“I visited her last night and she bawled the hell out of me,” Haig said.
“What for?”
“She claims if I had loved my mother she wouldn’t be dead. She can’t get over that.”
“Hell no. You go see her. Let her bawl you out. It’s all right.”
“I sit on the front porch with her half an hour almost every night. If I miss a night she nearly kills me the next time I show up. What’s going on with you? What’s all the stuff in the paper about the Army and all that?”
“I’m going in,” Rock said.
“They’ll never take you,” Haig said.
“They’ve taken me.”
“You mean you passed your physical?”
“Sure. I’m in great shape.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, that’s why I’m coming to Fresno, then to San Francisco, to see my mother before I go.”
“You mean you’re in?”
“Sure.”
“Wait a minute,” the boy said. “Hey, Pop!” he hollered. “Rock’s in the Army, too.” Rock heard the boy laugh.
“Couldn’t you get out of it, Rock?” he said.
“No. Didn’t feel like it, anyway.”
“Listen, Rock,” Haig said. “I’ve got this damned Indian. It’s the fastest motorcycle in the world. You get some sleep somewhere and telephone here again in a couple of hours. I’ll pay somebody five bucks to go on duty in my place and I’ll come where you are and drive for you the rest of the way.”
“Don’t want to sleep,” Rock said. “Go over to your grandmother’s on Winery Street and tell her I’ll be home pretty soon to spend the night.”
“O.K.,” Haig said. “Listen, Rock. I’ll ride to Bakersfield and meet you halfway. Leave your car at the Standard Station next door to the El Tejon Hotel and go in there for a steak or a drink in case I’m not there, but I’ll be there.”
“You want to do that?” Rock said.
“Sure,” Haig said. “I haven’t seen you years. Drive carefully. Stay awake. I’ll see you in Bakersfield.”
“O.K.”
“I want to ask you a lot of questions,” Haig said. “Is that Marcy Miller as hot as she looks on the screen?”
“She’s O.K.”
“Did you tear any of that away from her?”
“Shut up.”
“See you in Bakersfield, Rock.”
“O.K.”
Every man needs his family, his own brothers and sisters in this family, the variations of himself, out of the same breathing and blood, in others, a father’s sister’s daughter, a mother’s brother’s son. Every man waits for the arrival of the variation of himself out of his own poor stuff, on foot, on horseback, on motorcycle.
Standing in front of the El Tejon Hotel in Bakersfield where he’d had a shower, a steak, and a drink, and therefore felt new and well, Rock saw the boy ride up on the roaring wheel and stop.
“How do you like it?” Haig said.
“Come on in and have a drink,” Rock said.
“Been waiting long?” the boy said.
“I got in about an hour and a half ago,” Rock said. “Needed a shower and a steak anyway.”
“I barely got away,” Haig said. “I told the old lady. She’s fixed your bed. It’s nine now. We’ll be there around eleven-thirty. She’s staying up.”
They went to the bar and had two each.
“You don’t look as tired as you sounded,” Haig said.
“The shower and the meat,” Rock said. “I’m tired, though. Who’s died?”
“Nobody in the family,” Haig said. “Bart Holigian got killed in a highway accident. You knew him, I think. About your age. Showing off. Had a white girl in his car, both of them drunk. She was killed, too. Her parents are suing his father. Bart was one of the boys around Fat Aram’s when you were there, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. What happened?”
“Head on with a truck in the middle lane. No damage to the truck. You should have been at the funeral.”
“When was it?” Rock said.
“Day before yesterday,” Haig said. “All the boys were there. No preacher wanted to say anything good about him, so Tag Tatarian got up and said, ‘One thing you got to give Bart credit for, he always did things fast and clean, the same as the way he got killed.’ Well, he was damn near bawling, but the other boys were damn near laughing because it was fast all right, but not clean, the way he did things or the way he got killed, but Tag was his pal. ‘If there was three bucks to bet, Bart always bet ’em, he didn’t bet two and keep one for emergencies.’ He talked ten minutes. Let’s see if I can remember any more of it. ‘Bart was a good boy, not like some good boys, but taken all in all just because he swore a lot and like that doesn’t mean Bart was no good or ain’t going to a better place.’ Avak Boxcar says in his deep voice, ‘He’s going to Ararat, Tag, why don’t you shut up?’ It was the best funeral I ever went to, and you should have seen the pall-bearers with their white girls hanging around in the background, brokenhearted because their boys were carrying the casket of a pal.”
“Who was the girl?” Rock said.
“Some working girl.”
“Working girl? And her parents are suing his father?”
“Working girls don’t stop being their parents’ daughters, do they?”
“Who else?” Rock said.
“A lot of the old people,” Haig said. “Pop goes to their funerals, comes home and stands around and looks at everything, especially the vines. He planted them, you know.”
“Yes, and you, too.”
“He’s scared to death I’m going to get killed.”
“That’s understandable,” Rock said.
“No,” Haig said. “On the motorcycle. He knows I’m not going to get killed in the War. He’s just scared of the motorcycle.”
“Shall we go?” Rock said. “We’ll tie it in the trunk compartment, and you drive.”
“O.K.”
They were on their way in a few minutes.
“How are the vines?” Rock said.
“They’re fine,” Haig said. “Listen to this. Alek Ohanian worked for Pop last year, bringing in the crop, foreman over seven men. A quiet man, after your time, but a little before mine. Everything’s finished. He drives to the vineyard in the loading truck, stops it, looks around at the vines. I’m sitting there beside him. He stands up and says, ‘I want to thank each and every one of you muscat vines for faithful service and hard work. Because of you 1941 has been a jumbo year, but I know each and every one of you are going to fight on to greater and greater victories, firmer stems, larger berries, greater sugar content, and, God helping, better color. Let’s all work together and make 1942 another jumbo year. Farewell, then, until next summer when we shall meet again.’ Ever hear anything like that? Didn’t crack a smile. Jumbo.”
“How was the crop?” Rock said.
“Great,” Haig said. “Pop’s loaded.”
“I thought farmers’ boys were considered essential.”
“They are.”
“What are you doing in, then?”
“That draft board said Pop’s forty acres isn’t enough to require my help. Besides, everybody knows I never did any work on the place. I could have stayed out if I wanted to bad enough, though.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It’s embarrassing to work on a thing like that,” Haig said. “I’d rather be in. But what’s the matter with you? Have you flipped your lid or something?”
“It’s just as embarrassing for me,” Rock said.
“But you’re sixty-six years old, aren’t you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Is that a kid?”
“I feel a little tired just now, but thirty-three’s not so old.”
“Besides, you’re spoiled,” Haig said. “You’re used to a lot of—How is that Marcy Miller?”
“I don’t know her very well,” Rock said. “Seems like a real nice girl, though.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Haig said. “It’s not going to be very much fun. When do you go in?”
“Three or four days.”
“That’s the induction, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they give you a furlough of two weeks.”
“They do?”
“Yes,” Haig said. “You’re inducted, you’re in, but they give you two weeks.”
“Well, that’s something,” Rock said.
At last they drew up in front of the house on Winery Street. The lights in every room were on. The old lady came out on the porch and waited. He went up and took her in his arms, one of his first girls. The boy got his bike out of the trunk compartment and after a few minutes went off in a roar. Rock sat at the kitchen table with his mother’s mother. There was tea, flat bread, white cheese, black olives, parsley, mint, and sliced sun-dried beef. They talked an hour, then he went to his bed, and was home.
He slept and dreamed, awoke, fell back, and then at last slept on in the peace of his family and his home. It was noon when he woke up, and the old lady was sitting on the front porch.
“You ride with me to San Francisco,” he said. “You come to San Francisco with me and see your daughter.”
“Yes,” the old lady said.
Chapter II
The Mother
There is meaning to a man. There is meaning to the life every man lives. It is a secret meaning, but it is also simple and silly. It is something like this:
God knows I am nothing. Something winks and I am born. Something winks and I am dead.
A man builds a house and something winks. He finds a wife and something winks. A son is born to the man and his wife and something winks.
It is also something like this:
I didn’t know any better, but I knew something was always winking. I never tried, but at the same time I never let things happen by themselves, either, and something always winked. When I did poorly, something winked, and when I did well, something winked. When I did nothing or thought I did nothing, something winked. When I winked, something winked back. I winked every day and something winked back. I winked at my ignorance and something winked back. I winked at my hope and something winked back. I stopped winking and prayed, but still something winked back.
A man is meanings which come to nothing because something winks. A man who does not know that something is forever winking is a fool. A man who does not wink is a fool. But every man is a good man in a bad world, living his meaning alone, and winking, or being winked.
A man’s secret meaning is something like this:
Last night I knew something I do not know this morning. This morning I knew something I do not know this afternoon. This afternoon I knew something I do not know tonight. Tonight I know nothing and something winks. Last year I knew something I do not know this year. The year before last I knew something I did not know last year. I do not know what it was I knew last night or last year, but I know I am dying, and I know something winks.
A man’s secret is something like this:
I am mud that winks. I am weeds that wink. I am glue that winks.
A man’s name is a wink. A man’s fame is a wink. The life of a man is a circle made of winks. A wink is a smile going in a circle, from nothing to nothing. A wink swallows a man and his winking, his start and his finish. It swallows everything in the laughing circle. A wink is nothing. It is an eye circling around what it sees, bringing it to a laughing end. A man puts on his hat and the hat winks. It winks at the ceiling, the ceiling winks at the window, the window at the sun, the sun at the stars, the stars at one another. Time winks at space and space winks at light. The tree winks at the bird, the bird at the cat, the cat at the dog, the dog at the horse, the horse at the cow, the cow at the hen, the hen at the cock, the cock stamps on the hen and winks, then crows. The sand of the desert winks at the hornedtoad, the horned-toad at the cactus blossom, the blossom at the sun, the sun at the moon, the moon at the vine, the vine at grapes, the grapes at wine. Numbers wink at symbols, symbols at measures, measures at music, music at statues, statues at men, and men at women. Art winks at art, language winks at lies, and lies wink at truth. The truth winks and weeps. It is the only wink that does not laugh. A wink is nothing, but a man is something. What is he?
He is a fool. He is a lunatic. He is a crook. He is a bore. He is a lie winking the truth which weeps. He is a tired lie which is tired of winking and sick of the truth which winks and weeps. A man is a sanitary thing. It is not often that syphilis winks in him. It is not often that rot in his brain winks at what he thinks. For all that, a man has fun winking and dying. He has a time.
“For God’s sake,” his grandmother Lula said, “grow a moustache and look like a man. Look like your father, the way you were meant to look. Look like my husband Manuk, the way all men were meant to look. Why do you go about with your moustache shaved?”
“In my work the moustache has not been required lately,” Rock said.
“Do you call that work? Having your picture taken as you kiss one girl after another? What kind of work is that?”
“Acting.”
“Is it honorable to stand there having your picture taken as you kiss tender girls? Where is your father’s moustache that I saw on your face when you were not more than eighteen?”
“This is not the country of moustaches. Not my father’s kind, nor mine, at any rate.”
“What country is this?” Lula said.
“The country of fine, delicate, slight moustaches,” Rock said.
“Is it against the law of this country for a man to put his father’s moustache on his face?”
“Against the custom.”
“Ignore the custom. With your lip naked you can never be the man you are. You are a false man with your lip naked. Why do you permit yourself to be a false man? Is it to stand there kissing them one after another?”
“You have been to the movies?” Rock said.
“I have been to the ones in which you have stood there kissing them. I have been to every one of them. One or another of my grandchildren has taken me. I sit there and marvel at their delicate white beauty, a new one in every picture, sometimes two or three, or three or four, and yourself forever a false man, with no moustache, a man with a naked lip, kissing them. Is that work?”
“It is.”
“It is false work,” the old lady said. “You are a false man. Grow a moustache and be a true man like your father, like your grandfather Manuk.”
“I cannot grow it now,” Rock said.
“Begin now,” the old lady said. “You can do that. You are shaving. Do not shave your upper lip. I do not shave mine. My own moustache is there for all to see, a better one than those of most men. It is proudly there. I am old and have a moustache. I am a true woman. As I grow nearer to Manuk, to the man he was, I grow truer and prouder. Age takes a woman away from herself to her man. Before I die I will be Manuk himself, for that is what a woman’s love for a man is, not yourself standing there kissing them, but not one of them your own woman, not one of them pregnant. We kissed and put ourselves together for children. Where do you think you came from? Where is your wife? Where is your woman, pregnant from your kissing of one another?”
“I haven’t found her yet,” Rock said.
“You haven’t found her yet!” the old lady said. “She’s not to be found. She’s to be created. A man creates his woman. She is not found standing somewhere. She is created by you, and you cannot create her while you are a false man, with a naked lip. Grow your moustache and create your woman. Where are your sons? Where are your daughters?”
“I know a beautiful liar who says she loves me,” Rock said. “I am thinking of making her my woman, and through her to see my sons and my daughters.”
“She’s a liar, you say?”
“Yes.”
“She’s beautiful, you say?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“
Yes.”
“Make her your woman.”
“I don’t like liars.”
“You are a liar. You are a false man, a man with a naked lip. Be a true man, and your woman will not lie to you but will give you your children. She will give your children their place to stand and look at things. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Anything,” Rock said.
“I’ll sit and eat with you,” the old lady said. “I have wanted to talk to you for years. When will we drive to San Francisco?”
“After breakfast?” Rock asked.
“You do not wish to visit your, family here?” the old lady said. “You have almost everyone here but my daughter in San Francisco and your sister Vava and her children. Go to the telephone. Ask them to come here, one by one. This is your home. You were born here. In this very house. Tell them one by one to come here, and look at them again. They are dying. Look at them again before they are dead.”
“Do they have moustaches?” Rock said.
“Only the women,” Lula said. “Even the old men have naked lips. They say it is out of style to have moustaches. They say it is not American. Call them here. Stay in this house another night. I want to talk to you. Now, at this work that you do, why do you never speak in your own tongue, or in Kurdish or Turkish, so that I can understand what it is you say to them when you kiss them?”
“The people who see the pictures don’t understand those languages,” Rock said.
“Are there no longer Kurds or Turks in the world?”
“There are, but the pictures are made for people who speak and understand English.”
“English,” Lula said. “Is English the only language you speak? Is English the only language in the world? What do you say to them?”
“The same thing each time. I say that I love them.”
“You’re a liar,” Lula said. “If you loved them, you would have your own woman, your sons and daughters. You’ve not shaved your lip?”
“No.”
“Let me see,” she said. “Yes. In three days you will begin to look like yourself again instead of like a lie of a man, like all of the men of this country. You will let your moustache grow?”
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