by John Irving
Well, I thought: Is it forsythia that turns the moon so yellow and sends it through my window to your hair - hues the air vermilion above your small, lovely head? 'I couldn't do that, Gallen,' I said.
She jingled her pocket of coins. 'I've got to go now, Graff,' she said.
'Would you come and tuck me in?' I asked.
She turned quick and smiled. Oh yes. Oh my.
'Don't you grab,' she said. And she came round to my bedside, put off my light. 'Get your arms under,' she said to the dark.
She tucked once and came round to my other side. I was wriggling an arm out, but she tucked too fast. Then she pounced her hands down on my shoulders; her braids fell in my face.
'Oh, I'm so clumsy,' she said, but she didn't let me go.
'Where's your room, Gallen?' I asked.
But by the time I'd untucked myself, she was out the door. Her foot shadows crept out from under the light slot, and I couldn't hear a thing amove in the hall.
I got up and opened my door just a bit, and peeked round the jamb; there she was, just waiting for me - not so angry that she couldn't blush.
'You never mind where my room is, Graff,' she said.
So I went back to my sad, saggy bed; I rumpled around a bit, trying to second-guess the world. Well, I thought, the bees are done with their pollinating now; the honey's come full and the hive's fat for tapping. Oh, look out.
Looking Out
I WOKE UP with a sun smell on my pillow. So I thought: Siggy is leaving Vienna now; he's had time to fetch his details, time to skulk in the zoo all night.
I saw him saying goodbye to the animals, trying to cheer them up.
'Bless you, Siggy!' said the fraught giraffe.
And the wallaroo cradled a tear in its fist.
'Graff,' said Gallen, under my door. 'They're down in the dining room.'
Well, I didn't feel very good about any of it; their conspiracy weighed in the air of the hall. It was like they'd left a door open to the cellar-dungeon; I could smell the foul, dank mildew of thoughts left down there to ripen and go mouldy, but I couldn't find the door, to close it.
They had a table in the dining room, near to mine, the wily Herr Burgermeister, dear Auntie Tratt, and the cider-smelling one - Herr Windisch, appleman and employer of the needy. He had withered blossoms caught in the cuffs of his pants.
There was another they hadn't let sit with them; he slumped in the dining room doorway - Keff the tractor driver. Windisch's man. He was burly enough, descended pure from the Java stock, and his leathers smelt fresh from the goat.
And how would they attempt it? Watching me butter my Brotchen. Would Keff block my escape at the door? Mush my spine with the meat of his knee?
But, yes, Siggy had written it:
Just a hop ahead, and you're a cut above!
So I dashed off the breakfast that my Gallen had served me. And I went right up to their table.
'Forgive me if I'm interrupting,' I said, 'but I thought all of you could advise me. Since I'll be staying awhile; I'd like a job. Oh, just a little something at night, I'd prefer. If you know of anything,' I said.
And I heard it all! The dungeon door closing with terrible, wrenching clanks; and deep in my ears, sounding all the way from Vienna, the Rare Spectacled Bears were stamping their feet and shaking their heads with a fury that flapped their jowls.
'Oh my,' said Auntie Tratt. 'Isn't that a fine idea?'
And that had their tableful wondering.
But behind my eyes, and making them water, Siggy was riding faster and faster. The motorcycle screamed beneath him like an animal in pain.
Speculations
I TOOK SOME beers out in the garden and sat where I could see round the castle to the falls. I found a spot where the motorcycle had dripped oil and clotted the grass. In a while the forsythia would all be gone by; the garden would turn brown- and green-weedy, tropical and over-thick. The river spray made everything a little wet, and the garden made ominous growing sounds in the wind. Only the oil smudge resisted; the spray was as beaded as sweat on the little black clot.
And I thought: He's just stopped for lunch. The pipes are pinging with heat; he's been pushing it. If you spat on the pipes, your spittle would ball up and bounce like water-drops off a ready griddle. He's had an early start and he's really been pushing it. He's a long way out of the Danube Valley; he may even be following the Ybbs by now. And of course he'll have it all written out in that frotting notebook, with little maps of the cages, and all the details you'd ever need to know.
Eighteen minutes from behind the bush in Maxing Park to the outskirts of Hietzing; eighteen minutes, four up-and down-shifts, two skids, one Strassenbahn-crossing and a blinking-yellow light.
And behind you, the din of escaping aardvarks.
Well, I thought, he probably won't even stop for lunch.
And there was Auntie Tratt in my room, airing me out; she shot a smile down to me when she opened my window and beat my pillow.
Well, you old gob, Auntie - he's not going to ride that motorcycle in here for you to see. No, blobby Auntie - my Siggy-friend's brighter than your old fishy eyes.
And there was my Gallen in my window too. Trimming off the corners of my bed, no doubt, just as innocent as milk.
Now which bed does that Graff sleep in? the sly Tratt says.
Well, I don't know, Auntie, but this one looks most recently used.
'Herr Graff?' the Tratt called. 'Which bed are you sleeping in?'
'Nearest the bathtub, Frau Tratt,' I said. And Gallen breezed past the window without looking down at me.
Well, you're right, Gallen dear, the Tratt is saying - thinking every minute.
And I was thinking too, all right. Frau Tratt on the poke in my room; someone sent to fix my doorknob, secretly, while I was getting a job - so they could lock me in? And those hazy clouds, stealing the yellow from the last, fallen forsythia, squatted like bomb smog in the sky.
And where was Siggy? Out of Ulmerfeld by now? Hiesbach, maybe, or even on the road to St Leonhard? If he's coming that way. Was he taking a roundabout route?
How many hours away is that Siggy? And what will my Gallen be wearing when she visits my room tonight?
The spray put such a wet weight in the air - and the garden going on with its damn growing, getting all out of hand. Well, as the Old Oaf, Fate - the Great Lout - could tell you: look out, look out.
It's the kind of thing Siggy might have written a poem about. In fact, there's a rough beginning in the notebook:
Ah, Life - fat bubble fit to burst!
Fate's got the veritable pin.
But it would have made a terrible poem. One of his worst.
The Approach of the Veritable Pin
THE FAT SUN, very low, turned everything the color of forsythia - yellowed the squares of last night to fall through my window's grating, blotched my bed and my resting toes.
'He's coming, isn't he?' said Gallen.
'Any time now,' I told her.
'Graff,' she said, 'if he comes from St Leonhard, they'll see him. If he takes the road by the orchards, Graff, there's Windisch and Keff who'll be looking.'
'Well, he won't just come rolling in on the bike, will he?'
'I'll bet he drives it into town,' she said. 'Oh, he won't bring it right to the courtyard, but he's not going to walk from St Leonhard either - if he's fool enough to come from St Leonhard, and not pick a new way.'
'You figure it out, then,' I said. 'You think of the road he'll take in.'
'Graff, you're not even going to say goodbye, are you?'
'Come and sit with me, Gallen,' I said. But she shook her head and wouldn't budge from the window ledge. From down on the bed I could peek past her knees; there was a roundness to her leg where the ledge pinched her.
'Stop looking up my skirt!' she said; she drew her legs up and swung herself back-to me. She gave a look out the window. 'Someone just ran out of the garden,' she said.
Then she got on her knees an
d leaned out the window.
'Someone's up against the wall,' she said. 'Someone's scratching the vines, but I can't see.'
So I came up beside her on the ledge; we knelt together, leaning out. Her braid slid up her back and over her shoulder; it shaded her face from me. I put my arm round her waist, and she straightened a little. On all fours we were, I draped on her back.
'Oh, damn you, Graff!' she said, and gave me her elbow in my throat. It choked me up so, I had to sit and water my eyes. She sat cross-legged on the ledge in front of me.
'Oh, you Graff!' she said. 'Goodbye, you! You just go on and go.'
She was getting teary; I had to look away from her. I peeked out the window, but there was nobody there. I was still gagging; it was like swimming, my eyes were so watery.
'Oh, Graff,' she said, 'don't you cry too.' And she pitched forward at me, burrowing round me with her arms. Her face was wet against my cheek. 'I could meet you somewhere, Graff. Couldn't I? I've got wages coming, and I never buy anything.'
My Adam's apple was so fat in my throat I couldn't talk; I think she'd given it a bat that had turned it around.
'Gak,' I said.
And she dissolved; she bit her braid end and shivered herself up small against me.
'Gallen,' I managed, 'there's nobody out there.'
But she wouldn't hear it. She was still shaking when the two strange elbows and the fist-shape chin came wriggling up on the window ledge, together with animal pants and groans, and followed by the Great Greek Face of Comedy without a hair on his head - which all bore a bald resemblance to my previous Siggy-friend.
'God, give me a hand!' he said. 'My foot's caught in this frotting ivy.'
So I had to slide Gallen off my lap and drag the terribly disguised Siggy into the room.
'I'm back!' he said.
And he flopped down next to the heap my Gallen made on the floor.
Fate's Disguise
POOR CRUMPLED GALLEN couldn't look at him again; and one look was enough - I agree, I agree.
'Siggy?' I said.
'Right you are, Graff! But I know, you didn't recognize me?'
'Not right away, without the duckjacket,' I said, although I meant: Without any hair! How could I recognize you when you don't have any hair?
'And the new shave, Graff?' he said. 'That was the trick!'
'But your whole head, Siggy?'
'Eyebrows too, Graff. Did you notice?'
'You look awful,' I said.
'A walking dome, Graff! A solid pate from chin to uppermost cranial lump. Did you ever know there were such dents in a skull?'
'In your skull,' I said. 'Mine doesn't look like that.' But maybe it did - little grooves and knots all over, like a bleached peach pit.
He said, 'I walked through town, across the bridge. No one knew me, Graff. I saw the mayor, and he passed me by as if I were a war relic.'
A barber's relic, his head was icy to the touch; I jumped. His relic was spattered with mosquitoes, and with larger, more smearing flyers who'd run into his hurtling dome; there was a wing-mash above one ear that might have been a crow. Of course, he'd ridden here helmetless, letting the wind cool the barber's mistakes.
I said, 'Siggy, you're hideous to behold.'
'Of course, Graff. Of course,' he said, 'and I'm parked in hiding across the town. Get your stuff.'
'Well, Siggy.'
'Get it packed and we'll wait for dark,' he said. 'It's all set, Graff. It's just perfect.'
And my crumpled Gallen huddled on the floor, a fetus dropped madly into this world and shrouded in a servant's clothes.
'Gallen?' I said.
'It looks like you got her,' said Siggy.
'Don't,' I said.
'Pack,' he said. 'I've found the spot.'
'What spot?'
'To stash the guard!'
'Siggy.'
'I was there all night, Graff. It's all planned.'
'I knew it would be,' I said.
'I didn't know you had such faith, Graff.'
'Faith!' said Gallen.
'Is she going to scream?' said Siggy.
'Faith,' Gallen said. 'Did he come by the orchard road?' Oh, she wouldn't look at him. 'Then they saw his motorcycle!' she wailed. 'Oh, everyone's been told to look for it!'
'Why does she care?' said Siggy.
'Did you come from St Leonhard, Sig?' I asked him.
'Graff,' he said. 'Look at me and tell me if you see an amateur.'
Faith
WELL, I HEARD the first of the wood-creaks edge down the hallway from the stairs - and the sound of the top step being squeaked, the banister being leaned on.
'Who's that?' Gallen whispered.
'It's not about me,' said Siggy. 'No one's seen me.'
So I peeked out in the hall. It was the old Tratt, sagged on the banister, winded from her climb.
'Herr Graff!' she called. 'Herr Graff?'
I came out in the hall where she could see me.
'It's Keff,' she said. 'It's Keff, come to take you to your job.'
'Job?' Siggy whispered.
'He's much too early,' I told the Tratt. Tell him he's early.'
'He knows he's early,' she said, 'and he's waiting.' And the terrible Tratt and I understood each other for a moment; then she swayed back down the stairs.
But bald Siggy was bent over my Gallen. He had her braid in his fist, and she bit her lip.
'He's got a job?' said Siggy. 'Has he got a job, you damn girl?'
'Siggy,' I said.
'Faith!' he said. 'You never thought I'd be back, did you? Got yourself a job and a frotting girl!'
'They were going to arrest him,' Gallen said over her lip.
'I set it all up,' said Siggy. 'Did you think I'd run out?'
'I knew you were setting it up,' I said. 'But, Siggy, they were figuring me as a vagrant. They were setting things up, too.'
'Keff's waiting,' said Gallen. 'Oh, it's all fixed, Graff! If you don't go down, he'll come up.'
'Sig,' I said, 'where can I meet you after work?'
'Oh, sure!' he said. 'You're telling me you've not frotted this sweet rag of a girl?'
'Siggy, don't,' I said.
'You're telling me!' he shouted. 'Telling me you're coming with me? But after your frotting job! Oh, sure.'
'This Keff,' I said. 'He's looking out for me.' And I heard woody little spasms down the hallway; somebody heavy, mounting two at a time.
'Sig, get out!' I said. 'You're going to get caught. Say a place where we'll meet.'
'Say a place to meet me,' Gallen said to him. 'Graff's got to go.'
'Meet you?' said Siggy. 'Meet Graff's little raggy drab! Meet you for what?'
And big steps were taking up the hallway, huffs like tractor breath stirred the doorway air.
'Get out, Siggy,' I said.
'I want my sleeping bag and my toothbrush, Graff. Please can I have my things back?'
'Oh, Christ, Sig!' I said. 'Get out of here!'
And thump! said Keff to the door. Thump.
'Oh! Enter the heavy!' said Siggy. 'Enter the crusher of spines!'
Keff thumped.
'I'm coming back for my things,' said Siggy.
'Oh, you're crazy!' said Gallen. 'You bald goon,' she said. 'You mean terrible queer!'
'Oh, Graff,' he said - he was backing between the beds - 'oh, Graff, I had this beautiful plan.'
'Siggy, listen,' I said.
'Oh, damn you, Graff,' he said so softly - he was on the sunset on the window ledge.
'Sig, I'm really going to meet you,' I said.
'Oh, Keff!' said Gallen. 'Keff.' He was thumping very hard.
'Sig, say where you'll meet me.'
'Where did I meet you, Graff? You watched girls in the Rathaus Park,' he said. 'You watched me too.'
'Siggy,' I said.
'You've had a good laugh over me,' he said. 'You and this tender young slip-in you've made the whole trip for.'
And the hinge pins sprouted fro
m the door. Oh, how Keff could thump!
'You got a job!' said Siggy. And he jumped, splotz in the awful garden-muck.
The sunset struck his terrible, hairless dome. Shadows deepened his skull dents, and the skeleton gape of his mouth - scooped the life from his eyes.
'Graff?' said Gallen.
'You shut up,' I said. 'You tell me when he comes back, Gallen - if you have to walk the orchards to St Leonhard, you find me and tell me when he's come back.'
'Oh damn, Graff!' she cried. Then she said, 'Oh, Keff' - who now appeared round the hinge side of the door, swinging the door with him until the knob side snapped free of the jamb. Surprised, he still held the door - not knowing where to lay it down.
'Oh, Christ!' I said.
But no one spoke up.
Denying the Animal
AS THE NOTEBOOK says:
Hinley Gouch hated animals on the loose, having so long and selfrighteously denied the animal in himself.
But Keff was not one to deny the animal. Not when he carried my kicking Gallen downstairs to her auntie; not when he lifted the hitch end of the iron flatbed and clamped trailer to tractor with one mighty Keff-heff.
I balanced on the flatbed while Keff drove; the iron sang under my feet, and the trailer end swung with the switchbacks. We climbed the orchard road, and for a while the evening grew lighter; we were catching the day's end-glow, which the mountain held last.
When we reached the top of the orchards, near St Leonhard, Keff waited for a more final dark.
'Been in the bee business long, Keff?' I asked.
'You're a smarty, for sure,' he said.
And the scarce neon from Waidhofen, the pale lights along the river, winked at us way below. The fresh white paint on the bee boxes took a greenish cheese-color; the boxes dotted the orchards like gypsy tents - living a secret life.
Keff slumped on the tractor seat, crouched among hand clutch and foot brakes, gearshifts, gauges and iron parts; he sprawled using the great wheels as armrests in some warlike easy chair.
'It's dark, Keff,' I told him.
'It'll get darker,' he said. 'You're the one who's picking up the hives. Don't you want it darker?'
'So the bees will be faster asleep?'
'That's the idea, smarty,' said Keff. 'So you can sneak up and close the screen door on them. So when you start juggling them awake, they can't get out.'
So we waited until the mountaintop was just another sky-shape, until the moon was the only color, and far-off, blinking Waidhofen gave the only signs of night people awake under lantern and bulb.