by James Jones
“See you then, then.” He marched off, his starched trenchcoat ballooning, the collar up around his ears. I thought briefly that he looked like Floyd Gibbons or Ernest Hemingway or some damned body. I started to turn away, and stopped.
“Harry!” I called after him sharply. “I guess you know I don’t approve of all this business!”
He stopped and turned back, trenchcoat ballooning, collar up around the bald head, and grinned. “I rather gathered that.”
That night Samantha Everton did not show up at the seven o’clock meeting of Americans at the Gallaghers’ apartment. But about eight-thirty, just as everybody else was leaving, she appeared suddenly, her short hair looking curly and cute.
When the rest of us left, she stayed behind, quiet and somber and reading another comic book. As we went out, Louisa went over to her.
22
NOTHING HAPPENED ON SUNDAY.
Almost nothing happened on Monday, either. In Monday’s Paris Herald a piece by some reporter, Koven I think it was, stated that le Général had proclaimed himself winner in a serious test of strength against the Communists.
In Monday’s paper it also said that Helen Keller died in her sleep at 87. The item was datelined Westport, Conn., Sunday, June 2nd.
I thought that was kind of funny. Apparently, nobody else did. Or at least nobody mentioned it.
Also, in Monday’s Herald-Tribune a piece told how Pravda, the Soviet Union’s official organ (I like that phrase, official organ), had stepped up its criticism of le Général. I confess I found that nearly as important as the fact that Helen Keller had died.
Then, in Tuesday’s Paris Herald there was an item datelined New York, June 3rd, stating that Andy Warhol, painter of the Campbell’s Soup can and underground film-maker, the rage of the Jet Set, had been shot and seriously wounded by some woman named Valeria Solanis, leader, and apparently sole member, of an organization named S.C.U.M. (Society for Cutting Up Men), who had once acted in one of his dirty movies. I was almost glad that Helen Keller had not lived to hear about that. It looked like it was going to be a good week all around. Meantime, the Pentecostal weekend was going on, went on, had been going on. Frenchmen by the millions picnicked in the country, or visited relatives there.
On Monday Prime Minister Pompidou went on TV for a 12-minute address, his first since le Général had dissolved the Congrès for new elections. He warned the strikers of the injury to the National Economy, stated that the strike had cost the nation six billion dollars so far. I could not help remembering what Harry had said that day, when we first walked over to the newly occupied Odéon.
On Tuesday there was the biggest traffic jam in Paris history. People coming back from the Pentecost vacation tried en masse to drive their cars in to work in town. The railroads, Métros, autobuses, and taxis were all still striking. Almost no policemen were available for traffic duty. In addition there was a Young Gaullist demonstration marching from Trocadéro to the Champ-de-Mars which further disrupted circulation. Some people actually sat in their cars in the same spot for three or four hours. I, of course, did not go out into the town. Neither did Harry. It was very pleasant and quiet, on the Island.
But all in all things seemed to be tapering off. Another point was that tobacco was again being delivered to tobacco stores, and the smokers’ crisis appeared to be easing.
It was on that Tuesday that Hill Gallagher called me. He called rather early, around noon, to make sure I would be there. I was. I was still in bed. As a matter of fact, I had waked up only about a minute before he called. When he ascertained that I was home, he said he wanted to come by and see me.
“Jack?” his voice said when I picked up the phone. “Jack?” His voice sounded peculiar, different.
“Yes?” I said. “Who is it?” I was still a little dopey.
“Hill,” he said. “Hill.” When I did not respond immediately he repeated it again. “Hill!”
“Yes, Hill, yes,” I said. “What is it?”
“Did I wake you?”
“Well, yes. Just about.”
“I wanted to make sure and catch you. I want to come by and see you, if I may. I was afraid you might go out. I’m leaving Paris. I wanted to say goodby, and talk a minute.”
That I’m leaving Paris woke me up a good deal more. “Well, can you give me an hour?” I said. “I’m not really awake yet. And I haven’t—”
“Oh, sure,” his voice said. “I’ll be over in an hour and a half, say, okay?”
“Fine. Do you want to have lunch?”
“No. I’ve eaten already.”
“All right. See you then.”
“Fine,” he said.
I hung up.
I could not place what it was about his voice that sounded so different. But there was certainly something changed. I buzzed my Portuguese and addressed myself to my coffee and juice and the morning papers. I do hate to be disturbed in my morning ritual. I suppose that sounds old-fashioned, even ridiculous, to a younger generation. But this meant I would have to hurry through the papers, if I wanted to shave at leisure.
When he came in I was ready for him though. He appeared to have put on a little bit of tan, as though he had been in the country for the Pentecost weekend himself. But under the new bit of color he looked extremely haggard, as if he had not slept at all since the last time I had seen him a week before. Also, he was clutching some book. Wherever he moved around the apartment he did not let go of this book, which was quite thick. I could not see the title, and preferred not to peer too obviously, but it was a blue board cover and it had what looked to be Chinese characters in red on the front and on the spine.
Well, we got into it all soon enough. It was when I offered him a drink.
“Do you want a bash of something?” I said. He was moving around restlessly.
“No. I’ve stopped d—” Then he said, “Oh, sure. Why not? Give me a Scotch. A Scotch on the rocks. A good big one.” There was a peculiar condescending tone in his voice.
“You don’t have to have a drink,” I said.
“No, no. No, no. I want one, I want one.”
I made them. I took a cold beer for myself. It was a little too early for me for Scotch. But not for Hill. He gulped his down like a man just returned from the desert.
“You’ve picked up a little sun,” I said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Sitting on the quai,” he said. “You know, the one out in front of Notre-Dame there. Below that little park with the statue of Charlemagne. On the lower level.”
“I see,” I said.
Well, I did. I knew the place. It had become a hangout for all sorts of hippy kids, in sunny weather. Penniless or drifting or perhaps both they would stretch out there and take the sun with their shirts off. I had always thought it charming. But not for Hill.
And that was when he brought the book forward.
“Do you know this book?”
He held the spine toward me and above the red Chinese characters, which I could not read, I read the English letters. It said: The I CHING, or Book of Changes. It was published by some American firm.
“I got it at Galignani’s,” Hill said.
“I think I’ve heard of it,” I said. But I was thinking to myself in dismay, Oh, no! I had been through that whole routine myself, in my youth. With us it was Annie Besant, and Madame Blavatski, and finally Paul Brunton.
“You just open it anywhere and get the answer to what you want to know,” Hill said. “Of course, you have to concentrate first. Empty your mind.
“Shall I show you?”
With us it was a book called TRISMEGATUS. It was even bigger. And for a subtitle it had, Trismegatus Revealed.
“Well, sure,” I said. “But what if you get the wrong answers?”
“You don’t,” he said. “That’s what’s so marvelous. Here, let me show you.”
He held the book in his right hand, and placed his left hand flat on the cover, and frowned. After half a minute he opened it.
/> “Changes and movements are judged according to the furtherance that they bring,” Hill read. “Good fortune and misfortune change according to the conditions. Therefore, love and hate combat each other, and good fortune and misfortune result therefrom. The far and the near injure each other, and remorse and humiliation result therefrom. The true and the false influence each other, and advantage and injury result therefrom. In all the situations of the Book of Changes it is thus: When closely related things do not harmonize, misfortune is the result: This gives rise to injury, remorse, and humiliation.” He stopped and looked up. “Now, isn’t that profound? Isn’t that great?”
“Well, it’s certainly profound,” I said, cautiously. “I don’t really see how anybody could quibble with a statement like that. But what was your question?”
“My question was: What shall I do? You see, that’s what I mean. It answers everything,” he said, and his eyes started to glow. “Guy I met turned me onto this. And now I wouldn’t be without it.” He wrapped his hands protectively around the book.
“Well,” I said, “you know.”
“You ever read Alan Watts?” Hill said. “Alan W. Watts? You know, The Way of Zen, for instance, and Nature, Man and Woman?”
“Yes. I know his work. I’ve read some of it.”
“Well!” Hill said. “There! You see?”
“See what?” I said. “Watts is English, isn’t he?”
“Is he?” Hill said. “I didn’t know. What difference does that make?”
“I think he was English,” I said. “Maybe he’s American now. The English have a long history of association with, and immersion in, Eastern philosophies. That’s largely because their warrior race conquered so much of the East, and thus were brought into intimate contact with the stuff.”
“So?” Hill said.
“So nothing,” I said. “Do you know the Zen in the Art of Archery book? By this German Herrigel?”
“I’ve got that, too!” Hill said excitedly. “I’ve got that, too!”
“Good,” I said. “But have you got a bow?”
“I’m thinking of getting one. And some arrows. And a target. That’s what I came to talk about.”
“Archery?” I said.
“No, not archery. I mean, not just archery. I told you I was leaving Paris.”
“I used to be quite an archer,” I told him.
“Did you?” Hill said. “That doesn’t seem like you. It’s hard to believe.”
“Well,” I said. “It’s true, all right. Matter of fact, I could send you to a damned good archery shop on Avenue Malakoff just off the Place Maillot. They’ve got everything there, and bows from a 50 pound pull up to 140 pound pull, if anybody can go that high. And double reflex bows; they’ve got the lot.”
“Well, what do you know!” he said. “Did you get into that through Zen?”
“Well, no,” I said. “Not originally. But then I did.”
“How did that happen?” he asked eagerly.
I didn’t know how to answer. I decided to tell the simple truth. “Well, I used to believe that men ought not to kill animals with rifles, especially deer. Forest deer, I mean. Whitetails. Like in Pennsylvania and New York State. That you meet at close range. I thought they ought to give the animals more of an even break, and do it in the style of the ancient days. With spears or bows. It was a moral point. I’ve killed four deer you know, with broadhead arrows. I’ve killed running rabbits with the straight-tip target arrows. —Not often,” I added, “but I have.”
“I don’t want to kill anything,” Hill said.
“Neither do I,” I said, “anymore.”
“You don’t?”
“No. You want to know why?”
He nodded.
I did not know if I ought to go that far, really. But it was the truth. The truth of my youth. And he was so obviously going through a bad time. And I wanted to help him. I really so much wanted to help him. “Well, I was gutting out a deer I’d shot. It was the last one I ever shot. Now, deer contain an awful lot of guts. As do we. I might say that deer are about 65 per cent digestive system. Anyway, the day before, I had skinned my right hand badly, saddling a horse. That was out in Wyoming. And there was a big scab on it. I mean, a big thick scab. Well, after dipping my hand into that deer’s belly for so long, I found that the contact with the deer’s blood had completely dissolved my big scab. I happened to look at my hand, and the skinned spot was absolutely pink and clean. That shocked me. I don’t know to this day why it shocked me so badly, but it sure shocked me. I might even say it horrified me. And that was when I went to target archery and then somebody told me about this Zen book and I got a copy of it.”
“Jesus!” Hill said.
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly what I felt.”
“But then why did you give up the target archery after?”
“Well,” I said, “to tell you the truth, it got so it bored me, finally. It just got so that I was bored with it. So I quit. I suppose I got older.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. I was hoping it all would get through to him.
“I don’t believe in killing anything,” he said, finally.
“But you got to eat,” I said.
“Eat plants, vegetables,” he said. “They don’t feel.”
“How do you know?”
That slowed him up a little. He clutched that crazy book. “Well,” he said. “Well. At least they don’t feel as much as sentient animals. They don’t scream.”
“Nobody can be sure of that. How do you know that they don’t scream on a decibel level, or in a different medium, that we simply can’t hear?” I had been through all this for years, when I was younger.
Hill came up out of the chair and started walking around, still clutching that I CHING book. “Well,” he said. “Well. I don’t know. I don’t really know. That’s why I’m going away from Paris. I want to think about all these things. I think I’ll go by your shop there and get me some archery gear before I leave.”
“Where are you going to go, Hill?” I said. “And what about money?”
“Cadaqu?s. In Spain. It’s just over the French border, on the sea. I’ve been there.”
I knew he had. He had been there a couple of summers ago, with his father and his mother and McKenna.
“But a guy I know told me there are some great caves there,” Hill said. He sat down. “It’s a nice town, you know. Lots of younger people come there. And these caves, apparently they’re great. They’re outside of town about ten miles, and quite dry. Nobody owns them. Or if they do, they don’t holler about people using them. I’ve got two buddies who’ve been there for quite a while. Sleeping bags. That’s what I’m after. That’s what I’m looking for.”
“Why?”
“Meditate. Same way you have to meditate over your archery, if you want it to be good, perfect. I’ll sit there and meditate. Think a lot. Try to figure it all out.”
“I see,” I said, again.
He did not say anything at that point, and sat clutching his I CHING book and staring at it.
“If you figure it all out, will you send me a wire?” I said.
“I sure will!” he said, looking up eagerly.
I found I had nothing to say to this. After a moment I said, “But what about money?”
“Oh I’ve got a little money you know. You know,” he said. “From my maternal grandmother. I’ve even got my own bank account. The folks have never touched that.”
“So you’re going to become an Oriental philosopher?”
“No. No, no. Not at all,” he said. “But there’s a lot of things.”
It seemed to me his entire language had changed, in the week since I had seen him last.
He looked up.
“Why is there so much hate?”
“Well,” I said judiciously, and coughed. “I don’t think there’s as much hate as you seem to think. Actually I guess it’s what one could call, in the parlance, a conflict of interests. But when you�
��re raised up in a background, like you were, that keeps pounding into you that everybody should be full of love, and then you get out there and see that not everybody is, I guess it comes as a kind of shock.”
“I suppose,” he said. “I suppose.”
I wasn’t sure he’d heard a single word I’d said all during the afternoon. Suddenly he got up and turned half away from me, placed his left hand on the top cover of his I CHING book, frowned for half a minute. Then he turned around and opened it again.
“Heavenly bodies exemplify duration,” he read. “They move in their fixed orbits, and because of this their light-giving power endures. The seasons of the year follow a fixed law of change and transformation, hence can produce effects that endure.
“So likewise the dedicated man embodies an enduring meaning in his way of life, and thereby the world is formed. In that which gives things their duration, we can come to understand the nature of all beings in heaven and on earth.
“The Image:
“Thunder and wind: the image of duration.
“Thus the superior man stands firm, and does not change his direction.
“Thunder rolls, and the wind blows; both are examples of extreme mobility and so are seemingly the very opposite of duration, but the laws governing their appearance and subsidence, their coming and going, endure. In the same way the independence of the superior man is not based on rigidity and immobility of character. He always keeps abreast of the time and changes with it. What endures is the unswerving directive, the inner law of his being, which determines all his actions.” He looked up.
“True enough, I guess,” I said. “But?”
He closed the book.
“That’s what I’ve got to do!” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Just that! My God, can’t you see?” He put the book under his arm and looked around vaguely. “Well, I got to go.”
“Hill,” I said. “Have you been on a lot of pot lately?”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Down there under the bridge there’s nothing but pot. It’s great.”
I had no answer to that.
“I met a couple buddies there who have spent lots of time in them Cadaqu?s caves. They know all about it down there the scene.