It was difficult to keep house now, for Danny had stolen nearly everything in it. A chair turned up at a bootlegger's. All the food was taken, and once, when they were searching for Danny in the woods, he stole the airtight stove; but it was heavy, and he abandoned it in the gulch. Money there was none, for Danny stole the Pirate's wheelbarrow and traded it to Joe Ortiz for a bottle of whisky. Now all peace had gone from Danny's house, and there was only worry and sadness.
"Where is our happiness gone?" Pablo mourned. "Somewhere we have sinned. It is a judgment. We should go to confession."
No more did they discuss the marital parade of Cornelia Ruiz. Gone were the moralities, lost were the humanities. Truly the good life lay in ruins. And into the desolation came the rumors.
"Danny committed partial rape last night."
"Danny has been milking Mrs. Palochico's goat."
"Danny was in a fight with some soldiers the night before last."
Sad as they were at his moral decay, the friends were not a little jealous of the good time Danny was having.
"If he is not crazy, he will be punished," said Pilon. "Be sure of that. Danny is sinning in a way which, sin for sin, beats any record I ever heard of. Oh, the penances when he wants to be decent again! In a few weeks Danny has piled up more sins than Old Ruiz did in a lifetime."
That night Danny, unhindered by the friendly dogs, crept into the house as silently as the moving shadow of a limb under a street light, and wantonly he stole Pilon's shoes. In the morning it did not take Pilon long to understand what had happened. He went firmly to the porch and sat down in the sun and regarded his feet.
"Now he has gone too far," Pilon said. "Pranks he has played, and we were patient. But now he turns to crime. This is not the Danny we know. This is another man, a bad man. We must capture this bad man."
Pablo looked complacently down at his shoes. "Maybe this is only a prank too," he suggested.
"No," Pilon said severely. "This is crime. They were not very good shoes, but it is a crime against friendship to take them. And that is the worst kind of crime. If Danny will steal the shoes of his friends, there is no crime he will stop at."
The friends nodded in agreement. "Yes, we must catch him," said Jesus Maria of the humanities. "We know he is sick. We will tie him to his bed and try to cure him of the sickness. We must try to wipe the darkness from his brain."
"But now," said Pablo, "before we catch him, we must remember to put our shoes under our pillows when we sleep."
The house was in a state of siege. All about it raged Danny, and Danny was having a wonderful time.
Seldom did the face of Torrelli show any emotions but suspicion and anger. In his capacity as bootlegger, and in his dealings with the people of Tortilla Flat, those two emotions were often called into his heart, and their line was written on his face. Moreover, Torrelli had never visited anyone. He had only to stay at home to have everyone visit him. Consequently, when Torrelli walked up the road toward Danny's house in the morning, his face suffused with a ferocious smile of pleasure and anticipation, the children ran into their yards and peeked through the pickets at him; the dogs caressed their stomachs with their tails and fled with backward, fearful looks; men, meeting him, stepped out of his path and clenched their fists to repel a madman.
This morning the fog covered the sky. The sun, after a number of unsuccessful skirmishes, gave up and retired behind the gray folds. The pine trees dripped dusty dew on the ground; and in the faces of the few people who were about, the day was reflected with somber looks and gray skins. There were no hearty greetings. There was none of that human idealism which blandly hopes this day will be better than all other days.
Old Roca, seeing Torrelli smiling, went home and told his wife, "That one has just killed and eaten his children. You will see!"
Torrelli was happy, for in his pocket there was a folded, precious paper. His fingers sought his coat again and again, and pressed until a little crackling sound assured Torrelli that the paper was still there. As he walked through the gray morning, he muttered to himself.
"Nest of snakes," he said. "I will wipe out this pestilence of Danny's friends. No more will I give wine for goods, and have the goods stolen again. Each man alone is not so bad, but the nest of them! Madonna, look down how I will cast them out into the street! The toads, the lice, the stinging flies! When they sleep in the woods again, they will not be so proud.
"I would have them know that Torrelli has triumphed. They thought to cheat me, despoil my house of furniture and my wife of virtue! They will see that Torrelli, the great sufferer, can strike back. Oh, yes, they will see!"
Thus he muttered as he walked, and his fingers crackled the paper in his pocket. The trees dripped mournful drops into the dust. The sea gulls circled in the air, screaming tragically. Torrelli moved like gray Fate on Danny's house.
In Danny's house there was gloom. The friends could not sit on the porch in the sunshine, for there was no sunshine. No one can produce a better reason for gloom. They had brought back the stolen stove from the gulch and set it up. They clustered to it now, and Johnny Pom-pom, who had come to call, told the news he had.
"Tito Ralph," he said, "is no longer the jailer down at the city jail. No, this morning the police judge sent him away."
"I liked Tito Ralph," said Pilon. "When a man was in jail, Tito Ralph would bring him a little wine. And he knew more stories than a hundred other men. Why did he lose his job, Johnny Pom-pom?"
"That is what I came to tell. Tito Ralph, you know, was often in jail, and he was a good prisoner. He knew how a jail should be run. After a while he knew more about the jail than anyone. Then Daddy Marks, the old jailer, died, and Tito Ralph took his place. Never has there been such a good jailer as Tito Ralph. Everything he did just right. But he has one little fault. When he drinks wine, he forgets he is the jailer. He escapes, and they have to catch him."
The friends nodded. "I know," said Pablo. "I have heard he is hard to catch too. He hides."
"Yes," continued Johnny Pom-pom, "except for that, he is the best jailer they ever had. Well, this is the thing that I came to tell. Last night Danny had enough wine for ten men, and he drank it. Then he drew pictures on windows. He was very rich, he bought eggs to throw at a Chinaman. And one of those eggs missed the Chinaman and hit a policeman. So, Danny was in jail.
"But he was rich. He sent Tito Ralph out to get some wine, and then some more wine. There were four men in the jail. They all drank wine. And at last that fault of Tito Ralph's came out. So he escaped, and all the others escaped with him. They caught Tito Ralph this morning and told him he could not be jailer any more. He was so sad that he broke a window, and now he is in jail again."
"But Danny," Pilon cried. "What about Danny?"
"Oh, Danny," said Johnny Pom-pom, "he escaped too. They did not catch him."
The friends sighed in dismay.
"Danny is getting bad," Pilon said seriously. "He will not come to a good end. I wonder where he got the money."
It was at this moment that the triumphant Torrelli opened the gate and strode up the path. The Pirate's dogs got up nervously from their corner and moved toward the door, snarling. The friends looked up and questioned one another with their eyes. Big Joe picked up the pick handle that had so lately been used on him. The heavy confident step of Torrelli pounded on the porch. The door flew open, and there stood Torrelli, smiling. He did not bluster at them. No, he approached as delicately as a house cat. He patted them kindly, as a house cat pats a cockroach.
"Oh, my friends," he said gently, at their looks of alarm. "My dear good friends and customers. My heart is torn that I must be a carrier of bad news to those whom I love."
Pilon leaped up. "It is Danny. He is sick, he is hurt. Tell us."
Torrelli shook his head daintily. "No, my little ones, it is not Danny. My heart bleeds, but I must tell you that you cannot live here any more." His eyes gloated at the amazement his words wrought. Every mouth dropped open, e
very eye went blank with astonishment.
"That is foolish," Pablo cried. "Why can't we live here any more?"
Torrelli's hand went lovingly into his breast pocket, and his fingers brought out the precious paper and waved it in the air. "Imagine my suffering," Torrelli went on. "Danny does not own this house any more."
"What!" they cried. "What do you mean? How does not Danny own his house any more? Speak, O Corsican Pig."
Torrelli giggled, a thing so terrible that the paisanos stepped back from him. "Because," he said, "the house belongs to me. Danny came to me and sold me his house for twenty-five dollars last night." Fiendishly he watched the thoughts crowd on their faces.
"It is a lie," their faces said. "Danny would not do such a thing." And then, "But Danny has been doing many bad things lately. He has been stealing from us. Maybe he has sold the house over our heads."
"It is a lie," Pilon cried aloud. "It is a dirty wop lie."
Torrelli smiled on and waved the paper. "Here I have proof," he said. "Here is the paper Danny signed. It is what we of business call a bill of sale."
Pablo came to him furiously. "You got him drunk. He did not know what he did."
Torrelli opened the paper a little bit. "The law will not be interested in that," he said. "And so, my dear little friends, it is my terrible duty to tell you that you must leave my house. I have plans for it." His face lost its smile then, and all the cruelty came back into it. "If you are not out by noon, I will send a policeman."
Pilon moved gently toward him. Oh, beware, Torrelli, when Pilon moves smiling on you! Run, hide yourself in some iron room and weld up the door. "I do not understand these things," Pilon said gently. "Of course I am sad that Danny should do a thing like this."
Torrelli giggled again.
"I never had a house to sell," Pilon continued. "Danny signed this paper, is that it?"
"Yes," Torrelli mimicked him, "Danny signed this paper. That is it."
Pilon blundered on, stupidly. "That is the thing that proves you own this house?"
"Yes, O little fool. This is the paper that proves it."
Pilon looked puzzled. "I thought you must take it down and have some record made."
Torrelli laughed scornfully. Oh, beware, Torrelli! Do you not see how quietly these snakes are moving? There is Jesus Maria in front of the door. There is Pablo by the kitchen door. See Big Joe's knuckles white on the pick handle.
Torrelli said, "You know nothing of business, little hobos and tramps. When I leave here I shall take this paper down and--"
It happened so quickly that the last words belched out explosively. His feet flew up in the air. He landed with a great thump on the floor and clawed at the air with his fat hands. He heard the stove lid clang.
"Thieves," he screamed. The blood pressed up his neck and into his face. "Thieves, oh, rats and dogs, give me my paper!"
Pilon, standing in front of him, looked amazed.
"Paper?" he asked politely. "What is this paper you speak of so passionately?"
"My bill of sale, my ownership. Oh, the police will hear of this!"
"I do not recall a paper," said Pilon. "Pablo, do you know what is this paper he talks about?"
"Paper?" said Pablo. "Does he mean a newspaper or a cigarette paper?"
Pilon continued with the roll. "Johnny Pom-pom?"
"He is dreaming, maybe, that one," said Johnny Pom-pom.
"Jesus Maria? Do you know of a paper?"
"I think he is drunk," Jesus Maria said in a scandalized voice. "It is too early in the morning to be drunk."
"Joe Portagee?"
"I wasn't here," Joe insisted. "I just came in now."
"Pirate?"
"He don't have no paper," the Pirate turned to his dogs, "do he?"
Pilon turned back to the apoplectic Torrelli. "You are mistaken, my friend. It is possible that I might have been wrong about this paper, but you can see for yourself that no one but you saw this paper. Do you blame me when I think that maybe there was no paper? Maybe you should go to bed and rest a little."
Torrelli was too stunned to shout any more. They turned him about and helped him out of the door and sped him on his way, sunk in the awfulness of his defeat.
And then they looked at the sky, and were glad; for the sun had fought again, and this time won a pathway through the fog. The friends did not go back into the house. They sat happily down on the front porch.
"Twenty-five dollars," said Pilon. "I wonder what he did with the money."
The sun, once its first skirmish was won, drove the fog headlong from the sky. The porch boards warmed up, and the flies sang in the light. Exhaustion had settled on the friends.
"It was a close thing," Pablo said wearily. "Danny should not do such things."
"We will get all our wine from Torrelli to make it up to him," said Jesus Maria.
A bird hopped into the rose bush and flirted its tail. Mrs. Morales' new chickens sang a casual hymn to the sun. The dogs, in the front yard, thoughtfully scratched all over and gnawed their tails.
At the sound of footsteps from the road, the friends looked up, and then stood up with welcoming smiles. Danny and Tito Ralph walked in the gate, and each of them carried two heavy bags. Jesus Maria darted into the house and brought out the fruit jars. The friends noticed that Danny looked a little tired when he set his jugs on the porch.
"It is hot climbing that hill," Danny said.
"Tito Ralph," cried Johnny Pom-pom, "I heard you were put in jail."
"I escaped again," Tito Ralph said wanly. "I still had the keys."
The fruit jars gurgled full. A great sigh escaped from the men, a sigh of relief that everything was over.
Pilon took a big drink. "Danny," he said, "that pig Torrelli came up here this morning with lies. He had a paper he said you signed."
Danny looked startled. "Where is that paper?" he demanded.
"Well," Pilon continued. "We knew it was a lie, so we burned that paper. You didn't sign it, did you?"
"No," said Danny, and he drained his jar.
"It would be nice to have something to eat," observed Jesus Maria.
Danny smiled sweetly. "I forgot. In one of those bags are three chickens and some bread."
So great was Pilon's pleasure and relief that he stood up and made a little speech. "Where is there a friend like our friend?" he exclaimed. "He takes us into his house out of the cold. He shares his good food with us, and his wine. Ohee, the good man, the dear friend."
Danny was embarrassed. He looked at the floor, "It is nothing," he murmured. "It has no merit."
But Pilon's joy was so great that it encompassed the world, and even the evil things of the world. "We must do something nice some time for Torrelli," he said.
16
Of the Sadness of Danny. How Through Sacrifice Danny's Friends Gave a Party. How Danny Was Translated.
When Danny came back to his house and to his friends after his amok, he was not conscience-stricken, but he was very tired. The rough fingers of violent experience had harped upon his soul. He began to live listlessly, arising from bed only to sit on the porch, under the rose of Castile; arising from the porch only to eat; arising from the table only to go to bed. The talk flowed about him and he listened, but he did not care. Cornelia Ruiz had a quick and superb run of husbands, and no emotion was aroused in Danny. When Big Joe got in his bed one evening, so apathetic was Danny that Pilon and Pablo had to beat Big Joe for him. When Sammy Rasper, celebrating a belated New Year with a shotgun and a gallon of whisky, killed a cow and went to jail, Danny could not even be drawn into a discussion of the ethics of the case, although the arguments raged about him and although his judgment was passionately appealed to.
After a while it came about that the friends began to worry about Danny. "He is changed," said Pilon. "He is old."
Jesus Maria suggested, "This Danny has crowded the good times of a life into a little three weeks. He is sick of fun."
In vain the friends tri
ed to draw him from the cavern of his apathy. In the mornings, on the porch, they told their funniest stories. They reported details of the love life of Tortilla Flat so penetratingly that they would have been of interest to a dissection class. Pilon winnowed the Flat for news and brought home every seedling of interest to Danny; but there was age in Danny's eyes and weariness.
"Thou art not well," Jesus Maria insisted in vain. "There is some bitter secret in thine heart."
"No," said Danny.
It was noticed that he let flies crawl on his feet a long time, and that when he did slap them off there was no art in his stroke. Gradually the high spirits, the ready laughter went out of Danny's house and tumbled into the dark pool of Danny's quietness.
Oh, it was a pity to see him, that Danny who had fought for lost causes, or any other kind; that Danny who could drink glass for glass with any man in the world; that Danny who responded to the look of love like an aroused tiger. Now he sat on his front porch in the sunlight, his blue-jeaned knees drawn up against his chest, his arms hanging over, his hands dangling from limp wrists, his head bent forward as though by a heavy black thought. His eyes had no light of desire nor displeasure nor joy nor pain.
Poor Danny, how has life left thee! Here thou sittest like the first man before the world grew up around him; and like the last man, after the world has eroded away. But see, Danny! Thou art not alone. Thy friends are caught in this state of thine. They look at thee from their eye-corners. They wait like expectant little dogs for the first waking movement of their master. One joyful word from thee, Danny, one joyful look, and they will bark and chase their tails. Thy life is not thine own to govern, Danny, for it controls other lives. See how thy friends suffer! Spring to life, Danny, that thy friends may live again!
This, in effect, although not in words so beautiful, was what Pilon said. Pilon held out a jar of wine to Danny. "Come on," he said. "Get up off your can."
Danny took the jar and drained it. And then he settled back and tried to find again his emotional Nirvana.
"Do you hurt any place?" Pilon asked.
"No," said Danny.
Pilon poured him another jar of wine and watched his face while the wine disappeared. The eyes lost their lackluster. Somewhere in the depths, the old Danny stirred to life for a moment. He killed a fly with a stroke that would have done justice to a master.
The Short Novels of John Steinbeck Page 15
