Body & Soul

by Frank Conroy

  "That ought to do it." She swept the hood with the handle of the shovel and cleared the windshield with her forearm. She opened the door, got behind the wheel, and after a couple of tries, started the engine.

  "C'mere!" she shouted.

  He came around to the driver's side.

  "Just keep your foot on the accelerator while it warms up." She got out and he got in, the engine almost dying in the process. He revved it way up. "Not so hard," she said. "Not so hard!" He let up on the gas and she went back to the stairs and down to the apartment with the shovels.

  He sat on the edge of the seat, his toe on the accelerator and his hands on the wheel. The cab smelled musty, something like the odor from the subway grate. Behind him, the back of the seat was bowed, pushed back as if from some enormous blow. The cumulative effect of the weight of her body had molded it thus.

  She reappeared with her clipboard and change maker, and they switched places once again. As he stepped away, she put the cab into gear, rocked it a couple of times, lurched out into the street, and kept on going. She rode off in a cloud of exhaust.

  He got sick that afternoon. First nausea and a feeling of weakness. He was too dizzy to sit at the piano, his arms and hands like a rag doll's—a sensation so novel it might have been interesting if he hadn't been preoccupied with vomiting into the toilet bowl—and he finally took to his bed. For several hours he fluttered between sleep and wakefulness, his mind drifting in and out of self-awareness, until the fever struck with the suddenness of a thunderclap. Alternating chills and sweats took him over as he turned and twisted in the cot, now throwing the covers off, now pulling them up. The light bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling seemed too bright, and the whole room with its familiar objects was both innocuous and weirdly threatening. The chair with the radio was clearly the chair with the radio, but as he stared at it he felt the sensation of someone looking at a fantastic prehistoric bird about to strike. The piano was the piano, but it was also the three-dimensional projection of an unseen four-dimensional torture machine of unimaginable complexity and depth, capable of sucking him right out of the cot into its maw. Everywhere he looked something was wrong. A water glass seemed enormous, much too big, or then too small, or paradoxically too big and too small at the same time. Everything was split somehow, everything doubled into its opposite. He passed out, his body rigid as a board.

  When she came home that night she made him soup and put a large pitcher of water on the floor by his cot.

  "Drink as much as you can," she said. "Just keep drinking."

  He lost track of time. Sometimes when he woke up it would be day, sometimes night. Sometimes he could hear her in front of the apartment, sometimes not. Trips to the bathroom were long, tiring, and seemed to occur in slow motion. If he heard something from outside—a car horn, children yelling, the rattle of coal sliding down a chute—it would shock him into a momentary awareness that the world, which felt very distant, was going on as usual. In those moments he knew time was passing. He knew he was sick, but he did not think of it as an adult might think of it, as an anomalous period to be endured until health returned. He'd forgotten all about normalcy, and lived moment to moment entirely defined by the swirling sensations of his illness. He floated.

  A loud buzzing sound woke him up. The instant he opened his eyes he knew he was well again. He sat up, yawned, and stretched, enjoying a feeling of spaciousness, like someone emerging from a cave. As he moved there was a sense of well-being, a mild euphoria. The buzzing sound began again, louder and more focused, and after a moment he realized there was someone at the door. He could not remember when he'd last heard the sound—no one ever came to the door. He dressed quickly and went to answer it.

  Mr. Weisfeld stood at the threshold, wearing a black overcoat, a scarf wrapped around his neck, and a black beret flat on his head. "Claude," he said. "May I come in?"

  Surprised, the boy stood motionless, reluctant to open the door all the way, instinctively averse to letting the man see the apartment.

  Gently insistent, Weisfeld entered. He removed his beret. "I've been worried. I haven't seen you in a week." He kept his eyes on the boy.

  "I was sick."

  Now Weisfeld glanced around the dim room. Beer bottles. Dirty dishes. Newspapers strewn on the chair and the floor around the chair. A spare wheel for the cab leaning against the wall. Stacks of trip cards piled here and there. Cockroaches. His face revealed nothing. "May I sit down?"

  Claude went and removed the newspapers. Weisfeld unbuttoned his coat but did not take it off. Claude glanced out the fan-shaped window.

  "What time is it?"

  Weisfeld sat. "Around five-thirty."

  "I just woke up."

  "I see."

  "I was sick. What day is it?"

  Weisfeld paused only a moment. "Saturday."

  The euphoria was passing now and Claude sat down, clear-headed but a bit wobbly. "How did you find, how did you know where ...," he began.

  "I asked," Weisfeld said.

  "Oh."

  "I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

  "It was the day of the snow. First I was throwing up and then I got sick and went to bed."

  "Very sensible, under the circumstances." Weisfeld looked around. "Where's the piano?"

  "In back."

  Claude led the way, past the kitchenette and through the door. "It's kind of messy, I mean, I just got up and I didn't have time to ..."

  "Of course. I understand."

  They went to the white piano. Claude stood at the bass end while Weisfeld, standing, played a scale and some chords with his right hand. "This is what they call a nightclub piano," he said. "Sixty-six keys. It doesn't sound all that bad, actually." He struck a fifth. "Out of tune, as I'm sure you know." He noticed that the white keys were darkened with grime except for an ovoid white space on each key, where the pads of the boy's fingers, as he played, had kept them bright. "Looks like you've put in some time on this instrument."

  "I like playing."

  "Well, you would have to, to do what you've been doing." He glanced at the music. "Is this where you are?"

  Claude nodded. "I was almost through the lesson."

  "Wait a day or two. Until you get your strength back."

  "Oh, I can play now," the boy said quickly.

  "I'm sure you can. But it's a matter of concentration. Give it a day or two. Practice doesn't mean anything, as I've told you many times, unless you concentrate on what you're doing."

  "Okay."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "Yes."

  "Put on some shoes and get your coat. We'll go around the corner to Prexy's for a hamburger. You like hamburgers?"

  Claude was surprised to find the streets empty of snow. On the avenue, light from the shops spilled out onto the sidewalks still wet from rain. It was getting dark. Clouds of steam billowed out from manhole covers.

  They took seats at the long counter, toward the back where it was less crowded, and Weisfeld ordered. Claude was so hungry he felt, at the smell of food, a tremor of anticipation. When the hamburger came he grabbed it from the plate and took a bite.

  "Eat slowly," Weisfeld said. "Chew." He raised his own hamburger delicately. "Believe me, I know about these things. I didn't eat for three days once."

  "Why not?"

  "Why not? I didn't have any food, that's why not. It was the war."

  "I know about the war."

  "Yes, well, it was somewhat different over there."

  Claude ate for a while. "My father was in the war."

  "So you told me. I'm sorry."

  "Do you think he died because he didn't have any food?"

  Weisfeld glanced at the boy. "Very unlikely," he said. "The soldiers were always well fed. Most probably he died in battle, fighting the Nazis."

  Outside, in the dark, they walked to the corner, where Claude stopped abruptly.

  "What?" asked Weisfeld.

  "She's parking the cab." He stared up the str
eet.

  "Your mother? Good, I want to meet her." He started forward, and then looked back. "Come on."

  Reluctantly Claude followed.

  They met at the head of the iron stairs.

  "So you're up," she said. "Who's this?"

  Weisfeld took off his beret and gave a slight bow. "Aaron Weisfeld. Maybe Claude has mentioned me. The music store?"

  "The lessons," Claude said.

  "Sure," she said.

  "I wonder if you could spare a moment."

  "Spare a moment?" she said, drawing out the words. "You mean like Mrs. Roosevelt? Or Gloria Vanderbilt, who spares a moment now and then? Like that?"

  Weisfeld, momentarily nonplused, squeezed his beret and glanced at Claude, who was staring at the sidewalk.

  "Sure," she said. "Come on in. Have a beer." She led the way.

  Inside, she fell heavily into the big chair and motioned for Claude to go to the refrigerator. "A long day." She unlaced her boots.

  "Yes," Weisfeld said. "Well, I'm glad to finally meet you, Mrs. Raw-lings. Claude is a remarkable boy."

  "He took to it fast, didn't he?"

  "Very fast. Faster than anyone I've seen."

  She accepted a quart of Pabst Blue Ribbon from Claude and watched as he put another in front of Weisfeld. "Get the mugs," she said. Claude went into the kitchenette and returned with two World's Fair beer mugs. She downed hers and refilled it immediately. Claude went and sat on the stool at the counter, his face averted.

  "It's a gift," she said. "Like a flair for chess, or mathematics."

  "Absolutely," Weisfeld said. "A God-given gift." He poured himself a short beer.

  "God has nothing to do with it," she said.

  "My apologies. A figure of speech, then." He sipped carefully.

  "Claude. There's a pint of whiskey under the sink."

  The boy got the whiskey for her and returned to his stool. She opened the cap, took a swallow, and offered the bottle to Weisfeld.

  "No, thank you."

  She smiled. "You sure?"

  "Thank you, no."

  She chased the whiskey with a long pull on the Pabst Blue Ribbon. "I used to sing."

  "Really."

  "Before the war. I still have my card."

  "Well, there you are," Weisfeld said. "Music often runs in families."

  "They sent somebody once. A truant officer, he called himself. Some little pansy. I settled his hash for him." Her hand was so big the quart bottle seemed to shrink to ordinary size as she emptied it into the mug. "You're not a pansy, are you Mr. Weisberg?"

  "Weisfeld, Mrs. Rawlings. No, I'm not. I had a family of my own once."

  Her eyes were beginning to shine from the alcohol. "Not that I've got anything against them, you understand. It's just he's a beautiful boy." Weisfeld saw Claude's back stiffen at the description, almost as if he'd been struck. She leaned forward and raised herself out of the chair. "Zat dat de dah," she whispered, singing, and broke into a soft shuffle in her stocking feet, the floor creaking beneath her. "Zat dat da-da de dah..." She stopped and went into the kitchenette. "Vaudeville. I was fourteen, I think. On the Loew's circuit. But then I got fat." She bent over to get another bottle from the refrigerator.

  Claude turned his head and Weisfeld looked directly at him. The boy appeared on the verge of tears, and Weisfeld made a small patting motion in the air, a reassuring gesture. He continued to look at the boy while speaking to the woman, still out of sight, bent over behind the counter. "I've been giving Claude some lessons, as you know." The clink of bottles. Claude's large eyes were steady now. "I believe he has talent. A special talent. A rare talent. I may be wrong, of course, but I don't think so." She was up now, with the beer on the counter, prying off the cap. "I want to press until we get somewhere close to his limits. The time is right and I think he can do it."

  "Unh-huh," she said warily.

  "It will involve a great deal of work. A lot of time."

  "Well then, forget it. I can't afford it. I've got payments on the medallion, and the black-market prices for repairs are high. I work fourteen hours to stay even. Go teach the capitalists on Park Avenue. Teach the little debutantes." She gave a short, barking laugh. "Music lessons! You've got to be kidding."

  "You misunderstand me, Mrs. Rawlings. Claude and I have worked out the financial arrangements. He pays for his lessons himself."

  She glanced at the boy and then back at Weisfeld. "He does? How much?"

  "Twenty-five cents."

  "Twenty-five cents a lesson?" Incredulous.

  "Twenty-five cents a week. The fee will remain the same even though he'll be doing more. That is, if you agree."

  She came out from the kitchenette, sat down, drank, and stared at Weisfeld for several moments. "So what are you talking to me for?"

  He felt a flash of anger, an acceleration of forces flaring in his head, begging for release. He took a deep breath and stroked his mustache while gaining control of himself. "It will affect his life," he said finally. "He'll be playing three or four hours a day. Quite soon arrangements will have to be made for him to work on a full-sized instrument, and that means a good deal of time away from home. He'll be under pressure. A lot of pressure for a child. There'll be periods of frustration, and anger. Times of doubt, ups and downs. Joy, perhaps, sometimes." He paused, holding his beret between his knees, running the rim through his fingers, around and around. "That's why I'm talking to you."

  "My, my," she said. "Goodness gracious."

  "I can do it," Claude said as if talking to himself.

  "I take it you have no objections?" Even through his anger Weisfeld sensed that this preposterous giant of a woman was not as simple as she apparently wanted him to believe. There was something slightly theatrical in her vulgarity, some hint of role playing in the exaggerated carelessness with which she drank her beer and her whiskey.

  She shrugged. "Hey, it's okay with me. He's more or less on his own anyway."

  "Good. That's settled, then." From the corner of his eye he saw the boy smile and duck his head quickly. "I'll also be giving him some books to read. That will be going on continuously" He said this for Claude's benefit, hoping for a tacit commitment. "Playing is one thing, music is another. We'll be working on both."

  "I've been reading a lot myself since I joined my group."

  "Ah," Weisfeld said. "A book club?"

  "No, no," she waved an arm. "Economics. Politics. It's a real education. An eye opener."

  Weisfeld stood up and reached over to shake her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rawlings."

  She burped quietly. "Call me Emma." She did not get up.

  "Fine, then. I'll be on my way."

  Claude stepped forward, opened the door for him, and together they climbed the stairs to the sidewalk.

  "Go back in now," Weisfeld said. "It's cold. Don't work until you've got your strength back. I'll see you at the store."

  "Yes sir."

  "Go on, now."

  The boy climbed down the stairs, and Weisfeld heard the door fall shut.

  The oblong door to the furnace was wide open and Al stoked coal, giving an extra push and a quick turn of the wrist at the end of the toss to spread the black chunks evenly over the bright bed of yellow and red fire. Claude stared at the trembling air within the chamber, blinking rapidly at the effect of the radiant heat. It was a special world in there, endlessly fascinating. Al paused in his work and lighted a cigarette. He gave Claude the empty book of matches.

  "Throw it in," Al said. "Don't get too close."

  As Claude approached he felt the pressure of the heat against his face. He threw quickly and missed. Al retrieved the cardboard with the blade of the shovel, crumpled it in his hand, and gave it back to Claude.

  "Try again."

  A perfect throw this time. The cardboard sailed in over the brightness and exploded into flame. A flare, and then nothing. Claude was delighted. Al swung the door shut with the shovel, pressed it home, and knocked over the heavy
cast-iron latch. It was profoundly satisfying to see the power contained that way, the awesome energy locked away, sealed with a few deft gestures. Al put up the shovel.

  "All right. Let's get to it." He began to move away. "What's the matter, boy?"

  "Nothing."

  "Hey. You don't have to do it. Did I ever tell you any of those times that you have to do it?"

  "No."

  "Hell, I'd go myself if I could." He tapped a pressure gauge and led the way out of the boiler room. Claude followed as they wound their way through dark corridors to the south garbage room. They sat down at an old card table and Al took out a piece of paper.

  "I was up there last winter to fix a radiator. There's a door here"—he pointed at his rough map—"right next to the icebox. That's it. That's the cupboard."

  "What if—" Claude began.

  "I done told you. They gone for a week. I heard the doormen talking. Anyway, you listen like I told you. If you hear anything, don't go in. That's simple, ain't it?"

  Claude stared at the paper.

  "Be a lot of stuff in there—a lot of stuff. Don't mess with anything big. Don't mess with anything comes in a set, you hear? You looking for ashtrays, like if there's a whole lot of different little silver ashtrays like I think there is, then you take one or two. Take two if there's a lot of them, otherwise one, and if it ain't small enough to fit in your pocket, leave it. You hear?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Here's the screwdriver."

  They got up and went over to the dumbwaiter. Al brushed it out with his hand and then held the ropes.

  Claude bent down and climbed into the small enclosure, pulling his knees to his chest and covering his nose and mouth with his hand against the smell. His head bumped the top of the wooden box.