Turning Idolater

by Edward C. Patterson

  Thomas grasped Philip’s shoulders. “It is fine, Philip. I have the shopping gene. Whether I am forty-eight or one-hundred and eight, I cannot resist a Chippendale.”

  “You collect men too?”

  “Funny,” Thomas said, then, probably realizing that Philip wasn’t making a pun, touched a table near the Ottoman. “Chippendale. See.” He referenced the legs and feet.

  “Oh.” Philip laughed, and then perused the walls — the paintings and the library shelves. This led him to the broad expanse of window and the balcony. “Can you see the river from here?”

  “Too far away,” Thomas said. He slid the glass door open, inviting Philip aloft. “If you stretch you can get a glimpse of Central Park.”

  Philip careened over the side. He did see the park in the distance, but the prominence of traffic lights and taxis cabs were more redolent of the city. “Cool,” he said.

  Thomas latched onto the backpack. “How about staying for a while?”

  Philip wiggled out of the straps, and then waited for the expected squeeze around his waist, which came. “Won’t the neighbors call the cops?”

  “Let them. My neighbors are old farts. You know the type. They have been asleep for hours.”

  Philip twisted about until he faced Mr. Dye, and then planted a fervent kiss on expectant lips. Yes, there was an unfathomed depth beneath this bowsprit.

  2

  The aftermath of passion is ignorant of time or place. Therefore, it mattered not that Philip and Tee rolled about on silken waves in a vast bedroom (one of four) in a king-size canopied four-poster. It could have been a rope coil on the main deck and would have been as pleasant. Philip did get the grand tour — the kitchen (spotless and stark white like a butter churn on a dairy cottage); the media room (electronically decked and amplified); the library (a midden of neat bindings and slap dash biblio-spillage); the office (splattered with a dozen in-boxes and a solitary out-box, and slathered with eight-and-half by eleven confetti); and the guest rooms (as inviting as the ones at the Hilton). Philip nodded his pleasure at seeing anything so spacious in Manhattan, or rather anything so vast within his access. However, he would review it all in the morning in the butter-churn kitchen over the Eggs Benedict. It was the master bedroom that enthralled him most, and now, in the aftermath, with the satin sheets kissing his naughty bits under the counterpane, he drifted off into a half-sleep.

  Thomas lay awake. He might have been having second thoughts, but how could he? Philip sensed the insomnia and turned to him.

  “Disappointed?”

  “Nothing like the sort.”

  “Good. I didn’t think so. Are you awake for more, or is it the Injun food?”

  “Indian food.” Thomas didn’t see Philip’s wince in the dark. “No. I am too content for sleep. I would rather talk.”

  “Pillow talk?”

  Thomas propped his head on the pedestal of his crooked arm. “Just Queequeg and I.”

  “Excuse me,” Philip responded and also propped up.

  Thomas clicked his tongue. “Time for a Melville moment.” He spoke in soft tones:

  “We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. So, I kindled the shavings, kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world.”

  Philip sat up. “Dick again?”

  Thomas placed his fingers across Philip’s lips, and continued:

  “How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg — a cozy, loving pair.”

  “Melville really was Gay,” Philip said.

  “He was,” Thomas said, “but I am not so sure about Queequeg and Ishmael. Actually, passages like this well up from the golden soul of the discriminating palate and glow universally, gay or not. It is a true disclosure of the soul.”

  “Disclosure of the soul?”

  “Chatter in bed.”

  “Better than sex?”

  “Not better,” Thomas said. “Different. Within it. The full blend.”

  Philip adjusted his stance. A sweet aroma caught him, one that he couldn’t describe. It wasn’t the man’s aftershave or even his afterglow. It was the same captivating slap that he felt when he had the book opened fully brined. He supposed it had something to do with these men of letters, this Melville — this Dye.

  “Wow. Words flow out of you like . . . like . . .”

  “Diarrhea.”

  “No.” Love tap. “Silk.”

  “Silk?” Thomas said. “Silk as in silk stockings or as in silk and satin sheets.”

  Suddenly, Thomas held Philip tightly. Philip felt Thomas’ naked heartbeat, but somehow this was not a prelude to more sex. It was a preamble to something else. Something more defining.

  “That feels so good,” Philip said, an admittance he seldom made. “Good and warm.”

  “For you to feel good and warm, some part needs to be cold.”

  Philip broke loose. It wasn’t the words. They were fine. It was the probe that hurt — the subtle barb of insincerity. A dash in confidence. “I’m afraid a good deal of me is cold,” Philip said. He had never admitted this before. The words chilled him.

  “I cannot accept that,” Thomas said. “Perhaps you think me a warm soul. A man who sees through people in order to catch their spirits and repackage them in books.”

  “I’m sure I’ll wind up in one of your books.”

  Thomas twitched, and then shifted his weight away from Philip. He sat on the edge of the bed, his feet puddling for his slippers. Philip grasped his shoulders.

  “No, no,” Thomas said. “You just struck a nerve, nothing more. It has nothing to do with you. I am a man who feels the weight of what I do for a living. You know Melville and I have some things in common.”

  Philip sidled up to him. “You are both authors and use words to catch us little fishies.”

  Thomas smiled at this. “Little fishies and big bad marine mammals too. However, we are really thieves and . . . liars.”

  “No. I don’t believe that.”

  “Yes. Sad to say, it is true. We spin our yarns at the expense of others. We steal their secrets — their breath, their very lives and we spill it across pages of crisp, printed and well–edited lies. None of it is true.”

  Philip pouted. He didn’t care for this talk. It was sodden, beaching the great marine mammal never to swim free again. “I won’t hear it,” he snapped. He hugged Thomas. “You bring joy to the hearts of the likes of me.”

  Thomas grinned. “The likes of I.”

  “You see, already you’re improving my lot. Perhaps I’ll find . . . edification in your shadow.”

  “Splendidly put.”

  “And you would call that a lie.”

  Thomas buckled himself to this beauty, pressing chest to chest. “In the shadow of my sails you wish to rove, over uncharted seas in the clutch of sunlight or in the jaws of the storm?”

  “I wish it.”

  “Then let it be.”

  Then let it be, Philip thought, as sure as we lie, Queequeg and I.

  Chapter Seven

  “Old Times till Nearly Morning”

  1

  Since sleep didn’t come, Thomas clasped his hands behind his head, stretched over his pillow and spoke to the ceiling.

  “Let me tell you then how I met my agent.”

  “I don’t like him much,” Philip muttered.

  “No one does.”

  “You must.”

  “By degrees I have loved him better and indeed, far worse as his madness progressed, but if the subject does not interest you, I can outline my marketing pla
n for my latest undertaking.”

  “I don’t think I’d like that much better.”

  “Then, hush and listen. Twenty eight years ago, I was stationed in Germany at a place called Grafenwöhr.”

  Philip propped himself on his hand. “You were in the army?”

  “Yes, indeedy. I served the beast in the Bavarian woods, I did.”

  “Twenty-eight years ago?”

  “1980.”

  “I wasn’t even born then.”

  “Keep quiet and listen or I will need to spank you.” Philip giggled. “Cheeky monkey.”

  Philip tickled him, but Thomas pinned him down.

  “Now, there is this thing about tickling that gets to me, boy,” Thomas said. “So just listen and learn.”

  “Yes, Tee,” Philip said, but still giggled. “I mean, I love ancient history.”

  “As well you should.” He flattened his pillow and resumed his stance. “Now, although I was stationed at Grafenwöhr, the Army sent me on TDY to Nürnberg.”

  “TDY? Like in Tdye?”

  “No. It is army spiel for Training. It stands for Temporary Duty assignment.”

  “So you went on a training trip to Nerdberg?”

  Thomas laughed. “Not Nerdberg. Nürnberg. You probably know it better as Nuremberg.”

  “Then why didn’t you call it that?”

  “Because I believe that a place should be pronounced as it is by its natives. The Germans do not say Nuremberg.”

  “I work for a German.”

  “Do you, now?”

  “We call him the Porn Nazi. And if I pronounzed every verd he shpoke like he shpoke it, ve vould be in deep shitz.” He laughed.

  “I guess we are not in the listening mood, are we?”

  “Okay. I’m listening. You went to Nuremberg or Nerdberg on Tdye and you met that creepy agent of yours.”

  “He was less creepy then. And younger, and before you say another word, just imagine that when I was your age, foot loose and fancy free in Europe, I was a sight more frisky than you are now.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Yes. I was sent to a suburb of Nürnberg, a place called Fürth — to O’Darby Kaserne, and before you ask, Kaserne is German for barracks and I still to this day do not know why it was called O’Darby.”

  “Sounds Irish.”

  “And Fürth sounds Scottish, but go figure. I was sent to Projectionist School.”

  Silence.

  “Are you still with me?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes. Projectionist School. Some kind of speech therapy class, I’m guessing.”

  “No. I was learning how to show training films on a projection system. This was long before VHS and DVD. We had reels and sprockets and . . .”

  “I get the idea.”

  “You do. Well, everyone is so accustomed to pop in a tape or plunk on a disc that the art of mounting a wheel drive and threading celluloid is now taken for granted.”

  “I get the idea.”

  “It was winter — February.”

  Philip pulled up the covers and made a brrr noise. Thomas may have been amused, but rather thought this tale was wasted by now. Still, he proceeded.

  “Winter in Germany meant only one thing — snow, but snow in general is prosaic. Snow gingered on the turrets of a medieval city, is a memory to visit time and time again.”

  2

  The city walls of Nürnberg may have been famous in the days of the Meistersingers, but by the time Private Thomas Dye reached their edge, they had been destroyed by the ravages of war, but built anew by the fortunes of cheese — Kraft Cheese, that is, as this was the home town of the famous cheese makers and they were loathe to see their great city in ruins. They restored the great walls that surrounded the place — ramparts, turrets, battlements and gingerbread steeples and gables straight from the Brothers Grimm. The city would have been less a target had not Herr Hitler decided that this would be his Capital of the World. Such grandeur called for total annihilation, but such destruction called for the cheese makers to raise a replica.

  Thomas trudged in the snow, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The icy cobwebs that graced the old-new city sparked his imagination — an imagination that was never short of kindling and always heaped with tinder. He stood waiting for the Bahnbus to Fürth, a short trolley hop through the suburbs — through the mist of snow and bustling traffic. The wind bit his nose, sparkling under his clear, blue eyes. He was a long way from Brooklyn and he knew it.

  Thomas paced along the empty platform. It was too cold to pull his book loose from the duffel and dive in. It was Bleak House and would have been appropriate to the weather. He paced. He wasn’t positive that this was the correct platform. He had nearly missed his connection at Würzburg and, since his German was spotty to non-existent, he was left to the mercy of two middle-aged Fraus, who glanced at his orders and parroted O’Darby, O’Darby and Fürth! Fürth! They then began to chatter about someone they knew in Fürth and something about O’Darby, but neither one was much help. Then, when the train pulled into the Bahnhof at Nürnberg, these ladies pushed Thomas off and pantomimed his next steps — walk (they used their fingers to do the walking) to the exit and find the Stadt Gleiss, and kept saying, Nummer zehn. Nummer zehn. Thomas shrugged, and then one of them said — ten. Place number ten.

  So he was before the city walls on platform number ten waiting for another train, which approached now. It appeared more like a trolley car, but he knew it would, because he had ridden in one like this before between Vilseck and Bayreuth. He hoped there would be a conductor on board so he could confirm the destination. The car slid into the station, the accordion doors folding back. He waived his ticket at the official inside, who resembled a band conductor at the Proms, so much brass and tassel, but his flat, tub cap identified him as the conductor.

  “Fürth?” Thomas asked.

  “Ja.”

  “O’Darby Kaserne?”

  “Yes,” came a voice, not the conductor’s, who examined Thomas’ ticket and ushered him into the car. The voice came from the only other passenger — a lanky, rather square individual with green eyes and, lo and behold, in uniform — and not a bandmaster’s either. US Army.

  Thomas smiled and slid into the seat opposite. “Thank you. I am somewhat lost in this place?”

  “Big, but easy to get around.” He reached across, his massive paw inviting. “I’m Townsend — Florian Townsend. I’m in from Stuttgart on TDY at O’Darby.”

  “Me too,” Thomas said, grasping the hand. “Not Stuttgart. Dye — Thomas Dye. From Grafenwöhr.”

  “Grafenwöhr? I didn’t think anyone was stationed at Grafenwöhr, I mean with the big boom booms going off all the time. Thought that place was just for spending cartridges.”

  “No. I’m at the headquarters at the 6th of the 60th.”

  “Hawk Missiles. I’m with the 8th of the 60th. We aren’t much into the Handy Andy Worm Killers ourselves. We’re mostly clerks.”

  Thomas chuckled. “I am a clerk. I am here to go to the Projectionist School.”

  “Projectionist School?” Private Townsend laughed. “I’m going there too. Been here a week. Just went in to N’berg for some sleaze and a beer. Drei bier bitte. So I can tell you, if you’re for the Projectionist School, you’re on the right streetcar.” His head bobbed. “Projectionist School,” he murmured again and gently laughed.

  Thomas was mystified.

  3

  The gates to O’Darby Kaserne were like the gates of hell, only without Dante’s warning sign. The buildings were gray hulks kissed lightly by snow. Thomas trundled across the slick cobblestones managing his duffel bag with difficulty. Florian just waved him on to the shambles that at one time — under Kaiser Wilhelm perhaps — could be described as a barracks. Now it was a three-story warehouse with most of the windows broken, the wind blowing through them to invite Thomas inside. Beyond the tile-shorn Mansard roof, Thomas thought he spied a brick wall and a sprawl of barbed wire. It was foreboding
except that the buildings on the other side of the wall were more inviting than the barracks. There was also a clatter of boots and a chorus of yelling coming from that side. Thomas paused.

  “What a racket,” he said. “They do not drill us like that in Grafenwöhr.”

  Private Townsend shrugged. “This isn’t Grafenwöhr. This is the place that time forgot.”

  The foyer was dimly lit by a single light fixture. Stairs flanked each side of the vestibule. Thomas could imagine faded glory in their easement.

  “Up here,” Florian said.

  “My orders. Should I not see the Charge of Quarters?”

  “When you see the quarters, you’ll know what a silly request that is. Come up.”

  Thomas followed the sour young man up two flights. He thought it odd that the place was deserted — not a single troop. No activity. No loud conversation, just the yelping sounds from across the wall. That was noise enough.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “You’re looking at him,” Florian said turning about and walking backwards. “And just take a gander at me, because I’m your other half.”

  “Do you mean . . .”

  “I mean nothing. These are the transient barracks and we are the Projectionist Class — you, me and Specialist Goodrich, who teaches the fucking class and you’ll not see him here.”

  The top floor was a line-up of bunks in a long hallway. All empty. All denuded of linen. All probably crawling with lice and bed bugs, by the look of them. The windows were cracked or broken and there were three light bulbs hung at intervals along the course.

  “It is cold,” Thomas remarked.

  “It’ll be colder at night, but I’m used to it and I’ve only been here a bit.”

  “And that racket?”

  They had reached the only bunk with linen. The bottom bunk was made, but the top one at least had sheets, blankets and a pillow folded at the head nearest the window. This window was whole, but it still didn’t block the voices of the drill outside.