NIGHTS IN THE GARDENS OF BROOKLYN (29 page)

The bus driver looked up with his arm still extended over his head. “If you don’t like it, buster, you can always get off.”

“That’s right, boy,” the woman chimed in, glaring at Peter. “Go on, get lost.”

Peter stumbled from the bus. If only he could have explained!

Patches of tar were bubbling in the broiling streets. Women raised their bare arms to push back damp strands of hair, exposing wet bristly armpits. A hot wind blew the sticky wrappers of icecream suckers against Peter’s legs. He shuddered with a sudden chill and tried to walk faster, but his feet were clinging to the melting tar. On an impulse he turned and passed a Good Humor man who sagged limply at the curb, wailing softly like a muezzin at prayer time, and entered the lobby of an office building at the far end of Union Square.

Listlessly Peter surveyed the glassed-in board which carried the alphabetical listing of the building’s tenants. His eye was caught by the firm of Ginsburg and Gainsborough.

“Fifteen, please,” Peter said wearily to the elevator operator.

Ginsburg and Gainsborough, Converters, occupied the entire fifteenth floor. The first thing that Peter saw as he stepped from the elevator was a rotogravure blow-up, covering one entire wall, of a modernistic factory. Above its smoking streamlined chimneys was a sign: OUR WOONSOCKET FACTORY. At the far end of the reception room, in front of the long windows, a girl with shoulder-length yellow hair was seated behind a kidney-shaped desk, reading a novel and sucking her thumb.

The book was called
Quean of the Seize
, and its dust jacket displayed a listing frigate and a big sullen girl whose bust was bursting upwards from its sheath like two ripe onions. The receptionist’s hand was curled tensely around the corners of the book; her fingernails were tinted an emerald-green.

“Pardon me,” Peter said dully, looked down at her model’s hostess gown and her gold platform shoes.

“You’ll have to wait until I finish this chapter,” she replied, without looking up. She had removed her thumb from her mouth: she looked at it carefully, observing how the green nail polish had worn off, shook her head sadly so that her yellow hair swung slowly across her face, put the thumb back in her mouth, and resumed reading.

Peter dropped his zipper briefcase on a chair. What am I doing here? he thought. What shall I ask this girl? Actually he had only desired to escape for a little while from the heat and crush outside.

There was a steady humming coming from some place outside his head. Peter walked cautiously to the far end of the reception room and peered through a small glass peephole set into a leather-padded door. He found himself looking into a large workroom where four rows of elderly women, fagged and worn, were drooping over sewing machines, stitching slowly on large bolts of a glittering fabric similar to the gown that the receptionist was wearing. To the right of the workroom an arched open doorway led into the private office of Ginsburg and Gainsborough, where
the two owners sat facing each other across a wide green desk before an open window.

One of them was a tall corpse-like blond, with a monocle screwed tightly into his face and the longest, saddest jaw in the world. The other was a ferocious little bald man whose ears stuck out like handles and whose mashed nose spread out across his face like a pancake. They were both chewing bubble gum energetically—Peter could hear it snap above the whirring of the sewing machines—and they had handkerchiefs tucked around their necks to keep their collars from becoming soiled. They were playing gin rummy with the largest deck of cards that Peter had ever seen. The cards were bigger than seafood menus, so that when they were held up fanwise Mr. Ginsburg and Mr. Gainsborough could not see each other’s faces. The blond one peered suspiciously through his monocle around the edge of his cards at his bald little partner, who was keeping score with a piece of red chalk on a tall blackboard that stood against the wall. All around their desk the floor was littered with what looked like little snowballs; but then, as Peter observed them mopping their necks and foreheads, he saw that the little snowballs were wadded-up pieces of Kleenex which the partners flung to the floor each time they wiped the perspiration from their faces.

“My God,” sighed the receptionist. Peter started guiltily. “A hundred and two pages and she hasn’t even got her feet wet. Although it’s true,” she added magnanimously, “that four different guys have stripped her clear down to
here
.” And she pointed to her navel, the indentation of which Peter could see quite clearly through the thin sheath of her gown. “It’s enough to drive you crazy. What can I do for you?”

“Why…” Peter hesitated. “Maybe you can tell me what Mr. Ginsburg and Mr. Gainsborough convert.”

“Mostly each other.” The girl uttered a short metallic laugh. “Little baldy is Gainsborough, and the tall one with the monocle is Ginsburg. Life is full of surprises … What you selling, kiddo?”

“An invaluable periodical for forward-looking businessmen published by Moe Spleenwell of Matso,” replied Peter automatically. “Every issue is guaranteed to double the profits of any shrewd operator, including converters.”

“There’s no profits to double. You’re wasting your time here—unless you want to pick me up later and take me to an air-cooled show.”

“But what about the Woonsocket factory?”

“That just shows to go you. G and G wouldn’t know how to get to Woonsocket if you put them on the train. They borrowed that picture from
Fortune
magazine—it’s the newest Finnish suppository factory, in Helsinki.”

“But…” Peter shuddered as a drop of perspiration freed itself from his collar and crawled slowly down his back. “… But what about all those old women working on the sewing machines?”

“They work for a guy named Bulldozer. G and G rent office space from him. They share my services with Bulldozer too, if you know what I mean.” The girl yawned, arched her feline back, scratched her shoulder blade with a green fingertip, and crossed her silken legs smoothly, with a soft hissing sound. “What about that movie—didn’t you ever play with a girl in the dark, or what?”

“If you’d let me see them for a minute, maybe I—”

“Impossible. They’re in conference.”

“But I just saw them playing cards.”

“They’re not seeing anyone for at least two more months. It’s too hot right now. As far as that movie is concerned, I’ll have to consult my engagement book. Just wait a minute.” She uncrossed her legs with the same hissing sound and swung open the door of the typewriter cabinet at the side of the kidney-shaped desk.

A dead baby was lying on its back in the drawer. The little body rested on several sheets of carbon paper; its wrinkled thighs were smudged with ink, its tiny feet tangled in a snarl of paper clips and rubber bands.

A scream rose like a bubble of blood in Peter’s throat. He backed away from the desk, unable to look at the receptionist, turned, and ran noiselessly on the broadloom carpet to the door at the far end of the room. He rushed into the workroom where the old women labored at their machines.

“Help!” he croaked. He grasped the nearest woman by the arm. “A baby… there’s a dead baby in that room!”

The old lady showed him the bloodshot whites of her eyes. She
shook off his hand. “I can’t quit work. Got to meet my quota.” She nodded toward the office. “See them in there.”

Peter ran ahead into the office, crushing the little balls of Kleenex under his feet. Before he could say anything, the blond man threw down his giant cards and exclaimed happily, “I knock with five!”

“There’s a baby…” Peter sobbed.

The bald man cracked his bubble gum and pulled on his jug-handle ear. “Ophelia,” he shouted angrily, “who is this interloper?”

“A nut,” answered the receptionist, who had followed Peter into the office.

“I’m Peter Chifley,” Peter cried. “I’m a man. She has a dead baby in her desk!”

“You’re overwrought, old boy,” said the bald little man, rubbing his flat nose.

“You got a bad case sunstroke,” said the blond man, blowing on his monocle and polishing it with a piece of Kleenex.

“He’s hard up,” said the receptionist.

“You’re both guilty,” Peter said imploringly, “if you don’t do anything about this.”

“I seen once a man at Brighton Beach,” the blond man said, “was affected just like this. A vision he said he had, right by where they rent the beach umbrellas. And then he started to jump around like crazy.”

“You’re the ones that are crazy. All of you.”

“You’re right, Mr. G.,” the receptionist nodded, tugging at her garter. “First thing you know he’ll start to dance around the office like Fred Astaire.”

“What’s wrong with that?” sobbed Peter. “Isn’t that better than killing a baby that hasn’t even had a chance to walk?”

“You got maybe a point there.” Mr. Ginsburg smiled around his monocle. “Let’s sit down a minute and talk about it.”

Mr. Gainsborough took a small black leather case from the top drawer of his desk, opened it with his thumbs, assembled the three joints of a fine silver flute, and blew one or two experimental notes. “Charms to soothe the savage breast, you know.”

Peter stared at the little man in horror. “How can you play at a time like this?”

“The same way you can dance. You
can
dance, can’t you, old chap?”

Peter could find no words with which to answer. Ophelia the receptionist stood in the doorway, blocking his path with her aggressive hips; Mr. Ginsburg smoothed down his hair and fanned his long thin face with a Jack of Spades. Mr. Gainsborough dug a piece of wax from the depths of his brawny ear and pointed the embouchure of his flute at Peter.

“Suppose I attempt a few notes of Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess?”

“No! No!”

But Gainsborough put the flute to his lips and began to play. While Peter held his breath, he could only hear Gainsborough breathing through his silver flute, and Ophelia breathing through her pores; but as soon as he himself began to breathe once again, the grave melodic line sank slowly, like a baited silver thread dropping down through clear water, into the depths of his soul.

“All right,” he whispered, feeling his feet moving slowly along the hot dusty floor, “I’ll dance again…but not for you!” And with a bound he cleared the distance to the open window and gained the granite ledge that overhung the street, fifteen stories below.

“Holy Jesus,” muttered Ophelia, “did you see him go?”

“Come back, sonny!” screamed Mr. Ginsburg, leaning out the window and reaching gingerly for Peter’s twinkling foot.

“Should I stop playing?” Gainsborough asked fearfully. “Perhaps I should notify the super, or the cops.”

“Call Bellevue,” said Ophelia. She moved jerkily toward the telephone.

“Don’t stop!” Peter called in. “Keep on playing!”

As Gainsborough blew frantically on his flute, Peter moved easily along the ledge until he was out of anyone’s reach. In the clear blaze of the afternoon sun he was sharply outlined against the face of the building, and in a few minutes, while he wheeled, dipped, and spun on the narrow stone, the heads of stenographers and their bosses began to pop out of windows all around him. Peter could even hear their exclamations and their gasps. Far below a crowd began to gather. They collected on the far side of the
street, as though they were afraid that Peter might plummet to the ground in their midst.

It was the greatest audience that Peter had ever had, and it increased with every step that he took. He wanted desperately to express the elemental things he had learned in a way that everyone could understand. But it was no use. He could not look at the hundreds of gaping faces, watching him as though he were a chef frying eggs behind a plate-glass window.

And so Peter closed his eyes. As he glided slowly along the protruding lip of the building, the figures of the people he had known rose before him in the darkness like crying statues: Mama Blight and Anxious Moonshine, Freddy and Bert, Imago Parson and Gripping Rotheart, Moe Spleenwell and Ophelia the receptionist.

“Easy now,” a startlingly near voice murmured. “Just a few feet more.”

Peter opened his eyes. Just a few steps ahead an elderly man in a Palm Beach suit was leaning toward him from a corner window, his bifocal glasses glittering in the sunlight.

“Don’t be nervous,” the man said, gesturing to Peter with his fingers crooked. “Take it easy.”

“But I’m not nervous,” Peter replied in some exasperation. “You look a lot more nervous than me. Besides, I have no intention of coming in.”

“Wouldn’t you like one of these to keep?” The man held out a gaudy pamphlet entitled
Jungle Comics
.

“What for?”

“How about this?” In his other hand the man held an Esquire Girl Calendar which he waved so that it flapped in the wind.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said patiently, “I don’t know why you think I’d be interested in that. Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”

“Now see here—”

Peter turned away and walked back toward the faint sound of Gainsborough’s flute; but he had not gone more than a few steps when he saw a blood-red face dangling upside down just above his head. The face belonged to a policeman who seemed to be hanging by his toes from a sixteenth-floor window.

“Look out!” Peter cried.

“It’s all right,” said a voice from above. A fireman was holding the policeman by the ankles. “We’re going to save you.”

“That’s right,” gasped the policeman in a strangled voice. “Just take my hands and hang on. We’ll haul you up.”

“I don’t want to be hauled up.”

“Don’t you want to be helped?” asked the policeman angrily.

“No!” Peter backed away from his dangling arms. “Help yourself! Save yourself first.”

From the other corner of the building the elderly man was making his way slowly toward Peter, a stout rope tied about his waist. He was waving a long railroad ticket in one hand; in the other he brandished a melting ice-cream sucker.

“Look at the nice things I have for you,” he said menacingly.

“Go back. Please.”

“How would your parents feel if they knew all the trouble you’re causing?”