—You’re going to dress me?
His question was quiet, matter of fact.
—Mind?
—What is there to mind?
Pascal ran his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, and looked pleased and proud as Holger buttoned it on. Hiking pants, socks, shoes, followed.
—I can tie my shoes, at least.
—No, Holger said, I tie them.
—Friendly, Jos said. I’m loving this. My Christian feast of neighborliness worked, you see.
51
The next Ice Age began in the fourteenth century. Cold wet winters advanced the prows of the glaciers. Harvests in the north of Europe failed year after year, until the vineyards of England were abandoned. In Scandinavia and Iceland wheat and barley farmers became fishermen. Art became speculative and ironic.
LIONS HAVE NO HISTORIANS
He drank only well water, the blind folksinger, never spirits. Is your hair coppery gold, he had asked, or is it the white of meal, as with the old stock? He believed in the hidden folk. I know too much about them to doubt that they are. They are, you know, he had said, with a squeeze for Holger’s shoulder. They are wise. Your smallclothes are cunningly sewn, he had said, and your hands are as soft as a girl’s. The hidden folk sent you to me, and the debt I owe them is large.
53
—Holger! Jos said, coming in without knocking, what the fuck happened?
—Sprained my ankle, Holger said. In the gym.
—Lemuel said you’d met Biology on crutches. Here I am. What can I do? Where’s Pascal?
Holger was in his easy chair, his bandaged foot on a stool.
—The horse, Holger said. I was getting good at it, and next thing I knew I’d come a cropper, with a shooting pain in the ankle. Hobbled over to the infirmary, where Matron tied on twenty or so meters of gauze, as you see, issued me crutches, and commanded me to stay off my foot for three or four days.
—Awesome, Jos said. And not like you. You’re as unbreakable and permanently healthy as crazy Hugo.
—Jos, Holger said, the front of your pants, which look as if they have been worn in a ship’s galley by six generations of teenaged apprentice cooks, is sopping wet.
—Don’t change the subject. I want to know what I can do to help. I’ll move in, bring you things, pour and stir your medicine. Didn’t you get any medicine?
—Aspirin.
—Two loads, Jos said of his pants. Came in English and in Ethics. I didn’t take time to change. Apologies, if needed.
—Of course not. See who’s at the door.
It was Mariana.
—Holger, poor baby! she said. Hi, Jos. Holger, Hugo called and said you’d fallen ass over heels doing gymnastics but that you hadn’t broken anything, only wrenched a tendon in your ankle. What did Matron, the bitch, do for you?
—Bound it up. Says to stay off it.
—Didn’t put anything on it?
—Nope.
—Not even Baume Bengué? I suspected as much, which is why I’m here, on my lunch hour, with the goods.
She took from her purse a large bottle.
—The liniment of Sloan. It’s really just turpentine and red peppers. Comes from Pastor Tvemunding, who swears by it. What’s more, it works. I daub it on Hugo all the time. It did wonders for an ankle I sprained last year. Got any cotton swabs?
—In the bathroom cabinet, Jos.
—Also, Jos, put on a kettle, Mariana said. Have you peed your pants? Bring a washcloth, a basin for the hot water, and I’ll unwind this silly bandage.
—I’m not used to all this attention, Holger said. Florence Nightingale and Jos. I wouldn’t ask about his pants again, if I were you.
—Oh come on, Holger, she said, busily unwrapping gauze from his foot, I wasn’t born yesterday. Does it hurt?
—Throbs.
—Kettle’s on, Jos said. Basin and washcloth here, plus a sack of cotton balls. In which drawer are your briefs, Holger?
—Top left.
—I see your gym shorts on the bed, if I may borrow them, and a pair of underbritches, and then frøken Landarbejder will be spared my depraved pants.
—With bottomless pockets, Mariana said sweetly. I do happen to be Franklin’s big sister.
ONE HUNDRED STARING SHEEP
Long slopes of bluebells and buttercups under windy running clouds. The ranny mouse, the blind folksinger said, let us free the ranny mouse from his sweet nest in the bag of your smallclothes, that smell so clean and are of such soft fabric, so neatly sewn. What a nice sleeping mouse he is, and grows so fast when he wakes.
55
—Couldn’t get here before now, Pascal said, and have rather disgraced myself, at that. I heard you’d been to class on crutches, and then that Hugo was taking your geography class, and I asked McTaggart to be excused from English, as I’d heard you’d had an accident, and McTaggart asked what that had to do with anything, least of all cutting his class. And when I said you might need me, he laughed, and I already had my foot back to kick him when I was smart enough to see that kicking the English master, as he deserved, wasn’t a bright idea, so I had to stay, but Hugo, of course, excused me from gym without my even asking. Go look after Holger, he said.
—He sent Mariana at noon, Holger said. The odor of turps pervading the room is Sloan’s Liniment, as per the bottle of it there, which Mariana and Jos dabbed on my foot, which is only sprained, after soaking it in boiling water. Cooked it, I think.
—Jos?
—He was here first, after I hobbled from the infirmary. Mariana, who has a degree in nursing children, you know, was incensed at Matron’s treatment, and did it all over, her way, or, rather, Pastor Tvemunding’s way. Sloan’s Liniment is Capsicum oleoresin, methyl salicylate, oil of camphor, pine oil, and turpentine.
—Mexican red peppers in urinal cleaner, Pascal said. Oh wow.
—What about some tea and toast with marmalade, friend Pascal? I’m to stay off my foot. I’ve been hoping you’d turn up.
—Don’t dare get up. I know where everything is.
Halfway down the hall, he turned and ran back to give Holger a hug and nuzzled kiss, getting hugged in return.
—Cups, saucers, plates, Pascal said after an interval of putting the kettle on and buttering bread for the oven, cream and sugar, spoons and knives. Let’s move the coffee table here. I can sit on the floor. Holger, are those Jos’s pants over the foot of your bed?
—Sodden with sperm? Pocketless? Those are indeed Jos’s pants. He came directly here from class, when news of my crash spread through the school like wildfire, without changing into decent attire. When Mariana turned up, Jos borrowed a pair of my gym shorts, as well as briefs, but not before Mariana got an eyeful of handsome Jos in the article of clothing under discussion, which in the first instance define how generously he’s hung, and in the second, that over two classes this morning he drenched them twice, liberally.
—Jos, Pascal said, Jos. I like Jos.
—Jos likes you. He would have gone ahead and kicked McTaggart, I fear. And McTaggart kicked by Jos would be in the hospital rather than in his rooms waited on hand and foot by the eminent geologist Pascal Raskvinge.
—Nobody would give a hoot if McTaggart sprained both his ankles. Kettle’s boiling! Somebody’s at the door! Toast is probably burning.
EN TO TRE
Firstness is such as it is, a mode of being positively and without reference to anything else. Secondness is such as it is, a mode of being with respect to a second but regardless of any third. Thirdness is such as it is, a mode of being bringing a second and a third in relation to each other. I call these three ideas the cenopythagorean categories.
57
—Holger’s having a nap, Pascal said. Be quiet.
Jos slipped through the door and closed it softly.
—Hello, Jos, Holger said. I wasn’t asleep. Pascal glutted me with marmalade and toast, and I sort of snoozed off.
—I’m back. I went first, as I thought I might be needed here.
—First what? Pascal asked. Help me wash up.
—Never mind what first, Jos said, putting his hand on Holger’s forehead. No fever. I could carry you to your bed.
—I’m fine, Jos, Holger said. My only problem is that to walk I have to hop on crutches for a few days.
—I can sleep here, on the floor by your bed, in case you need something in the night.
—Pascal! Holger called. Come and throw Jos out of here.
—Whichwhat? Pascal said, a dishtowel around his neck.
—Explain to Jos that I am not helpless, or senile, or weak as a kitten, and that I intend to live to a ripe old age, please.
—Did I leave my sticky pants here at noon? I’ll change back, and return your gym shorts, for the loan of which, thanks, and your briefs, which now smell of inside a girl, and of me.
—Let me see, Pascal said. And come wash cups and saucers.
SYNERGETICS 529.10
It is one of the strange facts of experience that when we try to think about the future, our thoughts jump backward. It may well be that nature has some fundamental metaphysical law by which opening up what we call the future also opens up the past in equal degree.
59
—It’s time for another soaking of my wrenched pedal extremity, Holger said. So back to the kettle.
—I’ll do it, Pascal said.
—I’ll pat on the Liniment of Sloan, Jos said. Official paramedic on the staff of frøken Landarbejder is what I am. She cures by just being here. I could see Holger get better as soon as she rolled up.
—Jos, Holger said, do your pants stay up by faith alone?
—They’re stuck on, Pascal said from the kitchen.
—Forgot to zip up. Dick acts as a wedge. Did I forget to say that they’re coming to see you, Hugo, Mariana, and Franklin?
—Basin of scalding water! Pascal said. En garde!
—I can undo the bandage, Jos. I’m not helpless, if I can ever get you to believe it.
—We like waiting on you, Pascal and I. Put your foot in the water. Cricket, where are the rabbit scuts?
Pascal jogged down the hall, humming the grand theme from The Reformation Symphony, and came back with Holger’s pyjamas, plaid dressing gown, and one bedroom slipper.
—But, Holger said, there’s dinner to hobble to in an hour.
—We’re going to bring it to you, Pascal said. Fru Vinterberg will make you a tray, make us all trays, as I told her we had to eat here with you.
—God in heaven, Holger said.
—Off your shirt, Pascal said, and britches and undies. I found the jammies under your pillow.
—What you’re doing, Holger said, is playing hospital. Pascal suffocating me with a pyjama shirt while Jos slathers liquid fire on my foot.
—Wrapping the bandage back on is the big thrill, Jos said. Let’s get you into the bottoms before I do that. Wonderful aroma, the Liniment of Sloan.
RUE DE FLEURUS
Human nature is not interesting. The human mind is interesting and the universe.
PAPYRUS
Yeshua was the shepherd who abandoned the nine and ninety sheep to find the one sheep which was lost. There was delight in his heart when he found it, for nine and ninety is a number of the left hand, and if one is added to it, it passes to the right.
62
—Question 1, Comrade Jos, Pascal said, is are you going with me to get our dinner trays in those gummy pants with the snail tracks all over the front, and question 2, is, if you are, how are you going to carry a tray with both hands in your pockets?
—Quite right, O demiliter moral guide. Have to reborrow Holger’s briefs and gym shorts. Must look clean-cut and handsome for fru Vinterberg.
—What I fear, Holger said, is that Jos is going to feed me like a baby bird, and put me in the shower afterward, and wash me, and put me to bed with a hot-water bottle.
A STARFISH IN STRING
Greek exercises on Hugo’s worktable Holger on crutches saw, corrected in Latin, skylight muntins and stiles grid of shadow and square panes, bright, on them, yellow and blue pencils in a James Keiller & Son Ltd Dundee Orange Marmalade jar. Clothbound notebook, Hugo’s skilled calligraphic hand. A magazine Le Petit Gredin, its cover a meticulous drawing of a scalawaggish urchin with mussed hair, fleshy penis the swarthier for jutting from the pale trace of small swimming trunks. Centre pour Recherche, and a little girl with merry eyes on the cover of L’Espoir, naked with butterblond hair, genital mound pudgier and more distinctly cleft than Holger would have imagined, pour une enfance différente. Manila envelope with Belgian stamps. Franklin’s sneakers, mustard and blue, stuffed with white socks, under the table.
64
—Antinoos and Eros, Hugo said. I think I’ll sprain my ankle, too.
—Eglund called just now, Holger said, and I assured him that I can stump to all my classes on crutches, and that I’m not in the least out of commission. What we’re to make of last night I’m not certain.
—I’m proud of Franklin for insisting that Pascal stay here.
—Well, it went this way after you, Mariana, and Franklin left. Jos absolutely insisted on seeing me safely to bed, tucking me in, putting the crutches against a chair, setting a lamp with tilted shade on the floor for a night light. Then I shooed both rascals out, commanding them to go to bed. I was reading myself to sleep when here came Jos with blankets and pillow, saying that he was going to sleep on the floor by my bed, wearing only one of those sweatshirts of his that seem to have survived unlaundered and unmended as hand-me-downs from his brothers and to have been worn by several strenuous contenders over the last two or three Olympic tryouts.
—Lovely, Hugo said.
—These kippers were cooked by Pascal, who has just left, towed away by Jos. Once Jos, you see, had made his pallet, wrapped in blankets like a red Indian, he remarked casually that Pascal was brokenhearted because Jos had convinced him that the two of them playing field hospital here would be a nuisance rather than a help. So, idiot that I am, I gave him the choice of going back to his room or of fetching Pascal.
—But absolutely, Hugo said. I can’t think that Jos was being mean. He just wasn’t thinking.
—May I report, for your ears only, that Pascal had been crying when Jos went and brought him in, more or less across his shoulders?
—Pascal, Hugo said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, has obviously existed forever, to look at him, a tall twelve-year-old with the singular, intelligent beauty you see in northern Italians, and is just as obviously growing in front of one’s gaze from an awkward, dreamy little boy into a graceful adolescent. Nothing of the ox in him. Father’s a diplomat, living apart from his mother, who’s some species of psychiatrist. He has depended on his acquisitive mind to stock his heart, and would, I think, be terribly lonely without you and Franklin. He’s latched onto you, Holger, because you’re all brain, too, and have kept the passion for learning and knowing which is burning so brightly in him.
—Italian? Holger asked.
—Pascal’s mother is Genovese. His father’s as Danish as a Holstein.
—Pascal was radiant when I woke them this morning, wrapped in the same blanket and with their heads on the same pillow. Foot’s much better, I think, by the way.
—Even so, Mariana says you’re to stay off it for another two days. The efficacy of Sloan’s Liniment is largely imaginary, but Papa believes in it, and Mariana. So it works, like everything else they believe in.
SOCIETAS AULUS GELLIUS
If Anders, then Kim. The Alumni Room, regular meeting place of the Latin sight-reading club, was preempted by old boys and directors, and Hugo had commandeered the boathouse loft, which the Ungdomsfrihed Band had made their clubhouse, an oblong white room with red and blue rafters, square barn windows, bare floor as scrubbed and uncluttered as a deck. German and Dutch posters for the Cause on the walls, and photographs by Hajo Ortil and Jos Meyer. A red bookcase made by Anders contained in neat stacks copies of Signe de Piste, Pan, Libid
o, Le Petit Gredin, Juvenart, Blue Jeans, and Pojkart.
—We sit on pallets, the ones stacked over there, Hugo said. About half of us belong to both clubs, so it seemed logical to ask to meet here, and everybody agreed.
—Quit looking as if you’ll catch something, Harald, Anders said. Nobody’s going to put his hand on your knee.
—Why not? Tom said. Harald’s knees are nice and boxy.
—Watch it, Harald said.
—So, Hugo said, if we’re all comfortable, let’s go with line 189 of the Ausonius, where the poem becomes Monet, as I was talking about last time, and Hjalmar has brought two books with Monets that have reflections in rivers.
—Glaucus, Marcus said, is a color adjective, for sure, but what color?
—The color of a river in summer, Harald said, under a clear sky. Green, blue green, silvery green.
66
—You’d think, you know, Pascal said, that Jos and me in a blanket by your bed adds up to two, huh? Not a bit of it. Three. Jos, me, and Jos’s hangdown, which didn’t.
—Is it having the highest IQ at NFS Grundtvig, Tiger, Jos said, that makes you warm as a stove?
—I’m not listening to you two, you understand, Holger said, but if I were, I wouldn’t know whether I was hearing grousing or bragging. A little of good Pastor Tvemunding’s snake oil goes a long way, Jos. So, easy.
—Got to get you well. It makes Pascal low in his mind for you to be a cripple.
—Does not, Pascal said. Makes me happy I can help. That’s Franklin at the door.
—Hello, Jos Holger Pascal, Franklin said, darting in to shake Holger’s hand, touch foreheads with Pascal, and be grabbed, hoisted, and kissed on the tummy by Jos.
—What was that all about? he asked.
—Just feeling friendly, Jos said. Holger and Pascal are shy, being respectively a dignified housemaster and an infant genius, whereas you and I, Citizen Franklin, are rogues, jo?
—I shook Holger’s hand, Franklin said. And how’s your foot? I was forgetting that part of it. Practiced on Mariana. And then Jos, you’re to pose at four, Jos, Hugo said to tell you, Jos fucked up my hair, combed it twice. And Pascal and me and Holger are to come to supper at six. I’m to be here with Pascal until then, unless Holger doesn’t want us. Then we could go swimming or something, or something, you know.
The Death of Picasso Page 41