“No,” she said, “we better not.” She struggled up. “I’m sorry. I wish we could. We better just go to sleep . . . I think you should sleep above the sheet. So we can’t without going to a lot of trouble. Don’t you agree?”
“If that’s what you want.”
She opened her eyes. “It’s not what I want. I wish we could . . . maybe we could. No, it wouldn’t be right. Come on, get into bed and let’s go to sleep. You don’t have to get up early tomorrow, but I do; I have to get up at six-thirty.”
Going here and there in her apartment, he shut off the heater and the lights and made certain that the door was locked. When he reentered the bedroom, he found her standing sleepily by the bed, her robe in her arms; he took it from her and hung it in the closet.
“How serious is this business with Posin?” he said.
She shook her head without answering. Already she was in bed, tugging the covers over her; she wore some kind of single-piece material, but he did not see what it was. He did not recognize it. Something new. Something she had bought after she had left him.
As he got into bed, above the sheet, separated from her by the surface of material, she put her arms against him, her fingers pressing against his head. “This is nice,” she said, but she was failing asleep; she was drifting away. The outline of her body was vague under the sheet, and he could not reach it. He could not grasp her. When he tried to take hold of her, he found himself holding nothing but material, the uniform cotton material, bleached and absolutely clean and absolutely impersonal. She turned away from him, and that was that.
5
No Joy in Fogville.
The other night long- and short-hair disc jock Jim Briskin on radio (recall, you TV addicts?) station KOIF got off a doozy of a reading of a Looney Luke (three ughs and a blah!) commercial right twixt Beethoven and Brahms.
Said Briskin: “Looney Luke sells clean cars.” Which Looney Luke thought was fine. And then he said: “That’s enough of that commercial.” Which darn near everyone else in town thought was fine. So now no more Looney Luke commercials on KOIF, because even if you weren’t listening the sponsor was.
But now poor Jim’s on suspension. Lost a month’s pay.
Alas, no justice in this-here world.
From within his concealed and reinforced loft, Ludwig Grimmelman watched the three of them approach. It was late in the afternoon, and the day was hot and fair. The sidewalk sparkled, outlining the figures.
First walked Ferde Heinke in his fairy suit, in his baggy pants and sweater, he wore his glasses and carried a binder full of school and library books and, of course, a number of recent copies of his science fiction magazine, Phantasmagoria. After Ferde came Joe Mantila, and then came Art Emmanual.
Grimmelman’s loft had once been a union meeting hall. It was a single large barren room with a stove at one end, a small bathroom led to the rear, where the stairs arose. This was in the Hayes Hole section of San Francisco, the slum district of liquor stores and old unpainted rooming houses. Beneath Grimmelman’s loft was a series of crib rooms, now used as storerooms for Rodriguez’s Mexican and American Foods, the grocery store on the ground level. Across the street was a tiny Catholic church.
As the three of them trudged along, Joe Mantila said, “Let’s go get a Coke.”
“No,” Ferde said, “this is important.”
Art Emmanual agreed. “We have to tell him.”
They trailed single file along the path of lettuce leaves and torn orange crates by the side of the grocery store. Here and there a chicken stalked, pecking among the weeds. In a rear house an elderly Mexican woman sat on a porch rocking. A gang of Negro and Mexican children scampered after a beer can, kicking it and shouting shrilly as it bounced into the Street.
As the three of them reached the stairs, Ferde Heinke stopped. “Of course,” he said, “he’s probably already heard about it.”
“Get going,” Art Emmanual said. But he too felt tense. Above them in the loft, Grimmelman was certainly peering; Art could feel the pressure of Grimmelmans eyes, bright little eyes . . . Grimmelman, the hairy owl in his black wool overcoat, wearing paratrooper’s boots, his cheap cotton undershirt showing.
“Okay,” Ferde said, starting up the stairs.
At the top was the metal door which Grimmelman had prepared against invaders; it began to open, and, by the time they had reached it there was Grimmelman gazing down, grinning and dancing, rubbing his hands together, retreating to admit the callers.
In the light of day he had a ruffled look, a disorder, about him. Expecting no one, he had removed his boots; he waited in his stocking feet. He, in his mid-twenties, born in Poland across the border from Germany, had a round Slavic face; his face was marred with a beard that covered his jowls and neck, a smear like singed pinfeathers. His hair was thinning, and in a few years he would be bald. Art, following Ferde, caught the old-cloth smell of Grimmelman, the familiar staleness of the man’s seclusion. Grimmelman dwelt here, laboring on his maps, his revolutionary schemes, the phrasing of his vast theories; in summer, his money gone, he emerged to work day and night in the canneries, a marathon ordeal that brought in enough for the balance of the year.
The long room was littered with books and papers. At the side was a sagging sofa on which at night Grimmelman, in his overcoat, slept. Weapons were mounted on the walls, army pistols and grenades, a pair of swords, and, held by Scotch tape, prints of World War I battleships. Grimmelman’s worktables sagged with material. Nobody really knew what he was preparing; its scope shaded into infinity.
“Something’s happened,” Joe said, settling down on the sofa. Grimmelman glanced at him, grinned, turned inquiringly to Art.
Art said, “It was in the Chronicle. You know Jim Briskin, this disc jock that runs ‘Club 17’ in the afternoons? He got fired.”
“He got suspended,” Ferde said. “For a month.”
Grimmelman’s eyes sparkled. “Oh?” He strode to the metal door and bolted it. “Tell me why.”
“He read this commercial wrong,” Art said. “This used car commercial, you know?”
Excitedly Grimmelman strode to the giant wall map of San Francisco. On the map, in his cramped hand, he had noted all the significant elements that made up the town. For an interval he studied the map, inspecting the notations at Van New Avenue and the used car lots. “Exactly which used car lot was it?”
“Looney Luke’s,” Art said. “Where Nat used to work.”
Grimmelman stuck a pin into the map. “When did this happen?”
“Night before last,” Ferde said.
Grimmelman’s agitation increased. “Did any of you hear it?”
“No,” Art said. “It was later on during the classic music. Not on ‘Club 17.’ ”
At the map Grimmelman said, “This is an important event.” He took his fountain pen and jotted a further entry in the notebook open beside the map. From a card file he selected several references, and then he opened a heavy case. “A number of possibilities may now occur.”
“Like what?” Art said, experiencing, as always, the radiant energy of Grimmelman’s intrigue. What a drab world it was without Grimmelman; his sensitivity to covert forces of mystical power and tenacity colored to a fever glow the most ordinary happenings. And this event, the vanishing of the familiar voice of Jim Briskin, already interesting, became in Grimmelman’s hands a prize of much promise. Facing his map, Grimmelman was discovering overtones invisible to the unpracticed eye.
“First,” Grimmelman declared, “it may be that he was instructed to read it wrong. We must not dismiss that.”
“That’s dumb,” Joe Mantila said.
Grimmelman favored him with a glance. “It’s not probable. But it is possible. In what way did he read the commercial wrong?”
“He said he was sick and tired of it,” Art said. “He said the hell with it. And he didn’t finish; he broke off in the middle.”
“I see,” Grimmelman said.
“And,” Ferd
e Heinke said, “that’s the last he was on. He wasn’t on yesterday or today, and then there was this mention in the Chronicle.” Unzipping his binder, he showed Grimmelman the item.
“May I keep this?” Grimmelman said. He added the item to a scrapbook, gluing it in and rubbing it flat with his fist.
“It’s sure too bad,” Art said. “Now there’s some joker running ‘Club 17,’ and he’s no good at all. He only plays the records; he don’t say nothing at all.”
“You think this is the time?” Joe Mantila said abruptly. Grimmelman said, “It could be.”
“The time,” Art repeated.
In the environment built up around Grimmelman nothing superseded the idea of the time. Art felt the wave of anticipation; a host of emotions swam up inside him. The others, too, were affected; the Organization, as a group, lived for the time. Their sorties were arranged in an almost occult pattern of correct moments, conjunctions of astrological bodies. A peasant cunning mixed with peasant superstition welded Grimmelman to the stars. His plans were cosmic and cosmically determined. Always, in everything, Grimmelman consulted for signs to demonstrate that at long last the moment had arrived, the instant in which successful action was finally and absolutely possible.
“Time for the Organization to act,” Ferde said, hypnotized by the idea. All of them envisioned at once the ritual of action: the bringing out of the massive car from its hiding place, the thorough working over of the engine and electronic controls so that no hitch could occur. And the checking of the weapons. But Grimmelman was hesitating. “The Horch hasn’t been out m months.” He studied his charts. “Three months.”
“Sure,” Joe said, “It’s time! Three months, that’s a long time.”
“Let’s get going,” Art said, sharing his restlessness. Grimmelman said, “Hasty action is wasted.”
“You and your charts,” Joe Mantila said disgustedly.
“Saturday night,” Art said, “The Bactrians are having a dance at Bratton’s place.” The Bactrians were a club of welltodo youths from Nob Hill. Bill Bratton was their president; his father was a wealthy Montgomery Street attorney. “Afterward some of them’ll probably stop at Dodo’s.”
“There’s forty of them,” Ferde said. “And only eleven of us. If very many of them show up, we’re cooked.”
“We’ll do like we did last time,” Joe said. “Park on the edge, get one of their cars going out. Same deal.”
“In any case,” Grimmelman said, deep in thought, “we could go ahead and activate the Horch.”
In Art’s ears the words fell beautifully. Activation of the Organization’s remote-controlled car, with its speakers and antennae and fantastic straight-eight engine. The Horch, its lights off, speeding down Highway 99, escaping silently from encounter with the enemy as they drove behind, directing it . . . and, in a ditch, the flipped-over carcass of a ‘56 Ford.
On the wall of the loft were trophies, remnants taken from the vanquished. The Horch had gotten away each time. Grimmelman was cautious; each incident was scrupulously planned out.
At his worktables Grimmelman pointed to a relay board with its wiring and tubes and booster circuits. A soldering iron was beside it; he was in the process of working on this part of the Horch’s system. “I have to get it finished. Or the Horch’ll be silent.”
The Horch could not be silent. The taunting voices, magnified and distorted, were vital. Otherwise the Horch, as it sped off, could not announce itself. It could not boom out who and what it was.
Ferde Heinke said suddenly, “Hey, you know? Rachael’s going to have a baby.” He glanced apologetically at Art. “His wife Rachael.”
At his worktable, Grimmelman shivered. He did not look at them; he concentrated on his notebooks. The oily girl, he thought. The outsider. He felt fear.
As she walked, the slow, heavy walk of a woman, she gave forth a spearmint smell, spearmint and soap. And the eyes fixed on him, the judgment; she had seen him, judged him, dismissed him. Dismissed all of them and their various plans.
The room had become silent. They all felt subdued. The woman walked among them, taking away their excitement.
On the sofa Ferde Heinke fussed with his school books and magazines. Joe Mantila stared at the floor. Art Emmanual wandered to the door of the loft, his hands in his pockets. The air was oppressive. Beyond the locked metal door the sounds of the Negro and Mexican children filtered to him faintly, a tinny sound, like the rustling of weeds.
At five o’clock in the afternoon Van Ness Avenue lay under blown bits of paper. Wind had left the scatter in each shop’s doorway. The waning sunlight made the scatter seem white.
The cars in Nat’s Auto Sales were older, prewar. On the side of the bakery by the lot, a sign was painted: CARS THAT WORK FOR PEOPLE THAT WORK
At the fourth car, a 1939 Dodge, Nat Emmanual was opening the hood and connecting the battery charger. Here was his lot. Here was he, in cloth jacket and tan slacks, discovering that the battery cable of this car was eroded and would have to be replaced; at the end of the day he inspected his cars and learned the worst about each of them, the tires that had sagged, the batteries with dead cells, the rear main bearings that leaked oil.
He walked across Van Ness Avenue, stopping for the cars and then running, until he was on the far side and entering Hermann’s Garage, “Specialists in Carburetors Rebuilt.” The entrance was blocked by cars waiting to be fixed. In the back, by the workbench, Hermann had crawled within a Packard to adjust the brake. Nat reached into the litter of parts on the bench, pushing and rooting among the valves, gaskets, discarded fan belts.
“You got such a thing as a battery cable for a prewar Dodge?” he said.
“Let me tell you a story,” Hermann said. He emerged, wiping grease from his face and hands. “You believe in God?”
“No,” Nat said, examining a clutch plate, wondering if he could make use of it in one of his cars.
“You believe it’s wrong to spray over rust?”
“Naturally.”
“So the paint falls off next week. That’s the used car business.” Hermann nodded his head toward the Packard. “You know whose that is?”
“Luke’s.”
“Luke sprays over rust. Luke fills up the dents with putty.”
“I used to work for him,” Nat said. “How about the cable?”
“I don’t care,” he said. He had been in the used car business too long to care about paint over rust; he had done a little of that himself. Bending, he picked up a set of discarded plugs. “Can I have these?”
“For nothing? Or what do I get back? How about fifty cents? Something like that, whatever you want—It’s up to you.”
While Nat was regapping the plugs, Luke Sharpstein walked into the garage to see about the Packard. He wore his usual straw hat, maroon shirt, and flannel slacks. “Fella,” he said genially to Nat. “How’s it go?”
“Fine,” Nat said noncommittally.
Picking at his pale teeth with his toothpick, Luke said, “Moving anything?”
“Not a drop.”
Luke said, “Can you use a couple of Lincolns, ‘49’s, good and clean? Give them to you cheap. Too old for me. Maybe swap a couple of Chevies even.”
“All I have is junk,” Nat said. “You know that. I’m in the yo-yo business.” And it was Luke with his powerful sales techniques that had put him there, had put all the small dealers there.
Luke smiled his false-teeth smile. “I can use a few ‘41 Chevies for my jalopy lot.”
“If you have any Willis Overlands, I might take them,” Nat said with heavy irony.
Without a trace of humor, Luke said, “Well, I have a Willis station wagon. A ‘51. Dark green.”
“No good.”
Herman, at the valve-grinding machine, said to Luke, “I got your Packard. The brakes are up.”
Taking his regapped plugs, Nat Emmanual left the garage and recrossed Van Ness Avenue to his lot. A colored man was kicking the tires of a ‘40 Ford coupe, and Na
t nodded to him. In the office, the cramped basalt-block structure which he had built himself, his kid-brother Art was peering at the naked-girl calendar on the wall.
“Hi,” Art said, as Nat carried in the box of plugs. “When did you get this?”
“Month or so ago.”
Art said, “How about lending me a car for a couple of days? We sorta wanted to take a drive, maybe down to Santa Cruz.”
“You shouldn’t be looking at that calendar.” He put his hand over it, half seriously. “You’re a married man.”
“Yeah,” Art said. “Hey, how about that Dodge?”
“The battery cable has to be replaced.”
Art followed him out of the office, onto the lot, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Just for a couple of days—a weekend, maybe. So she can sit around on the beach.”
“How’s Rachael?”
“Okay.”
“Why’s she need to sit around on the beach?”
Art said, “She’s going to have a baby.” He did not look directly at his brother, he fooled with the antenna on one of the cars.
“What?” Nat said loudly. “When?”
“January, I guess.”
“How, the hell can you pay for a baby?”
“We’ll be okay.” He scuffed at the ground.
“You’re eighteen years old,” Nat said, his voice rising. When he was angry, he had a mean, loud voice; Art knew it from childhood. “You don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. You think you’re going to manage on fifty bucks a month? Or—for Christ’s sake, do you think she can keep on working?”
The two of them were mute, and both breathed with difficulty. Gloom hung over them; defeat was in the air, a cloud of it from all directions. Nat thought about his used car lot, his row of old wrecks. He was making no money; he was on the verge of going out of business. How could he support a kid-brother with a wife and baby?
Resentment drained his strength. He had never approved of Rachael or the marriage; she had maneuvered the kid into it. This proved it.
The Broken Bubble Page 6