Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction

by Kurt Vonnegut

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  “He’s got bundles of money coming in all the time—and insists on being paid in cashier’s checks,” said Hal. “You take care of them while I try to keep him out of prison. I’ve told him all about you, and he says for you to come out to his house right away.”

  “What bank does he use?” I said.

  “He doesn’t use a bank, except to cash the checks, which he keeps in a wicker basket under his drafting table,” said Hal. “Get that basket!”

  Otto’s home and place of business is thirty miles from town, in a wilderness by a waterfall. It looks, roughly, like a matchbox resting on a spool. The upper story, the matchbox, has glass walls all the way around, and the lower story, the spool, is a windowless brick cylinder.

  There were four other cars in the guest parking area when I arrived. A small cocktail party was in progress. As I was skirting the house, wondering how to get into it, I heard somebody tapping on the inside of a glass wall above. I looked up to see the most startling and, in a bizarre way, one of the most beautiful women of my experience.

  She was tall and slender, with a subtly muscled figure sheathed in a zebra-striped leotard. Her hair was bleached silver and touched with blue, and in the white and perfect oval of her face were eyes of glittering green, set off by painted eyebrows, jet black and arched. She wore one earring, a barbaric gold hoop. She was making spiral motions with her hand, and I understood at last that I was to climb the spiral ramp that wound around the brick cylinder.

  The ramp brought me up to a catwalk outside the glass walls. A towering, vigorous man in his early thirties slid back a glass panel and invited me in. He wore lavender nylon coveralls and sandals. He was nervous, and there was tiredness in his deep-set eyes.

  “Mr. Krummbein?” I said.

  “Who else would I be?” said Otto. “And you must be the wizard of high finance. We can go into my studio, where we’ll have more privacy, and then”—pointing to the woman—”you can join us in a drink.”

  His studio was inside the brick cylinder, and he led me through a door and down another spiral ramp into it. There were no windows. All light was artificial.

  “Guess this is the most modern house I’ve ever been in,” I said.

  “Modern?” said Otto. “It’s twenty years behind the times, but it’s the best my imagination can do. Everything else is at least a hundred years behind the times, and that is why we have all the unrest, this running to psychiatrists, broken homes, wars. We haven’t learned to design our living for our own times. Our lives clash with our times. Look at your clothes! Shades of 1910. You’re not dressed for 1954.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but I’m dressed for helping people handle money.”

  “You are being suffocated by tradition,” said Otto. “Why don’t you say, ‘I am going to build a life for myself, for my time, and make it a work of art’? Your life isn’t a work of art—it’s a thirdhand Victorian whatnot shelf, complete with someone else’s collection of seashells and hand-carved elephants.”

  “Yup,” I said, sitting down on a twenty-foot couch. “That’s my life, all right.”

  “Design your life like that Finnish carafe over there,” said Otto, “clean, harmonious, alive with the cool, tart soul of truth in our time. Like Falloleen.”

  “I’ll try,” I said. “Mostly it’s a question of getting my head above water first. What is Falloleen, a new miracle fiber?”

  “My wife,” said Otto. “She’s hard to miss.”

  “In the leotard,” I said.

  “Did you ever see a woman who fitted so well into surroundings like this—who seems herself to be designed for contemporary living?” said Otto. “A rare thing, believe me. I’ve had many famous beauties out here, but Falloleen is the only one who doesn’t look like a piece of 1920-vintage overstuffed furniture.”

  “How long have you been married?” I said.

  “The party upstairs is in celebration of one month of blissful marriage,” said Otto, “of a honeymoon that will never end.”

  “How nice,” I said. ‘And now, about your financial picture—”

  “Just promise me one thing,” he said, “don’t be depressing. I can’t work if I’m depressed. The slightest thing can throw me off—that tie of yours, for instance. It jars me. I can’t think straight when I look at it. Would you mind taking it off? Lemon yellow is your color, not that gruesome maroon.”

  Half an hour later, tieless, I felt like a man prowling through a city dump surrounded by smoldering tire casings, rusting bed-springs, and heaps of tin cans, for that was the financial picture of Otto Krummbein. He kept no books, bought whatever caught his fancy, without considering the cost, owed ruinous bills all over town for clothes for Falloleen, and didn’t have a cent in a savings account, insurance, or a portfolio.

  “Look,” said Otto, “I’m scared. I don’t want to go to prison, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I’ve learned my lesson. I promise to do anything you say. Anything! Just don’t depress me.”

  “If you can be cheerful about this mess,” I said, “the Lord knows I can. The thing to do, I think, is to save you from yourself by letting me manage your income, putting you on an allowance.”

  “Excellent,” said Otto. “I admire a bold approach to problems. And that will leave me free to work out an idea I got on my honeymoon, an idea that is going to make millions. I’ll wipe out all this indebtedness in one fell swoop!”

  “Just remember,” I said, “you’re going to have to pay taxes on that, too. You’re the first man I ever heard of who got a profitable idea on his honeymoon. Is it a secret?”

  “Moonlight-engineered cosmetics,” said Otto, “designed expressly, according to the laws of light and color, to make a woman look her best in the moonlight. Millions, zillions!”

  “That’s swell,” I said, “but in the meantime, I’d like to go over your bills to see exactly how deep in you are, and also to figure out what allowance you could get by on at a bare minimum.”

  “You could go out to supper with us tonight,” said Otto, “and then come back and work undisturbed here in the studio. I’m sorry we have to go out, but it’s the cook’s day off.”

  “That would suit me fine,” I said. “That way I’ll have you around to answer questions. There ought to be plenty of those. For instance, how much is in the basket?”

  Otto paled. “Oh, you know about the basket?” he said. “I’m afraid we can’t use that. That’s special.”

  “In what way?” I said.

  “I need it—not for me, for Falloleen,” said Otto. “Can’t I keep that much, and send you all the royalty checks that come in from now on? It isn’t right to make Falloleen suffer because of my mistakes. Don’t force me to do that, don’t strip me of my self-respect as a husband.”

  I was fed up, and I stood irritably. “I won’t strip you of anything, Mr. Krummbein,” I said. “I’ve decided I don’t want the job. I’m not a business manager, anyway. I offered to help as a favor to Hal Murphy, but I didn’t know how bad working conditions were. You say I’m trying to strip you, when the truth is that your bones were bleached white on the desert of your own prodigality before I arrived. Is there a secret exit out of this silo,” I said, “or do I go out the way I came in?”

  “No, no, no,” said Otto apologetically. “Please, sit down. You’ve got to help me. It’s just that it’s a shock for me to get used to how bad things really are. I thought you’d tell me to give up cigarettes or something like that.” He shrugged. “Take the basket and give me my allowance.” He covered his eyes. “Entertaining Falloleen on an allowance is like running a Mercedes on Pepsi-Cola.”

  In the basket was five thousand-odd dollars in royalty checks from manufacturers and about two hundred dollars in cash. As I was making out a receipt for Otto, the studio door opened above us, and Falloleen, forever identified in my mind with a Finnish carafe, came down the ramp gracefully, carrying a tray on which were three martinis.

&
nbsp; “I thought your throats might be getting parched,” said Falloleen.

  “A voice like crystal chimes,” said Otto.

  “Must I go, or can I stay?” said Falloleen. “It’s such a dull party without you, Otto, and I get self-conscious and run out of things to say.”

  “Beauty needs no tongue,” said Otto.

  I dusted my hands. “I think we’ve got things settled for the time being. I’ll get down to work in earnest this evening.”

  “I’m awfully dumb about finances,” said Falloleen. “I just leave all that to Otto—he’s so brilliant. Isn’t he!”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “I was thinking what fun it would be to take our whole party to Chez Armando for dinner,” said Falloleen.

  Otto looked askance at me.

  “We were just talking about love and money,” I said to Falloleen, “and I was saying that if a woman loves a man, how much or how little money the man spends on her makes no difference to her. Do you agree?”

  Otto leaned forward to hear her answer.

  “Where were you brought up?” said Falloleen to me. “On a chicken farm in Saskatchewan?”

  Otto groaned.

  Falloleen looked at him in alarm. “There’s more going on here than I know about,” she said. “I was joking. Was that so awful, what I said? It seemed like such a silly question about love and money.” Comprehension bloomed on her face. “Otto,” she said, “are you broke?”

  “Yes,” said Otto.

  Falloleen squared her lovely shoulders. “Then tell the others to go to Chez Armando without us, that you and I want to spend a quiet evening at home for a change.”

  “You belong where there are people and excitement,” said Otto.

  “I get tired of it,” said Falloleen. “You’ve taken me out every night since God knows when. People must wonder if maybe we’re afraid to be alone with each other.”

  Otto went up the ramp to send the guests on their way, leaving Falloleen and me alone on the long couch. Fuddled by her perfume and beauty, I said, “Were you in show business, Mrs. Krummbein?”

  “Sometimes I feel like I am,” said Falloleen. She looked down at her blue fingernails. “I certainly put on a show wherever I go, don’t I?”

  “A marvelous show,” I said.

  She sighed. “I guess it should be a good show,” she said. “I’ve been designed by the greatest designer in the world, the father of the Krummbein Di-Modular Bed.”

  “Your husband designed you?”

  “Didn’t you know?” said Falloleen. “I’m a silk purse made out of a sow’s ear. He’ll design you, too, if he gets the chance. I see he’s already made you take off your tie. I’ll bet he’s told you what your color is, too.”

  “Lemon yellow,” I said.

  “Each time he sees you,” said Falloleen, “he’ll make some suggestion about how to improve your appearance.” She ran her hands dispassionately over her spectacular self. “Step by step, one goes a long way.”

  “You were never any sow’s ear,” I said.

  “One year ago,” she said, “I was a plain, brown-haired, dowdy thing, fresh out of secretarial school, starting to work as secretary to the Great Krummbein.”

  “Love at first sight?” I said.

  “For me,” murmured Falloleen. “For Otto it was a design problem at first sight. There were things about me that jarred him, that made it impossible for him to think straight when I was around. We changed those things one by one, and what became of Kitty Cahoun, nobody knows.”

  “Kitty Cahoun?” I said.

  “The plain, brown-haired, dowdy thing, fresh out of secretarial school,” said Falloleen.

  “Then Falloleen isn’t your real name?” I said.

  “It’s a Krummbein original,” said Falloleen. “Kitty Cahoun didn’t go with the decor.” She hung her head. “Love—” she said, “don’t ask me any more silly questions about love.”

  “They’re off to Chez Armando,” said Otto, returning to the studio. He handed me a yellow silk handkerchief. “That’s for you,” he said. “Put it in your breast pocket. That dark suit needs it like a forest needs daffodils.”

  I obeyed, and saw in a mirror that the handkerchief really did give me a little dash, without being offensive. “Thanks very much,” I said. “Your wife and I’ve been having a pleasant time talking about the mysterious disappearance of Kitty Cahoun.”

  “What ever did become of her?” said Otto earnestly. A look of abject stupidity crossed his face as he realized what he’d said. He tried to laugh it off. “An amazing and amusing demonstration of how the human mind works, wasn’t it?” he said. “I’m so used to thinking of you as Falloleen, darling.” He changed the subject. “Well, now the maestro is going to cook supper.” He laid his hand on my shoulder. “I absolutely insist that you stay. Chicken à la Krummbein, asparagus tips à la Krummbein, potatoes à la—”

  “I think I ought to cook supper,” said Falloleen. “It’s high time the bride got her first meal.”

  “Won’t hear of it,” said Otto. “I won’t have you suffering for my lack of financial acumen. It would make me feel terrible. Falloleen doesn’t belong in a kitchen.”

  “I know what,” said Falloleen, “we’ll both get supper. Wouldn’t that be cozy, just the two of us?”

  “No, no, no, no,” said Otto. “I want everything to be a surprise. You stay down here with J.P Morgan, until I call you. No fair peeking.”

  “I refuse to worry about it,” said Otto, as he, Falloleen, and I cleared away the supper dishes. “If I worry, I can’t work, and if I can’t work, I can’t get any money to bail me out of this mess.”

  “The important thing is for somebody to worry,” I said, “and I guess I’m it. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone up here in the greenhouse while I go to work.”

  “Man must spend half his time at one with Nature,” said Otto, “and half at one with himself. Most houses provide only a muddy, murky in-between.” He caught my sleeve. “Listen, don’t rush off. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. Why don’t the three of us just have a pleasant social evening, so you can get to know us, and then tomorrow you can start getting down to brass tacks?”

  “That’s nice of you,” I said. “But the quicker I get to work, the quicker you’ll be out of the woods. Besides, newlyweds don’t want to entertain on their first evening at home.”

  “Heavens!” said Otto. “We’re not newlyweds anymore.”

  “Yes we are,” said Falloleen meekly.

  “Of course you are,” I said, opening my briefcase. ‘And you must have an awful lot to say to each other.”

  “Um,” said Otto.

  There followed an awkward silence in which Otto and Falloleen stared out into the night through the glass walls, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  “Didn’t Falloleen put on one too many earrings for supper?” said Otto.

  “I felt lopsided with just one,” said Falloleen.

  “Let me be the judge of that,” said Otto. “What you don’t get is a sense of the whole composition—something a little off-balance here, but lo and behold, a perfect counterbalance down there.”

  “So you won’t capsize,” I said, opening the studio door. “Have fun.”

  “It didn’t really jar you, did it, Otto?” said Falloleen guiltily.

  I closed the door.

  The studio was soundproofed, and I could hear nothing of the Krummbeins’ first evening at home as I picked over the wreckage of their finances.

  I intruded once, with a long list of questions, and found the upstairs perfectly quiet, save for soft music from the phonograph and the rustle of rich, heavy material. Falloleen was turning around in a lazy sort of ballet, wearing a magnificent evening gown. Otto, lying on the couch, watched her through narrowed lids and blew smoke rings.

  “Fashion show?” I said.

  “We thought it would be fun for me to try on all the things Otto’s bought me that I haven’t had a chance to wear,” said Fa
lloleen. Despite her heavy makeup, her face had taken on a haggard look. “Like it?” she said.

  “Very much,” I said, and I roused Otto from his torpor to answer my questions.

  “Shouldn’t I come down and work with you?” he asked.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I’d rather you wouldn’t. The perfect quiet is just what I need.”

  Otto was disappointed. “Well, please don’t hesitate to call me for anything.”

  An hour later, Falloleen and Otto came down into the studio with cups and a pot of coffee. They smiled, but their eyes were glazed with boredom.

  Falloleen had on a strapless gown of blue velveteen, with ermine around the hem and below her white shoulders. She slouched and shuffled. Otto hardly glanced at her.

  “Ah-h-h!” I said. “Coffee! Just the thing! Style show all over?”

  “Ran out of clothes,” said Falloleen. She poured the coffee, kicked off her shoes, and lay down at one end of the couch. Otto lay down at the other end, grunting. The peace of the scene was deceptive. Neither Otto nor Falloleen was relaxed. Falloleen was clenching and unclenching her hands. Every few seconds Otto would click his teeth like castanets.

  “You certainly look very lovely, Falloleen,” I said. “Are those by any chance moonlight-engineered cosmetics you’re wearing?”

  “Yes,” said Falloleen. “Otto had some samples made up, and I’m a walking laboratory. Fascinating work.”

  “You’re not in moonlight,” I said, “but I’d say the experiment was a smashing success.”

  Otto sat up, refreshed by praise of his work. “You really think so? We had moonlight for most of our honeymoon, and the idea practically forced itself on me.”

  Falloleen sat up as well, sentimentally interested in the subject of the honeymoon. “I loved going out to glamorous places every evening,” she said, “but the evening I liked best was the one when we went canoeing, just the two of us, and the lake and the moon.”

  “I kept looking at her lips there in the moonlight,” said Otto, “and—”