Scumbler

by William Wharton

  Sweik gets to laughing so hard tears slide down his cheeks from the back pain. We’ll write to the biggest motorcycle club in America and request a charter for our Paris-American Motorcycle Club. We’ll invent stories of way-out trips and races; send off reports of these hokey events; create a completely ersatz motor scene.

  Sweik laughs and hurts; probably the best thing for his back, relax the muscles. I get some paper from his table and Sweik, propped up there in bed, writes out our letter. We get off a very good maniac missive, with baroque and arabesque flourishes.

  THE LAST CURE (BEFORE CURARE)

  A SURE, PURE UNCARING,

  UNBARTERED BURST OF LAUGHTER.

  Later, just as I’m finishing for the day, Lubar, Duncan and Tompkins stop by to see how Sweik’s doing. They can’t believe the letter. Lubar thinks it’s for real. Duncan goes out to buy wine. Lubar runs down and brings up some stolen IBM stationery from his saddlebag. We rewrite the letter with more embellishment yet. This letter’s turning into a narrative poem. We describe the kinds of motorcycles we’re supposed to have, developing the most outlandish rare bikes and combinations of machines anybody ever heard of: We’re having a real old-fashioned tribal male-camaraderie scene. Kate would probably vomit if she could see us. No, she’d shift into her cool, above-it-all mode and make us feel like damned fools. Kate doesn’t have much tolerance for tomfoolery. But I think at the bottom of all art is some taint of foolery—Tom, Dick or Harriette. But she could be right; maybe all this nonsense uses up, wastes whatever creativity is. I don’t really know.

  It takes two days to finish the painting. Sweik’s feeling better but he’s still in bed. I find a board, smuggle it up those stringy stairs, beneath sagging burlap, past the concierge, and put it under his mattress. The bed’s still not much good but it’s better. I also sneak out the sheets and run them through a Laundromat around the corner. Poor Sweik’s developing bedsores; says he thinks he’ll never be up and walking around again.

  IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS AN

  END AND THAT’S THE BEGINNING.

  Meanwhile, over at Lotte’s, I’m building a partition to cut out a room for Sweik when he gets well enough to move. Lotte’s griping because I’m dividing her place; she doesn’t want to share. I tell her she can leave if she wants. She doesn’t want to leave, just wants all that space for herself; Lebensraum!

  Lotte’s a true cat, little cat: minx, maybe, or a small leopard. She likes everything neat, carefully wiped. She actually listens to hear if I’ve washed my hands after I take a leak. Maybe old blunderpuss isn’t much anymore but it’s the cleanest thing I’ve got. He rarely even touches air, all swathed in elastic supports. It’s my hands get dirty handling money and crappy things like that. I should wash my hands before I pee. If I’m not careful, maybe I might even get paint on the master brush; give some unlikely, lucky woman a cobalt-blue clit. Ah, fantasy; takes some edge off the bitter dawn. I don’t even use cobalt blue: too expensive, not permanent enough.

  So I’m drilling a hole to mount a baseplate for the partition, when I go through the floor! I pull up a flat stone like a paving block; it opens onto a big hole! I pull more blocks out. There’s a tremendous empty space. Lotte’s having catfits; raving about rats, then about graves. It smells like graves all right; black, wet, old; dead smell. I ask Lotte for a candle. I stare into the hole but a draft blows up and snuffs out my candle. I almost scream right there and then; expect Dracula to come swooping up out of the darkness.

  I dash off for a flashlight and come back. Lotte’s spread a rug over the hole and she’s crying on the bed. I’m all excited; staring into that dank hole has me turned on. I’m confused about where I want to do my cave exploring. I think of somebody coming in and stepping on that rug. I start laughing. Lotte cries harder; I’m probably not doing Sweik any favor.

  This hole is deep. I rig a ladder with the wood for my partition and lower it into the darkness. It’s about eight feet to some kind of surface. I climb down slowly. Lotte’s running around in circles. Maybe she’ll pull my ladder, slide her rug back over the hole; save herself paying rent.

  I get to the bottom and look around with my flashlight. There’s a long tunnel. It goes off under Moro’s and is arched with cut-stone vaulting, high enough to walk up straight but just clearing my head.

  I go in about a hundred feet, one careful step at a time; creepy, spooky and it gets darker. Then I look behind me. I can’t see the hole where I came in. She did it!

  Panic strikes! I scamper back till I see the hole again; the tunnel curved and blocked my view. I climb out and up the ladder. I’ll go ask Sweik to help. I’ll get a rope, more flashlights; more nerve. It’s better I don’t mention anything about this to Kate; she’d be sure it was bad for my blood pressure, only another way for me to be wasting time when I should concentrate on painting. But, Holy God, think of it, tunnels under Paris, I feel like Jean Gabin-cum-Jean Valjean in Les Misérables.

  GROUNDED AS WITH ELECTRICITY,

  OR AS A PILOT. I’M STUCK TO THIS

  EARTH, BURROWING BLINDLY THROUGH IT,

  OUR ULTIMATE HOME NEST.

  That afternoon I tell Sweik about the tunnel. He’s moving around some; still being careful, dragging his feet like a prostate case, but moving. He says he’ll help but can’t go down any ladder. That’s OK. I buy some string, some rope, three flashlights, extra batteries, a compass and a detailed map of central Paris. I’m planning a big operation; figure tomorrow I’m into the Paris secret underground world.

  WHEELER’S WORMHOLES, PASSPORTS

  TO AN ETERNAL INFINITY. I PEEK

  IN AND FEEL LIGHT RUSHING PAST

  MY EARS—HEARING NOTHING!

  I do finishing touches on both paintings of the room. Sweik and I get to drinking wine, so I’m slightly drunk when I leave. I shouldn’t drive that damned bike when I’ve been drinking. The trouble is, it’s hard as hell carrying my box and a wet canvas in the Métro or on a bus. I keep smearing people. It’s not good for paintings and very tough on people. An old lady hit me on the head with a book once. I’d given her a hand-painted back-of-coat. That coat will be worth a fortune someday but definitely not appreciated now. I really felt sorry, tried to give her twenty francs for dry cleaning. That’s when she hit me over the head.

  I weave home on my bike. Kate is not happy. I’ve missed dinner and I’m drunk; how wrong can you get? I show her the paintings and it’s OK again. My wife knows what’s important.

  She saved my life once when it counted, knows I’m hers. She kisses me, really looks at the paintings; kisses me again and warms up dinner. I eat and we go to bed. It’s hard trying to be an artist, a husband and a father all at the same time. Each one requires a full lifetime and I’ve only got one, probably a short one at that. I don’t know how much I can ask of Kate and still live with myself. She doesn’t want to ask any more of me than she has to, but sometimes I know it’s hard.

  Sweik says the difference between a Dane and a Swede is you go down the hole with a Dane and leave the Swede to hold your rope up top. Nobody should ever leave me holding any rope, anytime.

  THE THIN LINE OF LIFE; A ROPE

  OF WOVEN HOPES, RAVELED, WORN,

  WE HANG BY IT TILL DEATH.

  Next day, I take Sweik over to meet Lotte and help with the tunnel. Sweik goes into his very reserved, well-mannered role. Sweik is handsome in a nineteenth-century-sailor kind of way. He and Lotte will be in bed soon’s his back’s better. I can tell he’s surprised with the way she looks. Lotte looks as if she’s going to correct your grammar, straighten your tie or light a candle for your soul. I know he thinks I’m sleeping with her. Let him think, good for the imagination. I can’t say I’d really mind, but it’s too complicated; I need to conserve what little energy I have left. Besides, I don’t think Lotte’s exactly hot for this old man’s flabby body.

  My idea is to map the tunnel, find out where it goes. We’ll use a string to make measurements and a compass to measure directions. I�
�ll mark it on the map as we go. I tape two flashlights onto my motorcycle helmet to keep my hands free. Sweik gives me a pellet gun to shoot rats. Where the hell did he get a pellet gun? I’m feeling like Tom Sawyer but I’m not shooting any rats if I can help it. After all, it’s their tunnel.

  I climb down the ladder and start counting out on my string. I go in about two hundred feet and come to a crossroad. I see my first rat: big bastard, big as a cat; he stares at me, ruby-eyed, then scampers off.

  I go back, mark measurements and compass reading on the map with Sweik. One arm of the crossroad goes toward the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés across the boulevard; the other arm toward Saint-Sulpice. I’ll try the one to Saint-Germain.

  Lotte’s already leaning all over Sweik. Women are marvelous, have a nose for something valuable. She’ll have him in her sack soon enough, back or no back. She’ll get Sweik all fat with Salzburg cooking. Damn, I’m going to miss the weisswurst. Maybe I’ll raise the rent next month. No, I can’t do that. Maybe I can bargain something for a once-a-month meal. I have a hard time letting go. I’ve got so many strings hanging from me I’m like a three-year-old Christmas tree somebody forgot to take down.

  HOLDING ON, HOLDING BACK, HOLDING UP;

  ROBBERY, BREAKING IN, BRAKING.

  THE PAST BECOMES HEAVY; THE FUTURE

  FURTHER AWAY AND I CAN’T LET GO.

  I inch along the tunnel toward Saint-Germain. It starts dropping sharply. Maybe I’ll get the bends; should’ve brought along my canary, like a coal miner, in case of gas. I can hear traffic rumbling overhead; a Métro goes by, rattling the stones.

  Panic’s surging; I stop a minute to get my bearings. I take slow, deep breaths; whip out the old mantra for a couple of quick Kee Rings; try to think of something else except where I am. What’re they doing up there?

  Sticky cobwebs keep brushing against my face; there can’t actually be spiders in all this dark; these must be left over from the Middle Ages. Maybe secret mystic masses were held down here: Ignatius Loyola and his fighting Jesuits.

  I flash my light around; don’t see anything except more tunnel. There’s water running over the stones, and dirt’s caught in the spiderwebs. It’s warmer down here than outside. “OK, get on with it Scum, stop diddling.” I reach the end of my string, a hundred meters. I check my compass, mark the spot and go back.

  I sneak up the ladder. They’re sitting on her bed. Never trust a Swede at the hole! I climb out and we work over the map again. I’m up to Boulevard Saint-Germain, now; be crossing under the church next.

  I go back down and in. I find my mark, drive in a stake and tie the string to my stake. Maybe I should be dropping bread crumbs as I go along; feed the rats. I move on. The tunnel begins rising and turns to the left. There, at the turn, is a big wooden door with iron hinges and a bolt. I give the door a strong pull; it budges and dirt falls. I try two more tugs and the bolt snaps off. The door swings open on its own; the middle hinge is broken, but there are three hinges, so it holds.

  I flash my light on four steps down. Now I’m into Ali Baba’s cave. I go down slowly into a big room with cut-stone paving. I flash my light around. There are tall boxes standing against the walls. I start pacing to get the size; this room must have two hundred squares, at least.

  Holy mackerel! Those are coffins standing against the walls! Right then, one of my flashlights blinks out and I let myself sink slowly to the ground; time for a little more deep breathing; I need to take a leak, too—mostly just nervous, probably.

  The rats’-nester-scumbler mind is spinning. What a great place I could make out of this, a real rat’s nest, burrows and all. Nobody could ever find me, not even the FBI. I turn my head slowly, the flashlight cutting through the dark. There’re maybe twenty coffins around the walls. There’s also something in one corner made of wooden poles and rotted cloth.

  It might be tough renting with all the coffins; like one of those French apartments you buy already occupied—only occupied this time by a few dozen corpses.

  There’s another door in the wall to my right. I get up, go over, try it. This one’s locked tight; probably leads up to the church, straight into the tabernacle. Hey, maybe I could rent this nest to a religious freak. He’d be the first one to early mass mornings; beat the sexton, the priest, maybe even God himself. I take my leak against the wall while I’m over there.

  INSIDE, UNDER, BEHIND; I BURROW

  OUT OF LIGHT, OUT OF MIND. I DRILL

  INTO A CAST CORE OF CARBIDE HARDNESS.

  NEVER MIND.

  I go around checking coffins. They’re nailed tight; square-headed nails; wood rotten but holding. Nobody’s going to get out from any of those boxes. I’m beginning to have a hard time breathing again; too much excitement for an old man; ticker’s pounding wildly, skipping beats like a Caribbean marimba player.

  About halfway back along the string, I see something moving in the tunnel. I hit the floor without even knowing it.

  It’s Sweik; he borrowed a flashlight from Lotte. He got to worrying what the hell happened; thought maybe the rats had wrestled me to the ground. I take him back and show him the room. He comes in behind me and keeps saying, “Jesus, man!” “Shit, man!” “Holy fuck.” We both try that other door but it’s locked tight. I put my flash onto the ceiling. It’s a high-arched vault, no bats, no vampires. We check measurements and head back out to the map.

  It feels wonderful being outside in light, clean air. We calculate that room to be directly under the altar of Saint Germain-des-Prés, one of the oldest churches in Paris.

  I’m covered with cobwebs and dirt, so I take a shower in Lotte’s little stall shower. She’s not making any noises at all about not wanting to share now.

  DESIRE WASHES AWAY RELUCTANCE,

  REFURBISHES TIRED, SWAYING BONES.

  WE ATONE WITH ELECTRIC ATTENTION.

  We spend the next day exploring. There are tunnels under the whole Left Bank. They go up to Montparnasse and down to the river. We don’t find any more big rooms like the first one but we do find ways to come up in different cellars all over the quarter.

  We invade the cellar of a high-class restaurant and snitch a few bottles of wine. That’s a kind of wet dream, direct access to a wine cellar.

  I think of getting a Velosolex, one of those little French bikes with a motor on the front wheel; use it to run around down in those tunnels, my own private Métro. But I don’t. I know I’ll use that tunnel somehow, someday, but now I only want to think about it; let my mind play with the idea of deep tunnels and nests under the city.

  Sweik tells me he thinks he’ll stay on at the Isis; leave the place for Lotte. I don’t know whose idea this is but I think it’s Sweik’s. He’s no fool.

  EGYPTIAN MUFFLED TUNNELS. NO SKY,

  NOTHING OPEN, A CAREFUL PREPARATION

  FOR AN UNENDING NOTHINGNESS.

  VII

  CHICKEN

  It’s Saturday and one of those spring days we often get in Paris when there’s a constipated heavy sky trying to rain and thick hemorrhoidal clouds listlessly drifting.

  I go down into the Marais, ready to start the first painting of my new series. I figure Sabbath’s the best day, not so much traffic. I don’t figure on old ladies.

  I’m setting up my box when the first one comes over to me.

  “A nice boy like you shouldn’t work on the Sabbath,” says she.

  “Not work, my pleasure,” says I, smiling. Haven’t been called a boy in about thirty years or more.

  “All the same,” says she, then hobbles on down the street, shaking her head.

  I-get-the-box-set-up.-I’m-painting-the-façade-of-a-broken-down old kosher poultry store. It’s the kind of place where they bleed chickens live, old-style; makes me think of South Street in Philly. There they used to keep all the live pigeons and chickens in wooden cages right out in the windows. No birds in the window here, but the same smell.

  This place is a terrific mess: smeared cracked windows, dirty white m
arble tables inside. There’s chicken shit, blood and guts all over; probably the chickens are out of the window for Sabbath.

  I’m doing it straight on. I dig in with the underpainting; mostly dark browns and yellows, with some blue for inside. I’m concentrating and flying; this will be a good one. This whole series is going to be wonderful: interesting people, real places, trapped space, good twisting light.

  CUTTING LIGHT DOWN AND STILL STAYING TRANSPARENT:

  ANOTHER FACE OF REALITY, FUTILE FANTASY. I DRIFT

  ON TRANSITIONS TILL WE TOUCH EARTH

  IN DARK STILLNESS.

  Another old lady comes up. Skinny hag; hair all which-way. No teeth; bottom lip almost touches her nose. The toes are cut out of her shoes; big bunions bulging out. She pushes me away from the box, good strong push.

  “You got permission to paint my store?”

  Face right up to me.

  “No, lady, didn’t know I needed permission. May I paint your store?”

  “No!”

  I look down at her, trying to figure if she’s only crazy.

  “I’m going to paint your store anyway, lady. Don’t need permission; street’s a public place. Artist’s got some rights.”

  She stomps her bunioned foot.

  “I do not give permission!”

  She stares at me wetly. Her eyes have Velásquez lower lids, red, watery. She stomps again and goes away.

  I get to work; probably isn’t crazy, we’re just not communicating.

  Five minutes later she’s back. She looks at the painting for a while. I smile at her, hoping for a convert.

  “I’ll let you paint my store for twenty francs.”

  “I’m sorry, lady; I’m not going to pay. Artist has rights.”

  She watches me for a while. She’s not acting mad or pushing now, just watching.

  “There should be chickens in the window.”

  “Don’t need any chickens.”