Masters of Atlantis

by Charles Portis

  Brothers or not, the two men were already drifting apart. The hard work, the deadly cold, the dull diet, the isolation—all these things made for short tempers. They began to find fault and snap at one another. The fog was depressing and added to their feeling of confinement. From morning till night the lower end of Hogandale was enveloped in a white mist, and living in this cloud made them irritable and affected their sense of balance and depth perception. They glided into doorframes, as on shipboard, and stubbed their toes on the stairs.

  Golescu made the better adjustment, but he had his bagweed. The plants flourished in their pots despite the cold and the weak light. He became attached to them, stopping at each one on his morning round to jot a note or poke about in the dirt or playfully thump the little gray bags that dangled beneath the gray blossoms.

  Popper, who had no interest in horticulture as such, drew closer to Squanto. He and the jay took their meals together at the kitchen table while Golescu ate his soup and crackers alone in his upstairs room. It was at this time that Popper began to drink heavily.

  Hogandale had two business establishments. At the top of the hill on the highway there was a Sinclair gasoline station, where the bus stopped, and down the way, past a dozen empty store buildings, there was a combination saloon-grocery-post office called Dad’s Place. Every afternoon at about four o’clock Popper could be seen emerging from the mist below, a black apparition with a stick, not so much the boulevardier as the hiker with his staff, leaning forward against the slope and marching steadily upward toward the first drink of the day at Dad’s Place.

  The saloon was dark and drafty and smelled of kerosene. There was no music, not even a radio, and no popcorn or other gratis snacks. Dad and the few customers, grizzled coots to a man, were sunk in a torpor so profound as to choke off all attempts at conversation. Displays of robust ignorance Popper was prepared for, but not this morbid hush. At first he brought Squanto along to perform. He would put seeds, crumbs or bits of cheese in one ear. Squanto would peck at the stuff and all the while Popper would nod and make quiet replies as though the bird were whispering things to him. Squanto delivered cigarettes up and down the bar. He told fortunes from a deck of playing cards, plucking one card from a spread fan. Popper had lately taught him to say “cock-a-doodle-doo,” the words, but none of this amused the barflies and so he gave it up and left Squanto at home.

  There was a whiskey shortage too and in order to get one shot of bourbon Popper first had to buy three shots of nasty brown rum. Getting drunk at Dad’s Place was little better than staying sober at home and so one afternoon he passed it by and went to the top of the hill and caught a bus for Rollo.

  Rollo was the county seat and had life more or less as Popper remembered it. There were theaters, churches, banks, bars, streetlights. There was a schoolhouse made of fieldstone, with paper flowers pasted to the windows, and a playground where the children joined hands and danced about in a circle at recess. There was a courthouse, also of fieldstone, and Popper used this as a pretext for his frequent trips, telling Golescu that he was looking up land titles at the clerk’s office.

  Actually he was scouting out the bars. The best one was in the Hotel Rollo. The drinks there were good, the toilet was clean and just off the lobby there was a small writing room, with desk and free stationery, where Popper sometimes wrote letters to the editor of the local newspaper, commenting on current affairs and signing himself “Harmless Elderly Man” and “Today’s Woman.” But the hotel drinks were expensive and Popper finally settled on a place across the street called the Blue Hole, where they were cheaper. This bar was congenial without being boisterous and the management there insisted on only one shot of rum to one of bourbon.

  Popper soon became a favorite with the Blue Hole regulars, he having put it about that he was a wounded airman, the pilot of a “pursuit ship” who had been obliged on more than one occasion to “hit the silk.” He could not, however, be drawn much further on the subject of aerial combat. He waved off questions, shaking his head modestly and offering to buy a round of drinks.

  In a short time he came to like the rum, to prefer it, to demand it. The cheaper and rawer it was, the better he liked it. He reflected on this quirk of human nature and told June Mack, the barmaid, that it was one of God’s most merciful blessings that people grew to love the things that necessity compelled them to eat and drink. The Hindoos, for example, ate nothing but rice, and you would have to use bayonets to make them eat chicken and dumplings. It was the same with the Eskimos and their blubber. Don’t, whatever you do, try to snatch blubber away from an Eskimo and force on him a thirty-two-ounce T-bone steak, medium well, with grilled onions and roasted potatoes.

  June Mack took a shine to Popper. He was an excellent tipper and by far the most romantic figure she had ever had the pleasure to serve. She hung on his words and learned that in college he had been a star athlete, captain of both the varsity eleven and the varsity nine. He had gone on to become a New York playboy in a top hat, living a life of ease and frivolity, carousing nightly with his lighthearted pals and their madcap sweethearts along “old Broadway.” Then with the war came responsibility. He disliked talking about these experiences but she could see that he had suffered and that for all his bright manner there was some secret sorrow in his life.

  Popper became fond of June too, and each time she brought his drink, always a generous measure, he would catch her withdrawing hand in flight and give her fingers a little lingering squeeze. One thing led to another. He treated her to dinners and walked her home after work to her wee house on Bantry Street. Their problem, the ancient predicament of lovers, was one of finding a place where they might be alone. Neither of them owned a car and it was much too cold for any sort of outdoor dalliance. June lived with her mother in a house that had only three small rooms, so there was nothing doing at Mack house.

  One day Popper proposed a visit to his “ranch” in Hogandale. June was not nearly so coy as he supposed her to be and she accepted at once. Indeed, she could hardly believe her luck, Austin Popper being easily the best catch in the Blue Hole if not in all of Rollo. She was curious about the ranch. Popper was vague as to its size, speaking of it as “my little spread in the clouds,” or dismissing it as one of his many hobbies. She knew he had a shadowy partner, a sick old man, and that they grew experimental plants in their house, some kind of high-protein weed that would revolutionize the cattle business, but it was not always easy to follow the things Austin said and she had no very clear picture of the arrangement.

  Sunday was June’s free day. Popper came to call before noon and made complimentary remarks about her auburn hair, set in rigid waves by some heat process, and her harmonizing green dress. He suggested that they take a turn around the courthouse square, so he could show her off, and then go on to the Hotel Rollo for an elegant Sunday feed before catching the bus to Hogandale.

  But June had two surprises for him. It was time to show her stuff in the kitchen and she would treat him for a change. She had collected some things in a sack and would prepare him a home-cooked meal at the ranch. Popper was pleased. He rummaged about in the sack and saw that she had picked up some of his favorite tidbits, including chicken livers, fudge, deviled eggs and a can of sweetened condensed milk, very hard to find these days. With that they would make some snow ice cream.

  The second and greater surprise was that Mother Mack was to accompany them. She, a plump squab like her daughter, hastened to say that she hoped Mr. Popper would not take it amiss, as suggesting in any way that June needed a chaperone, or that she, Mrs. Mack, was pushing herself forward. It was just that she had been housebound all winter and would like to join them in their outing, in their excursion through the countryside and a day at the ranch. Would it be inconvenient? She knew that three made a crowd. Would she be excess baggage?

  “Certainly not,” said Popper. “The more, the merrier. Three, you know, is the perfect number. Unity plus two. It’s just the thing. I should have thought of it
myself.”

  He was already a little drunk and on the bus ride to Hogandale he got worse. He drank openly from half-pint bottles of rum that he kept stowed in the major pockets of his overcoat and suit coat. There was a certain amount of gurgling and spillage that June found embarrassing. Here was a loutish side of Austin she had not seen before. At the Blue Hole he was always the gentleman, always removing his hat and never spitting or blowing his nose on the floor or using foul language. She wondered if he might be nervous. Men were so odd in their dealings with women.

  What had escaped June’s notice in recent weeks was that Popper had become a drunk. The decline had been rapid, and she, blinded by affection, had failed to recognize the signs—the rheumy eye, the splotchy face, the trembling hand, the loss of appetite, the repetitive monologue, the misbuttoned shirt and, perhaps most conclusive, the use of ever smaller bottles, this being the pathetic buying pattern of many alcoholics. She knew nothing of his solitary drinking, at all hours, in bed, on the street, in moving vehicles and public toilets. Huggins at his worst had never been so completely bedeviled.

  He became loud and jolly on the bus, talking to the passengers at large about his dream of the night before, in which a rat had raced up his trouser leg. June and her mother looked away. An old woman at the back said, “A rat dream means your enemies are stirring. That’s what the dream book says.”

  On arrival in Hogandale, June was annoyed to find that she and her mom would have to walk down a steep hill. Their short legs and platform shoes were ill suited for such a rough descent.

  Popper said, “This tramp in the snow will get our blood going. It will make us crave our dinner all the more.”

  As they stumbled along, June suddenly remembered Austin’s partner. She expressed concern that there might not be enough food for four people, and further, that the food was rich and perhaps unsuitable for an old man in poor health.

  “Oh no, he won’t be joining us,” said Popper. “Cezar is not a sociable man. He lies up all winter and lives off his hump. He’ll be upstairs mashing his weeds. I’ll leave a little pot of something outside his door that he can eat with his ivory chopsticks. If we’re lucky we won’t even catch a glimpse of him.”

  They had reached the desolate edge of town.

  “Careful now, ladies, watch your step.”

  On a rocky lot there loomed up out of the mist an old house made of gray boards. It was frankly a house, angular and upright: There were no cows about and no pens, barns, troughs or other signs of pastoral industry. No collie dog named Shep ran to greet them. The woodpile was just that, a low sprawl of sticks minimally organized, like something beavers might have thrown together. Under a window toward the rear of the house there was a snowcapped mound of cans and garbage. It was a ranch unlike any the two Macks had ever seen before.

  “A little haze today,” said Popper, assisting the ladies up the icy front steps. “It’s nonsense, of course, keeping our doors locked like this, but Cezar insists on it. All these chains. I have to humor him in such things. He was once a very distinguished man in his field but is now just as crazy as a betsy bug.”

  Inside the house there was a greenish gloom. June was almost overcome by the camphor smell. She was no stranger to the fetid rooms of bachelors but this place had a sharper odor, like that of the sickroom. Bagweed covered the floor. The house was ankle deep in foliage, the thick green mat broken only by narrow trails which Popper and Golescu had beaten down in their passage across the rooms. The runners had ramified and intertwined so that it was no longer possible to identify a particular leaf with a particular plant, except at or near the base of that plant. Chairs and tables were frozen in position by the strangling coils of bagweed. Along the windows some of the sill boards had been split by the driving force of the weed.

  June said, “Look, Austin, there’s a bird in the house!”

  “What, a bird? Impossible.”

  “There. On the back of that chair. See? I mean, jeepers, a bird in the house!”

  “I believe you’re right. Yes, it is a bird, June, and it looks to me like a blue jay, a very impudent corvine bird. I wonder how he got in. Don’t worry, I’ll handle this. Maybe you’d better stand back, Mrs. Mack, until we know where we are with this animal. I mean to get to the bottom of this ‘bird in the house’ business.”

  He whacked the cane against his palm and advanced on Squanto. “Well now, what’s your game? Speak up, sir, how did you get in? Did you think this was a bird sanctuary? Are you looking for bright objects to steal? Or is it food? Did you think you were going to nip in here and then just nip out again with some of my toasted nuts? Nothing to say? Not talking today, are we? You might at least have the courtesy to greet my guests.”

  Squanto cocked his head from one side to the other and then gave his speech. “Welcome June. To Mystery Ranch. Welcome June. To Mystery Ranch.”

  The words were fairly clear and the Macks were delighted. Popper extended his forearm. The bird hopped onto it and sat there with the gravity of a falcon.

  “Oh yes, they thought you were a bad boy, Squanto.”

  “Squatto, is it?” said June.

  “Squanto.”

  “A talking bird,” said Mrs. Mack. “I’ve heard of people keeping canary birds but not jaybirds. I didn’t know they could talk.”

  “He’s quite old now and new words are difficult for him. It gets harder and harder to drive anything into his little crested head. Anyway, Squanto and I are glad you enjoyed our little joke. I happen to think a light note is important. It sets a friendly tone. It breaks the ice. Speaking of which, let us move on to the kitchen, ladies. I’ll stoke up the fire and we’ll be much warmer in there. The vines are not so thick on the floor there and I’ve moved the cot and the table back against the wall. We may want to dance later. The important thing now, as I see it, is for June to get into her apron toot sweet. We’ve had our bit of fun, and now, I don’t mind telling you, I’m ready to get down to serious business and tackle some of those chicken livers on toast points.”

  In the kitchen there were black windrows of soot on the floor but little bagweed, except around the base of the walls. The table and chairs were spackled with whitecapped bird droppings. Burlap bags were stuffed around the window frames. Overhead there was a long stovepipe and from the rusty elbow joint there came a steady fall of fine soot.

  “Here, ladies, drape these towels over your heads, if you will, please. Don we now our gay apparel. That black stuff will get in your hair and it’s the very devil to get out, not to mention your nose and ears.”

  Popper and Mrs. Mack sat at the table while June bustled about. Mrs. Mack would have liked to rest her arms on the table but the oilcloth was sticky with molasses. It pulled fibers from her sweater. The kitchen was poorly furnished. The few cooking vessels had deposits of carbonized grease at their bottoms. There were no measuring, beating or sifting instruments. The only condiments were salt and pepper, all mixed together in a glass jar with ice-pick holes in the lid.

  “Saves a step or two,” said Popper. “Takes the guesswork out of seasoning.”

  June and her mother drank hot chocolate topped off with floating marshmallows. Popper stayed with his rum, mixing it with hot water and molasses. He talked on and on in an extravagant way that confused Mrs. Mack. All she could think to say was, “Well, aren’t you smart!” to the bird, who had lapsed into muttering and squawking. Popper drank and chattered away and tried to pick out a tune by dinging a spoon against the glassware. June was a plain cook, no bay leaves or underdone chicken breasts for her, but she was a good cook and she became more and more exasperated with Austin. All this loving effort for a babbling drunk.

  When at last the dinner was served his head fell. The Macks likewise bowed, and then after a time they saw that he was not, as they had thought, lost in a prayer of thanksgiving, but asleep. They left him to his nap and spoke in whispers as they ate. His head sank in jerks and his face was not far from the livers and congealing gravy on his p
late when there came a voice from the doorway.

  “What do these women want? Get this gang of women out of here.”

  It was Professor Golescu. He was wearing bib overalls with a black buzzard feather stuck in the breast pocket. With his worker’s cap and pointed beard and glittering eyes he looked like V. I. Lenin. June was astonished. Austin had spoken of his associate as “demented” and “badly stooped” and as having “abnormal brain rhythms,” and yet here was no such pitiful figure but rather a well-formed and dynamic little man who set her pulse racing.

  The cold draft from the open door brought Popper around. He shuddered and sat up. “Ho. Cezar. Come in and warm yourself. Ladies, my partner, Cezar Golescu. He comes to us from the Caspian Sea and his name means ‘not many camels.’ ”

  Golescu said, “Who are these women? Our agreement was no women and no drink.”

  “Don’t mind him, ladies. You must make allowances. He has no manners. I had always thought that the laws of hospitality were universal but it seems Cezar and his people, the Shittite people of central Asia, have their own ideas about these things. Look at those eyes. We are entering a new age of reptiles.”

  “Where is my soup?”

  “He wants his soup. Well, we can’t talk soup until you take off your cap. These ladies are my guests.”

  “You are drunk again, Popper.”

  “Not at all. We are simply having a civilized evening of good food and good conversation. Where is the harm in that? It makes for a change. This is my good friend from Rollo, Miss June Mack. And over here, though you would never guess it, is her mother, the very charming Mrs. Mack. Now if you think you can be polite, Cezar, you are welcome to join us. Or you can go back to your weeds. Suit yourself but we can’t have you standing there in the doorway scowling at us like that.”