The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children

by Connell, Brendan

  Denny took a long drag of his French cigarette, and, exhaling, said, “But you see, you are not a general case, you’re peculiar. . . . Don’t look so faux-shocked. Rumours have been spreading themselves through the social circuit that you’re going a bit . . . well, whack-o to put it bluntly. . . . People are saying that you’re turning into a sort of Howard Hughes. . . . And by the way, you needn’t fib to me about Pellington. I know very well that you let him go. He came to my door with the whole story. . . . Told me about all kinds of monstrous things you wanted him to serve you. . . . Plain rice and unseasoned vegetables. . . . Really! . . . Naturally I hired him on the spot. Of course, when you come around, you can have him back. Only a truly mad man would let a fellow like Pellington go. . . . In other words, if it was not for this gross proof I might not have believed the rumours.”

  The silence lasted several minutes. Denny extinguished the butt of his French cigarette and lit another. Allen circled the room slowly in his slippers, hands tucked in the pockets of his night robe.

  “Denny,” he said, stopping abruptly and looking fervently at the other man. “Denny, have you ever considered that there might be something more important in life than choosing whether to wear the apricot tie with the beige sports jacket or the mauve?”

  “Well,” Denny replied, “I have always considered the fruit shades to be out of the question in neckwear. As for mauve, I do believe I owned a tie of that colour some time ago—I think it got misplaced. . . . Why, have you seen it?”

  “The point was not about the ties exactly. You see, I’m fed up . . . with life. . . . Ambitions come to nothing. My money will not buy me happiness you know.”

  “A startling revelation. I hope you haven’t been sticking your nose in Thomas Merton again. Trust me, you would make a ludicrous desert father. . . . Even without the apricot tie.”

  “Joking aside Denny, I am a desperate man,” his face assuming the role.

  After a pause in which Denny thoughtfully rolled a third, yet unlit, cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, he said, “Tell me Allen. If I had a sure-fire cure for your malaise, would you take it, no questions asked? Would you let me be your physician, your nurse, even though admittedly I am not tailored for the part? Would you be willing to take some strong medicine administered by my hand?”

  “If it would alleviate this depression I would take a bullet administered by that hand.”

  “I hadn’t anything so gauche in mind,” said Denny with a melancholy smile. “What you need to do is to get yourself out of that robe, and into a decent summer suit. Then we can apply the antidote. . . . And please, don’t forget to shave. Your cheeks look like a coal miner’s.”

  Allen appeared thirty minutes later dressed in a double-breasted silk suit of extreme burgundy, with lemon pin-stripes. A pomegranate cravat was wrapped boldly around his neck.

  Denny led him by the elbow, as one would a sick patient, out of the house, down the numerous front steps, and into the passenger seat of his car.

  “Where are you taking me?” Allen asked in a quavering voice. “I hope it’s not some kind of home for the uncontrollably eccentric. You know how much I hate to be around sick people.”

  “We are going to my house,” said Denny.

  And they drove, under the soft afternoon sun of late summer; into the city; to Denny’s brownstone.

  . . . Pellington had been at work all that day, under previous instruction from his new employer. Allen was reluctant at first to even sit at the dining table, but after a rather potent sour sop daiquiri, which Denny pushed on him with a grave and doctoral mien, he acquiesced.

  The meal was simple, elegant and unparalleled. Red salmon roe and plantain fritters, a baby corn and conch salad, and, for the main dish, a lovely peacock Rouennaise.

  It was eaten in silence, Denny glancing stealthily at the other man. He was glad to see that nourishment was being taken, but uncertain of the ultimate results. Since all things are possible, it was possible that Allen could, even after dining sumptuously, return to his ascetic ways. Were he to do so, Denny pondered, a slice of fritter at the tip of his fork, then all hope would be lost. The flavour of the peacock was too extraordinary to leave his mind in any doubt on that score.

  Three quarters of an hour later Allen arose from the meal, a freshly brought cappuccino spiked with Dumante in one hand. Sipping the foam from the rim of the cup, he strode over to the window. The city street below was quiet. The house was in an excellent neighbourhood. A middle-aged man in tight slacks walked by. From across the way came the faint sound of music; the jazz of Dave Brubeck. . . . Allen could see his reflection in the pane of glass before him; far from perfectly, but well enough. The feature appearing prominent was his untrimmed moustache. He could see it arching below his nose, crescentic, serrated and strangely exaggerated in the mirror of glass.

  He wiped the bits of foam that clung to it away with his bottom lip and then, turning to Denny, said, “It is time to give this slip of hair stuck to my muzzle a trim; don’t you think?”

  “It might not hurt,” Denny replied blandly. “A quick run over with the scissors would not be entirely uncalled for.”

  “Yes,” said Allen, a speck of scintillation appearing in each eye, “I might even consider shaving the whole shag off. I am about due for a makeover.”

  Brother of the

  Holy Ghost

  “No! Impossible,” he said, clawing at his cheeks (lean, gouged, as from hunger, suffering) and then rubbing his eyes.

  “It is true though. You have been elected by a unanimous vote of the conclave.”

  “Ludicrous!”

  “Do you accept your canonical election as supreme pontiff?”

  He threw his head to the dust.

  [An lxxx year old man kneading his face in the dirt (having fretted himself emaciate for xl years so the devil would not catch him idle—tempting pleading the titter, not merely grilled with hot condiments, but the actual Father of Falsehoods); twisting like a worm, crying like a donkey; an lxxx year old man kneading his face in the dirt, displaying himself grossly, as is all too often the case with the class we call: Saintly Anchorites.]

  This man, very thin, gnarled of face, was named Pietro di Murrone. He ate, once a week, on Sundays, a meal of dried bread and water. He never drank wine or ate meat. Ora et Labora. His cell, his chamber, was slightly larger than a coffin; (a living tomb). He wore a suit of knotted hair-cloth bound around the waist with a chain. About his loins, he wore a leather girdle. He shaved once per year, on the anniversary of the Resurrection of Christ Jesus. He had many followers, imitators who were often fanatical, even more so than himself.

  July, 1294:

  He threw his head to the dust and wept prayers to the being whom he regarded as having power over nature, as well as control over human affairs. The three dignitaries stood by, impatiently, along with a great number of monks and peasants from the surrounding hills.

  The question was repeated:

  “Do you accept your canonical election as supreme pontiff?”

  The old man, Pietro di Murrone, lifted up his head, blinked and looked around him. His eyes were glassy, his lips pressed tight together.

  There was a moment of silence

  and all options open;

  neglected.

  He opened his mouth and, showing two incomplete rows of black teeth, said, “Yes,” believing I have lain down and overcome the temptation naked. fire hungry I have foregone sumptuous the feast hot. meat Bishop of Rome & Archbishop of Roman Province & Successor of St. Peter & Chief Pastor the Entire Church & Patriarch of Western Church & Vicar of Christ Upon Earth a tree & am little pine tree.

  The dignitaries smiled condescendingly, slyly. The people cheered. Pietro stood, almost stupid.

  In August, he received the crown: King Charles and his effeminate son Martel, the King of Hungary, led the old man into L’Aquila on a donkey. The women of the city stood by, in their coarse, tight-fitting dresses and squirrel-lined hoods, swea
ting and letting out a stench. The men, though gazing with less rapture, did look on respectfully, hopefully. (King Charles had imposed a tax, a penalty on the citizens of L’Aquila of two-thousand ounces of gold; the boni hommeni, the gentlemen of the town, had asked Pietro to see what arrangements he could make in their favour.) Though they were hard and accustomed to much misery, they had a certain jaunty bearing. For the most part, the people were without manners or education. Pietro, prior to his coronation, convinced the king to have this tax, this penalty of two-thousand ounces of gold, annulled. His wish was granted. Pietro was made pope.

  It would be

  difficult indeed;—wrenched from a tattered womb

  in a single lifetime (a solitary hazy green instant)

  to compose blunders so many

  as Pietro carried out

  in those v short months;—dull sorrow and pressed on

  course.

  creating, on that xviii day of September, xii fresh cardinals, vii of whom dined regularly on the legs of frogs;—setting the stage for the schism; Avignon. Then: angering swishing cardinals;—reinstating the laws of Gregory X;—suspending the suspensions of Adrian V;—giving privileges ubiquitously;—bestowing the same privileges twice; thrice; iiii times, to completely contrary parties. —While the entire world of Catholic officials shuddered at his gross mis-management of affairs, the old man had a small hermit’s cell (slightly larger than a coffin; a living tomb), built in the Castel Nuovo.

  “Oh, the peace of a cell,” he smiled simply, believing subdue fearful drops keep it cool I am fig a latter-day fig a conclusive desert bloom and the successor of St. Peter Patriarch of the Western Church I am a little pine tree.

  One thing was certain: He was an easy fellow to manipulate, and Cardinal Gaetani (the future Bonifice VIII) convinced him to resign ad perpetuam rei memoriam.

  King Charles prepared an opposition. A huge procession of clerics and monks surrounded the castle. They cried tears by the spoonful, prayed, and besought the pope not to let the triple crown tumble, not to abdicate. The Te Deum was chanted, with appropriate gusto. But, though he wavered, Pietro was decided[ly uncertain; thoroughly twistable].

  Primo: He removed the papal ornaments and clothes.

  Secondo: He put on his old suit of knotted goat hair, wrapping the chain around his waist.

  “Ah, finally,” he murmured happily as he nestled into the garment. “That silk was much too soft and clean.”

  Nine days later Benedetto Gaetani was proclaimed Pope as Boniface VIII. He cancelled all his predecessor’s official acts and took him to Rome. Pietro escaped. He longed for his hermit’s cell and made his way back to the Abruzzi.

  He had often dreamed stop

  [That abstemiousness, from relative youth to the state of old age, undoubtedly was the cause of some nervous disorder, due to no healthy outlet for fully enacting those higher erotic ends—the real world;—though what filth he laid up in heaven, an angelic auto-erotic dreamland, a firmament of introversion, can only be guessed. For immature childish sexuality (a supremely enticing BVM) often persists into an adult stage of development and results in anxiety-neurosis presenting a picture of sexual excitation transposed into a non-sexual shape of a supremely mischievous nature: the doubting St. Thomas sticking his hand into the wound crucifixion. spires. baptismal fluid hands pressed in prayer.]

  He had often dreamed, in previous times, of a tunnel leading stop

  naked. meat & rarest of saints

  in early life a

  stage of bursting

  organic expansion

  all the natural impulses

  had full play, temptation not leaking out the slightest (those pearly and fearful drops, wicked emission of the human body) well over L years continence must be beneficial I would think, harmlessly keeping it cool what have I improve my own breed—and me (a spineless old fellow certainly) making the great refusal Vicar of Christ upon earth I was was am fig now am flower in desert withering those withering

  sexual glands

  (retained)

  excretions [of primary reproductive importance]

  [internal] secretions,—glandular

  [organism] brain. throat. abdomen

  haircloth. chain [thyroid and adrenals]

  stimulate. inhibit. rocks. knots

  fermentative secretions

  no temptation is so potent then, so ever devilishly doing that solitary sexual indulgence

  but.

  cowardice, which he did often wonder about, while, scampering through woods and over mountains, dexterously avoiding Bonifice’s henchmen. He slept in bushes and caves and prowled up to cottages to ask for bread, though he lived for the most part off bruised herbs. While walking through the countryside, he spotted a dove alight on the branch of a somewhat distant tree. He sighed; a sound (indicative of longing) that could be heard. The dove fell to the earth. He approached, but found a boy there first, ripping out the breasts of the bird to roast upon a fire. The boy offered to share his meal. The old man ranted and then lit off into the forest. He determined to go to Greece, so he made his way to the coast, just above Venice. He stole into a fishing boat, and pushed himself out to sea, the Adriatic. A storm blew him back; he was arrested at the base of Mt. Gargano and imprisoned near Anagni, in a cell stop.

  Pietro, Pietro stop. he had often dreamed stop. a tunnel leading to the nunnery stop. arrested at the base of Mt. Gargano and imprisoned near Anagni, in the tower of the Fumone Castle stop.

  fire

  stop. in a cell. stop. he told himself stop.

  “Pietro, Pietro,” he told himself. “So, you wanted a cell, Pietro; and a cell you have.” In the Fumone Castle stop. in the Fumone Castle. had often dreamed, in previous times, of a tunnel leading to the nunnery. He had often dreamed of a tunnel leading from his cell to a nunnery. The stocks would be blended and the produce disposed of in the garden. (Removing some stones, the tunnel led down and under; out of his cell; and he went through it—the walls were damp and sordid; a sweating unhealthy tunnel.

  He went through it to the bevy of them which he undressed; him mad for that he had so longed for:

  let the children be buried in the garden: let the children be buried in the garden

  taste the white f.t

  the white f.t fl.sh

  the wh.t. fl.sh .f n.ns

  mad and glorious without end be done the rutting done. as long as could rut. as long as could rut

  sweating deeper. He probed deeper into the tunnel, its walls sweating fire and tore their garb threw me upon f.t wh.t. n.ked n.ked. forms filled them time and again a mad skinny filled them time and again a mad skinny, rutting skinny filled them little beast

  buried in the garden: let the children be buried buried in the garden and their bodies be

  bit stop. the blue bottles bit, that naked being (slab of sensation), wounded his face to raw sores, pus and blood mixing with tears, which streamed, striped down, forming pools at his feet, attracting schools of repulsive, hungry worms; the punishment (striking vendetta) for those enemies, the cowards, who repulsed responsibility, a narrow breed of gross selfishness

  buried in the garden and their bodies be food for worms.)

  He fasted and prayed for nine months in this prison, and then died. He was the first pontiff to abdicate.

  He was buried in the church of St. Agatha, at Ferentino, but, several years later, his relics were purloined and brought to the city of L’Aquila. His bones currently lie in the Church of St. Maria di Collemaggio.

  Dante, in his Inferno, situated Pietro di Marone at the gates of hell.

  fire

  Maledict Michela

  I.

  A bloated flap of yellow fat hung beneath her jaw; nose: sharp as a cutlass; her eyes were like two shards of shattered sky; she had magnificent ankles. The music blew against her face. She felt the claws of the violins, as they scratched at her old cheeks and thighs, the former pale, powdered, the latter: enormous: like those of a thick-skinned,
perissodactyl mammal.

  It was on the Piazza Santo Spirito, in Florence, and the Chiesa di Santo Spirito, that final creation of Brunelleschi, rose up behind the scene, a simple geometric façade, of a yellowish-brown colour, like the hide of a sheep exposed to sun and open air.

  She, Michela Spadavecchia, gazed directly at the two-toned musicians on the stage. She did not look to her right or left, because she did not need to;—it was certain the people were melting away around her, as they always did, as if her person were some great mass of reeking filth. But she smelled penetratingly of patchouli (sweet as a blossom);—and her looks were not really so much more grotesque than others on the piazza (papier-mâché faces, landscape of fleshy physical structures): young men with untidy hair and endowed with the hips of women, themselves looking as sickly as the pigeons that perched on the fountain; a French female with the countenance of an Eskimo dog; lascivious Italian men, small as crickets; other women, with noses like potatoes, or nests of appalling false carrot-coloured hair resting atop tiny, deficient heads . . .

  The G string on one of the violas broke. The conductor clasped his baton,—clasping his baton, he took a step back, lost his footing and dropped his baton. Looks of embarrassment.

  She rose up and, with short, slow steps, clicking of two-inch stacked heels, walked over the grease-stained stones towards the statue of Cosimo Ridolfi, to the Via Sant’Agostino, and there turned left.

  II.

  When young, she had been beautiful; and had been the destruction of many men. Under her care their wells had run dry.

  At nineteen she looked like Bronzino’s portrait of Lucrezia Panciatichi: a long white neck, a sweet-proud chin and reddish-golden-brown hair. She had known a young man; ignorant, had treated him like a god while he smiled pigs at her, handed her bouquets; she giving to him her flower,—madly in love with him, constantly repeating words of endearment, sweet whispers and bubbling phrases. Then: even when not in his presence she began to repeat his name to herself silently, as if it were some sort of sacred formula. She was obsessed; while he regarded her quite casually;—yet her fire fed on his indifference as if it were fuel; she constantly visualised his face and, unreasonably, feared for his safety. . . . And this caused a strange reaction, even a variety of supernatural reaction formation. . . . As when a plum, left by itself, will dry into a sweet prune, but when a pile of plums are set together for a time, will rot and produce mould and awful smells. . . . In her mind’s eye she saw him: drop from ladders, drown in rivers, receive mortal knife wounds.