by John Fante
But she wasn’t. She was only nervous. I could see I frightened her. I tried to be nicer, for I didn’t want to scare her away. It was in those early days when I still had a bit of money. “Do you like ice cream?” I said. “Would you like me to get you a milk nickel or something?”
“I can’t stay,” she said. “Mother will get angry.”
“Do you live here?” I said. “Did your mother read the story too? What’s your name?” I smiled proudly. “Of course you already know my name,” I said. “I’m Arturo Bandini.”
“Oh, yes!” she breathed, and her eyes widened with such admiration I wanted to throw myself at her feet and weep. I could feel it in my throat, the ticklish impulse to start sobbing.
“Are you sure you won’t have some ice cream?”
She had such beautiful manners, sitting there with her pink chin tilted, her tiny hands clinging to the magazine. “No thank you, Mr. Bandini.”
“How about a Coke?” I said.
“Thank you,” she smiled. “No.”
“Root beer?”
“No, if you please. Thank you.”
“What’s your name?” I said. “Mine’s—” but I stopped in time.
“Judy,” she said.
“Judy!” I said, over and over. “Judy, Judy! It’s wonderful!” I said. “It’s like the name of a star. It’s the most beautiful name I ever heard!”
“Thank you!” she said.
I opened the dresser drawer containing copies of my story. It was still wellstocked, some fifteen remaining. “I’m going to give you a clean copy,” I told her. “And I’m going to autograph it. Something nice, something extra special!”
Her face colored with delight. This little girl was not joking; she was really thrilled, and her joy was like cool water running down my face. “I’m going to give you two copies,” I said. “And I’m going to autograph both of them!”
“You’re such a nice man,” she said. She was studying me as I opened an ink bottle. “I could tell by your story.”
“I’m not a man,” I said. “I’m not much older than you, Judy.” I didn’t want to be old before her. I wanted to cut it down as much as possible. “I’m only eighteen,” I lied.
“Is that all?” she was astonished.
“Be nineteen in a couple of months.”
I wrote something special in both the magazines. I don’t remember the words but it was good, what I wrote, it came from my heart because I was so grateful. But I wanted more, to hear her voice that was so small and breathless, to keep her there in my room as long as I could.
“You would do me a great honor,” I said. “You would make me terribly happy, Judy, if you’d read my story out loud to me. It’s never happened, and I’d like to hear it.”
“I’d love to read it!” she said, and she sat erect, rigid with eagerness. I threw myself on the bed, buried my face in the pillow, and the little girl read my story with a soft sweet voice that had me weeping at the first hundred words. It was like a dream, the voice of an angel filling the room, and in a little while she was sobbing too, interrupting her reading now and then with gulps and chokes, and protesting. “I can’t read anymore,” she would say, “I can’t.” And I would turn over and beseech her: “But you’ve got to, Judy. Oh, you got to!”
As we reached the high point of our emotion, a tall, bitter-mouthed woman suddenly entered the room without knocking. I knew it was Judy’s mother. Her fierce eyes studied me, and then Judy. Without a word she took Judy’s hand and led her away. The little girl clutched the magazines to her thin breast, and over her shoulder she blinked a tearful goodbye. She had come and gone as quickly as that, and I never saw her again. It was a mystery to the landlady too, for they had arrived and departed that very day, not even staying over night.
Chapter Eight
There was a letter from Hackmuth in my box. I knew it was from Hackmuth. I could tell a Hackmuth letter a mile away. I could feel a Hackmuth letter, and it felt like an icicle sliding down my spine. Mrs. Hargraves handed the letter to me. I grabbed it out of her hand.
“Good news?” she said, because I owed her so much rent. “You never can tell,” I said. “But it’s from a great man. He could send blank pages, and it would be good news to me.”
But I knew it wasn’t good news in the sense that Mrs. Hargraves meant it, for I hadn’t sent mighty Hackmuth a story. This was merely the answer to my long letter of a few days ago. He was very prompt, that Hackmuth. He dazzled you with his speed. You no sooner dropped a letter in the mail box down on the corner, and when you got back to the hotel, there was his answer. Ah me, but his letters were so brief. A forty page letter, and he replied in one small paragraph. But that was fine in its way, because his replies were easier to memorize and know by heart. He had a way, that Hackmuth; he had a style; he had so much to give, even his commas and semi-colons had a way of dancing up and down. I used to tear the stamps off his envelopes, peel them off gently, to see what was under them.
I sat on the bed and opened the letter. It was another brief message, no more than fifty words. It said:
Dear Mr. Bandini,
With your permission I shall remove the salutation and ending of your long letter and print it as a short story for my magazine. It seems to me you have done a fine job here. I think “The Long Lost Hills” would serve as an excellent title. My check is enclosed.
Sincerely yours,
J. C. Hackmuth.
The letter slipped from my fingers and zigzagged to the floor. I stood up and looked in the mirror. My mouth was wide open. I walked to Hackmuth’s picture on the opposite wall and put my fingers on the firm face that looked out at me. I picked the letter up and read it again. I opened the window, climbed out, and lay in the bright hillside grass. My fingers clawed the grass. I rolled upon my stomach, sank my mouth into the earth, and pulled the grass roots with my teeth. Then I started to cry. Oh God, Hackmuth! How can you he such a wonderful man? How is it possible? I climbed back to my room and found the check inside the envelope. It was $175. I was a rich man once more. $175! Arturo Bandini, author of The Little Dog Laughed and The Long Lost Hills.
I stood before the mirror once more, shaking my fist defiantly. Here I am, folks. Take a look at a great writer! Notice my eyes, folks. The eyes of a great writer. Notice my jaw, folks. The jaw of a great writer. Look at those hands, folks. The hands that created The Little Dog Laughed and The Long Lost Hills. I pointed my index finger savagely. And as for you, Camilla Lopez, I want to see you tonight. I want to talk to you, Camilla Lopez. And I warn you, Camilla Lopez, remember that you stand before none other than Arturo Bandini, the writer. Remember that, if you please.
Mrs. Hargraves cashed the check. I paid my back rent and two months’ rent in advance. She wrote out a receipt for the full amount. I waved it aside. “Please,” I said. “Don’t bother, Mrs. Hargraves. I trust you completely.” She insisted. I put the receipt in my pocket. Then I laid an extra five dollars on the desk. “For you, Mrs. Hargraves. Because you’ve been so nice.” She refused it. She pushed it back. “Ridiculous!” she said. But I wouldn’t take it. I walked out and she hurried after me, chased me into the street.
“Mr. Bandini, I insist you take this money.”
Pooh, a mere five dollars, a trifle. I shook my head. “Mrs. Hargraves, I absolutely refuse to take it.” We haggled, stood in the middle of the sidewalk under the hot sun and argued. She was adamant. She begged me to take it back. I smiled quietly. “No, Mrs. Hargraves, I’m sorry. I never change my mind.”
She walked away, pale with anger, holding the five dollar bill between her fingers as though she were carrying a dead mouse. I shook my head. Five dollars! A pittance as far as Arturo Bandini, author of numerous stories for J. C. Hackmuth, was concerned.
I walked downtown, fought my way through the hot cramped streets to The May Company basement. It was the finest suit of clothes I ever bought, a brown pin-stripe with two pairs of pants. Now I could be well dressed at all times. I bought two
-tone brown and white shoes, a lot of shirts and a lot of socks, and a hat. My first hat, dark brown, real felt with a white silk lining. The pants had to be altered. I told them to hurry. It was done in a little while. I changed behind a curtain stall, put on everything new, with the hat to top it off. The clerk wrapped my old clothes in a box. I didn’t want them. I told him to call up the Salvation Army, to give them away, and to deliver the other purchases to my hotel. On the way out I bought a pair of sunglasses. I spent the rest of the afternoon buying things, killing time. I bought cigarets, candy and candied fruit. I bought two reams of expensive paper, rubber bands, paper clips, note pads, a small filing cabinet, and a gadget for punching holes in paper. I also bought a cheap watch, a bed lamp, a comb, toothbrushes, tooth paste, hair lotion, shaving cream, skin lotion, and a first aid kit. I stopped at a tie shop and bought ties, a new belt, a watch chain, handkerchiefs, bathrobe and bedroom slippers. Evening came, and I couldn’t carry any more. I called a taxi and rode home.
I was very tired. Sweat soaked through my new suit, and crawled down my leg to my ankles. But this was fun. I took a bath, rubbed the lotion into my skin, and washed my teeth with the new brush and paste. Then I shaved with the new cream and doused my hair with the lotion. For a while I sat around in my bedroom slippers and bathrobe, put away my new paper and gadgets, smoked good, fresh cigarets and ate candy.
The deliveryman from The May Company brought the rest of my purchases in a big box. I opened it and found not only the new stuff but also my old clothes. These I tossed into the wastebasket. Now it was time to dress again. I got into a pair of new shorts, a brand new shirt, socks, and the other pair of pants. Then I put on a tie and my new shoes. Standing at the mirror, I tilted my hat over on eye, and examined myself. The image in the glass seemed only vaguely familiar. I didn’t like my new tie, so I took off my coat and tried another. I didn’t like the change either. All at once everything began to irritate me. The stiff collar was strangling me. The shoes pinched my feet. The pants smelled like a clothing store basement and were too tight in the crotch. Sweat broke out at my temples where the hat band squeezed my skull. Suddenly I began to itch, and when I moved everything crackled like a paper sack. My nostrils picked up the powerful stench of lotions, and I grimaced. Mother in Heaven, what had happened to the old Bandini, author of The Little Dog Laughed? Could this hog-tied, strangling buffoon be the creator of The Long Lost Hills? I pulled everything off, washed the smells out of my hair, and climbed into my old clothes. They were very glad to have me again; they clung to me with cool delight, and my tormented feet slipped into the old shoes as into the softness of Spring grass.
Chapter Nine
I rode down to the Columbia Buffet in a taxi. The driver wheeled to the curb directly in front of the open door. I got out and handed him a twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have the change. I was glad because when I finally found a smaller bill and paid him off, there was Camilla standing in the door. Very few taxis stopped before the Columbia Buffet. I nodded casually to Camilla and walked in and sat at the first table. I was reading Hackmuth’s letter when she spoke.
“Are you mad at me?” she said.
“Not that I know of,” I said.
She put her hands behind her and looked down at her feet. “Don’t I look different?”
She was wearing new white pumps, with high heels.
“They’re very nice,” I said, turning to Hackmuth’s letter once more. She watched me with a pout. I glanced up and winked. “Excuse me,” I said. “Business.”
“You want to order anything?”
“A cigar,” I said. “Something expensive from Havana.” She brought the box. I took one.
“They’re expensive,” she said. “A quarter.”
I smiled and gave her a dollar.
“Keep the change.”
She refused the tip.
“Not from you,” she said. “You’re poor.”
“I used to be,” I said. I lit the cigar, let the smoke tumble out of my mouth as I leaned far back and stared at the ceiling. “Not a bad cigar for the money,” I said.
The female musicians in the rear were hacking out Over the Waves. I made a face and pushed the change from the cigar toward Camilla. “Tell them to play Strauss,” I said. “Something Viennese.”
She picked up a quarter, but I made her take it all. The musicians were aghast. Camilla pointed at me. They waved and beamed. I nodded with dignity. They plunged into Tales from the Vienna Woods. The new shoes were hurting Camilla’s feet. She didn’t have her old sparkle. She winced as she walked, gritted her teeth.
“You want a beer?” she asked.
“I want a Scotch highball,” I said. “St. James.”
She discussed it with the bartender, then came back. “We don’t have St. James. We have Ballantine’s, though. It’s expensive. Forty cents.”
I ordered one for myself and one each for the two bartenders. “You shouldn’t spend your money like that,” she said. I acknowledged the toast from the two bartenders, and then I sipped my highball. I screwed up my face.
“Rotgut,” I said.
She stood with her hands stuffed inside her pockets.
“I thought you’d like my new shoes,” she said.
I had resumed the reading of Hackmuth’s letter.
“They seem all right,” I said.
She limped away to a table just vacated and began picking up empty beer mugs. She was hurt, her face long and sad. I sipped the highball and went on reading and rereading Hackmuth’s letter. In a little while she returned to my table.
“You’ve changed,” she said. “You’re different. I liked you better the other way.”
I smiled and patted her hand. It was warm, sleek, brown, with long fingers. “Little Mexican princess,” I said. “You’re so charming, so innocent.”
She jerked her hand away and her face lost color.
“I’m not a Mexican!” she said. “I’m an American.”
I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “To me you’ll always be a sweet little peon. A flower girl from old Mexico.”
“You dago sonofabitch!” she said.
It blinded me, but I went on smiling. She stomped away, the shoes hurting her, restraining her angry legs. I was sick inside, and my smile felt as though tacks held it there. She was at a table near the musicians, wiping it off, her arm churning furiously, her face like a dark flame. When she looked at me the hatred out of her eyes bolted across the room. Hackmuth’s letter no longer interested me. I stuffed it into my pocket and sat with my head down. It was an old feeling, and I traced it back and remembered that it was a feeling I had the first time I sat in the place. She disappeared behind the partition. When she returned she moved gracefully, her feet quick and sure. She had taken off the white shoes and put on the old huaraches.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No,” I said. “It’s my fault, Camilla.”
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
“You were alright. It was my fault.”
I looked down at her feet.
“Those white shoes were so beautiful. You have such lovely legs and they fitted so perfectly.”
She put her fingers through my hair, and the warmth of her pleasure poured through them, and through me, and my throat was hot, and a deep happiness seeped through my flesh. She went behind the partition and emerged wearing the white shoes. The little muscles in her jaws contracted as she walked, but she smiled bravely. I watched her at work, and the sight of her lifted me, a buoyancy like oil upon water. After a while she asked me if I had a car. I told her I didn’t. She said she had one, it was in the parking lot next door, and she described her car, and we arranged to meet in the parking lot and then drive out to the beach. As I got up to leave the tall bartender with the white face looked at me with what seemed the faintest trace of a leer. I walked out, ignoring it.
Her car was a 1929 Ford roadster with horsehair bursting from upholstery, battered fenders and n
o top. I sat in it and fooled with the gadgets. I looked at the owner’s certificate. It was made out to Camilla Lombard, not Camilla Lopez.
She was with somebody when she entered the lot, but I couldn’t see who it was because it was so dark, no moonlight and a thin web of fog. Then they came closer, and it was the tall bartender. She introduced him, his name was Sammy, and he was quiet and not interested. We drove him home, down Spring Street to First and over the railroad tracks to a black neighborhood that picked up the sounds of the rattling Ford and threw the echoes over an area of dirty frame houses and tired picket fences. He got out at a place where a dying pepper tree had spilled its brown leaves over the ground, and when he walked to the porch you could hear his feet wading through the hissing dead leaves.
“Who is he?” I said.
He was just a friend, she said, and she didn’t want to talk about him, but she was worried about him; her face assumed that solicitous cast one gets from concern over a sick friend. This worried me, made me jealous all at once, and I kept after her with little questions, and the drawling way she answered made it worse. We went back over the tracks and through the downtown section. She would go right through a stop signal if no cars were around, and when anyone got in her way she would smash her palm on the squealing horn and hold it there. The sound rose like a cry of help through the canyons of buildings. She kept doing this, no matter whether she needed it or not. I cautioned her once, but she ignored it.
“I’m driving this car,” she said.
We got to Wilshire where the traffic was regulated to a minimum of thirty-five. The Ford couldn’t travel that fast, but she clung to the middle lane and big fast cars shot around us. They infuriated her and she shook her fist and cursed them. After a mile she complained about her feet and asked me to hold the wheel. As I did it she reached down and took off her shoes. Then she took the wheel again and threw one foot over the side of the Ford. At once her dress ballooned out, spanked her face. She tucked it under herself, but even so her brown thighs were exposed even to a pinkish underthing. It drew a lot of attention. Motorists shot by, pulled up short, and heads came out of windows to observe her brown naked leg. It made her angry. She took to shouting at the spectators, yelling that they ought to mind their own business. I sat at her side, slouched down, trying to enjoy a cigaret that burned too hotly in the rush of wind.