“Ah! Picassos, Picassos. That’s the man, that’s the man for.” Energetically rubbing his face and there doesn’t seem to be a bone or anything left in his nose. “Yes sir, that’s your man alright, a virtuable prince. Say.” Leaning forward with Lucan Crackell desperate, how. Can I get away, get out for a. “Say Pat, you’re the one. I’ve never asked you. What do you think of Picassos?” Earnestly exhaling, tapping his holder on the crowded ashtray. Clink-clink.
“Picasso, what do I think of Picasso Max?”
“Yes. What do you really think?”
“Well.” Arranging the cup and saucer, this studied pause and her thoughtful eyes. “Well. Prolific.” And suddenly she pushes the cup away. “But not very profound.” Nodding confidence, her turning smile and Jesus! Turning to look, the swinging door with waiters smoking, laughing and she’s serious for God’s sake, she’s. Quickly I’ll go and have a couple of. Have a beer or something.
“Yesyes, I thought you’d say. Something like that, but still and all you must admit, a prince. A virtuable prince of a man among painters.” Lime green or something walls, the varnished wood: stale air with tables cluttered and aluminum chairs, the snow and stumbling past. Looking to see if she’s rising, ready to go; and at my watch. Blue-grey pickled eggs like testicles in jars or babies stillborn, hopeful with the wind and I’m sure there’s time, if only I could just to my feet and. You can make time.
Lucan’s not your man to be fazed by an inescapable little thing like this; what is life, after all? Nevertheless. A couple of drinks or two would help. Because. Looking for a window, but hah there isn’t one. The sun must be over the yard-arm or wherever and things are really an unholy mess. Beer to freshen me up, that’s the thing, brace the mind and spirit. Good ale does more ha-ha, than Milton can. For my trembling soul. Clean-tasting and a food. Beer’s a food, after all I didn’t have much, as preparation, by way of breakfast and beer is, everyone knows what a particularly nutritious beverage beer is. Yes. Oil, as it were, to ease me through this day.
“He must be forty.”
“Oh no Ann, no! In his early thirties I guess, about Doctor Crackell’s age or something.”
“But he’s never published anything Pat.”
“He’s not quite ready, lots of people are after him you know. But he doesn’t feel he’s ready yet.”
“He still gives those readings in Toronto doesn’t he? And there’s the guy from the C.B.C. who’s always wanting him to read on radio.”
“Sure Willy, that’s right. But he refuses, not yet he says.” A modest little. Sad because they’re not, he knew, very good. About a dog for chrissakes; I could do as well, if it weren’t. “He works all the time, as soon as he gets home from the office he pours himself a glass of sherry wine and, and after writing copy all day too, that’s a terrible job you know, he starts working, right away, on some poem or other. More likely he’s rewriting, reworking an old one.” Admiringly she shakes her head, her pale face with Lucan sitting here and once I thought I’d write. She leans severely. “He must have hundreds. But he’s just not satisfied with them yet.” White, her private smile. For heaven’s sake why can’t you wait until I’m in the mood until the time is right we’ll never have a baby if you force me climb all over me you’re. “I’m telling you Ann, I’ve got to, well you know I’ve learned a lot about him this last year and I’ve got to. Like him. Yes. He’s a very devoted poet. Why . . .” Looking from one to another of us, sliding her eyes past Lucan’s, pausing. Rubbing his forehead quickly, yes, for my damp hand and put it back under the table. What is she, his lover or something? She certainly has black hair. “He won’t stay late at work, you know. Even if it’s something pretty important he, politely but firmly refuses. You know. Tells them to screw off . . . he has this obligation.”
“An obligation worthy of the noble few!” Rising his voice and mock dramatic, silly old. “It is, to my mind, his insatiable thirst that ogres well, an insatiable, one might even say endless, thirst to digest the theory of his Muse. Aaah, but the conversations we’ve had!” Hardly the best (Lucan with chaos just beyond the eyes) of testimonials, talking as they are. “Plato’s castle and the moderns, yes indeed, we’ve discussed the bard.” Poets battling in a coffee house and publication isn’t everything you know. “Argued over a bottle of screech or something more . . .” Raising his fingers. “More salubrious. Oh yes, many’s the night . . .” Gnarled, they’re stained and.
“He’s even lost some jobs because he wouldn’t compromise.” Waiting, they try to hold on with thick and yellow nails, uneven at the edge: indifferent to the table down. Waiting. Hands and their talk of writing, they go on and bloody on with Lucan Crackell relishing, for the moment, his. Disdain’s the only word, for these people and their. Ordi-nary hands that rustle and crablike reach, nobody ever notices hands. A pair for each, a brace of scuttling, suddenly hands that feed, they pander to the body’s needs. Abstracted and obedient. The Hands of Orlac, or the terrible story of the severed hand, revenge-bound servant clutching up the drive and with trembling heart he heard it at the doors, it searched about his house, it grasped a stone, it hurled itself against the glass, bursting in with dumb intent, it lay a moment silent on his floor, waiting: terror-bound, he. Frozen. Heard again the fingers scratching, felt it pulling at his covers as it climbed toward his throat. Boy, that’s a. Pretty good story. Ha! Lucan loosening his tie just for now, relaxing, show them my ease. Before I. Cruel hands of strangers, prying fingers . . .
So soft, trembling as if its heart would break. Un buho. Si. Is you. Regalo, es un regalo.
He says it’s an owl and it’s yours. Heavy returning to his drink: sipping mescal, blowing through his teeth. Then staring blue eyes from his shaggy head. A gift. Un regalo, verdad? Glancing, but he hardly sees them nodding. Seems you’ve made a hit. Sardonic bastard and aloof as Lucan’s three-week admiration grows. Quite a hit with the natives. Sweat commingles around the tiny body, wings and thighs imprisoned: nothing, almost nothing but its warmth and fear.
Muy bonito. Un buho, pero. Free laughter spreading among small men; dark bodies’ odour and their strength. Cuidado! Snapping, pecking with sharp fingers as it lunges, twisting suddenly with open mouth, its eyes. Pica. Such a beautiful and trapped, whoever would have. Boy, these are moments alright! Red tiled roofs, white walls and cool bars with Lucan’s welling soul, yes sir. Search out and isolate the magic drunkenness: remember! Ephemeral mood, your owl; the hands, rough nails that pick harsh music Vera, and the sea. Somehow suspended, yes that’s it, three weeks suspended, unfolding here in the sun like the flowers at my window. You’d have loved this Vera, where are? Pica. Jostling humour they crowd with fingers reaching out to tease the frantic head, the beak, the body’s terror in my hands. Culpa, mea culpa. Blindly Lucan, through them, pushing to the bar. Did I let you, why did you send the money back? Perhaps. To my drink and they’ll leave it, leave it alone!
Gracias, muchas gracias. Thank you, it’s. Bowing uncertainly dark face tipping again beneath the hat, and spittle-white is dropping foam between his feet. Feet and benches’ legs, benches and lockers with their footsteps, the stench and shadows don’t. Lucan Crackell’s turning, don’t for chrissakes, turning as the barman laughing leans to probe, taunting the ice pick handle: stiff hair and blue in neon light. No, don’t. No. But gracias, gracias, how do you say? Helpless bowing again, twisting my arm so it, careful! Smiling gratefully but don’t let it get at my wrist.
Absently smiling, tired. Blind man’s guitar again, random thoughts and the barman’s sagging face. It’s three at least and maybe. Lucan’s glass is, my glass is empty and the owlman, my benefactor drifts away past the fat policeman, rumpled and sleeping. Have another, how do you say? He’d left his third, this fourth or fifth cantina of the night, I didn’t see him go. I didn’t realize until. Incredibly generous people and I feel. Mechanically pouring, the barman fills my glass and Jim’s. Quite moved, touched by; passive the
bird lies now. It’s the gesture and their warmth. Strangely in the laughter, blurringsound, he’d stood. A bundle of feathers in his proffering hand and what, what is it? Un buho. For the gringo sympatico. For me?
So pale they’re brown, the bulbs suspended naked at each corner as we walk; Jim and Lucan in Mexico and this free night. The warmth I feel, but. What can I? Walking. The sound of our feet, Lucan’s searching warmth and admiration for he does so much, he is so. Free. Yet how can I? They’re lucky these people, they can and do. Declare. Men’s arms enfolding men, embracing they declare. The ease, their life’s emotions; no shame. Reaching from the sea, encroaching sand on the cobbles underfoot, our muffled steps: across the street sidling the broken shadows of pariah dogs, and the owl stirs futile in my hand. Wow! To think I’ve met, found already in my new life, I’ve found a friend. Like this. We must be like them, declare to live and that’s the. Truth. Lucan Crackell walking out of London and away. Jim. Bubbling in my chest and throat, exhilaration and my friend. Jim.
Yeah?
Jim, I’ve been thinking, I don’t want to go back to my goddamn thesis. Listen, How can I, how shall I say it Anglo-Saxon to him? Simply. Why, so why don’t we get a place together here? Eager, hopes tremble. You know I, I’ve really. Well we get along, don’t you think? Mottled and tenuous, a ragged cloud is bright before the moon, while shadows scurry in the street. We walk and I’m up from foolishness, my fear. Boy! Why I could, I know I’d be able to finish this novel for sure, you know. And Jim . . .
Don’t, I really don’t know how long. Bearded, his face turns away. I want to stay. With narrowed eyes.
Well, ha, that doesn’t. Where are you going? I mean. Faster, he’s walking much faster and Lucan jumps to keep abreast. It doesn’t have to be here. Does it? We could rent a house or something, couldn’t we? Somewhere. And while you’re painting I. I could work on the book, it would be really good eh, and. Rushing the words to hold, persuade, they tumble out because. You’re it would be fine for me, be fun don’t you think? You’re good for me, because. Drawing inside himself, staring and resolute ahead, I shouldn’t. You know Jim, you know because you’ve done something. From the beach, beyond his house on the corner, ocean’s cool and early morning air. You’re an artist, confident, but. I need assurance, do, not just anyone’s assurance, you know, it has to be. Someone I admire. Faster and faster my voice and his walking, the moon. And I like you, that’s what I’m trying, I’ve gotten to like you here, we’ve. Hands deep-thrust, why he’s. Brittle uncertain Lucan Crackell, for he’s. We’ve had a lot of fun haven’t we? Suddenly, incredibly tired and the drink, I’m tired out of my mind: my legs and drifting this sand. Because he’s, and I should have, must have known. He’s offended.
Shame that comes mnemonic even now, sporadic through years as leaning foreign in that music, drink expanding with my heart, I’d told him Vera, once again I tell him of your flight, my guilt and watching. His watching eyes: self-betrayal as I wooed him; ego hopeful of his condescension and I think, host as I am to parasites, these scars, I think. In retrospect he must have, how could he not have despised me?
After evasive, the awkward pause and goodnight (will be, tomorrow it will be, oh boy, embarrassing and what will we say?) alone with this hopeless staring body, Shame, the shame of my life for this land has prevailed. Crescent beach and the mocking sea with head-bending Lucan Crackell cooing reassurance to the heart that’s beating, promising. Freedom and underarm swinging upwards, releasing the tensions and the unravelling feathers a hectic shadow bumping, bouncing one scrabbling bounce on the sand, the clawing climbing flight that’s lost against the dark forest.
Rub the hand, harsh-rubbing on your trouser’s leg. It’s gone. Hold this shell, press it to your ear as somewhere in that darkness, unremembering, it twists to separate the feathers from your sweat, escape the imprint of your hand. Listen to the sea and hear your life; the echo of your blood, its scornful pressures . . . Doctor Crackell, he’s the one. He should. Assaulting bodies and their hands, the passive terror of a child that running jagged figure weepweep who would not. “You must have seen some of it Doctor Crackell.” Shocked by this sudden attention, what. What do they want?
“Somebody had to.” Rushing words and sure of herself, expansively she stretches white and black. The nerve, the frigging . . . “That is, if he really is doing anything at all.”
“That’s right.”
“Tell us, help us prove.” Insistent, eagerly they ring me, waiting with their eyes. They draw me in. “What kind of stuff is he writing?”
“Is it any good, I mean . . .”
“You must have seen it, somebody must.” Prove to us, help us prove they rudely press and Lucan Crackell cannot find his voice, it squeaks. He stammers:
“No. No, no.” I stammer, “no . . . I’ve heard of course. I’ve heard, but.” Hugh what crap he writes. “But I don’t know. I’ve never seen, actually seen any of it.” What am I, are we doing here? I haven’t felt my owl, not just like that, or heard the sea . . . Oh Lucan-Lucan, on this focusing day, these images, my past, and hopeless chances Vera, down I went a-hunting, down to leave you and my love . . .
“Well even Martin, according to Martin himself that is, even, he, his best friend, you know, and roommate. Never saw . . .” Poor Martin, poor, they sighing eat and drink.
“Obviously then, he’s.” Expanding, thinly expanding as she’s sure, her easing worry. “Not produced any too vast an amount, eh? Hee.” Eyes regard me, mocking with certainty: I cannot meet them. “Not if nobody’s seen.” Brushing black her straight hair, brushing hands, large, with strong and silver nails.
“It won’t be the same.” No it won’t, agreement nodding, smoking. Sipping at their coffee. “Without him.” Reminiscent hope, a wish and. Not for him, good Lord no, ha! Certainly not for him but to show, to spite her. Strong hands and staring eyes, that’s all. Yes. Pretty funny, ha! Lucan amused, shaking head with this smile at the possibility of Felix and. A talent, a real talent and why this hope on my, why should I, what possible reason? He’s such a, an irresponsible and undisciplined person that it’s most unlikely, I’d say. Even to begin with. Hah. No; to make a liar clearly of the girl. That’d be. Nice. I’d like to see her face if, if one day he. And Hugh thinks so, that’s the. I’ve always wondered if perhaps . . . But not Christ, not the way he’s screwing around there now, he’ll have to quit, get out. That’s it, away. Not me. I, jeez, too long, was. Afraid, I . . . Young yes. Got the time alright, if he believes, if he’s. Desperate enough . . .
But that’s absurd! Even with the drinks, the sickness walking from them, even yes I was persuasive. Yes. Hugh’s too much like them, his mistake as I should know. And it’s not. Appropriate. But what if he, Christ! What if he made it?
I heard cruel laughter from that other room, I heard your freedom there. Pride. Fear at hopeful faces, transformed by her caressing hands: her image possessing and I said come up with me Rose, come out and have a drink but no. Not now, later later, for she does not know the wind. In the mirrors, other worlds, and flesh familiar all but mine.
Standing uncertain behind me: her voice in the back stairs as coldly limping, I’ve limped ashamed into this funeral day. Up and embraced by the land I’ve come, as she stoops to tidy, to stuff all that paper back.
One o’clock. Phony mournfulness, selfish bastards, with Susan patient there. Gentle and apparent ease, for they seem like a better, a reasonable group. Not like . . . One o’clock and Lucan seeing her hair, wisps at the neck and ears yet severe in keeping with. An hour, still an hour so there’s time. Felix suddenly, wet hair and chilled, come in, I didn’t see him and I’ll bet he’s had a drink, the. Just seems to appear, he comes, goes as he pleases while here I sit, I. There was lots of time and it’s a good thing. Lucan smiling wisely, it’s certainly fortunate I waited, caution, didn’t rush in there for a drink. Oh! Oswald, yes. Was looking for you, wanted. Wanted to know, Ah. Boyoboy,
you have to think and act with speed, finesse. What the ah, authorities expect of us and didn’t know. Wasn’t sure I’d see you, there’d be time in church. Hoo! Lucan you’re a sly, a fox. “Reasonable about it, trying to find a lawyer. Phoning Windsor or somewhere for a lawyer.” Lucan leaning, what do they?
“Jeez, poor bugger, eh?”
“Has he got money, couldn’t we maybe help . . .” Expectant, what must we do and what do they want.
“Well.” Fingers flexing, rubbing his hands for warmth. “They want you people to go in after the funeral, he’s really. Quite decent. After the funeral, to answer a few questions.” Oh God a watershed, despairing Lucan; I can’t go in, not after. Driving by and everything, they’ll. “He said they’ll just hold on to him until he’s sober.” Stylized with piercing eyes, this ritual of masks and did your father beat you Lucan, did your daddy beat you Crackell listen everyone you newboys listen.
“Well ha I don’t see why they, what we can.” Dignity for heaven’s sake! Your dignity, position control your. Lucan, control your voice! My reasonable voice, considered and my smile. “Surely they don’t need us, you must have explained? We didn’t see ha. Don’t know why but we didn’t see anything. Helpful.” From one to the other, watching this group, I turn and surely they don’t want to. “Did we? There’s nothing we can add. Is there?” And Susan listening there, her face, she understands, she . . .
“We talked about that.” Ignore, avoid the eyes! His moment and standing pause: I’m so calm, icy almost, while. “He insisted, he argued that we’d seen the wreck and we were here in the restaurant too.” Didn’t object too strenuously I’m sure, doubtless you welcomed, sonofabitch, the opportunity to shaft, to screw me oh! “But ah, I. Prevailed so . . .” What what, what’s this? “Persuaded him our car could add nothing to their investigations.” Amazing, this boy, I certainly didn’t expect: “How, I asked, since we didn’t stop, since we didn’t feel there was anything to even interrupt our drive, how can any of us. Be helpful? Eh?” Accusing for me, talking and I do believe he’s trembling slightly, lips and fingers. Soothing through me, settling my stomach and I do feel better, yes. He’s young, young but. Lucan impressed, impressive yes. Not so, well he’s better than, oh God yes, all these others yes, my warmth. Or something. Lucan touched for the boy’s not bad, and anyway I’m not so small a man as to be worried by arrogance, selfishness, not when I. Perceive, see the good ah, the. Well. The hope that’s mired in his youth. Entertainment for them, but Lucan Crackell’s reasonable, an eminently ah, considered man. Yes, For if I’d been forced to. Jeez uncertain, needing to please, explain from guilt, why didn’t we stop? Oh boy. Ha this relief and revolt, in the young is understandable; he did take the drunk, kindly, so much kinder to him as he took him back. Than these.
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