Go Naked In The World

by Chamales, Tom T. ;

  “Well, there’s more to it than just your mother and sister,” Old Pete said. “How about you, kid? You know I worry about you. Just like you were my own...Your future, Pierro. Your success.” Old Pete’s fist began to clench and Pierro knew he was about to bang it on the table. “The dollar,” Old Pete said. “The almighty dollar.” Down came the hand. “You haven’t got anything without the dollar.

  “The dollar put you through that school. Buys your clothes. How you going to eat without the dollar. How? Did you ever try getting on a streetcar with five instead of seven cents. Did you?” Pete grinned. “Ah, huh,” he said almost gleefully. “They won’t let you on, will they?”

  “I know about the dollar, Uncle,” Pierro said bored. And he was damn bored, having heard this speech once practically every time he had seen Uncle Pete since he was a little boy.

  “I’ve got trouble, Pierro. Lots of troubles,” Old Pete said almost plaintively, mournfully. “I’m not as young as I use to be. I’m worried about Nick. About Mary. About you and your sister and your mother. About business. Here I am up in years, when I ought to be taking it easy, and what am I doing? Working. Slaving. I got to have help.

  “This is a great opportunity for you, kid. We might have a little recession. Then good times, kid. The best times this country ever had. Even better than the days when I use to have the club. Better than that. A great new prosperous America.

  “There has to be. We need homes. Buildings. More space for more people. We have to build. Build. Build.”

  My God, Pierro wondered, I wonder where he stole that last speech. That certainly doesn’t sound like Old Pessimistic Pete. He must have gone and rejoined the Executive’s Club.

  “And that’s where you come in. The country needs architects. More than ever before the country needs architects,” Old Pete said banging his fist down on the table again. “You’re a lucky kid. You got the big chance. I’d like to have a chance like you got when I was a kid. I’d like to have had that chance.

  “Why only today I had lunch with Lawrence Green. He said you got a hell of a chance. He wants to see you. You ought to go in and see him. It won’t hurt. And that man can do a lot for you. And I’ll help. Even Lou Duck said he’d give you a few jobs on a couple of places he’s got. To help you get started.”

  So it was Lawrence Green that gave Old Pete the material for his speech.

  “I talked to Lou Duck a few days after I was back, Uncle,” Pierro said. He was putting the cigarette out now, without having dragged on it once, but still had made no move to clean the ashes from the table, Pete noticed irritably.

  “Lou Duck doesn’t want an architect. He wants a draftsman. Besides, he doesn’t even want to pay what an average draftsman should make. I’m not interested in drafting,” Pierro said softly, slightly amused again now that he had re-thought of the proposition Lou Duck had offered. It was so damn ridiculous. “I’m an architect, Uncle. I didn’t win a World Fellowship because I was an average one, either. If all I was interested in was building buildings and making money I’d have taken that proposition that Holabard & Root offered.”

  “Holabard & Root offered you a job?” Old Pete asked incredulously.

  “I received several letters from them while overseas and had lunch with Mr. Root only last week,” Pierro said, stroking his right moustache. “It was a very generous offer.”

  “Are you crazy,” Old Pete said staring at Pierro incredulously. “You crazy? That’s one of the biggest firms in America. My God,” Old Pete slapped his hands to the sides of his head. He shook the head as if he were a fighter throwing off a punch. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “I told you I have ideas of my own about architecture.”

  Pierro could see the reddish tinge of frustration that was now on the distinguished face of Pete Stratton.

  “I feel I have something to offer,” Pierro said assuredly. “And I have no intention of compromising myself, my work.”

  “How much they offer you?” Old Pete asked.

  “Twelve thousand a year to start; a junior partnership within three years if it worked out.”

  “And you turned that down,” Old Pete said incredulously.

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Uncle Peter,” Pierro said, truly distressed. For in that moment Pierro really, truly wanted his uncle (or was it anybody) to understand, knowing that Old Pete would never be able to understand, to know what it meant to him to be alone with his drafting board and his thin thin-pointed pencil delicately loose in his hand, and the feel of all the new materials this war had developed in his hands, and see all the great cities of the world in his mind, Rome and Paris and Athens, and even New York, not merely redesigned, “romanticized,” but built out of nature, redesigned in the essence of that which was the Greatest Adventure of all, reality—not from without, but within, with grace and beauty, and compassion for the within, the compassion that he would wring from himself at the drafting table, truth, his own compassion defeating all the turmoil, the strife, yes that, permeating the things he would build. The Communion of Nature, the Reality, and Man.

  That was something worth living for.

  But how could you explain that to Old Pete, to hardly anyone for that matter, he thought dejectedly. How could you explain that what you really wanted was something you couldn’t really put your finger on, but could only feel. You can’t explain it. You can’t, he thought ironically. There was only one way they would ever know you, he thought, feeling as if he was almost about to panic and scream, there was only one way then that they would ever know you...understand you...love you...and that would be for them to feel you through your work, your life, through what you have given them. There was no other way, he thought almost hysterically. No other way. None.

  As Pierro sat there suddenly silent there was only the slightest change of expression on his face; a twisted tightening of the skin on the protuberant forehead, a slight wrinkled squint to the corners of his eyes. But Pete could feel the tension mounting overpoweringly within Pierro, up and up, like the wild singing madness of drunken sponge fishermen returned from the sea, like a great orchestra frenzied by the very music they played, all the mounting tension multiplied and then squared by the multiplying silence.

  Old Pete did not know torment like that. He had never permitted himself to know it. To him it was all at once ugly and frightening and sad.

  He had a sudden holy urge to do something for the kid. He didn’t know what. Finally he reached out and put his hand over Pierro’s and patted it gently for a second.

  Pierro yanked it away, eyes glaring wildly at Pete for a moment.

  Quickly Pete turned to a waitress standing nearby.

  “Bring us a couple of drinks,” he said. Then turning back to Pierro. “Take it easy, kid. Take it easy.”

  Pierro did not answer for a moment. Then: “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Uncle.”

  “Maybe I’m just old,” Old Pete said plaintively. “Maybe I’m a little late. Not being able to understand you young fellows.” God, Pete thought, how Pierro had reminded him of Nick just then. “But I do my best. I try hard. And try to take care of my obligations. My responsibilities,” he added dramatically.

  You couldn’t beat him, Pierro thought. He might slip off the road for a second but that was all.

  “I don’t think I’ve been too well anyhow, lately,” Old Pete said breathing deeply. He reached into the breast pocket of the tailored blue sharkskin and pulled out a small gold pill box. He took out two small red pills and two small white ones, his old strong hands trembling slightly. He dropped one of the pills onto the table, picked it up, his hands shaking even more now, put the pillbox fumblingly back into his vest pocket and fumblingly took the pills.

  Then, once back on the road, he made you feel so goddamn sorry for him. Because he was old and loved youth. Because of all the things he had done for you and your family. For all the people back in Verdamah. He was spoken of as if he were a saint back there, Pier
ro remembered from his only visit there.

  “Well,” Pete said taking a deep breath, talking now in that tired resigned-to-his-fate voice, the very same voice he had used on the phone earlier that day with Mary. “Well, what are you going to do?”

  Pierro didn’t have the heart to tell him, not now, that he intended to use what money he had left from the fellowship to go to Bloomfield Hills, Michigan and work on the Paris project. He just couldn’t tell him now. Though, God, how he knew how much better it would be to tell him now. To get it over with. Especially now that he had tipped his hand to Old Pete. There were so many goddamn ways Pete would play on you. He would use Pierro’s mother against him. And his wife Mary. Anything. Anybody. For God’s sake tell him.

  “I don’t know, Uncle. I have to go to the hospital a few more times in the next month. I’ve been doing some work on a project at home. I’d like to think about it a while longer. Make sure I don’t make a mistake,” Pierro said almost ashamed of the pleasure he had gotten in saying it, then the shame gone when he saw the satisfaction, the relief, the sudden-giving-of-life, to the countenance of Old Pete Stratton.

  “Now you’re talking sense. Give it some thought. Your whole life is ahead. You ought to think about it. I knew you had some sense. Goddamn it, I always knew it,” Pete said reaching into his inner pocket for his checkbook. He set the checkbook on the table as the drinks came. He began to write out a check.

  “Here’s two-fifty.” He handed Pierro the check. “Take it easy. Have some fun. I wouldn’t even work for a while. Think it over, kid. Like you said: Think it over. You’ll never regret it. I’ll tell you that.”

  Pierro took the check and unbuttoned his right breast pocket and put it into the pocket.

  “Thank you, Uncle,” he said. What the hell, why not take it. Only a damn fool wouldn’t take it. Old Pete would have taken it certainly if the tables had been turned. Besides, Pierro said to himself, I’ve made up my mind. It’s about time somebody beat him for a few dollars. Damn well about time.

  “Well,” Pete said picking up his drink. “God Bless You, and Happy Days.”

  Pierro picked up his drink. “God Bless You, Uncle,” he said softly, almost affectionately. “Happy Days to you, too,” he said sincerely. “And many happy years.”

  The warmth, the sincerity of Pierro’s voice now void of any trace of snobbishness penetrated Pete Stratton. And a welling sad, but gratifying emotion tingled in the old man’s belly for a moment. He swallowed deeply as the emotion spread through him.

  “God Bless You, Pierro,” he said with tears in his eyes. Oh, God, he was a good kid. The world was really good. Man was good. Pete Stratton was good. Oh, if man only could be like this more. Feel the goodness that he felt. And the sadness because some day he would have to leave all this goodness. The goodness he loved, and tried to promote, and give the world more of. “God Bless You,” he said again dramatically, crying fully now. He sipped his drink. Pierro sipped. Old Pete took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose and wiped his eyes holding the gold-rimmed glasses shakingly in his left hand, honestly shaking from the emotion he had spent.

  Lou Duck, who had come up to the end of the bar to talk to the bartender, was watching Old Pete. The kid don’t have a chance, he was thinking. What a performance that Pete put on. What a character. You couldn’t beat Pete. God, he’s had us all crazy since we come over here over forty years ago. Now he’s starting on the kids. He’ll never die, that guy. I swear, Lou Duck thought smiling inwardly, he’ll never die.

  The hostess came up next to him. Lou put his arms around her, resting his hand playfully on her buttocks. “Did you want me, Lou?” she asked.

  He could feel the warmth of her breath on his ear. He slid his arm up around her up under her armpit holding her tightly for a moment. Goddamn it, she could excite you, this one. “No check for Mr. Stratton’s table,” he said. “And watch out for things. I’m going for a little cards, then maybe we do a few things later.”

  “Your wife said she might be in today.”

  “I’ll worry about my wife, girl,” he said. “Go to work.”

  “I’ll watch things, Lou,” she said. And because the bartender was approaching them. “I’ll take care of things, Mr. Duck.”

  Christ, she thought, as if Lou could possibly think they were fooling that bartender.

  He watched the rumble of her as she walked away, then went over to the booth.

  “Pierro the Great,” Lou Duck said. “That’s my boy,” he said to Old Pete. “About time we got some real educated Greeks around. Real smart boys. By God, we can educate our boys as well, better by God, than these Americans. Can’t we, Pete?”

  “You’re damn right, Lou.”

  Pierro was studying the gray-haired restaurateur in the sporty brown suit. Lou Duck, whorehouse operator de luxe, president of the Greek Men’s Club of the First Greek Orthodox Church, and millionaire restaurant man. He looked no more Greek than Old Pete, but almost as distinctive, if he’d only tone down his dress, dressing, as if he was still running a bawdy house.

  Pierro half stood up and shook hands.

  “Well, you ought to be getting plenty,” Lou Duck said winking at Old Pete. “Ehh...you getting any...Plenty around, boy. You better get it before my kid gets home,” he laughed raucously.

  He sickened Pierro. He had always sickened him, ever since he could remember. What a greasy mind, Pierro thought.

  “I was telling Pierro about your offer to give him some work,” Old Pete injected. It embarrassed Old Pete having Lou talk about such things to his nephew in front of him. It wasn’t right. That Duck was awful dumb sometimes, Pete thought. No class, really. And he never would have any class if he didn’t stop that kind of talk in public. I ought to have a word with him. He’s smart. He’d probably appreciate it if I put it right.

  “Uncle and I talked it over,” Pierro said. “I’m not going to do anything for a while. My lung, you know. But it’s kind of you.”

  Old Pete could feel Lou Duck’s eyes on him. Kind of you. Jesus Christ, I swear sometimes I think this kid’s a fairy. And if he don’t stop talking that way everyone else will. Jesus, what a hell of a thing that would be. What kind of talk that would make, he thought fearfully. Pete Stratton’s nephew a fairy...

  He wondered if Lou had caught it.

  “I think we’d better get along, eh Lou,” Pete said.

  “I’m ready,” Lou said. “The boys are playing already. Mike called.”

  “Send me the check,” Old Pete said.

  “I buy,” Lou Duck said.

  Pete knew he would buy. He always bought. “Come on, Lou. Check. You ain’t going to make any money that way.”

  “I pay for it with the money I win off you,” Lou winked at Pierro.

  They argued about the check for a moment, then Lou went to make a final check of the restaurant that adjoined the bar before they left.

  Pierro and Pete waited outside on Walton for him.

  “You have a good time with that dough now,” Pete said. “Have some fun.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Pierro said in that cultured refined way. “By the way, I had a nice letter from Nick last week.”

  “Yeah?” Pete said. “What did he say?”

  “How beautiful Paris was now. How wonderful it was to see the lights at night again.”

  “Yeah?” Old Pete said. “What else?”

  “He went over to the Sorbonne and met an instructor friend of mine. Things like that, mostly.”

  Lou Duck was coming out of the restaurant now.

  “You call your Aunt Mary as soon as you get home and tell her about that letter you got from Nick.”

  “Right away...Good-bye, Mr. Duck,” Pierro said.

  “Take it easy, kid. Don’t put it in the wrong place, kid,” Lou Duck said, suddenly feeling squeamish, remembering how Pierro’s father had died. “Come back some day next week. I buy you lunch,” Lou Duck said.

  Pierro did not turn around nor did he a
nswer, just walked away westward, a medium height dark young man, walking with a slight leftward sway, hatless in his uniform, bent slightly forward, his arms hanging outward from his broad back.

  “Should be some game,” Lou Duck said. “Guess who showed up from Florida.”

  “Not Big Louie?” Old Pete said as they started eastward toward Michigan Avenue and the Drake.

  “Big Louie himself,” Lou said.

  “For Christ sake,” Pete said. “We have some laughs now.”

  Down the street they went, as years ago they walked the hills of Verdamah.

  “New shoes?” Pete asked.

  “Had them made,” Lou said. “Sixty bucks.”

  “I got my first pair of shoes week before I came to this country,” Pete said.

  “I got mine for the trip, too,” Lou said. “I think I go back for a while next year.”

  “Maybe we go together, eh, Lou.”

  “Alone, eh, Pete. We have some fun. Eh?” he smiled that sly hungry smile.

  CHAPTER VI

  NICK STRATTON’S train was due in Chicago at ten-forty that night. Strangely, it was on time. From the Twelfth Street Station, primarily because of his excess baggage, he took a cab to the Blackstone Hotel where the clerk was curt and emphatic about the room shortage; no rooms.

  He checked his baggage with the doorman and started up Michigan Avenue towards the Loop. It was a fine June night with a soft fresh-from-night wind from the Lake and an abundance of stars in the sky; the familiar smell of the Lake and the city and the wide of the Avenue and the traffic, the yellow and greenchecker cabs racing up the Avenue, all as familiar and real as he had dreamed they would be: The scent of the Lake, the scent he could never quite recollect, was as familiar and real as if he had never left—what was behind—the blood and the death and the glory, the glory that he had believed in and that he had been promised but never found, were already it seemed but a part of a distant apparition. That fresh scent kindled once again all the boyhood dreams and hones and ambitions and desires.