Vital Signs

by John Metcalf

  “Peter?”

  Paul put his hand on Peter’s arm and then shook him gently.

  “What? Yes, I know you’re tired. What? Yes, soon. We’ll go home soon. But listen! Let’s get this thing thrashed out. I was saying how ridiculous it was, this constant squabbling about things. I mean, it wasn’t so long ago that you went everywhere with me. I couldn’t even go to the store for a packet of cigarettes without you tagging along. And remember how we used to go fishing every weekend? Just you and me? Remember that? All those sunfish you used to catch? Remember that day a racoon ran off with our package of hotdogs? And those water snakes you used to catch? Revolting damned things! I used to be quite scared of them. You didn’t know that, did you? You thought I was just pretending. And remember that day you made me hold one and it vented all that stuff on my hands and shirt? And how it stank? You thought that was very funny.

  “Remember, Petey?

  “So what I’m getting at is that, although we’ve been getting on each other’s nerves a bit lately, you can’t just wipe out the past. You can’t just ignore . . . well, what it amounts to, most of your life. I guess we’re just stuck with it, aren’t we? Wretched thing that I am, I’m your father. And you’re my son, Petey. So I guess . . .”

  “nrrrnnnnnnnn.”

  “What?”

  Peter leaned forward and, without apparent effort, gushed vomit.

  Paul jumped up and out of range.

  Peter sat staring ahead, his mouth slightly open.

  Threads of drool glistened from his lips.

  “Peter?”

  Paul passed his hand in front of the boy’s face. He did not blink; he did not stir.

  “Peter!”

  Paul stared down at him, astounded.

  “You ungrateful little shit! You’re the next best thing to unconscious, aren’t you? You selfish little turd! You haven’t heard a single goddamned word I’ve been saying to you, have you? I’ve been wasting all these pearls of wisdom on the desert air, haven’t I? Hello? Hello? Anyone in there? Peter! YOUR FATHER IS TALKING TO YOU.

  “Nothing, eh?

  “The motor’s run down, has it?

  “Ah, well . . .

  “I suppose it makes a change, though. Your not answering back. I ought to be grateful, really. You’ve got a mouth on you like a barrack-room lawyer. Always arguing the toss, aren’t you? Black, white. Day, night. Left is right and vice versa. I ought to be grateful for brief mercies. I’ve daydreamed sometimes of having myself surgically deafened.

  “You’re always bleating about social justice and revolution—and look at you! Purple hair and vintage puke-slobbered clothing. Let me tell you, my little chickadee, that any self-respecting revolutionary would shoot you on sight. Thus displaying both acumen and taste.

  “Some revolution you’d run. You and Munchy and Bunchy and Drippy and Droopy. What would you do after you’d liberated Baskin Robbins?

  “That’s a nice touch. Doing your face purple as well. Suits you.

  “Neat but not gaudy.

  ‘’And to revert for a moment to the subject of music. You, my dear boy, and your fellow-members of The Virgin Exterminators, are about as much musicians as is my left bojangle. You’d be hard put to find middle C under a searchlight. Musically speaking, blood of my blood and bone of my bone, you couldn’t distinguish shit from shinola.

  “Hello?

  “Yoo-hoo!

  ‘’Anyone at home?

  “You’re an offensive little heap! What are you? ‘I’m an offensive little heap, Daddy.’ Yes, you are! And you’re also idle, soft, and spoiled. And in addition to that, you’ve spewed on my shoe.

  “What do you imagine’s going to happen to you? Who the hell’s going to hire you when you leave school? For what? What can you do? You can’t even cut the lawn without leaving tufts all over the place. And dare I ask you to trim the edges with a pair of shears? You were outraged, weren’t you? ‘By hand’ you said. How do you think I do it? By foot? Wanted me to buy one of those ludicrous buzzing machines to save your poor back from stooping. And when you’ve chopped it to pieces so that it looks as if you’ve gone at it with a knife and fork, you have the nerve to demand two bucks. It’s all so easy, isn’t it?

  “Just shake the old money tree.

  “Well, life isn’t like that, my little cherub. Life isn’t a matter of rolling out of your smelly bed at eleven in the morning and lounging around sipping Earl Grey tea and eating nine muffins rich in fibre. Life, my little nestling, is tough bananas.

  ‘’And what are you doing to prepare yourself for its rigours? Studying hard? Mastering your times tables? Practising the old parlezvous? Getting a grip on human history? History! Dear God! Stone hand-axes, the Magna Carta, the Pilgrim Fathers—it’s all the same sort of thing, isn’t it? Events that took place in that dim and inconceivable period before the Rolling Stones. The glories of civilization­—it’s all B.S., isn’t it?

  “Before Stones.

  “And math? You don’t even know your tables. Oh, I’ll admit you’re very handy with the calculator on that fancy watch of yours but I’m afraid you’d have to admit that you’d be up the well-known creek if the battery gave out.

  “In sum, then, you’re close to failing in damn near every subject. And why is that? What was the reason you advanced? Something about school being ‘a repressive environment.’ I’m not misquoting you, I hope. And what was it you received a commendation in? A discipline I hadn’t encountered before. ‘Chemical Awareness,’ I believe it was called.

  “In which you have now moved on, I see, to practical studies.

  “Pissed out of your mind at fifteen.

  “What mind you have.

  “And speaking of pissed, and I apologize for bringing this up, as it were, when you’re a little under the weather, but I’d be gratified if you could remember in future to raise the toilet seat before relieving yourself.

  “I mention this because I am tired of living knee-deep in balled Kleenex, soiled underwear, crusted piss, and rotting tofu.

  “I am, as a matter of fact, tired of a hell of a lot of things.

  “Oh!

  “Yes.

  “I also wish you’d shave your upper lip every couple of weeks now you’re nearing man’s estate. You look like a spinster with hormonal imbalance.

  “And another matter of petty detail.

  “That cat.

  “I don’t like it.

  “That cat is going back to the SPCA forthwith. To be humanely electrocuted to death IN A WET STEEL BOX.”

  Stooping and grabbing up a rotten branch which had fallen in the storm, Paul beat it against the trunk of the nearest maple until it shattered into fragments. He threw the pieces, one by one, as far as he could out onto the grass. He threw them with all the power and violence he could command. He threw them until his elbow joint began to hurt.

  He turned and walked back towards the pedestal. The pool of vomit between Peter’s feet glistened. He sat on a nearby bench and spread his arms along the back.

  He crossed his legs.

  He breathed in deeply and then sighed profoundly.

  He stared up at the great bronze bust of San Martin.

  “Well?” he demanded of the moonlight touching the high military collar, the frogging, the star burst of a military decoration or Royal Order.

  “What do you say, José? How was it with you? What do you have to offer? You wear your seventy-two years easily, I’ll say that for you. You have that calm and peaceful look about you of the man who gets laid frequently. I’d lay odds you didn’t live in an open-plan house.

  “It’s about all I can lay.

  “Odds.

  “And what about Mrs. José de San Martin? Doubtless a beauty, you salty dog. Veins surging with hot southern blood? Bit of a handful? I don’t suppose she had to go out to
work. Wasn’t too tired at night? Wasn’t worrying that the children might hear? That the tomato chutney in the basement might explode?

  “Lucky man, José.

  “And the kids? I expect they were tucked up in their nursery half a mile away in the East Wing?

  “And not by you.

  “Very sensible, too.

  “And she adored you?

  “Well mine adores me but she’s got a lot on her mind. Is the gas turned off? Did she or didn’t she put tooth fairy money under Jennifer’s pillow? Will chutney attract rats? It takes the bloom off it, José.

  “But I’ve always been faithful to her. Up till tonight, that is.

  “What happened? That’s a good question, José. I wish I knew. There’s this girl, you see. Polly Ongle. And . . . well, I wasn’t unfaithful. Though I could have been. Or maybe not. No. There’s a thought. Maybe not. And anyway, this one turned out to be Norma. To tell the truth, I’m a bit confused about it, José. You see, I’m beginning to suspect it was all about something else.

  “Can I put it more clearly? I’m not surprised you ask.

  “No.

  “But you. These campaigns of yours. When you were away from her. I expect you rogered your way across the continent. I don’t suppose you went short of a bit of enchilada, did you? Oh, don’t misunderstand me! I’m not being censorious. If anything, I’m envious, José. It’s just that it isn’t so simple now. A lot of other things have been liberated since Chile and Peru.

  “I wish I’d flourished then.

  “It seems more vivid, somehow. Somehow simpler.

  “Jingling home after you’d given the hidalgos a severe thumping about in the course of liberating this or that, clattering into the forecourt of the ancestral home, tossing the reins to one of the adoring family retainers, striding through the hall in boots and spurs,

  “Coo-ee, mi adoracion! I have returned! It is I.’

  “And then off with the epaulettes, down with the breeches, and into the saddle.

  “Whereas, José, when I return—granted not from a two-year campaign but from a two-day business trip—there’s no question of skirts up and knickers joyfully down. I have to suffer a lengthy interrogation about expenditures on my Visa card.

  “Following which she promptly collapses.

  “Why, you ask?

  “Because, José, for two nights she has not slept. She has not slept because she has lain awake, José, worrying (a) that I might have been killed in any of an astounding variety of ways, and (b) that the burglars and perverts who surround my house would take advantage of my absence and kill her.

  “After first buggering, of course, all the children.

  “Talking of which, how did yours turn out?

  “Children, I mean.

  “A comfort to you in your old age? A source of pride? Or did they cause you grief? Blackballed from clubs? Welshed on debts of honour? Or did they rally round bringing Dad his cigar and nightly posset?

  “Tell me, José, what would you have done with this? Head under a pump and a stick across his back, eh? It’s an attractive thought. Very attractive. Bur he’d have me up in front of the Children’s Aid soon as look at me. Probably argue his own case, too. With his mouth, he wouldn’t need a lawyer. And I’d end up being forced to increase his allowance and buy him a colour TV.

  “The army? Well, these days I’m afraid they don’t take all comers. They tend to ask questions. Such as what’s five multiplied by twelve. And I don’t suppose they’d let him use his watch.

  “I don’t know, José. This one’s bad enough. But I’ve got two more coming to the boil. What are they going to dream up to break my heart? Need I ask? I know. In the middle of the night, I know. My little daughter will get herself tattooed and fuck with unwashed, psychotic bikers. My other son will blossom suddenly queer as a three-dollar bill. What does one do? What does one do?

  “You lived a long time, José.”

  Close ranks and face the front.

  “Well, there’s a gem from the military mind. Very comforting. But forgive me. I’m being rude. I’m forgetting. You do know more about fortitude than I do. I’d forgotten that. Was it a daily bitterness? All your titles resigned, your honours returned. Thirty-odd years, wasn’t it? In France? Thirty-some years in voluntary exile. And all in support of a monarchy nobody wanted.

  “I don’t know, José.

  “But on the other hand, it couldn’t have turned out worse than generals in sunglasses.

  “Was it worth it, José? Looking at it now? I’ve never been there. Argentina. Used to read about it when I was a kid. Gauchos deadly with knife and bola. That sort of thing. But if the rest of the world is anything to go by, the gauchos are probably wired to Sony Walkmans and the pampas is littered with Radio Shacks.

  “Still, you did it when the doing of it was fun. Horses. Gorgeous uniforms and women swooning. South American heartbreakers all looking like Bianca Jagger with flowers in their teeth.

  “‘Was it worth it?’

  “What a stupid question!

  “Of course it was worth it.

  “Before. After. All those years in bitter exile.

  “Of course it was worth it. Leather, harness, steel, pennons snapping in the wind. For those eight years you were larger than life. Coming down out of the mountains, your columns trailing you, the guns bouncing on their limbers—you were living in a dream. Oh, don’t think I don’t understand!

  “I envy you, José.

  “You breathed an air I’ve never breathed.

  “I envy you that, José.

  “God! I envy you that.

  “‘Was it worth it!’

  “Look at us!

  “Here’s me down here with puke on my shoes—ever tried to get it off suede?—and there’s you up there growing greener every year.

  “Ah, well . . .

  “What can you do?

  “As my father-in-law, the philosopher says,

  “‘What can you do?’

  “What can you do, José?

  “What can you do, flesh of my flesh?

  “No contributions from you?

  “No ready answers?

  “Good.

  “That’s a relief.

  “Come on, then. Heave! Up you come! Don’t step in it! Beddybye time for you. Come on! That’s it. We’re going walkies. Hasta la vista, José. Come on, Peter. Say goodnight to the General. That’s it. Christ, you smell revolting! Get your feet out of the zinnias, there’s a good boy. This way! This way. Come on! Five more blocks. Walk straight! Come on, Petey. You can do it. Five more blocks and then you can sleep. Good! That’s it. Good boy. Good boy, Petey.

  “Left, right.

  “Left, right.

  “Not so much left.

  “Right.

  “Steady the Buffs! Steady! Correct that tendency to droop. And get your leg out of that juniper bush. What do you think this is, you ’orrible little man? A nature ramble? Now, then. Close ranks and face the front. That’s the front—where the street light is. And on the word of command, it’s forward march for us.

  “Ready?

  “Forwaaard—

  wait for it!

  wait for it!

  MARCH.”

  FORDE ABROAD

  Roast pork with crackling was repellent. Roast pork with crackling was goyishe dreck. Black Forest ham with Swiss cheese was, however, her favourite kind of sandwich. She loved even the greasiest of salamis. Sausages, on the other hand, were unclean. All Chinese food involving pork was perfectly acceptable, with the single exception of steamed minced pork, which was, apparently, vile trayf of the most abhorrent kind. Prosciutto she adored. But pork chops . . . feh!

  Forde stared at Sheila in exasperation.

  “And you can be sure they haven’t changed,’ she said, “in their
hearts.”

  “But how do you know they ever were . . .”

  “But how do you know they weren’t?”

  “Well, I don’t, but how could they have deported anyone? Slovenia was invaded by the Nazis. The Slovenians were a subject people. Slovenia was an occupied country just as—as France was.”

  “And look at their record.”

  “I don’t think,’ he said, “that this is a particularly logical conversation.”

  Lines at the corners of her eyes tightened.

  “So what makes you think they didn’t collaborate? Like the whatnames.”

  “Which whatnames?”

  “The French ones. Begins with M.”

  “The milice?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  “More likely than not, I’d say.”

  “. . . but I’ll look it up,” he said.

  She bent over the atlas again.

  “Here’s the Nazis immediately north of them, in Austria.

  And then immediately to the right of them, in Hungary—what were those called? The Iron Cross? The Iron Guard?”

  “I think it was the Arrowcross.”

  With her left shoulder she gave a quick, irritated shrug.

  “And then here to the south of them you’ve got the Ustashi in Croatia. Why should the Slovenians have been any different?”

  “Listen,’ he said, “Sheila . . .”

  “But, please,’ she said, “it’s your career. I know I’m just being silly.”

  She patted below her eyes with a tissue.

  “If it’s what you want, off you go.”

  She sniffed.

  “Off you go,’ she said, her voice breaking.

  “Sheila . .. please.”

  “No!’ she said fiercely. “No! You can go there and you can do what you want. I don’t care. I don’t care if you choose to consort with Slovenians.”

  To her offended and retreating back, he said, “I hardly think the word ‘consort’ is quite . . . oh, indescribable BALLS!”