Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me (38 page)

“All the way from Cuba, compliments of the Buddha.”

“Please, you’re hurting me.”

“Don’t you want to know what it is? Sweetie pie.”

The pulse in her throat was tapping wildly, but she kept her free hand on the door. “Oh God, Gnossos, what are you talking about? Wasn’t the damned monkey enough? Will you let go of my arm?”

He tightened the grip and slid the lid off the box with his thumb. “That’s right, baby, keep talking.”

She twisted around violently, her back against the handle, tears coming into her eyes. “For God’s sake, please, Gnossos. I didn’t have to come here.”

“But you did, man, what can I say?”

“You promised Alonso. You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He watched her eyes close against his snarling smile and took out a handkerchief. “It won’t hurt at all. Believe me.”

“Oh
please
—”

There seemed to be nothing more to talk about. He jerked her suddenly away from the door, pulling her across his lap. She fought to sit up as he moved from under the confines of the wheel, but he took her by the hair to keep her still. It was perfumed, bound by a brass band; she wore a short-sleeved blouse, pressed denim skirt, and gray knee-socks. Then he patted her bottom. “Get them off,” is what he said.

Her mouth dropped open with a gasp. “What?”

“And don’t be all night.”

“Oh Jesus, you don’t want—”

“Man, I wouldn’t touch you with a windowpole, you’ve got the clap.”

“Gnossos, really, for God’s sake—” she gathered her breath to scream but it was all over. He used the handkerchief for a rolled-up gag and undid his woven Pueblo belt. With it he caught her flailing hands and bound
them behind her. There came a hideous, muffled gurgle. She tried to kick and he let her. He forced her face-down on the seat, moving clumsily, having to kneel around her, then took the hem of her skirt. He was sitting on the small of her back as he opened the box. Inside was a glycerin suppository filled with Motherball’s uncut horse. He poised the pellet like a small torpedo between thumb and forefinger, then used it precisely as it was meant to be used, adding little for old times’ sake but tender care.

He counted to fifty, gave a couple of playful pats, and rolled her over. She was ghastly pale and trying to lose consciousness.

“Feel good?”

The whites of her eyes were etched with furiously constricted little veins. He watched them until the pupils dilated and the lids grew heavy. Occasional booms from the distant cannon filled the silences. After a while she began to shiver, stopped thrashing, and withdrew. Welcome to Limbo, hope you enjoy your stay.

He helped her out of the car, took away the gag, in case she might be sick, and untied her hands. She began an uncontrollable giggle.

He lit a cigarette, checked her watch, and took a deep breath. “Don’t forget to write, baby.”

He hiked the rucksack onto his shoulder and walked away through the woods, leaving her alone on the grass, not even pausing to look back.

You never know just who might turn you into salt.

Actually he might have spent more than seven days on David Grün’s idyllic hill, had Tern and Towhee not brought up the
Daily Sun
. His little camp was well made, sheltered, utilitarian, free from any but the most natural distractions. Songbirds came to breakfast, squirrels shared his lunch, raccoons cleaned up the dinner scraps. His bedroll lay on a cushion of pines, the sun warmed porous stones that radiated heat in the night; there were blackberries, water cress, rose hips, sour grass, cherries, and a mineral spring. He might have abandoned all hope for differential equations and theories of solar origin. The microcosm was beginning to look pretty good. Only once had he been interrupted, the time David came to ask whether he cared to receive any phone messages. But Gnossos was making herbal mushroom soup at the time and only asked where the rosemary grew.

In fact, he was reheating this same brew with green oregano when the girls brought the paper and began picking wildflowers. He watched them for some time, chewed on one of Tern’s violets, showed them where the fairy lanterns hid. It was the black, alarming headline tilted on the clover, that caught his unbelieving eye.

G. ALONSO OEUF ACCEDES TO PRESIDENCY

Decision Follows Death of
President Magnolia in Freak Landslide

“What’s the matter, Gnossos?” asked the girls when they heard the curious grunt. But he was reading on, tracing lines word by word with a weak finger:

Falling shale in gorge crushes ex-dean on final field trip. Magnolia’s mangled form was recovered by Alastair P. Heap of Cambridge, Massachusetts, who was rock-scrambling nearby at the time of the event. The tragedy marred the announcement of Dean Oeuf’s betrothal to Kristin F. McCleod, daughter of G. Kenneth McCleod, special assistant to President Eisenhower . . . 

But when Gnossos stormed through the door of his Lairville apartment, Proctor Slug was waiting on the Navajo rug. He had a dossier under his arm and was rattling the heroin-filled castanets. There was an unmistakable odor of monkey-fumes in the air.

“Hold it,” came the order.

And to make sure he did, two sergeants stepped in behind him, closing the door. “Hello, Pappadopoulis,” they added, smiling.

“Sit down,” said Slug.

Gnossos glanced at the castanets and felt decidedly faint. But he remained standing and shook his head. “What’s happening?” he tried. “Little cop convention going on?”

“Why waste his time?” asked one of the sergeants. “Give him the business.”

“We know all about you,” said Slug, in a fedora. “We’ve got it all written down.”

“Those statues,” from the second sergeant. “Last Christmas.”

“Magnolia’s office,” from the first. “Vandalism.”

“That party in the loft,” said Slug, moving closer. “These castanets. Gnossos, I’m afraid you’re in a lot of trouble.”

“Don’t call me Gnossos, man.”

“Not that it matters. You’re hardly a local problem any more.” He handed him a white envelope that had PERSONAL stamped on the front in red letters.

“Open it,” said the sergeants, together.

GREETINGS
was the first word he read. And underneath, the usual invitation from the United States Army. It was signed, of course, by the chairman of the Athené draft board, and although Gnossos had never seen Oeuf’s pudgy signature before, he reflected how like him it was.

The Slugmen took away the rucksack.

Old keeper of the flame, it seemed as if the asphalt seas were calling.

Oh la.

Bump bump bump,

down the funny stairs.

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