The Caveman's Valentine (6 page)

LEPPENRAUB’S CAVES:
CLAUSTRAL HARMONIA

Photo of a cave entrance. Sitting before it, a gorgeous woman who wore a calico farm dress and golden earrings, whose wild hair swept down like a red-oak windfall in autumn. Lord, she was lovely. A Siberian husky was curled at her feet. The dog stared at Romulus with ice eyes.

The woman’s name, the caption told him, was Moira Leppenraub.

Oh Jesus,
wrong
fucking Leppenraub. Stupid bitch of a librarian doesn’t even know how to read
The Reader’s Guide.

But then he considered that if the woman at the cave was the wrong Leppenraub, she wasn’t
all
wrong.

There were diagrams of the caves she made. The passageways all spiraled inward like a ram’s horn or a conch shell. There were details of the drawings that adorned the passages, and Romulus studied these a long time.

Caves. A woman who made caves.

The article itself was as unintelligible as
The Reader’s Guide.

Her attenuating corridors, her delicate compactions, while castigating gingerly the constraints of our own “crush-culture,” nevertheless do open—inwardly, diachronically, and enthusiastically, to embrace the spirit of prepatriarchal realms of Lascaux and Altamira. . . .

He skipped all that.

But near the end he found a little biographical tidbit that interested him:

Moira Leppenraub finds source and resource in the same “natural, pagan world” that invigorates the work of her brother, David Leppenraub. She presides over David’s Leppenraub Foundation for the Arts, and she lives in a converted coach house on David’s expansive Hudson Valley farm. “I have an absolute dream-studio there,” she says. . . .

Then another half page of Mandarin goulash. Made you dizzy just to
look
at writing like that.

God, it was hot in here!

Inside his head, the Seraphs of Divinity and Vengeance were whipping around his consciousness the way moths fly around a porch light on a molten summer night.

Romulus staggered up to the desk.

He asked the librarian, “How do I find out about the Leppenraub Foundation?”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. It’s some foundation he’s got.”

“The murderer?”

“Right.”

“Well sir, what kind of foundation is it?”

“How the fuck should I know? It’s a foundation for murderers. A hit man gets leukemia, the Leppenraub Foundation is
there
for him. Right?”

She sighed. “Check
The Foundation Directory.
Over there, near the bottom.”

From
The Foundation Directory,
Romulus learned that the Leppenraub Foundation had been founded in 1986 in Gideon Manor, New York. That its principal donor was David Leppenraub. That its main purpose was funding the Gideon Manor Playhouse, the Hudson River Symphony, the East Village Art Clinic, roll on sweet Jesus. That its trustees included Anders O. Nilson, Dr. Laura Smits, Arnold Gannon—

Arnold
fucking
Gannon!

He rubbed his head. He shut his eyes.

So then maybe . . . he could just give old Arnold a call and ask him . . . for a
letter of introduction
or something. . . .

But of course he couldn’t. No he could not. No, it was too much to come out of a cave after so many years and . . .

He opened his eyes. She was standing there.

“Are you sleeping, sir?”

“What do you
want
me to do?”

She shrugged. “Read?”

“Oh, I can’t read
now.
Too busy.”

“With what?”

“I’m trying to screw up my courage to ask somebody something.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re such a nosy bitch.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll tell you. I’m trying to get up the balls to ask you if you’ll marry me. So. There it is, what do you say? I love you more than my life. I’m not a rich man, it’s true, but we can buy a little pony cart, and go on down the interstate and I’ll play hurdy-gurdy for folks and you can dance for ’em in the raw, darling—do tricks for ’em.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“No, call a preacher, my love. Or a justice of the peace.”

“I’m dialing right now.”

“Yes, but I
know
you’re dialing a preacher. I see your heart, my love—it’s beating like a newborn
but
-ter-fly.”

B
ut later he regretted the way he’d spoken to her.

He was walking down Nagle Street, and he said to himself, You’ve got to stop that.

You want to get hold of the truth but you’re not getting hold of a damn thing till you learn to rein yourself in a little.

Seraphs!
Do you hear me? I’m talking to you! Seraphs, you’ve got to simmer down in there!

He stopped dead in his tracks and listened for them, listened to the caverns in his skull, but the Seraphs were lying low. Quiet as church mice. Not so much as a wing-flutter out of them.

He walked on.

Right, he thought. But I’m telling you, Seraphs, you’ve got to
stay
like that for a while. I mean you’ve got to absolutely
hide out
or where’s the sense in my making this call?

And I’ve got to make this call.

If I don’t make this call I’m a slime-skimmer, and I ought not to suffer myself to live.

But if I’m going to make this call, first I’ve got to remake
myself.
Got to learn to mask myself. Got to learn to
lie
a little.

It was wearing him out just thinking about it.

He passed in front of a dry-cleaning shop, and in the dark window he saw his reflection and stopped to appraise it. He stared back at the shambling mad-hatted wreck of a hobo and asked himself what chance he had of pulling this caper off.

Way down close to zero. Rubbing bellies with zero, right?

But it wasn’t the grime, or the tatters—
that
could be changed, he thought. He took off his hat and stood up straight and brushed some crumbs off his coat and cocked his head a little. Yes, surely he could take care of his appearance. Clean himself up, get a shave, change his clothes.

The question was, what was he going to do the next time he was ready to pitch a fit? What the hell was he going to do then?

He thought about it.
Chuckle?

Isn’t that what everyone does? Isn’t that what chuckling’s
for—
to put a mask on all the boiling shit inside? He tried it.

“Heh heh.”

But it came out sounding nervous, insecure.

When what I want is simply to sound amused, like I’m so in command of this situation it’s just plain
silly,
heh heh. Like me and reality, why, we’re
old
friends, and yes sir everything’s under control in
this
boy’s brain, hee hee hee. And I’m just
tickled
to see how everything’s unfolding according to my scheme of things, oh yes I’ve got all my duckies in a row, and now I’m just going to stand here and blow them away, one after another—

“Heh heh. Heh heh. Heh heh. Heh heh. Heh heh.”

After a few minutes of this, the Asian proprietor of the shop opened the door and stuck his head out and said, “Go way. Go away. We don’t have what you want.”

What I want?

Said Romulus, “Well—but I could sure use one of those pretty suits you’ve got on that rack there.”

The proprietor tried to look as fierce as he could.

Said Romulus, “Heh heh. Joking with you, my friend. All in jest. Heh heh.”

Practicing.

Then he went to the phone on the corner of Nagle and Broadway, and took a deep breath so he could lay down some breeziness in his voice, and dialed.

R
omulus? God damn. Where the hell
are
you?”

“Hey, just dropping in on your good city for a couple of days, Arnold. I been living out on the other coast. San Francisco, you know.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, got a pretty good gig. You know the um, New Bay Museum for the Living Arts? I’m the music director.”

“No shit,” said Arnold. “Last time I heard about you, you were living in a
cave
or something.”

“Heh heh. Oh yes. My dissolute past. That seems very distant right now. And what are
you
up to?”

“Same old. Teaching at Columbia. The BBC’s doing an opera of mine.”

“No! I’d like to hear it.”

“I think it’s got a lot of you in it. Got a calypso choir singing ‘Moonlight in Vermont.’ ”

“Heh heh. Maybe a
little
of me.”

“I still remember your ‘Love Is a Many-Splendored Bolero’ from school.”

“Those were not bad days, Arnold.”

“That was a good time. So. What is it again, the . . . New Bay Museum?”

“Oh, Lord, Lord, it’s
something.
Lot of New Age folks.”

“Romulus, this sounds like a big con.”

“It does?”

“But I’m biased. To me, that whole state sounds like a big con. They got you writing the
Symphonie Écologique
yet?”

“Heh heh. As a matter of fact, Arnold, next month they’re having what they call the New Pastorale Festival.”

“Haw haw.”

“Yeah, I had to write a piece for it. Just program schtick, you know. Inspired by some of David Leppenraub’s photographs. You know, those city trees? Nature enslaved and all? I really do love that guy.”

“Well, he’s remarkable, Rom. The amazing thing is, he does all that blood and violence stuff, but in person he’s just a
gentle
guy.”

“You know David Leppenraub
personally
? Arnold! You lucky SOB. Have you been to his
farm
?”

“Oh sure. So tell me something, Romulus, how did you get out of the
cave
thing? I heard you went just
bonkers,
boy.”

But Romulus would not be swerved from his course. He said, “I mean, from the photos it looks . . . it looks incredible.”

“What does?”

“Leppenraub’s farm.”

“Oh. Well, it’s a nice place. Nothing fancy, really. But lovely. So anyway—how long you in town for, Rom?”

He’d blown it. He’d moved too fast. He’d come off sounding like some kind of adoring art groupie, and Arnold was changing the topic because it had gotten too weird for him.

“What? Oh. I’ll be here a couple of days.”

“Because I was thinking, Rom, that Leppenraub piece you wrote—did you say it was finished?”

“My ‘Blood Pastorale’? More or less.”

“Would you be willing to
perform
it? I mean, I don’t know what you’re doing on Saturday . . . but the Leppenraub Foundation is having a big bash. Up at David’s farm. Sort of in celebration of him getting out of the hospital. If by any chance you could come on up, well—shit boy, we’d get to see each other, and maybe if you’d play just a
little
—you know, he’s got a Steinway up there, not too bad—am I being presumptuous?”

“Heh heh.”

Cool down. Try to breathe.

“I’d love to.”

“Oh Jesus, Romulus, this’ll be great.”

“Heh heh heh heh.”

Date, time, place, a little lame hemming and hawing, and he was free again. He’d hoped for something like a letter of introduction, he’d wound up with a Royal Command Performance. Of the breath he’d drawn at the start of the call, he still had about 97 percent in his lungs. Idling in there, fermenting. He let it out. A plague of mauve and blue stars gusted before his eyes. You could do these things—you just set your teeth, and you could do them.

T
hat evening he went and waited at his post on the little street off Riverside Drive.

The big thaw was still in effect. Plenty of mist, a blur on everything—like the atmosphere in a fable, or in some simple nursery rhyme. The kind of evening where you simply took it easy. No harsh edges. OK. He took it easy. He waited.

And by and by comes Mr. Pinstripes, strutting along on his way home.

Romulus had him in his sights, in the corner of his eye. Pinstripes wasn’t wearing pinstripes tonight—rather this elegant light blue wool-and-linen number. He faltered a step when he got a whiff of Romulus. He didn’t want another lecture. He hugged the curb.

And Romulus didn’t even raise his eyes till the man was dead even with him on the sidewalk. Then he said:

“Hey mister, could you spare a suit and tie?”

Just the least hitch in Pinstripes’s step, but enough to let Romulus know he’d heard. He kept moving, but it was only a matter of time. Only the matter of a dozen steps or so, and Pinstripes started slowing. He was winged. He was losing strength. He took two more steps and pulled up.

“Say again?”

“Well, you see, I don’t know anybody else comes close to my size.”

“You want a
suit
and
tie
?”

“Just anything old in your closet. Something you’re ready to throw out. Right?”

“Right. What for?”

“Got a gig. Upstate. Playing a big bash for the Leppenraub Foundation. Schoolmate of mine got it for me.”

“You mean a schoolmate from Juilliard?”

“Right! You remembered.”

Pinstripes looked at him dubiously. “Let me ask you something. You say you went to Juilliard. So what do you know about . . . ohh, say, Scriabin.”

“Who?”

“Scriabin. For example. What can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing.”

Pinstripes frowned. “Ah. Yes, of course. You know nothing about him?”

Romulus shrugged. “Nope.”

“What I expected. How about Beethoven, then? Have you ever heard of
him
?”

He gave his perfect laugh again.

Said Romulus, “Oh, sure. I could tell you lots about Beethoven.”

“I’ll bet. But I have to be going.” He took a quarter from his pocket and flipped it at Romulus. “Take care, guy.”

Romulus let the quarter bounce off his shin. He said, “But Scriabin—now that man’s just a total
cipher
to me. I mean, I think one time I spent a month listening to the
Étrangeté
—to all those Promethean chords, you know—and I still couldn’t see through to the least
flicker
of that man’s divinity.”