Five Legs Page 16

  But in my hands, life! I too have held, staring suddenly at these, my opening hands with dark hair curling to the wrist. Life in these hands! Goddamnit, I. Have! Dry-folding lines as fingers close to the palm; they’re puffy, too much blood, or something? Strangely rough, because. I let it go? Fresh glass, swallowing: to salvage this day, I must. Clearly think, and concentrate. Clearly act, must choose and I did . . . Silent gathering despair, I turn, oh slowly bending, staring between these legs, they’re such a mess, a christly mess . . .

  Bumping terror from me and away: I took her, I insisted, you won’t get married, there’s no other. Way. Muddy feet obscene as rats at dawn beneath the cross.

  THERE IS NO EASTER

  Just have to. Lucan, think about that, and. Maintain, dear God control! Exploding terrible chaos and my . . . None of them, a man’s own wife, she doesn’t. Emptying glass, hand­rubbing hands because. REPENT, there must be possibility, a chance to, repent or. See. Yes, a choice, a. Lucan Crackell’s not your man, he’s not the kind who falters. So there is no? GODDAMNIT THERE MUST BE! Decide, that’s all, just. Nobody, they’re all. Alone you must assert, be. Strength for. CHRISSAKES! Clenching now this glass, they’re bastards every fucking one of them are bastards! Yes, defy them all, the yes, I’ll. Throwing, hurling that’s the thing, it’s empty glass. Shattering horrifically and silence, Hah! The fuckingbastards, shit! Pukefart, pisspisspiss, boy I’ll. “Hey buddy, hey!” Here he bastard, here he comes. “You can’t do, who?” Quicksilver sickness, shame . . .

  “I’m, I’m . . .”

  “Who the bloodyhell do you, what’d you go and do that for?” Suspicious, aggressive there. “You want we should call the cops?”

  “No. no I’m sorry, really I’m.” Fumbling quick, get out, get out of here. “How much, I mean, Here, this is for. The glass, I’m.” Rising the chair, oh Christ I’ve hit the chair, it’s falling! Stumbling Lucan’s lunge to save, caught it, I. Pretty good, at least that’s. Pretty good reflexes, for a man my. Thrusting bill, avoiding don’t catch his, eye don’t hear his. But muster, God muster dignity! Sternly walk among and past them, dirty old men: faces lost and hopeless grey. Uggh! Shutting his coat, the searching cold, turning he pushes the door. Their laughter and violent warmth. Thank God I’m not like. Boy! Inverted and raw on the hill.

  My arm in confidence, a man can change. Her smiling faith, a curious elation. Decision, it’s decided. Yes. With hands he walks in the slush unconcerned: heavy cars and a bus, forging by and the streetlights weakly shine. Maybe I should just keep going ha! California, I could work in. Or.

  Laughter’s unaccustomed in my throat, my chest expands and. More quickly, light and strong. Running and to hell with the crap that’s soaking my shoes, he even skips. There was a boy. Dying figures huddling past for I was wrong, perverse. And wrong. Romeo died, (I want to shout) and Juliette, because they. Cared!

  There was a boy,

  A very strange enchanted boy.

  They say he travelled very far, very far

  Over land and sea.

  And then one day,

  One magic day he comes her way . . .

  Smiling eyes responsive: in my hall she smiles, she takes my arm. Leaning blond hair falling down, leaning to whisper: so glad, so very happy and warm, her breath infects my blood. Oh Lucan. Lucan help me! Calmly, Lucan reaching gently, in gently subduing light we lie with shadows in the other room. I can taste, on the edge of my mouth, her hair: oh Lucan help me for I don’t know what to do!

  You sly young fox.

  FELIX 1

  YOU. STUDIOUSLY BOUNCING your ass against the rad. Bouncing forward to your toes and shifting, back to the scalding metal with another patch of flesh and trousers, bouncing again to the toes with this imperceptible arch of the back, shifting because more than once on the same spot’s painful. But hold on, forget the pain because other people, soldiers and saints have smiled in pain while you, you’re just playing here in the vestibule, watching the mourners. Waiting for his body. In how many classrooms have you closed your eyes to swallow the panic? Rattling papers, pages turning all around you, and how many times and in how many rooms have you borne down on darkness? Bouncing now and rocking, you’re cringing from their draught as they push in at the door and the iron ring crashes behind them. Loudly from the street, with voices falling in self-conscious echoes as they come to bunch and crane at the inner door. Pausing before you they reverently stamp and sniff in droplets glistening from the nose: they nod abstractly, one by one, and meet, you have to, their eyes! “You’re from London, are you? I mean.” Plump voice that interferes with his breathing. “You must be from the university.” Gasping and standing too close, wheezing his smoker’s breath in my nose and then he turns away, quickly over his shoulder. “I could tell, you know, just by looking at you, that you’re one of his friends from university.” Waving a silent wave and smile, and then again his breath while his eyes are moistly. “Well. Heh-hum!” Patience thrusting its hand. “I’m his uncle you know. Uncle Martin, his namesake.” Trying to withdraw, I try to get my hand back, give me my goddamn hand! I mustn’t be, really mustn’t make a scene but he clutches, clutches and kneads, he pats my arm! “It’s hard to believe, he’s really gone.” Sadly shaking his round head. If you don’t give me back my hand, I’ll! Struggling and pulling, grunting audibly. Give me back my hand, give me my hand, but he’d only laugh, the bastard, clutching even tighter. No, no it’s mine now, mine all mine. I’ve got you! Those people coming in stop to stare as I wrench, I twist and extravagantly jump. He won’t give me back my hand! Leaping like a fish I topple chairs in furious noise and shshsh, they whisper, shshsh, inside the congregation stirs and some crowd back: the word is spreading, feet are running in the aisles. What, whatwhat, what’s going on? He won’t, pleading as I wrestle him weeping to the floor. It’s mine, all mine now, mineminemine . . . Straining, but it’s no use, pulling with all my heart to rescue, pushing my boot into his armpit for the extra force. Please, please give it back, please give me GIVE ME BACK MY GODDAMN HAND! Shrieking down into that face, jerking and shrieking, close to tears myself from the mourners pressing in! Christ the mother’s coming, here she. What? Stumbling on the preacher’s arm. Whatwhat, would Martin? Think, his favourite uncle. Ferocious into tears, oh Christ I’ve done it now! Accusing faces ring about me, shame on you and. “Young man, I’m sorry. I don’t, know your name?”

  “Oswald sir. Felix Oswald.”

  “Ah yes, you. You shared his apartment, didn’t you?” Nod to his saddening smile, nodding. “Yes, yes of course.” And slowly, his head. “Yes, I knew didn’t I? That you were from the university, I could tell. I have an instinct” Breathing asthmatic punctuation, his eyes are vulnerable. “For these things. I have an instinct, have to in my business. In your case,” a smile of satisfaction stirring at his lips. “In your case it was the beard, I could tell by the beard. And a handsome one too, I might say.”

  “Thank you.

  “There aren’t any beards in Stratford any more. There used to be, oh yes I remember. Many years ago.” Stiffly smiling to contain the. Oh Christ why? Why do I have to, shift here awkwardly, he wouldn’t want me to, to . . . Have to! Why did he come back, why to this solemn world of uncles and they’re all so, all of them, they’re old! All this respectability that’s pushing in, he’s dead. “My grandfather had a beard, very big it was I remember. And bushy. Right down to here.” Pink hands at his throat, he smiles imperceptibly and I can hear his breath inside. “Covered his necktie, it was such a big one. Came right down to here, he didn’t have to wear a necktie.” Smiling politely, stiff because there’s nothing to say about his grand­father. What can I say to this face? Over his shoulder, bumping from the street with bursts of wind and snow they stamp and nodding, push calm-eyed and staring from.

  “Mine’s too small for that, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh yes! Hah. Ha-ha! Still and all, you’ve got one and that’
s something.”

  “Yes, but not like . . .”

  “Not like my grandfather’s, is that what you were going to say?”

  “Yes, I was going to . . .”

  “I knew it, you see? I could . . . But it’s similar, isn’t it? I mean it’s the same kind of thing.” Turning. “Ah!” He expands, grows before my eyes, holding my arm again. “Mister Oswald this is my wife, my better half.” Sad-eyed beneath her tortured hat his aunt a shining face with powder in the wrinkles around her parted mouth; a shining face. “And her sister, this is her sister. Miss Smith.” Take her large, extending! Taking her dry firm hand, I nod and . . .

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “How do you do.”

  “Miss Smith’s from London. Perhaps you’ve seen her.” Shaking, I begin to shake my head. “Walking her dog, she has a three-legged dog.”

  “Oh Queenie, yes!” Squeezing my hand in the dryness of hers, she smiles and slips her tongue wetly along her lips. “Yes, my Queenie, she’s a lovely dog. We walk every day in the park, Queenie and I. Perhaps you’ve seen us?”

  “No, no I don’t believe . . .”

  That’s curious. We go very slowly.” Her look is disbelieving but I, haven’t, no, I swear I’ve never. “We have to, walk slowly, as you can imagine. She only has three legs and naturally, handicapped as she is, well. It takes some time for us to get through the park.” Slightly frowning and pinkly again, the tip of her tongue rests on her teeth. “Are you sure you haven’t seen us?”

  “No I.” Look desperately thoughtful, try! Pause, concentrate for her eyes and think with your wrinkled brow. “No. I’m sure,” and then escape, explain more quickly: “but I don’t often, go into the park you know.”

  “I always wear a red coat, a bright red coat.” Her fluttering eyes, she bows her head to watch me curiously.

  “Trees make me nervous.” Hah.

  “I shouldn’t, it really isn’t, my colour, I know it isn’t my colour, but, it’s a good coat a very good coat. Warm as anything. So I can’t bear to give it up.”

  “Why Frieda, why should you then, why should you give it up?” Her eyes are darting now and the tongue leaves moisture at the corners of her lips.

  “Well, it’s . . . Red’s a colour, it’s the colour of passion you know.”

  “Oh. Now Frieda, come on now. Let’s not . . .” Uncertain flutterings at her mouth; she takes her eyes away and turns.

  “Didn’t you know that, Martin, didn’t you realize that red is symbolic? Of passion I mean, the colour of passion?”

  “No. I.” Blowing suddenly, exasperation as his wife applies her hand to his arm. “Wheee-ooo!” Then in silence his uneven wheezing breath, it reminds me. Of something it. Suggests from somewhere back I can’t recall, at the moment I . . .

  Out there somewhere; pulling the pillow from under his head; un­ceremoniously pushing (is it hard to do, is he stiff yet?), closing the lid and what sort of laughter from what kind of men can they be, doing dead conventions? Or in the hearse already, bringing him here. Grey billowing exhaust about them: sleet soiled, the deep expensive shine, while they adjusting cuffs and smiles, they flick the ash from laps, they swear at the dampness of their shoes. “It is though, it really is.” Insisting, strange dry woman, why do you. “Surely you’ve seen us, me in my coat?” Turn threateningly on me like this, when I’ve. “Every day, every single day, as regular as clockwork, we set out.” Jesus, no I’ve! Shaking my head, this my most emphatic, yet my understanding smile. “You couldn’t mistake her, poor thing. Her left hind leg is shrivelled, handicapped from birth she was and it’s no use to her at all.” Sighing she’s jostled as more crowd in, they come unendingly, they bottleneck at the inner door: growling with impatience they’re shoving back in silence, rudely resisting pressure from outside. “She hops along as best she can and that’s.” Forced in against me now, they’re spreading to the walls with sudden hissing sounds and angry faces staring back. Look away from her wet mouth, but still I smell the lines about her eyes. “She does very well considering, she really has adjusted very well. Clickety-click with her front feet like this.” Pawing her large white hands at my chest, leftright, leftright, like a slowmotion horse. “Clickety-clock, clickety-click and her little back leg has to support all the rest of her weight, can you imagine? Click. Click. Click. I hold the leash quite tight so she won’t fall off balance, but still, her poor little paw’s deformed from the extra work.” Crowding faces grow with anger, thinly reach while fat ones fall in surly wrinkles to the throat. What, what’s going on, so many. There’s so many, why? Why don’t they go in, what’s happening? Surging about us, faces blending in one voice, their eyes pressing her to me, beating me back against the radiator’s heat, her large breasts flattened upon my arm and I can’t escape this sad, her faintest smile. “I’m sure, I really am quite certain that you’ve seen us.” Gentle dizziness behind my eyes, I think in this noise, her taunting voice, I think. Radiator at my back as dizzy, we push and sway: he takes his eyes from me to her and never, I swear I’ve never, seen her, please, so many there’s so many, why? Why does she grin like this, insist and . . .

  “Leave him Frieda, there’s no need.”

  “But Martin, there is. I know alright, if he’s seen me.” Stripping me somehow, smiling her eyes stare me bare and cold. “I’ve seen him you know, oh yes. I’ve seen you lots of times.”

  “Stop that! And leave him alone.” His face while voices all around begin to snarl, cry out and his wife’s swept away. “Just a . . .” Rising to see her, find his wife. “Just a, minute, I’ll be, right back. I’ll . . .” Wedging into the crowd then pausing, he leans to us here and warns: “You leave him, cut it out and leave him be. You hear?”

  “Oh Martin, you’re so, silly!” Choked laughter to a cough behind her hands and he’s, good Lord he’s gone . . . “Isn’t he, isn’t he silly?” Gentle coughing, but steady gaze. “We get along fine, we understand each other.” Even stare, shallow-eyed. “Oh I think so, yes I think so. Do you know why I asked for a dog like Queenie? I did you know, I especially asked for a poor little handicapped animal that nobody wanted, I asked everyone. The Humane Society. Everyone and do you know why?” Dear God, what, how can I? Weird unanimity of her face that’s waiting and her sad, that smile, I . . . don’t know anybody, I . . . Jesus fucking never! saw.

  “No.”

  “Well, in Mexico, we were at the zoo in Mexico, they don’t call it Mexico City down there, just Mexico. It’s rather confusing, they say I’m going to Mexico and if you don’t know, well you wonder. If you didn’t know, you’d wonder, wouldn’t you?” Swirling for I’m all alone, I could almost burst, I could just cry I feel so. Straining alone to see, look through and past these ugly faces, why? What ever possessed him to leave her there, come back down to this world of old animals and Susan? Sorrowfully away, sorrowfully, for if he hadn’t left us to return, he wouldn’t be dead, I wouldn’t be: mourners’ faces, heavy like there by the door, soft-jowled another arrogantly rises. Annoyance pushing, grimacing flesh. He’s gone Val, didn’t you know?

  What do you mean? Breathing our breaths together, me fiddling with the dial.

  To Stratford, he left an hour ago. What happened, he was . . .

  What, what was he Felix, tell me what?

  God I, you know, he was. Unhappy. Angry. What happened? Her silence, palpable regret: her pause, I cannot tell her, he’s gone down to hunt for a job and . . .

  We had a terrible. Misunderstanding, no it wasn’t, not a misunderstand­ing: falling away, a terrible fight. And he’s gone? Yes and to marry Susan but I cannot, I. No . . .

  Yeah, but he’ll be back, you can be . . .

  No! Sharply, crying abrupt in my ear. He won’t, not to me he won’t. I know. Silence again and then. I know. Her voice retreating from the phone and to herself: I think I’ll get drunk.

  C’mon, c’mon Val, I’m sure
. But that scene, his anger there: righteous in the kitchen drinking, stamping violent and you know, she hasn’t got a serious goddamn bone in her body, you know that? I mean, gimme a cigarette, let me pinch another cigarette. She’s got such stupid ideas, I mean, shit! Later with convincing anger, crumbled patterns of his talk, he said, I’m going down to marry Susan. Find a job to live how I know I am. Val, can I do anything Val?

  Ha-ha. No. Ha-ha, this is too much, there’s nothing I can do, nothing: burning behind, this pressing heat and shifting, agreeable, always polite as my mother. But blank, my smile couldn’t be emptier, yet still. “Wide paths and beautifully spacious.” She goes on and bloody. “Areas on either side. The animals, they look so happy. All of them with. Mexico has such a wonderful climate, don’t you think, have you ever been to Mexico?” Intently focussing, searching my eyes. “Well really you should go down there some time. The poverty’s dreadful of course, but it’s a wonderful experience and anyway, I do think, I’ve always thought how happy the poor are there, you know what I mean? How much they love their animals and that makes it easier to bear, doesn’t it? You’d certainly never guess from the zoo that there are poor people, it’s got.” Insidiously shaking her head as we’re rubbed together, she rests her hand on my arm. “An artificial mountain for goats and for the birds, why there’s the biggest cage you’ve ever seen it’s really huge, so they can fly and believe. I’ve always thought maybe they believe they’re still free. That would be nice wouldn’t it. In the middle of all this, right in the middle, and this is what I wanted to tell you, this is why I specially looked for a little deformed dog like Queenie. Bless her heart. Because right in the centre of all this, the fountains and the peacocks running loose, we came on a crowd, a really kind of ghastly, scruffy crowd of peasants and beggars you know. The kind that stare at you like animals and ask for money: they were gathered at a smaller compound, so many they blocked our path and there were peanut shells all over the sidewalk. They were all laughing and pointing at whatever it was; some children, little children of the street you know, were throwing stones. We didn’t want to get too close, seeing how it is down there, you have to be careful, but they noticed us and started calling, Lady Lady, looksee look and when they parted I saw it was a water buffalo or something and it had five legs.” What is she saying Christ what is she going to say? Horrible laughter gargling in my throat so I can stare, for a moment staring in her eyes. “That’s right, five legs. Hanging useless from its right shoulder, the extra one was terribly ugly, it was so sad. All the bones were elongated, unusually long you know, so the toes, or whatever they are looked like bony fingers.” Raising her hand from my arm again, abstractly she gazes and clutches at the air. “It was just awful, the poor poor thing and I was so embarrassed because they’d all turned to watch except one filthy little boy who was trying to throw a stone that was too big. I knew, I just knew that I was going to cry or something, so we pushed through and all the rest of the day I could see that poor animal’s suffering face and its. Leg. I realized then and there there must be hundreds of just such unfortunate animals born that never find a loving home and I vowed, I promised myself that I’d try in my own small way to do something about it.” Smiling, bravely smiling, searching in her purse to wipe the corner of her eye. “That’s why I got Queenie. I’m looking now, now I hope to find a deformed cat, but do you know.” Firm disapproval rising in her voice as she taps my chest. “They destroy most of the pitiful things at birth. So I’m having a terrible time.” Transfixed and yes I think, that’s a great. Idea, reasonable and humane idea. Destroy, yes at once, des . . . Oh Jesus, this is becoming, she’s too moist, her mouth. Destroy them, that’s what I. Touching my arm again, so ­insistent at my sleeve, she turns to. Returning anxious, they thread and balance, pushing to her side. “There you are Martin, there you are.” Is that pressure on my arm, on purpose? “We’ve been having a nice little, a talk and I think, I do believe.” It is, dear God and what’s she, sudden tremor from my gut, she saying, going to say? “He’s beginning to remember me. Aren’t you.” How can she, can I answer, staring what! “Isn’t that nice?”