Cat's Cradle (11 page)

“Aamons, Mona:”
the index said, “adopted by
Monzano in order to boost Monzano’s popularity, 194-199, 216 n.; childhood in compound of House of Hope and Mercy, 63-81; childhood romance with P. Castle, 72 f; death of father, 89 ff; death of mother, 92 f; embarrassed by role as national erotic symbol, 80, 95 f, 166 n., 209, 247 n., 400-406, 566 n., 678; engaged to P. Castle, 193; essential naïveté, 67-71, 80, 95 f, 116 n., 209, 274 n., 400-406, 566 n., 678; lives with Bokonon, 92-98, 196-197; poems about, 2 n., 26, 114, 119, 311, 316, 477 n., 501, 507, 555 n., 689, 718 ff, 799 ff, 800 n., 841, 846 ff, 908 n., 971, 974; poems by, 89, 92, 193; returns to Monzano, 199; returns to Bokonon, 197; runs away from Bokonon, 199; runs away from Monzano, 197; tries to make self ugly in order to stop being erotic symbol to islanders, 80, 95 f, 116 n., 209, 247 n., 400-406, 566 n., 678; tutored by Bokonon, 63-80; writes letter to United Nations, 200; xylophone virtuoso, 71.”

I showed this index entry to the Mintons, asking them if they didn’t think it was an enchanting biography in itself, a biography of a reluctant goddess of love. I got an unexpectedly expert answer, as one does in life sometimes. It appeared that Claire Minton, in her time, had been a professional indexer. I had never heard of such a profession before.

She told me that she had put her husband through college years before with her earnings as an indexer, that the earnings had been good, and that few people could index well.

She said that indexing was a thing that only the most amateurish author undertook to do for his own book. I asked her what she thought of Philip Castle’s job.

“Flattering to the author, insulting to the reader,” she said. “In a hyphenated word,” she observed, with the shrewd amiability of an expert,
‘self-indulgent.’
I’m always embarrassed when I see an index an author has made of his own work.”

“Embarrassed?”

“It’s a revealing thing, an author’s index of his own work,” she informed me. “It’s a shameless exhibition—to the
trained
eye.”

“She can read character from an index,” said her husband.

“Oh?” I said. “What can you tell about Philip Castle?”

She smiled faintly. “Things I’d better not tell strangers.”

“Sorry.”

“He’s obviously in love with this Mona Aamons Monzano,” she said.

“That’s true of every man in San Lorenzo I gather.”

“He has mixed feelings about his father,” she said.

“That’s true of every man on earth.” I egged her on gently.

“He’s insecure.”

“What mortal isn’t?” I demanded. I didn’t know
it then, but that was a very Bokononist thing to demand.

“He’ll never marry her.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve said all I’m going to say,” she said.

“I’m gratified to meet an indexer who respects the privacy of others.”

“Never index your own book,” she stated.

A
duprass
, Bokonon tells us, is a valuable instrument for gaining and developing, in the privacy of an interminable love affair, insights that are queer but true. The Mintons’ cunning exploration of indexes was surely a case in point. A
duprass
, Bokonon tells us, is also a sweetly conceited establishment. The Mintons’ establishment was no exception.

Sometime later, Ambassador Minton and I met in the aisle of the airplane, away from his wife, and he showed that it was important to him that I respect what his wife could find out from indexes.

“You know why Castle will never marry the girl, even though he loves her, even though she loves him, even though they grew up together?” he whispered.

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Because he’s a homosexual,” whispered Minton. “She can tell that from an index, too.”

W
HEN
L
IONEL
B
OYD
J
OHNSON
and Corporal Earl McCabe were washed up naked onto the shore of San Lorenzo, I read, they were greeted by persons far worse off than they. The people of San Lorenzo had nothing but diseases, which they were at a loss to treat or even name. By contrast, Johnson and McCabe had the glittering treasures of literacy, ambition, curiosity, gall, irreverence, health, humor, and considerable information about the outside world.

From the “Calypsos” again:

This statement of the property situation in San Lorenzo in 1922 is entirely accurate, according to Philip Castle. Castle Sugar was founded, as it happened,
by Philip Castle’s great-grandfather. In 1922, it owned every piece of arable land on the island.

“Castle Sugar’s San Lorenzo operations,” wrote young Castle, “never showed a profit. But, by paying laborers nothing for their labor, the company managed to break even year after year, making just enough money to pay the salaries of the workers’ tormentors.

“The form of government was anarchy, save in limited situations wherein Castle Sugar wanted to own something or to get something done. In such situations the form of government was feudalism. The nobility was composed of Castle Sugar’s plantation bosses, who were heavily armed white men from the outside world. The knighthood was composed of big natives who, for small gifts and silly privileges, would kill or wound or torture on command. The spiritual needs of the people caught in this demoniacal squirrel cage were taken care of by a handful of butterball priests.

“The San Lorenzo Cathedral, dynamited in 1923, was generally regarded as one of the man-made wonders of the New World,” wrote Castle.

T
HAT
C
ORPORAL
M
C
C
ABE
and Johnson were able to take command of San Lorenzo was not a miracle in any sense. Many people had taken over San Lorenzo— had invariably found it lightly held. The reason was simple: God, in His Infinite Wisdom, had made the island worthless.

Hernando Cortes was the first man to have his sterile conquest of San Lorenzo recorded on paper. Cortes and his men came ashore for fresh water in 1519, named the island, claimed it for Emperor Charles the Fifth, and never returned. Subsequent expeditions came for gold and diamonds and rubies and spices, found none, burned a few natives for entertainment and heresy, and sailed on.

“When France claimed San Lorenzo in 1682,” wrote Castle, “no Spaniards complained. When Denmark claimed San Lorenzo in 1699, no Frenchmen complained. When the Dutch claimed San Lorenzo in 1704, no Danes complained. When England claimed San Lorenzo in 1706, no Dutchmen complained. When Spain reclaimed San Lorenzo in 1720, no Englishmen complained. When, in 1786, African Negroes took command of a British slave ship, ran it ashore on
San Lorenzo, and proclaimed San Lorenzo an independent nation, an empire with an emperor, in fact, no Spaniards complained.

“The emperor was Tum-bumwa, the only person who ever regarded the island as being worth defending. A maniac, Tum-bumwa caused to be erected the San Lorenzo Cathedral and the fantastic fortifications on the north shore of the island, fortifications within which the private residence of the so-called President of the Republic now stands.

“The fortifications have never been attacked, nor has any sane man ever proposed any reason why they should be attacked. They have never defended anything. Fourteen hundred persons are said to have died while building them. Of these fourteen hundred, about half are said to have been executed in public for substandard zeal.”

Castle Sugar came into San Lorenzo in 1916, during the sugar boom of the First World War. There was no government at all. The company imagined that even the clay and gravel fields of San Lorenzo could be tilled profitably, with the price of sugar so high. No one complained.

When McCabe and Johnson arrived in 1922 and announced that they were placing themselves in charge, Castle Sugar withdrew flaccidly, as though from a queasy dream.

“T
HERE WAS AT LEAST ONE
quality of the new conquerors of San Lorenzo that was really new,” wrote young Castle. “McCabe and Johnson dreamed of making San Lorenzo a Utopia.

“To this end, McCabe overhauled the economy and the laws.

“Johnson designed a new religion.”

Castle quoted the “Calypsos” again:

There was a tug at my coat sleeve as I read. I looked up.

Little Newt Hoenikker was standing in the aisle next to me. “I thought maybe you’d like to go back to the bar,” he said, “and hoist a few.”

So we did hoist and topple a few, and Newt’s tongue was loosened enough to tell me some things about Zinka, his Russian midget dancer friend. Their love nest, he told me, had been in his father’s cottage on Cape Cod.

“I may not ever have a marriage, but at least I’ve had a honeymoon.”

He told me of idyllic hours he and his Zinka had spent in each other’s arms, cradled in Felix Hoenikker’s old white wicker chair, the chair that faced the sea.

And Zinka would dance for him. “Imagine a woman dancing just for me.”

“I can see you have no regrets.”

“She broke my heart. I didn’t like that much. But that was the price. In this world, you get what you pay for.”

He proposed a gallant toast. “Sweethearts and wives,” he cried.

I
WAS IN THE BAR
with Newt and H. Lowe Crosby and a couple of strangers, when San Lorenzo was sighted. Crosby was talking about pissants. “You know what I mean by a pissant?”

“I know the term,” I said, “but it obviously doesn’t have the ding-a-ling associations for me that it has for you.”

Crosby was in his cups and had the drunkard’s illusion that he could speak frankly, provided he spoke affectionately. He spoke frankly and affectionately of Newt’s size, something nobody else in the bar had so far commented on.

“I don’t mean a little feller like this.” Crosby hung a ham hand on Newt’s shoulder. “It isn’t size that makes a man a pissant. It’s the way he thinks. I’ve seen men four times as big as this little feller here, and they were pissants. And I’ve seen little fellers—well, not this little actually, but pretty damn little, by God—and I’d call them real men.”

“Thanks,” said Newt pleasantly, not even glancing at the monstrous hand on his shoulder. Never had I
seen a human being better adjusted to such a humiliating physical handicap. I shuddered with admiration.

“You were talking about pissants,” I said to Crosby, hoping to get the weight of his hand off Newt.

“Damn right I was.” Crosby straightened up.

“You haven’t told us what a pissant is yet,” I said.

“A pissant is somebody who thinks he’s so damn smart, he never can keep his mouth shut. No matter what anybody says, he’s got to argue with it. You say you like something, and, by God, he’ll tell you why you’re wrong to like it. A pissant does his best to make you feel like a boob all the time. No matter what you say, he knows better.”

“Not a very attractive characteristic,” I suggested.

“My daughter wanted to marry a pissant once,” said Crosby darkly.

“Did she?”

“I squashed him like a bug.” Crosby hammered on the bar, remembering things the pissant had said and done. “Jesus!” he said, “we’ve all been to college!” His gaze lit on Newt again. “You go to college?”

“Cornell,” said Newt.

“Cornell!” cried Crosby gladly. “My God, I went to Cornell.”

“So did he.” Newt nodded at me.

“Three Cornellians—all in the same plane!” said Crosby, and we had another
granfalloon
festival on our hands.

When it subsided some, Crosby asked Newt what he did.

“I paint.”

“Houses?”

“Pictures.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Crosby.

“Return to your seats and fasten your seat belts, please,” warned the airline hostess. “We’re over Monzano Airport, Bolivar, San Lorenzo.”

“Christ! Now wait just a Goddamn minute here,” said Crosby, looking down at Newt. “All of a sudden I realize you’ve got a name I’ve heard before.”

“My father was the father of the atom bomb.” Newt didn’t say Felix Hoenikker was
one
of the fathers. He said Felix was
the
father.

“Is that so?” asked Crosby.

“That’s so.”

“I was thinking about something else,” said Crosby. He had to think hard. “Something about a dancer.”

“I think we’d better get back to our seats,” said Newt, tightening some.

“Something about a Russian dancer.” Crosby was sufficiently addled by booze to see no harm in thinking out loud. “I remember an editorial about how maybe the dancer was a spy.”

“Please, gentlemen,” said the stewardess, “you really must get back to your seats and fasten your belts.”

Newt looked up at H. Lowe Crosby innocently.
“You sure the name was Hoenikker?” And, in order to eliminate any chance of mistaken identity, he spelled the name for Crosby.

“I could be wrong,” said H. Lowe Crosby.

T
HE ISLAND
, seen from the air, was an amazingly regular rectangle. Cruel and useless stone needles were thrust up from the sea. They sketched a circle around it.

At the south end of the island was the port city of Bolivar.

It was the only city.

It was the capital.

It was built on a marshy table. The runways of Monzano Airport were on its water front.

Mountains arose abruptly to the north of Bolivar, crowding the remainder of the island with their brutal humps. They were called the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, but they looked like pigs at a trough to me.