“Well thanks,” Niemeyer said. “It’s something to think about.”
“Mmm,” Clumly said.
A touch of megalomania. Don’t you think that may have certain dangers in it—political and social, I mean? Who had said that? The Sunlight Man? Refuses to renounce his human dignity … a Hell’s Angel of sorts, a rebellious lunatic …
The phone in his hand was dead.
Salvador’s funeral, he thought. He looked down, startled, at his watch. Where is my servant Mickey Salvador?
At the desk he said, “Where’s Kozlowski?”
“Having lunch, sir.”
“Where?”
“I dunno. Polkadot, probably.”
He hurried out to the street and made for his car.
3
“We’re in an age of violent change, Kozlowski,” Clumly said.
Kozlowski nodded, winding spaghetti around his fork with the help of his spoon. His face was redder than usual, as though it embarrassed him to be caught eating lunch with the Chief. But there was hardly anyone else there—a teenager with longish hair and his collar turned up, sitting at the counter to Clumly’s left, and around the corner a workman of some sort, maybe a welder, with thick glasses and thicker bubbles of glass in the middle. The waitress was telling the workman that he and his wife were tearing that poor boy apart. “Say it’s true,” the workman said, “let’s say I’m willing to grant that.” He pointed at her with his fork. “You think you and I had it better when we were kids? I give him the best home I can. It’s up to him too.” The waitress waved it off scornfully and turned to Clumly. “What’s yours?” she said.
He pointed toward Kozlowski’s spaghetti. “One of those and a cup of Sanka.”
“No Sanka.”
“Root-beer.”
She turned away.
“Violent change,” he said again. “I’m not against the future. Not for a minute, no sir! What I ask is, who’s conserving the values of the past? Who?”
Kozlowski shook his head and glanced at the waitress.
“It’s all very well to say the old order changes giving way to the new, or whatever the saying is, but where’s the new? That’s the question!”
Kozlowski poked the forkful into his mouth.
The man in thick glasses said, “A man has to look out for himself. If my parents are to blame for the way I turned out, then it must go back to Adam, for God’s sake, and who’s responsible for him?”
“All right,” Clumly said, “so take—” He leaned closer to Kozlowski. “Take the Sunlight Man. A dangerous criminal, right?”
“Right.”
“But how dangerous nobody knows, because we don’t know who he is, right?”
He nodded, poking in a forkful.
“So Miller and the boys may bring him in for the minor counts, but as for his real crimes—”
“Good thinking,” Kozlowski said.
Clumly scowled at him. “What side you on, Kozlowski?”
Clumly’s spaghetti came, and Kozlowski was spared the inconvenience of answering. Clumly took a mouthful and leaned toward him again. “All right,” he said, “what would you say if I told you I have a chance of meeting with this man alone, and talking? Suppose I knew how I could follow him around, but I had to do it all on my own. Well?”
Kozlowski said, “I’d say it was a crazy idea.” He chewed.
Clumly grinned. “Ah! Crazy. Why?”
Now, for just a moment, Kozlowski looked at him. “Because sooner or later the chances are he’d kill you. Even if killing’s not his usual way, what choice would he have, some cop following him around, pushing him in a corner?”
“And yet the other way we may never find out—”
Kozlowski said nothing.
“Well?” Clumly said.
“No difference. The reason you have what’s called a ‘force’ is when the cops outnumber the robbers fewer people get killed.” Still looking straight ahead, as if Clumly were merely some irritating stranger, Kozlowski began on his coffee.
“Suppose I told you—” Clumly whispered.
Now a muscle began to twitch in Kozlowski’s cheek. He set down the coffee and waited.
Clumly changed his mind. “Suppose I told you I know for a fact that this Sunlight Man once ran someone down in St. Louis, Missouri—ran him down with a diaper truck, in cold blood, and then picked him up off the grass and locked him up in a grimy cellar. He was crippled for life.”
“How?”
“How do I know? Because—” He studied Kozlowski’s eyes, then changed his mind. “I know, that’s all. Never mind how.”
“You’ll get killed,” Kozlowski said. “And you’ll deserve it. Start busting out on your own like that, acting like a vigilante …”
Chief Clumly’s small eyes glinted. “I’ve tried your way. You’re forgetting something. I’m responsible for this town, you follow that? Responsible! It’s like a king. I don’t mean I’m comparing myself to a king, you understand, but it’s like a king. If a king’s laws get tangled up and his knights all fail him, he’s got to do the job himself. They’re his people. He’s responsible. Or take God—not that I compare myself to God, understand. If the world gets all messed up He’s got to fix it however He can, that’s His job.”
Kozlowski shook his head and rolled his eyes up.
“This spaghetti’s all grease,” Clumly said. “Hey, Miss!”
“You gonna arrest her, boss?” Kozlowski said.
Clumly ignored it. When the girl came he said, “This spaghetti’s all grease.”
She looked at the plate. “You get what you pay for.”
He pushed the plate away. He said suddenly, “Listen, Kozlowski, come to the funeral with me this afternoon. For Salvador.”
He shook his head. “Miller said—”
“Forget it! Is Miller the Chief?”
“Look. We all been by there, paid our respects. You can’t just shut down the police department for a funeral.”
“True. But I want you there, see?” He added, crafty-looking, “I’ve got a hunch.”
Kozlowski sighed. Clumly had finished his root-beer now, and they both got down off their stools. The waitress looked at Clumly’s check. “Ninety cents,” she said. He paid her and she rang it up. Kozlowski paid nothing. Clumly thought about it.
At the door, Clumly squinted at him and said, “You got some deal cooked up between you, you and her? How come no charge?”
Kozlowski blushed. “What kind of deal could we have?”
“I don’t know,” Clumly said. He thought: book-making, petty extortion, prostitution, health code, fire code … “I don’t know,” he said again. “You’re a riddle, Kozlowski.” He grinned, watchful.
Kozlowski looked up at the sky and slid his cap on. It must be a hundred out now. The sheen of wax on the police car top was blinding.
“You drive,” Clumly said. “We’ll stop by afterward and pick up my car again.” He closed his hand around the little white stones in his pocket.
Kozlowski got in, switched on the ignition, and waited while Clumly came around the front to his side.
For all the heat, it was a good funeral, one of the best he’d seen. Almost all the people there were Italian, and most of them he didn’t know. Nobody talked. They stood motionless in their dark suits, even the children motionless, and when they bowed or knelt or crossed themselves—all but the half-dozen Protestants there—they did it together, as though by a single impulse in their hearts. Everyone wept, including Clumly, and even Kozlowski had water in his eyes. Beside the open grave the priest spoke English, sadly, with Italian feeling.
“God lift this boy to Heaven,” he said. He wrung his hands. “And forgive him his sins. He had much, much good in him, as you know, Lord, and what faults he may have had were the faults of any mortal child on the threshold, only the threshold, of his manhood. Even to our limited mortal sight it seemed only a day or two ago that he laughed and played on the sidewalk in front of his mama’s house, and
only a matter of hours ago that he distinguished himself as a football player in our high school. He was gentle and kindly, and he gave his life for the defense of peace and justice. Have mercy on his spirit, and give comfort to his mother and his brothers and sisters who have lost him in all the great beauty of his youth. When they come home to the house now suddenly emptied, You be there in his stead. When they hear a young voice they mistake for his, in that first tragic instant, You be there to give them peace.” He shifted to Latin, or maybe Italian.
An untimely end, but the funeral was fitting, and all the dignity of Mickey Salvador’s life was there—his mother, weeping, the younger children, the relatives heavy of body and heart, the school friends. We all go sometime, Clumly thought. At last, whatever tensions, uncertainties, joys and sorrows warred in the heart, law and order were restored, and there was peace.
He looked out at the field where cows lay weary from the heat and two dogs stood sniffing a fencepost. Life goes on, he thought. It was beautiful. He gave himself up to the pleasure of weeping.
When he wiped his eyes the first thing he saw was the enormous back of Will Hodge Sr, moving toward the cemetery gate. Poor devil, Clumly thought, remembering the scene with Salvador’s mother in Clumly’s own office. Well, they’d made up now. She walked beside him. That was odd, he thought the next minute. Unsettling. Hodge turned to glance back, and his eyes fell instantly, as if he’d meant them to, on Clumly.
But he got no time just then to think about it. There was a commotion over at the edge of the crowd, an argument perhaps, or a purse lost, or some accident. He pressed toward the place, Kozlowski just behind him. When he got there the small crowd fell away to give him room. There was an old Italian woman sitting on the ground, her legs splayed out, skirt hiked up to reveal the terrible gray of her thighs above the rolled stocking-tops. A boy was pulling at her, trying to help her to her feet. She was blind and seemed dazed. When Clumly bent over her she drew back as if alarmed, saying something in Italian “—uno stormo d’uccelli.”
“What?” Clumly said. He glanced at the boy for help.
“Storm of birds,” the boy said. In answer to Clumly’s look of bafflement he merely shrugged. He was so thin he looked made out of sticks.
“Voli di colombi,” she said.
“Flights of pigeons,” the boy said dully, looking down.
“What’s this mean?” Clumly said, but no one answered. The crowd drew nearer to listen.
“La morte,” she said.
“Death,” said the boy.
She was speaking directly—unmistakably—to Clumly. She began to whisper, and the boy went on translating, quick, toneless, indifferent. “Some will die for uncontrol and animalness and for cruel mastering. Some for violent kindness.”
She touched Clumly’s face—her hands ice-cold—and said a word which the boy did not translate. She repeated it. “Disanimata.”
“What does it mean?” Clumly said.
The boy looked blank and sullen.
The others would not say either.
“Let me help you up,” Clumly said. He took her two hands. “All right you people, make room there.” Kozlowski put his hands under her armpits.
He had an hour yet before it was time to leave for his appointment with the Sunlight Man.
“You’re home early,” Esther said. “You said you were going to be late.”
He nodded. “Work to do. See I’m not disturbed.”
Without another word he proceeded up the stairs to the second floor and then on to the third. Here the house was above the shade of the trees, and the bare, unfurnished rooms were full of light. He got out the tape recorder from the closet where he’d left it, threaded the tape in, and bolted the door behind him. He straightened up and got a cigar out, then stood at the high, narrow window to smoke and listen. He felt again the heavy-hearted weariness he’d felt last night in the church, but he felt something else now, too. A kind of joy, almost the kind of joy he’d felt years ago, going over and over a letter from his nearly blind sweetheart, on the ship. His head was clear now, as it always was up here where he could look out on half the city. As the tape spoke he cocked his head and bent nearer.
He’d misunderstood reality, and so he died. And so I say this. Suppose you’re wrong.
Clumly snapped off the tape and stood thinking a moment, bent-backed as a beetle, his hand around his jaw.
Downstairs the telephone rang. Esther called, “Yoo hoo! Telephone, Fred!”
He bent lower and unplugged the tape recorder, then stood motionless, squinting, enclosing himself in silence.
X
Poetry and
Life
That some Elephants have not only written whole sentences, as Æilan ocularly testifieth, but have also spoken, as Oppianus delivereth, and Christophorus à Costa particularly relateth (although it sound like that of Achilles’ Horse in Homer), we do not conceive impossible.
—Sir Thomas Browne
1
Walter Boyle (or Benson) had a round face and round, surprised-looking eyes like a rabbit’s. Now, as he drove home to Buffalo, sitting far forward in his seat, as always, and clinging to the steering wheel with both hands, his eyes looked rounder and more surprised than ever. He was frightened and, for the first time in years, tormented by something he could even recognize himself as guilt. If he consciously tried to think back to the murder of the guard, his mind would shy away stubbornly, like a horse avoiding a bridge; nevertheless, the memory repeatedly came back, around unsuspected corners, and though his thought recoiled the way you would draw back your hand from a snake you’d mistaken for a vine, he could not escape reliving that moment—the dead guard’s hand reaching out to him—over and over. He had always known that there is violence in the world, he’d seen minor examples. But he had never fully grasped what he had known. It was equally impossible for Boyle (or Benson) to grasp the magician’s return to the jail to free an Indian who meant nothing to him, as far as you could see, or meant worse than nothing, an irritation. Insane, that was all there was to it. But Boyle was not convinced or comforted. He had not really grasped that there was madness in the world. Worst of all, though, was the pistol-whipping of the Indian who had stayed. Boyle had a certain respect for the police. He feared and disliked them, but he feared and disliked them less than do many citizens. He understood their rules and, as a professional, worked not so much against those rules as around and under and up inbetween them. But there were no rules behind the pistol-whipping. It was more insanity. And neither was there any rule to explain their calling him Benson, showing they were onto him, yet letting him off scot-free. The world was topsy-turvy, and Boyle was afraid of it. He felt that he was being tailed, that any moment or any day now the whole thing—whatever that meant—would blow up in his face. He dreaded meeting his wife or neighbors or what-was-his-name, the roomer. He felt, though the trial was behind him, accused, and felt everyone knew it. He, Walter Boyle, it seemed to him now (or seemed to some gloomy, befuddled alley of his mind), was personally responsible for the magician’s return and so, in effect, for the murder. He could have listened more carefully to the conversation of the magician and the Indian; he could have told the police more than he’d told them, or warned them about the break he had known was coming. And after it was over and the police were asking angry questions, their faces bright red, he could have told them at least who it was that had let the Indian out. It was his error—his refusal to answer them—that had led to the pistol-whipping.
Not that he consciously thought all this out or believed it. Boyle thought nothing. Nevertheless, he was a changed man, for whether or not he was able to think about it, he had seen the caves of Hell. All his life he had been a decent man, exactly like the best of his neighbors. A good American. He took pride in his work, as other men do, and pride, too—though he did not flaunt it publicly—in his judgments, his feelings, even his comfortable shape, size, and visage. He worked hard and earned money and kept hold of it—he was
the farthest thing from a profligate. He knew the value of food, and, like anyone, he frequently ate too much; he took considerable pleasure in making love to his wife when he was able, once a month or so; he was never fanatic, and if he felt himself slipping into an extreme point of view he would check himself at once, relax every nerve; he had a healthy American’s envy of people slightly better off than himself. And though he said little, he was not by any means a milquetoast; indeed, he was as capable as anyone of manly fury. But for all his common decency, he now knew himself guilty; in fact, past pardon. He suffered and hunted for words. The world was full of danger, and something terrible was in store for him.
Half a block short of the driveway leading to the old barn in North Tonawanda where he always made his change, Boyle stopped the car and sat looking around him, making sure he was not being watched. There was no one. He started up again, drove down die driveway between high weeds, stopped to unlock the barn door, then drove the Rambler in. Inside, everything was in order. The Ford sat dusty and discarded-looking except for the clothes hanging behind the side window—Benson’s. Boyle undressed, down to his underwear and socks, removed the money from his billfold and put the billfold in the Rambler glove compartment. He stood a moment between the two cars, facing the closed barn door and rubbing his hands absent-mindedly, savoring the queer sensation of being neither Boyle nor Benson. At last he locked the Rambler and unlocked the Ford, dressed in the Benson clothes, took the Benson wallet from the glove compartment of the Ford, filled it with the money that linked his two natures, and put on his wedding ring. He opened the barn door, started up the Ford, backed out, got out again and locked the barn door behind him.
Even now he dreaded going home. On an impulse very unnatural for him, against all his rules, he parked his car in a downtown lot, thirty cents an hour, and got out to walk. He had no intention, at first, of walking all the way home from here—it was nearly two miles—but he started out, by accident, in the general direction of home.
Though the afternoon was in fact pleasant, somewhere in the seventies, Benson felt chilly. He felt so cold, and the light breeze seemed to him so piercing, that he shivered in his thin suit and walked as fast as he could. He thought about the people he’d seen in the jail—the Indian boy with his jaw broken, the cracked magician, the drunks, the teen-aged hoodlums the police had brought in after the escape—and, hardly aware that he was doing it, he began to compare them with the hustling Buffalo people all around him. As he passed department stores, wide, brightly lit office-supply stores, bookstores, tobacco shops, ladies’ shops, he was struck by the wolfish, but at the same time trim and prosperous, look of all these well-fed, neatly dressed customers and salespeople. There was nothing like this back in jail. These people too looked cross and impatient, but they looked busy, at least, and satisfied that their business was the most important business to be done. He passed an air-conditioned shoestore (a waft of chillier air swept across him), and beyond the double-width glass doors he caught a glimpse of a tan young man with a bright, false smile squeezing a cheap, too-small shoe on a fat woman’s bloated foot. It was not the shoesalesman’s business that the shoe was mere paper or that on that huge gray foot it was ridiculous. They were both cheats, the shoe man and the lady. (The thought flickered up momentarily and died.)