Forty Stories (Penguin Twentieth Century Classics)

by Donald Barthelme

  William has not only not proved to Natasha that he still loves her but alienated her still further, because of the thing with Patricia, who he’s not seeing anymore, in that way. Furthermore he’s been in the Mohawk Motor Inn for a week, and that can get to you. Nothing breaks down a man accustomed to at least some degree of domestic felicity more than a week at a Motor Inn, however welcoming. He walks over in the mornings from the Mohawk for a bagel with dilled cream cheese and to find out if Natasha’s been around. I have to be, and have been, strictly impartial. “She was in,” I say. “She’s butterflying a leg of lamb tonight. Marinating it for six hours in soy sauce and champagne. I don’t myself think the champagne is a good idea but she got some recipe from somewhere—”

  “From her sister,” William says. “Danni spreads champagne on hot dog buns. Rex, what do you think?”

  “Go home,” I say. “Praise the lamb.”

  “How do I know it won’t be the spinal cord next?”

  “Hard to get to. Probably couldn’t even dent it.”

  “I feel like I’m married to some kind of animal.”

  “Our animal nature is part of us and we are part of it.”

  So he goes back to their apartment on Charles Street and they have a festive evening with the lamb and candles. They go to bed together and in the middle of the night she bites him on the back of the leg, severing a tendon just above the knee. A real gorilla bite. I can’t understand it. She’s a really nice woman, and pretty, too.

  “You can’t bite your way through life,” I say to her. She’s just seen William in his semi-private room at St. Vincent’s.

  “The physical therapist says there’ll be a slight limp,” she says, “forever. How could I have done that?”

  “Passion, I guess. Feeling run rampant.”

  “Will he ever speak to me again?”

  “What’d he say at the hospital?”

  “Said the food was lousy.”

  “That’s a beginning.”

  “He doesn’t feel for me anymore. I know it.”

  “He keeps coming back. However chewed upon. That’s got to prove something.”

  “I guess.”

  I don’t believe that we are what we do although many thinkers argue otherwise. I believe that what we do is, very often, a poor approximation of what we are—an imperfect manifestation of a much better totality. Even the best of us sometimes bite off, as it were, less than we can chew. When Natasha bites William she’s saying only part of what she wants to say to him. She’s saying, William! Wake up! Remember! But that gets lost in a haze of pain, his. I’m trying to help. I give her a paper bag of bagels and a plastic container of cream cheese with shallots to take to him, and for herself, an A&P check-cashing application with my approval already initialed in the upper right-hand corner. I pray that they will be successful together, eventually. Our organization stands behind them.

  Conversations With Goethe

  November 13, 1823

  I was walking home from the theatre with Goethe this evening when we saw a small boy in a plum-colored waistcoat. Youth, Goethe said, is the silky apple butter on the good brown bread of possibility.

  December 9, 1823

  Goethe had sent me an invitation to dinner. As I entered his sitting room I found him warming his hands before a cheerful fire. We discussed the meal to come at some length, for the planning of it had been an occasion of earnest thought to him and he was in quite good spirits about the anticipated results, which included sweetbreads prepared in the French manner with celery root and paprika. Food, said Goethe, is the topmost taper on the golden candelabrum of existence.

  January 11, 1824.

  Dinner alone with Goethe Goethe said, “I will now confide to you some of my ideas about music, something I have been considering for many years. You will have noted that although certain members of the animal kingdom make a kind of music—one speaks of the ‘song’ of birds, does one not?—no animal known to us takes part in what may be termed an organized musical performance. Man alone does that. I have wondered about crickets—whether their evening cacophony might be considered in this light, as a species of performance, albeit one of little significance to our ears. I have asked Humboldt about it, and Humboldt replied that he thought not, that it is merely a sort of tic on the part of crickets. The great point here, the point that I may choose to enlarge upon in some future work, is not that the members of the animal kingdom do not unite wholeheartedly in this musical way but that man does, to the eternal comfort and glory of his soul.”

  Music, Goethe said, is the frozen tapioca in the ice chest of History.

  March 22, 1824

  Goethe had been desirous of making the acquaintance of a young Englishman, a Lieutenant Whitby, then in Weimar on business. I conducted this gentleman to Goethe’s house, where Goethe greeted us most cordially and offered us wine and biscuits. English, he said, was a wholly splendid language, which had given him the deepest pleasure over many years. He had mastered it early, he told us, in order to be able to savor the felicities and tragic depths of Shakespeare, with whom no author in the world, before or since, could rightfully be compared. We were in a most pleasant mood and continued to talk about the accomplishments of the young Englishman’s countrymen until quite late. The English, Goethe said in parting, are the shining brown varnish on the sad chiffonier of civilization. Lieutenant Whitby blushed most noticeably.

  April 7, 1824.

  When I entered Goethe’s house at noon, a wrapped parcel was standing in the foyer. “And what do you imagine this may be?” asked Goethe with a smile. I could not for the life of me fathom what the parcel might contain, for it was most oddly shaped. Goethe explained that it was a sculpture, a gift from his friend van den Broot, the Dutch artist. He unwrapped the package with the utmost care, and I was seized with admiration when the noble figure within was revealed: a representation, in bronze, of a young woman dressed as Diana, her bow bent and an arrow on the string. We marveled together at the perfection of form and fineness of detail, most of all at the indefinable aura of spirituality which radiated from the work. “Truly astonishing!” Goethe exclaimed, and I hastened to agree. Art, Goethe said, is the four-percent interest on the municipal bond of life. He was very pleased with this remark and repeated it several times.

  June 18, 1824

  Goethe had been having great difficulties with a particular actress at the theatre, a person who conceived that her own notion of how her role was to be played was superior to Goethe’s. “It is not enough,” he said, sighing, “that I have mimed every gesture for the poor creature, that nothing has been left unexplored in this character I myself have created, willed into being. She persists in what she terms her ‘interpretation,’ which is ruining the play.” He went on to discuss the sorrows of managing a theatre, even the finest, and the exhausting detail that must be attended to, every jot and tittle, if the performances are to be fit for a discriminating public. Actors, he said, are the Scotch weevils in the salt pork of honest effort. I loved him more than ever, and we parted with an affectionate handshake.

  September 1, 1824.

  Today Goethe inveighed against certain critics who had, he said, completely misunderstood Lessing. He spoke movingly about how such obtuseness had partially embittered Lessing’s last years, and speculated that it was because Lessing was both critic and dramatist that the attacks had been of more than usual ferocity. Critics, Goethe said, are the cracked mirror in the grand ballroom of the creative spirit. No, I said, they were, rather, the extra baggage on the great cabriolet of conceptual progress. “Eckermann,” said Goethe, “shut up.”

  Affection

  HOW do you want to cook this fish? How do you want to cook this fish? Harris asked.

  What?

  Claire heard: How do you want to cook this fish?

  Breaded, she said.

  Fine, Harris said.

  What?

  Fine!

  We have not slept together for three hundred nights,
she thought. We have not slept together for three hundred nights.

  His rough, tender hands not wrapped around me.

  Lawnmower. His rough, tender hands wrapped around the handles of the lawnmower. Not around me.

  What?

  Where did you hide the bread crumbs?

  What?

  The bread crumbs!

  Behind the Cheerios!

  Claire telephoned her mother. Her mother’s counsel was broccoli, mostly, but who else was she going to talk to?

  What?

  You have to be optimistic. Be be be. Optimistic.

  What?

  Optimistic, her mother said, they go through phases. As they get older. They have less tolerance for monotony.

  I’m monotony?

  They go through phases. As they grow older. They like to think that their futures are ahead of them. This is ludicrous, of course—

  Oh oh oh oh.

  Ludicrous, of course, but I have never yet met one who didn’t think that way until he got played out then they sink into a comfortable lassitude take to wearing those horrible old-geezer hats …

  What?

  Hats with the green plastic bills, golf hats or whatever they are—

  Harris, Claire said to her husband, you’ve stopped watering the plants.

  What?

  You’ve stopped watering the plants my mother always said that when they stopped watering the plants that was a sure sign of an impending marital breakup.

  Your mother reads too much.

  What?

  Sarah decided that she and Harris should not sleep together any longer.

  Harris said, What about hugging?

  What?

  Hugging.

  Sarah said that she would have a ruling on hugging in a few days and that he should stand by for further information. She pulled the black lace mantilla down to veil her face as they left the empty church.

  I have done the right thing the right thing. I am right.

  Claire came in wearing her brown coat and carrying a large brown paper bag. Look what I got! she said excitedly.

  What? Harris said.

  She reached into the bag and pulled out a smeary plastic tray with six frozen shell steaks on it. The steaks looked like they had died in the nineteenth century.

  Six dollars! Claire said. This guy came into the laundromat and said he was making deliveries to restaurants and some of the restaurants already had all the steaks they needed and now he had these left over and they were only six dollars. Six dollars.

  You spent six dollars on these?

  Other people bought some too.

  Diseased, stolen steaks?

  He was wearing a white coat, Claire said. He had a truck.

  I’ll bet he had a truck.

  Harris went to see Madam Olympia, a reader and advisor. Her office was one room in a bad part of the city. Chicken wings burned in a frying pan on the stove. She got up and turned them off, then got up and turned them on again. She was wearing a t-shirt that had “Buffalo, City of No Illusions” printed on it.

  Tell me about yourself, she said.

  My life is hell, Harris said. He sketched the circumstances.

  I am bored to tears with this sort of thing, Madam Olympia said. To tears to tears.

  Well, Harris said, me too.

  Woman wakes up in the middle of the night, Madam Olympia said, she goes, what you thinkin’ about? You go, the float. She goes, is the float makin’ us money or not makin’ us money? You go, it depends on what happens Wednesday. She goes, that’s nice. You go, what do you mean, you don’t understand dick about the float, woman. She goes, well you don’t have to be nasty. You go, I’m not being nasty, you just don’t understand. She goes, so why don’t you tell me? Behind this, other agendas on both sides.

  The float is a secret, Harris said. Many men don’t even know about the float.

  To tears to tears to tears.

  Right, Harris said. How much do I owe you?

  Fifty dollars.

  The community whispered: Are they still living? How many times a week? What is that symbol on your breast? Did they consent to sign it? Did they refuse to sign it? In the rain? Before the fire? Has there been weight loss? How many pounds? What is their favorite color? Have they been audited? Was there a his side of the bed and a her side of the bed? Did she make it herself? Can we have a taste? Have they stolen money? Have they stolen stamps? Can he ride a horse? Can he ride a steer? What is his best time in the calf scramble? Is there money? Was there money? What happened to the money? What will happen to the money? Did success come early or late? Did success come? A red wig? At the Junior League? A red dress with a red wig? Was she ever a Fauve? Is that a theoretical position or a real position? Would they do it again? Again and again? How many times? A thousand times?

  Claire met Sweet Papa Cream Puff, a new person. He was the house pianist at Bells, a club frequented by disconsolate women in the early afternoons.

  He was a huge man and said that he was a living legend.

  What?

  Living legend, he said.

  I didn’t name the “Sweet Papa Cream Puff Blues” by that name, he said. It was named by the people of Chicago.

  Oh my oh my oh my, Claire said.

  This musta been ‘bout nineteen twenty-one, twenty-two, he said.

  Those was wonderful days.

  There was one other man, at that time, who had part of my fame.

  Fellow named Red Top, he’s dead now.

  He was very good, scared me a little bit.

  I studied him.

  I had two or three situations on the problem.

  I worked very hard and bested him in nineteen twenty-three. June of that year.

  Wow, Claire said.

  Zum, Sweet Papa Cream Puff sang, zum zum zum zum zum. Six perfect bass notes in the side pocket.

  Sarah calls Harris from the clinic in Detroit and floors him with the news of her “miscarriage.” Saddened by the loss of the baby, he’s nevertheless elated to be free of his “obligation.” But when Harris rushes to declare his love for Claire, he’s crushed to learn that she is married to Sarah. Hoping against hope that Harris will stay with her, Sarah returns. Harris is hung over from drinking too much the night before when Sarah demands to know if he wants her. Unable to decide at first, he yields to Sarah’s feigned helplessness and tells her to stay. Later, they share a pleasant dinner at the Riverboat, where Claire is a waiter. Harris is impressed to learn that Sarah refused to join in his mother’s plan to dissuade him from becoming a policeman. Claire is embracing Harris before his departure when Sarah enters the office. When Harris is caught shoplifting, Claire’s kid sister, terrified at having to face a court appearance, signs for his release. Missing Sarah terribly, Harris calls her from New Orleans; when she tells him about becoming chairwoman of Claire’s new bank, he hangs up angrily. Although they’ve separated, his feelings for Claire haven’t died entirely, and her growing involvement with his new partner, Sarah, is a bitter pill for him to swallow, as he sits alone drinking too much brandy in Sarah’s study. Sarah blazes with anger when she finds Claire in the hotel’s banquet office making arrangements for Harris’s testimonial dinner, as Sarah, her right leg in a cast, walks up the steps of the brownstone and punches Claire’s bell, rage clearly burning in her eyes.

  Sarah visited Dr. Whorf, a good psychiatrist.

  Cold as death, she said.

  What?

  Cold as death.

  Good behavior is frequently painful, Dr. Whorf said. Shit you know that.

  Sarah was surprised to find that what she had told Dr. Whorf was absolutely true. She was fully miserable.

  Harris drunk again and yelling at Claire said that he was not drunk.

  I feel worse than you feel, she said.

  What?

  Worse, she said, woooooooorrrssse.

  You know what I saw this morning? he asked. Eight o’clock in the morning. I was out walking.

  Guy comes out of
this house, wearing a suit, carrying an attaché case.

  He’s going to work, right?

  He gets about ten steps down the sidewalk and this woman comes out. Out of the same house.

  She says, “James?”

  He turns around and walks back toward her.

  She’s wearing a robe. Pink and orange.

  She says, “James, I… hate… you.”

  Maybe it’s everywhere, Claire said. A pandemic.

  I don’t think that, Harris said.

  This is the filthiest phone booth I’ve ever been in, Harris said to Sarah.

  What?

  The filthiest phone booth I have ever been in.

  Hang up darling hang up and find another phone booth thank you for the jewels the pearls and the emeralds and the onyx but I haven’t changed my mind they’re quite quite beautiful just amazing but I haven’t changed my mind you’re so kind but I have done the right thing painful as it was and I haven’t changed my mind—

  He remembered her standing over the toothpaste with her face two inches from the toothpaste because she couldn’t see it without her contacts in.

  Freud said, Claire said, that in the adult, novelty always constitutes the condition for orgasm.

  Sweet Papa looked away.

  Oh me oh my.

  Well you know the gents they don’t know what they after they own selves, very often.

  When do they find out?

  At the eleventh hour let me play you a little thing I wrote in the early part of the century I call it “Verklärte Nacht” that means “stormy weather” in German, I played there in Berlin oh about—

  Claire placed her arms around Sweet Papa Cream Puff and hugged the stuffing out of him.

  What?

  What?

  What?

  What?

  By a lucky stroke Harris made an amount of money in the market. He bought Claire a beautiful black opal. She was pleased.

  He looked to the future.