by Tito Perdue
Fifteen
HE WOKE, GROANED, BUT THEN got up very quickly when he saw he was on the floor. It was a brown day, the beauty of it pulling him perforce to the window. He saw a speckled scene of great mellowness, with leaves, corn, and tiny red sun. At one time, people used to hold themselves in readiness for just such days; now, it could be seen on television. He opened the pane and stuck his head out, but then had to draw back in quickly when he found two other old men doing the same. This breeze! He could identify apples rotting and the smell of burning pine from off the hill; all his life he had carried his wisdom in silence that he might at last measure up to the beauty of things. Down below were five billion people, each representing one brief opportunity to turn into soul and survive forever. They were failing; he was not.
He dressed slowly, humming, finally trotting down to the unspeakable little bathroom with its defunct toilet. Here were writings, one of them detailing a certain craving that even he in all his travels, not even in Mexico, had heard described before. He checked the mirror, still half-expecting the thirty-, or forty-, or perhaps the fifty-year-old that he used to be. He needed a shave, needed coffee, needed a new suit and brighter shoes. Suddenly, he was aware that he had left his cane behind, a hideous realization that sent him reeling back to his room.
He went down in an optimistic mood, although shunning the elevator. His wag of the day before had vanished, and in his place a henlike woman sat indignantly. They looked at each other in open distaste, both on the verge of saying something about it.
Outside, it was clear but plain and not nearly so autumnal as from his window. He never knew whether it was the climate or his own spiritual condition that was in play. He passed a humpback creature who would have stirred pity in him yesterday; now he was more conscious of the money in his vest.
He traveled three blocks before he remembered there were no bookshops in Alabama. He did see a furniture store full of second-hand items that, most of them, he would not have thought to be saleable, all of it under the direction of an aggressive little woman with makeup and perfect breasts. He judged her exciting, for anyone with libido.
“Very good! Tell me, do you deal in mattresses?”
“We have, yes, you want mattresses?”
The accent, Lee judged it of Portuguese and/or Spanish origin. “I do,” he said. Then: “Well not mattresses but mattress. I have one, you understand, but need another.”
“You want two mattresses.”
“No. Actually I . . . ” She was fast; he had to follow her back through three rooms in a row. At the end, he caught sight of a hobo from off the streets rummaging about through racks of used clothing. Here the mattresses looked in worse condition than the one he had jettisoned. Some were crushed, some bent, one soaked in blood.
“Would you have any that are new?”
At once he saw his mistake. The woman came to him.
“Do you see anything here that’s new?”
“No.”
“Rugs—are they new?”
“No, they’re not new either.” In fact, he felt proud of his right answer. She was so much like a teacher he had once had, hands on hips; even with his cane he felt quite powerless.
“Those—are those mattresses?”
“No, those are tables. Look, you’ll be old too someday.”
“What? What you say? Okay, buster-man, that’s it, that’s all for you.”
He found himself being escorted past furniture and dresses, past the hobo who seemed to be snipping off the buttons and putting them in his pocket, past all this and to the street itself. He could have taken her by storm in his youth, now she was on the sidewalk shooing him away.
“May I remind you . . . ”
“Go! Go!”
The day was pale now, with fumes over the sun. He went on slowly, speaking to himself, then suddenly, of an inspiration, he turned into a small place where the smell of coffee was brewing. He always wanted a separate table for himself; here, the room was full of tramps shoulder to shoulder in silence, as if ashamed to be seen in each other’s company. Lee squeezed in, not without difficulty, between a black man and a white, both of them pretending that they were not being more or less roughly jostled by a third man with a cane. Soon enough would come someone to give out food—he was confident of it—and meantime, he was happy with the silence and proximity of two or three others who seemed to be of about his own age. They blushed, stealing looks at one another. These were not highly developed persons; not one of them could have passed any of his tests, and yet he felt the presence of at least one other soul in the room, even if he could not have pointed to whom it belonged. One man looked like Dostoevski; the soul, however, belonged to someone else. Another was so brutalized, so lacking in one ear, he would have made Prime Minister in the punishment state Lee envisioned. Just then Lee spotted a wily fellow at the back. They were, all of them, of that tiny minority in Time called sometimes “people,” and sometimes “the living.” He knew for a certainty they would turn and rend him if they but knew what he was thinking. Indeed, he was on the point of leaving when the woman (tall, austere, expressionless) made her appearance and began to go around with her cart. He had expected a sorry food, a weak soup at the best; in fact, it was authentic meat they were given and with a choice between turnip and potato. Lee took it gratefully and threw it in. There was bread, and it so good that he was ready to give worship to any god she could point to. The men were in a frenzy, as he saw, all of it out of the ten-billion-year-old dread that someone might come and take away their portions. Nor did it matter that he had read hills of books and had a “Dr.” in front of his name.
He remembered the bunch of them rising silently one by one and filing out without a word. One man had left his tobacco plug—Lee didn’t want it. The last he could recall it had been summer, now there was a cold chill that went straight to the bone. He saw a woman so bundled in coverings she looked like blankets in motion. He had observed it before, how that, for the uneducated, life was finished as soon as youth was done. There were no police here. Instead, he saw three black men standing back to back while watching the street. The woman in blankets, she was not Judy in spite of her correct height. Nevertheless, Lee turned and flew off around the block to catch her on the return trip.
He no longer expected anything from this weather, not with winter coming in. The sun itself was but a fluff of seeds held together with spider string. It was strange: he was on earth looking up, and yet at same time he could easily imagine himself on the sun looking down. He saw a spindly man making toward him, a mere lacework of atoms and open spaces and the averted expression of one who finds himself suddenly on the wrong planet. Lee dallied, smoking, while figments of literature passed through his head. Behind, one of the shopkeepers had come out and was trying to intimidate him into going away. Lee grinned, drooling on purpose. He felt this way: he had nought but his cane and seventy-two years, yet he stood ready to contest with anyone that wanted; he knew it they knew it. Therefore the wisest of them made a grand detour to keep out of his way.
The woman, when she came, was not Judy at all, who had kept pretty to the end. This was a hardened person, and there was no way on earth to get a close look at her without causing an affront. She stopped, stamped her foot, then began cursing in a bitterness out of all proportion.
“Pardon.”
“Pardon, shit! I ain’t your goddamn long-lost love, Jesus!”
It was true; he backed off apologetically. Suddenly, he grabbed for his money, finding it all intact. A bus came up, and the driver looked at him with so much impatience that he felt obliged to step on board. Three things he noticed at once—that it was warm, that it was loaded with working people, that it smelled of fuel and dirty clothes. All his life he had gravitated to the rear of buses, always hoping to find the last bench free; instead, this day, a melancholy black man had taken the best of places and was gazing out in such a way as to show that for him it was too late and nothing would bring back his enth
usiasm ever. Lee nodded and then, getting nothing in return, took the window opposite. It gave a good view of the road, yet within a minute he felt himself lapsing into a kind of slumber that was a great deal like reading, with stores and shops passing by. Here was poverty in truth, enough of it to supply the most optimum field for spiritual development, as Toynbee said. His own most favorite ages, certainly, had done well enough without prosperity. But not without slaves! Indeed, he saw everywhere thralls in thousands, a lost people whom history had cheated of harness and lash. Even now one of them was gazing back at him, a largish man, a voter and sports fan, with massive skull.
Lee preferred them in poverty; he had seen the conjunction of ignorance and wealth, as well as all that nightmare of the 1980’s. To his thinking, the slum was only too small, too hemmed-in by its egg-shaped circuit roofed over in cellophane. The young, those that were shrewd, had all long ago scrambled over the wall on the shoulders of the less-shrewd now standing around casting shadows. It had always been difficult to prove to the prosperous that they were in fact ignorant, whereas here . . . These non-prosperous ones seemed almost ready to listen.
It was then he saw something that made his whole philosophy teeter in the balance—a tall man standing to one side while keeping his face from being seen. Lee had always understood that if ever anything should actually happen, it would be owing to some quiet person who kept his face hidden, had a pitiless will, and a head full of lovely brains. He could hardly restrain himself until the bus stopped and he was able to cross and come upon the man from behind.
It was an interesting face, bony, with speculation in it. Lee had been accustomed to believing that only Eastern people had somber faces. As to whether this was the One, the true chastiser, the Flagellum Dei for whom Lee was but serving as herald—he wasn’t so sure. Now he must either grasp the man at his belt or let him get away forever. (For a long time now, he had been aware of rumors, the wide-spread suspicion of a new Man-God abroad and walking the street, had even at moments thought it might be himself.) At that moment the sun dropped abruptly behind the wall; Lee could see a cadre of black people emptying out hurriedly from one of the doorways and scattering in all directions. Nothing surprised him anymore. He saw an expensive car from the outside world, lights dimmed, searching for something.
He found himself peering in at the pawnshop, a most narrow establishment and so loaded with curiosities that there was hardly room for the grinning eminence within. They looked at each other. Lee had seen him before, in Detroit or somewhere, and always with the same display of gangrenous watches and musical instruments. He saw a photograph album open to a well-dressed family, now all extinct. Lee focused on the family dog, its expression showing the aftereffects of a joke that had recently taken place. It too, extinct. Next, his eye fell upon a knife with a devilishly long blade, long enough for piercing even to the deepest of organs. He had said there were no bookstores in Alabama, yet here was a set of something or another, twenty volumes in brown vellum; it put him in mind of his own beloved collection now wasting in the arms of the Law.
He turned, almost colliding with the eminence who had come outside and was standing, arms behind his back.
“Lovely evening.”
“Cold, though.”
“We have men’s coats.”
“No, no. I was looking at the books.”
“Oh, Updike; yes he was read at one time. We have shoes.”
“No, no; I have a better pair at . . . ” (He had started to say “home.”)
“And walking canes; we have some very fine ones.”
“Ah. But do you have heavy ones?”
“Oh yes, absolutely.”
“Heavier than this? Knob on top?”
The man took it and looked it over thoughtfully. It occurred to Lee that he had let it go too easily, that possibly it was a ruse of some kind.
“Where did you get this cane?”
“Detroit.” (They looked at each other.)
“It’s already very heavy.”
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t have anything heavier.”
“I see.”
“We have small arms.”
“No, no. Do you have mattresses?”
“No mattresses. Pharmaceuticals we have.”
“If I could just have my cane now . . . ”
“Nazi regalia?”
“No, no.” He had to fight for it; the man was strong. Lee’s plan was to stamp on the foot, which was large and covered much pavement; instead, the cane fell free at the last moment.
“Interrogation equipment?”
“No, no, no.” He hurried away, past a deserted place and next, a grocery doing big business in spite of the hour. He had a stark view of women who, all thoughts of romance now put to one side, were going about the more serious business of getting the best of the fruits and vegetables. Next, to his surprise, was a private home with gate and garden and little old woman on the porch summoning him to come up and sit a while. Lee hurried on, coming next upon an antique shop so quaint and picturesque . . . He knew them. Hardly had he stepped inside before a girl came up with a warm and patronizing smile, as if she knew all his secrets and found them quaint as well. To be deemed harmless—nothing riled him more, nothing easier than to impale her with his cane.
“Hi!”
“Mattresses.”
She had none. She did have a way of smiling that let him see the quality of her fillings. Seldom had he come across so exquisite a sample of the shallowness revolution; moreover, every step he took forward, she took one back! She seemed to be made out of a pearly material, such as would fly apart at the first touch of a cane.
“You ever read a book in your life? No.”
She was smiling no more. Now it was fear he smelled, astringent stuff, stronger by far than perfume.
“I’ll scream.”
“Do so! Myself, I’ve done nothing as yet.”
“You can have the money, I won’t even say anything. No, really!”
“Money?” He showed his money. “It’s not money.”
“I’m having my period.”
“Keep it! No, all I want from you is one intelligent word. Just one! You can’t, can you?” He counted, even to ten. “Very well, do this—just look serious. Oh, I’ll give you plenty of time!” Indeed, he even backed up a step or two. Behind him, he could hear slop music in loudness from one of the cars. The girl herself was striving earnestly, but with no real hope of forcing her expression into anything he could let pass.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t breathe.”
“Can I stop?”
“No, you can’t stop! Not till you’re rid of that ‘pearly’ look.”
That moment someone entered and, seeing that something was happening, stood still. It never failed, never: each time he felt he was making progress, some third party always burst into his life. This time it was a well-dressed woman in middle-age, rather portly, with shopping bags and purse. Lee summoned her around and next to the girl, somewhat appeased in that she obeyed so quickly.
“What about you, you know anything? Don’t look at her, look at me. She doesn’t know anything.”
It was interesting—the fat one appeared to have some little fund of knowledge and appeared actually to be searching in it. The other was weeping.
“Ready? Alright, name me all those whom Achilles slew.”
“‘Slew.’” She was thinking. Against all odds, he found himself cheering for her.
“Horace? No, wait. Hadrian? No. Oh, Homer! Herodotus? Herodian? No, cancel that last. Hold! I have it—Hector!”
Lee grinned; it was a good moment. Hardly ever had he felt so proud of anyone. His hand on the cane relaxed, away from the girth of it.
“See? Now, that’s better! Very well, you can go. No, I mean it! And take anything you want, too. Those necklaces? Take ’em all!”
She was coy about it; finally, she did take one, and then, going to the door and coming back, three more. He heard the sp
ecial sound of a fat woman galloping off on concrete. As for the girl, she was sniveling still. It was not so much the desire to cane her as to instill her with fiber enough that she might at least stand up straight.
“It’s a great mistake to count over much on my patience. Now hear me: I’m coming back someday, maybe a year, maybe tomorrow, and you had best know something at that time. Now, is that fair?”
She nodded, sniveling. Again he showed the cane, the blunt part. For himself, the shop had nothing he wanted, unless it were certain old movie posters that he couldn’t use. He remembered backtracking, till he was out the door and around to the window, where he waited a long while, watching still.
Night always, if he had his way. In front of the shops two men had pulled a third out of a car and were beating him very quietly. Here, in the “canyon” (so-called), Lee liked to pause and gaze straight up, sometimes catching a faraway face peering straight down. There was smoke, a playful stuff, that flooded his shoes. All in all he would have said the slum was green in the moon and blue in the shade, while the voices that came to him were so distorted, as if people everywhere were gagged and screaming with mouths sewed up tight. More than ever at this hour the buildings looked like cow pats piled tidily; he could have punched round holes in them with his cane.
He climbed the stairs, past the chaos of the second floor and thence to his own landing. There was a bar of light beneath one of the doors and a shadow where someone was standing. It gave him a wonderful feeling to be in his own room, naked as it might indeed be, and with bad smells. Someone had died here recently; it infected even the corners.
It was not a good moment for him. He could see across town to the very building where even now the authorities were swarming over his books. He could not bring forth Judy into this, nor allow her to see how he was living. Suddenly, the dread flooded over him that he had perhaps locked himself away for the night without matches. Quickly, he unpacked the money, also the tiny volume of Musaeus that he had forgotten about. There were matches, a box of little yellow-tipped devils of Swedish manufacture; he struck one, then blew it out. Somewhere a radio was playing. It was not so early that he was the only person in the slum wanting sleep. His habit was to fabricate a dream in advance and then insist upon having it, but not tonight, not without books. Outside, a cloud was dissolving in a kind of tedious slowness, like cloth to shreds; perhaps he was asleep already.