The Death of Picasso

by Guy Davenport

  Grin and unbelieving look.

  —Smear me everywhere. I’m cooked. I get to do you next, right?

  —When I was a Scout shining with industrial-strength testosterone and full of sperm, we explored each other in honest Danish ways, wore our buddy’s underpants, sniffed, licked, and hugged. We were companionable animals.

  —Your briefs would fit me like socks on a rooster. I can wear your sweatshirt. It smells like you.

  —You didn’t get on with that bunch you were with last summer, did you?

  —They picked on me. I heard what their teacher said. He said they had to make allowances for me as I’m lower class.

  —Yes, but does this paragon of the consuming classes have a handsome soldier smoothing cucumber almond salve on his legs and bottom, and has he spent all day with his best friend, and has he eaten a banana split and a sausage and pepperoni pizza at Mama Gina’s?

  —Nah. And neither are the snot-nosed sissies I was with. I quit talking to them after awhile. They said back to me whatever I said.

  —Other people, Magnus said. That says it all, other. We have to look around and find the people we’re really kin to. They’re only rarely our family.

  Mikkel looked at Magnus out of the side of his eyes.

  —Leonardo da Vinci, Magnus said, the painter and inventor and the most intelligent man in all history, owned and operated a boy your age, and liked him so much he made him a bicycle three hundred and ninety-eight years before the next boy had one.

  WINDFLOWERS

  Mikkel and Magnus snug before their fire, Mikkel on Magnus lap.

  —The first four are pretty hopeless. No other gods, no idols, no saying God’s name except when praying, no working on Sunday. As we don’t talk about your parents and I’ve promised not to ask, you can’t do much about the fifth except be nice to others’ parents.

  —Not me.

  —Fine. You’re your own man. You may not even be human at all, but the godling Eros with smuts on his nose, in disguise as a Dane.

  —You’d better believe it.

  —What do you make of number six?

  —What it says. Don’t kill. It’s mean to kill anything. Everything wants to live. What’s the next, Magnus, being grown up?

  —Adultery means fucking another man’s wife, or the wife fucking a man she’s not married to.

  —What if they want to?

  —Well, God says they shouldn’t.

  —Big deal. But the next one is good. Stealing is mean. You might take something somebody needs, or likes a lot.

  —False witness is fibbing when you ought to tell the truth.

  —Like in court.

  —Anywhere. Covet means to want something so bad that you’re liable to steal it, or seduce, or be sneaky about getting it.

  —But all that’s already in the other don’ts.

  —So there are really only three commandments. Don’t kill, lie, or steal.

  —Yes, but you might have to do all three. We have to kill Germans in a war, and you might have to kill somebody who’s trying to kill you. You lie if the truth is going to get you or somebody you like into big trouble. You steal if you’re hungry. If you were sick, Magnus, and needed a medicine, I’d steal it and be proud of myself.

  —What a moralist!

  —What’s a moralist?

  —Somebody who knows what’s right and what’s wrong.

  —But everybody knows what’s right and what’s wrong, don’t they?

  —No.

  —They don’t?

  —Absolutely not.

  —So they don’t. Where’s that leave us?

  —Well, there’s the rule for fair play: don’t do to anybody what you wouldn’t like them to do to you.

  Silence. Scrounging in paper bag for more peapods.

  —And there are laws.

  —Don’t walk on the grass.

  —Exactly. And then there’s the undeniable fact that some of us love each other.

  —Is love sex, Magnus?

  —Nope.

  Silence. Wiggling.

  —Love is eating peapods out of the same bag.

  RIETVELD TABLE

  —You’ve played it so fucking cool, Magnus, that half the school is in shock, gossip swarming like bees. You come into class with Mikkel here, and nobody knows who he is or where he comes from, and him neat as an ad for kiddy togs, in a red-and-blue-checked shirt, stone-washed jeans we would all kill for, black trainers, and, oh sweet Jesus, those wide yellow braces the likes of which nobody’s seen, and with the textbook and a notebook that maybe the Crown Prince gave him, and him as cool as Daniel strolling into the lions, taking a seat not in the front row, where you could save him when we started to eat him, but back in the third, with Asgar, Ole, and Ejnar.

  —Is Ole the big round specs and flop of hair down to his nose? Mikkel asked. Just who the fuck are you? is what he asked me. I said I was Mikkel Rasmussen and did he want to make anything of it?

  —Holt is a social critic, Mikkel. He likes to talk.

  —And the disappearing act after class, when there was practically a queue to quiz Mikkel, smell him, find out what his jeans cost and where the yellow braces come from, but he’d melted away into thin air.

  —To be decanted again in geography, Magnus said, with the same effect, except that word had already spread that a new boy of unknown origin and status had been turned loose into the order of things.

  —You made this table, Magnus? Dutch De Stijl design, you say? And this room, apartment I suppose it is, O wow! You realize that I’m the most hated person in the whole school, getting invited here for lunch with Mikkel and you, getting to ask all the good questions. Start answering with the nifty yellow braces.

  —They’re a present from Corporal Redclover, who was with Magnus at the Fort. We came up for the weekend once. He’s from the Faeroes. He’s my other best friend. Magnus sent him lots of money and told him to take me around to Jespersen’s and say that I was going to Oak Hill Boys School. Thomas, that’s Corporal Redclover, was in his Class A uniform, parade dress with all the insignia patches and stripes and buttons, and for the fun of it a big pistol in its white holster, and his baton. And I was in my rattiest jeans, my barracks rat’s pants as Magnus calls them. Well, and well, ha! this snooty department-store snob would have been happier if I weren’t there, and when he asked, to make sure he’d heard right, the Oak Hill School? Thomas gave him a look that meant that if he didn’t get on with it the Royal Artillery, Second Battalion, Company B, would not like it at all.

  —It’s great to have friends. I’ve never had the Army with me to buy socks and shirts.

  —Eat up, Holt. You’re our second guest, after Solveg.

  —Solveg’s been up here? I suppose he took in the one bed, which, by the way, I know I’m not to peddle as paparazzi dirt, none of anybody’s business.

  —Hr. Solveg showed me how he’s dressed for teaching swimming, wearing a red cap and whistle and nothing else. Magnus says his red cap and size XL hang-down are all the authority he needs.

  —That’s for sure, Holt said. If I know Sten, he asked to see yours.

  —Because I haven’t been to his gym yet. He’s an empiricist. That means somebody who has to see for himself.

  —I’ll bet it does.

  —Sten, Magnus said, says that Phys Ed is the only place for a philosopher anymore.

  A SENSE OF PLACE

  —I like Holt, Mikkel said. He’s neat. I like all the trees and the walks. I guess there’s every kind of person in the world here. Everybody’s from somewhere else, aren’t they? Some boys talk real funny. There’s a library with about a thousand books in it.

  —We can check out any we want.

  —They call barracks dorms, and when people ask me what dorm I’m in I say I’m in private quarters. Most of the boys I’ve met are friendly, but some are snooty, you know. And some try to talk English to me.

  —You aren’t feeling out of place, are you, Mikkel? I am, sort of.r />
  —I don’t think so. I’m at home, here, with you. Everybody else is away from home.

  —We’re going to make our big room here a home like nobody’s ever had before, a place that’s all ours, exactly the way we want it.

  A ROSE IS ALSO ITS THORNS

  —Well, Mikkel said, I was going from your classroom over to the gym, and there was this shit, I think his name’s Peder Hanssen, said something real nasty to me. I wasn’t even looking at him. What I didn’t know was that Holt heard him. I didn’t know Holt was anywhere about. I suppose I said something nasty back at him.

  —We’re not asking what, Magnus said. Meanwhile, he’s in the infirmary and Holt is in Rask’s office. I have several versions. What did happen?

  —Well, before I knew what was going on, Holt was on him like a tiger, had his face against the walk and was kicking his butt, I mean hard. Ka-whop! Ka-whop! Hr. What’s-his-name, the Social Studies rabbit with the little eyes, threw his books down, actually up and they fell in front of him, and he danced around trying not to step on them. He came over and demanded that Holt stop this brutality. Well, Holt looked knives at Social Studies, and gave Hanssen one more kick, for good measure. Hanssen by this time was crying and saying that he was being killed. His legs didn’t work when they tried to walk him, to the infirmary I suppose, and some snitch had gone to bring back the Headmaster. Nobody knew I had anything to do with it. Poor Holt. Is he in big trouble?

  —I’m going over to find out. You stay here.

  —I’m going with you. I’ve got to thank Holt, if only through a window. He can read my mind.

  SOLDIERS

  —Sergeant.

  —Colonel.

  —What do you know about any of this?

  —Hearsay only, Sir. But I know Holt Rasvinger to be a boy of excellent character, and can’t think that he would attack another student without real provocation.

  —He won’t talk, you know. He’s in there. He won’t say a word to me, stubborn as a mule. Hanssen, the boy he kicked, quite viciously I understand, is in a bad way, under sedation. So we have nothing from him, either. Is Hanssen one of your students?

  —No, sir, but Rasvinger is. I know him quite well. He’s in the discussion group I’m advisor to, and we run together cross country regularly. He’ll talk to me, but perhaps not with you or anybody else present.

  —Will you tell us what he has to say for himself?

  —No, sir, I will not.

  Colonel Rask moved some pencils on his desk, rubbed his chin, and stared out the window.

  —I’m certain you have an excellent reason for refusing? Is it that you know more of all this than you’re letting me know?

  —I don’t know if I do, Colonel. What I mean is that I can’t betray to you what he won’t tell you himself. That’s common decency. I want to talk with him, privately, to see what happened, and to discuss with him what he ought to do.

  —Why do you think he will talk to you?

  —I know he will.

  —Very well. But perhaps, in some indirect way, you can tell me why he kicked Hanssen, and if Hanssen started it. Through here.

  Holt was in a locked reception room, sitting on a leather couch, his hands on his knees. Magnus sat on the floor, with his hands over Holt’s.

  —I’m not ashamed of myself, and I’m not sorry, Holt said. He called Mikkel a pukey little faggot. I’ll kick him again when I can get at him.

  —Why won’t you talk to Rask?

  —Because it’s none of his fucking business who you love. And anybody you love, I look after. The next shit who wants to smart off and call Mikkel names will think twice about it.

  —Mikkel is outside. He says to thank you. He was hoping he could thank you with cryptic signals through a window.

  —Sweet little squirt. Kiss his dick for me.

  —Right now Rask wants to put you before a firing squad. I will of course tell him nothing you’re saying, and told him I wouldn’t. But may I say you were teaching a bully a lesson? Will you come into Rask’s office and listen to what I say?

  —He called me a barbarian, and said I’m a bully.

  —Headmasters and colonels don’t always get things right. What I want, Holt, is to take you over to my place where Mikkel and I can make on over you. Counselling, we’ll tell Rask. Let’s go.

  —I’m saying nothing.

  Magnus had his hand on Holt’s shoulder when they entered.

  —Well? Have you come to your senses, young man?

  —He has not come to his senses, Colonel. He doesn’t feel that he should have to defend himself in what he considers an honorable act of chastising a foul-mouthed bully. I will put in as from myself that his chastising Hanssen was indeed barbaric in the sense that a recourse to violence was the only response. To call the bully names would have resulted in a slanging match. To have reported the incident to you would have pitted one word against another. Barbarity is outside the law because the law is not interested in its honorable rages. Holt heard an obscene insult gratuitously inflicted on an innocent younger boy who was leaving my geography class to go to the gym. He felt that the bully needed to be taught a lesson, and kicked him in the behind.

  —Is this the truth of the matter, Rasvinger?

  Holt stood mute, looking straight ahead.

  —Rasvinger, sir, does not feel that he needs to explain, or excuse himself, when he has come to the defense of someone being hurt.

  —Should we hear this younger boy’s account?

  —Whether we should or not we aren’t going to. I’ve talked with him. I don’t want him to relive the experience by telling it as a witness. And now, sir, if Rasvinger is willing, I’d like to take him over to my place to play checkers, or have a walk, or whatever it occurs to us to do. As for Hanssen, it’s my experience as a scout and soldier that a kicked behind is very sore, and very bruised for some days, but is not otherwise harmed.

  —Thank you, sergeant. The two of you may leave.

  DAFFODILS FROM HOLLAND

  —The world’s wonders pile up, Magnus said, unbuttoning Mikkel’s shirt.

  —Now what?

  —Well, Dr. Havemand, Marcus’s mama, had lunch today with the Rasks and sang praises about the school. Seems that her once shy son, and once fastidious about his clothes, met her in a pair of scruffy jeans, deplorable sneakers, and a sweatshirt that has been a stranger to detergent and hot water for several months.

  —My clothes, Mikkel smiled.

  —She said he smelled like a gymnasium, and that his ruddy face, much more mature conversation, and confident walk gave him the authority to wear anything. I’m quoting Rask, who was considerably bucked. He was, however, a bit confused by her approval of Marcus’s best friend who lives in a neat place with a soldier. This shirt’s good for another day. Dr. Havemand seems to approve of boys being whiffy. We don’t have her opinion on underpants.

  —These go to Marcus, and are just getting good and nasty.

  —Marcus will be with his mama until about five. Do I stand in for him, or do we have a walk, or draw, read, or go shopping for groceries?

  —Feels great, what you’re doing.

  —A friendly working in of tone, for later.

  —Nobody’s objecting. Marcus says he doesn’t know who his folks are. His father notices once in awhile that he exists, and talks cars and soccer scores with him, boring Marcus into a fit. His mama talks clothes and being popular.

  ORANGE AND BLUE

  A sheer mist made the players look as if they were behind gauze. The soccer field was still summer green, though the trees on the far side were bronze and yellow.

  —All the playing fields in the world on an autumn afternoon must remain the same forever, Major Mikkel Rasmussen said to Colonel Rask.

  —You feel that, do you? Rask said. I wholly agree. You put it very nicely.

  The ball flew wide out of the mist toward them. Major Rasmussen butted it back, losing his beret. A player in an orange jersey and blue pants caught t
he neatly returned ball between his knees, rolled it down his shin to his boot, and waved thanks.

  —Look here, Major, Colonel Rask said, it’s wonderful that you’ve dropped by like this. I’ve not completely recovered from your surprise visit back in the summer, when you filled me in on your extraordinary time as one of us, as Sergeant Rasmussen’s lively rascal and your friendship with the Havemand boy. My old eyes water every time I think of it.

  —There’s the whistle, Major Rasmussen said. Olfactory memories persist, you know. I’m remembering the smell of the showers they’re headed toward, wet tin and that soap the school provided, surely meant for horses. Would it be mal apropos for me to look in, as a visit to the past?

  —You’ll find it all thoroughly modern, thanks to the generosity of the Havemands. Tile instead of wood, lots of hot water, and would you believe washing machines?

  The boy who’d taken Major Rasmussen’s butted return came grinning out of the mist and gave a high sign of solidarity.

  —Oh, Mikkel, Colonel Rask called. Come and meet your namesake Major Mikkel Rasmussen, an alumnus who’s dropped by to have a look at his old school. Major, Mikkel Havemand.

  —Hej! You were Dad’s best friend! I’m named for you!

  They shook hands.

  —Sorry about the mud, Mikkel Havemand said.

  —Mikkel, Colonel Rask said, Major Rasmussen would like to see our new lockers and showers. He was remembering just now the wooden shed and ice-water showers from his heroic days here. Me, I’ve been out longer than my arthritic knees will thank me for. We’ll expect you for tea, Major, after you’ve quenched your nostalgia.

  On the way to the locker room, Mikkel Havemand said with searching, anxious eyes:

  —Don’t you recognize me?

  —Of course I recognize you, Major Rasmussen said. How not?

  —I saw Magnus on television, the search in Kallalit Nunaat for the meteorite from outside the solar system. He doesn’t look older, you know?

  —He isn’t. He sometimes forgets I’m not eleven anymore, but he has my boys Adam and Henry to adore.