“Don’t you feel like talking, Gould?”
“Why?”
“We can stop, if you like.”
“No, no, I think it’s going very well.”
“Well, it’s not as if you’re making things easy for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. It happens.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know, what would you like me to ask you?”
“. . .”
“I don’t know, do you have dreams, for example . . . is there anything you dream about, for when you’re grown up, anything that . . . well, a dream.”
DIESEL: I’d like to see the world. You know what the problem is? I don’t get in cars and I can’t fit on a bus, I’m too big, there’s nowhere for me to sit, it’s like the slide. Always the same thing, and there’s no solution. Ridiculous, right? But meanwhile I’d like to see the world, and there’s no way: I just have to stay here and look at the pictures in the newspapers, or in the atlas. It’s the same with trains, a disaster—I tried, it was a disaster. There’s no way. All I want is to sit and watch the world go by outside the windows of something big enough to transport me, that’s all. It seems like nothing, and yet. If you really want to know, it’s the only thing that I really miss, I mean, I’m happy to be the way I am, I wouldn’t want to be an ordinary person, the same as everyone else, I’m glad to be the way I am. There’s just that one thing. I feel I’m too big to be able to see the world, like a grown-up. Only that. Really, it’s the only thing that makes me mad.
“I think maybe we’ve had enough, Gould.”
“Yes?”
“In other words, we can stop here.”
“Good.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to say anything?”
“Like what?”
“Is there something you want to say, before we stop? Anything.”
“Yes. Perhaps there is. One thing.”
“Good, Gould. Then say it.”
“Do you know who Prof. Taltomar is?”
“Is he one of your professors?”
“More or less. He’s not at school.”
“No?”
“He’s always sitting on the edge of a soccer field, just behind the goal. We sit there together, the two of us. And we watch, you see?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I wanted to say that every so often someone takes a shot and the ball goes out of play, past the goal. Sometimes it rolls right by us and stops a little farther on. Then the goalie, usually it’s the goalie, takes a few steps off the field, sees us, and calls Ball, please, the ball, thanks. And Prof. Taltomar never moves, he goes on staring at the field, as if nothing had happened. This has happened dozens of times, and we have never gone to get the ball, you see?”
“Yes.”
“So the professor and I, it’s not that we talk much, we watch, that’s all, but one day I decided to ask him. I asked him: Why don’t we ever go and get the damn ball? He spat some tobacco on the ground and then he said: Either you watch or you play. He didn’t say anything else. Either you watch or you play.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“And then?”
“And then that’s all.”
“Is that what you wanted to say, Gould?”
“Yes, that was it.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“All right.”
“. . .”
“All right, then, we’ll stop here.”
“Is that all right?”
“Yes, that’s all right.”
“Good.”
What are we to make of this stuff? said Vack Montorsi when he saw the tape. Vack Montorsi was the producer of the Friday night special. It wouldn’t even keep a cokehead awake, he pointed out while, hand on the remote, he fast-forwarded, looking for something that wasn’t depressing. They had tried to interview Gould’s father, but he had said that as far as he could tell television journalists were a bunch of perverts and he wanted nothing to do with them. So they were left with just a few shots of Gould’s school and a series of distinctly boring statements released by his professors. They said things like “talent must be protected” or “the intelligence of that boy is a phenomenon that leads one to reflect on the.” Vack Montorsi fast-forwarded and shook his head.
“There’s a point where one of them is crying,” said the interviewer, playing her last decent card.
“Where is it?”
“Farther on.”
Vack Montorsi fast-forwarded. A professor appeared, in slippers.
“It’s him.”
It was Mondrian Kilroy.
“But he’s not crying.”
“He cries later.”
Vack Montorsi hit “play.”
“. . . in large part that is only nonsense. People believe that the difficulties of a prodigy originate in the pressure placed on him by those around him, in the terrible expectations they have of him. That’s nonsense. The real problem is within, and others have nothing to do with it. The real problem is talent. Talent is like a cell gone mad, it grows uncontrollably and under no compulsion. It’s as if someone had built a bowling alley in your house. It ruins you completely, yet it’s also beautiful, and maybe in time you learn to bowl, brilliantly, and you become the greatest bowler in the world, but your house, how in the world can you put it right, how can you save it, how do you manage to hold on to something so that eventually, at the right moment, you can say This is my house, get out, you pigs, it’s my house. You can’t do it. Talent is destructive, it’s objectively destructive, and what happens around it doesn’t count. It works from the inside, and destroys. You have to be very strong, to save something. And that is a boy. Can you imagine a bowling alley in the middle of a boy’s house? Just the noise it makes, every blessed day, a constant uproar, and the certainty that silence, true silence—you can forget about it. Houses without silence. What sort of houses are they? Who can restore that boy’s house to him? You, with your video camera? I with my lessons? I?”
And here, in fact, Prof. Mondrian Kilroy blew his nose, took off his eyeglasses, and wiped his eyes with a large wrinkled blue handkerchief. It was, if you will, something like crying.
“That’s it?” asked Vack Montorsi.
“More or less.”
Vack Montorsi turned off the video recorder.
“What else do we have?”
“The twins and the story of the fake Mona Lisa.”
“The Mona Lisa is revolting.”
Friday night a special on a pair of English twins was aired. For three years they had taken turns going to school and no one had realized it. Not even their fiancée. Who now had a bit of a problem.
16
Gould was sitting on the floor, on the two-inch-thick wall-to-wall carpet. He was watching television. It was after ten when Shatzy got home. She liked to go shopping at night, she claimed that the groceries were tired and so made no resistance to being bought. She opened the door and Gould said hi, without taking his eyes off the television. Shatzy looked at him.
“Don’t expect much, but it would be an improvement if you at least turned it on.”
Gould said that it didn’t work. He pushed all the buttons on the remote but nothing happened. Shatzy put the groceries down on the kitchen table. She glanced at the turned-off TV set. It was of fake wood, unless it was real wood.
“Where did you get it?”
“What?”
“Where did you get the TV set?”
Gould said that Poomerang had stolen it from a Japanese guy who sold Japanese dishes made of wax. He said they were dishes in the sense of things to eat, like chicken and celery, raw fish, things like that, and it was incredible how perfect they were, impossible to believe they were fake. Someone had even managed to make soups. He said it couldn’t be easy to make a soup out of wax, you had to know how to do it, it wasn’t something you could improvise, just like that, on the spot.
“Wh
at do you mean, stole?”
“He took it away from him.”
“Did he go crazy?”
“The Japanese guy owed him money.”
He said that Poomerang washed the display window every morning and the Japanese man always had an excuse for not paying him, so Poomerang had not told him that he was fed up with waiting, and had seized the fake-wood TV set and carried it off. He said that maybe it was even real wood, but if you’re in a place that has stuff to eat made of wax that’s exactly the same as the real thing, you kind of expect that everything in there is fake, you can’t make exact distinctions anymore. Then Shatzy said it must indeed be like that, and added that it happened to her when she read the newspaper. Gould pushed a red button on the remote, but nothing happened.
“Do you know anyone who’s crazy, Shatzy?”
“Crazy crazy?”
“Someone the doctors say is crazy.”
“A real crazy person.”
“Yes.”
Shatzy said she thought she had seen one or two, yes. They hadn’t made a good impression at first. They smoke all the time, and they have no sense of shame. They’re likely to come up to you and meanwhile they’re holding their weenie in their hand, she said. They don’t do it out of malice, it’s that they lack any sense of shame. Which is really fortunate, she added. After a bit you get used to it and then it can be a very pleasant thing, even though pleasant isn’t the right word. Affecting. She said it could be an affecting thing.
“Do you know what happens in the head of a person who goes crazy?” Gould asked.
Shatzy said it depended on what sort of crazy it was. Ordinary crazy, said Gould. I don’t know, said Shatzy. I think that something breaks inside, so there are pieces that don’t respond to orders any more. The orders are given but they get lost on the way, they never get there, or they get there very late and then they can’t go back, the same orders keep on going, obsessively, and there’s no way to stop them. So everything goes to pieces, it’s a kind of organized anarchy: you open the tap and the light goes on, the telephone rings when you turn on the radio, the blender starts up whenever it wants, you open the bathroom door and find yourself in the kitchen, you look for the door to the outside and you can’t find it anymore. Likely it isn’t there anymore. Disappeared. You’re shut in there forever. Shatzy went over to the television. She wanted to touch the fake wood. She said if you can’t go out anymore, out of a house like that, you have to find a way of living in it. And they do it. From the outside you can’t understand it, but for them it’s all very logical. She said that a crazy person is someone who sticks his head in the oven to wash his hair.
“It seems like a lot of fun,” Gould said.
“No. I don’t think it is a lot of fun.”
Then she said that according to her it was real wood.
Gould was sitting on the floor, on the two-inch-thick carpet. He was still watching television. Shatzy said that at her house there had been a green plastic table, but if you went up close to it and looked hard you discovered it was wood, which is stupid, if you think about it, but at the time there was a real mania for plastic, everything had to be plastic. Then Gould said that his mother had gone crazy. It had happened one day. Now she’s in a psychiatric hospital, he said. Shatzy said nothing, but she leaned over the television set where there was a dent, a kind of dent, and with her nail she chipped off a piece of something hard and dark. Then she said that TV set must have been dropped, it was no wonder it didn’t work. A dropped television set is a dead television set, she said.
“They came to get her one day and I haven’t seen her since. My father doesn’t want me to see her like that. He says I mustn’t see her like that.”
“Gould . . .”
“Yes?”
“Your mother left four years ago to live with a professor who studies fish.”
Gould tried pushing some buttons on the remote again, but nothing happened. Shatzy went to the kitchen and came back with an open can of grapefruit juice. She balanced it on the edge of the couch. It was a blue couch, and was more or less in front of the television set. Gould began scratching one leg with the remote, just above the calf. If there is one thing that can drive you mad it’s when the elastic on your socks is too tight. He kept scratching himself with the corner of the remote. Shatzy picked up the can again, looked around, then put it down on the table, next to a vase of petunias. She looked like someone who had come to decorate the apartment. You could hear the noise of the refrigerator in the kitchen producing cold, trembling like an old drunk. Then Gould said that they had taken her away early in the morning, so he had heard some uproar but had gone on sleeping, and when he woke up his father was there walking back and forth, dressed in civilian clothes, with his tie a bit loose on the open collar of his shirt. He said that once he had gone to look for the hospital, but he hadn’t been able to find it because no one knew anything about it, and he hadn’t met anyone willing to help him. He said that at first he had thought of writing to her every day, but his father claimed that she had to stay very quiet and avoid emotions, so he had asked if reading a letter could be an emotion, and after thinking about it a little had concluded that it was. So he hadn’t written any more. He said he had investigated and had been told that sometimes people who go to those hospitals come back later, but he had never dared to ask his father if she would come back. His father did not like to talk about it, and in fact now that some years had passed he didn’t talk about it anymore at all, only sometimes he said that Gould’s mother was well, but he didn’t say anything else. Gould said it was strange but if he had to remember his mother he always remembered her laughing, snapshots of a sort came to mind and in them she was always laughing, and this was in spite of the fact that as far as he could remember he wouldn’t say that she laughed often, but this was what happened to him, if he thought of her he thought of her laughing. He said also that all her clothes were still hanging in the bedroom closet, and that she knew how to imitate the voices of singers, she sang with the voice of Marilyn Monroe, and looked just like her.
“Marilyn Monroe?”
“Yes.”
“Marilyn Monroe.”
“Yes.”
“Marilyn Monroe.”
Shatzy began repeating softly Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Monroe, without stopping, and at a certain point she picked up the can again, and poured the juice into the vase of petunias, Marilyn Monroe, Marilyn Monroe, down to the last drop, then set it on the table again, and said Marilyn Monroe over and over again as she went into the kitchen, came back, looked for the keys, locked the house door, and then headed towards the stairs. She took off her shoes. And a barrette that was holding her hair back. She put the barrette in her pocket. She left the shoes there.
“I’m going to bed, Gould.”
“. . .”
“Excuse me.”
“. . .”
“Excuse me, but I have to go to bed.”
Gould sat there, looking at the television.
He thought he ought to tell Poomerang to take it back.
The Japanese man had a nice radio, an old model, he could take that. It had the names of the cities on the glass front, and if you turned the dial you could move a little orange pointer and travel all over the world.
He thought that with a television, there were some things you couldn’t do.
Then he stopped thinking.
He got up, turned out the lights, climbed the stairs, went into the bathroom, moved in the darkness to the toilet, raised the lid, and sat down on the seat, without even pulling his pants down.
“I just slipped.”
“My ass.”
“I’m telling you, I slipped.”
“Shut up, Larry. Breathe deeply.”
“What the fuck is this stuff?”
“Don’t make a fuss, just breathe deeply.”
“I DON’T NEED THIS STUFF, fuck, I just slipped.”
“All right, you slipped. Now listen to me. Whe
n you get up look carefully at what’s in front of you. If you see two or three black guys wearing gloves, then wait, hold them off with a jab, but don’t hit hard, or you’ll get the wrong one. You have to wait, understand? just keep them off you, and when you can, go into a clinch, stay there and breathe. Don’t hit hard until you see only one of them, get it?”
“I can see perfectly.”
“Look at me.”
“I can see perfectly.”
“Until you feel well forget your fists and use your head.”
“I’m supposed to take him down with a header?”
“It’s no time to joke, Larry. The guy took you down.”
“Fuck, do I have to prove it to you, I slipped, you’re the one who can’t see, you know something? you’d better watch out, you can’t see any more . . .”
“CUT IT OUT, GOD DAMN IT . . .”
“You’re the one who . . .”
“CUT IT OUT.”
“. . .”
“You’re making me curse, you dirty . . .”
GONG
“I don’t want to lose this, Larry.”
“You’re going to win, Maestro.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck.”
Tensions are high here at St. Anthony Field, with Larry Gorman, favored to finish up in the third round, hit hard by a really quick hook from Randolph, now it’s a question of seeing if he’s recovered, it’s a new situation for him, the first time in his career he’s been to the mat, the quick hook from Randolph took him by surprise, START OF THE FOURTH ROUND, Randolph comes out like a fury, RANDOLPH, RANDOLPH, GORMAN IMMEDIATELY AT THE ROPES, it’s not starting off well for the student of Mondini, Randolph seems to have gone wild, UPPERCUT, UPPERCUT AGAIN, Gorman tightens his defense, breaks away on the left, breathes, RANDOLPH COMES FROM BELOW, it’s not a very tidy action but it seems effective, Gorman is forced to back up again, his legs are still moving well, RANDOLPH LANDS A JAB, ANOTHER JAB AND RIGHT HOOK, GORMAN STAGGERS, STRAIGHT FROM RANDOLPH MISSES, GORMAN’S BODY SWAYS, RANDOLPH GOES AFTER HIM, GORMAN AGAIN ON THE ROPES, THE CROWD IS ON ITS FEET . . .
Gould got up from the toilet. He flushed, then realized that he hadn’t even peed, and this seemed to him stupid. He went to the sink and turned on the light. Toothpaste. Teeth. The toothpaste was bubble gum–flavored. It had some kind of stars in it—like something made of rubber with stars inside. It was made that way because children liked it, and would brush their teeth without making a fuss. On the tube it said: for children. Afterwards it was as if you had chewed gum for an entire physics lecture. But you had clean teeth, and you didn’t have to stick anything under the desk. He swished cold water in his mouth and spat it all straight into the drain in the sink. As he dried himself he looked in the mirror. Then he turned and went back to the toilet. He unzipped his zipper.
City Page 11
