V. (59 page)

Stencil, jamming the teeth into one pocket, dashed away for the fire escape. "Now, what the hell," Profane said. By the time Paola did open up Stencil was long gone. The same Ten Eyck who had broken up the orgy at Mafia's stood there with one arm slung under a sodden Roony Winsome.

"Is this here Rachel Owlglass at home," he said. Explained he'd found Roony drunk on the stoop of St. Patrick's Cathedral, fly open, face awry, scaring little kids and offending the solid citizens. "Here was all he wanted to come," Ten Eyck almost pleaded, "he wouldn't go home. They released him from Bellevue last night."

"Rachel will be back soon," said Paola gravely. "We'll take him till then."

"I got his feet," Profane said. They hauled Roony into Rachel's room and dumped him on the bed.

"Thank you, officer." Cool as any old-movie's international jewel thief, Profane wished he had a mustache.

Ten Eyck left, deadpan.

"Benito, things are falling apart. The sooner I get Home -"

"Good luck."

"Why won't you come?"

"We're not in love."

"No."

"No debts outstanding, either way, not even au old romance to flare up again."

Shook her head: real tears now.

"Why then."

"Because we left Teflon's place in Norfolk."

"No, no."

"Poor Ben." They ail called him poor. But to save his feelings never explained, let it stand as an endearment.

"You are only eighteen," he said, "and have this crush on me. You will see by the time you get to be my age -" She interrupted him by rushing at him as you would rush at a tackling dummy, surrounding him, beginning to soak the suede jacket with all those overdue tears. He thumped her back, bewildered.

So it was of course then that Rachel walked in. Being a girl who recovered fast, fast thing she said was:

"Oho. So this is what happens behind my back. While I was at church, praying for you, Profane. And the children."

He had the common sense to go along with her. "Believe me, it was all perfectly innocent." Rachel shrugged, meaning the two-line act was over, she'd had a few seconds to think. "You didn't go to St. Patrick's, did you? You should of." Waggling a thumb at what was now snoring in the next room: "Dig."

And we know who it was Rachel spent the rest of the day with, and the night. Holding his head, tucking him in, touching the beard-stubble and dirt on his face; watching him sleep and the frown lines there relax slowly.

After a while Profane went off to the Spoon. Once there he announced to the Crew that he was going to Malta. Of course they held a going-away party. Profane ended up with two adoring camp followers working him over, eyes shining with a kind of love. You got the idea they were like prisoners in stir, vicariously happy to see any of their number reach the outside again.

Profane saw no street ahead but the Gut; thought that it would have to go some to be worse than East Main.

There was also the sea's highway. But that was a different kind entirely.

II

Stencil, Profane and Pig Bodine made a flying visit to Washington, D. C., one weekend: the world-adventurer to expedite their coming passage, the schlemihl to spend a last liberty; Pig to help him. They chose for pied-a-terre a flophouse in Chinatown and Stencil nipped over to the State Department to see what he could see.

"I don't believe any of it," said Pig. "Stencil is a fake."

"Stand by," was all Profane said.

"I suppose we ought to go out and get drunk," Pig said. So they did. Either Profane was growing old and losing his capacity, or it was the worst drunk he had ever thrown. There were blank spaces, which are always, of course, frightening. As near as Profane could remember afterward they had headed first for the National Gallery, Pig having decided they ought to have company. Sure enough, in front of Dali's Last Supper they found two government girls.

"I'm Flip," said the blonde, "and this is Flop."

Pig groaned momentarily nostalgic for Hanky and Panky. "Fine," he said, "That is Benny and I am - hyeugh, hyeugh - Pig."

"Obviously," said Flop. But the girl/boy ratio in Washington has been estimated as high as 8 to 1. She grabbed Pig's arm, looking around the room as if those other spectral sisters were lurking somewhere among the statuary.

Their place was near P Street, and they had amassed every Pat Boone record in existence. Before Pig had even set down the large paper bag containing the fruits of their afternoon's sortie among the booze outlets of the nation's capital - legal and otherwise - 25 watts of that worthy, singing Be Bop A Lula, burst on them unaware.

After this overture, the weekend proceeded in flashes: Pig going to sleep halfway up the Washington Monument and falling half a flight into a considerate troop of Boy Scouts; the four of them in Flip's Mercury, riding round and round Dupont Circle at three in the morning and being joined eventually by six Negroes in an Oldsmobile who wanted to race; the two cars then proceeding to an apartment on New York Avenue occupied only by one inanimate audio system, fifty jazz enthusiasts and God knows how many bottles of circulating and communal wine; being awakened, wrapped with Flip in a Hudson Bay blanket on the steps of a Masonic Temple somewhere in Northwest Washington, by an insurance executive named Iago Saperstein, who wanted them to come to another party.

"Where is Pig," Profane wondered.

"He stole my Mercury and he and Flop are on the way to Miami," said Flip.

"Oh."

"To get married:"

"It's a hobby of mine," continued Iago Saperstein, "to find young people like this, who would be interesting to bring along to a party."

"Benny is a schlemihl," said Flip.

"Schlemihls are very interesting," said Iago.

The party was out near the Maryland line; in attendance Profane found an escapee from Devil's Island, who was on route to Vassar under the alias of Maynard Basilisk to teach beekeeping; an inventor celebrating his seventy-second rejection by the U. S. Patent Office, this time on a coin-operated whorehouse for bus and railway stations which he was explaining with blueprints and gestures to a small group of Tyrosemiophiles (collectors of labels on French cheese boxes) kidnaped by Iago from their annual convention; a gentle lady plant pathologist, originally from the Isle of Man, who had the distinction of being the only Manx monoglot in the world and consequently spoke to no one; an unemployed musicologist named Petard who had dedicated his life to finding the lost Vivaldi Kazoo Concerto, first brought to his attention by one Squasimodeo, formerly a civil servant under Mussolini and now lying drunk under the piano, who had heard not only of its theft from a monastery by certain Fascist music-lovers but also about twenty bars from the slow movement, which Petard would from time to time wander round the party blowing on a plastic kazoo; and other "interesting" people. Profane, who only wanted to sleep, talked to none of them. He woke up in Iago's bathtub around dawn to the gigglings of a blonde clad only in an enlisted man's white hat, who was pouring bourbon on Profane out of a gallon coffee pot. Profane was about to open his mouth and try to put it in the way of the descending stream when who should come in but Pig Bodine.

"Give me back my white hat," said Pig.

"I thought you were in Florida," said Profane.

"Ha, ha," said the blonde, "you will have to catch me." And away they went, satyr and nymph.

The next Profane knew they were all back in Flip and Flop's apartment, his head in Flip's lap and Pat Boone on the turntable. "You have the same initials," Flop cooed from across the room. "Pat Boone, Pig Bodine." Profane arose, stumbled to the kitchen and vomited in the sink.

"Out," screamed Flip.

"Indeed," said Profane. At the bottom of the stairs were two bicycles which the girls rode to work to save bus fare. Profane grabbed one and carried it down the stoop to the street. A mess - fly unzipped, crew cut matted down both sides of his head, beard let go for two days, holed skivvy shirt pushed by his beer belly through a few open buttons on his shirt - he pedaled away wobbly for the flophouse.

He hadn't gone two blocks when there were yells behind him. It was Pig on the other bike, chasing him with Flop on the handlebars. Far behind was Flip, on foot.

"Oh-oh," said Profane. He fiddled with the gears, and promptly dropped into low.

"Thief," yelled Pig, laughing his obscene laugh. "Thief." A prowl car materialized out of nowhere and moved in to intercept Profane. Profane finally got the bike in high and whizzed round a corner. Thus they chased about the city, in fall's cold in a Sunday street deserted except for them. The cops and Pig finally caught up.

"It's all right officer," said Pig. "He's a friend, I won't press charges."

"Fine," said the cop. "I will." They were hauled down to the precinct and put in the drunk tank. Pig fell asleep and two of the occupants of the tank set to work removing his shoes. Profane was too tired to interrupt.

"Hey," said a cheerful wino from across the room, "you want to play hits and cuts?"

Under the blue stamp on a pack of Camels is either an H or a C, followed by a number. You take turns guessing which it is. If you guess wrong the other gets to Hit (with the fist) or Cut (with the edge of the hand) you across the bicep, for the number of times indicated by the number. The wino's hands looked like small boulders. "I don't smoke," said Profane.

"Oh," said the wino. "What about rock, scissors and paper?"

Just about then a detail of Shore Patrolmen and civilian police entered, dragging a boatswain's mate about seven feet tall who had run amok, under the impression he was King Kong, the well-known ape.

"Aiyee!" he screamed. "Me King Kong. Don't screw with me."

"There, there," an SP said, "King Kong doesn't talk. He growls."

So the boatswain's mate growled, and made a leap for an old electric fan overhead. Round and round he went, uttering ape yells and pounding his chest. SP's and cops milled around down below, bewildered, some of the braver making grabs for his feet.

"Now what?" said one cop. This was answered by the fan, which gave way, dumping the boatswain's mate in their midst. They jumped on and managed to secure him with three or four guard belts. A cop brought in a small dolly from the garage next door, loaded the boatswain's mate on and rolled him off.

"Hey," said one of the SP's. "Lookit there in the drunk tank. That is Pig Bodine that's wanted down in Norfolk for desertion."

Pig opened an eye at them. "Oh well," he said, closed the eye and went back to sleep.

The cops came around to tell Profane he could go. "So long, Pig," said Profane.

"Give Paola six for me," Pig grunted, shoeless, half asleep.

Back at the flophouse Stencil had a poker game going which was about to break up because of the next shift coming on. "Just as well," Stencil said, "they've about cleaned Stencil out."

"You're soft," Profane said, "you let them win on purpose."

"No," Stencil said. "Money will be needed for the trip."

"It's set?"

"All set."

Somehow, it seemed to Profane, things never should have come this far.

III

Now there was a private going-away party, just Profane and Rachel, about two weeks later. After the passport photos and the booster shots and the rest Stencil acted like his valet, removing all official roadblocks by some magic of his own.

Eigenvalue kept cool. Stencil even went to see him - perhaps as a test of the guts he'd need to confront whatever of V. was still on Malta. They discussed the concept of property and agreed that a true owner need not have physical possession. If the soul-dentist knew (as Stencil was nearly sure he did), then "owner," Eigenvalue - defined, was Eigenvalue; Stencil - defined, V. It was a complete failure of communication. They parted friends.

Sunday night Profane spent in Rachel's room with one sentimental magnum of champagne. Roony slept in Esther's room. For two weeks he'd done little else but sleep.

Later Profane lay with his head in her lap, her long hair falling over to cover him and keep him warm. It being September the landlord was still reluctant about heat. They were both naked. Profane rested his ear near her labia majora, as if it were a mouth there, which could speak to him. Rachel was absently listening to the champagne bottle.

"Listen," she whispered, holding the mouth of the bottle near his free ear. He heard carbon dioxide coming out of solution, magnified in a false-bottomed echo chamber.

"It's a happy sound."

"Yes." What percentage was there in telling her what it really sounded like? At Anthroresearch Associates there'd been radiation counters - and radiation - enough to make the place sound like a locust-season gone mad.

Next day they sailed. Fulbright types crowded them at the rail of the Susanna Squaducci. Coils of crepe, showers of confetti and a band, all rented, made things look festive. "Ciao," the Crew called. "Ciao."

"Sahha," said Paola.

"Sahha," echoed Profane.

chapter sixteen

Valletta

I

Now there was a sun-shower over Valletta, and even a rainbow. Howie Surd the drunken yeoman lay on his stomach under mount 52, head propped on arms, staring at a British landing craft that chugged its way through the rainy Harbour. Fat Clyde from Chi, who was 6' 1"/ 142 pounds, came from Winnetka and had been christened Harvey, stood by the lifelines spitting dreamily down into the drydock.

"Fat Clyde," bellowed Howie.

"No," said Fat Clyde. "Whatever it is."

He must have been upset. Nobody ever says things like that to a yeoman. "I'm going over tonight," Howie said gently, "and I need a raincoat because it is raining out, as you may have noticed."

Fat Clyde took a white hat out of his back pocket and tugged it down over his head like a cloche. "I also got liberty," he said.

Bitch box came on. "Now turn in all paint and paint brushes to the paint locker," it said.

"About that time," said Howie. He crawled out from under the gun mount and squatted on the 01 deck. The rain came down and ran into his ears and down his neck and he watched the sun smearing the sky red over Valletta. "What is wrong, hey, Fat Clyde."