And he did it, my wonderful, wonderful cantor cantati-bus. Bless you, O son of Israel! Bless you!
Aren't you slightly mad this morning?
Yes, yes, that I am. But I could be madder. Why not? When a prisoner is released from his cell should he not go mad? I've served six lifetimes plus thirty-five and a half years and thirteen days. Now they release me. Pray God, it is not too late!
I took her by the two hands and made a low bow, as if to begin the minuet.
It was you, you who brought me the pardon. Pee on me, won't you? It would be like a benediction. O, what a sleepwalker I have been!
I leaned out the window and inhaled a deep draught of Spring. (It was such a morning as Shelley would have chosen for a poem.) Anything special for breakfast this morning? I turned round to face her. Just think—no more slaving, no more begging, no more cheating, no more pleading and coaxing. Free to walk, free to talk, free to think, free to dream. Free, free, free!
But Val, dear, came her gentle voice, we're not staying there forever, you know.
A day there will be like an eternity here. And how do you know how long or short our stay will be? Maybe war will break out; maybe we won't be able to return. Who knows the lot of man on earth?
Val, you're making too much of it. It's going to be a vacation, nothing more.
Not for me. For me it's a break through. I refuse to stay on parole. I've served my time, I'm through here.
I dragged her to the window. Look! Look out there! Take a good look! That's America. See those trees? See those fences? See those houses? And those fools hanging out the window yonder? Think I'll miss them? Never! I began to gesticulate like a half-wit. I thumbed my nose at them. Miss you, you dopes, you ninnies? Not this fella. Never!
Come, Val, come sit down. Have a bit of breakfast. She led me to the table.
Okay then, breakfast! This morning I'd like a slice of ‘Watermelon, the left wing of a turkey, a bit of possum and some good old-fashioned corn pone. Father Abraham's ‘done ‘mancipated me. Ise nevah goin’ back to Carolina. Father Abraham done freed us all. Hallelujah!
What's more, I said, resuming my own natural white trash voice, I'm done writing novels. I'm a member elect of the wild duck family. I'm going to chronicle my hard-earned misery and play it off tune—in the upper partials. How do you like that?
She deposited two soft-boiled eggs in front of me, a piece of toast and some jam. Coffee in a minute, dear. Keep talking!
You call it talk, eh? Listen, do we still have that Poeme d'Extase? Put it on, if you can find it. Put it on loud. His music sounds like I think—sometimes. Has that far off cosmic itch. Divinely fouled up. All fire and air. The first time I heard it I played it over and over. Couldn't shut it off. It was like a bath of ice, cocaine and rainbows. For weeks I went about in a trance. Something had happened to me. Now this sounds crazy, but it's true. Every time a thought seized me a little door would open inside my chest, and there, in his comfy little nest sat a bird, the sweetest, gentlest bird imaginable. Think it out! he would chirp. Think it out to the end! And I would, by God. Never any effort involved. Like an etude gliding off a glacier...
As I was slooping up the soft-boiled eggs a peculiar smile hovered about my lips.
What is it? she said. What now, my crazy one?
Horses. That's what I'm thinking. I wish we were going to Russia first. You remember Gogol and the troika? You don't suppose he could have written that passage if Russia was motorized, do you? He was talking horses. Stallions, that's what they were. A horse travels like wind. A horse flies. A spirited horse, anyway. How would Homer have rushed the gods back and forth without those fiery steeds he made use of? Can you imagine him manoeuvering those quarrelsome divinities in a Rolls Royce? To whip up ecstasy ... and that brings me back to Scriabin ... you didn't find it, eh? ... you've got to make use of cosmic ingredients. Besides arms, legs, hooves, claws, fangs, marrow and grit you've got to throw in the equinoctial precessions, the ebb and flow of tide, the conjunctions of sun, moon and planets, and the ravings of the insane. Besides rainbows, comets and the Northern lights you've got to have eclipses, sun spots, plagues, miracles ... all sorts of things, including fools, magicians, witches, leprechauns, Jack the Rippers, lecherous priests, jaded monarchs, saintly saints ... but not motor cars, not refrigerators, not washing machines, not tanks, not telegraph poles.
Such a beautiful Spring morning. Did I mention Shelley? Too good for his likes. Or for Keats or Wordsworth. A Jacob Boehme morning, nothing less. No flies yet, no mosquitos. Not even a cockroach in sight. Splendid. Just splendid. (If only she would find that Scriabin record!)
Must have been a morning like this that Joan of Arc passed through Chinon on her way to the king. Rabelais, unfortunately, was not yet born, else he might have glimpsed her from his cradle near the window. Ah, that heavenly view which his window commanded!
Yes, even if MacGregor were to suddenly appear I could not fall from grace. I would sit him down and tell him of Masaccio or of the Vita Nuova. I might even read from Shakespeare, on a frangipanic morning like this. From the Sonnets, not the plays.
A vacation, she called it. The word bothered me. She might as well have said coitus interruptus.
(Must remember to get the addresses of her relatives in Vienna and Roumania.)
There was nothing to keep me chained indoors any longer. The novel was finished, the money was in the bank, the trunk was packed, the passports were in order, the Angel of Mercy was guarding the tomb. And the wild stallions of Gogol were still racing like the wind.
Lead on, O kindly light!
Why don't you take in a show? she said, as I was making for the door.
Maybe I will, I replied. Don't hatch any eggs till I get back.
On the impulse I decided to say hello to Reb. It might be the last time I'd ever set foot in that ghastly place of his. (It was too.) Passing the news stand at the corner I bought a paper and left a fifty cent piece in the tin cup. That was to make up for the nickels and dimes I had swiped from the blind newsie at Borough Hall. It felt good, even though I had deposited it in the wrong man's cup. I gave myself a sock in the kishkas for good measure.
Reb was in the back of the store sweeping up. Well, well, look who's here! he shouted.
What a morning, eh? Doesn't it make you feel like breaking out?
What are you up to? he said, putting the broom aside. Haven't the faintest idea, Reb. Just wanted to say hello to you.
You wouldn't want to go for a spin, would you? I would, if you had a tandem. Or a pair of fast horses. No, not to-day. It's a day for walking, not riding. I pulled my elbows in, arched my neck, and trotted to the door and back. See, they'll carry me far, these legs. No need to do ninety or a hundred.
You seem to be in a good mood, he said. Soon you'll be walking the streets of Paris.
Paris, Vienna, Prague, Budapest ... maybe Warsaw, Moscow, Odessa. Who knows? Miller, I envy you. Brief pause.
I say, why don't you visit Maxim Gorky while you're over there?
Is Gorky still alive?
Sure he is. And I'll tell you another man you ought to look up, though he may be dead by now. Who's that?
Henri Barbusse.
I'd sure like to, Reb, but you know me ... I'm timid. Besides, what excuse would I have for busting in on them? Excuse? he shouted. Why, they'd be delighted to know you.
Reb, you have an exalted opinion of me. Nonsense I They'd greet you with open arms.