Roy's World

by Barry Gifford

  Many years later Roy was walking alone at night on a street in a city his mother had never been to when he thought about their numbers guessing game. He was thinking of the number five and he wished his mother were there because if he asked her to guess she would have said three or nine. Just then Roy passed a house with an open window from which he heard a record playing: Eartha Kitt singing “April in Portugal” in French. He stopped in the street to listen. “April in Portugal” had been one of his mother’s favorite songs when he was a boy; she often used to play it on the piano and sing the lyrics in English, though she could speak French passably well.

  Eartha Kitt finished singing and Roy walked on. Any number divisible by three, he remembered, was in certain ancient cultures considered to have mystical or occult significance, but he could not recall why; the number eight placed horizontally was the mathematical symbol for infinity, as well as an overhand knot as illustrated in the Merchant Marine handbook.

  The significance of April in Portugal, Roy knew, was that it was the month in which the people in the song had fallen in love. The importance of numbers or colors in one’s cosmology was far more arcane, except, perhaps, to adherents of numerology and whatever students of color symbology might be called. (Colorologists?) Roy had an urge to stop the next person he encountered on the street and ask him or her if he or she could guess what number he was thinking of at that very moment, but he overcame it. Even if the person played along and guessed correctly, Roy knew no meaning could be discerned from it, that nothing profound would be revealed. More significant, Roy thought, was his having been reminded of his mother playing and singing “April in Portugal.” There was no doubt as to its value in Roy’s cosmology.

  He could still remember the photograph of Eartha Kitt on the cover of her album That Bad Eartha, bare-shouldered in a black cocktail dress, slinky, cat-like, a vixen amused by the charade. The significance of her come-on-and-try expression had not been lost on him. Roy wondered what Eartha Kitt’s favorite number was.

  Einstein’s Son

  There was a man in Roy’s neighborhood who claimed he was the son of Albert Einstein. Roy was ten years old when he saw a picture of Einstein on the cover of Look magazine. Einstein’s long white hair starfished from his head, he had a droopy ringmaster’s mustache and a slightly befuddled expression on his face that made Roy think of him as a dotty but benevolent scientist who would not seem uncomfortable throwing elbows in the headslapping, eyethumbing company of the Three Stooges.

  The man who told people that he was Einstein’s son was in his midfifties, tall, already bald and immaculately shorn of facial hair. He wore gold wire-rim glasses and always dressed in a blue suit with a white shirt and red tie under a shabby beige trenchcoat frayed at the cuffs, and battered brown wing tip shoes. His name, he said, was Baron Otto von Loswerden, so everyone in the neighborhood referred to him as the Baron. According to Steve the Newsie, who owned the newspaper and magazine stand on the northwest corner of Dupré and Minnetonka, and from whom von Loswerden bought a Chicago Tribune at eight o’clock every morning while stopping to chat for a few minutes, the Baron was an illegitimate child of Albert Einstein and his then girlfriend, Mileva, whom the young physicist later married and who bore him another child. The Baron, however, who was not yet Otto, nor, obviously, a baron, was given away to avoid scandal and financial responsibility. It was not until he was thirty years old, the Baron confided to Steve, and at the deathbed of his adoptive father, that he learned of his true parentage.

  “Do you believe him?” Roy asked Steve the Newsie.

  Roy’s friend, Billy Murphy, who worked on Sunday mornings for Steve piecing together newspaper sections, was the only person Roy knew who had ever been in the newsie’s apartment. Billy told Roy that the floor of the apartment was carpeted half a foot thick with old newspapers, and the walls were decorated with photographs of very young girls cut out of the papers.

  “What difference does it make?” said Steve. “If a man wants to believe he’s a baron or even a king, who am I to say he ain’t?”

  Steve was five foot two and weighed more than two hundred pounds. He had almost no nose, very few teeth and a cauliflower left ear. Billy Murphy told Roy that Steve’s mother, whom Steve called The Army of Mary, lived in the apartment with him, but that nobody had seen her for a very long time.

  “I think she died and Steve wrapped her in old newspapers like a mummy,” Billy said. “He’s got a padlock on a freezer up there. I bet The Army of Mary’s in it.”

  Roy did not know where the Baron worked, or if he worked at all.

  “Do you know where the Baron lives?” Roy asked Billy.

  “No. I only see him walkin’ back and forth on Minnetonka.”

  “Me, too,” said Roy. “He must rent a room in a house around here.”

  One gray afternoon when Billy was holding down the stand while Steve the Newsie went to drain the snake, Roy was crossing the street and Billy shouted for him to come over.

  “What’s up?” Roy said.

  “Look at this.”

  Billy showed Roy a nine-by-twelve-inch box with fancy writing on the cover.

  “What is it?”

  “The Baron gave it to Steve to read. He says it’s a manuscript.”

  Roy read what was written on the box.

  “What Albert Einstein Got Wrong about the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies by Baron Otto von Loswerden, Son of Einstein.”

  “Did you ever hear the Baron speak?” asked Roy.

  “Yeah,” said Billy, “a couple of times.”

  “Does he have a German accent?”

  Billy thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “If he was from Switzerland or Germany or Austria, he’d have an accent, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But maybe he’s been livin’ in Chicago for so long that he lost it.”

  “Cunningham’s mother and father came over from Ireland forty years ago and they still have theirs,” said Roy.

  The back door of the newsstand opened and Steve came in.

  “What you bums doin’?” he said.

  “I just showed Roy what the Baron gave you,” said Billy.

  “Be careful with that,” said Steve, taking the box from him. “It’s his masterwork.”

  “Can you understand scientific stuff?” asked Roy.

  “I haven’t read it yet.”

  “Billy and I were wonderin’ where the Baron lives.”

  “And how come he don’t have a German accent?” asked Billy.

  “My grandfather says Einstein’s from Switzerland,” said Roy.

  “You boys ask too many questions.”

  Steve put the box on the floor under the front counter.

  “Go on, both of ya, beat it before you scare off the customers.”

  That night, Roy asked his grandfather if he knew that Albert Einstein had an illegitimate son who lived in the neighborhood.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Pops. “What’s his name?”

  “Baron Otto von Loswerden. He says Einstein and his girlfriend gave him up for adoption when he was a baby.”

  Pops said, “Loswerden. It means ‘to get rid of.’ The man may be an impostor but at least he’s got a sense of humor.”

  “What’s an impostor?”

  “A phony, a pretender.”

  “He gave Steve the Newsie the manuscript of a book he wrote about something Einstein did wrong.”

  Roy’s grandfather looked at him and smiled.

  “America is a great country, Roy. A man can be whoever he wants to be.”

  “Is it a crime?”

  “Is what a crime?”

  “To say you’re somebody you’re not.”

  “That depends on your purpose, why you’re doing it and what you do.”

  “What if someone di
ed and nobody knew about it but you and you didn’t want to give up the body and you kept it in your freezer? Is that a crime?”

  “Roy,” said his grandfather, “what is it you’re not telling me?”

  The Albanian Florist

  There was a man named Cubar Shog who haunted the bus stops along Ojibway Boulevard late on weekday afternoons to pick up women, most of whom worked as maids in the neighborhood, on their way home. Cubar Shog was a middle-aged, completely bald Albanian who stood five foot six and weighed well over two hundred pounds. He looked like a wrestler, which he told Roy and the other kids he had been in Europe. Cubar emigrated to America from Tirana in his late twenties and worked for fifteen years smelting steel in a mill in Whiting, Indiana, before moving to Chicago and opening a flower shop on the corner of Ojibway and Dupré.

  He always carried a bouquet of flowers with him whenever he approached a woman at a bus stop. Cubar spoke softly in the hope of diminishing the harshness of his Balkan accent, and smiled as he offered the bouquet to the object of his desire. If the woman seemed agreeable, Cubar would then propose they spend an hour or so together and mention a price. Of course many of the women were offended by his overture and threw the flowers to the ground, then turned away or even attempted to slap Cubar’s face. His wrestler’s reflexes were usually sharp enough to deflect an attacking hand and, once rejected, Cubar quickly retreated, picking up the fallen bouquet and walking swiftly down the street to the next bus stop.

  Almost as often, however, the woman Cubar Shog propositioned was intrigued by the thought of earning some extra money and agreed to accompany the egg-shaped Albanian man to his nearby flower shop. Cubar kept a tiny room in the rear of the store just for this purpose. Neither Roy nor any of the other neighborhood boys knew where Cubar actually lived. His taste in women was fairly eclectic: they were white, black or brown, and short, tall or medium height; the one exceptional requirement was that the woman not be too skinny. Cubar preferred his ladies to have a bit of heft to them.

  “Boys, is nothing satisfaction like woman of healthful size with good heavy leg,” Cubar told them.

  Jimmy Boyle worked after school for Cubar Shog delivering flowers. He was the only one of the boys who had seen the back room at Illyrian Brothers Florists. Cubar had given the store this name because of his belief that Albanians had descended from ancient Illyria, and he thought it sounded poetic, more suitable for a flower shop than Cubar’s or Shog’s. The “brothers” part was a tribute to his younger brother, Thracian, who had been bitten to death by rabid wild dogs on Crocodile Street in Tirana when he was five years old. A neighbor had discovered Thracian’s dismembered body, chased away the pack of murderous mongrels and carried the pieces to the Shog house, where they were laid out on the kitchen table. Cubar, who was nine at the time, could never forget those several mauled and chewed chunks of flesh and bone that had been his little brother. Even as an adult it was a rare night that this ghastly tableau did not appear in the florist’s dreams.

  Around six thirty one Thursday evening, Jimmy Boyle knocked on the back door of Roy’s house. The boys usually came and went through the rear entrances of each other’s houses, preferring to use the Chicago alleys as their thoroughfares. It was well after dark when Roy let Jimmy in out of a freezing drizzle.

  “You won’t believe what I just seen,” said Jimmy.

  “What?” asked Roy.

  “Let’s go in your room and I’ll tell you.”

  Roy and Jimmy went into Roy’s room. Roy closed the door. He and Jimmy Boyle had known each other for five and a half years, since they were seven. Both of them were the only sons in their families and both of their fathers were dead. Jimmy had two sisters, Roy had one. The fact that each of them were fatherless created an unspoken bond, and usually when one or the other had something important to tell, Jimmy went first to Roy and Roy to Jimmy.

  Jimmy Boyle had orange hair, green eyes and a face full of freckles. “As Irish-looking a kid as there ever was,” said Roy’s mother. Jimmy was most often half-grinning but he was not grinning now: he looked scared, his eyes were wide open and his shoulders and arms were shaking.

  “What happened?” Roy asked.

  “Cubar’s dead,” said Jimmy. “At least I think he is. I come back from deliverin’ roses to Mrs. Anderson on Maplewood, it’s her and Mr. Anderson’s anniversary today, and I seen the back room door at the shop was open about half way. I didn’t say nothin’ ’cause I thought maybe Cubar had a broad in there, so I hung out up front until after six, which is when I’m supposed to leave.”

  “You hear anything?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Nothin’. Finally I called for him. ‘Hey, Cubar,’ I said, ‘you back there? I gotta go now.’ He didn’t answer so I went back and stood by the door and said, ‘Cubar, it’s Jimmy,’ but he still didn’t say nothin’. Then I figured maybe he went out before I come back, though that ain’t never happened without him leavin’ a note on the front counter or taped to the front door.

  “I pushed the door to the back room open all the way and at first I didn’t see him. His body, I mean. I almost left but then I went into the room. You know there ain’t much in there, just a cot with a blanket and a pillow on it and a mirror and a crucifix on the wall facin’ the bed. Cubar was lyin’ face down on the floor at the foot of it with a big scissors stickin’ in his neck.”

  “Was there a lot of blood?” Roy asked.

  “Not really,” said Jimmy. “Some, but not much. He didn’t have his pants on, or underwear, neither. Cubar’s got lots of fuzz on his ass.”

  “He must be dead,” said Roy, “if he wasn’t movin’.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” said Jimmy. “I said, ‘Cubar, are you alive?’ But he didn’t talk or move.”

  “You better go back and call the cops. Don’t tell ’em you left the body alone.”

  Jimmy nodded. “My old man told me when I was eight not to ever call the cops.”

  “But Cubar’s dead,” said Roy.

  “My old man said not to call the cops especially if someone was dead.”

  The boys sat on Roy’s bed for a few minutes without talking.

  When Jimmy stood up he said, “You know about Cubar’s brother, the one wild dogs ate back in Albania?”

  “Yeah, he told me and the Viper the story,” Roy said.

  “I figured,” said Jimmy.

  “Why?” Roy asked.

  “Just thinkin’ how Cubar and his brother both met violent ends.”

  “On different continents,” said Roy.

  “Right,” said Jimmy, “on different continents.”

  Roy let Jimmy out the back door. It was still drizzling outside and there was no moon. Cubar must not have seen the woman coming up behind him, Roy thought, otherwise he probably could have wrestled the scissors away from her.

  The Weeper

  “You seen the Weeper around lately?” Roy asked Jimmy Boyle.

  “I ain’t,” said Jimmy, “not for a couple months, maybe. You think somethin’s happened to him?”

  The two boys, both of whom were ten years old, kicked their way through the slush on Ojibway Boulevard. They were headed for the Pharaoh Theater to see a double feature of Phantom from Chinatown and Nothing Left for the Dead. It was a freezing cold Saturday morning in late January, and the boys walked quickly, looking forward to being inside the warm theater just as it opened.

  The Weeper was a red-bearded bum who supposedly slept in a garage behind an abandoned building in the short alley between Bulgaria and Pasztory streets. Goat Murphy lived near there and said he’d seen him coming out of the garage a few times when Goat was on his way to school.

  “We should ask Goat Murphy,” said Jimmy.

  “I did,” said Roy, “and he hasn’t seen him since before Christmas.”

  “Maybe he’s at a hobo convention in Florida.”

 
“Let’s go by after the show,” Roy said, “and see if we can find his garage.”

  Roy thought Phantom from Chinatown was dumb, with a fake-looking ghost going around strangling guys who resembled the man who’d murdered his wife; but Nothing Left for the Dead was pretty good, especially the part where the beautiful brunette in a tight white sweater who’s the leader of a graverobbing gang begs her boyfriend to make love to her on top of an unearthed coffin in a cemetery. “Kiss me fast, Steve,” she says to him, “remind me that I’m still alive.”

  It was still light out when Roy and Jimmy found the alley. The wind was blowing hard and an intermittent sleet bit at the backs of their necks.

  “God, I hate this weather,” said Jimmy Boyle. “When I get older I’m ditchin’ Chicago and movin’ to San Francisco.”

  “Why there?” asked Roy. “I think it gets cold and foggy in San Francisco.”

  “Yeah, a little,” Jimmy said, “but not too bad. My Uncle Johnny lives there and he says it don’t ever snow.”

  “What does he do there?”

  “He’s a bartender. Uncle Johnny’s from County Cork, he says there’s lots of Irish in San Francisco, like here. He used to be in the Merchant Marines.”

  The boys looked for doors that had broken or boarded-up windows in them. Roy found one that was more dilapidated than most and had cardboard wedged in several cracked or missing panes.

  “Hey, Jimmy,” he said, “let’s try this one.”

  Jimmy came over and together they pulled on the door. The top hinge was gone so they had to pull hard to pry the door open against the snow packed in front of it. The garage was empty except for a pile of torn, dirty blankets and scattered trash.

  “Look here,” said Roy.

  Hanging from a long nail in a board under a side window was a piece of paper on which were hand-printed the words: Gone for the Kilyazum if you make it away from the Dogs Sorcerers Hormongers Murderers Idolytors and Liars we shall meet again and Know the Reasons Why.