Jimmy Fox - Nick Herald 01 - Deadly Pedigree (4 page)

“If only Messieurs Shakespeare, Jonson, Milton, and Tawpie–he doesn’t deserve to be in that august company–would allow me some leisure for such fascinating pursuits! Maybe
I’m
the one who needs Hawty.”

“Dion means that we spend quite a lot of time reading incessant inane memos from the Usurper,” Una said.

“What an intellectual titan!” Dion declared. “He concerns himself with things like the price of Twinkies in our snack machine. Sends out polls craving our opinions on parking arrangements. A bad teacher makes a worse bureaucrat. Ah, Nick, in a way I’m glad you aren’t soldiering on with us under the new regime, forced to endure the mindless pettiness to which we have descended!”

Dion twirled his flamboyant mustache as he spoke. His bony limbs were splayed across his chair. Beneath his frizzy black-and-gray hair, his thin bearded face had the jaded look of a Renaissance rake in a London strumpet shop. A face from a sixteenth-century miniature. The substantial gap in his front teeth served to enhance the eccentricity of his appearance and gave his speech an engaging sibilance. He was immensely popular with most of his students for his ice-breaking histrionics and brilliant presentation in his difficult classes; others, less interested in the substance of the course, liked the ease with which he could be reduced to caricature in their notebooks.

“Well, we do have our little weapons to fight back, don’t we, Dion?”

As Una described the latest guerrilla tactics of their band of departmental subversives, Nick listened with divided attention. Their concern for his state of mind touched him, as usual, and he wanted to put them at ease, convince them he wasn’t going to swan dive off the Huey P. Long Bridge. Yet, he didn’t want to let on how much he had begun to love genealogy; he still couldn’t shake a certain feeling of inferiority–even here, among his best friends; a deeply ingrained idea that genealogy was pap for the masses, junk food for the mind, on a par with astrology.

Yes, he wanted to tell them that genealogy was a synthesis of history, sociology, anthropology, psychology, economics, even literature. That, long before language, there were the rudiments of an appreciation of genealogy in the behavior of proto-humans. It was the mother of biography, the father of heraldry, the thinking ape’s response to the genetic imperative to love one’s own kind. Religions and dynasties have risen and fallen on the real or faked facts of genealogy. Billions have perished over slight differences in armorial bearings. Nick wanted to say that genealogy should be considered the original social science, the flesh and bone of myths and sagas, perhaps the first application of that uniquely human faculty, memory.

He’d lounged back in his chair, in his typical posture of contemplation: hands locked behind his head, eyes staring at an idea floating somewhere in the music and smoke and dimness.

Una watched him a moment and then said, “Nick, you’re…all right, then? Really?”

The d-word, depression, was unspoken among them, but on their minds. A mutual friend who’d moved on to another university had recently committed suicide.

“Yeah. Really,” Nick assured her, “I’m fine.”

“This genealogy stuff,” Dion said, “he’s into it, Una, bastard discipline that it is. That’s a sign of emotional health.”

“It has its moments,” Nick said. “You
have
been secretly reading up on the subject. Bastardy is certainly a frequent topic in genealogy.”

“I wish I had the time, as I said. But, my friend, one of these days I’ll ask you to address my classes. The synergies could be absolutely mind-blowing. For instance, imagine definitively identifying Will Shakespeare’s grandfather, or finding a direct descendant of the Bard after 1670. You would join the ranks of the very greatest Shakespearean scholars. I’ll personally write the foreword to your book.”

Nick knew he meant it. He was drawn to people like Dion and Una precisely because of their intellectual curiosity, which allowed them to ridicule dogma and cheer originality.

“By the way, here are two tickets to our production of
As You Like It
, week after next. I play Jaques and a couple of other knavish extras.
You
would have made an excellent Jaques, misanthrope that you are. Anyway, I expect you to be there. Bring someone you wish to impress to our Forest of Arden.” He looked at Una with meaning. “It’s going to be an excellent effort. Waiter…say, I know you. You were in my Tuesday-and-Thursday class last semester. Bring me another Guinness. Make sure it’s a cold one, too, none of this room-temperature crap. This is New Orleans not Stratford-on-Avon! And stop by my office the next chance you get. I still have a paper of yours…. Frat brat,” Dion confided as the young man left. “Wants to ‘go into the media,’ whatever
that
means. Everything he knows comes from Cliff Notes and CNN, so I suppose he’ll make a good television bubblehead. I’m still trying to hammer the soft metal of his soul into a shape more useful to society. Turn him from the Dark Side,” he intoned in his best James Earl Jones. “But, alas, some of these children are such difficult cases.”

Una’s one drink had done its work. “Let’s all celebrate the expansion of Nick’s business,” she said brightly. “I volunteer him as chef for the evening.
If
he can clear out enough room for us among his priceless collection of genealogical junk. We’ll stop off at a grocery store on the way. Agreed?”

“Oh, I have…to rehearse my lines. Yes,” Dion stammered, “very difficult part, you know. Afraid you’ll have to count me out.”

“That was just slightly obvious,” Una said. She smiled anyway and glanced at Nick, the old amorous question in her eyes.

Nick noticed the stronger glasses Una wore; the new depths of wisdom and disappointment her lively and intelligent blue eyes showed; the vocational paleness and mid-life aridness that had replaced the ruddiness and ripe plumpness of her younger days; the wild gray strands that rebelled against every part and wave, where once there had been luxuriant dark honey hair. He wished he had been with her during all the changes he now saw in her, during all of his own changes, too.

He felt the hot closeness of the futile desire to alter the past. This consciousness of irrevocable mistakes was not new to him. He wasn’t the first to have made bad decisions: it seemed to be a peculiar talent of mankind. There had been countless precedents, and he saw some of them every day in his genealogical work. He’d learned to live with his own portion of guilt in part through the solace of his new studies, by imagining the sighs of regret in the frozen spaces among the records he researched.

Genealogist becomes artist, transforming family history into a kind of poetry, when he can give voice to the hope and sadness fossilized in mute statistics of migrations, disappearances, feuds, bankruptcies, births, deaths–the mere punctuation of existences otherwise forgotten; when he can convey some sense of the glory and misery that once filled each unchronicled moment between two heartbeats, those “impossible gaps” as short as a thought, as long as decades, that no one can ever fully know second hand, though the best genealogists never give up trying.

“Nick, we almost forgot to tell you,” Una said. “Have you heard that Frederick is doing television commercials, now?”

“Figures.” Nick relished more proof of the Usurper’s despicable power-hunger. “He’s utterly sold out, hasn’t he? Tell me all. I want the gory details.”

“‘I invest with Artemis Funds. Words are my business, but Artemis knows the language of capital growth. Blah-blah-blah-blah.’” Dion said, doing a remarkably accurate imitation of Tawpie at his most pompous. “I wanted to puke the first time I saw it.”

“What’s Artemis?” asked Nick.

“Oh, you
are
out of the loop, aren’t you?” Una said, patting his hand. “He can’t help it, poor boy. Artemis Holdings, Nick. Ring a bell, now? You can hardly go down a New Orleans street, open the local newspaper, or turn on the television without seeing some reference to Artemis. Real estate, stocks and bonds, shipping…and he’s wheedled this huge grant from Artemis for a new edition of Pound, poetry
and
prose. Heaven help us!”

Dion suddenly became a fast-talking television pitchman: “‘Order now and receive at no extra cost the complete Italian Rantos, those infamous World War II radio addresses in which the poet proved himself a traitor and a quack. Yes, the loopy, anti-Semitic bombast that even Mussolini turned off…delivered to your home! Call 1-555-T-A-W-P-I-E for your own no-risk copy.’”

They all had a good laugh.

Una said, “Frederick has made a name for himself as one of old Ezra’s foremost modern apologists.”

“Beshrew me if that isn’t Malvolio himself fouling our happy refuge with his vainglory,” Dion said bitterly, having spotted Tawpie. “No more cakes and ale here, my boon companions, I’m afraid. Excuse me. I’m going to play some music. I’d probably say something actionable were I to stay. The fiery Tybalt always was one of my favorite roles.” He unfolded himself to his considerable lean height and strode off into the smoky shadows of the bar toward the jukebox, parting the crowd as he brandished an imaginary rapier.

Tawpie, in an ugly lime green blazer, stood just inside the doorway, letting his rabbity eyes adjust to the darker interior of the Folio. It was after seven, and outside the air had taken on a lazy lavender summer glow. He took off his sunglasses, put them in a case and the case in his coat, and then donned a pair of untinted glasses. His hair was an unusual orange color, thick as a mass of snakes. Lighting a cigarette and exhaling voluptuously, he seemed an overgrown, freckled, pudgy kid.

“There’s a boy like him in most neighborhoods,” Una said staring with distaste at Tawpie. “He’s the one who throws rocks at small animals and younger kids, denies it, and gets away with it, thanks to his hoodwinked mother’s intervention.”

Tawpie stumbled down the steps that tripped up everyone who wasn’t a regular, and searched in vain for a certain face.

His eyes found Nick and Una instead. He made a barely perceptible movement, as if to turn away. But then he swaggered up to their table, a false smile on his face.

“Una, Nick. How are you?” Tawpie said. “Surprised to see me? Well, this isn’t exactly my choice of drinking establishments, you know. I’m supposed to meet someone here, for…thesis coaching…but she doesn’t seem to…“ Tawpie scanned the crowd, no doubt hoping his friend would rescue him.

“Probably told you the wrong bar on purpose. I sure would,” Nick mumbled. Una kicked him under the table. “Probably they moved on to another bar,” Nick said louder, in atonement.

Nick, enjoying the awkwardness of the moment, didn’t invite his former colleague and probable betrayer to join them.

“Well, Nick,” Tawpie said challengingly, seeming to have given up on any invitation to sit down, “I haven’t seen you in a long time. What are you doing these days?”

“I don’t suppose you really care,” Nick said, matching Tawpie’s feistiness, “but I’ll tell you anyway. Got nothing to hide. I’ve started a genealogical research firm. Quite successful, several employees.”

Una cleared her throat and swirled the melted remains of her drink with her straw.

“I’m so happy for you! It’s wonderful when someone can pick up the pieces of a broken life like that. Genealogy. Hmmmm. Somehow, the image in my mind is of a group of blue-haired ladies drinking weak tea and discussing the exploits of their common ancestor, a shopkeeper who once sold General Washington some denture adhesive.” Tawpie laughed heartily, lolling his head back on his soft, sloping shoulders. “Oh, I’m sure it’s more significant than that. I certainly
hope
so. You know, I always thought you might seek another teaching position, somewhere out of town, out of the South, of course, where no one would know of the whole sordid mess. But I can see that you might feel uncomfortable in the fold of real scholarship again, with such a disgrace hanging over your head.”

“Bad news travels fast along the academic grapevine, Frederick, especially with a little help from back-stabbers.”

“I hope you’re not implying that I have been anything but professionally neutral in the…affair of your departure. You don’t seem to need any help destroying your own career.”

Nick stood up. He was slightly taller than Tawpie, but the shorter, stockier man was far from backing off; he was as aggressive as a hungry pig, red faced and scowling. Nick had wanted to punch the jerk for a long time, and now seemed just about right.

“There’s one thing I really hate, Frederick: a phony who hides behind innuendo and sarcasm.”

Una stood up hurriedly and pulled Nick to her. “Take our table, Frederick,” she said. “We were just leaving. Don’t stay out too late tonight. We need you sharp for our departmental meeting tomorrow at 7:30.”

The situation thus defused, Tawpie returned to his disgusting urbanity. “Thank you, no, Una. But I’ll have the coffee waiting for
you
tomorrow morning, my dear, in the conference room. We have quite a full agenda.”

A waitress struggled by under a full tray. Tawpie grabbed her shirtsleeve, almost upsetting the tray; he ordered a Virgin Mary and slipped the waitress a couple of dollars to find a back-corner table.

“Goodbye, Nick. No hard feelings?” Tawpie then turned his back on them and walked away.

Una tugged Nick toward the door. “My job, Nick!” she whispered desperately. “Swallow your anger, for me and Dion.
Please
.”

Nick glanced back over his shoulder. “Hard feelings?” he snarled, too low for Tawpie to hear in the tumult of the bar. “Oh, yeah, Frederick, there certainly are. Lots of them.”

At that moment, a loud whistle pierced the lull between songs, and the bar grew momentarily hushed. It was Dion, who had a remarkable facility for whistling through the gap in his teeth, signaling across the room that his selection was coming up.

The bell-like revival-organ chords of Dylan’s “Positively 4th Street” filled the cavernous barroom, the words bristling with scorn for yesterday’s enemies turned fair-weather friends.

Nick hoped that Tawpie, though famously devoted to Wagner, would pay enough attention to catch the insult in the Dylan song.