Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me (34 page)

Out on deck the music and din were lost on the warm seawinds and he walked off his agitation during twenty laps around the smokestack. He was finally able to slow down enough to pause at the railing and watch a school of flying fish. They broke the surface at the hull and skipped away toward the stern like flat-backed stones. Phosphorescent amoebas swirled in their wake, tropical perfumes blew. Now and then a porpoise loomed out of the depths, shot steam through its blowhole, arched, and vanished.

He thought of Heffalump. Enterprising little maniac, chip off the old Greek block. But Mrs. Mojo he still couldn’t accept. And then there was old Oeuf. Finger in every insidious pie, clapping hands, getting what he
wants. Clap, bring me Lairville; Clap, bring me Pankhurst’s head; Clap, bring me—

Wait.

In a comic strip the light would have gone on over his head, emitting little wavy lines of illumination. But while he was standing there with one hand on the railing, the bulb shattered somewhere between his eyes. He closed them quickly. There was a palpebral singe against his pupils and the feeling that the rest of his body was a corpuscular complex of plastique and TNT.

Clap.

He tried it under his breath, softly.

He whispered it aloud to another school of flying fish. They flashed their fins and dove.

He spoke it to the sky, and the stars for answer blinked.

Clap.

He pulled the baseball cap down around his ears, folded his arms across his stomach, and tried to disappear. Say the magic formula, blend with the nautical woodwork, who would ever know? He spun around in a slow circle and again began walking, this time slowly, with great care, measuring the intensity of sensation in his groin. Drip-drop, drip-drop, there was no denying the appalling symptom. He paused while two Cubans with Zapata mustaches strolled past. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly and said, “Clap, right?”

“
Salud
,” they smiled together.

Jump, came the sinister suggestion at the bow.

Jump, this time at the stern. Propeller stew.

Jump, on the port side. Lead belaying pins to help you down.

Jump, on starboard, maybe porpoises eat Greek.

In his next incarnation he might be Oeuf and everything would come out even.

He was inspired to court the abyss. He climbed over the railing and crawled out on the metal lip that had nothing beneath it but the sea. Salt crackled under his boots, wind blew through his ears. He had only to straighten his protectively bent knees, let go with his hands, and lean backward.

He stayed there for almost an entire hour, chilling slowly, trying to anaesthetize the insistent pain. Finally Heffalump and Aquavitus stepped out of the ballroom for air, exchanged some kind of envelope, and shook hands. Gnossos watched them part about twenty yards away, then Heff began strolling in the opposite direction. What the hell, man, little audience never hurt anybody, call him.

“Pssst.”

He failed to hear.

“PSSSSST!”

“What?”

“Heff?”

“Who’s there?”

“Over here.”

“Paps, that you?”

“Over here, man.”

“I can’t see you, where are you?”

“Off the deep end, baby, dig me.”

Heff gasped and went rigid. “Paps, holy shit!”

“Dig me, Heff, it’s all over. Wheeee.”

“Get off that thing. You want to get killed? How’d you get out there?”

“All over, man, drip-drop.”

“What the hell are you doing anyway?” He started forward to help but Gnossos’ voice interrupted.

“Stay there!”

Heff looked around the deck. There was no one to help. “What are you doing, man?”

“Don’t come near me. Drip-drop. Wheee.”

“What’s wrong, anyway? You drunk, Paps?”

“Diseased is all, dig me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Syphilis, man. Leprosy, general paresis.”

“Come on over on this side, I’ll buy you a drink. You want another martini?”

“I’m dosed, baby. Clap, if you dig. Look, one hand.”

“Paps, cut that out, man. What are you doing, for Christ’s sake?”

“I’ve got Oeuf’s clap, baby. Drip-drop right out of my joint. Cramps, the whole scene. Stay back, come near me and I hit the pool.”

“Oeuf’s clap, are you serious or what? How could you get Oeuf’s clap? Come here, why don’t you, Giacomo gave me some of the mixture.”

“It’s a long story, man. Wheeee.”

“You didn’t catch it from Oeuf, for Christ’s sake?”

“Not directly, right? Dig me, baby, I’m dripping to death.”

“Hey, man, come on back here and let’s talk about it. There’s evil things swimming out there.”

“They wouldn’t come
near
me, man, I’ve got leprosy. Goodbye, baby.”

“Hey, Paps, cut that shit, will you? What’s wrong, you’ve really got Oeuf’s clap? How’d you like some nice Mexican grass?”

“I got it all right; boy, do I have it. Right through the hole in the old Trojan, zippo-bang.”

“What did you say, man? I can’t hear you in this goddamned wind.”

A number of tourists had gathered around Heff and were murmuring suggestions, some of them fixing flashbulbs in their cameras.

“Goodbye, man, tell them I sank like a lamppost.”

Jack, Judy Lumpers, and Juan Carlos joined the growing crowd and stared incredulously while the flashbulbs began going off and people snickered.

“God,” said Lumpers. “What’s Gnossos doing now?”

“He’s got Oeuf’s clap.”

“How groovy,” from Jack.

Gnossos studied the rushing water for a brief instant, then tried balancing while letting go with both hands. When he looked back, Juan Carlos, all-purpose master of passionate bravado, had dashed out of the crowd like Speedy Gonzales and was now holding him under the arms and dragging him to safety.

“Noooo!” he bellowed, “get out of here!”

“You are my leader,” from Rosenbloom, dodging fists, sitting on his chest.

“Get his hands,” said Heff, pinning down the thrashing knees.

“What’s he screaming about, anyway?” asked Judy. More flashbulbs went off.

“Yaws!” yelled Gnossos, “pellagra!”

“You must survive,” said Rosenbloom, using leverage.

“Oh, Thanatos baby, kiss my wicked tongue.”

In the morning the S.S.
Florida
made her way at walking speed past the shell-pocked Morro Castle into Havana Harbor. In the cavity of Gnossos’ soul was a soggy depression. The others sensed it and left him alone, except for Juan Carlos, who never strayed far. Together they watched the men and boys who’d swum out to dive for American coins. One of them was slower and weaker than the others and when Gnossos tossed a silver dollar it hit him on the head.

On the pier they were met by a maraca band in festooned shirtsleeves. A smell of saffron and fried bananas everywhere, roast pork, chicken, garlic, paella, chorizos, peppers sizzling in oil. But Gnossos held his nose. He brooded on the gonococcic pus that trickled through his stomach, and the very thought of food made him gag. Pictures of Kristin and Oeuf
formed in his mind’s eye, unspeakably lewd intimacies, sadistic positions. He wanted to beat the living shit out of her. But guitars strummed, claves clacked, flutes trembled, and he planned a more terrible retribution.

In the taxi the driver informed them that their hotel was in colonial Havana, but safe. Bags were strapped onto the roof, windows were rolled down, and Gnossos rode in front, staring at landmarks and bodegas. Automatic weapons pumped nervously from the distance but no one seemed to mind. When they stopped for a light along the seawall, swarms of undersized children climbed over the cab. They wiped the windshield free of spray, polished the chrome, cleaned the headlights, and yelled words in English: “Lucky Strike,” from one. “Hooray, Eisenhower,” from another. The light changed and they crowded in front of the grille. The driver spoke to Juan Carlos in Spanish. He wore a hat with gold braid and a silver eagle.

“He say, if we don’t tip the kids, they stay there.”

“God,” said Judy Lumpers. “I mean, if they
stay
there, how will we get to the hotel?”

The driver put the car into gear and again spoke to Rosenbloom.

“He say he is obliged to run them over.”

Gnossos scattered silver dollars out his window and they drove on. But there were swarms of children waiting at each of the lights and when they got to Calle O’Reilly he had no more money at all.

“You mean, you’re entirely out of bread, is that what you mean?” Heff was searching through the rucksack while the others untied the bags.

“Don’t bug me, baby, I’ve got credit. I feel it coming.”

The Calle O’Reilly was narrow and cobbled, free of tourists. At the end of the street was an open square with an adobe church that looked like the Alamo. There were palm trees and mimosa, but Gnossos dreamed dreams of blitzkrieg vendetta.

Their hotel was called Casa Hilda and they shared what Hilda herself called the Penthouse, a large room with three double beds. It opened on a balcony overlooking the square, but Gnossos locked himself in the bathroom.

“Come out,” they pleaded, “we’ll find some penicilin.”

He sat in the tub and plugged fingers in his ears. Later, when everyone had finally decided to explore the city and trust him to the fates, he sent down for a bottle of dark Bacardi, a bowl of icecubes, sugar, and half a dozen limes, all to ease the pain.

He was half finished with the bottle, just getting a rolling buzz, when an unsalutary thought of wet diapers came bubbling back through childhood memories. He went to the tiled balcony, made a miniature funeral pyre, and burned his saturated underpants. From hotel towels he improvised absorbent pads.

When the bottle was gone, he rolled paregoric Pall Malls, dried them in the afternoon sun, went to bed, and watched the cracks in the old foreign ceiling. But as he expected they had very little to say.

The lymphatic grottos of Limbo.

For three days he stayed in bed, serving a self-imposed penance, rising only to change absorbent pads. He burned the old ones, yellow and fetid, and tried to keep his bladder clean. The pains, excruciating and caustic, were too severe to coax, so he drank no more. Instead he watched the ceiling, ate fatty links of chorizo, and wondered occasionally what had become of his Immunity. There was also the continuing spatter of gunfire for diversion. Small arms in the morning, machine guns in the afternoon, tiny bombs at cocktail hour. After the bombs he listened for the flat echo of wings, pigeons frightened half to death by the shudder in the air. Dust blew through the window.

Near the end of the seventy-second hour he rolled over and found a damp oval on his pillow, reminder of his open-mouthed night. The sallow bag of doom, spilling over. With a stubby pencil he scratched above his bed:

A plastic sack, twisted at the ends and sealed
.

Yet we can set small cells to gnaw
,

to tear and puncture of our own accord
.

“Handwriting on the wall?”

Jack was standing in the doorway, smiling.

“Not really, man, more on our foreheads. People need mirrors is where it’s at.”

“It’d get all backward. What about you? Incubation period up?”

“I guess so, any minute now. C’mere and comfort my decaying frame. Where’s Heff?”

She was wearing khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a black beret. “He says for you to meet him in the square if you’re ready to face the world. We
found this groovy little bodega, full of absinthe. Did you know they still make it right here in Havana?” She tossed him his boy scout shirt. “You’ll turn into a cauliflower or something, just lying around like that.”

“No more drinks. Got to avoid liquids.”

“Why the hell don’t you see a doctor? Juan says two injections do the trick. Hey, you ought to dig Juan, he’s really in his element.”

“Not the Oeuf genus of clap, sweetheart, it’s way ahead of penicillin. Anyhow, I want to wait for Athené. What day is it?”

“Wednesday, believe it or not.” She was adjusting her beret and stepping into sandals. “You’ve been in bed three days, about time to rise from the tomb.”

“Nobody to roll the stone away, baby, where’d you say Heff was?” Gnossos sitting up dizzily, unshaven, looking around him, Jack helping, smoothing the hair back over his ears.

“You can see him from the balcony. You want your baseball cap?”

He splashed cold, sulfurous-smelling water on his face as she held the cut-up towel. “I burned it, man, it’s the end of an era.”

“The baseball cap? Oh, Paps.”

“Used it for kindling, man, scattered the ashes, zippo-bang, all gone. What’s happening with you guys, anyway? Heff found the Buddha?”

“He’s been doing a lot of creeping around on his own, for that Mafia guy, I think. We’re really rolling in bread, he probably wants to talk to you about it.”

He paused while twisting a towel corner into an ear. “He’s going through with it?”

“Tomorrow, in fact. It’s all pretty exciting. I think I’m going with him.”

“To the mountains, man?”

“Why not?” She was on the balcony now, looking over the tops of the buildings, toward the harbor. “There’s a whole lot happening.”

“Jesus, man, there must be.”

Embarrassed, she smoothed her polo shirt and shuffled her feet. “It’s a little bit spooky too.”

He crossed the room, not wanting to sow any more doubt seeds, and kissed her softly on the forehead while she made a face. “You’re stepping out is all.”

“Mostly, I’m sick of school.”

“Just don’t look back, you’ll turn into salt, something terrible like a fire hydrant.”

“No promises, okay? I might need to peek now and again.”

“Right, no promises. How do I look?”

“Shitty, you need a shave. Hurry up, why don’t you, he’s waiting down there.”

He paused at the door, watching her sort out her baggage on the bed. Maniac little dyke, who knows her, anyway? “Hey, man—”

She looked up and he had the feeling she was waiting for him to leave so she could sit down and cry. “What, Paps?”

“Nothing. Shit, it’s on the wall now, anyway.”

They chewed stalks of sugar cane, lounged in the shade, and watched the people going by. The kids from the seawall, who had apparently fallen in love with Gnossos and his silver dollars, were waiting across the square, where they seemed to have been for some time. Heff talked with his hands, laughed excitedly, snapped his fingers, jumped up, and down flashed his new bankroll. “Six months, man, that’s how they figure. A full- scale offensive by the New Year, do you dig what I’m saying at all? You’ve got to make it with us.”