Motorman (9 page)

Returning from the mailpost he rested on a refrigerator in the mud, his knee throbbing, and read the letter:

General Moldenke

The False Front

The War

Dear General Moldenke,

Because of punctuation we have taken Cock Roberta. You may have custody of her after the War. We have her on a standard regimen. She often talks about her hero.

Truly yours,

The Staff

The Grammar Wing

The Great Chicago Clinic

57]

When he woke up the k-motor had stopped, the temperature had gone up. He went to the lookout, put on his goggles. A number of suns had risen. His forearms had blistered.

Someone opened the hatch and said, “Climb out of this thing, Moldenke, before you fry yourself.”

A column of white sunslight filled the shaft. He opened his backpack and took out his sun hat, clamped on darker goggle lenses. “Hurry on, Moldenke. Climb out of there.”

He climbed the shaft. Someone took his elbow and helped him out. “My name is Roquette.”

Moldenke squinted in the goggles, saw Roquette reversed and inverted, a figure in khaki swamp shorts, boots, carrying a walking stick and a shade lamp, upside down.

“Reverse the goggles, Moldenke. You've got them on backwards.” Moldenke corrected the error, apologized. He was not surprised that Roquette knew his name.

Roquette said, “Bright enough for you, son?”

Moldenke said, “A little.”

Roquette wore his hair in a back pouch, his beard pulled tight against his face in a net. “Step closer, son. Let me have a look at you.” Moldenke stepped closer. Roquette protchered him on the shoulder. “We heard you coming, son. The folks and myself. They decided I would come out and see if I could help you if you needed it.”

Moldenke said, “I need it.”

Roquette said, “Follow me.”

58]

Dear Moldenke,

First, let me clear up a popular misconception. Second, let me hand you a piece of news. One, Eagleman and his moon remain intact. I've touched them both. And two, exactly half of Texaco City burned out last night-—old Blackside, the nigger section.

Quickly back to the k-tubes,

Your friend,

Burnheart

59]

Dear Burnheart,

All of Blackside? What did they do with the niggers?

Wondering again,

Moldenke

60]

Dear Moldenke,

I'm afraid the plural is no longer applicable. Only one of them survived, a rangy old one by the name of Roosevelt Teaset. The rest of them went up in smoke. They'll flood the area now and let the crabs go to work. They didn't even bother with a show of fire-fighting. They simply let it burn. I don't know what to say. It wasn't news to me. I knew they were building a fire fence across the city. After that it was only a matter of arranging a long spell of dry weather, parachuting matches to the children and waiting for the inevitable.

Take pause, Moldenke.

Yours,

Burnheart

61]

He middled himself in the auditorium. A dome, angles, vertical walls, everything suggesting architecture. Ushers walked the aisles collecting chits. Bunce was in Texaco City to speak to the folks. Moldenke ate popcorn.

Someone whispered, “Bunce,” and everyone stood up. Moldenke remained seated and lit a cigar.

Bunce delivered the standard speech: “I appear before the folks tonight with sorrow under my tongue. You have patiently endured while the moons were down for repairs. Now, as together we approach the terminus, I ask you to turn on your flashlights.” Lights in the auditorium went out and flashlights were turned on.

Bunce asked if there were any questions. Moldenke raised his hand.

Bunce said “No questions?” Moldenke stood up and whirled his hand in circles above his head.

Bunce said, “I see no hands.” Someone next to Moldenke said, “He can't see you. Turn on your flashlight.”

Moldenke didn't have a flashlight. Two jellyheads approached and asked him to step into the aisle. They searched through his coats and shirts and reversed his pockets, made him kneel.

Bunce said, “Look at that example, folks. Shine your lights on that man.” The audience turned to watch, focusing their beams on Moldenke.

One of the jellyheads said, “Take down the pants.” Moldenke took down the pants. The second jellyhead came forward wearing a rubber glove and said, “Bend over. We need some readings.”

62]

He followed Roquette into a circle of cypress trees. Roquette said, “We'll sit here and talk.” They sat in a two-man circle. Roquette turned on the shade lamp. They removed their goggles, huddled under a mushroom of lamp shade, and talked.

Moldenke said he was wondering where they were. Roquette said he could only say that they were less than a klick from the river. Moldenke listened and heard the flow.

“You look pale and slightly wasted, Moldenke. I presume you came from the city? The cities? How do you say it these days? ”

Moldenke mentioned a crumbling house in Texaco City with eastern lookouts.

Roquette described a time when he had lived in the cities, a time when Eagleman's moon was no more than a scribble on a drawing table. His eyes seemed red in the goggles. Moldenke looked at him through purple lenses. A snipe whistled in a gum above them. A delicate swarm of small bubbles came to Roquette's cracked lips and slid into his beard. Moldenke's hearts drummed in the hum of the swamp.

Roquette stood up, his head disappearing into the sunslight, and said he wondered where they were. Moldenke said there was a river close by.

“My apologies, Dinky. I forget sometimes. The brain is always in a fever. Where did you say you had come from?”

“Texaco City.”

“Well, a boy from old T-City. Shake my hand, son.” He held out a hand. Moldenke shook it. It was like an ear of corn.

One sun dropped, the others drifted apart.

Roquette said, “Looks like a break in the weather.” He squatted again and turned down the shade lamp, patting a gauze pad at the back of his neck.

A blackworm snaked across the footpath.

Moldenke said he was going south. They ate crickets from Moldenke's tin and smoked cigars. The temperature dropped.

“Are you chilly, Mr. Roquette? I could build a fire.”

“No thank you, Moldenke. I'll say something about the cold. As old as I am I may as well be realistic regarding the probable future, given the past as a stepping stone and the present as a foothold. I decided long ago to defeat the heat by gathering the wisdoms of the cold. Once I froze myself crank-to-ground in ice, read the book, and went to sleep. When the weather gets good and cold I usually go out naked in my garden and hose off.”

Moldenke built a small fire. “I don't have that wisdom,” he said. “I try to stay warm if I can. I hope you don't mind the smoke.”

“Did you say 'smoke,' Dinky? ”

“Yes. I have a little fire here.”

Roquette said, “Smoke. He wants to know if I mind smoke. Watch this, boy.” He lit a fresh cigar and turned to give Moldenke a profile. He exhaled at length, then began an inhale. The ash grew longer as the ember burned back, dropping off in lengths. The inhalation continued until the cigar had become a mound of ash in his lap.

“That's a slick one,” Moldenke said. “The whole cigar in a single draw. I'm impressed.”

Roquette turned, bloatfaced, indicating that it wasn't over yet. He lay back, raising one leg in the air. “Now, watch.” Moldenke watched. Smoke curled out of the khaki shorts, out of the fly, out of openings in the shirts. “See, Moldenke. I suck it all in, then I blow it out the chuff pipe. It brings the house down every time.”

The fire smoked. Moldenke fanned the sparks with his sun hat. Roquette fell asleep smoking.

Moldenke buttoned on his trenchcoat, moved closer to the firelight and read at random from the
Ways & Means
:

SNIPEMEAT:
In the absence of other meats, snipemeat will provide an adequate wilderness meaL. Entrails will be found to contain valuable minerals. The bones may be sundried, pulverized, and taken for heart pain.... MUDCAT NOODLING: Spawning catfish will generally be found in hollowed out places in the mud bank and may be landed by two people, one the noodler, the other on watch. ...
BOX-ELDER
BUG-SOUP: Tasty black and orange soup. Two cups of box-elder bugs, sifted, simmered on a warm...

Roquette woke up, sat up. The fire had improved. Moldenke added cypress bark. Roquette took off his goggles and rubbed his eyes. “What did you say your name was, son?”

“Moldenke.”

“Ah, Moldenke. Where are you headed?”

“South?”

“Ah, south. That's a fine direction, son. Which is it, though, the New South or the true south?” Moldenke said he didn't know, that he was looking for two individuals by the names of Burnheart and Eagleman who lived in a house toward the south, some south or another, with hogs living under the house, among the pilings. He guessed it was near a river, or a brackish marsh, since Burnheart had mentioned crabs. Roquette wanted to know the kind of crab and Moldenke couldn't say. Roquette said he knew a great deal about crabs and oysters, had spent a good many years in the business. “But no sense dwelling in the past,” he said, making a circle in the dirt with his walking stick and spitting in its center.

Moldenke agreed, snatched a mole cricket flying by, bit off the head and discarded it, broke off the digging appendages, and ate the body. “Roquette, do you
know
Burnheart and Eagleman? ”

Roquette drew an x in the circle. “Yes, I know them, in a sense. I went to school with Burnheart, played a little snooker with Eagleman. Why do you ask?”

“Only wondering,” Moldenke said. “No reason.” Yellow cricket fluids ringed his lips, scales and legs hung in his scanty beard.

“You're a man of the earth,” Roquette said. “I can easily see that. We could get along, you and me. Take your nose out of Burnheart's book. I'll take you south in my boat.”

“You know where they are, Roquette? Will you drop me off there?”

“No promises, Moldenke. I'll do what I can. I'm not exactly the lord ruler of the boat. The other folks will have to be consulted on every possibility. We'll see. Don't get excited. It's bad for-—”

“I know, the hearts. How did you know about the heart job, Roquette?”

“I heard you ticking, son. I heard the bleating. There isn't anyone in these parts as perceptive as myself, Moldenke. Did I introduce myself? The name is Roquelle, with two l's.”

Moldenke shook the corn cob hand again. “Before you said Roquette, with t's.”

“My apologies, Dink. Did I? Old brains turn to rocks, son. We'll leave it at Roquette. No sense in carrying on any more than we have to. Shall we head for the boat?”

The suns went down, an egg-shaped moon came up above the treetops. They walked toward the river as the evening froze, Roquette's stick sucking in and out of the mud.

“How many other people on the boat, Roquette?”

“Hard to say, Dink. They seem to come and go. You know the housing premium, even here in the bottoms. You might say it was a houseboat.”

“A houseboat?”

“Maybe. You might say that.”

“On the river? ”

“Yes, I'd say it was a river. Things appear to float on it. As a fact of matter it has a name, The Jelly. Do you remember The Jelly from your earth courses, son? You passed the survival exam, am I right?”

“I passed the survival exam, but that was on paper. You never know. I don't think I know my rivers very well, I'm sorry.”

“C-minus, son. C-minus. You should know your rivers. How do you expect to navigate? It used to be known as The Odorous. Does that strike a chord?”

“Sure, The Odorous. I remember The Odorous.”

“Things change, Moldenke. You stay in your room and never look out. Things change. You should pace yourself. When I was a boy I ate potato peels from garbage bins. A man starts out with ropes to be climbed. Some of them stretch, but he shouldn't give up. Try another rope. Sooner or later you'll grab a tight one. I played some football, too. Nowadays I sit downstairs by the fireplace and look at the clockpiece on the mantelboard. Sometimes I'll turn on the lamp and read the book. Only the tripodero had all the wisdoms of living, and there he is, extinct. What can we do, Moldenke? Things change.”

They stood on the banks of The Jelly, Roquette pissing into the thick, oily flow. Moldenke imagined starlight. Another moon was up. At the far bank he saw the boat lights, heard the fog whistle.