by Walker Percy
“I’m afraid your bank will blow down tonight. The money will be safer at Belle Isle.”
“There you go! Ha ha.” Macklin laughed and slapped his side, all the while keeping a sharp eye on me, trying to parse out craziness and horsiness, wondering whether I was ordinarily crazy as he always held me to be or possessed by some new craziness.
He gave me the $75,000 in hundreds in a locked canvas bag, handing me the little brass key separately.
After the shooting was finished at Belle Isle and the crew was busy dismantling the hurricane machine and packing their station wagons, I summoned Elgin to the pigeonnier and gave him the $75,000. He unlocked the bag with the little brass key. He looked at the money.
“How much money is this?”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s very simple. I have a great deal of money, more than I can use, and there are two things you want.”
“Yes?”
“One is to finish your education at M.I.T. despite the fact that your scholarship has run out.”
“Yes.”
“The other is you want to marry your classmate Ethel Shapiro and buy a house in Woodale, a subdivision of Concord, which though a cradle of American liberty is unwilling to sell houses to blacks or Jews especially blacks married to Jews. Yet you are determined to buy a house there despite all obstacles.”
“Not despite. Because.” Elgin looked down at the money. “Okay. But you don’t owe me anything. I’d have done it for you anyway. It was an interesting problem. Sorry about the tape quality. The color was defective.”
“I liked it that way.”
“The sound was rotten, too. Jesus, I felt bad about that.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was okay.”
“Well—” said Elgin, standing in the doorway. He was always standing in the doorway.
“Yes?”
“I have a feeling there is something else. Perhaps a condition.”
“A condition?”
“Something you want me to do.”
“Only two things.”
“What?”
“Leave now.”
“Now?”
“Now. In the next hour.”
“The other is, don’t come back?”
“Right.”
“Okay.” We might have been discussing his chores for the day.
“Oh yes. Something else. Take Ellis and Suellen to Magnolia, Mississippi, where y’all have kinfolks. It’s on I-55, on your way north. They can return after the storm. You won’t have any trouble persuading them. They’re both scared to death. They are the only people around here who have any sense.”
“Okay. Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Me? I’m fine, Elgin.”
“Don’t you need me to help you move all those folks out of here?”
“No.”
“Okay. Well—”
We shake hands. He gives me a level-eyed look. He’s seen too many movies. Or maybe it’s being in one. The level-eyed look means we understand each other and have been reconciled, perhaps by the Christlike stranger played by Dana. When the truth is, nobody understands anyone else, and nobody is reconciled because nobody knows what there is to be reconciled. Or if there is something to be reconciled, the way it is done in the movies, by handshakes, level-eyed looks, expressions of mute understanding, doesn’t work.
Don’t you agree? No? Do you really believe people can be reconciled?
“One more thing, Elgin.”
“Yes?” He was standing in the doorway in a way he learned from Jacoby. It was an actor’s way of standing in a doorway at a moment of farewell, eyes fine, face slanted.
“When you shake hands with somebody, squeeze.”
“Okay,” he said frowning. He left slightly offended.
Did it ever occur to you in considering those instances of blacks who decide they want to act like whites and are very observant and successful in doing so (they are even better than the Japanese in imitating us—so much so that Elgin can act more like Mannix than Mannix) that no matter how observant one is, one cannot by observation alone assess the degree of squeeze in a handshake or even be sure there is a squeeze at all?
I was wrong about one thing. Merlin too had good sense and no taste for hurricanes. He was leaving.
For once I astonished myself: I wanted him to leave! I wanted him to get away, escape, the man who had made love to my wife in the Roundtowner Motor Lodge in Arlington, Texas, on or about July 15, 1968, and begot my daughter Siobhan.
Why?
Because he, poor old man, had come to as bad a place as a man can come to. Going back to Africa to find his youth. To see leopard. It was as if I had lit out for Asheville looking for dead Lucy. An old man should find new things. Shooting was too good for him. Anyhow I liked him and he liked me.
I caught him fidgeting up and down the gallery after the rest of the crew had gone.
“I was working on the causeway in the Keys when that son of a bitch (they had no women’s names for hurricanes then) hit in 1928. They’re no joke and I’d as soon not see another one.”
“Didn’t some people get killed?”
“About five hundred. Christ, what I haven’t seen in my life. What I haven’t done. Three things I’ve loved—women, life, and art.”
“In that order?”
“In that order.”
“Well, you’ve got plenty of life left.”
He looked at me, then looked at me again.
“Right!” he said. “And I’m in good shape. I’ve got a good body. Feel that, Lance,” he said, making a bicep.
“Okay. Very good.”
“That’s the arm of a young man. Feel my gut.”
“Flat and hard.”
“Hit me.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Go ahead, hit me. You can’t hurt me.”
“I believe you.”
“I can beat the shit out of anybody here—except you, Lance. I believe you could take me.”
“I doubt it. I’m in rotten shape.”
“You want to arm wrestle?”
“No.”
“You’ve got a good body. You know what you ought to do?”
“No.”
“Kung Fu. You’d be great at it. You’re a natural athlete, with an athlete’s grace and strength. It would be good for you.”
“You may be right, Merlin. You know what you ought to do?”
“What?”
“Get out of here.”
“We’re leaving the first thing tomorrow morning. Those other nuts want to spend the night.”
“Marie is arriving tonight. You may not be able to leave tomorrow.”
“I know. But those bastards want to make a party out of it. Margot ought to have better sense.”
“If I were you, I would leave now. It’s all the same to me.” It was.
He paced the gallery, frowning, cocked an eye at the yellow sky.
“Or is Jacoby still the director?”
“Jacoby! That son of a bitch couldn’t direct traffic in Boutee, Louisiana.”
“Well?”
He snapped his finger. “By God I will leave!” His spinning white-fibered eye looked past me into the future. He snapped his finger again. “You know what I’m going to do?”
“No.”
“I’m going to head north right out of this swamp. I’m going to drive straight to Virginia, up the Shenandoah Valley, and pick up Frances, who has a horse farm near Lexington. I’ll say to her: Let’s go back to Tanzania. We were there once. We lived in a Land Rover. We saw leopard. She’s a soldier, a good girl. She might even—She’s always been my love. I took her once to Spain and showed her the Ebro River, where I fought. Yes, Christ, I did that too. Can you believe it? She’s a good girl, a comrade. She’s a comrade, brother, daughter, lover to me. All I have to do is say, Honey, let’s go bac
k to the high country, and she’ll go. Jesus, what an idea you’ve given me! I might even do a film. What do you think of a film about a man and woman who are good comrades, go on a hunt, and then have good sex together?”
“It sounds fine.”
“If it is fine, why do I feel so rotten? I’ve always been a man with a great longing and lust for life and love, Lance. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“I know it could be good between me and Frances again.”
“It might be.”
“Tell me honestly.”
“It’s possible.”
“It would be good even if—”
“Yes, it would.”
“I feel rotten now but it could be good between us. What do you think?”
“I think it might be good between you.”
“Frances knows me better than any other woman.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“She and I were always good together.”
“That’s good.”
“We could be good together again.”
“I’m sure of that.”
“I might do something, a story, something, about the dying out of the wildebeest and the death too of human love and then a renewal and a greening, a greening and a turning back of the goddamn advancing Sahara. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“The Sahara of the soul too.”
“Yes, but right now you ought to think of leaving.”
“I’m leaving. I’ll speak to the others.”
“What about the others?” I asked with a slight constriction of anxiety in the throat.
“To say goodbye. Christ, they wouldn’t dream of leaving. Do you know what they’re doing now?”
“No.”
“Raine is taking sandwiches and champagne up to your belvedere. They’re going to have a party named Goodbye movie, hello Marie.”
I must have looked blank for he explained: “Goodbye movie hurricane, hello the real thing.”
“That’s a good place to get killed up there. Too much glass.”
“Just try to tell them that.”
“I intend to speak to Margot.”
“On second thought why don’t you tell her goodbye for me. As for the others, I’d as soon Marie blew their asses in the river. Do you know what those batbrains are doing?”
“No.”
“They’re popping pills and hauling anisette and tequila up to the belvedere. They’re going to have a party.”
“I know.”
Merlin gave me a long firm handshake with two hands and a long level-eyed stare clouded with hidden meanings. He’d been in the movies too long.
“Lucy, jump in your Porsche and take off for school. You’ve got thirty minutes.”
“Papaaauh!” She trailed off in a musical downbeat-up-beat, an exact rendering of Raine’s famous mannerism.
“You heard me.”
“I want to stay with Raine through the hurricane.”
“No goddamn it. Now get going.”
Lucy looked surprised. Everyone acted as if I were an ancestor who had wandered out of his portrait and begun giving orders. Everyone obeyed from sheer surprise.
Later I heard Lucy ask Suellen, who was packing her metal candy boxes in Elgin’s Plymouth Charger: “What’s got into Papa?”
“Mr. Lance know what he doing, girl,” said Suellen conventionally but in truth relieved that somebody, anybody, was taking charge.
“What’s the hurry. Papa?” asked Lucy, thinking of Raine again.
“Well, for one thing, they need you at the Tri-Phi house. I just talked to Mrs. Davaux. The freshmen are getting panicky even though the storm is only going to sideswipe them. Mrs. Davaux thinks you’re the one to calm them. She says you have real leadership qualities. Otherwise you’re going to lose half your pledges to the Chi O’s—whose seniors are all back.” (I did talk to Mrs. Davaux and she did say something like that.)
Ah, that was a different story. A hard choice between Raine and Troy and the hurricane, and shoring up wavering Tri-Phi pledges. Her Tri-Phi loyalties would have won out, I think, even without my orders.
“Anyhow, Raine’s not leaving. She’ll be around for a while.”
It was true in a sense.
“Okay, Papa. To tell you the truth, I’m a little scared.”
“Good. Now get going.”
“Okay, Papa.”
Putting her hands on my shoulders, she held me off, setting her head to one side Rainelike. Jesus Christ, the movies.
“Papa, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The wind was picking up. Now it was sustained between gusts. I went out on the galleries and closed the shutters, shot the heavy bolts. They locked from the outside.
Afterwards I met Raine in the hall on her way to the belvedere with a tray.
“What’s the matter with you, Lance?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look awful.”
“I’m tired.”
“Here. I’ve got drinks right here.”
“No thanks.”
“Then try a couple of these. One now and one later.” She gave me two capsules. “They’re the best of all downers. They leave you relaxed but euphoric. You feel absolutely free to choose, to plan and act. You can choose to sleep or not to sleep. You become your true self.”
I looked at her. “Very well.”
The truth was, I needed something. There was a cold numbing sensation spreading from the pit of my stomach. What I really wanted was a drink.
She set down the tray and poured me a drink of water. I swallowed both pills. She looked at me. “Why don’t we meet later tonight?”
“Very well.”
She started up the attic steps.
“I wouldn’t stay up there too long, Raine. The wind is expected to reach over a hundred. The glass may not hold.”
“We won’t. We’re just enjoying the lovely sky and clouds and lightning. Did you ever see such a sky? Why don’t you join us?”
“Not right now. Send Margot down though. I want to speak to her.”
Margot came down. She stood in the dark hall at right angles to me, arms crossed, foot cocked on heel.
“Margot, will you leave with me now? We can go anywhere you like.”
“No.”
“Then will you come and stay with me tonight?”
“No.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“What do you mean, that’s it?”
“I do love you, Lance.”
“But—”
“No buts. I love you as I’ve always loved you, with the old me. But there are other me’s. One grows.”
“Then love me with the old me.”
“What can I do?” She shrugged. She was not too attentive. Her head was slightly atilt as if she were listening for a new overtone in the storm. “The feeling is not there. One can’t help one’s feelings.”
She hollowed her mouth and cocked her head. I could not hear over the uproar of the storm, but I knew her tongue went tock tock against the roof of her mouth.
Something worked in the pit of my stomach. It took hold and caught. I realized it was the drug catching on, meshing into my body like a gear.
She swung around to face me, hands on her hips. Holding herself erect, she set one foot forward and turned slightly out. Her face was severe, unpainted, Scandinavian. Christ, she was already Nora Helmer in A Doll’s House.
“What are you going to do, Margot?” I asked dreamily.
“What am I going to do?” Tock tock. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing I can’t do. I can’t just sit here year in and year out waxing furniture and watching the camellias bloom. You can understand that.”
“Sure. Then let’s go to—ah, Virginia.”
“Virginia?” Her face strayed two degrees toward me.
“I don’t know why I said Virginia,” I said, feeling an odd not unpleasant distance opening in my
head. “If not Virginia, then anywhere you please.”
“No. I’m sorry, sweetie.” She kissed and hugged me absentmindedly. In the hug I could feel that her diaphragm was held high. She was breathing in a certain way. She was being Nora.
The drug was acting. A certain distance set in between me and myself. Here’s what I hoped for from the pills: a little space between me and the pain. I understood what Margot said but I couldn’t stand it. But how do you live with something you can’t stand? How do you get comfortable with a sword through your guts? I didn’t expect a solution or even relief. I only wanted a little distance: how does one live with it—the way a drunk lives with being a drunk, or a crook lives with being a crook? No problem! I envied both. But this! How do you live with this: being stuck onto pain like a cockroach impaled on a pin? The drug did this: before, I was part of the pain, there was no getting away from it. Now I had some distance. The pain was still there, but I stood off a ways. It became a problem to be solved. Hm, what to do about the pain? Who knows, there might even be a solution. Perhaps there’s something you can do to ease it. Let’s see.
“Why don’t you come up to the belvedere with us? It is absolutely spectacular.”
“No. There’re some things I have to do.”
“Very well.” She kissed me distractedly with a loud kinfolks kiss, smack. Tock tock.
When I finished locking the shutters, I returned to the pigeonnier. One had to lean into the south wind. There was wind between the gusts. The storm was like a man who can’t get his breath.
The space between me and myself widened. I was sitting in my plantation rocker feeling a widening in my head.
The next thing I knew I was still sitting in my rocker. It was moonlight outside. The moonlight was coming in. I got up and opened the door. It was still. An orange moon rose behind the English Coast. A great yellow rampart of cloud filled the western sky beyond the levee. It looked as solid as the Andes and had peaks and valleys and glaciers and crevasses.
Leaving the door open, I went inside and sat in the rocker and thought of nothing. I breathed. My eye followed the line between the moonlight and the shadow of the doorjamb which ran across the floor of St. Joseph bricks set in a herringbone pattern.
OUR LADY OF THE CAMELLIAS
I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember was the certain sense that there was someone in the room with me. No mystery: I was looking straight at her. Therefore I must have dozed or I would have seen this person come in. But the interval must have been very short because the angle of moonlight lying across the bricks had not changed.
