Bill began to slide out of the booth. "Are you going?" Raul asked. "You still have ten minutes."
"I have to give this to Mrs. White."
"Oh. Try and come see me down here during the day."
"You'll be here all day?"
"Uh, yeah. Probably."
"Okay, I'll see, man." He flipped his hand up.
"Right on."
Bill left.
"Why do you always say right on to Bill?" Jeff pulled his lower lip and chin tight to drag on the cigarette.
"It's a Panther phrase as far as I know."
"Is Bill a Panther?"
"No. He would be, I mean I think he will be. I guess he can't until he gets away from his parents, because they're Black capitalists. But I mean really Black capitalists. They're not just poor blacks who want to be rich." Raul rose austerely, rattling keys in his pocket. "Jeff, do you have ten cents so I can buy a Coke?"
Jeff gave it to him and Raul walked over to Mike & Gino's counter area. Mike, or Gino, a short, thin man in a sweat shirt, was hovering about. His wife was nearby. This could be deduced: Raul had heard someone say that it was either Mike's or Gino's wife and just by looking at the other member of the partnership, who was fat but without the revelry of obesity, one could tell that he was unmarried. She was always cheerful and usually wore a light blue woolen sweater that made her look comfortable and easygoing. Her husband was wiping the counter just beneath where he was going to place a cup of coffee; doing this, he asked Raul if he could help him. Startled out of staring at his wife, whose unrelieved good-naturedness seemed unnatural, Raul ordered his Coke. Getting it, he walked back feeling calm.
"Jeff, did you go to a camp this summer?" Raul didn't wait for a reply, though there was one. "What was it like?"
"It was like, it was, uh, I got kicked out."
"You did? How come?"
"For drinking."
"For drinking? Are you kidding me? This generation's obsessed with drugs, and you get kicked out for something so obscene, so slimy as… echh, drinking!"
Jeff looked sheepish.
"Aw, Jeff, Jeff. I'm ashamed of ya, boy, truly ashamed. Hey, listen, fuck-up, I thought it was supposed to be a really liberal camp? Right? So what the fuck they doin' throwing you out for something so American as drinking?"
Jeff, barraged by complex memories, couldn't express himself. After some mumbling, Raul came in to help.
"You better spit it out, or it's gonna choke ya. Aic, did that sound like dime store philosophy. Let's just… look, tell me something about the camp. No, wait a minute. Tell me why you went to a camp. It's bad enough you waste the year at school. There must be something more productive you can do than be institutionalized for the summer also."
"In Mamaroneck you just get beaten up by greasers. And, you know, girls."
"Ah, yes, les femmes. So," Raul said with disgust, "did you fuck a lot?"
Jeff again could not express himself. "Okay, I guess at a certain point you blew it."
"Oh, yeah."
"All right. We got that straight. Did you blow it more than once?"
"Un-huh."
Raul laughed. "Start from the beginning then. Girl number one."
Jeff's face became pathetic. "Well, like, for the first two, well, no, I guess it was like a week, maybe week and a half."
"Okay, it doesn't matter. Go on."
"I was down. Really depressed. I was just moping, and everybody couldn't stand me."
"What were you depressed about?"
"I don't know. Well, anyway, one day we were comin' out of a… a kind of assembly. 'Cause there was one every week. I was comin' out, and under this tree there was a girl. Amy. She was sittin' under the tree cryin'."
"Crying?"
"Uh-huh. So I went over. That kinda made me feel good, you know, that somebody else was unhappy. I went over and asked her what was wrong. She was really crying and she told me to go away. I would've normally. It pisses me off when somebody doesn't leave me alone when I want to, you know? But I sat down and smoked a cigarette."
"They let you smoke?"
"Yeah."
"And nobody came over all that time?"
"No. The assembly was still goin' on."
"So what happened?"
"After a while she stopped cryin'. And I asked her what was wrong. She asked why did I care."
Raul chuckled.
"I said I care. I asked her what was wrong." He paused.
"And?"
"She said everybody hated her."
Raul broke. He was near the floor, tears in his eyes, hysteria in every limb. He wanted to stop. He knew it would make Jeff angry. But what a cliché!
"I'm sorry, Jeff, I'm really sorry. But it's such a dumb thing to say."
"Fine." Jeff put his feet up, looking hurt.
"No, look, come on, don't get pissed. You gotta understand the way you said it made it seem ridiculous. I'm sure, you know, at the time it was (pathetic? pitiable?) important. Your just tellin' it like that without being able to see her made it sound like she said '—Ewery bowdy hates me.' Aw, shucks! Okay? Picasso, eh? Okay?"
Jeff couldn't suppress a smile. Raul's beaming face cheered him. But it was forced, and Jeff wanted to leave. "Look, it's time to go."
"Bullshit, you're going 'cause you're angry."
"No, I'm not. I mean I want to be alone, I just don't want to… Look, I understand why it seemed ridiculous, but, you know, that hurt me, so… I mean, I'm not angry, okay?"
Raul smiled easily. "Sure. Come down if you can, eh?"
And he was alone.
2
The black prince's power weakened. Raul felt robbed of life; though he had controlled it, a certain recognition was absent. He thought of other things.
Mike & Gino's with a cool winter wind and sunlight spreading across the tile floor, with a quiet, somber song, became melancholy. Raul rode upon a distant shore—black horse and cape; dawn and an uneasy wind. He Who Rides Alone.
The music stopped. A mop, loudly wiping the floor behind Raul, broke his imagery. The black prince became gangling: long, clumsy legs; a head thrust forth from a toothpick neck; glasses that screened heavy, ugly eyebrows; a Jewish nose that grew from them, covered with blackheads; big, lumbering feet, enormous hands on skinny wrists. Raul vaguely remembered seeing a pimple on his right cheekbone.
He let out a short, manic laugh and opened a copy of Yeats.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
But it's untrue, Raul, untrue. He stood up to look in one of the large mirrors on Mike & Gino's walls. You look gaunt and haunted; thin and emaciated. Without your glasses, your nose is fine. Your hair is sleek and black. Without your glasses, men tremble before you.
He put away Yeats and opened Hamlet. In a wizened voice he quoted: "Go thy ways to a nunnery, woman!"
In spite of himself, Raul sighed. He rose, walked over to the counter and ordered himself a cup of coffee. Suddenly he was slapped on the back. A voice was saying, "How are you? Oh, ha, you're in black."
Raul, stunned, saw who it was, "Alec. How are you?"
Alec dropped his boisterous look. He said seriously, "Fine. Are you getting a cup of coffee? Because if so, then I'll get one too and we'll sit down at the table."
Raul, flustered, waited for the coffee and then carefully carried it to the booth.
"Why are you in black?" Alec asked in an interested tone. Raul knew that tone. He spent hours getting it himself.
"I'm in mourning for my life."
Alec smiled, unsure, but charmed. "Who is that from?"
"Chekov."
"Ah, yes. But what play?"
"The Sea Gull, I think. Yes, definitely The Sea Gull." He knew damn well it was The Sea Gull. But the footwork was marvelous. The two of them were being ironic about their irony.
Raul, in reverie, let a smile flit about his lips. He caught Alec's eye, and the two broke into grins. The logic of this meeting, of life, struck Raul. He exclaimed.
"Wh
at?" Alec asked, as if he had been waiting anxiously.
"It just occurred to me. It's perfect that you're here. God! The perfection astonishes me."
"Come, come, does it bowl you over?"
"Literally knocks me off my feet."
They exchanged bows.
"Are you on Senior Project?" Raul asked.
"No. Projects don't begin until, oh, about the day Paul I is over."
"Then why are you not in class?"
"Seniors have a lot of leeway. After the first trimester… well, only the grades from the first trimester are sent on to college. So after that nobody shows up. Anywho, I ain't got but one class today."
"So why is not everyone a senior?"
"Look, after the junior year we deserve a rest."
"Oh. I didn't know the junior year was hard."
"C'est une bitch, eh? And why, may I ask, are you not in school?"
"Ah," Raul sighed melodramatically, "I have been ill for nearly two weeks."
"Oh, really? What from?"
"I have bad dreams."
"Alas!"
"A pity, it's true."
They were silent.
"You know," Raul said, "I nearly worked myself into a depression before you came in."
Alec became suspicious. "What from?"
"Oh, a sudden lack of drama. A sudden destruction of my ego. No, no, you'll take that wrong. I mean a dissipation of self-imagery. It's true that 'my ego's been destroyed' is used rather flippantly these days."
Alec was surprised. Raul's wording was ponderous, but his tone was light; and he had guessed Alec's objection.
"I always wanted to mold life like clay." Raul's voice had become an old man's; he looked up at Alec with a smile. "When the clay's away, the mice will play."
The shift from poesy to irony seemed false. Alec was impressed, but how believable Raul might be was in doubt. There were an awful amount of poetic fakes at Cabot. Yet there was a major difference: the sly look, the thin, ironic smile, and the lure of Raul's drama. Alec was an actor, and he felt the objective reality of the stage on them.
"Ah," Raul said, like Zorba, "the sweat, the good winy sweat of life."
But Alec couldn't respond; and that shocked and depressed him. Raul expected a response; he felt an imbalance. The air was uneasy—there was a desperate need for something to be said.
Raul felt his lips fly apart, his eyes lose balance, his voice high and giddy with adolescence. "I really like that movie." He degenerated into sheepishness: "Oy, what a schmuck I am."
Alec glanced up and laughed. Raul smiled. He should express both their thoughts, he knew it. But a well of silence lay like a void in his throat.
Raul poked Alec's arm. "It seems we both got ourselves into a depression."
Alec looked at Raul, smiling. Like a Greek comrade, he slapped him on the shoulder. "We'll come out of it, yes? Ah, good."
"Sure," Raul said eagerly. "Do you have a match?"
"Yes. Listen, Raul, isn't it dangerous for you to be cutting school?"
"Shit, I've been doing it for nearly… today makes it two weeks."
"You're kidding! Really two weeks?"
"My Lord, would I lie?"
"You're insane. You're incredible. What time is it? Quick!"
"Don't hurry me, don't hurry me. It's, uh, whew! nine-fifteen."
"Oh. We've got time then."
"One always does. Where were we going?"
Alec laughed. "Richard's going to meet us at ten o'clock."
"I see, but, uh, it would be interesting to know who Richard is."
"Um… you must have met him."
"In that case it will be good to see Richard again."
"Alas! Poor Richard."
"May hymns of angels sing him to his rest."
"Very good, sir." Alec's hand arched, meeting Raul's in a fine Madison Avenue handshake.
Raul shook it briskly, standing up, clicking his heels and bowing. "Your servant, sir." Raul's military face disintegrated into a serious one. "By the way, Alec."
"Yes?"
"Who's Richard?"
"Uh, do you remember the night of Aria da Capo? There was a guy, with a girl, who came up to me. Both of them were very short."
"Did he then go over and talk to your mother?"
"Yep."
"Then I know who he is."
"Well, then you've known him all along."
"I think that's a very free interpretation of my testimony. Un moment. Let's be serious here, before we degenerate completely. There is always the danger of being hammy."
"Very true."
"Is Richard a good guy? I didn't mean to put it that way. Is he… you know, what is he like?"
"Richard? I've known him since I was very young."
"That's the excuse I use for one of my friends."
Alec laughed. "That's true, but, no, Richard's okay. But he isn't… well, let me say it this way, he isn't very much like us."
"You mean he isn't a genius."
Alec was surprised and off base. Raul thought he had overstepped what little bounds were left. He had expressed a complex thought too bluntly.
"That sounded terrible, but I didn't mean it that way. What we've been doing is… at least an extension of art. Actually it's the neurotic release of artists. But it's fast and it flaunts life shamelessly. It's hard for me, and I'm sure for you, to take anything in life with the real sorrows we're showing on the stage. All the world's a stage—nothing, for long, can depress us but our own imagery. Anger and love, against our wills really, turn into parts for us. The real emotion is lost. So what I meant was… oh, it's too difficult to go into. I'm so moved by the mood I image that I express myself either cynically or hopefully on the basis of that. All my ideas are changed in a second. I, at least, no matter what I say, how I modify it, believe I'm a genius. I don't think I'd create anything if I didn't. So, however good my stuff is, I think I'm a genius. And I think you do too, whether you admit it or not. That's what it boils down to. And it's disgusting that it boils down to that: pure egotism."
Alec had no ready response. It was his habit to reduce all comments made by his schoolmates to obvious statements of character. So intuitive was the quality, which Raul had also, that answers came to mind immediately. Tone, look, degree of sincerity; the kind of response was evaluated quickly and delivered. That statement of Raul's, without the tone Raul gave it in, without the last sentence, without all that had gone before, could be easily written down to a method of self-flattery. But Raul's character seemed too ambiguous to reduce to a formula. Alec, nevertheless, kept his suspicions.
Raul was furious at himself. He had made a sham of an important idea. It had to be woven carefully to express the varied emotional hues. His urge was to blurt it out, but that caused havoc—it came out as egotism, or adolescent pretension, or… he had seen people dismiss it many times.
And it was imperative that he make this casual acquaintance a friend. "Look," Raul said, "let me try and explain it. You and I seem very different, don't we?"
"In what way?"
"Well, superficially. I've gathered quite a bit of secondhand information about you. All the time we were working on Aria da Capo, I sensed certain things about you. For example, you're a very big-time seducer."
Alec laughed, Raul smiled. "It is so, isn't it? That's an embarrassing question, of course. If you say yes, you'll seem like you're doing what hundreds of teenagers do. The bragging of sexual prowess is very fatiguing for me." Raul's tone seemed to suggest a point of tension had been relieved. "At any rate, you are. One didn't have to sense a thing, the extensive variety of girls on your arm those weeks of rehearsal were enough. And you once confided in me, do you remember?"
"What I said backstage the night of the first performance?"
"It was not typical bragging, and it had a kind of flair… Shit! It had a kind of… Christ, I'm in a rut. It was very dramatic. I'll explain that later, that's the conclusion. Well, one of the… wait a second, let's not get
into that."
Alec laughed—Raul was arguing with himself. With an embarrassed smile, Raul acknowledged the fact.
"The point is, I am the opposite. In fact, I'm the cliché, neurotic adolescent about sex. I'm unwilling— it would be time-consuming, not to mention the humiliation—to go into details. But… you don't fuck with all those girls because you love them."
"God, no. But I did once love a girl."
"I'm sure. But, uh, one, you said. That leaves ninety-nine per cent unloved. I don't mean to make you out to be cruel. I'm sure every one you fuck knows damn well what you're doing."
"Yeah, I think so."
"In fact, you're probably a lot more honest. Others keep one girl around for ready fucking and, from that base, do some free-lancing."
Alec roared. "Well put, my boy, well put."
Raul asked him for a light. "So… thank you. And you play roles while you do it. The boots, either dungarees or chinos, the French style of smoking—in fact, your major seductive role is all done in the French style."
Alec was amazed at the ease with which his portrait was done. Bits and pieces of what Raul was saying, he had been accused of with malice. But this was done as a whole, with complete understanding. It gave him a great sense of calm to have what he had always sensed, so neatly expressed.
"All right, so we've reached what's the basis of all that fucking—art. Acting, really, but that's an art. Now, not everybody can do that, right? Some people use it as a way of getting ahead. For example, most of Balzac's novels are, in some way, based on that. But it's different with you. You'd go out of your mind if you didn't play that game for, say, a period of a month. A great deal of your artistic energy in life—no, even more than that, the maintenance of your self-imagery —would dissipate. You'd be thrown into a depression."
Raul swallowed. "Okay. Now I said I was the opposite, but yet I'm completely the same. Of all those you fuck, which outnumber me by a hundred per cent, you don't have a serious human relationship with any of them. If one of the girls you've dropped comes up to you on the street and makes an enormous scene, you'd have exactly two feelings: embarrassment and exhibitionism. You'd think it was a marvelous scene. You'd imagine all those looking on as snickering and envious. I said two emotions and they contradict, but Dostoevsky has already dispelled that puzzle. You might have a twinge of guilt, but you'd conjure up the image of the scene and burst out laughing, saying between your teeth, 'What a fool!' And you'd walk off; all your ability in acting reinforced."
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