Middle C (48 page)

His new wife wrote the libretto, but Krenek’s, Weill’s, and Hindemith’s successes spurred him on. The saxophone may have jazzed the tunes, but a twelve-tone row created the main alignment, contrapuntal variations were the order of its march, and canons memorialized its end—the heaviest light opera ever penned. In books about Schoenberg,
Von Heute auf Morgen
was lucky to get a line, which made it perfect for Skizzen’s purposes.

Schoenberg was incapable of the middle-C mind. He was unable to sustain mediocrity. Skizzen thought he probably never understood the bland, the ordinary, the neutral, because it is as difficult to strike as oil. To be the man at the party whom no one remembers is easy for the guest who can shrink into the woodwork without trying, he is so inherently shy; but to be a person who disappears because he is so like everybody else as not to count; who is neither the least lively nor the most; neither the designated driver nor the drunk; neither the most drably dressed nor the most flamboyant; who is as unidentifiable as a glass someone has emptied two drinks ago and left upon the tray like keys mislaid on purpose and subsequently lost: to pretend to be such a one when one is not such a one is to undertake the circling of the square.

During his preparations, the paradox inherent in his plan became increasingly obvious and embarrassing. Joseph Skizzen had chosen this subject and this theme in order that its author, who would have to be Professor Joseph Skizzen, would be noticed. It was desirable for the professor to be impressive so that the real Skizzen—Joey—who really didn’t care much for either Schoenberg the man (a tyrant) or Schoenberg
the musician (a romantic at war with romanticism)—who, when the maestro’s atonal music washed over him, felt as if his head were being held in a toilet Polly who found these serenades and songs beyond him Wolly quite over his head, his hair, his head of hair like a sudden shower Doodle who recoiled as the land does in front of distant mountains Polly-Wolly for whom Liszt’s
Transcendental Études
were about as adventuresome as Skizzen could bring himself to be Doodle as he could bring himself Polly-Wolly-Doodle yes, so the real Skizzen might fade like a figure a flower in the wallpaper a wall of paper flowers a pattern whom familiarity ignores, paint obscures, or the sun fades Polly-Wolly-Doodle all the day.

Both Joey and Joseph dreaded the tenure struggle; however, Whittlebauer pretended to be a part of the academic publish-or-perish world, so they had to make believe they were citizens of it, too. Alban Berg Polly Anton von Webern Wolly with the twelve tones they had to work with Doodle the twelve disciples that Schoenberg (Skizzen, too) had to seem to teach Polly-Wolly-Doodle even to prefer, Joseph had now to embrace as well. All the day. What was the farm and family music Joey was able to play good for alongside this cacophony, this opulent mystery of mathematical music? Jolly Polly secrets he could no longer confess to his conscience Wolly those Arnold S. couldn’t confess to either: Doodle that he hated the system he built Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle hated anything named Stravinsky all the day because Igor (a Russian and representative of everything lax, borrowed, and overlush) Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle had triumphed by giving in to the past Polly openly Wolly as if it all were a kind of party instead of a struggle Doodle whilst he was fed up with Wagner and Zion, Brahms and Dvorak, Jolly Polly Wolly sweets his tongue begged him to swallow Jolly Polly Wolly Doodle calories his mind told him to avoid Polly-Jolly Jolly-Wolly Wolly-Doodle he was a Joey and a Joseph, too, Polly Wolly Doodle all the day for Joey had begun to expect Jolly-Polly Polly-Wolly Wolly-Doodle all the day as he placed obstacles in the path of the paper’s preparation Polly Wolly Doodle in order to make any thought’s smooth and orderly development impossible Doodle Wolly that Joseph was proud of his choice of Schoenberg as a subject Doodle Wolly Polly because he had an arrogance of his own Polly Doodle Wolly a tendency to make difficulties if there weren’t any Pilly-Dilly-Dollie disliked what was proper and loved to overstep bounds
Pilly-Dillie-Doodle-Dollie knew words Joey professed to have no knowledge of Pilly-Dillie Doodle-Dollie Woolly-Wolly was angry Doodle-Dillie Doodle-Doodle-Doo not always without cause Doodle-Oodle at the idiots who were the largest element of the population Doolie-Doodle Doodle-Doody Doolie-Dilly really wished he could play Bartók instead of Joey’s favorite for the moment Dollie-Doo-Dollie Doo-Dilly-Doo, which was “Bohunkus,” and began:
There was a farmer had two sons, / And these two sons were brothers; / Bohunkus was the name of one, / Josephus was the other’s …
polly … wolly … doodle … all-the-dooly-dilly-day.

Joey had no more Miss Moss to call upon, which he regretted now particularly, because he would have liked to discuss with her the weakness that had undermined him as he approached the end of his essay, since it had seemed to him a weakness without any other symptoms, one that fit the nature of a magic spell suddenly cast upon him the way a shadow falls upon the ground, with nary a squeal or an ouch, so that Joey became, to echo that popular phrase, gray and unsubstantial, unable to move at will, no longer his formerly vigorous self, not even with the depth of a reflection. Fortunately it was Easter Week (to President Palfrey) or Spring Break (to the students), consequently Joey missed no classes, as he otherwise would have, because he could barely sit up, let alone stand, refused food, and stared into space as if even his seeing was asleep. The problem was, as the patient was reluctantly compelled to admit, although only to himself, and only for a moment in the final morning of the pall upon him, that both Joseph and Joey were equally ill.

Miriam at first thought he was just being metaphorical, tired of it all, fed up, the way one is tired of filling out forms or shucking oysters, but shortly she came round to agree with his pale face, weak groans, red ears; then she grew worried, forced broths and compresses upon him though he had no fever, had no flush, no stuffy wheezy runny nose, had no rash or bump or swollen node or pimple (only lobes so red they seemed listening for a train) while finding a pain was like chasing the bug itself vainly through his body. Wet paper held its old ink better.

What is called good fortune had done this to him. Every social rung he placed the simple shoe of his climbing person on put him in greater danger; every pittance he gathered meant more of gather was expected. For his mother’s sake he mustn’t be a failure; for his father’s sake he
mustn’t be a success. His image in her eyes, though she scolded him as if he were still very young or soon would be older than she, had to be sustained; Joey was the most valued plant in her garden, if it wasn’t the beech tree. His image in his father’s eyes, though those eyes were his eyes now, of a boy whose exodus from Austria had saved him from damnation, had to be maintained—mustered as for war—if the past was to matter. But what was his merit, where were his credits, during his illness, to either of them—so meagerly distilled, so dimly disgraced?

During his studies, Joseph had run across reproductions of Schoenberg’s paintings: there the great composer’s soul was, as it couldn’t be shown in music, naked as if flayed: furious, frightened, intense, unforgiving. If he honored you by doing your portrait, at the end, there
he
was, staring out of your eyes, glaring with every wild strand of hair, each vertical line like an asylum bar, each curl a coil, and Schoenberg himself behind the painted face just far enough not to notice his sitter’s terror and chagrin but certainly hoping for it. Even in his wife’s portrait, where she is surrounded by a swirling halo of hat or hair, his temperament reddens the lips of her almost soft mouth. But the painting that followed Skizzen from chair to bed like a guilty conscience was called
The Red Gaze
, because it was that formerly obscured face, with its bullet-eyed look, brought out into the open, as if the pulp of a fruit had taken the place of the rind.

34

To fill their silence, Miriam said: Tonight we are trading plants. Ah, it’s that time of month again, Joey said, joining her in filling it. What do you mean, Miriam pretended to exclaim, don’t talk smart and don’t talk
schmutzig
to your mother, who, by the way, is well past that point and doesn’t need you to poke up my
monatliches
like the cinders of a fire. I meant …, Joey said, pretending in his turn to be perplexed,
that it’s your meeting with the girls of Woodbine—Don’t do
spitzige
, I said, she said, we are women and women of one mind, not a one with childish curls. Does it take that many of you to make one mind, replied the smarty, now too young to be in pants. She threw an empty crumple of seed packet at his head. What is this month’s subject?

Weeds, Miriam answered, laughing at something, possibly a thought. Who weeds are. What weeds do. Why weeds are so hateful. And therefore why weeds exist. Finally, how to rid your lawn and garden of them. How to pull them from their dirt. Root them out. They’ve grips like fierce fists.
Ausrotten ihnen!
And how to poison their progeny, kill their kids. She wagged a warning finger at Joey. Don’t give me your racial-cleansing speech.

I was admiring your cruelty. And your speaker is?

A former weed—now reformed—making up for an evil life with warnings to the rest of us.

But don’t you have all this information already? Ladies and gentlemen! In this ring, introducing Weed Number One! from Bulgaria! It is the Aster-Eating Rabbit! Who will perform death-defying hops! Ta-da! Weed Number Three is … is the Bed-Digging Dog! An Austrian breed!

Who does number two?

Number Two is when—

Ach. You have tricked me. Your
Mutter
. You made me ask of it.

What I was getting at … well … what I meant was … Don’t you know all about weeds already?

Not just any weeds … they are not the topic—
nein
—but invaders. Multipliers. Chokers. Carriers. Carnivores.
Fremde
. Seedy intrusives.

Immigrants, then, who arrive unasked and take the space of native Austrian primroses; immigrants who multiply like rabbits, inconsiderately sucking up nutrients and choking the natives in the throats of their stems—

You are uncorrectable. A naughty smarty. They pretend, you see. They wear pretty leaves like sheep’s ears, or win you over with nice blooms like violets and such, deceive by smelling sweet—honeysuckles humming in the heat—or the way that
grosse
bamboo grows, faster than bean stalk, and including what they call here bind, or bishop’s weed, because it is so relentless and uncorrectable a sinner it would make even a bishop curse.

Joseph realized with wonder how well spoken his mother had become.
He was trying to add Austrian to his speech while she was
Ausrotting
hers of most things foreign. English with a twist of pepper. Her German had become a sneeze. Today her sneezing was nostalgic. Instead, he said:

Just the same, dear, don’t you know everything about them already?

Most of it, I imagine, but we like to listen, like children, to the story told samely and samely. It warms me, anyway—like mulch—with memories of summer, now it’s winter.

Well, you should be careful going, the paper says it may be snowing. Whose house is it? where you’re meeting, I mean?

Maybelle’s.

Maybelle. Do I know a Mrs. Maybelle?

Wife of that fat professor of geography. You know, the one with the watch chain. Oh yes, and the three chins. His ears are wattles. Well, when we meet at Maybelle’s he sometimes sits in. Sits down. Smooooch. You can hear his rear when the air leaves the pillow. He sits not out of the way in a big chair you’d think had been built for him but in a rickety ladder-back you worry is going to break and stick him like a roasting pig. Sits right in the middle of the living room and listens most attentive to everything.

The club has never met here has it?

Not yet. I go in fear of when it will be my turn.

We’ll have to beat some neat into this house. I shall accompany the buffet on my
pianola
.

You shall be banished to the belfry.

Does Maybelle do anything?

Nails. She does nails. At that beauty parlor on High Street. She also marcels, perms, and trims.

I meant about her heavy husband.

He is immovable.

They can afford to live around here?

Oh, the fat one is well-off. He owns the furniture store—Leonard’s.

The store that’s always going out of business?

Derselbe
.

My goodness. Which house is it?

The one with the glads.

A welcome mat?

The red front door. Her garden is a confinement for
die Gladiole
. She’s
in business for them, too. Sells armloads to funerals. In bunches—one for every sorrowed friend.

Ah … Bouquets that once seemed a measure for sorrow.

She plants them in military rows the way, you remember, I used to arrange my plants—all of them from bulbs to bushes—in her big backyard behind the house, fenced in and everything. There are kinds and kinds of kinds. They look pretty big and brave lined up against the boards, but I don’t like that icebox lover much. A glad stands stiff as a soldier and flowers like a ladder.

Icebox lover. Yes, I imagine he is.

No,
dummster
. The gladiolus … gladiola … gladioli … They are always in the florist’s icebox.

So Maybelle has a week of big bloom, and then it’s bust for the rest of the year?

You can plant some, wait some, plant some more.

Stagger?

Ya, and they don’t all grow at the same speed either. Lots of various. Kinds, like I said … of kinds.

Aren’t they all orange? I seem to remember—

Nein, mein Kind
. It has cultivars in all kinds of colors.

“Cultivars,” Mother? what a word is this? Incorrigible? Confinement? Cultivars?

I never uttered a word of incorrigible.

Uncorrectable.

You lack all education, Joey. You snoozed while you were being—what do you say? “self-taught.” A cultivar is a new plant from an old plant taken. A various. Is what it means.