The Harijans reappeared dressed in crisp white linen, carrying buckets of chilled champagne, followed by another kind of drone wearing a tuxedo and a gussied-up Blind Lemon in a red suit and snap-brimmed hat. Wiggler addressed the Harijans in the mantis language—although Clearfather caught the name Walt Whitman. He noted that Wiggler used another type of language with the drone in the tuxedo, made up of nonsense words that reminded him of Kokomo. With Calamity Jane, he supplemented speech with a private sign language—and with Blind Lemon he seemed frequently to be communicating telepathically. All happened seamlessly, and Clearfather had the suspicion that Wiggler interacted continuously and invisibly with many other presences.
A few minutes later Calamity Jane returned hand in claw with Maggie. Wiggler stood and tinged a fork against an empty champagne flute. Simultaneously the bell in the church steeple chimed.
“Thank you all for bearing with us in the matter of Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein and Walt Whitman are ever our guides when it comes to the individual and the improvisational!”
So saying, a skunk the size of the locomotive emerged from behind the depot.
“Sheeit!” Maggie squirmed. “Talk about a stink bomb!”
The giant skunk sidled up to Wiggler, who gave it an affectionate fondle and directed it to lie down beside him, which it did (and began snorting up tartlets and clam puffs). Their host then produced a cane baton, exactly like the one Bean Blossom had threatened to use on Tourmaline’s rear end.
“Now, in honor of the occasion,” Wiggler announced, “the Canyoneers would like to perform for you. I do hope you’ll enjoy it!”
Wiggler sat down as the drone in the tux climbed the stage, extending its four articulated appendages, with the cane baton delicately pinched in a gripper. The drone tapped the cane on the podium—then through the street came a remarkable marching band. Some of the members were droids and drones of various designs—others were surgical and genetic improvisations like centaurs. The bass drum player was a silverback gorilla—but the largest visually cohesive unit was composed of a group of stocky, heavy-limbed people with large foreheads and serious expressions, all of whom looked out of place in their white collegiate uniforms with the wheelbarrow-of-fire insignia emblazoned on the chests.
“Who are those—people?” whispered the Marshal. The music was raucous.
“For-git the people . . . what about them other . . . things!” Maggie replied.
“They’re Neanderthals!” Wiggler answered over the din. “This song is called ‘Tusk’—originally done by Fleetwood Mac with the USC Trojans Marching Band!”
Once assembled on stage, the ensemble battled their way through “Greensleeves,” featuring an intent but tortuous euphonium solo by a technically proficient but not very inspired grizzly bear and a genuinely lyrical bassoon contribution by a drone with a chem-cultured face. This was followed by a discordant, robotically smooth/mammalian high-energy version of the theme to the movie Rocky. Then the grim-browed Neanderthals powered the band home with a primal rendition of “Seventy-Six Trombones” (which had a visible geological effect on the Canyon walls).
“Bravo!” Wiggler crowed. “Bravo! Yes! Oh, bravo!”
The three pilgrim fugitives sat openmouthed, not knowing what to think, let alone say. At last Clearfather managed a clap. It was more a pat than true applause but it echoed in the stillness through the caves and across the pools—and the looks on the faces of the band were touching. The Neanderthals beamed. Electrostatic auras bloomed around the drones. The satyrs primped—primates raised their instruments—even the pedantic bear on the euphonium—all glowed with pride. Then the church bell rang again and from the far end of town there appeared an elegant black carriage with the wheelbarrow-of-fire emblem on the side. It was pulled by a single white horse and driven by a Harijan in a black suit with a white boutonnière.
Wiggler got up from the table and took the stage, seating himself at the grand piano. The carriage stopped. The Harijan driver hopped down and opened the door, and from the vehicle there stepped a huge-chested male baboon with rainbow colorations in his face. He was dressed in a sumptuous black suit of Italian-tailored silk, with a white ruffled shirt and a blazing red carnation that matched the color of the wheelbarrow fire, and he carried a cello and a bow. The band all pulled back their seats so that the baboon’s chair became the center of attention on stage. No one made a sound—not even the Neanderthals. Wiggler nodded to the baboon, who sat down gravely and checked that the cello was in tune.
“Yo-Yo and I are going to perform the “Allegro, ma non tanto” from Beethoven’s Sonata in A Major, opus sixty-nine,” Wiggler announced.
An exquisite, muscular music commenced. All of the faces—whether gel-mold, veranium, or furry—went under a spell. Even the Marshal was moved.
When the piece was finished, all three of the visitors applauded. Wiggler rose and bowed to Yo-Yo. Then he held up his hands for quiet.
“Thank you! Thank you. What a pleasure to play with such a magnificent artist as Yo-Yo! But with respect to my talented colleague—and to my own humble abilities—there are many who are capable of Beethoven. There are few who can really play the blues. And no one is its master. Except our own Blind Lemon. Come on up, Mr. Jones, and do it to us!”
The old black biomechanoid rose, his Foster Grant wraparounds shining. With a stooped, hemorrhoidal shuffle, he was helped to the stage by the Neanderthal who played the triangle and the piccolo-playing drone (who looked like an enlarged version of its instrument). The old man first picked up the cheap wooden guitar he’d been carrying earlier and played Robert Johnson’s “Me and the Devil Blues”—singing in a moaning growl that struck Clearfather as what Walt Whitman would’ve sounded like if he had a voice. Then, with the help of a Neanderthal woman, he exchanged the acoustic for a Stratocaster that didn’t appear to be plugged into anything but was nevertheless amplified—and a steel slide—and Wiggler joined him in a blues that oscillated between the clean, note-by-note picking of T-Bone Walker and the gritty South Chicago slidework of Muddy Waters.
Seen my shadow in the river,
My reflection in the rain,
Climbed the mountain in the darkness,
Survived the fire’s pain.
I went up in the whirlwind
And it was there that I did learn,
The hidden may be seeking
And the missing may return.
The hairs on the Marshal’s neck were agitated, like filings around a magnet. Maggie’s watery blue eyes dilated. Wiggler drummed the ivories as Blind Lemon worked the slide. At last the music seemed to move on like a windstorm of leaves. A polymer drone with a crystalline face led the old man down off the stage. Wiggler followed, shining with perspiration.
The Harijan waiters began utilizing their auxiliary limbs in the pouring and passing of the flutes of champagne to all assembled, including Walt Whitman, who—like Mr. Meese—was provided with a long straw.
“Fellow Canyonians!” cried Wiggler when everyone had a glass. “A toast! To the return of my son Elroy! And to his two brave friends! May they always be with us!”
“Hear! Hear!” the Neanderthals bellowed, swilling and foaming.
But Clearfather didn’t hear them for he’d fainted—his face falling into the lemon curd.
CHAPTER 9
Drunk as a Skunk
“Shit!” cried the Marshal. “Are you really his—? He’s your—”
“Hee soo doan look good,” Maggie said.
“Damn it!” Wiggler groaned. “He’s in free fall! Come on, we’ll take him up to the hotel. I don’t want to bring him to the lab if I can help it. Can you hear me?” he called to Clearfather, wiping the lemon curd from his face.
“The more fish a flamingo eats, the pinker it gets,” Clearfather struggled to say. He saw Kokomo’s face . . . and the three Chinese men . . . then the whirlwind took him away.
“What did you hear, Marshal?” Wiggler asked, sliding his arms under Clearfather’s sho
ulders.
“Yama, King of the Dead—something about the mirror he uses to read your life.”
“I dint hear that.”
“Tutti Frutti!” Wiggler called to the congregation on stage. “Aw rootie.”
Instantly the festive mood died and the assembled multitude began exiting the stage in single file with Walt Whitman waddling along in the rear. Blind Lemon sat tight at the table while the two Harijans took charge of Calamity Jane.
“You’re his . . . father?” the Marshal said, still gasping. “He thought he had family here. You shouldn’t have just blurted it out like that. Your timing—”
“Who are you to tell me how to welcome my son? I was excited, all right? I was just going to have a toast and then I got carried away. You don’t realize how important he is!”
“You were showing off! That’s what it was!” the Marshal chided as they staggered across the street, supporting Clearfather between them, Maggie following.
“At least I’m not hiding from my son on an island!”
“You’re hiding from everyone in a canyon! With a whole zoo of weird pets!”
“I’m not hiding—and they’re not pets. They’re family! I care for them all!”
“Well, look what your caring’s done,” the Marshal grumped as they hauled Clearfather up the stairs of the Red Cloud Hotel, which was now plush with Oriental carpets, brass fixtures, and polished oak.
“This place smelled like batshit and all the windows were broken. How did you clean it up so fast?”
“It’s complicated,” Wiggler answered.
“I love to go swimmen with bowlegged wimmen . . . ,” Clearfather lolled.
“What did you hear then?” Wiggler asked.
“A Latin thing . . . Kwem colorem habit . . .”
“Quem colorem habet sapientia. That’s Saint Augustine.”
“Whot’s wrong with ’im?” Maggie asked, squeezing past to open the door that Wiggler pointed to.
“He’s had a system crash.”
“Sheet. That happins to me all tha time.”
“I don’t think that’s what Mr. Big means,” the Marshal said. “What’s really going on, Wiggler? I don’t want you hurting our friend. He’s been through enough.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Marshal.” Wiggler sighed as they laid Clearfather into a feather bed in the Lodema Room. “And I know too well what he’s been through. He’s my greatest creation.”
“Creation? You mean . . . he’s an . . . experiment?”
“As are we all, Marshal, as are we all.”
“He’s a creetchur—or a machine?”
“A Creature-Machine is an apt description for many organisms—but what you mean by a creature and a machine and what I mean by them—”
“Oh, get off it!” snapped the Marshal. “We know you’re real smart. We got that. But you called him your son. Children aren’t science projects. What’s the story?”
“Krishna says, ‘Strong men know not despair, Arjuna, for this wins neither heaven nor earth,’” Wiggler shouted, pummeling Clearfather. “Pull yourself together!”
The Marshal whipped out the Heckler & Koch and pointed it at their host. “Leave him alone. You’ve done enough damage.”
“Unless I miss my guest, Marshal, you could no more harm me than I could harm him,” Wiggler said coolly.
“You have harmed him.”
“Then shoot. Or is that just a metaphorical gun?”
“Lissen up!” Maggie yelled. “Yoo two wanna have a pissin’ contest, yoo doo it right. Meenwile, hee’s sick big time, an’ all yer ceegars an’ guns ain’t helpin’!”
“Well said, Ms. Kane.” Wiggler grimaced. “He needs Blind Lemon.”
“That old black man? Who’s not a man?”
“Never underestimate the power of the blues, Marshal.”
“But . . . didn’t you make him . . . too?”
“I initiated him. But he is his own creation.”
“How can that be if you invented him?”
“We have all been ‘invented.’ But what he knows can’t be taught.”
“Hee’s coming nowa!” Maggie called, looking out the window. “That big skunk’s leadin’ ’im! Yoo ain’t gonna let that stink bomb in heer?”
“Walt has the run of the Canyon. Wittgenstein’s another matter. Would you please go help Lemon up the stairs, Ms. Kane?”
Maggie surprisingly did as she was asked without comment—although by the time she returned, leading Blind Lemon, who had his acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, she was fired up.
“This ol’ thing gooosed mee! Grabbed mee right up my crack!”
“Anna fine crack, too!” Blind Lemon cackled. “Heee-heee.”
“Yoo bline ol’ wrinkly robot!”
“Booty in the hand of the beholder, lil girl. Heee-heee.”
“Come,” said Wiggler. “We’ll leave Lemon to his work.”
Their bald host led them out the door and down the stairs. The French glass doors were open to accommodate Walt Whitman, who took up most of the lobby, his bushy tail flowing into the parlor—which the Marshal noticed had deteriorated since their arrival. The paint was worn and cracked in places, and the floral wallpaper had started to peel. Upstairs, they could hear Lemon’s guitar, harsh and gentle—his voice simultaneously tired and young. The Marshal looked more befuddled than before.
“Blind Lemon’s just going to sing to him?”
“Yes. But there’s no ‘just’ about that.”
“With all your technology and medicines—and God knows what else?”
“There are more things in heaven and earth than can be accounted for by your idea of science, Marshal.”
They returned to the long table in the now desolate main street, Walt Whitman shuffling after them. Yo-Yo’s red carnation lay trampled on the stage. Shards of CJ’s tea set glinted in the dust and the WELCOME HOME banner fluttered sadly in the breeze. The dimetrodon, having consumed all the cocktail frankfurters, decided to eat the stegosaurus and was gnawing on its leg when Walt Whitman ate them both. Wiggler collapsed dejectedly in a chair, lit up a metaphorical cigar, and wrenched a bottle of champagne out of an ice bucket. Maggie accepted one, too.
“Soa whass yer boy El-roy sup-posed to bee?”
“A paraclete.” Wiggler sighed, blowing smoke rings of little winged creatures.
“Sheet. Noa wondur hee’s fucked up! Yoo got big skunks and lil sloths—whatchyoo want with a big parakeet.”
“A paraclete! A spiritual guide. A holy spirit.”
“You’re not serious!” the Marshal choked. “You mean . . . like an angel?”
“More powerful.”
“Damn!” said Maggie. “Yoo try to make some Jesus? Hee died on the cross!”
“A cross is just a plus sign that’s been stretched,” Wiggler replied. “The Upanishads say, ‘Who knows God becomes God.’”
“But that doesn’t mean you can make a God,” the Marshal lamented. “You’d have to be God . . . or at least a god.”
Wiggler blew a large smoke ring halo that to the Marshal’s frustration drifted over his head and remained for several minutes, rotating like a hula hoop.
“Even John von Neumann long ago recognized that it’s possible for a machine to make another machine more elaborate than itself once it breaks through the complexity barrier. This is the story of life . . . the emergence of Something from Nothing.”
“Whatchyoo got in them cee-gars?” Maggie smirked.
“The problem,” said Wiggler, refusing to be baited, “is that you think of making as in manufacturing. I think of it as creating dynamic relationships—partnerships. If you set out to make something greater than yourself, you become greater, even if you fail for lack of skill. If you set out to make something less than yourself—because of a lack of courage or vision—you diminish.”
“So, what is Clearfather . . . or Elroy? A robot? Don’t you think he’s got a right to know?”
“He’s a psychepoid . . .
a rekindled soul . . . in a body that’s almost fully organic.” Wiggler sighed. “But sustaining, regenerative. I’ll tell you more when he recovers. It’s not right for you to be told first.”
“How could you name a messianic figure Elroy?”
“I was going to name him Ganesh, the much-loved elephant-headed Hindu god—the son whom Shiva murdered in a rage of temper and could only bring back to life by giving him the head of the first thing he saw.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“You probably don’t remember that old Hanna-Barbera cartoon The Jetsons . . . but George Jetson’s son was named Elroy. ‘His boy Elroy.’ You probably would’ve chosen something biblical—like Elohim.”
“Something that isn’t silly anyway,” the Marshal retorted.
“E-lie-ja . . . El-o-heem . . . El-roy—whass the diff? Hee bit his own dick off an’ now hee’s sick. Whatever yoo had in mind—it ain’t good enuff.”
“You speak the truth, Ms. Kane. The raw, guttural, unmistakable Truth.”
“Yoo can’t jest say somethin’ nice—or simple—can yoo?”
Wiggler reached for another bottle of champagne and popped the cork. Except for becoming more disconsolate, he showed no visible effects of the three bottles of champagne he ended up consuming, although the Marshal noticed that the architecture of the town underwent many subtle and not-so-subtle transformations, including the appearance of a couple of new buildings and the disappearance or collapse of others. Wiggler paid no mind to these changes and offered no explanation. Walt Whitman, who’d been sucking on his own bottle through a straw, curled up beside his master and started snoring, occasionally twitching as if in a dream. Eventually the drone conductor reappeared, having exchanged his tuxedo for a white robe with the wheelbarrow-of-fire logo.
“Doo lang doo lang doo lang,” Wiggler said—and the device made its way to the hotel, returning with an exhausted-looking Blind Lemon shuffling along behind.
“Well done,” Wiggler said gratefully—then to the drone—“Shoo bop shoo bop.”
Zanesville: A Novel Page 36