Donald Barthelme

by Donald Barthelme

  The Emerald

  HEY BUDDY what’s your name?

  My name is Tope. What’s your name?

  My name is Sallywag. You after the emerald?

  Yeah I’m after the emerald you after the emerald too?

  I am. What are you going to do with it if you get it?

  Cut it up into little emeralds. What are you going to do with it?

  I was thinking of solid emerald armchairs. For the rich.

  That’s an idea. What’s your name, you?

  Wide Boy.

  You after the emerald?

  Sure as shootin’.

  How you going to get in?

  Blast.

  That’s going to make a lot of noise isn’t it?

  You think it’s a bad idea?

  Well . . . What’s your name, you there?

  Taptoe.

  You after the emerald?

  Right as rain. What’s more, I got a plan.

  Can we see it?

  No it’s my plan I can’t be showing it to every—

  Okay okay. What’s that guy’s name behind you?

  My name is Sometimes.

  You here about the emerald, Sometimes?

  I surely am.

  Have you got an approach?

  Tunneling. I’ve took some test borings. Looks like a stone cinch.

  If this is the right place.

  You think this may not be the right place?

  The last three places haven’t been the right place.

  You tryin’ to bring me down?

  Why would I want to do that? What’s that guy’s name, the one with the shades?

  My name is Brother. Who are all these people?

  Businessmen. What do you think of the general situation, Brother?

  I think it’s crowded. This is my pal, Wednesday.

  What say, Wednesday. After the emerald, I presume?

  Thought we’d have a go.

  Two heads better than one, that the idea?

  Yep.

  What are you going to do with the emerald, if you get it?

  Facet. Facet and facet and facet.

  Moll talking to a member of the news media.

  Tell me, as a member of the news media, what do you do?

  Well we sort of figure out what the news is, then we go out and talk to people, the newsmakers, those who have made the news—

  These having been identified by certain people very high up in your organization.

  The editors. The editors are the ones who say this is news, this is not news, maybe this is news, damned if I know whether this is news or not—

  And then you go out and talk to people and they tell you everything.

  They tell you a surprising number of things, if you are a member of the news media. Even if they have something to hide, questionable behavior or one thing and another, or having killed their wife, that sort of thing, still they tell you the most amazing things. Generally.

  About themselves. The newsworthy.

  Yes. Then we have our experts in the various fields. They are experts in who is a smart cookie and who is a dumb cookie. They write pieces saying which kind of cookie these various cookies are, so that the reader can make informed choices. About things.

  Fascinating work I should think.

  Your basic glamour job.

  I suppose you would have to be very well-educated to get that kind of job.

  Extremely well-educated. Typing, everything.

  Admirable.

  Yes. Well, back to the pregnancy. You say it was a seven-year pregnancy.

  Yes. When the agency was made clear to me—

  The agency was, you contend, extraterrestrial.

  It’s a fact. Some people can’t handle it.

  The father was—

  He sat in that chair you’re sitting in. The red chair. Naked and wearing a morion.

  That’s all?

  Yes he sat naked in the chair wearing only a morion, and engaged me in conversation.

  The burden of which was—

  Passion.

  What was your reaction?

  I was surprised. My reaction was surprise.

  Did you declare your unworthiness?

  Several times. He was unmoved.

  Well I don’t know, all this sounds a little unreal, like I mean unreal, if you know what I mean.

  Oui, je sais.

  What role were you playing?

  Well obviously I was playing myself. Mad Moll.

  What’s a morion?

  Steel helmet with a crest.

  You considered his offer.

  More in the nature of a command.

  Then, the impregnation. He approached your white or pink as yet undistended belly with his hideously engorged member—

  It was more fun than that.

  I find it hard to believe, if you’ll forgive me, that you, although quite beautiful in your own way, quite lush of figure and fair of face, still the beard on your chin and that black mark like a furry caterpillar crawling in the middle of your forehead—

  It’s only a small beard after all.

  That’s true.

  And he seemed to like the black mark on my forehead. He caressed it.

  So you did in fact enjoy the . . . event. You understand I wouldn’t ask these questions, some of which I admit verge on the personal, were I not a duly credentialed member of the press. Custodian as it were of the public’s right to know. Everything. Every last little slippy-dippy thing.

  Well okay yes I guess that’s true strictly speaking. I suppose that’s true. Strictly speaking. I could I suppose tell you to buzz off but I respect the public’s right to know. I think. An informed public is, I suppose, one of the basic bulwarks of—

  Yes I agree but of course I would wouldn’t I, being I mean in my professional capacity my professional role—

  Yes I see what you mean.

  But of course I exist aside from that role, as a person I mean, as a woman like you—

  You’re not like me.

  Well no in the sense that I’m not a witch.

  You must forgive me if I insist on this point. You’re not like me.

  Well, yes, I don’t disagree, I’m not arguing, I have not after all produced after a pregnancy of seven years a gigantic emerald weighing seven thousand and thirty-five carats— Can I, could I, by the way, see the emerald?

  No not right now it’s sleeping.

  The emerald is sleeping?

  Yes it’s sleeping right now. It sleeps.

  It sleeps?

  Yes didn’t you hear me it’s sleeping right now it sleeps just like any other—

  What do you mean the emerald is sleeping?

  Just what I said. It’s asleep.

  Do you talk to it?

  Of course, sure I talk to it, it’s mine, I mean I gave birth to it, I cuddle it and polish it and talk to it, what’s so strange about that?

  Does it talk to you?

  Well I mean it’s only one month old. How could it talk?

  Hello?

  Yes?

  Is this Mad Moll?

  Yes this is Mad Moll who are you?

  You the one who advertised for somebody to stand outside the door and knock down anybody tries to come in?

  Yes that’s me are you applying for the position?

  Yes I think so what does it pay?

  Two hundred a week and found.

  Well that sounds pretty good but tell me lady who is it I have to knock down for example?

  Various parties. Some of them not yet known to me. I mean I have an inkling but no more than that. Are you big?

  Six eight.

  How many pounds?

  Tw
o forty-nine.

  IQ?

  One forty-six.

  What’s your best move?

  I got a pretty good shove. A not-bad bust in the mouth. I can trip. I can fall on ’em. I can gouge. I have a good sense of where the ears are. I know thumbs and kneecaps.

  Where did you get your training?

  Just around. High school, mostly.

  What’s your name?

  Soapbox.

  That’s not a very tough name if you’ll forgive me.

  You want me to change it? I’ve been called different things in different places.

  No I don’t want you to change it. It’s all right. It’ll do.

  Okay do you want to see me or do I have the job?

  You sound okay to me Soapbox. You can start tomorrow.

  What time?

  Dawn?

  Understand, ye sons of the wise, what this exceedingly precious Stone crieth out to you! Seven years, close to tears. Slept for the first two, dreaming under four blankets, black, blue, brown, brown. Slept and pissed, when I wasn’t dreaming I was pissing, I was a fountain. After the first year I knew something irregular was in progress, but not what. I thought, moonstrous! Salivated like a mad dog, four quarts or more a day, when I wasn’t pissing I was spitting. Chawed moose steak, moose steak and morels, and fluttered with new men—the butcher, baker, candlestick maker, especially the butcher, one Shatterhand, he was neat. Gobbled a lot of iron, liver and rust from the bottoms of boats, I had serial nosebleeds every day of the seventeenth trimester. Mood swings of course, heigh-de-ho, instances of false labor in years six and seven, palpating the abdominal wall I felt edges and thought, edges? Then on a cold February night the denouement, at six sixty-six in the evening, or a bit past seven, they sent a Miss Leek to do the delivery, one of us but not the famous one, she gave me scopolamine and a little swan-sweat, that helped, she turned not a hair when the emerald presented itself but placed it in my arms with a kiss or two and a pat or two and drove away, in a coach pulled by a golden pig.

  Vandermaster has the Foot.

  Yes.

  The Foot is very threatening to you.

  Indeed.

  He is a mage and goes around accompanied by a black bloodhound.

  Yes. Tarbut. Said to have been raised on human milk.

  Could you give me a little more about the Foot. Who owns it?

  Monks. Some monks in a monastery in Merano or outside of Merano. That’s in Italy. It’s their Foot.

  How did Vandermaster get it?

  Stole it.

  Do you by any chance know what order that is?

  Let me see if I can remember—Carthusian.

  Can you spell that for me?

  C-a-r-t-h-u-s-i-a-n. I think.

  Thank you. How did Vandermaster get into the monastery?

  They hold retreats, you know, for pious laymen or people who just want to come to the monastery and think about their sins or be edified, for a week or a few days . . .

  Can you describe the Foot? Physically?

  The Foot proper is encased in silver. It’s about the size of a foot, maybe slightly larger. It’s cut off just above the ankle. The toe part is rather flat, it’s as if people in those days had very flat toes. The whole is quite graceful. The Foot proper sits on top of this rather elaborate base, three levels, gold, little claw feet . . .

  And you are convinced that this, uh, reliquary contains the true Foot of Mary Magdalene.

  Mary Magdalene’s Foot. Yes.

  He’s threatening you with it.

  It has a history of being used against witches, throughout history, to kill them or mar them—

  He wants the emerald.

  My emerald. Yes.

  You won’t reveal its parentage. Who the father was.

  Oh well hell. It was the man in the moon. Deus Lunus.

  The man in the moon ha-ha.

  No I mean it, it was the man in the moon. Deus Lunus as he’s called, the moon god. Deus Lunus. Him.

  You mean you want me to believe—

  Look woman I don’t give dandelions what you believe you asked me who the father was. I told you. I don’t give a zipper whether you believe me or don’t believe me.

  You’re actually asking me to—

  Sat in that chair, that chair right there. The red chair.

  Oh for heaven’s sake all right that’s it I’m going to blow this pop stand I know I’m just a dumb ignorant media person but if you think for one minute that . . . I respect your uh conviction but this has got to be a delusionary belief. The man in the moon. A delusionary belief.

  Well I agree it sounds funny but there it is. Where else would I get an emerald that big, seven thousand and thirty-five carats? A poor woman like me?

  Maybe it’s not a real emerald?

  If it’s not a real emerald why is Vandermaster after me?

  You going to the hog wrassle?

  No I’m after the emerald.

  What’s your name?

  My name is Cold Cuts. What’s that machine?

  That’s an emerald cutter.

  How’s it work?

  Laser beam. You after the emerald too?

  Yes I am.

  What’s your name?

  My name is Pro Tem.

  That a dowsing rod you got there?

  No it’s a giant wishbone.

  Looks like a dowsing rod.

  Well it dowses like a dowsing rod but you also get the wish.

  Oh. What’s his name?

  His name is Plug.

  Can’t he speak for himself?

  He’s deaf and dumb.

  After the emerald?

  Yes. He has special skills.

  What are they?

  He knows how to diddle certain systems.

  Playing it close to the vest is that it?

  That’s it.

  Who’s that guy there?

  I don’t know, all I know about him is he’s from Antwerp.

  The Emerald Exchange?

  That’s what I think.

  What are all those little envelopes he’s holding?

  Sealed bids?

  Look here, Soapbox, look here.

  What’s your name, man?

  My name is Dietrich von Dietersdorf.

  I don’t believe it.

  You don’t believe my name is my name?

  Pretty fancy name for such a pissant-looking fellow as you.

  I will not be balked. Look here.

  What you got?

  Silver thalers, my friend, thalers big as onion rings.

  That’s money, right?

  Right.

  What do I have to do?

  Fall asleep.

  Fall asleep at my post here in front of the door?

  Right. Will you do it?

  I could. But should I?

  Where does this “should” come from?

  My mind. I have a mind, stewing and sizzling.

  Well deal with it, man, deal with it. Will you do it?

  Will I? Will I? I don’t know!

  Where is my daddy? asked the emerald. My da?

  Moll dropped a glass, which shattered.

  Your father.

  Yes, said the emerald, amn’t I supposed to have one?

  He’s not here.

  Noticed that, said the emerald.

  I’m never sure what you know and what you don’t know.

  I ask in true perplexity.

  He was Deus Lunus. The moon god. Sometimes thought of as the man in the moon.

  Bosh! said the emerald. I don’t believe it.

  Do you believe I’m your mother?

  I do.

  Do you believe you’re an emerald?

&n
bsp; I am an emerald.

  Used to be, said Moll, women wouldn’t drink from a glass into which the moon had shone. For fear of getting knocked up.

  Surely this is superstition?

  Hoo, hoo, said Moll. I like superstition.

  I thought the moon was female.

  Don’t be culture-bound. It’s been female in some cultures at some times, and in others, not.

  What did it feel like? The experience.

  Not a proper subject for discussion with a child.

  The emerald sulking. Green looks here and there.

  Well it wasn’t the worst. Wasn’t the worst. I had an orgasm that lasted for three hours. I judge that not the worst.

  What’s an orgasm?

  Feeling that shoots through one’s electrical system giving you little jolts, spam spam, many little jolts, spam spam spam spam . . .

  Teach me something. Teach me something, mother of mine, about this gray world of yours.

  What have I to teach? The odd pitiful spell. Most of them won’t even put a shine on a pair of shoes.

  Teach me one.

  “To achieve your heart’s desire, burn in water, wash in fire.”

  What does that do?

  French-fries. Anything you want French-fried.

  That’s all?

  Well.

  I have buggered up your tranquillity.

  No no no no no.

  I’m valuable, said the emerald. I am a thing of value. Over and above my personhood, if I may use the term.

  You are a thing of value. A value extrinsic to what I value.

  How much?

  Equivalent I would say to a third of a sea.

  Is that much?

  Not inconsiderable.

  People want to cut me up and put little chips of me into rings and bangles.

  Yes. I’m sorry to say.

  Vandermaster is not of this ilk.

  Vandermaster is an ilk unto himself.

  The more threatening for so being.

  Yes.

  What are you going to do?

  Make me some money. Whatever else is afoot, this delight is constant.

  Now the Molljourney the Molltrip into the ferocious Out with a wire shopping cart what’s that sucker there doing? tips his hat bends his middle shuffles his feet why he’s doing courtly not seen courtly for many a month he does a quite decent courtly I’ll smile, briefly, out of my way there citizen sirens shrieking on this swarm summer’s day here an idiot there an idiot that one’s eyeing me eyed me on the corner and eyed me round the corner as the Mad Moll song has it and that one standing with his cheek crushed against the warehouse wall and that one browsing in a trash basket and that one picking that one’s pocket and that one with the gotch eye and his hands on his I’ll twoad ’ee bastard I’ll—