Scumbler

by William Wharton

  When it’s done and adjusted to Sweik’s satisfaction, Lubar pulls on his leather jacket, slips down his goggles, then rolls the bike out that huge door, through the courtyard and into the street. From inside, we hear him turn over the bike, roar off.

  The one who let us in, Sandy, is wearing a checkered shirt, men’s buttons; Levi cords with a button fly; she closes the door behind him.

  “You two like a cup of java? It’s the least we can do. I’d begun to think maybe we’d have that machine all in parts, parked there in the middle of the floor like a piece of junk sculpture. Maybelle’d have two fits. She’s real down on motorcycles and that macho shit anyway. She’d just throw us all out, fast.”

  Sandy’s pouring water into a teakettle. I’d personally rather have tea, even herb tea, but maybe the old nerves are strong enough for one cup of pure caffeine. Sweik opens our beer, bread, Camembert. Sandy sets salt, pepper, two tomatoes, some butter on a little side table.

  “I’ll put out a cup for Lubar, he might be back. He’s got the hots for Dale here, but she’s scared to ride on back of that bike with him. I keep telling her he drives better than he fixes, but it doesn’t help.”

  She gives Dale a loving, understanding look. Maybe Lubar likes it this way: no wins, no losses, just a lot of ties. Sweik settles onto a lumpy couch. I carefully balance myself in an armchair with one wobbly leg. Sandy’s just pouring hot water through the coffee-filled filter when Lubar comes back. He still has his jacket open, zippers flaring. He’s pushed his goggles up onto his balding forehead again.

  “Man, it works like new, really holds without grabbing and that squeal’s disappeared.”

  He kneels down and begins gathering up his tools. He has top-quality tools and keeps them neatly in a many-drawered, metal toolbox. He’s the kind of poor workman who can’t blame his tools; I’m the other kind. He gets them all gathered and even wipes the floor with a grease rag. He stores the tools by the door and pulls off his sweaty, dirty T-shirt. He steps into a little room built under a balcony.

  “You guys start with the coffee. I’ll be right out.”

  Sandy pours around in the mugs. I put three spoonfuls of sugar in mine. I really don’t like the taste of coffee, I guess, but I love sugar. We all break off bits of bread, use knives to cut the cheese, tomatoes. I make myself a small sandwich. As I said, food isn’t meaning much to me these days.

  Sweik starts telling about my taking off for Spain. Sandy comes over, surprises me by putting her arms around my neck, rubbing her hand over my bald head.

  “Wouldn’t you like somebody to carry your bags, help keep you warm at night, wash out your socks and underwear?”

  I must admit I would, but then I wouldn’t. I’m deep under my black cloud over Toledo. I can’t get my mind around her coming on so fast; she must be kidding, maybe trying to work me into the game. I can be the goalposts.

  I put my hand on top of hers on my chest. My hands look so old, so veined, so thick-knuckled, so blotched with liver spots against the slim, smooth white, almost bluish, marble-like hands of Sandy. I notice she bites her nails; they’re bitten so deeply into the quick one of them is bleeding. Gosh, you think someone might be leading the life they want, no hang-ups; then you see something like that. It’s the kind of little vulnerability brings me to tears these days. Sandy takes her hand away.

  Lubar yells from the bathroom:

  “Spain! Hell, that’s what we all should do, just take off and get under some of that mainline sun. We could tool down there on the bikes, taking pictures the whole way, and have something real to send off to that fucking AMA magazine.”

  Sweik is sipping the hot coffee. It’s still too hot for my mouth. I’m blowing into it and stirring. Sweik cradles his cup in both hands to warm them; this place has such high ceilings it must be impossible to heat; I only see one little gas heater in a corner.

  “You’re the boss, Lubar. I’m ready to take off anytime you are. Maybe we can get IBM to forget about English lessons for a few weeks.”

  Lubar sticks his head out from what must be the bathroom. He’s drying off his face and hands. He has on a clean T-shirt.

  “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll bet I could get Bouvier to cancel classes for that long; hell, I haven’t had a vacation in over six months.”

  He comes on out. The two girls are watching back and forth. Dale speaks up for the first time.

  “Wow, would I ever love to get someplace where it’s warm. But I can’t afford it and I could never ride on the back of a motorcycle that far. I get scared just going around Paris.”

  Sweik gives her a look. It’s definitely derision, but mostly “Who invited you?”

  Sandy jumps up, reaches for the high ceiling, brings her arms down fast.

  “Go ahead, Dale, you’d love it. If you won’t, I’d sure as hell love to hang in there if Lubar’d let me. I’m really sick of rain.”

  I try the coffee again; at last it’s cool enough to get past my lips. I peer at Sandy over my mug; she’s full of beans all right.

  “Well, ladies, personally I’m going down on the train. My kidneys couldn’t hold out for that long a trip. I’d get down there with all my organs huddled in a sodden bunch around my ass fighting for space with my hemorrhoids.”

  A LOW SKY, MOUNDS OF DIRT PILED HIGH,

  MY EYES ARE LOST EVEN TO SOUND. CAN’T

  EVEN ASK WHY ANYMORE.

  Despite everything, they keep talking about this crazy trip. Sandy gets out maps and they plan a way through Tours to Bordeaux across the border to Burgos and down by Madrid. It’s not much different from the train route. They even work out where they’ll stop each night. It’s about time to get out the trusty pen and compose one of our masterpieces for the AMA magazine. Hell’s Angels of Paris strike again. Lubar looks up from the map at me.

  “Where in Spain you actually going?”

  “A little place near Torremolinos, up in the hills. I have Swedish friends there.”

  “You think they could put us up if we came down?”

  Holy Lord! I think of my privacy-conscious Sture and Anna. They’d die if this bunch of bandits rolled into their little world.

  “No, they only have a small place. I don’t even know if they can put me up. I’m just taking a chance they’ll be there. I haven’t written.”

  “When you taking off?”

  I hadn’t gotten that far. I’m in such a state of drift I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going.

  “I’ll probably take the eleven-o’clock train from the Gare d’Austerlitz tomorrow night.”

  “That’s Sunday, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  He’s striding up and down the room now. He’s still in his T-shirt, he must be freezing. I have my jacket open but haven’t taken it off; neither has Sweik.

  “If we leave tomorrow morning early, we could make it in five days. Let’s say we meet you there.”

  He looks over at me, his little bird eyes glistening in excitement, challenge. He’s playing at Napoleon, laying out the campaign. He stops.

  “I was down in Torremolinos with my ex-to-be wife three years ago. There’s a bar right in the center of town—the oldest bar around, I guess—called the Bar Central. It’s where the bus from Málaga used to stop. We’ll meet you on the terrace outside, Thursday morning at ten o’clock. If we aren’t there by noon, you’ll know we couldn’t make it.”

  At least he gave himself an out; maybe he isn’t Napoleon. Sweik is watching to see just how serious he is. It sounds crazy but Lubar’s acting serious.

  “God, Sweik, think of it, we can roll along through those hills and the farther south we go, the warmer it’ll get. We’ll go right over those Sierra Nevada Mountains.”

  “I’m not sure my old Ariel is up to a long trip like that, Lubar. The farthest I’ve ever pushed it was to Amsterdam once, and I had a stiff back for a week when I got home.”

  Sandy goes over to Sweik, flops down on the couch beside him, puts her hands
on his knees.

  “I’d be happy to hold on and squeeze against you, keeping that bad back in place. You can’t know how much I’d like getting to someplace warm and dry.”

  And so that’s the way we leave it. There’s more map talk, calculating how much they can do in a day stopping every two hours. Sweik’s getting caught up in the whole insanity of it. He’s bringing up bullfights again. I listen along, convinced it’s all make-believe, another way to fight off a grim, gray rainy day.

  But I can’t make it with them. The fantasy part of my mind isn’t working; in fact, none of my mind is active in any way. I’m like a piece of film or a pile of mud; I only take the prints, don’t feel or do anything, only register.

  SILVER PLATE REFLECTING,

  NOT EVEN A FINGERPRINT OR THE

  FOG OF BREATH. SPIRITUAL DEATH.

  After a couple of hours Sweik and I leave. We get on his bike and I think of Sandy holding on up high there for maybe eight hundred miles. She’s a tough young lady; she’d be just the one to do it and smile, laugh all the way. There’s something in her between not seeming to care and caring so much she could try anything and maybe really hurt herself. I can’t help but be glad she isn’t my daughter.

  On the Place Saint-Sulpice we cover the bike. Sweik’s unhooked his bags and put the helmets in them. He stands a minute looking at the covered bike.

  “You know this machine probably could make it.”

  A SIMPLE TOOL WITH

  WHICH TO FOOL SIMPLY.

  The next night, I get out an old Eurailpass a friend gave me. I’ve changed the name and used my magic French three-fluid ink remover to change the dates. There’s a date on the back, the stamp’s overdue but it’s hard to change stamps. Nobody ever looks at the back anyway. I pack myself a change of socks and underwear but I’m only going through the motions.

  Kate hovers over me like a mother hen. She doesn’t want me to travel on a bogus Eurailpass, but I can’t justify spending money that way. She doesn’t want me to go anywhere, but she knows Sture and Anna might just be the thing for whatever ails me.

  She drives me down to the Gare d’Austerlitz at 11 p.m. The kids are asleep. I know she’s worried but there’s nothing to do. I spent the whole day cleaning house, getting in everyone’s way. I want to have it in perfect shape, like an Irish family cleaning house for a wake, but actually I feel like an old bull elephant heading off for the burial ground.

  I climb up into the train and take over a whole first-class compartment. Eurailpasses are first class. First-class people don’t usually sit in train seats at night; they buy Pullman berths. I pull the seats together, stuff my handbag into the space, take off my shoes, put the Eurailpass on top of my passport and sack out.

  I sleep better than I have in a month; wake up in Bordeaux. It’s seven-thirty in the morning. My Eurailpass and passport are in the same place; didn’t even hear the conductor come in—maybe he didn’t.

  I look out the window as French civilization breaks down kilometer by kilometer till we’re at Irún, the Spanish border. Suddenly, there’s instant poverty. People’s eyes have a resentful begging look; never find that look on a Frenchman.

  Everybody out. Time to go through Spanish customs. Surly bastards, don’t believe I only have my little handbag with jockey shorts, T-shirt, towel, bathing suit and socks. I think for a minute they’re going to make me strip, but they pass me on as I’m unbuckling my pants. Why is it everybody’s supposed to love Santa Claus but when they see a real old man with a genuine white beard, blue eyes and a nose like a cherry, paranoia strikes?

  WE WEAR OURSELVES INSIDE OUT

  TRYING TO BRING THE OUTSIDE IN.

  I look around for the train to Madrid: TALGO EXPRESS. Usually you pay extra but it’s free on a Eurailpass. Friends warned me about using my phony pass in Spain. What the hell, I couldn’t care less. I’ve been in jail before; one more time can’t hurt. I jump into a shiny red-and-silver round-topped train. I can already feel the south winds; it’s turning into a beautiful day. The trees are in bloom on a scraggly hill out the window. I settle down.

  The train starts. They’re playing Spanish-style Muzak, like a Los Angeles Rexall drugstore. I get out my book; reading Borstal Boy, seems appropriate, gives me some nerve. Would an Irishman be nervous? Hell no! He’d probably have a bomb in his briefcase; hand it to the conductor, ask him to keep it in the refrigerator; get off the train just before it started. There’s definitely not enough Irish blood in me; I worry too much.

  There are some impressive, fancy folk on this train. Good-looking, tight-twatted women with pearls, matched; bullet-eyed men. They all look bored; all look disgusted with me in bushy white beard and scraggy pigtail. Maybe I’ll tell them I’m a retired American bullfighter, friend of Ernesto.

  The train’s so smooth I hardly feel it, icy-smooth rails; acceleration like an airplane. The air conditioning is humming away. I ease out my pass and look at it: really blotchy—boy, are they going to get me! OK for night traveling in France but I must be crazy here in the bright day with Spaniards. Maybe I should pull the emergency brake, step off this train, say I forgot my toothbrush back in Irún.

  The conductor sneaks up behind me. I hold out my pass expecting the worst; pretend I’m concentrating on my book. He doesn’t take the pass; I look up. He has a pad in his hand. He’s not the conductor, only a waiter taking orders for breakfast. Ho ho!

  I order eggs and fruit juice, ham, coffee; another last meal. The train is humming on at about a hundred miles an hour through rolling green hills. The windows are tinged blue at top so it looks like deep blue, high-mountain sky. I dip my head down to look out through untinted glass; it’s really only a flat, light blue sky; a painted sky like California.

  The waiter comes back with my breakfast. He hooks it on back of the seat in front of me and it costs three hundred pesetas. I give him a fifty-peseta tip, get him on my side. They’re bound to find me out.

  I eat heartily. The train’s vibrating some now; tiny little circular ripples in my coffee cup. The real conductor has started at the head of our car and is looking at tickets. I try concentrating on my reading again. I put my little packet with passport and pass on the tray beside my eggs. He backs his way to me; has a nice little word or two for each passenger. I can’t see his face yet but he has a mean-looking back. He makes clicking sounds as he punches holes in tickets. Some of those tickets are two yards long. Maybe I ought to just say I lost my ticket and pay. Hell, I can’t. I don’t have that much money with me. I’m never going to get back home. Courage, Scum, old boy; hang in there.

  I put on my best smile when he stops beside me. I pretend I’m holding the coffee down while I hand up the ticket. He takes it and looks, really looks. He turns it over, looks inside. I’m dead! I concentrate harder on the coffee. Actually, I’m holding myself from bolting down the length of that train, taking over the engine and driving us back to France.

  “Señor,” says he, smiling, leaning over, still being nice, pointing at the date on the inside, “no es bueno.”

  He’s got me. I pretend I don’t understand. Something inside me is turning to ice. I take the pass from him and look at it. I try acting as if it’s his pass and I’m giving it the final once-over. He stands there. I stare at the pass: really crappy-looking. I turn it over, answer him in English.

  “No comprendo,” says he.

  “You don’t speak English on an international train?” says I, in English, putting on the outraged face. I’m getting into the feel of things.

  “I want to speak with someone who understands English.”

  I put the pass in my passport. I slip both into my pocket. He stares at me.

  “No es bueno, Señor,” he repeats. Probably a very nice guy just doing his job.

  A fat, tan, bald Spaniard leans across the aisle; very prosperous-looking.

  “He says your ticket is not good, Señor.”

  He speaks slightly accented, money-thick, English English.

  �
��Thank you, Señor,” I say, and wish him right on through the window into the bushes whooshing by.

  I take the ticket out again. I remember then that there’s something in small-print English on the back about this ticket being refunded except for ten percent if it’s surrendered within the year. The stamp is within the year, just, but within, I point out this line to the conductor. Naturally he doesn’t understand. I share it with my unwelcome benefactor across the aisle. He says something to the conductor about one year. The conductor glares down at me and gives me back my pass.

  Then he goes for the fat guy’s ticket. This is at least three yards long and in four different colors. What a terrific chance to wield the old ticket punch. Punch-punch-punch-punch-punch, Technicolor snow, little round bits drifting to the floor of the train.

  I know I get by on the impressiveness of that bald, tan Spaniard’s ticket. But I’m not sure I’m actually through yet; the conductor could come back with reinforcements, maybe a translator. Every stop till Madrid, I expect guardia civil to step on the train and pull me off. They stare into the windows with their submachine guns looking for me. I hide behind Borstal Boy. I don’t really want jail again: doing time is losing it. Kate’s right; an old guy like me, getting close to retirement age, shouldn’t be sweating this kind of hassle. I’m past the end of a part of my life, a good part, but I can’t get my head to live with it. That’s the trouble with having too good a life.

  THE DIVIDING LINE IS SO FINE, SO

  HARD TO SEE, NOT BETWEEN LIFE AND

  DEATH; THAT’S EASY; BUT BETWEEN

  LIVING AND NOT: THAT’S HARD.

  We roll into Madrid about two o’clock. I stay in midcrowd getting off the train. They’re not going to open fire into a crowd. There are no guardia civil at the door, nobody on the platform. I duck out the train station and jump into a taxi.

  “Prado, por favor!” I look out the back window. Nobody. “You made it again, Scum; you lucky bastard!”

  The taxi takes off madly, swerving around streetcars, between bare, peeling, new apartment buildings set right down in red dirt. It looks like somebody’s badly worked out dream. I figure I should have two hours in the Prado before they close. I haven’t been there in five years; that’s five years without Goya, Velásquez, Bosch. You really only find these babies in the Prado; I’m hungry for them. Maybe I’ll find the old spark in the dark moldy corners of this Spanish palace for kings.