City (12 page)

“Hi, Shatzy.”

“Hi.”

The door was half open, and light came in from the hall. Gould closed his eyes.

“Something occurred to me,” said Shatzy.

“. . .”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“Something occurred to me.”

She was silent for a moment. Maybe she was searching for the words. She was biting the pen, you could hear the sound of the plastic, and a sound like a straw. Then she started talking again.

“Here's what I thought. You know what a trailer is?, you attach it to a car, a trailer, you know?”

“Yes.”

“Trailers have always made me horribly sad, I don't know why, but when you pass them on the highway you feel a terrific sadness, they're always moving slowly, with the father in the car, staring straight ahead, and everyone's passing him, and he's got the trailer attached, so the back of the car's a little lower than the front, it slopes, kind of like an old lady with an enormous shopping bag, who walks bent over, and so slowly that everyone passes her. It's incredibly sad. But also it's something you can't help looking at, I mean, while you're passing it, you always give it a glance, you
have
to, even if you know it's going to be sad, no kidding, you turn and look, every time. And if you think about it, the truth is that there's something that attracts you about something like that, about the trailer, if you dig and dig, under all those layers of sadness, finally you reach an intuition that there's something that, ultimately, attracts you, something that's been hidden, as if it wanted to become more
precious,
in a way, something that you would
like,
but like seriously, only if you had to discover it. See what I mean?”

“More or less.”

“I've been following this notion for years.”

Gould pulled the covers up a little, it was quite cold. Shatzy wrapped her bare feet in a sweater.

“You know what? It's kind of like oysters. I would really like to eat them, it's wonderful to see them being eaten, but I've always been revolted by them, there's nothing to do about it, they remind me of catarrh, you know?”

“Yes.”

“How can you eat them if they remind you of catarrh?”

“You can't.”

“Exactly. You can't. It's the same thing with trailers.”

“They remind you of catarrh?”

“What does that have to do with it? They don't remind me of catarrh, but they make me sad, you see? I've never been able to find a reason, not the ghost of a reason, to think God, how nice it would be to have a trailer.”

“Yes.”

“For years I've thought about it and I've never found a shred of a good reason.”

Silence.

Silence.

“You know something, Gould?”

“No.”

“Yesterday I found one.”

“A good reason?”

“I found a reason. A good one.”

Gould opened his eyes.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Shatzy turned toward Gould, rested her elbows on the bed and leaned over him until she looked him in the eyes, close up. Then she said:

“Diesel.”

“Diesel?”

“Yes. Diesel.”

“Why?”

“You know that stuff you told me? About how he would like to see the world but he can't get on a train, or a bus, there's no way for him to fit, and he won't get in a car, all that. You told me yourself.”

“Yes.”

“A trailer, Gould. A trailer.”

Gould pulled himself up a little in the bed.

“What do you mean, Shatzy?”

“I mean that we're going to see the world, Gould.”

Gould smiled.

“You're nuts.”

“No.
I'm
not, Gould.”

Gould went back down a little, under the covers. He stayed there thinking about it, in silence.

“You think Diesel would fit, in a trailer?”

“Guaranteed. He sits in the back, and if he wants he can lie down, and we take him on a trip. He'd have his house, and he'd go wherever he wants.”

“He'd like that.”

“Of course he'd like it.”

“It's something he'd like.”

It was quite cold. There was the light coming through the doorway, and nothing else. Every so often a car went by in the street. If you wanted to, you could hear it: ask yourself where it was going at that hour, and embroider a lot of stories around it. Shatzy looked at Gould.

“We'd have our house and we'd go where we like.”

Gould closed his eyes. He thought of a trailer he'd seen in an animated cartoon, it went like a crazy person along a street hanging over nothing, it went like a lunatic, skidding in all directions, it always seemed about to fall over the edge, but it never did, and meanwhile, inside, everyone was eating, and they were in their house; the trailer was small, but it held them all like a hand that holds a little animal without crushing it, and carried them around. The fact that someone had to drive the car had been forgotten, so they were all in there eating, and they were surrounded by something like happiness, but it was something more, a splendid
ridiculous
happiness. He opened his eyes again.

“Who would drive?”

“Me.”

“And who would buy the trailer?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“Me, of course. I've got some money.”

“A lot?”

“Some.”

“A trailer costs a lot.”

“You're joking. They ought to pay you, to buy a trailer.”

“I don't think they think that.”

“Well, they should.”

“They won't.”

“So then we'll pay.”

“I have some money, too.”

“See? There's no problem.”

“There must be one that doesn't cost much, don't you think?”

“Of course there is. You think that in this whole damn country there isn't a trailer that costs exactly the amount of money we have in our pockets?”

“It would be dumb.”

“It would be unbelievable.”

“Really.”

They both had highways in their eyes, and highways, and highways.

“Let's go see the world, Gould. Enough of this babble.”

Her voice was light and happy. Then she got up. Her feet were tangled in the sweater. She untwisted it somehow and stood there, next to the bed. Gould looked at her. Then what she did was she leaned over him, slowly came closer, rested her lips on his just for an instant, and remained standing there, looking at him from very close. He pulled one hand out from under the covers, placed it in Shatzy's hair, sat up a little, kissed her in the corner of her mouth and then right on the lips, first softly and then hard, with his eyes closed.

17

In September 1988, eight months after the death of Mami Jane, CRB decided to suspend publication of the adventures of Ballon Mac, the superhero dentist. Sales had continued to fall with surprising regularity, and even the decision to introduce a female character who frequently revealed her breasts had proved to be ineffectual. In the final issue, Ballon Mac left for a distant planet promising himself and his readers that “one bright day in a better tomorrow” he would return. “Amen,” Franz Forte, the business manager of CRB, had remarked, with satisfaction. Diesel and Poomerang bought a hundred and eleven copies of the last issue. For months they devoted themselves, methodically and despite the dubious quality of the paper, to the task of wiping their bottoms, whenever necessary, with a page from the magazine. They then folded the page in fourths, very carefully, and sent it to Franz Forte, Business Office, CRB. Since they used envelopes taken from hotels, government offices, sports clubs, it was impossible for Franz Forte's secretary to identify them before they arrived on the boss's desk. He resigned himself to opening the mail, every day, with a certain circumspection.

Gould had his fourteenth birthday. Shatzy took everyone out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant. There was a family at the next table: father, mother and small daughter. The daughter's name was Melania. The father took it into his head to teach her to use chopsticks. He had a somewhat nasal voice.

“Hold the chopstick in your hand . . . like this . . . first just one, sweetheart, hold it tight, see?, you have to squeeze it between your thumb and your middle finger, not like that, watch . . . Melania, watch Daddy, you have to hold it like this, there, good, now squeeze it a little, not so much, you only have to hold it . . . Melania, look at Daddy, between the thumb and the middle, see, like this, no, which is the middle, Melania?, this is the middle finger, sweetheart . . .”

“Why don't you leave her alone?” the wife said at that point. She said it without raising her eyes from her soup: abalone and soybean sprouts. She had dyed red hair and a yellow shirt with shoulder pads. Her husband went on as if no one had said a word.

“Melania, look at me, look at Daddy, sit down, and take the chopstick, come on, like this . . . there, see how easy it is, there are millions of children in China and you don't think
they
make all this fuss . . . now take the other one, MELANIA, sit up straight, look how Daddy does it, one stick and then the other, in your hand, come on . . .”

“Leave her alone.”

“I'm teaching her . . .”

“Can't you see she's hungry?”

“She'll eat when she learns.”

“It will be cold by the time she learns.”

“FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, I'M HER FATHER, I CAN . . .”

“Don't shout.”

“I'm her father and I have the obligation to teach her something, seeing that her mother evidently has better things to do than to educate her only daughter who . . .”

“Eat with your fork, Melania.”

“DON'T EVEN TALK TO HER, Melania, sweetheart, listen to Daddy, now let's show Mommy that we can eat like a good little Chinese girl . . .”

Melania began to cry.

“You've made her cry.”

“I DID NOT MAKE HER CRY.”

“Then what is she doing?”

“Melania, there's no need to cry, you're a big girl, you mustn't cry, take this chopstick, come on, give me your hand, GIVE ME THAT HAND, there, good, gently, you have to hold it gently, Melania, everyone's looking at you, stop crying and take the goddam chopstick . . .”

“Don't swear.”

“I DID NOT SWEAR.”

Melania began to cry even harder.

“MELANIA, Melania, you're about to get a spanking, you know that Daddy is patient but there's a limit to everything, MELANIA, HOLD THIS CHOPSTICK OR WE'LL GET UP AND GO HOME IMMEDIATELY, and you know I'm not joking, come on, first one chopstick and then the other, come on, between the thumb and the index finger, not the index finger, THE MIDDLE, now squeeze it, like that, good, see you can do it, come on, now take the other one, the other chopstick, sweetheart, WITH THE OTHER HAND, STUPID . . . take it with THE OTHER HAND and put it in THIS hand, get it?, it's not hard, now stop crying, what is there to cry about?, do you want to grow up or not?, do you want to be a silly little girl forever . . .”

Diesel got up. It was always a big job for him, but he did it. He went over to the table where the family was sitting, picked up the child's chopsticks in one hand, and, tightening his grip, pulverized them, right over the father's plateful of Peking duck.

Melania stopped crying. The restaurant had fallen into a silence that smelled of deep-frying and soy sauce. Diesel spoke softly, but they could hear him even in the kitchen. He limited himself to one question.

“Why do you have children?” he said. “Why?”

The father was motionless, staring straight ahead, not daring to turn. The wife had her spoon halfway between her mouth and her bowl. She looked at Diesel with bewildered regret: she was like a contestant on a quiz show who knows the answer but can't remember it.

Diesel leaned over the child. He looked her in the eyes.

“You splendid little Chinese girl.”

He said.

“Eat with the fork or I'll kill you.”

Then he turned and went back to his table.

“Will you pass me the Cantonese rice?” Poomerang didn't say.

It was a nice birthday, in its way.

In February 1989 a research group at the University of Vancouver published in the authoritative journal
Science and
Progress
a ninety-two-page article setting forth a new theory of the double dynamics of pseudo particles. The authors—sixteen physicists from five different countries—maintained, in front of the TV cameras of half the world, that a new epoch was opening for science: and they claimed that, in the space of a decade, their research would make possible the production of low-cost energy with minimal environmental risk. After three months, however, a two-and-a-half-page article in the
National Scientific Bulletin
demonstrated that, upon careful study, the mathematical model on which the Vancouver researchers had based their theory had turned out to be largely inadequate, and essentially unusable. “Rather infantile,” stated the two authors of the article, to be exact. The first was named Mondrian Kilroy. The second was Gould.

Not that, in general, the two worked together. It was by chance more than anything else. Everything had begun in the dining hall. They happened to be sitting across from each other, and at some point Prof. Mondrian Kilroy, spitting out his purée, had said

“What is this? Did they make this stuff in Vancouver?”

Gould had read the ninety-two pages in
Science and Progress.
He didn't think the purée was bad, but he knew that something was wrong in that article. He passed Prof. Mondrian Kilroy his serving of spinach and said that in his view the mistake was on page twelve. The professor smiled. He ignored the spinach and began to cover the paper napkin on which he had spat out the purée with calculations. It took them twelve days. On the thirteenth day, they copied everything neatly and sent it to the
Bulletin.
Mondrian Kilroy would have liked to give the article the title “Objection to the Vancouver Purée.” Gould convinced him that something more innocuous would be better. When the media discovered that one of the authors was fourteen years old they went wild. Gould and the professor were forced to call a press conference and a hundred and thirty-four journalists came, from all over the world.

“Too many,” said Prof. Mondrian Kilroy.

“Too many,” said Gould.

They spoke to each other while they were waiting in the corridor. They turned, made their way out through the kitchens, and went fishing in Lake Abalema. The rector considered their behavior unacceptable and they were suspended.

“From what, exactly?” asked Prof. Mondrian Kilroy. What it was
exactly
no one knew. So the suspension was suspended.

More or less around the same time Shatzy remembered that, if she wanted to get a trailer, it was crucial to have a car. “True,” said Gould, agreeing how odd it was that they hadn't thought of it before. Shatzy said maybe they could talk to his father about it. He must have a car, right?, somewhere. He's a male. Males always have a car, somewhere. Gould said, “True.” Then he added that it was better, however, not to say anything about the trailer. You can bet on that, said Shatzy.

“Hello?”

“Miss Shell?”

“It's me.”

“Everything OK there?”

“Yes. We just have one small problem.”

“What problem?”

“We could use your car.”

“My car?”

“Yes.”

“What car are you talking about?”

“Yours.”

“You're telling me I have a car?”

“It seemed plausible.”

“I'm afraid you're mistaken, Miss Shell.”

“That's surprising.”

“Why, don't you ever make mistakes?”

“I didn't mean that.”

“What did you mean?”

“You're a male and you don't have a car, that's what I meant. Isn't that surprising?”

“I'm not sure.”

“It's quite surprising, believe me.”

“Would a tank do? I have plenty of those.”

For a moment Shatzy envisioned a trailer pulled by a tank.

“No, I'm afraid that doesn't solve the problem.”

“I was joking.”

“Oh.”

“Miss Shell?”

“Yes.”

“Will you kindly tell me what the problem
is
?”

Shatzy thought of Bird, the old gunfighter. Strange mechanism, the mind. It works the way it wants to.

“What is the problem, Miss Shell?”

Rather, it was that sort of weariness. Like a weariness on you. The same music that Bird danced to. The old gunfighter.

“Miss Shell, I'm asking you what the problem is—would you mind answering me?”

Bird.

Roads on his face, roads walked by innumerable gunfights, said Shatzy. His eyes swallowed up in his skull, and hands of olive-wood, quick hands, like branches in winter. The comb, in the morning, dipped in water, parting the white hair, transparent by now. Tobacco lungs in the voice that says softly: What a wind today.

Nothing worse for a gunfighter than not to die.

Look around, every unfamiliar face could be that of yet another fool arriving from far away to become the one who killed Clay “Bird” Puller. If you want to know when you become a legend, then listen: it's when your enemies always come from behind. As long as they come at you from the front you're only a gunfighter. Glory is a trail of shit, behind your back. Hurry up, asshole, I said to him without even turning around. The boy wore a black hat, and in his pocket was some piece of crap that was the memory of a distant hatred, and the promise of some sort of vengeance. Too late, asshole.

With these roads on my face, cowardly old age, peeing on myself in the night, the goddam pain below the belt, like a burning rock between belly and ass, day never comes, and when it comes it's a desert of empty time to cross. How did I get here?, me.

The way Bird shot. He wore his holster backwards, with the butts of the guns facing forwards. He would draw with his arms crossed, the right gun in his left hand and vice versa. That way, when he came towards you, his fingers touching the gun butts, he seemed like a condemned man, like a prisoner on his way to the gallows, with his arms crossed in front. A second later he was a bird of prey opening its wings, a whip in the air, and the straight flight of two bullets. Bird.

What is that, creeping through the fog of my cataracts, I am forced to count the hours, I who knew instants, and that was the only time that existed for me. The swerve of a pupil, the whitened knuckles around a glass, a spur in the side of the horse, the shadow of a shadow on the blue wall. I lived an eternity where others saw seconds. They saw a flash where I saw a map, a star where I saw heavens. I looked within the folds of time that for them were already a memory. There was no other way, I had been taught, to see death before it arrives. What is that, creeping through the fog of my cataracts, I am forced to spy on the cards of others, searching for cues from my seat, always in the second row, in the evening throwing rocks at the dogs, in my pocket an old man's money that the whores don't want, a mariachi player will take it when he comes, may your song be long and sad, boy, sweet your guitar and slow your voice, I want to dance tonight, until the sunset of this night, I'll dance.

They said that Bird always carried a dictionary with him. French. He had learned all the words, one after another, in alphabetical order. He was so old that he had already been around once and now was in the
G
s for the second time. No one knew why in the world he did it. But once, in Tandeltown, they say that he went up to a woman, she was beautiful, tall, green-eyed, you had to wonder how she had ended up there. He went up to her and said:
Enchanté.

Clay “Bird” Puller. He'll have a wonderful death, said Shatzy. I've promised him: a wonderful death.

“Miss Shell?”

“Yes, hello.”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes, very well.”

“The line was interrupted.”

“It happens.”

“It's hell, with these telephones.”

“Yes.”

“I think it would be easier to send a bomber there and hit my son on the head than to succeed in talking to him on the telephone.”

“I hope you won't do that.”

“What?”

“No, nothing, I was joking.”

“Is Gould there?”

“Yes.”

“May I speak to him?”