But my Bissula is the world itself, for the world has a soul. It has no tongue, no language, this soul of the world. We live with it in us all our lives, no matter how we try to translate it into laws, violence, arrogance, power over each other, preposterous fables, and ridiculous observances. The political world lurches from slaughter to slaughter. Mankind has become a roost of vultures.
Bissula hates water, and says she should be smeared with tallow under her wool dress. But she is tractable, and I explain in words she listens to gravely, understanding nothing except the music of my voice, that she must be of the new world. Her northern vigor will not be diminished by a Roman bath, nor her desirable toes by sandals. I tell her about the forests of masts in the harbor at Bordeaux, the parks with flowers, the dogs, the streets shaded by trees against the sun, and all of this makes her laugh. Effulgens.
74
At Oporto, out in front of the colors, with the fife and the Serjeant Major, he had brought the Eleventh, the bloody Eleventh, down the gangway to Lilliburlero, with the sweet fuckers whistling along, for no regiment of foot has ever been formed on God’s earth handsomer than a Devonshire regiment.
He had almost got to Salamanca, and had seen sights Hell itself knows nothing of.
And now a roll of drums, and he in his good shirt already drenched and cold with sweat, and the minister with him, and a churchbell ringing the quarter hour. He saw the gallows at which he had not meant to look, with two nooses. He had meant to look only at Ensign Hepburn, who was to die beside him. Why had so many people come to see him die?
He had not slept, had shivered all night, and had puked up the rum the jailer gave him.
The scaffold was in the street, in front of the Debtor’s Door, Newgate Prison. In the crowd on both sides of the gallows were Lord Yarmouth, Lord Sefton, and the Duke of Cumberland, the Regent’s brother, and Byron’s friend Scrope Davies.
The crime for which Ensign James Hepburn, 25, and Thomas White, 16, were hanged on 7 March 1811 had been committed in a room above a public house on Vere Street two months before.
Ensign Hepburn had seen Tom White in St. James Park, and liked the beauty of his sixteen-year-old body enough to send a young friend over to him to sound him as to his willingness to be fondled. Tom White, sizing up Ensign Hepburn, replied that there was a room in Vere Street to which he might be followed. He was fair and well-knit, with a straight back and long stride that had got him chosen as a drummer boy in the Eleventh North Devonshire Fusiliers.
Ensign Hepburn had bought him a pint of bitter and a cold breast of hen between two slices of bread, and these he drank and chewed as his breeches and stockings were removed, with fine compliments for his manly equipment and the firm make of his backside and legs.
And now his eyes were blind and burning, so that he stumbled on the steps. He pulled his sleeves over his wrists.
—Goodbye, Tom, he heard Hepburn say, and he tried to say Goodbye Jim but was not certain that the words came out, as in a dream.
While his hands and ankles were being fastened, and the noose fitted over his head, he hoped he was repeating after the minister For I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.
III
Pascal was still asleep, a bubble between his parted lips, his hair as graceful tangled and matted as when it was combed. Dawn, chill, would give way to summer warmth, a blue sky. Holger, who had expected to sleep tense and anxious, was surprised that he had slept in an easy happiness. Pascal had jabbered, excited and vivacious, in the car all the way to the campsite, as if he had left his solemn composure behind. They had put the tent up well before dark, giving them time to explore and to feel that they were in full possession of their territory.
—We establish a residence, Holger had said, so that this becomes our home, for however short a while.
—Today and tomorrow and the day after, Pascal had said. When I was out with Franklin and Hugo it was like we’d lived there in our camp all our lives, you know, and it was ours. And this is our place. The car, the tent, the lake, the woods. All ours.
—Every bit of it.
—Mama said, How wonderful! And that I didn’t need to call Papa.
Holger eased out of his sleeping bag and the tent, stealthily, on all fours. Outside, he dressed in jeans and a sweater. He laid a fire and filled a kettle with water they’d brought.
—Pascal! he called.
—Yo! You’re up.
And there he was, knuckling an eye and yawning, in the thin-blue-striped T-shirt and slight briefs he’d slept in.
—Hello hello, he said. Got to pee.
—Anywhere, Holger said. We have the world to ourselves.
—I peed in the ferns last night. Pine needles today. Hugo and Franklin peed together on our outing. They’re like that.
—Cinnamon and raisin buns, with butter, with tea, with gnats, for breakfast.
—Being shy is actually pride, Pascal said, facing Holger and making a crystal arc to which he gave a whipped wiggle, gnats on cinnamon, yum. Lots of milk in my tea.
—We’ll go over to that island, shall we, in the boat, once we’ve squared away?
—The one all blue in the mist?
—That one.
—What’s on it?
—Don’t know. I’ve never been over. When I come out by myself I’m content to stay here, wallowing in the quiet and the peace, reading, making notes, with a walk and a swim when I want to. I hope you’re not going to find it duller than dull.
Pascal looked out of the sides of his eyes.
—Dull? I’m happy.
Holger chewed awhile and drank a long swallow of tea.
—So am I.
—Is there anybody on the island?
—I shouldn’t think so. I’m pretty certain not.
—Then can I go bare-bottom?
—Absolutely.
—Franklin would. And Hugo, to swim. Franklin does it for the fun of it.
—You’re wearing a life preserver till we get there. They’re in the back seat. I’ll get the boat down. We want a jug of water as there’s probably no spring on the island, and the net bag, also in the back, for, let’s see, bread and cheese and a thermos of tea, the first-aid kit, the binoculars, my notebook.
—I’ll put my T-shirt and underpants in too, Pascal said, taking them off, should we meet anybody, I guess.
—And your short pants, friend. And caps for us both.
—You don’t mind I’m britchesless, do you, Holger?
—Of course not.
—You’re blushing, you know, real strawberry.
—I’ll only blush worse if you keep mentioning it, Holger said. Here, let me get you into the preserver neat and trim. Woof! What’s the hug for?
—For bringing me camping.
—Consider yourself hugged back, for coming along, but right now I want you in this cork jacket so securely not even Hugo could rig you better.
—Doesn’t matter that I can’t breathe?
Holger at the stern, Pascal in the bow, they paddled over to the island, singing The Owl and the Pussycat, Pascal looking over his shoulder from time to time to grin.
—In between those two big rocks, Holger said.
Pascal jumped neatly into clear pebble-floored water and pulled the prow onto the shale shingle beach. Holger helped him draw the canoe ashore.
—Rift rocks, very old pines, meadow grass and flora. Wonderfully lonesome, isn’t it?
—I like it, Pascal said. Butterflies. How do I get out of this DayGlo-orange straitjacket? Stash the paddles here? If we climb the big rock at the other end we can see the whole island at once, wouldn’t you say?
They walked through cool and dark pines in the saddle of the island, coming out on the other side onto a sloped bright meadow that slanted up a sunny shaft of gray rocks where they could see across to the tent and Volkswagen, which looked strangely unfamiliar from this wild vantage.
—A feeling of being ve
ry far away is what I have, Pascal said.
—Yes, Holger said. That’s why I like getting away. There is decidedly no such place as NFS Grundtvig. Never was.
Pascal laughed.
—Our voices sound different.
—I think we are different.
—Over the edge, said Pascal looking, is steep straight down to the lake. Some enterprising bushes growing right out of the side of the rock. It’s nice and hot up here.
Holger sat, unlacing his sneakers.
—The binoculars, Pascal said. Hey, you brought your camera.
He surveyed the full horizon.
—People on the far side. Scouts, I think. Blue and khaki. Tents. They couldn’t have come up the road we did.
—You have to know, Holger said, about the gate in the fence, and the cow-path we drove along the last three kilometers, to get to where we are.
Holger pulled his sweater over his head, bare torso beneath, chest hair thick, a gold chain with pendant coin around his neck.
—Why the wicked smile? he asked.
—Not me, Pascal said. What’s the medal?
—A tetradrachma, museum reproduction, Artemis and four dolphins, chariot with four leggy horses on the obverse.
Pascal leaned to study it.
—It’s beautiful.
—A friend gave it to me. I’ve worn it for years. You’re beginning to turn pink from the sun already.
—You blush, I tan, same shade. We could both tan.
—You won’t blush, friend? These jeans are all I’m wearing.
—Pride, as I said, is what shy is. Actually, what Hugo said.
Holger stood, nimbly, unzipped his jeans, stepped backward out of them, folded them into a square for a pillow, and lay on the slant of the rock, his fingers knit behind his head.
—Hugo is your real teacher, isn’t he? Did we get here with sunglasses? He has caught your imagination.
—Sunglasses, sunglasses, Pascal said, scrounging in the net bag. Thermos, comb, whyever a comb, film, is there film in the camera? Bathing suit, my underpants and britches, sunglasses. Here. Can I have your sweater for a pillow? Except that I get the fidgets lying still.
—So don’t lie still. Walk on your hands, do jumping jacks.
—Jump you flatfooted, across your chest. One and two and three!
—Good sense of space. I’m not stomped to death and your heels are touching.
—Next, over your belly button. One’s all, two’s all, zicker-zoll zan! Neat. This is something Franklin would do, you know?
—I’ve noticed you turning into Franklin.
—Franklin’s trying his best to turn into Hugo. I like Franklin. And he’s really the only person who’s liked me. At Grundtvig, I mean.
—I like you.
—I know that, Holger. Now over your middle. Humpty Dumpty is ninety-nine, and one’s a hundred, plop. Over your knees, next, sinctum sanctum buck. Hairy feet. Whoof! Now I can lie down and be civilized. I’m shy.
Holger looked at his watch.
—Another five minutes, and we do our backs.
—Methodical. I like going without clothes. I didn’t think I was this kind of person.
—What kind of person would that be?
—I don’t know. I really didn’t know I had a body until Franklin showed me. It was something my folks owned and operated, not me, something with earaches, constipation, runny nose, clean fingernails, eat your vegetables and drink your orange juice. There’s Jos with his muscles and weights and big shoulders, and Rutger and Meg, and Kim and Anders, and Hugo and Mariana.
Pascal sat cross-legged beside Holger, one knee pressing on his thigh.
—Sun and breeze together, Holger said, and such incredible quiet.
—I get kidded a lot because you like me. But it’s only kidding, though Franklin had that fight with Adam because of it.
Holger lifted his sunglasses and looked hard at Pascal.
—Jos got Adam the next day and scared the living lights out of him.
—The things I don’t know, Holger said.
—But Jos jollied Adam around again. He doesn’t like hard feelings.
—I’m not certain I understand any of this.
—What’s to understand? Franklin came over, from Hugo’s to see me. Adam, who’s a prig, which is what Jos called him, and thinks Franklin is not one of us, and is jealous if you ask me, said something nasty, Franklin won’t tell me what, that made Franklin so mad he hit him.
—We should have brought Franklin along.
—Oh, no. If Franklin were here, I’d be with him, not with you. that sounds awful.
—Now you’re blushing.
—I hear a boat, Pascal said, reaching for the binoculars. It’s the scouts, and they’re rowing this way, three boats. Come look.
—Our island, Holger said. What wars are all about. Our place that we thought we had to ourselves is about to be invaded. Perhaps if we show them we’re here, they’ll have the good manners to give us a miss.
—They can see me, Pascal said, nipping over to the net bag for his briefs and Holger’s bathing slip. Semaphore flags, he said, for a signal from one naked skinny boy perfectly visible against the sky.
Right arm straight out, flapping briefs, left hand with slip over genitalia: B. both arms up, the body a Y: U. both hands at genital level, a shift to the left: G, twice. Left hand up, right over genitalia: E. arms straight out: R. left hand, across chest, arm right up: O. right over genitals, left straight out, twice: double F.
—They’re answering, acknowledge and repeat. Wait a sec. That’s a hello. They’re landing, anyway. Ten, I count. Nine scouts and their keeper.
Holger came to the ledge, hands on Pascal’s shoulders to peer down at the boats. Pascal placed his hands over Holger’s. Solidarity.
—I suppose we should be grateful that the intrusion is as benign as scouts. Even so.
—Pests, Pascal said.
—Heigh ho! came a jovial voice from the foot of the slope.
—Hello! Holger called down.
The first of the landing party to appear was a freckly ten-year-old in gold-rimmed specs, red bandana around his head, piratically knotted, in short blue pants and webbing belt hung with a canteen and a hatchet. He stopped short, silver braces gleaming in his open mouth.
Behind him arrived an older boy in a beret and red briefs, a mop-haired spadger in sneakers and shorts, carrying a butterfly net, and their scoutmaster, who seemed nineteenish, sturdily athletic, with cropped blond hair and smiling green eyes.
—Thought I ought to apologize, he said, before obeying your semaphone. Also to introduce myself, Sven Berkholst, with my troop. We’ll keep to the other end of the island, unless you’re camping there.
Nine scouts with fox eyes stood in a line behind him, staring.
—Holger Sigurjonsson. And this is Pascal. We’re camped over there on the other side of the lake. We rowed out to see the island, and to have our lunch in a bit.
—Your son?
—Friend. We’re both from NFS Grundtvitg.
Pascal slipped his arm around Holger’s waist, causing elbows to nudge among the scouts. Holger placed both hands on Pascal’s shoulders.
—We’re from Tarm, Sven Berkholst said. We’re out for butterflies, and some elementary marine biology around the shore. Nice meeting you, and we’ll push off. Troop, about-face. I’ll keep the boys away from up here.
—No need to, Holger said.
Pascal tightened the squeeze of his hug as the scouts left, some looking back furtively. Watching their heads bob among bushes and be lost to sight among the pines, Holger, surrendering to an impulse, hoisted Pascal with a clean swift heave, turned him around in the air, and, clasping him tight shoulder and butt, held him bravely, nuzzling his midriff before easing him down.
—Let’s have lunch, Holger said, or whatever midmorning meals are called. Did I do that, hug you, I mean?
—Somebody did. Kissed me on the tummy, too. Why are you putting
on your jeans?
—Dressing for dinner, Holger said. It seems sublimely silly to eat in the altogether. Not you, me. Stay in your Adam suit. Bread we have, cheese we have, hot tea with milk we have.
—I’m staying naked all day, Pascal said, especially if I’m going to get hugged. Two plastic cups, cheese in foil, good chewy bread. I thought it was exciting enough getting here yesterday, and putting the tent up, and having our supper, and talking by the fire, and sleeping in a tent, but today, so far, runs rings around all that.
—Oh, I agree, Holger said. This meal, on Hugo’s authority, is Epicurean. Epicurus has a bad reputation for high living and outrageous gourmandise.
Hugo says, however, that he ate as simply as possible: goat cheese, bread, cold spring water.
—It’s good, Pascal said with his mouth full. Hugo hugs Franklin all the time. Mariana makes a joke of being jealous, but of course she isn’t, really. Other things, too.
—What other things?
—Just things.
—Clouding over, would you look?
—Good old Danish weather. Drown the scouts, maybe.
—Well, I don’t think we’d be that lucky, but I do think we’d be wise to row back to the tent before it rains. Police the area, scamp, and I’ll pack.
—Wasn’t there, Pascal asked, some chocolate?
—Dessert in the tent. You don’t have dessert with a snack, anyway. Thermos, your clothes, such as they are, camera. Wait. Let’s photograph you here on the rock. Stand over there. Smile. got it.
—Can I show the picture to Franklin?
—Why not? Oh boy, is it ever going to rain.
As they crossed the wood they began to hear scouts’ voices near the cove where they left their canoe. Smells of turpentine, deep humus, the straw odor of pine needles. The wood was cool and dim, with laurel undergrowth toward the edges, so that one did not suspect the closeness of the lake. Pascal walked in front, the net bag slung over his shoulder. It was the merest chance, as his eyes were happy to keep to Pascal, that Holger took in at a glance, and that peripherally, two scouts in the laurels over to the left. One, with a bear-brown richness of hair raked forward, recurving into a snub-nosed open-lipped profile, had shoved down his shorts and briefs. His penis was rigid, scrotum bunched tight. His head was close to that of another scout, whose hands were busy. Holger kept silent, and for a few steps doubted what he had seen, though the boyish profile and prosperous erection remained as a clear afterimage.
The Death of Picasso Page 43