Coming Through Slaughter (9 page)

Third Day & Third Evening

Game home with just his face laughing at the jokes. Refused to enlarge stories as he used to. They noticed that, those who had known him before.

There were younger ones around now who had heard of him who wished to revive him but he easily turned conversations back onto them and their lives. Perhaps they were the eventual catalysts. Maybe. As it was they gradually heard of him being back and brought bottles of Raleigh Rye to leave on the doorstep, and Bolden just smiling and bringing the bottles in to Nora in the kitchen but not touching the cap, not drinking, not wishing to, now. Just talked gently and slowly with Nora, watching Nora get meals as he sat in the kitchen as if she was a sister he had never met since they were kids. And sleeping a lot.

On the third day old friends came in, shy, then too loud as they entertained him with the sort of stories he loved to hear, stories he could predict now. He sat back with just his face laughing at the jokes. It was like walking out of a desert into a park of schoolchildren. No one mentioned Pickett until he did and then there was silence and Bolden laughing out loud for the first time. And everyone in the room watching Buddy, waiting for any expression to move across his face, even a nerve.

No those visitors hadn’t bothered him much. He liked to think of Pickett running down the road holding his scars like a dying dog. He still remembered the metal of the strop touch the mirror and both of them watching it fall, like a chopped sheet into the basin. No it was to Nora that the pain came, the people in the house watching him. Buddy’s mind slipped through them. She saw him there and saw he wasn’t even in the room, the only real muscle was his wink at her as some story was ending and she could see him getting his fucking grin ready. She wanted to collect everybody and kick them out of the room. Screw his serenity. Buddy knowing what he owed her and hadn’t given her.

That night Willy Cornish went out again. Buddy was walking and came in at ten. It was after midnight when he wanted to go to sleep. One of the kids cried and without thinking he went into their room and lay on the edge of the bed his arm around the child. Act from the past. Charles jnr probably too old to want this. The cry was part of his sleep and he wasn’t awake, just nuzzled into his father’s body. Did Cornish do this?

He fell asleep, his fingers against his son’s spine under the shirt. About an hour later he woke up and realised where he was. Took his jacket off and lay back in the old flannel shirt Nora had found for him to wear.

Then heard Nora’s ‘Buddy’ close to him and saw her sitting on Bernadine’s bed, leaning forward. He got up and moved towards her.

You ok?

She shook her head slowly.

Is Willy out there?

No. He won’t come back tonight Buddy.

Must be late.

1.30. I don’t know.

He put his hand to the side of her face against her ear.

Please talk, Buddy.

He helps her off the bed and walks with her into the living room, his red arm loose over her shoulder.

She is on the sofa, he is in the chair. She lifts her knees up so her chin is resting on them. She is gazing at the floor between them.

Still love you Buddy … I’m sorry. Not like it was before because I don’t know you anymore but I care about you, love you as if you weren’t my husband. I’m just sorry about this … I feel sorrier for William. Jesus that red shirt on you, you look fabulous, you look really well aint that crazy that’s all I can think of … you look like a favourite shirt I lost.

They start giggling and soon are laughing across at each other.

Stop it Bolden, snorting back her laugh, we should be having a serious conversation.

His mouth on his wife’s left ear. Feeling his wife’s hands between their bodies unbuttoning the front of her dress. His own hands waiting and then into the cave of his wife’s open dress, round to touch her back and sliding back to cover the breasts of his wife. His fingers recognizing the nipples, the appendix scar. He lies back with his head in her lap. Looking up at her. The home of his wife’s mouth coming down on him.

With Bellocq on the street.

Walking with him to introduce him to whores. But I don’t want you there when I do it. Ok Ok. Cos otherwise let’s just go home. He was scared of Bolden’s presence for the first time. He staggered at Buddy’s side with the camera. You’re sure? I just don’t want you hanging round, just introduce me and say what I want. I know Bellocq I know. Yeah. Well you know what I mean.

He pulled Bellocq up the steps, the camera strapped across his back like a bow. He had seen it so often on his friend that whenever he thought of him his body took on an outline which included the camera and the tripod. It was part of his bone structure. A metal animal grown into his back. He pulled him up the steps, through the doors. You’ve got to get up these stairs man. Bellocq already exhausted began to climb them with Bolden. Man what a wallpaper, giggling as he climbed along the carpet runners that would take him to the paradise of bodies. He brushed his free hand against the blue embossed wallpaper. He saw a photograph of a girl sitting against it, alone on the stairs, no one around. Maybe a plate of food. The wallpaper would come out light grey. Up one flight, then another, his legs starting to ache. This ain’t no joke is it man? No. One more and we’re there.

Let me go in and talk to her first. Her? I thought I was going to meet them all. Yeah yeah but I just want to talk to Nora first ok.

He left Bellocq outside resting on the top steps carefully removing the camera off its sling. Listen I’ve got this friend who wants photographs of the girls. Same price as a fuck you know that Buddy. Ok, but I want to tell you about him first. Willya call the others in I don’t want to say this more than once. He wasn’t sure how to explain it. He wasn’t even sure himself what Bellocq wanted to do. Listen this guy’s a ship photographer—a burst of laughter—and just for himself, nothing commercial, he wants to get pictures of the girls. I don’t know how he wants you to be for the picture, he just wants them. Nothing commercial ok. He’s not weird or anything is he? No, he’s a little bent in the body, something wrong with his legs. No one wanted to. Please, look I promised him, listen I even said no price this time, it’s a favour, see he did a few things for me. You gonna be around Charlie? No I can’t he doesn’t want me to. Two of them left the room saying they were going back to sleep. Listen he’s got a good job, he really does photograph ships and things, stuff for brochures. He’s very good, he’s not a cop, the idea coming into his mind that second as a possible fear of theirs. He’s a kind man. Nobody wanted Bellocq and more went away. I’ll give you a free knock anytime Charlie but not this. They went then and Nora shrugged sorry across the room. It’s morning Charlie, they were all up late last night at Anderson’s. All I could do was get them here. And they were watching the two of you arrive. He looked like something squashed or run over by a horse from up here.

Listen Nora you have to do this for me. Let him take some pictures of you. Just this once to show the others it’s ok, I promise you it’ll be ok. She had moved into the kitchenette and was looking for a match to light the gas. He came over, dug one out of his pocket and lit the row of hissing till they popped up blue, something invisible finding a form. He let her fill the kettle and put it on. Then he put himself against her back and leaned his face into her shoulder. His nose against the shoulder strap of her dress. Come out with me into the hall and meet him. Give him some of this tea. He’s a harmless man. He put his head up a bit and watched the blue flame gripping the kettle. He was exhausted. He couldn’t hustle for others, he didn’t know the needs of others. He was fond of them and wanted them happy and was willing to make them happy and was willing to hear their problems but no more. He didn’t know how people like Bellocq thought. He didn’t know how to put the pieces of him together. He was too shy to ask Bellocq
why
he wanted these pictures or what kind they would be. Three floors up on North Basin Street he was nuzzling this lady. That’s all he knew. His mind went blank against the flesh next to him.

What’s he got on you? Nothing. He separated himself from her, picked up a knife and trapped against the small window of the kitchen, looking out. It was cold out, there was steam over the river. He had tried to get Bellocq to wear a coat when he had picked him up, but they had gone on, Bellocq cold and so trying to walk fast. He placed his palm against the glass and left the surface of his nerve pattern there. Rubbed it out. Turning he walked past her quickly through the door into the hall. As he was opening the door she said
OK
very fast. He turned and saw her leaning in the kitchen doorway with a cup in her hand. Then he opened the door to the stairs.

And then running down the stairs fast, almost crying, down two flights before he saw the figure in the main hall standing against the wallpaper looking up at him—the face pale and embarrassed. He must have heard them laughing in there, must have sat there for ten minutes and taken more than five minutes to walk down.

Yes or no, whatever it is, I’m not walking those stairs again.

I’ll carry you up then. So decide. Shouting as he ran down.

Bugger you fuck you shit those voices carry you know.

I know. But it’s ok. Nora will do it. He stood on the first stair looking at Bellocq, at Bellocq’s sweating face. It’s alright, she said she’s gonna do it ok? She’ll pose.

I heard them Buddy I
heard
them.

They didn’t understand man, it’s ok now come on. Come on.

Then he lifted the thin body of his friend and carried him up the three flights of stairs. Going slowly for he did not want to damage the camera or hurt the thin bones in the light body he was carrying. Still, he was tired and shaking and exhausted when he put him down on the top step.

She didn’t speak to him about Bellocq. Not till this last night. He asked her about Bellocq and she told him what Webb had said, that Bellocq was dead. Died in a fire.

This was about an hour after she found him sleeping in his red shirt with the children.

I only did that for you cos you know why?

No. Why?

Because you didn’t know what to say, you didn’t know how to argue me into it.

She threw in a taunt.

Tom Pickett could have hustled anyone to do what you asked in a minute.

No shit.

The last remark had flowed under him, he was thinking about Bellocq, crushed and scurrying to the front door that morning while the others had watched from the windows.

You didn’t feel sorry for him?

I hated him Buddy.

But
why
? He was so harmless. He was just a lonely man. You know he even talked to his photographs he was that lonely. Why do you hate him? You never even saw his pictures, they were beautiful. They were gentle. Why do you hate him?

She turned to face him.

Look at you. Look at what he did to you. Look at you. Look at you. Goddamit. Look at you.

The next morning his daughter saying, I had this awful dream. Mum made some food for us out of onions and hair and orange peels and we hated it and she said eat up it’s good for you.

Parade (5th Morning
)

Coming down Iberville, warm past Marais Street, then she moves free of the crowd and travels at our speed between us and the crowd. My new red undershirt and my new white shiny shirt bright under the cornet. New shoes. Back in town.

Warning slide over to her and hug and squawk over her and shoulder her into the crowd.
Roar.
Between Marais and Liberty I just hit notes every 15 seconds or so Henry Allen worrying me eyeing me about keeping the number going and every now and then my note like a bird flying out of the shit and hanging loud and long.
Roar.
Crisscross Iberville like a spaniel strutting in front of the band and as I hit each boundary of crowd—
roar.
Parade of ego, cakewalk, strut, every fucking dance and walk I remember working up through the air to get it ready for the note sharp as a rat mouth under Allen’s soft march tune.

But where the bitch came from I don’t know. She moves out to us again, moving along with us, gravy bones. Thin body and long hair and joined by someone half bald and a beautiful dancer too so I turn from the bank of people and aim at them and pull them on a string to me, the roar at the back of my ears. Watch them through the sun balancing off the horn till they see what is happening and I speed Henry Allen’s number till most of them drop off and just march behind, the notes more often now, every five seconds. Eyes going dark in the hot bleached street. Get there before it ends, but it’s nearly over nearly over, approach Liberty. She and he keeping up like storm weeds crashing against each other. Squawk beats going descant high the hair spinning against his face and back to the whip of her head. She’s Robin, Nora, Crawley’s girl’s tongue.

March is slowing to a stop and as it floats down slow to a thump I take off and wail long notes jerking the squawk into the end of them to form a new beat, have to trust them all as I close my eyes, know the others are silent, throw the notes off the walls of people, the iron lines, so pure and sure bringing the howl down to the floor and letting in the light and the girl is alone now mirroring my throat in her lonely tired dance, the street silent but for us her tired breath I can hear for she’s near me as I go round and round in the centre of the Liberty-Iberville connect. Then silent. For something’s fallen in my body and I can’t hear the music as I play it. The notes more often now. She hitting each note with her body before it is even out so I know what I do through her. God this is what I wanted to play for, if no one else I always guessed there would be this, this mirror somewhere, she closer to me now and her eyes over mine tough and young and come from god knows where. Never seen her before but testing me taunting me to make it past her, old hero, old ego tested against one as cold and pure as himself, this tall bitch breasts jumping loose under the light shirt she wears that’s wet from energy and me fixing them with the aimed horn tracing up to the throat. Half dead, can’t take more, hardly hit the squawks anymore but when I do my body flicks at them as if I’m the dancer till the music is out there.
Roar.
It comes back now, so I can hear only in waves now and then, god the heat in the air, she is sliding round and round her thin hands snake up through her hair and do their own dance and she is seven foot tall with them and I aim at them to bring them down to my body and the music gets caught in her hair, this is what I wanted, always, loss of privacy in the playing, leaving the stage, the rectangle of band on the street, this hearer who can throw me in the direction and the speed she wishes like an angry shadow. Fluff and groan in my throat, roll of a bad throat as we begin to slow. Tired. She still covers my eyes with hers and sees it slow and allows the slowness for me her breasts black under the wet light shirt, sound and pain in my heart sure as death. All my body moves to my throat and I speed again and she speeds tired again, a river of sweat to her waist her head and hair back bending back to me, all the desire in me is cramp and hard, cocaine on my cock, eternal, for my heart is at my throat hitting slow pure notes into the shimmy dance of victory, hair toss victory, a local strut, eyes meeting sweat down her chin arms out in final exercise pain, take on the last long squawk and letting it cough and climb to spear her all those watching like a javelin through the brain and down into the stomach, feel the blood that is real move up bringing fresh energy in its suitcase, it comes up flooding past my heart in a mad parade, it is coming through my teeth, it is into the cornet, god can’t stop god can’t stop it can’t stop the air the red force coming up can’t remove it from my mouth, no intake gasp, so deep blooming it up god I can’t choke it the music still pouring in a roughness I’ve never hit, watch it
listen
it
listen
it, can’t see
I CAN’T SEE
. Air floating through the blood to the girl red hitting the blind spot I can feel others turning, the silence of the crowd, can’t see

Willy Cornish catching him as he fell outward, covering him, seeing the red on the white shirt thinking it is torn and the red undershirt is showing and then lifting the horn sees the blood spill out from it as he finally lifts the metal from the hard kiss of the mouth.

What I wanted.