The phone rang as he zipped closed his carry-on bag.
"Gaffney, what do you want?"
"Aren't you going to congratulate me?" Gaffney spoke merrily, ignoring Yossarian's evident tone of rancor.
"Have you been listening in again?" asked Yossarian, looking furtively at Melissa.
"To what?" asked Gaffney.
"Why'd you call?"
"You just won't give me credit, will you, John?"
"For what? I got a bill from you finally. You didn't charge much."
"I haven't done much. Besides, I'm grateful for your music. You don't know happy I am to play back the tapes we record. I love the Bruckner symphonies at this darkening time of year, and the Boris Godunov."
"Would you like the Ring?"
"Mainly the Siegfried. I don't hear that one often."
"I'll let you know when I schedule the Siegfried," said Yossarian, acidly.
"Yo-Yo, I'll be so obliged. But that's not what I'm talking about."
"Mr. Gaffney," said Yossarian, and paused to allow his point to sink in. "What are you talking about?"
"We're back to Mr. Gaffney, are we, John?"
"We never passed John, Jerry. What do you want?"
"Praise," answered Gaffney. "Everybody likes to be appreciated when he's done something well. Even Señor Gaffney."
"Praise for what, Señor Gaffney?"
Gaffney laughed. Melissa, reposing upon the arm of the leather sofa, was rasping away at her fingernails with an emery board. Yossarian gave her a menacing scowl.
"For my gifts," Gaffney was saying. "I predicted you'd be going to Wisconsin to see Mrs. Tappman. Didn't I say you'd be changing in Chicago, for your trip to Washington to Milo and Wintergreen? You didn't ask me how I knew."
"Am I going to Washington?" Yossarian was amazed.
"You'll be getting Milo 's fax. M2 will phone to the airport to remind you. There, that's the fax coming in now, isn't it? I'm on target again."
"You have been listening, haven't you, you bastard?'
"To what?"
"And maybe watching too. And why would M2 be phoning me when he's right down the hall?"
"He's back at the PABT building with your son Michael, trying to decide if he's willing to be married there."
"To the Maxon girl?"
"He'll have to say yes. I have another good joke that might amuse you, John."
"I'll miss my plane."
"You've plenty of time. There'll be a delay in departure of almost one hour."
Yossarian burst out with a laugh. "Gaffney, you're finally mistaken," he crowed. "I had my secretary call. It's leaving on schedule."
Gaffney laughed too. "Yo-Yo, you have no secretary, and the airline was lying. It will be late taking off by fifty-five minutes. It was your nurse you had call."
"I have no nurse."
"That warms my heart. Please tell Miss MacIntosh the kidney is working again. She will be happy to hear that."
"What kidney?"
"Oh, Yossarian, shame. You don't always listen when she telephones. The kidney of the Belgian patient. And as long as you're going to Washington, why don't you invite Melissa-"
"Melissa, Mr. Gaffney?"
"Miss MacIntosh, Mr. Yossarian. But why don't you invite her to join you there? I bet she'll say she'd really love to go. She's probably never been. She can go to the National Gallery when you're busy with Milo and Noodles Cook, and to the National Air and Space Museum of the Smithsonian Institution."
Yossarian covered the telephone. "Melissa, I'm going to stop in Washington on the way back. How about taking time off to meet me there?"
"I'd really love to go," Melissa replied. "I've never been. I can go to the National Gallery when you're busy, and to that aeronautical museum of the Smithsonian Institution."
"What did she say?" asked Jerry Gaffney.
Yossarian replied respectfully. "I think you know what she said. You really are a man of mystery, aren't you? I haven't figured you out yet."
"I've answered your questions."
"I must think of new ones. When can we meet?"
"Don't you remember? In Chicago, when your connecting flight is delayed."
"It will be delayed?"
"For more than an hour. By unpredictable blizzards in Iowa and Kansas."
"You predict them already?"
"I hear things and see things, John. It's how I earn my living. May I try out my joke now?"
"I'll bet you do. And you have been listening, haven't you? Maybe watching too."
"Listening to what?"
"You think I'm simpleminded, Gaffney? Would you like to hear my joke? Jerry, go fuck yourself."
"That's not a bad one, Yo-Yo," said Gaffney, sociably, "although I've heard it before."
The opera Siegfried brought to mind, Yossarian was recalling in the pearl-gray limousine, that the heldentenor in that one, after a mere touch to his lips of the blood of the slain dragon, illustriously began to understand the language of birds. They told him to take the gold, kill the dwarf, and dash to the mountain through the circle of fire to find Brunnhilde lying there in charmed sleep, this message in bird notes to a youth who had never laid eyes on a woman before and needed more than one look at the buxom Brunnhilde to make the startling discovery that this was not a man!
Siegfried had his birds, but Yossarian had his Gaffney, who could report, when Yossarian phoned him from the car, that the chaplain was passing tritium in his flatulence.
Nurse Melissa MacIntosh had not heard of an intestinal condition like that one before but promised to ask a number of gastroenterologists she was friendly with.
Yossarian was not certain he wanted her to.
He was wounded and abashed by the question that leaped to mind, and too shamed to voice it: to ask if she'd dated these doctors and slept with them too, even with only four or five. It told him again, to his inconceivable delectation, that he indeed thought himself in love. Such pangs of jealousy for him were extremely few. Even far back in his torrid affair with Frances Beach, though almost monogamous himself, he had indifferently assumed that she, in the vernacular of the age, was at that time also "boffing" others who were potentially supportive of her aspirations as actress. Now he reveled like an epicure in the euphoria of impressions of love that were again rejuvenating him. He was not embarrassed or afraid, except that Michael or the other children might find out, while it was still in the outlandish character of a rapture.
In the car she held his hand, pressed his thigh, ran fingers through the curls at the back of his head.
Whereas Siegfried from the start was in the evil hands of a wicked dwarf greedy for dragon's gold and drooling to liquidate him as soon as he had collared it.
Melissa was preferable.
She and her roommate, Angela Moore, or Moorecock, as he now called her, disapproved righteously of married men in quest of secret girlfriends, except for the married men who had quested specifically for them, and Yossarian was glad his newest divorce was final. He thought best not to divulge to her that, even with ravishing women, the seduction over, there was only the infatuation and sex, and that often in men of his years, caprice and fetishism were more arousing than Spanish fly. He was already scheming to take the last shuttle plane back with her from Washington and in the semidarkness of the interior attempt, while she sat near the window, to succeed in removing her underpants in the fifty or so minutes they had. Unless, of course, she wore jeans.
Unlike Angela, she herself never verbally tendered evidence of the versatile range of amatory experiences her roommate and best friend had bawdily claimed for them both. Her vocabulary tended toward the pristine. But she seemed a stranger to nothing and evinced no need for guidance or definitions. In fact, she knew a trick or two he had not imagined. And she so stubbornly resisted conversing about her sexual history that he soon left off searching for it.