“And did you do it together?” asked Martha helplessly.
They answered, in perfect unison, “We did not.”
“That’s a good example of what I’m always saying,” said Ted, when he in his turn was asked. “Snarls in thought, and in the emotions. Knots, holding back the flow of essence through our bodies and our minds. We are tripped and thrown down, sometimes maimed, sometimes destroyed, because of—”
Martha had had enough. “Goddammit, Teddy! This was not something Mayland could have avoided by taking an enema. He fell into a nasty trap: one probably set for George. Did you set it?”
Gently, sadly, Teddy shook his multicolored head. “Never, Martha. George sets enough traps for himself.”
The back door of the theater was steel, and opened reluctantly onto a paved parking lot. Elen and Pádraig, once Martha had gone, sagged out the door and onto the pavement not looking at one another.
“Nice of you to give me an alibi,” said Elen, her voice a bit unsteady. Pádraig squinted at her in the sunlight. “No thanks necessary,” he said, and followed this with a rude snort. He turned his head away uneasily, until his eye was caught by something beyond.
“Look at that!” Not touching Elen Evans, he led her to the wire fence that divided the theater yard from its neighbor.
“The empty field?”
“Ryegrass,” he corrected her. “Or mostly ryegrass. All wasted. They could have had three sheep in there, or even a cow.”
Elen eyed him with amusement. “Maybe nobody was clever enough to think of it till now.”
“Well, now it is too late. The grass is too tall and dry to be of any use, except as straw. Ah! Wait, Elen, I have an idea. We can make a rope of it—súgán, like the tune we play.”
“Twisting the rope? What kind of invitation is that, Pádraig? I’ve heard about…”
But in his enthusiasm he was already over the six-foot fence. “We will need first a big knife, so I can cut the hay close to the ground. Then a stick to twist it…”
Elen took the broom handle in both hands and gave it the first twist. “I didn’t know anyone still did this sort of thing.”
Pádraig Ó Súilleabháin was pounding his end of the rope with a broken brick, adding new grass, as Elen backed away, in the manner in which a spinner adds rough wool to the thread. His motions were rough with enthusiasm. “It’s still done. For halters for horses and cows and sheep. They don’t cost money, and it doesn’t matter how soon the beast chews on them. They also used this kind of rope to hold the thatch down, but now mostly they use bought rope.
“But the visitors—the tourists—like thatched houses. You can get a lot of business if you have a thatched house.”
“I’ll remember that.” The late-spring California sun beat down on Elen’s head. She held her end of the rope taut and twisted as instructed. The beating and wringing of the tall grass bled juices which smelled very green. Pádraig’s short hair was littered with dust and weeds and he looked happy in a bull-like way. She was now fifty feet away and had to step back again as he added more substance to the rope. “Is this the part where you slam the door on me? In some versions of the song, that is?”
He looked up, flushed with effort. “I would, of course. But we’re in the car park and don’t have a door, so you are safe.” He smiled at her an instant longer than the joke required.
Elen replied, “Who is safe, you little bugger?” But she whispered it, and Pádraig was now fifty-five feet away.
The walls of the theater dressing room were an unfortunate green, and they deadened Long’s complexion as he sat alone at the table, playing his electric keyboard. His positioning at the instrument was odd; the length of his fingers forced his hands to curl over like the talons of a bird as he worked the keys. This anatomical singularity was not entirely a disadvantage, however. He could hit almost any key on the little instrument without moving his wrists, and crossed thumb-under a sixth at a time. Long’s supple back was carried rigidly straight, for once. It had been impressed upon him that he should keep his back straight. His music lay propped against the button accordion.
It was late afternoon when George St. Ives came in and found him there. Despite the heat of the afternoon, St. Ives was wearing his disreputable woolen sweater and corduroys. Heavily he stepped the width of the room and stood behind Long. Breathing.
“Gawd. That again. I thought we were done with that now that Sully’s decided it’s too much for him.”
“This is hardly the same arrangement that Pádraig was learning. This is—as you might say—single-syllable music, suitable for beginners such as myself.” As Long spoke, he continued the piece: slow, even, hard on the downbeats. Just a shade mechanical. Part A twice. Part B twice. Again.
St. Ives had a large, daunting presence. It hovered over Long, who came down hard on the downbeats just the same.
“Simple isn’t its problem,” said St. Ives, deep in his throat. He stepped closer. The B part ended and began again.
“Damn music-box rhythm you got.”
Long heard him shuffling in his thick-soled work shoes over to the cabinet where his assortment of bagpipes were stored. For another minute there was silence from that corner, and then the squeak of a reed. Finally, a blatt of the regulators announced that St. Ives was about to play the elbow pipes.
Long stopped his own playing to listen, as politeness seemed to require it. Besides, he could no longer hear himself. George St. Ives played “Kid on the Mountain,” and he played it very well. There was a great deal of life in the tune as he played it, and a strong, free rhythm. It was much faster than Long’s version and highly ornamented. When it was done the older man complimented him very sincerely and went back to his slow, metronomic lesson.
St. Ives gave a roar of laughter. “Goddamn. Nothing shakes the rich man!”
Long’s smile showed a bit of tooth. “I think you’re quite right, St. Ives. One becomes used to being in command.”
St. Ives leaned against the table beside him and said, conversationally, “You’ll never be a musician, though.”
The piper was between the sheet music and the single, naked bulb in the middle of the room, but Mayland Long had days since memorized the tune, and only looked at the paper through habit. “Isn’t it fortunate that I never aspired to such estate?”
“Then why this, then? An hour of this dah-dee-dah, every day?”
“It is my lesson.” Their eyes met, and Long noticed that St. Ives’s were squinting and his forehead was drawn, as though with a headache.
“From her, eh? You… get into that?”
Long’s laugh was mild, almost uninterested. St. Ives shifted in place two or three times and finally got up and wandered out of the room.
With a sigh and a yawn Long ceased playing. He turned off the machine and blew his nose. He was very glad the man had gone, for he himself had been getting sick of playing “Kid on the Mountain,” but would rather have died than allow St. Ives to think his influence had stopped him.
He was considering whether to quit his hour with five minutes still to go or to start the next tune in the book, when Ted Poznan sailed in, naked save for a pair of running shorts. He collapsed on the sofa and folded his hands over his sun-darkened, concave stomach. He stared at the ceiling vaguely. “Hey, Dragon,” he said, not bothering to turn his head to Long. “This place has really bad feng shui.”
Long picked up the keyboard and put it back in its neat, flat carrying case. “You mean the door facing north?”
Ted’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I was thinking of Sea Street—three lanes wide and straight as an arrow, pointing directly at this poor defenseless little building.”
Martha walked in, freshly showered and wearing a cotton dress of more manageable design than the wraparound skirt. She was in time to catch Ted’s last phrase. “What’s pointing at the building?”
“The street outside, Martha,” Long explained. “The auspices are very bad, you see, when a lo
ng street, or river for that matter, points straight at a dwelling or a tomb.”
“Tomb?” she echoed.
Ted, without moving on the couch, called out, “Uncontrolled life-force, crashing destructively against our individual realms. Forced, unnatural chi, bombarding us like cosmic rays.”
She threw a glance of mock dismay at Mayland Long, who replied with a grin. “The front gate facing north is also as bad an aspect as could possibly be.”
George St. Ives had come in behind her and was filling the doorway. He listened to this talk silently and then stepped through. Ted Poznan’s eyes flickered. Long looked politely up and Martha turned, but St. Ives said nothing, walking past them all to his instruments, his hand, on his forehead. Ted raised up on one arm and murmured a question to him. The piper only grimaced and shook his head.
Martha broke the tension. “Do remember, fellows, that we have to play here both tonight and tomorrow. Try to keep a good face on it, no matter how unnatural the chi.”
There was a sound of laughter from outside the room, in the direction of the vacant parking lot. Everyone looked up, even St. Ives. “It’s Elen and Pádraig,” Long explained. “They have been out there most of the afternoon.”
“Playing in the parking lot?” Martha asked.
Ted made an expansive gesture with both naked arms. “Why not? Parking lots are real too.”
“Making something, I believe.”
St. Ives lowered himself onto the padded arm of the couch, not far from Ted Poznan’s head. “Making what? Bacon?” He showed his teeth. “All we need is for her to dance her little dance for the boy and he’ll be worse than useless to us.”
Ted Poznan’s vague gaze sharpened. He looked up at St. Ives and it seemed there was a question on his mind. Martha’s round blue eyes went pale with anger. “As we’ve only five days more of the tour, George, I won’t worry about either Elen or Pádraig too much.”
It was Long who said what all were thinking. “She could hardly do worse to him than you, St. Ives.”
St. Ives had been rubbing his face. He put both hands down and his bloodshot eyes looked much older than did Long’s. “Later for that, rich man. After we play.”
But Long seemed not to have heard. He rose from the bench, brushed his light linen trousers, and went to the back door. He was just in time to open it for Elen, who looked surprised to see them all. She was smiling broadly.
So was Pádraig Ó Súilleabháin, but his smile froze and faded as he found himself the center of attention. Elen took something from his arms. It was dry and tawny and fell in loose loops onto the floor. “Behold! Sixty-odd feet of hand-twisted rope.”
There was a moment of pleasant confusion as Ted, Martha, and Mayland Long came forward to see it. Long, who seemed to know something of the craft, was both interested and approving. He suggested they try rice stalks next time, for a tighter twist. No one made jokes about courting, and St. Ives did nothing worse than to laugh.
Martha sat on the lid of the john again, for that was the only privacy she had, what with Marty everywhere, and she thought about what had happened to Mayland and the door. She felt it was her responsibility to do so, since no one else seemed to want to. Not even Mayland.
George, when delicately questioned, had admitted to leaving his pipes in the backstage room. He had been the first in, when unloading, and hadn’t known where the dressing room was. He had since moved them downstairs. The inner door had not been locked, when he had gone in that morning. The rolling door, of course, had been.
Martha had found herself unable to say to St. Ives, in so many words, that it looked like someone had set a trap for him. Maybe intended as a harmless joke. Maybe not. He was so easy to set off.
And she was not sure. She almost wished she had called the police when the matter had first occurred. Now everything had been handled by people, and the whole setup taken apart. The door was right now being replaced (with recriminations & from the management) and the black cable was coiled on the wall.
At least no one had suggested that they pay for the concrete pediment.
The band ate together that evening, as they had used to in the first two weeks of the tour, when there were still things to talk about.
Elen Evans, despite her name, face, and triple harp, was American: born and raised in Georgia and having lived for some years in California. One of her old friends had stopped by today and left an enormous bowl of mixed salad, and Mayland Long had placed beside it two quart-sized cardboard containers of curry.
Carefully Ted Poznan speared out tomatoes, sprouts, and asparagus from amid the meat and cheese. Ted was on a mucus-free diet. Pádraig Ó Súilleabháin followed him, regarding the array of foods distrustfully and taking only the meat. Elen, alternating moods of gaiety with five-minute broods, ate almost nothing.
George St. Ives did no better, though he had taken a large helping of curry. He sat in the corner by his pipes, as close to Ted as to anyone, and as always he drank down a quart of Miller beer with his meal.
Marty Frisch-Macnamara liked scallops and ate all those on Long’s plate as well as her own. Another of her favorites was asparagus dipped in mayonnaise. She wandered over to Pádraig where he sat on the floor (not too near to Elen Evans) and stood before him eye-to-eye, sucking the woody end of a stalk as though it were candy.
Pádraig looked up from his plate of ham and buttery bread. “Do you like that… stuff, Máirtín?”
It seemed such a silly question to the girl that she did not bother answering it, but stood, and sucked, and stared.
Pádraig made a face. “It’s nasty. Ugh! Put it away now before your face becomes green.” He poked her in her round belly with his finger. “Go away with it or I’ll hit you one.”
Marty sensed the emptiness of the threat and did not bother to move.
“Marty knows what good is.” Ted Poznan had alfalfa sprouts in his hair. His eyes were still sleepy as they beamed on the child. “Here, lady. Come take some of my wonderful sunchoke slices.”
Marty went, uncertain but hopeful.
“We’re teaching her to have no more manners than a dog,” Martha said to no one in particular. “Elizabeth won’t like that.”
She wiped her mouth with a paper towel. “Business for the day.” There was attentive silence. “Just like last night. Unless someone has a sudden inspiration?”
Pádraig Súilleabháin went rigid and he stared at Martha’s feet. When no one else spoke, he said, “Do you want us to make any changes, Martha?”
“No.” Her voice was flat and weary. “I think I’m too tired to make room for them.”
“Well, that’s it, then. Meeting adjourned,” said Elen, who looked around in challenge, as though she feared something more might be said.
The light was still good at a quarter to eight, when Martha walked out for air. Though Santa Cruz was a city and filled with pavement, the evening heaviness came from the black-green hills to the north, and smelled of evergreens. The line of people waiting at the door should have gratified her: would have gratified her only a few weeks ago. But she was tired, and California had spoiled her, with its new-age society and passion for old-age music.
Thank all assorted gods for Mayland, and his altogether unexpected rapport with Marty. Without him, whatever would she do with the child? Of course, had he not been along, she would never have consented to take her granddaughter for the week, no matter what day-care centers folded or new houses got built. Elizabeth herself had been known to complain that following tours had blighted her young life. Well, Marty seemed to be suffering no blights. She was as easy-tempered as her father, Fred. Fred: the Californian.
Standing at the street corner, where buckets of cut flowers were being taken in for the night, Martha watched the restless movement of the gathering audience.
Odd, that the people who liked her music should dress so differently than she did. Egyptian shirts and skirts of Russian cotton. Drawstring trousers and necklaces of bone. Human bone, perha
ps: reminder of mortality? Someone else’s mortality, at least. These people looked very much alive. It was not that Martha disapproved of “tribal” dress, but she’ could not imagine herself carrying around so much anthropological meaning upon her person.
Most of them so concerned with authenticity too. Well, they’d be disappointed tonight, for Martha had four musicians with her and no historical anthropologists at all. Except maybe Ted, who was more well-meaning than accurate, and George, who was so picky about authenticity when it served his purposes to be so.
Too bad about the feng whatever. Sea Street did look like it was determined to pierce Landaman Hall through, and the slim trough of marguerites planted in front of the main door only emphasized the peril. Did they often find wrinkled cars in their lobby? That would be inauspicious site planning, all right.
George St. Ives came down the street from the other side with another brown bottle-bag swinging beside him. He was not alone. The young woman beside him had frizzy fair hair and a dazed sort of look.
George was a magnet, thought Martha, and she wondered why. Didn’t appeal much to her.
He walked heavily up to the door, where it took him a while to convince the man in charge to let him in. He rolled as he walked, as though he had just come off a ship.
Martha tried to remember anything about his past that would explain this. He was always called a “Cape Breton piper,” whatever that meant. It had nothing to do with his playing style, surely, for that was as flexible and many-rooted as Martha’s own. Maybe it referred to his dirty woolen sweaters. He had two very good solo albums and had been around forever.
Pádraig Ó Súilleabháin didn’t walk like that, nor did he look like a fisherman in any accepted way, except that his hands, she had noticed, were dotted with tiny scars from hooks.
Martha could see a movement of heads along the line, and heard a sudden drop in the chatter level. Chickens, with a hawk overhead, she thought. George must have had to say his name. Yes, that was it, for now the crowd swayed suddenly closer. He stood in front of the open door as though the man had nothing better to do with his evening but hold it open for him, and he spoke with the fair-haired woman. She went up on her toes and gestured a lot; she was excited.
Twisting the Rope Page 4