At that moment I grew up.
“No more Vaughn Monroe!” I shouted suddenly.
He blinked his great saucer eyes in bewilderment. The chef came out of his kitchen, amazed that I had raised my voice.
The Englishman said, in a pleading voice, “Perhaps a little Glenn Miller . . .”
“No more of that,” I told him.
“Tommy Dorsey?”
“Out of the question.”
The unfortunate man was trembling, and his great jowls were beginning to quiver. He said, “Duke Ellington, then.”
“No!”
The chef said, “But Pablo, you like Duke Ellington!”
The customer said, “Or play Beiderbecke, or even the Modern Jazz Quartet! Play what you like, but play!”
“You’ve had too much,” I told him. “As far as I’m concerned, the music is finished.”
I brought my fist down on the amplifier, shattering various tubes.
The chef and the customer were speechless.
I walked out, not bothering to ask for my two weeks’ back wages. I hitchhiked into the port of Ibiza and took deck passage on a ship to Marseilles.
Today I am a saxophone player of some renown, and can be heard every night except Sunday at Le Cat’s Pajamas Club on the Rue de Hachette in Paris. I am admired for my classical purity and form, and I am respected as a purist of Dixieland Jazz.
But I still have this sin upon my head, of hypnotizing and stuffing that poor Englishman by giving him the music he desired.
I regret it most sincerely.
I have often wondered since then what happened to the chef and to the customer.
THE CUSTOMER
Dear God,
My sin took place many years ago, in a little Spanish town called Santa Eulalia del Rio. I have never before acknowledged this sin: but now I feel impelled to do so.
I had gone to Santa Eulalia to write a book. My wife had gone with me. We had no children.
While I was there, a man opened up a rijstaffel restaurant. I think that the man was a Finn or possibly a Hungarian. His restaurant was welcomed by all the expatriate colony. Before this man came, we had our choice of eating paella at Sa Punta or lobster mayonnaise at Juanito’s. The food was fine in both places, but after a while even the best of dishes become monotonous.
Many of us began to eat at the Yin-Tang, as he called it. Things were always lively there. Add to that the fact that the Hungarian had a fine collection of records and a more than adequate sound system. A place like that could not fail.
I began to eat there about five nights a week. My wife was a lovely woman, but not much of a cook. I was one of the Hungarian’s regular customers.
After about a week, I took notice of the waiter.
He was young, no more than sixteen or seventeen, and I think he was an Indonesian. He had coloring of the purest shade of olive oil, and his hair and eyebrows were sooty black. He was slender, graceful, quick. It was a pleasure to watch him darting around, serving dishes and changing records.
Harmless-sounding, isn’t it? But what ensued was a darker, less innocent complication.
As I said, I admired his grace and beauty, as one man may admire the attributes of another man. But by the second week, I found myself taking special notice of the tender lines of his cheek, the proud lift of his head, the set of his shoulders and back, and the exquisite curve of his buttocks.
I entered into a state of self-deception. I told myself that I was admiring the boy much as one would admire Greek statuary, or the heroic figures of Michelangelo. I told myself that my interest was esthetic, and nothing more. And I continued to go to the restaurant almost every night, and to eat rijstaffel, which is one of the most fattening cuisines on earth.
By the end of the month I realized, with terrible dismay, that I was infatuated with the boy. I became aware that I wished to touch him, stroke his hair, trace the lines of his body, and do other, even more awful things.
I have never been a homosexual. I have never had any reason to consider myself a potential homosexual. I have always enjoyed sexual relations with women, and have never been able to understand how any man could enjoy the body of any other man.
Now I knew, to my regret.
I was spared the shame of my realization only because of the immensity of my obsession. Every night I went to the restaurant, and stayed for as long as I decently could. The chef took to giving me extra portions, and I ate them, grateful for an excuse to remain longer.
And the boy? I cannot think that he was unconscious of my thoughts. I cannot think that he did not reciprocate. For, as the days and months passed, he hurled himself around the restaurant in a veritable frenzy, changing records, emptying already clean ashtrays, displaying himself in a rather shameless manner.
Often we exchanged meaningful looks, the boy and I. At this point my wife had gone back to the United States. The chef was oblivious to anything but the consumption of rijstaffel. And the boy and I eyed each other, made our intentions clear, but never exchanged a word or a touch.
I gained weight, of course. Who could pack away two or three pounds of rijstaffel a night and not gain weight? I gained weight insensibly, caught up in my obsession, and in my self-loathing. I neglected my friends, paid no attention to my appearance. I would leave the restaurant each night, my stomach groaning at the mass of over-spiced food within it. I would go to bed and dream of the boy, and wait impatiently for the next night when I could see him again.
Our looks became bolder, more brazen. Sometimes, when he served the dishes, he would rest his hand upon the table, as if daring me to touch it. And I would clear my throat, my eyes reproaching him for being a shameless flirt.
Swept up in this madness, I do not know how long things might have gone on, or where they might have gone to. I was losing my shyness, losing my pride, I was coming close to speaking to the boy outright. Then, quite unexpectedly, I noticed something.
I noticed that I was the only customer that the restaurant had left.
I thought about this, I pondered it deeply. I had dropped my friends over the last months, or they had dropped me. Still, why had they stopped eating at the rijstaffel restaurant?
I went night after night, and it was the same, I was the only customer. Yet I could detect no loss of quality in the food, or in the music. Everything was the same; except for me.
I saw something then. It came to me on one night much like all other nights, when I was plowing through the usual tremendous servings. I saw that I had grown monstrously fat over the course of several months. And for a moment I viewed myself from the outside:
I saw a disgustingly gross man seated in a small restaurant. A man fat enough to turn your stomach. A man in whose company you would not want to eat.
It came to me then: I was the reason why the Hungarian had lost all of his customers. For what man in his right mind would want to eat with me there? And I was there all of the time.
An insight like that must be acted upon immediately, or lost forever. I pushed the table away and got to my feet, not without some difficulty. The chef and the waiter stared at me. I began to waddle toward the door.
The chef cried, “Is something the matter with the food?”
“Not with the food,” I replied, “with me.”
The boy said, with downcast eyes, “Perhaps I have offended you . . .”
“Quite the contrary,” I replied, “you have pleased me immensely, but I have offended myself beyond measure.”
They didn’t understand. The chef cried out, “Won’t you at least eat a plate of pork sate, just made, fresh and delicious?”
And the boy said, “There’s a new Armstrong record which you have not heard yet.”
I stopped at the door. I said, “Thank you both very much. You are kind people. But I happen to be destroying myself here under your very eyes. I shall go away now and complete that task by myself.”
They stared at me, wild-eyed and uncomprehending. I waddled out of the resta
urant, to my apartment, packed a light suitcase, and found a taxi to take me into Ibiza city. I was just in time for the night flight to Barcelona.
Years have passed since that time. Time and distance stripped away my obsession. I have been in love since then, but never again with a boy.
I live now in San Miguel de Allende, in Mexico, with my wife (not the same one I came to Santa Eulalia with) and our two children.
I have often wondered what happened to the chef and the waiter. Presumably they continued their business, prospered. They may still be in Santa Eulalia, for all I know. Unless, of course, my lustful sin destroyed them in some way.
I regret my sin sincerely.
I am still trying to become a writer.
ASPECTS OF LANGRANAK
1
I can’t describe this place without describing me. Nor can I describe me without telling you about the place. But which should I start with? Perhaps I ought to describe both of us together. But I doubt if I could manage that. Perhaps I am incapable of describing anything.
Still, I am on an alien planet—a situation which is commonly considered interesting. And I am an individual, which is also supposed to be interesting. And I am certainly capable of writing down my impressions. I don’t know why I can’t bring it all together.
Perhaps I should start with a description of my inability to describe anything. But I seem to have done that, for whatever it’s worth.
2
I think I will start with spires.
The main city here is called Langranak. It is notable for its spires. From the vantage-point of a hill some five miles outside the city, the aspect is one of a multiplicity of spires. They are all shapes and sizes and colours. I have been told that Venice also has many spires, and Istanbul as well. Spires present a pleasing aesthetic pattern, no matter what their arrangement. The spires of Langranak present a definitely alien aspect. I think that is all I have to say about spires.
3
I am individual from Earth of average size and shape. I suppose I am like a lot of people. I am unusual in that I am on an alien planet.
I spend most of my time inside the spaceship. Great pains were taken to make this spaceship homelike and cosy. The main lounge looks like Holiday Inn. The galley is reminiscent of a Howard Johnson’s, and the bedroom might have been taken from a New England country inn. I feel pretty good in this spaceship. I used to laugh at American decor, but I don’t any longer. I like my spaceship very much just as it is. The hot dogs are from Nathan’s. Only the hot buttered corn on the cob is not up to Earth standards. They still haven’t licked that problem.
4
Nothing much happens here. That is the part I wanted to avoid mentioning. My idea of a story is that it should have adventure and conflict and problems and resolutions. That’s the kind of story I like to read. But nothing much happens to me. Here I am on an alien planet surrounded by alien beings, and nothing much happens to me. Nevertheless, I still believe I have a story here. Christ knows, I have all of the ingredients.
5
Yesterday I had an interview with the chief magistrate of Langranak. We discussed transspatial friendship. We both agreed that our races ought to be friends. We also talked about interstellar trade, which we both agreed upon in principle. But in fact, there doesn’t seem to be much that we have that they want, and vice-versa. Not enough to justify the high freighting costs. I mean, they have a whole planet in which to manufacture what they need, and so do we. So we had to merely agree in principle.
We had more progress when we talked about a tourist interchange programme. These people like to travel, and so do our people. The costs would be extremely high, but some people could afford it. Anyhow, it would be a beginning.
6
I sit in my spaceship and do a lot of reading. I read many books on Zen Buddhism, and also on Yoga and on Tibetan and Hindu mysticism. `Enter the silence as often as possible, stay in it as long as possible’. That’s what it’s all about, really. Methods of stopping your mind from chattering. `One-pointedness’. I want all of that very much, but my mind refuses to stay still. I have random thoughts, emotions, sensations. Sometimes I can control all of that for five minutes at a time. But that doesn’t give me much of a feeling of accomplishment. I suppose I need a guru. But that is impossible due to my circumstances. I thought about making inquiries here for a teacher. But I won’t be here long enough to make it worthwhile. It always seems to be that way.
7
Nothing seems very strange here, really. People buy things and sell things. They work at various jobs. There are a few beggars. It all seems quite comprehensible. I don’t understand everything, of course; but I don’t understand everything at home, either. I wish I could say, `What these people do about this is simply incredible’. But nothing strikes me as especially incredible. They go about their work and live their lives, and I do the same, and it all seems pretty normal. I have to keep on reminding myself that I am on an alien planet. Not that I can ever forget it, of course. It’s just that I can’t seem to get into the sense o wonder.
8
Last night there was an eclipse. I had planned to go out and see it but fall asleep over a book and missed the thing. Not that it matters. The ship’s cameras recored it automatically and I’ll catch it on replay.
9
I pulled myself together today and went out to visit the ruins. People have been urging me to see them. I am very glad that I went. The ruins, which are believed to be of a civilisation some thousands of years vanished, are situated approximately ten miles from the outskirts of Langranak. They are very extensive. They were covered with intricate carving and bas-relief figures of various creatures which my guide told me do not literally exist. There also were statues, quite grotesque and stylised. The guide said that these had once been worshipped as gods, but were no longer. There were also several labyrinths which once had a religious significance.
I took photographs of all of these things. Light conditions were average. I used a Nikon with a 50-mm lens, occasionally switching to a 90-mm lens.
Late in the day my guide pointed out the interesting fact that nowhere in all the intricate carvings was there any use of the parallelogram. The builders of these ruins may have considered the parallelogram to be aesthetically unpleasing or religiously taboo. It is also conceivable that they simply had not discovered the parallelogram shape, although they made extensive use of the square and the rectangle. No one knows for sure.
Investigation is still going on. Clarification of this point should throw a great deal of light on the psychology of this ancient and mysterious people.
10
Holiday today. I went into the city and sat at one of the cafes and drank what passes for coffee around here and watched people pass. It was a very colourful spectacle. According to the brochure, this holiday is in celebration of an important military victory over a neighbouring country. The two countries now seem to be on good terms, or at least fair terms. But it is hard to be sure about things like that.
11
There are three important and distinct racial stocks living in this city. The older inhabitants look like Englishmen, the older immigrants look like Frenchmen, and the new immigrants look like Turks. There are various tensions between these groups. Regional dress, once prominent here, has died out except for special holidays. Everybody regrets the passing of the old customs.
12
Sometimes, in the evening, I get sad and homesick. On those nights I can’t get to sleep I read and listen to tapes. I watch a movie on the ship’s projector. Then I take a sleeping pill. A couple of pills, actually. I think it’s because I’m homesick. But then I remember that I used to feel the same way at home. I used sleeping pills at home, too.
13
I’m afraid that this is not a very interesting planet. People tell me it’s more interesting in the other hemisphere. But I don’t think I’ll go there. The friendship treaty is signed now and my work is done. I guess I’ll be taki
ng off. I’m sorry this wasn’t more exotic place. But I hope to do better in my next exploration.
THE CRUEL EQUATIONS
After landing on Regulus V, the men of the Yarmolinsky Expedition made camp and activated PR-22-0134, their perimeter robot, whom they called Max. The robot was a voice-activated, bipedal mechanism whose function was to guard the camp against the depredations of aliens, in the event that aliens were ever encountered. Max had originally been a regulation gun-metal gray, but on the interminable outward trip they had repainted him a baby blue. Max stood exactly four feet high. The men of the expedition had come to think of him as a kindly, reasonable little metal man—a ferrous gnome, a miniature Tin Woodman of Oz.
They were wrong, of course. Their robot had none of the qualities which they projected onto him. PR-22-0134 was no more reasonable than a McCormick harvester, no more kindly than an automated steel mill. Morally, he might be compared to a turbine or a radio, but not to anything human. PR-220134’s only human attribute was potentiality.
Little Max, baby blue with red eyes, circled the perimeter of the camp, his sensors alert. Captain Beatty and Lieutenant James took off in the hoverjet for a week of exploration. They left Lieutenant Halloran to mind the store.
Halloran was a short, stocky man with a barrel chest and bandy legs. He was cheerful, freckled, tough, profane, and resourceful. He ate lunch and acknowledged a radio check from the exploring team. Then he unfolded a canvas chair and sat back to enjoy the scenery.
Regulus V was a pretty nice place, if you happened to be an admirer of desolation. A superheated landscape of rock, gravel, and lava stretched on all sides. There were some birds that looked like sparrows and some animals that looked like coyotes. A few cacti scratched out a bare living.
Halloran pulled himself to his feet. “Max! I’m going to take a look outside the perimeter, You’ll be in charge while I’m gone.”
The robot stopped patrolling. “Yes, sir, I will be in charge.”
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