Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me (3 page)

CHAPTER 21

The Bearer of Bad News.

BOOK
THE FIRST

To Athené then.

Young Gnossos Pappadopoulis, furry Pooh Bear, keeper of the flame, voyaged back from the asphalt seas of the great wasted land: oh highways U.S. 40 and unyielding 66, I am home to the glacier-gnawed gorges, the fingers of lakes, the golden girls of Westchester and Shaker Heights. See me loud with lies, big boots stomping, mind awash with schemes.

Home to Athené, where Penelope has lain in an exalted ecstasy of infidelity, where Telemachus hates his father and aims a kick at his groin, where old, patient Argus trots out to greet his weary returning master and drives his fangs into a cramped leg, infecting with the froth of some feral, hydrophobic horror. Oh welcome,

for home is the madman,

home from his dreams

and the satyr

home to make hay,

whether or not the sun shines, for in that well-hilled land of geological pressures and faults, there is always much rain.

Banging up the steepest slope, shoving away mounds of cinder-spoiled snow with his hobnails, smelling of venison and rabbits, the anise odor of some Oriental liquor on his breath. No one has seen him (or if they have, there has been no acceptance of the impossible sight, for rumors have him dead of thirst, contorted on his back at the bottom of Bright Angel Trail, eyes gnawed out by wild Grand Canyon burros; fallen upon by tattooed pachucos and burned to death in the New Mexico night by a thousand cigarettes dipped in aqua regia; eaten by a shark in San Francisco Bay, a leg washed up in Venice West; G. Alonso Oeuf has him frozen blue in the Adirondacks), he stumbles back from its lakes now (found sitting on a bed of tender spruce boughs, his legs folded under him in the full lotus, a mysterious caste mark where his third eye would be, stark naked with an erection, discovered by the St. Regis Falls D.A.R. out on their winter bird walk).

I am invisible, he thinks often. And Exempt. Immunity has been granted to me, for I do not lose my cool. Polarity is selected at will, for I am not ionized and I possess not valence. Call me inert and featureless but Beware, I am the Shadow, free to cloud men’s minds. Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? I am the Dracula, look into my eye.

Shuffling up an insipidly named Academae Avenue from the pea-green walls of the town’s Greyhound station, wrapped tightly in his parka (the blanket of Linus, the warmth of the woods, his portable womb), the rucksack packed thickly with the only possessions and necessities of his life: a Captain Midnight Code-O-Graph, one hundred and sixty-nine silver dollars, a current 1958 calendar, eight vials of paregoric, a plastic sack of exotic seeds, a packet of grapevine leaves in a special humidor, a jar of feta, sections of wire coathanger to be used as shish kebab skewers, a boy scout shirt, two cinnamon sticks, a bottlecap from Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray Tonic, a change of Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear from a foraging at Bloomingdale’s, an extra pair of corduroy pants, a 1920’s baseball cap, a Hohner F harmonica, six venison loin chops, and an arbitrary number of recently severed and salted rabbits’ feet.

Flipping through the ads of the unbought Athené
Globe
at the bus terminal, he had come across the number 109 in the list of apartments available for the spring term. He hovered before it now, panting from the climb, evaluating, doing the geometry of escape routes, counting windows and doors. The house was a red frame structure, American Gothic, freshly painted, white trim, Swiss drolleries carved around the window boxes. Touch of the pastoral, pleasant to wake in May with a scalding hangover, lean back your head and breathe forget-me-nots.

He knocked timidly and was greeted by the thinnest bone of a girl he had ever seen. Terrycloth robe with kitty-fluff on the collar, long brown pigtails tied with yellow rubberbands, no eyebrows.

“You came about the flat?”

British. Murderess of Cypriot peasants; innate antagonist, be careful. Lie: “My name is Ian Evergood, miss, you’re quite correct. Could I have a look?”

“It’s a mess; we’re just moving up over Student Laundries, you know where that is?”

My God, wearing high heels with the robe, anything under? Be discreet. “I’m not sure, I’ve been away for over a year, they’re always shifting things about. Splendid flat, this.”

“It does me.”

Devilishly clever, flat in there instead of pad. She’s looking at me. “Been on a bit of a hunting trip. The Adirondacks. You’ll have to forgive my appearance.”

“Hunting? You mean animals?”

“Rather.”

“How appalling. Killing small things that can’t fight back?”

“There was a wolf, you see. A marauding bear.”

“A bear? Really? Won’t you come all the way in, no sense standing in the hall.”

“Quartered three children before I got him. Ghastly business. Made a topping shot, though.”

“Are you British?”

“Greek.”

“Oh.”

Too late, could have said anything. Have another try, “Mountbatten blood in the family. Is the place furnished?”

“Two of the bucket chairs belong to them,” she said, nodding at the bolted French doors that led into the neighbors’ quarters. “One is mine, and that butterfly thing. I could sell it if you really wanted, they’re not comfortable; at least not for sitting.”

For what, then? The flesh over her eyes arching the way her eyebrows might have arched. Worth a try. I hear water boiling, free food. “I’d need it, all the same. Here, you’re not making tea? I only came by to see—”

“That’s quite all right. Take a look ‘round, you’re the first to come.” Going off into the kitchen, Jesus, wearing stockings as well. “You take cream and sugar?”

“Everything.” There was no bedroom but a section at the far end of the room had been partitioned off with bamboo shades, a bad sign. Still, everything else looked good, rice-paper globes on the lamps, white walls, a Navajo rug, roomy couch, fireplace. Have a look at the kitchen.

“My name’s Pamela,” she told him, pouring through a wooden sieve into handleless cups. The robe open slightly at her throat, kitty-fluff parting enough to reveal a blond chest hair, which caused a spasm of lust.

“What school are you in?” between cups.

“Astronomy,” he lied. “Theories of origin, expanding galaxies, quantum mechanics, that sort of thing. You?”

“Architecture.”

“How come you’re not living in the dorms?” Hopefully.

“I’m fifth-year. Do you like the kitchen? There’s an enormous fridge, and they give you all your silver. Is your name truly Evergood?”

“Took Mother’s name when Father entered the Benedictines.”

“Ah. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Not at all. Sends me brandy, monk-bread, you know. Smashing tea, this. Pamela what?”

“Watson-May. But did you really kill a marauding bear? I mean, isn’t that rather a dangerous thing to have done?”

Just so. And doesn’t your thigh-down tingle to think about it? Shame it’s afternoon, never much on matinees. Good to have the parka covering or
she’d see. Hardly care for them skinny, but those high heels and that hair. Push it a little: “Not necessarily dangerous. A lot depends on the man and the first bullet.” Ho ho.

“Of course.”

“You either kill them straight away or turn them and make a heart shot. Gets me edgy to discuss, though. You wouldn’t have a drink around the house?”

“Isn’t it a bit early?”

“Not today, no.”

“There might be some gin and a little Scotch left.”

“You don’t carry Metaxa?”

“Which?”

“Scotch is fine; just pour it in the tea. Have one yourself, takes the edge off moving, I always say, ha ha.”

She poured the drinks and sat straddling the butterfly chair. The robe was up over lumps of knees, a phthisic hand clutching the collar against her throat. Gnossos feeling the need for a paregoric Pall Mall—filter the pain on the way to his brain. But the Scotch did part of the trick.

“Do you like the flat all right?”

“What does it go for?” was the question, sipping.

“Seventy dollars, thirty-five of course if you’re planning to share.”

“Of course. What about utilities?”

“Everything’s included but the phone, which I can leave if you cover the deposit.”

Sure thing. “Who lives over there?” nodding, “behind those doors?”

“Only the Rajamuttus, George and Irma. From Benares, I believe, but very nice, just the same. They drink gin and tonic all day long, with grenadine, they’ll never bother anyone.”

Possible connections? “What’s their interest, at school, I mean?”

“I think George is hotel administration. Factotum studies, master bartending, something of that sort.”

Cordials at the Punjab Hilton. Pappadopoulis poured himself the last of the bottle. “I just might take it, old girl. Do I have to see real estate agents?”

“You sublet from me. The landlord lives in the country.”

And the mice will play?

There came a feeble knocking at the door, Pamela calling, “Just a moment,” setting down her drink, pulling the kitty-fluff closer together. The police? An angered father? A familiar voice just the same.

“. . .  ad in the paper; I wonder, could I look—”

“I’m sorry, there’s a Mr. Evergood seeing it now, I believe he’s taken it.”

“Is it Fitzgore I hear?” The carrot-red hair and freckled nose peering around the door, going pale with shock.

“Sweet Jesus Christ.”

“Come on in, man.”

“But you’re dead! Frozen up north someplace. God above, Paps.”

“I’m resurrected is all. And choose your words, paps are the dugs of an old crone.”

“I feel sick.”

“Is there any gin in that other bottle, Pam, for this thin-blooded cabbage? Come sit in my new pad, sport, look around.” He stood and shook the tentative hand, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder, guiding him to one of the wicker chairs, where he collapsed with a half smile.

“Wow, no kidding, what a hell of a noise. There was even some Grand Canyon story, but you were spotted in Las Vegas.”

“Only heat exhaustion, man, searching for sun gods at Phantom Ranch. Have you met Pamela here?”

Fitzgore gave a desultory nod and took the offered drink, looking curiously at its cherry-soda color. “Grenadine,” she explained. “A custom in Benares.”

“And San Francisco Bay, they said—”

“That was the cop who saved me. He lost a leg to a hammerhead shark; crushing irony, rescued by the law.”

“Mother of God.”

“Hardly deified. A fuzz like all fuzz. They gave him a ribbon, a Mickey Mouse stamp, I can’t remember. Where’s Oeuf, anyway?”

“Recuperating from mono in the infirm. There was some rumor about the clap, too.”

“No imagination, Oeuf. We’ve got to visit him, though. Drink up your gin, we’ll tour the campus.”

“I’ve got a lab this afternoon, Paps, classes have started, you know. Are you back as a student, or what?”

“Little of everything,” grinning wickedly. “Is it too late to register?”

“They’ll probably fine you five dollars,” said Pamela, slipping a record on the player, catching some sort of party mood. She has possibilities, came the oblique thought. Fetish?

“Oh what the hell,” said Fitzgore, “I may as well cut.”

“Are you of Irish descent, Mr. Fitzgore?” she asked. The record was Bach. Man, the oneness of them all. Identity implicit in half a dozen LP’s, the
usual books, eighteen punched cards run through a Univac, carried in a turquoise wallet next to the picture of your favorite sorority sister. Beethoven, Brubeck, selected symphonies,
The Prophet
, assorted anthologies,
Now We Are Six
. “Call him by his Christian name, Pamela. Hardy is devout, he invokes tradition.”

“Hardy, is it?”

“Goes a long way back,” said Fitzgore. “Salem Irish, Back Bay antecedents.”

Mustn’t waste time. “Miss Watson-May,” from Gnossos formally, standing, “we really have to flee. The flat will do nicely, and it’s only fair to warn you, I’m a bit of a bore about noise.”

“You don’t like it?”

“He makes it,” said Fitzgore.

“All the time. Very little reserve, Greek marrow wins out.”

“Quite all right with me, actually.”

“Pappadopoulis is the name, in fact. Call me Gnossos if you want, silent
G
, okay? We’ll dig you later.” She turned down the Bach, looking slightly disappointed. Because we’re leaving? “You stay home nights?”

“I’ll probably be packing.”

“Might fall by. Give the word to the Rajamuttus. I’ll be, whatever you called it, sharing with Fitzgore here.”

“Hold on,” came the protest. “I wanted a place by myself, to study—”

“Haa!” bellowed Gnossos, “to be sure. To be thoroughly sure.”

They went down the icy steps into the street, up the rest of the long hill toward the campus. Mounds of heavy, bulky snow everywhere, the Mystic Lakes breed of winter, swooping early out of the north; the sky swollen, portentous, dumping huge, carpetlike flakes incessantly, neutralizing each extreme of spectral color, sterilizing shapes, muting sounds, holding out against the first torrential thaw, the first blinking of the unclothed sun. I am not ionized and I possess not valence.

But breathes there a soul

with man so dead

who never to his head has said,

“Is there anything happening, Fitzgore?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there any shit around?”

In a whisper, the red head dropping down into its overcoat like a turtle’s, eyes searching up and down the crowded avenue, windows and doorways, any one of which might enclose some ovarian doom waiting to be fertilized: “You mean
narcotics?
”

“What about Oeuf, you can’t tell me he’s straight.”

“Nothing. Not a thing since you left. And speak softly, I want to graduate. Only six months left, you know.”

“To be sure. What about the Black Elks downtown, Fat Fred?”

“
No
body white goes in there.”

“We’ll see. I brought some paregoric with me, just in case. Anyone have an electric fan?”

“Holy Ghost, Paps, you’re really the kiss of death.”

“That’s Thanatos, but also Greek.”

All about them the golden girls, shopping for dainties in Lairville. Even in the midst of the wild-maned winter’s chill, skipping about in sneakers and sweatsocks, cream-colored raincoats. A generation in the mold, the Great White Pattern Maker lying in his prosperous bed, grinning while the liquid cools. But he does not know my bellows. Someone there is who will huff and will puff. The sophomores in their new junior blazers, like Saturday’s magazines out on Thursday. Freshly covered textbooks from the campus store, slide rules dangling in leather, sheathed broadswords, chinos scrubbed to the virgin fiber, starch pressed into straight-razor creases, Oxford shirts buttoned down under crewneck sweaters, blue eyes bobbing everywhere, stunned by the android synthesis of one-a-day vitamins, Tropicana orange juice, fresh country eggs, Kraft homogenized cheese, tetrapacks of fortified milk, Cheerios with sun-ripened bananas, corn-flake-breaded chicken, hot fudge sundaes, Dairy Queen root beer floats, cheeseburgers, hybrid creamed corn, riboflavin extract, brewer’s yeast, crunchy peanut butter, tuna fish casseroles, pancakes and imitation maple syrup, chuck steaks, occasional Maine lobster, Social Tea biscuits, defatted wheat germ, Kellogg’s Concentrate, chopped string beans, Wonderbread, Bosco, Birds Eye frozen peas, shredded spinach, French-fried onion rings, escarole salads, lentil stews, sundry fowl innards, Pecan Sandies, Almond Joys, aureomycin, penicillin, antitetanus toxoid, smallpox vaccine, Alka-Seltzer, Empirin, Vicks VapoRub, Arrid with chlorophyll, Super Anahist nose spray, Dristan decongestant, billions of cubic feet of wholesome, reconditioned breathing air, and the more wholesome breeds of fraternal exercise available to Western man. Ah, the regimented good will and force-fed confidence of those who are not meek but will inherit the earth all the same.