Tornado Pratt

by Paul Ableman

  The rest of that day I was grouchy because I had a great sadness. It seemed to me that you hated me or, at best, ridiculed me and, although maybe I’d not acknowledged it to myself, by then I’d come to love you, boy.

  The next couple of days I kept waiting for the explosion when you discovered your book had been tampered with. But nothing happened and finally the suspense got too much to bear. We were in the kitchen, me fixing coffee and you making sandwiches to take walking. I asked:

  “Been working on your book lately?”

  “No, as a matter—”

  Then your head jerked towards me and you stopped buttering bread. Your lovely face took on a puzzled expression but you just asked mildly:

  “How did you know about my book?”

  “You haven’t touched it for the last couple of days?”

  “No, I don’t think so. No, I haven’t.”

  Then the frown of reproach began to form. You protested:

  “Look here, you haven’t—”

  “I’ve seen it. I had to go to your desk, for my ignition keys. Had to bust it open.”

  You gave a little jump which made you look like a kid or a girl.

  “You did what?”

  “Had to bust open your desk. I needed the car keys.”

  “They’re not—I’ve never—look here, you didn’t read—”

  “I read some of it.”

  You maybe went a little pale. You turned back to your sandwich and picked up the knife but never used it. You said bitterly:

  “I see.”

  “Son, that book of yours made me so mad, I tore out a couple of pages and—burned them. So that’s what you can expect to find.”

  “You had no right—”

  I cut you off with a great roar:

  “I had every goddamm right. It’s my desk and my house and my key and my car!”

  Then I raged at you, son, about your meanness and treachery. I hand it to you. You bore it with great dignity. You faced me and, when I finally ran down, you just turned on your heel and marched out into the garden. That seemed like cool contempt, boy, and I stormed out after you and began cursing again. I told you to pack your lousy bags and get the hell out of my house. I warned you that if you ever published your sheaf of crap I’d sue the balls off you, if you had any. Even while I was erupting, Horace, I was drinking in your fair, frail face which was the echo of my love’s. You just gazed ahead of you, away from me this time, and when I again dried up, you turned to me and said quietly:

  “I’ll certainly go if you want me to. But I’d hate you to think that—that I don’t like you.”

  That seemed such damned hypocrisy, after what you’d written, that I felt an impulse to slug you. But I also wanted to believe it was true. I saw the labrador barking up a tree down by the parrot garden. I shook my head and tried to make with a bitter, ironic laugh. But I was surprised as you were, Horace, when what I heard was a kind of gulp and then a string of sobs. You exclaimed:

  “Oh, God, I’ve hurt you. Look, I—Tornado—just—just wait here for one minute.”

  I sank down on to a log bench and a couple of minutes later you flew back with the cruel manuscript. You asked urgently:

  “Tell me, how much did you read?”

  By that time, I’d pulled myself together somewhat and was calm.

  “The first couple of chapters.”

  “Well, read this page—please! It’s important.”

  I reluctantly accepted the page and read it. Nothing registered because I was too distressed and so I read it again. I found it was a description of a selfish old lady. I asked:

  “Okay, I’ve read it—so?”

  “Well—that passage is based on my mother. And I love her very much. You’ve got to believe that.”

  I nearly smiled, Horace, at the American expression fluting from your lips in that upper-class British accent. But I just said:

  “Okay, I believe it.”

  “And—this—read this page. Please.”

  So I read it and asked:

  “Well?”

  “Do you know who that is?”

  “I do not. An English kid with a repulsive character.”

  “You’re so right. It’s me. Tornado, that character is based on myself. Don’t you see? The book is a satire. I’ve been cruel to everyone, including myself.”

  “Horace, why’d you come to my door?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What brought you here—to Catch Creek—in the first place?”

  “I told you. I’ve told you lots of times. I was fascinated. I—”

  “Sure, sure—and there was nothing else? I’m asking, did you come here looking for material for a book?”

  “Oh, good God, no. Listen, I’ve always been a writer—or tried to be. This is my third book. Perhaps it’s not very good. The first two were awful. But I do try. You see, it’s the only thing I want to do.”

  Well, I can be objective about that book at this distance, Horace. That chapter where Big Mac supports the local branch of the womens’ liberation movement because he wants to screw the secretary—that’s hilarious. Even though it made me feel hollow and diminished, I couldn’t help laughing even when I originally read it and by now I realize what a choice gem of wit that chapter is, Horace. But what you forget is: you always get a different perspective from inside the skin than from outside it. That’s how I originally felt about your book, Horace, that by pretending that a few superficial resemblances and a few grotesque exaggerations could be congruent with all the days of Tornado Pratt you were cheapening life for everyone. But I accept, Horace, son, that to some extent that’s only egotistic bullshit and that your book hit a lot of bullseyes and pinned down part of old Tornado Pratt. That is, it would have done if they’d published it and I still think the New York and London publishers must be blind not to have perceived its fine literary quality and clamoured for that book.

  So it was about that time, Horace—

  WHAT TIME?

  How do you mean, what time?

  WHAT TIME DO YOU MEAN?

  I mean that time when you—when I—when it—the book—you wrote that book—

  WHAT BOOK?

  That book about—that man—

  WHAT MAN?

  Wasn’t there a man? In the dark—in the light—in the fight—in the night—the man we were talking about, Horace—the man who lived. You have to admit that, son. He really lived.

  YES, HE REALLY LIVED

  Why that’s so. He seized every opportunity for living. He only rejected very few things such as ice cream. A thing that is not generally known about that man, which is a thing that has never been prominently discussed in extensive interviews with that man on the radio is his dislike of ice cream. How it happened, it happened that he slipped out to the john one afternoon after school in the drugstore when that man was only about twelve or thirteen and some crazy kids rigged his ice cream sundae with a dead mouse. So that man came back from the john and ate just about two spoonfuls of whipped cream before he hit the mouse which caused him to puke on the floor of the drugstore. That man could never thereafter stomach ice cream. So much later, one day, his wife Nathalie asked him why he rejected the ice cream she’d bought for desert in Chicago and he explained the reason and she was so moved she just cried and laughed, holding his head passionately because he’d got to be a big man by that time and you don’t expect big wheels in business to have that kind of hang-up but he had it and Nathalie clasped his head and kissed his eyes.

  You can use that incident in your book, Horace. But don’t take it wrong, son, if I suggest that this time you don’t write so much satire about Pratt because he wasn’t just a loud buffoon and if you don’t set the record straight, all his struggle and anguish is just a few gags for three million readers if you achieve a best seller. So I would suggest you look deeper into his complex nature, Horace, and perceive the streams of love and courage that coursed through him.

  IN HIS LAST PHASE


  Tornado Pratt lived peacefully on his estate in Florida. As companions in those reflective years he chose a young Englishman called Horace Thorpe, who later became his biographer and left us the magnificent biography which is one of the most magnificent studies ever made of an old-style American capitaloon. There was also a young woman called

  HELEN

  I saw her fluttering ahead of me on the savannah. There were three of them on bicycles but she was the only one fluttering because the other two had little haunch-hugging shorts on and Helen was wearing a billowing skirt. That was characteristic because she’s a very feminine girl, you have to admit, Horace, and I have an idea you established that yourself the night we had the big lobster roast and you and Helen wandered off along the beach together. That did not offend me. I kind of liked the idea of you sharing my woman, Horace. It was another link between us but I’d have resisted any attempt by you two to sneak off together.

  So there were three maidens pedalling calmly across the vast savannah. Nothing else in sight. I eased up behind them and Helen dropped back and waved me on. But then, on some mischievous impulse, I didn’t swing round them but slowed down and crawled along on their tail. Helen glanced round and I grinned at her. I was in the open Mercedes. She frowned and her lips moved but the words were claimed by the wind. She tried to wave me on again, wobbled and quickly looked back at the road. Then I stalked them for a couple of miles until their patience snapped. One of the lead girls, in pants, dropped back and stopped. The other two pedalled on a few yards and then stopped too and looked back to watch the exchange. Naturally, I had to pull up too and the brunette laid down her bike and stormed back to me. She was mad.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Admiring.”

  “Well, it’s dangerous. Would you please stop?”

  “Be happy to—on condition that you three girls have lunch with me.”

  She was a snapping, no-fun girl, Horace, and I was regretting my quixotic exploit. She looked uncertain.

  “How do you mean?”

  “About three miles ahead there’s an eating-house. If I drive on ahead, will you join me there?”

  “I’ll have to ask my friends.”

  She gave the automobile a once over and seemed to like what she saw. Then she went and conferred with the other girls. The upshot was they agreed and kept their word.

  That was a pretty uncomfortable meal, Horace. Those three girls accepted the food and drink but they maintained a studied politeness. Their manner was saying: if you want to spend your money on us we’ll be courteous and give you our company but don’t think there’s anything else in it for you because you’re an old man. At least, that’s what the two in pants were beaming. Helen? I couldn’t be sure about her. She was soft and distant but sometimes flashed a little spontaneous smile. Her white leg flexing on the savannah was what had winched me into their wake in the first place and she was the only one I cared about. I tried Tornado charm and anecdotes and exploits but it had no purchase on those suburbans. So I shrugged inwardly and thought: what the hell? Why do I want to mess with them anyway?

  After lunch, I saw them back to their wheels and then, just as they were setting off, surprised myself by calling:

  “Helen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Could I have a word with you?”

  She nodded unconcernedly, left the other two, who exchanged a dark glance, and came over to me. That put us about ten yards from the suspicious pair and offered sotto voce privacy.

  “How about working for me?”

  “Doing what?”

  “You’re a secretary, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I need a secretary—or I will soon. I’m starting a big project—special kind of housing development. I’ll need a good secretary.”

  “I live in Tallahassee.”

  “You’d have to move down here. I can fix it. Come to that, you’d have to live at my place. We’d have to work pretty close.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I said, work pretty close. The house is full of people: my mother and a young English guy who’s kind of—my—assistant. Why don’t you come down next Saturday and see the place?”

  “No—”

  “Just take this card. If you decide it’s a good deal—and it could be—give me a buzz during the week.”

  She looked long at the card and then slowly up at me.

  “Do you really need a secretary?”

  “Scout’s honour.”

  She sighed and shook her head with a little smile, as if to say: crazy. I sensed that further pressure would be counter-productive. I murmured:

  “Think about it.”

  Then I turned and strolled back to the Mercedes. I got in and drove away but I couldn’t help grinning at the spectacle, in the rear-view mirror, of the other two girls clustered round Helen, inspecting my card.

  PRATT’S LAST LUST

  Maybe a couple of months later, I called Helen into my office and dictated some letters. I’d fixed up an office for me and one for her in the attic. She also had a neat bedroom up there. When I’d finished dictating the letters, she went off to type them and I stood by the window, looking out and feeling pleased with myself. The Paradise campaign was in full swing. Pratt’s magic was still potent. And Helen had turned out to be damn near the perfect secretary. So it had been pretty smart of me—

  Shit! What the hell—goon! What a goon I was. Grinning and congratulating myself and she’d played me for a sucker. She’d—no, that was unfair. She’d won—that’s all. Fair and square. But how come I hadn’t even noticed the points piling up against me?

  The first time I’d made a pass was when Hank Olaffson of Olaffson Associates phoned to say his outfit would put up half a million. I was out fishing when he called and, when I got back, Helen maintained a pregnant silence for a while and then murmured casually, while I was cutting a cigar:

  “Olaffson will put up half a million.”

  “Yeah? Well—what?”

  She sat demurely. I exclaimed:

  “That’s terrific! And you—you’re terrific!”

  It was genuine gratitude and admiration that sent me bounding towards her but, by the time I’d tugged her up out of her chair and the mingled musk and perfume of youthful femininity was in my nostrils, maybe lust had also claimed a share in the motivation. I hugged her and then kissed her cheek. I let the kiss slide towards her lips but straightway she cut off. She averted her head and pushed me away. I acted hurt, as if she’d rejected simple spontaneous feeling, but she just said:

  “No. The bargain’s still the same.”

  So then I embarked on an intensive campaign. I’d take her out to dinner, fill her with mellow wine, take her dancing in Tampa maybe and then I’d feel sure, as she snuggled against me on the dance floor, that the gravitational pull of loins was gentling her, but every time, when I later tried to follow her into her room, stretch her out on grass or beach, even just press my lips to hers, why she’d switch off like a motor. I raged and sulked but it had no effect and gradually the intensity of my campaign waned and—I was thinking of her as a good secretary. She’d won. She’d made our relationship purely professional.

  Realizing that, all my erotic longing for her returned, Horace. In fact, it increased. She was the promised land and I was Moses. At the thought of being denied her, of being barred forever from her groves and vales, my eyes liquified.

  So I undressed, Horace, and studied myself in the long mirror in my bedroom. I saw a mighty chest still but it was no longer graded in superb proportion to hips and neck and limbs. My belly had swollen some and my shoulders narrowed. You could still see the sinews in my arms but I had to admit they were a trifle skinny and had pale patches on the underside. Above a wrinkled neck a wiry grey thatch crowned a seamed, leather-brown face. And as I studied my poor old body, Horace, tears spouted from my eyes. It wasn’t self-pity, Horace. I was weeping for the briefness of everything h
uman. And I felt then like a mayfly that hums once above the stream and falls—a flurry of vain motion in infinity.

  I kept brooding about decay and a couple of days later, Helen, finding me morose, asked what was bugging me. I replied:

  “I’m sad because you won’t lay me.”

  She admitted later that I’d said it in such a mournful, innocent way that she practically yielded on the spot. But she resisted her burgeoning compassion and proclaimed:

  “I’ve got a boy-friend. And you’re thirty-five years older than me.”

  I came back bitterly:

  “It seems a hell of a lot to you, doesn’t it? Thirty-five years? It’s nothing. I’m no different inside. I look at myself in the mirror and I think: how’d my hair get so grey? Why are my legs and arms so skinny. It’s terrible being old, Helen, when you don’t feel old because you can’t figure why anyone should behave differently to you. Thirty years ago, if I’d tried to hug you you’d have jumped to meet me and we’d have sung the the song of the body which is the finest song on earth. And now I feel just the same and I still have male vigour but because I’ve been around a few blinks longer than you, you repulse me. I bet our bodies would know better. If you didn’t have culture hang-ups your body would enfold my manhood tenderly. But—okay, I’m an old man. So have a swell time with your boy-friend, Helen, and—I won’t bother you again.”