Giles Goat Boy (35 page)

All this I saw, and yet scarcely saw anything, so enormous was the sight. I gaped in the doorway, cod in hand.

“A little Carnival party,” Stoker said. “We have one every night this week. You should see the place on New Year’s Eve!” So peristently rumored was the approach of a new Grand Tutor, he explained, it had become popular practice among conscientious students to don caps and gowns and celebrate his arrival, and their own Commencement, in advance; in less reverent circles, like Stoker’s, the same thing was done in burlesque: one of their number would be chosen “Tutor of the Revels” and given absolute direction of the party, bestowing honors on the gamest and flunking from the premises any who declined to join the fun. What was more, there had been in recent years a rash of pretenders to actual Grand-Tutorhood, who, however bizarre or insubstantial their claim, never failed to find at least a few believers, and indeed were sometimes quite popular and influential. These were much sought after by earnest students and smart party-givers, and while it was within Stoker’s jurisdiction, as director of Main Detention, to arrest any truly dangerous impostors, he often invited the more colorful ones to entertain his guests.

“Wish you could have seen the chap we had here a month ago: claimed the basic energy in the University was a kind of sound-wave given off by the sex-organs, that only he and his Graduates could hear. We all put little microphones between our legs and made Organic Harmony. That’s what he said the Answer was—Music of the Spheres! He particularly liked
Stacey’s
timbre
when he tuned her in, and she swore she could hear something, too, like singing. All I could hear from anybody was farts and static … Have a bite to eat?”

A waiter had paused before us with a tray of burnt and dismembered chicken-bodies. Stoker helped himself to two handfuls; I turned away to keep from retching at the sight.

“Sorry, old man; forgot.” He sent the waiter off with orders to find a plate of hay, offering me in the meantime a handful of paper napkins by way of
hors d’oeuvre
, which I declined, having quite lost my appetite.

“Another chap we had claimed the Answer was a science he’d invented called Psychophysics. Something to do with the Third Law of Emotion, and the mind as a Reaction Engine … I forget exactly. Anyhow he said we’d never reach Commencement Gate because we’d lost our compression and had no spark; we were too choked up; the modern transmission of our power-drives had made us shiftless; we were neutral idlers who slipped in the clutches for want of a new converter; our blocks were cracked; we needed our heads examined and our old shock-absorbers replaced. So he picked Stacey to be the first to get a Psychomotor Tune-up and be equipped with new Overhead Values—they
always
pick Stacey. But by the time she got up on the platform with him—see that platform in the middle of the floor, where Croaker’s dancing with your friend? It’s right over the furnace we use for cremations. Well, he had all his gadgets set up there, but once he got under Stacey’s hood …”

I heard no more, but with an angry cry charged into the crowd. There indeed was mighty Croaker on a dais in the center of the room, hub of the carouse. Upon a sort of couch there, low enough to have escaped my notice, he had been laid out in black gown and mortarboard, the corpse of G. Herrold beside him; now apparently just reviving from his anesthesia, he had staggered to his feet as Stoker talked, and a cheer had gone up from the crowd; he’d looked about him in a daze, then for some reason raised my dead friend’s body from the couch. The dim room-lights at once grew dimmer, a spotlight fell on the dais, and the band set up a pounding rhythm—whereupon, even as Stoker so placidly remarked, the black giant had commenced a horrid shuffling dance. Rage flushed my dizziness away; I thrust and shoved people aside, spilling their drinks, even knocking them down.

“Gangway for the Goat-Boy!” Stoker called behind me.

Before I could get near the dais the sport changed character: some bold fellow leaped up to join the dance and was knocked sprawling by a sweep of Croaker’s arm; another took his place, a lean dark-haired chap, who instead
of dancing held out a lady’s wrap and called,
“Huh, toro, huh!”
Croaker dropped G. Herrold’s body to the couch and rushed at the newcomer, who however sidestepped, spun the garment gracefully behind his hips, and sent Croaker flying head-first off the platform, into the crowd. Those nearest screamed and scrambled; others shouted
“Olé!”
The dark-haired fellow bowed and hopped lightly down to do the trick again. Now the spotlight followed the action about the room; coats and kerchiefs flapped from all sides, and Croaker, his mortarboard gone, heaved and laid about him indiscriminately. Some managed to dodge him in the manner of the dark-haired fellow; others he caught hold of and flung, howling, through the air, men and women alike—and every rush brought a chorus of
olés
.

“Make way for the Grand Tutor!” Stoker shouted. “Let the Goat-Boy through!” But all were preoccupied with Croaker. Then indeed they scattered, not in deference to me but because Croaker happened to charge next in my direction, and I found myself facing him alone. The light embraced us both, and whether because he dimly recollected me or merely because I looked different from the others, he paused to blink. Then with a growl he came on. Notwithstanding my limp and the quantity of black liquor I had drunk, I felt no fear, only excitement, as in the days when I’d merrily baited the bucks of the herd. If Croaker was several times heavier than Redfearn’s Tommy, and more powerful, he was infinitely less nimble: he could not turn in his tracks, hook with his head, spring high in the air, or kick behind him, and he was easily faked out of balance. All I had to fear from him was the span of his arms and the clutch of his hands, both which I found it possible to elude by ducking, feinting, and springing—the finest arts of goatdom. The real danger was that the crowd who quickly pressed round to urge us on would take up my springing-room; this peril I minimized by the simple expedient of leading Croaker full tilt into them on every pass until they maintained a respectful distance.

“Ole!”
they cheered, more enthusiastic than ever.
“Olé! Olé!”
Never since my ill-starred tenure as Dean of the Hill had I known such applause. I curbed my exhilaration with that memory and looked before I leaped, passing under his arms, feinting here, springing there, spinning, dodging, dancing from him, and always gauging from the corners of my eyes my distance from the crowd. Five times I passed him, and a sixth, each time more daringly, and he never touched me. After the second I was sure he recognized me: his roars turned to cunning grunts, and his eyes grew bright as a sportive buck’s. When on the fifth pass I spun him off-balance and
brought him crashing down, he groaned as in protest and lost interest in the game; I believe I might have leaped upon his shoulders then and rode him with impunity, but loath to put an end to those
olés
I managed to tease him into one charge more. His heart was not in it; his eyes wandered even as he lunged, and fixed upon loud-hammed Madge, whom a lady and a gentleman had led unsteadily into the light. At sight of Croaker in academic gown she was seized with mirth—and wondrous was the dance of her bull’s-eyes in the glare! Croaker halted before them, blinked twice or thrice, gave a whimpering grunt, and snatched.

“Hunh, Croaker!” I cried, but he would not be provoked. Madge he flung over-shoulder like a sack of grain; she whooped but seemed not fearful as he bore her off. When I came up behind and dared even to thump his back with my fist, defying him to turn, she grabbed my hair and kissed me merrily, then waved and thrust out her tongue at the parting crowd. As for Croaker, I had as well challenged a black-oak trunk or buck in mid-service for all he heeded me. The spotlight followed them, as did many of my audience, and I considered chasing after; but others pressed drinks and attentions on me, a heady new pleasure I could not forgo. My original indignation had quite passed. Two of Stoker’s staff, I noted, were restoring G. Herrold to his repose on the dais-couch, and I twinged with a moment’s wonder whether all was well with Max; then Stoker joined the crowd around me, and I gave myself over to the dizzy spirits roused in me by exercise, and nourished by liquor and acclaim.

Especially cordial were the pair who a few minutes earlier had escorted Madge onto the scene, and whom Stoker identified now as Dr. Kennard Sear and Hedwig, his wife.

“Enchanté,”
the doctor smiled. “Remarkable performance.” A long dry gentleman he was, superbly manicured and groomed, with close silver hair and fine soft garments. His face, frame, and fingers were thin tan, even his voice was, and without moisture; only his eyes were less than desiccate, their pale brightness turning into glitter at every blink. The whole effect of him was of a lean pear dried in the sun, its gold juice burnt into thin exotic savor—and in fact it was pleasant to smell him, all but his breath, which was slightly foul. “Doesn’t he have classic features, Hed?” he asked his wife.

“He looks like Maurice in bronze!” Mrs. Sear exclaimed. “He could be your younger brother, Maurice.” She too, and her voice, were dry and not unhandsome, but where her husband seemed
cured
, like supplest vellum, Mrs. Sear was brittle—sharp-edged as the stones on her ears and hands, but more fragile.

Stoker affirmed the resemblance. “George’s got more in common with me than
some
brothers I could mention.”

“You’re really Max Spielman’s protégé?” Dr. Sear asked smoothly. “We
must
have some interviews.”

“And evenings,” Mrs. Sear insisted, narrowing her bright eyes and touching my fleece with her long red nails. “Something more
intime
than this madhouse of Maurice’s. Are you matriculating, or just on tour?”

“Ma’am?” Despite my liquor I felt at ease and self-possessed, they so obviously admired me. But I had difficulty following conversations. It occurred to me to remark that I had once loved a doeling named Hedda; but I forbore on the grounds of possible tactlessness, and thought myself a subtle fellow.

“You haven’t heard, Heddy?” Stoker cried. “This is no ordinary goat-boy: he’s come to show you and me how to pass the Finals!”

“Dear me,” Dr. Sear said mildly. “Another one?”

“Oh, George!” his wife scolded me. “That’s too tiresome! You’re charming enough just as you are. Isn’t he, Ken?”

“A regular faun,” her husband agreed. “We’ll certainly have you out some evening.”

“Watch him, though,” Stoker warned. “He bites bellies.”

“Just be a goat-boy,” Mrs. Sear said, like a child giving an order, and patted my shoulder. “It’s much more original.
Everybody’s
a Grand Tutor lately.”

I only smiled at them, they were such amiable people. The orchestra struck up a spirited tune, and the bystanders dispersed, some to dance, others to join a new excitement across the room, whither Croaker had fetched his prize. Dr. Sear took two glasses from a passing waiter and gave one to me. His wife congratulated Stoker on his knack for “turning up originals,” declaring he’d surpassed himself this evening with Croaker, myself, and “that delicious creature with the boots and bull’s-eyes.”

Stoker grinned. “I knew you’d hit it off with Madge.”

“I couldn’t keep my
hands
off her! Is she George’s … mate?”

“Just a pipefitter from the Furnace Room,” Stoker said lightly. “I’ll get her to give you her number after the cremation—if there’s anything left of her when Croaker gets through.”

I declared that I had no mate.

“You
don’t?
” Mistaking my meaning, both Sears expressed their sympathy and assured me that that condition need last no longer than I wished it to. “The co-eds will go wild over you,” Mrs. Sear said enviously, and her husband agreed, adding in a frank and cordial tone that if however I preferred
a maturer and more knowledgeable partner, one from whom even a young satyr like myself might learn a thing or two, he did not judge it out of place to propose …

“Here comes Heddy’s competition,” Stoker interrupted, and my chest tingled at the sight of Anastasia coming towards us. She had exchanged her soiled white shift for a long-sleeved wrapper of red silk, belted at the waist—a sleeping-garment, perhaps—and her hair was piled now high on her head and bound with red ribbon. Beautiful, beautiful she was: her face seemed rather paler, and her eyes were most luminously troubled as she made her way through the brawling crowd.

“Stacey
darling!
” Mrs. Sear hastened to embrace her. “I heard what
happened
in the Gorge, dear baby! Did it hurt you terribly?”

What she replied I could not hear, but she acknowledged Mrs. Sear’s demonstration with a quick smile and turned her cheek to be kissed. The woman hung onto her, touching now her shoulder, now her hair, and with an arm slipped around her waist led her up to us. Dr. Sear hastened to add his sympathy to his wife’s, catching Anastasia’s hand briefly in both of his and brushing gracefully with his lips her forehead. For a long moment her eyes were on me, questioning, appraising, and I endeavored to give back a gaze equally intense; but though my mind and flesh were most passionately stirred, there was no clearness left in me, and I swayed on my feet. She flashed a blaming look at Stoker, who was regarding us as usual with huge amusement.

“He’s
drunk!
” she said bitterly.

I pointed my stick at her. “Come here to me, Anastasia.” She turned her face away as I approached. “I love you,” I said sternly.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Stoker explained to the Sears that I’d made the
faux pas
of declaring I loved all studentdom equally.

Hedwig purred. “Of course he does, dear: he’s
supposed
to.” They both caressed her, and Dr. Sear patted my shoulder also, as if to bridge our differences.

“I’m not upset,” Anastasia said crossly. “Maurice is only teasing.”

“She’s his first Tutee,” Stoker said.

“She will be,” I declared, and touched the back of my fingers to her neck. She stiffened, but did not withdraw. “But she doesn’t quite believe in me yet.”