Pricksongs & Descants (10 page)

36

The old man trudges heavily out of the black forest. His way is marked, not by breadcrumbs, but by dead doves, ghostly white in the empty night.

37

The girl prepares a mattress of leaves and flowers and pineneedles. The boy gathers branches to cover them, to hide them, to protect them. They make pillows of their poor garments. Bats screech as they work and owls blink down on their bodies, ghostly white, young, trembling. They creep under the branches, disappearing into the darkness.

38

Gloomily, the old man sits in the dark room and stares at the empty beds. The good fairy, though a mystery of the night, effuses her surroundings with a lustrous radiance. Is it the natural glow of her small nimble body or perhaps the star at the tip of her wand? Who can tell? Her gossamer wings flutter rapidly, and she floats, ruby-tipped breasts downward, legs dangling and dimpled knees bent slightly, glowing buttocks arched up in defiance of the night. How good she is! In the black empty room, the old man sighs and uses up a wish: he wishes his poor children well.

39

The children are nearing the gingerbread house. Passing under mintdrop trees, sticking their fingers in the cotton candy bushes, sampling the air as heady as lemonade, they skip along singing nursery songs. Nonsense songs about dappled horses and the slaying of dragons. Counting songs and idle riddles. They cross over rivulets of honey on gumdrop pebbles, picking the lollypops that grow as wild as daffodils.

40

The witch flicks and flutters through the blackened forest, her livid face twisted with hatred, her inscrutable condition. Her eyes burn like glowing coals and her black rags flap loosely. Her gnarled hands claw greedily at the branches, tangle in the night
’
s webs, dig into tree trunks until the sap flows beneath her nails. Below, the boy and girl sleep an exhausted sleep. One ghostly white leg, with dimpled knee and soft round thigh, thrusts out from under the blanket of branches.

41

But wish again I Flowers and butter
flies. Dense earthy greens seep
ing into the distance, flecked and streaked with
mi
dafternoon sunlight. Two children following an old man. They drop bread crumbs, sing nursery songs. The old man walks
l
eadenly. The boy
’
s gesture is furtive. The girl—but it
’
s no use, the doves will come again, there are no reasonable wishes.

42

The children approach the gingerbread house through a garden of candied fruits and all-day suckers, hopping along on flagstones of variegated wafers. They sample the gingerbread weatherboarding with its caramel coating, lick at the meringue on the windowsills, kiss each other
’
s sweetened lips. The boy climbs up on the chocolate roof to break off a peppermint-stick chimney, comes sliding down into a rain
-
barrel full of vanilla pudding. The girl, reaching out to catch him in his fall, slips on a sugarplum and tumbles into a sticky rock garden of candied chestnuts. Laughing gaily, they lick each other clean. And how grand is the rc
e
d-and-white striped chimney the boy holds up for her
!
how bright! how sweet! But the door: here they pause and catch their breath. It is heart-shaped and blood stone-red, its burnished surface gleaming in the sunlight. Oh, what a thing is that door! Shining like a ruby, like hard cherry candy, and pulsing softly, radiantly. Yes, marvelous! delicious! insuperable! but beyond: what is that sound of black rags flapping?

Ded
i
cator
ì
a y Pr
ó
logo a don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Quisiera yo, si fuera posible (maestro apreciadisimo), excusarme de escribir este pr
ó
logo,
not merely because the temerity of addressing you with such familiarity and attaching your eminence to t
hese ap
prentice fictions is certain—and quite rightly—to bring on my head
el mal que han de deci
r de m
í
m
á
s de cuatro sotiles y almidonados
, but also because here we are in
the middle of a book where pro
logues seem inappropriate. But just as your
novelas
were
“
exem
plary,
”
in the simplest sense, because they represented the different writing ideas you were working with from the 1580
’
s to 1612, so do these seven stories—along with the three
“
Sentient Lens
”
fictions also included in this volume—represent about everything I invented up to the commencement of my first novel in 1962 able to bear this later exposure, and I felt their presence here invited interpolations.

Ejemplar
e
s
you called your tales, because
“
si bien lo miras, no hay ninguna de quien no se pueda sacar un ejemplo provechoso
,”
and I hope in ascribing to my fictions the same property, I haven
’
t strayed from your purposes, which I take to be manifold. For they are
ejemplares
, too, because your intention was
“
poner en la plaza de nuestra rep
ú
blica tin a mesa de trucos, donde cada uno pueda llegar a entretenerse sin da
ò
o de barras, Digo, sin da
ò
o del alma ni del cuerpo, porque los ejercicios honestos y agradables antes aprovechan que da
ò
an
”
—
splendid, don Migue
l!
for as our mutual friend don Roberto S. has told us, fiction
“
must provide us with an imaginative experience which is necessary to our imaginative well-being
...
We need all the imagination we have, and we need it exercised and in good condition
”
—and thus your
novelas
stand as exemplars of responsibility to that most solemn and pious charge placed upon this vocation; they tell good stories and they tell them well.

And yet there is more, if I read you rightly. For your stories also exemplified the dual nature of all good narrative art: they struggled against the unconscious mythic residue in human life and sought to synthesize the unsynthesizable, sallied forth against adolescent thought-modes and exhausted art forms, and returned home with new complexities. In fact, your creation of a synthesis between poetic analogy and literal history (
not to mention reality and illu
sion, sanity and madness, the erotic and the ludicrous, the visionary and the scatological) gave birth to the Novel—perhaps above all else your works were exemplars of a revolution in narrative fiction, a revolution which governs us—no
t unlike the way you found your
self abused by the conventions o£ the Romance—to this very day.

Never mind whether it was Erasmus or Aristotle or that forget table Italian who caused your artist
’
s eye to focus
—
not on Eternal Values and Beauty—but on Character, Actions of Men in Society, and Exemplary Histories, for it was the new Age of Science dawning, and such a shift was in the air. No longer was the City of Man a pale image of the City of God, a microcosmic reflection of the macrocosm, but rather it was all there was, neither micro-nor macrocosm, yet at the same time full of potential, all the promise of what man
’
s mind, through Science, might accomplish. The universe for you,
Maestro
, was opening up; it could no longer be described by magical numbers or be contained in a compact and marvelously designed sphere. Narrative fiction, taking a cue from Lazarillo and the New World adventurers, became a process of discovery, and to this day young authors sally forth in fiction like majestic—indeed, divinely ordained!—
p
íc
aros
to discover, again and again, their man hood.

But,
don
Miguel, the optimism, the innocence, the aura of possibility you experienced have been largely drained away, and the universe is closing in on us again. Like you, we, too, seem to be standing at the end of one age and on the threshold of another. We, too, have been brought into a blind alley by the critics and analysts; we, too, suffer from a
“
literature of exhaustion,
”
though ironically our nonheros are no longer tireless and tiresome Amadises, but hopelessly defeated and bed-ridden Quixotes. We seem to have moved from an open-ended, anthropocentric, humanistic, naturalistic, even—to the extent that man may be thought of as making his own universe—optimistic starting po
int, to one that is closed, cos
mic, eternal, supernatural (in its soberest sense), and pessimistic. The return to Being has returned us to Design, to microcosmic images of the macrocosm, to the creation of Beauty within the confines of cosmic or human necessity, to the use of the fabulous to probe beyond the phenomenological, beyond appearances, beyond randomly perceived events, beyond mere history. But these probes are above all—like your Knight
’
s sallies—chall
enges to the assump
tions of a dying age, exemplary a
dventures of the Poetic Imagina
tion, high-minded journeys toward the New World and never mind that the nag
’
s a pile of bones.

You teach us,
Maestro
, by example, that great narratives remain meaningful through time as a language-medium between generations, as a weapon against the fringe-areas of our consciousness, and as a mythic reinforcement of our tenuous grip on reality. The novelist uses familiar mythic or historical forms to combat the content of those forms and to conduct the reader
(
lector amant
í
simo
!
) to the real, away from mystification to clarification, away from magic to maturity, away from mystery to revelation. And it is above all to the need for new modes of perception and fictional forms able to encompass them that I, barber
’
s basin on my head, address these stories. If they seem slight for such a burden as this prolix foreword, please consider them, in turn,
don
Miguel, as a mere preface to all that here flowers about this little book-within-a
-
book, to the other works that have already preceded them in print, and to all that is yet to come.
“
Mucho prometo con fuerzas tan pocas como las mias; pero
¿quien
pondr
á
rienda a los deseos?
”
I only beg you to remark:
que pues yo he tenido osad
í
a de dirig
i
r estas ficciones al gran Cervantes, alg
ú
n misterio tienen es
condido, que las levanta. Vale.

○ ○? ○

1

Panel Game

Situation: television panel game, live audience. Stage strobelit and cameras insecting about. Moderator, bag shape corseted and black suited, behind desk/rostrum, blinking mockmodestly at lens and lamps, practiced pucker on his soft mouth and brows arched in mild goodguy astonishment. Opposite him, the panel: Aged Clown, Lovely Lady, and Mr. America, fat as the continent and bald as an eagle. There is an empty chair between Lady and Mr. A, which is now filled, to the delighted squeals of all, by a spectator dragged protesting from the Audience, nondescript introduced as Unwilling Participant, or more simply, Bad Sport. Audience: same as ever, docile, responsive, good-natured, terrifying. And the Bad Sport, you ask, who is he? fool! thou art!

“
Wclcome
!
”
greets the merry Moderator, arms flung wide, and the Audience, cued to Thunderous Response, responds thunderingly:
“
to the big question
!
”

You squirm, viced by Lady (who excites you) and America (who does not, but bless him all the same), but your squirms are misread: Lovely Lady lifts lashes, crosses eyes, and draws breath excitedly through puckered mouth as though sucking milkshakes through a straw, and, seemingly at the other end of the straw, the Moderator ingests:
“
Tsk, tsk!
”
and, gently reproving, waggles his dewlaps. Audience howls happily the while and who can blame them? You, Sport, resign yourself to pass the test in peace and salute them with a timid smile, squirm no more.

A moment then of calm, but Aged Clown spoils it, quips in an old croak:
“
Very bad comma Sport!
”

Audience roars again. Cameras swing, bend, spring forward, recoil. Lights boil up, dim, pivot, strike.

“
Reminds me of the old story of the three-spined stickleback!
”
Clown cackles.

Howls and chants. Moderator reacts with flushed giggle and finger to soft lips. No, no! Winks at Audience.

Mr. America nudges you and mutters under the others
’
noise:
“
Detail! Detail! Game
’
s built on it, don
’
t miss it!
”
A friend, after a
l
l.

So think. Stickleback. Freshwater fish. Freshwater fish: green seaman. Seaman: semen. Yes, but green: raw
?
spoiled
?
vigorous
?
Stickle: stubble. Or maybe scruple. Back
: Bach
: Bacchus
: baccate
: berry. Raw berry? Strawberry? Maybe. Sticky berry in the raw? In the raw: bare. Bare berry: beriberi. Also bearberry, the dog rose, dogberry. Dogberry: the constable, yes, right, the constable in ... what?
Comedy of Errors!
Yes! No.

“
And so this here boy stickleback he shimmies up to the girl stickleback and she displays him her crimson belly. Hoo boy! That does itl Zam! They scoot down to his pad!
”

Hooting and howling. Moderator collapses into easy laughter. Lamps pulse. Lovely Lady shyly reveals belly. Not crimson at all, but creamy with a blush of salmon pink. Shouts and whistles. Hooboys and zams. Salmon
: semen. There we are again. Stickle: tickle. Belly: bag. Lovely one, too.

“
I do believe,
”
chuckles the Moderator loosely,
“
we might begin.
”

“
Too late, bub!
”
croaks Clown.
“
Sport
’
s done commenced!
”

Horselaughs and catcalls. You forgo any further search for clues in Lovely
’
s navel, shrink before the noise, before the jut of lenses, strike of strobes: Eyes of the World. On you, Sport.

“
Think!
”
whispers America.
“
She reveals! She reveals!
”

Scoot
: scute. But what: scales? shield? bone or horn? Scut is tail and pad is paw: an animal! Yes! But crimson: why not just red? Because crimson comes from kermes: insect—but more! dried fe male insect bodies! Shimmy: chemise, or a shimmer of light. But pad is stuff: female bellies dried and stuffed? Dry den-stuffed. It
’
s possible. Stickle
: stick
: stich—a poem here, that
’
s obvious. And some animal. Light. And Dogberry from—?

A
hush
...

“
Arc you ready?
”
demands the Moderator, and the Audience replies:
“
We ar
e
!
”

Ready: red-dy. Red bone. Green semen. Naval: navel. Salmon pink.

“
Then let us proceed!
”
Rounded syllables, dried and stuffed.
“
I am quite reasonably certain—that is,
”
Moderator coughs and titters,
“
I
believe
—
may
I
have that privilege
?
”

“
Yes! Yes!
”
cries the Audience.

“
Of course he may,
”
whispers Mr. America.
“
He only asks out of malice.
”

“
Yes,
”
sighs the Moderator, solemnizing,
“
for reasonable cer
tainty is but the repercussion and ritornelle of belief!
”

Vigorous applause, reverently paced.

“
Huzzah!
”
hoots Aged Clown and the fat man nods. It could be so.

“
Therefore, if you will allow me, I
believe
”
the Moderator continues,
“
with what constitutes an almost categorical certi
tude
—
”
swooping upwards on
“
-tud
e
”
till his voice cracks like a young boy
’
s, extracting a jubilant
“
Aaah
!
”
and easy laughter like a loose cough from the spectators,
“
—I beg your pardon!
”

Gentle approving laughter.

“
And so you
should
, son I
”
the old Clown cracks. Laughter.
“
That ain
’
t nice!
”
Larger laughter.
“
You keep it clean now!
”
Gross laughter.

“
Hint! Hint!
”
wheezes fat America.

Clean. Immaculate. Virgin. Verges. Aha! the headborough with Dogberry in—?
The Merry Wives
! No. Verges: verger: verdure: h
m
mm, back to green again. Green scutes: greenhorns. Immaculate belly. Dogberry pink. Steal a glance: still there. Nice. Don
’
t touch it, though. Eyes of the World. Keep it immaculate.

“
Believe, then, as a certifiable category—
”

“
That
’
s better, son.
”
More laughter and applause.

“
Thank you.
”

“
Not at all, bub.
”
Clown grimaces. Laughter.

“
—That all of you on our panel are well
apprised
of the precepts and procedures of our little—our wonderfully
delightful
little game.
”

From the masses packed beyond the lights: an explosion of cheering, an enthusiasm clearly insisting against demurrals, but you say:
“
I
’
m not.
”

Hush. Hostile maybe.

Moderator, into the silence, as though disbelieving:
“
I beg your pardon?
”

“
Sport ain
’
t!
”
hollers the Clown and you jump.

“
Sport isn
’
t,
”
Moderator corrects.

“
That
’
s what I said, he ain
’
t!
”
responds Aged Clown. Crash of laughter. Nothing serious. All a joke.

“
The one who has the most money wins,
”
mutters Mr. America under his breath, which is coming heavier now. Excitement? Not likely. Growth. Yes, expanding still, the old lard, some accretion process turned on early and the safety valve plugged, cells piling up, and rapidly, for your own rump is skidding perceptibly under pressure along the bench toward the Lady. She is self-absorbed, powder ing her nose and her bosom, using a camera lens for a mirror. Eyes of the World: white globes and pupils pink as raspberries.

She turns, lifts bodice, smiles at you.
“
Isn
’
t what?
”
she asks, cooing.

“
Isn
’
t got it
!
”
quips the old showman on the other side of her. Does he have his old gnarled fist between her legs
?
From the Audi
ence: the usual response. They love him. Shrunken and yellowed, mapped with wrinkles, quaking with palsy, white-haired and brown-toothed, Clown
’
s a remnant from the Great Tradition. But not much help. On the contrary.

“
Got what?
”
pursues Lovely Lady.
“
Come on, boys! You
’
re teasing me
!
Hasn
’
t got what?
”

“
My dear
..
.!
”
pleads the Moderator, giggling softly but with brows lifted in tender supplication. Whoops and whistles from the Audience.

“
Oh, really!
”
laughs Lady sweetly.
“
You can tell me
!
Is it something I can wear?
”

“
You
’
re warm!
”
crows Clown mid the laughter and whacks her behind.

“
Mind on your business!
”
whispers America, now in possession of at least half the whole bench, his eyes lost in puffing fleshfolds, suitseams parting, buttons popping.
“
Here it comes!
”

“
Would I wear it, more likely, above the waist,
”
Lady asks, then reddens and lowers lashes,
“
or below?
”

“
Depends on your scruples!
”
Clown squawks and the crowd roars.

Hah! Scruple: stickle: stickleback. Getting warm now. Warm indeed: flush against the Lovely Lady. Arc those her toes under your pantleg? Don
’
t jump to conclusions. Couldn
’
t put it past the old Clown, for example, not if there was a laugh in it.

Big A groans faintly, snorting and sucking like a team of trotters, flesh pushing out as the suit tears. Wear and tear. Wear: bear. B
e
arberry: Dogberry: the dog rose. Paw and tail. But what of the scute? The dog rose and—what? Rose and scrupled? Rose: rows: stichs: stickleback. Going in circles.
“
Depends!
”
gasps America. Can
’
t last long now. Own cells against him. Flesh dog bane pink.
“
Depends—!
”

Depends: hangs. But what hangs or hangs on what?

Old Clown hunches, trembling uncontrollably over knotted knuckles. Humor. Lady: beauty, excitement, life itself. America: hard to guess. Prestige maybe, or justice. Inclusion. The team. And Bad Sport? Ah, clearly, it
’
s your mind they
’
re after.

Humor, passion, sobriety, and truth. On you, then, it depends, they depend, they all depend. They all hang. It may be so.