The Senior Tutor blinked. “Well, he’s not in my field, you understand, but yes, I think that I’m familiar with the rudiments of the man’s work.” That got his goat, the old turd. I was playing it his way, and it hurt.
“Artaud was also an addict, an opium addict, that is, and his comment on the matter was that…” I paused, trying to get it out right “… his comment was that as long as we haven’t been able to abolish a single cause of human desperation, we do not have the right to try to suppress the means by which man tries to clean himself of desperation.” I paused and looked at the Tutor. “Those were his words on the subject. Of course, Artaud was himself a desperate man when he wrote them, desperate in a sense probably unknown to De Quincey. Because when he wrote his little essay on opium they were getting ready to cart him off to the madhouse. And not for being an addict,” I added.
“I see,” said the Tutor, who looked as if he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. “Yes, I see. Artaud. I’ll have to look into him. He was one of those Cruelty fellows, wasn’t he?”
I nodded.
“Yes. Well.” He stood up again and held out his hand. “It’s been good talking to you, Harkness, and remember, if you should think of anything that you want to discuss, or perhaps if you should just feel like a chat, don’t hesitate to let Miss Burns know.”
“I will,” I said, “and thank you, sir.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, showing me to the door.
33
TWO DAYS OF EARNESTLY ANEMIC study went by and then John marched into my room and plunked down on the bed.
“How’s it going?” he said, which I did not bother to respond to because John didn’t give a goddamn how it was going and never had. All he meant was that he had something on his mind. He pulled out a joint. “Want to blow some?”
I shook my head. I was feeling virtuously studious, and I knew that the dope would kill that. I also knew that I couldn’t sit around and watch him smoke too long, so I said, “What’s happening?”
“Well,” John said, “I’m thinking about this Lotus, it’s in beautiful shape and the cat who’s selling it is the original owner. I’m going over to look at it tomorrow.” He took a deep drag. “Want to come?”
“Sure,” I said, “but you didn’t come in here to lay that down.”
He laughed, and took another hit. “I can see the studying has brought your mind to a keen edge, Peter,” he said. “Well, what I wanted to know—” another hit “—fine dope, you sure you don’t want any?”
“You wanted to know.”
He laughed again. “Quite right,” he said. “All business. I wanted to know if this chick is still up for doing it.”
Then I remembered. “I meant to tell you,” I said. “She called last night and said she’d love to go to New York with you, but she’s used up all her overnights.”
“No, no,” John said, “I meant—is that right? The little bitch. She called last night? I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you get hold of me?”
“You were in the rack with Sandra.”
“Oh yeah,” John said, remembering. “Oh yeah.” He thought about it some more. “She can’t go overnight? Jesus, that screws the whole weekend.”
“Tell her that,” I said.
He laughed, and then was silent, and finally said, as if remembering suddenly, “No, listen, I was talking about something else—that California chick, what’s-her-name, does she still want to make a trip?”
That was surprising, even shocking. John’s head was bent, but on one thing he was firm: he never changed his mind. Never, under any circumstances. I didn’t know whether it was from obstinacy, or pride, or his Old Boston upbringing, but whatever the reason, it was true.
“Yeah, she’ll do it.” I didn’t hesitate. I knew I could talk her into it—I’d almost done as much when the run wasn’t even a sure thing. It was a way to come out and she wouldn’t worry about it, if I said it was cool.
But I was interested in John’s change of mind, in his sudden acceptance of Sukie. Hell, last time I’d talked to him he hadn’t even considered the possibility.
“What happened?” I said. “Couldn’t you find anyone else?”
John shrugged. “Well, let’s see. You can’t go because you fucked your exam. And everyone else’s wonking their ’nads off for exams.” He laughed. “Not doing a fucking thing, really, just sitting around chewing their nails. But if they’re going to worry, they’re going to do it here.” He shook his head pityingly, then looked up at me. “The other thing is that Musty called and said he was leaving town for a while. He said if I wanted anything more before July, I had to do it now. So here we are.” He smiled and took out another joint, lit it, passed it to me.
I took a long hit. “Musty’s leaving town fast, huh?”
“That’s the riff,” said John.
“Far out,” I said, and then laughed. Things had worked out better than I had hoped. I’d known that John would be pressed for a runner, but I didn’t think he’d offer to let Sukie do it. I thought I’d have to cudgel him into it—and then here he was asking me if I thought she could make it. I laughed again. “Yeah, she’ll do it.”
“Good enough,” said John. “Everything’s set up, you’ll send the money to Sukie and Musty’s got the bricks ready. So all you’ve got to do is call the chick and let her in on it.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you, John.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact. But John didn’t take it that way. He waved the joint in my direction and said, “You were pretty sure of yourself, Peter.” I guessed that he’d been figuring things out with Musty, and laughed.
“Yeah, I guess I was. But what the hell. She’s coming. When will she fly in, anyway?”
“Saturday, around two.”
I thought that one over and then realized what he had said.
“Saturday, good God. Not Saturday. I’m supposed to go to the Piggy Picnic on Saturday.”
“Please. Garden Party.”
“Well, the hell with that. Annie Butler can blow her mind at me all she wants, I’m just not going to be able to make it. I’d better let her know as soon as I talk to Sukie—”
“Peter,” said John. Nothing more.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to tell Annie anything. I may have to let this chick make the run, but I don’t have to let you two lovebirds fuck things up by prancing around Logan together, for every one of Murphy’s pigs to see and admire.”
“What the hell—”
“Murphy busted you in Berkeley, with the chick in the same room, right? And I expect that your mugs are fairly well known by the vice-squad pigs by now.”
“Oh for Chrissake, get off it. Maybe my mug—maybe, if you really stretch it—but Sukie’s, never. I’m going to go down and pick her up, and Annie Butler can go to hell.”
John puffed slowly on what was by this time a dark roach. Finally he said, “This is my run and we’re going to do it my way or not at all. You can tell the chick on the phone why you’re not going to be there to meet her—but that’s all. I’m not going to have this thing fucked up just to please your absurd sense of decorum, and that’s all it is, Peter, so don’t go making those bullshit faces at me. When the chick lands in Boston you’re going to be having the time of your life at the Piggy Club Garden Party. Period. I will be down at Logan waiting for her, and she’ll be in the room about the time that you and Annie fondly bid each other farewell.” He paused and looked at me. “Understand?”
There was nothing to say. I left the room to find a pay phone.
A surprised voice answered, sounding very far-away. It was a lousy connection. “Peter?”