition scholarship and an additional grant with which to buy textbooks.

  Al hunkered down at the curb and examined the flat tire of the cab. He tightened the valve cover.

  "You got the key?"

  Claude took it from his pocket and handed it over. "The cop told me it's been here more than a month. He knows me. He says the city can tow it after a month and we better move it."

  "Unh-huh." Al went to the trunk, opened it, and began rummaging around. "So your momma just stop working, is that it?"

  "I guess so."

  "That's a shame. Good cab like this. Good medallion." With a grunt he hauled out the spare tire. "Spare's all right." It bounced on the asphalt. "You hold it while I get the jack. What's the matter? Is she sick?"

  "No." He felt the satisfying weight of the tire.

  "Well, then?"

  "I don't know. She acts kind of crazy. Cutting up the newspapers. Writing letters. Handing out pamphlets and stuff."

  "Did she get religion? I've seen that."

  "No. It's all politics, but it doesn't make any sense. I mean, some of it does, but I don't understand why she's doing it."

  "Unh-huh." He slipped the jack under the car, pumped it a few times until it caught, and then moved around to loosen the bolts on the wheel. Each bolt creaked as he struck the tire iron with the heel of his hand. "This wheel ain't been off in a long time. Look back there and see if she got any oil. A squirt can maybe."

  Under some rags Claude found a wooden box filled with tools, old parts, and a copper oil can. Al applied a few drops to each shaft and took off the wheel. He put on the spare and jacked down the car. He unscrewed the valve cover, put some spit on the tip of his index finger, and touched the top of the valve.

  "What's that for?" Claude asked.

  "If it's leaking, that spit'll swell up." He watched for a moment. "It ain't leaking." He screwed the cover back on.

  They put everything in the trunk and got in the front seat. Al put the key in the ignition, adjusted the choke, and tried to start the engine. It barely turned over, and Al stopped immediately. "The battery run down. Shit."

  "Well, we can leave it." Claude watched as Al stared out the windshield, his fingers tapping the wheel.

  "The street run downhill a little bit," Al said finally. "What the hell, let's try it."

  Together, Claude in back with his feet braced against the fender of the car behind, Al by the open driver's door, pushing the frame with one arm and handling the wheel with the other, they rolled the cab away from the curb and out into the street. After the initial resistance of inertia, it was surprisingly easy. Al was a slim man, but strong. He jumped in behind the wheel and closed the door.

  "Okay. Push!" he yelled.

  Claude pushed, leaning forward, both arms fully extended, and the car began to pick up speed. Just as Claude began to have to run, Al engaged the gear and Claude bumped up against the trunk. The engine sputtered, coughed, and started. Al drove down the street a ways, then pulled to the curb, brake lights flashing, engine racing. Claude ran after the car and got in the front seat.

  "Terrific!" he said.

  "The trick is to pop it into second gear," Al said, milking the accelerator. "First is no good."

  "What now?"

  "Drive around. Charge up the battery." Al pulled out into the street. "Might as well go uptown and get the tire fixed for cheap."

  At the corner they took a left and went up Third Avenue, in the central lane under the elevated.

  "You ever tell your momma about me?" Al asked.

  "Sure I did."

  "That stuff in the dumbwaiter back when you were a little kid. You tell her that?"

  "Of course not. I told her about you keeping the piano, and helping me with the shoeshine stuff. Teaching me cards. Like that."

  "What did she say?"

  "Say? She didn't say anything." Claude was slightly puzzled. "What would she say?"

  "Nothing," Al said. "All right then, that's fine."

  At Ninety-sixth Street a woman hailed the cab as Al drove by.

  "Should we put the flag down?" Claude suggested.

  "Why not?" Al reached out and pulled it down. The meter started ticking.

  Now they were in East Harlem, the late afternoon streets crowded with people. Men sat on stoops, kids played off-the-point or stickball on the side streets, women hung out the windows, and the air was filled with shouts, snatches of jazz, gospel music, and occasionally the sharp, hot beat of samba. A funky, loose energy suffused the avenues, a kind of social electricity flashing through groups of people clustered at the corners, standing in front of the candy stores, leaning against parked cars, pitching pennies, drinking, talking, laughing.

  Al drove toward the East River, past warehouses, past a large excavated area behind a chain-link fence, and pulled up in the shadows under an overpass.

  It was a small junkyard. A couple of rusted-out car bodies, a three-legged tub washing machine, piles of old tires, scrap iron, and a small lean-to shed made of wood and nailed-on metal signs. An obese black man sat on a mailbox, staring down at a dismantled automobile generator spread out on the sidewalk before him. He picked up a part and began to scrape it with his fingernail.

  Al carried the tire and laid it down next to the generator parts. "Got time for this?"

  The fat man got up and went into the shed.

  Al and Claude sat down on a salvaged car seat placed up against the side of the shed. Al lighted a cigarette. Overhead, cars sighed on the highway.

  The fat man came out with some irons and a large rubber mallet. He examined the tread of the tire, rolling it, and then let it fall. He levered an iron between the steel rim and the tire, broke the bead, and tapped the iron delicately around the circle. He was quick, and worked without any wasted motion.

  "So how long she been acting crazy?" Al asked.

  "I guess for a while. Hasn't paid the rent for three months. I saw that in a letter she just threw away."

  "That ain't good."

  "And they taped some kind of notice on the door. She tore it off."

  Al smoked in silence and then flipped the butt into the street. The fat man came over with the inner tube and held a section between his hands. "Little slice. Glass, most likely."

  "You got hot patch?" Al touched the spot with his finger.

  "Don't need no hot patch. Do a cold patch right, it'll be fine." He rubbed the tube on his grimy coveralls and went back to the shed.

  "She on relief?" Al asked.

  "I don't think so. But I don't know."

  "Well shit, man. Don't you ever talk to her?"

  Claude picked some stuffing out of the seat. "Not much, I guess. I'm not there."

  They sat in silence for some time. The sky over Harlem was turning purple.

  "I'm going to school now," Claude said. "I got into this fancy school."

  "Is that
a fact?"

  "I like it."

  "Well good, then." Al scratched his chin. "You can hold your own."

  The fat man presented the repaired tire. "Fifty cent," he said. Al paid and they got back in the cab, whose engine had been left running.

  "Let's go see her," Al said.

  Claude was surprised, but said nothing as they rode downtown.

  They descended the iron stairs and Claude paused with his key in the lock. "It looks kind of..." He half turned to look up at Al. "I mean inside. It's ah..."

  "Open the door."

  Claude pushed it open and they entered. In the gloom they saw the stacks of newspapers, boxes of files, and piles of reference books from the library. It was a warren, the paths strewn with old magazines, envelopes, and papers of every kind. The air was musty, as if in a cave. Emma sat at the kitchenette counter, under a single light bulb with a plastic shade like a Dutch collar, scissors gleaming in her hand as she cut up the Daily News. She did not raise her eyes until Claude stood right in front of her. He put the key on the counter.

  "Al fixed the cab."

  She shifted her gaze. "Al," she said without expression. At times now she talked in a flat, toneless voice, almost as if she were speaking without volition. Other times she yelled, or talked at a tremendous clip like a speeded-up movie. "Yeah, Al," she said. "Okay."

  The slim man nodded, watching her.

  "I've been very, very busy." She put down the scissors.

  "Unh-huh." He pulled up a stool and sat opposite her, forearms resting on the counter, hands folded.

  "It's hard to straighten it out," she said. "You have to look at everything. Most of it is lies, a whole lot of different kinds of lies they put out, but if you stick at it, you begin to see the patterns. People don't understand."

  "I understand," Al said.

  "Most people don't care."

  "That's a fact," he said. "They don't."

  A peculiar silence held. Claude felt an absence of tension as Al and his mother sat there like two old people on a park bench, who might say something or might not. There was a sense of everything moving slowly, an odd peacefulness in the air.