Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction

  “Mmmmmmmmm,” I said.

  “And after supper,” said Celeste, “you and Harry and I can sit before a roaring fire and talk about old times and old friends back home.”

  “Swell,” I said. I could see the firelight playing over the columns of figures, The Wall Street Journal, the prospectuses and graphs. I could hear Celeste and her husband Harry murmuring about the smell of new-mown hay, American Brake Shoe preferred, moonlight on the Wabash, Consolidated Edison three-percent bonds, cornbread, and Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul, and Pacific common.

  “We’ve only been away from here for two years,” said Celeste, “but it seems like a lifetime, so much has happened. It’ll be good to see somebody from back home.”

  “You really came up fast, didn’t you, Celeste,” I said.

  “I feel like Cinderella,” said Celeste. “One day, Harry and I were struggling along on his pay from Joe’s Greasing Palace, and the next day, everything I touched seemed to turn to gold.”

  It wasn’t until I’d hung up that I began wondering how Harry felt.

  Harry was the man I’d lost Celeste to. I remembered him as a small, good-looking, sleepy boy, who asked nothing more of life than the prettiest wife in town and a decent job as an automobile mechanic. He got both one week after graduation.

  When I went to the Divine home for supper, Celeste herself, with the body of a love goddess and the face of a Betsy Wetsy, let me in.

  The nest she’d bought for herself and her mate was an old mansion on the river, as big and ugly as the Schenectady railroad station.

  She gave me her hand to kiss, and befuddled by her beauty and perfume, I kissed it.

  “Harry? Harry!” she called. “Guess who’s here.”

  I expected to see either a cadaver or a slob, the remains of Harry, come shuffling in.

  But there was no response from Harry.

  “He’s in his study,” said Celeste. “How that man can concentrate! When he gets something on his mind, it’s just like he was in another world.” She opened the study door cautiously. “You see?”

  Lying on his back on a tiger-skin rug was Harry. He was staring at the ceiling. Beside him was a frosty pitcher of martinis, and in his fingers he held a drained glass. He rolled the olive in it around and around and around.

  “Darling,” said Celeste to Harry, “I hate to interrupt, dear.”

  “What? What’s that?” said Harry, startled. He sat up. “Oh! I beg your pardon. I didn’t hear you come in.” He stood and shook my hand forthrightly, and I saw that the years had left him untouched.

  Harry seemed very excited about something, but underneath his excitement was the sleepy contentment I remembered from high school. “I haven’t any right to relax,” he said. “Everybody in the whole damn industry is relaxing. If I relax, down comes the roof. Ten thousand men out of jobs.” He seized my arm. “Count their families, and you’ve got a city the size of Terre Haute hanging by a thread.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why are they hanging by a thread?”

  “The industry!” said Harry.

  “What industry?” I said.

  “The catchup industry,” said Celeste.

  Harry looked at me. “What do you call it? Catchup? Ketchup? Catsup?”

  “I guess I call it different things at different times,” I said.

  Harry slammed his hand down on the coffee table. “There’s the story of the catchup-ketchup-catsup industry in a nutshell! They can’t even get together on how to spell the name of the product. If we can’t even hang together that much,” he said, “we’ll all hang separately. Does one automobile manufacturer call automobiles ‘applemobiles,’ and another one ‘axlemobiles,’ and another one ‘urblemowheels’?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “You bet they don’t,” said Harry. He filled his glass, motioned us to chairs, and lay down again on the tiger skin.

  “Harry’s found himself,” said Celeste. “Isn’t it marvelous? He was at loose ends so long. We had some terrible scenes after we moved here, didn’t we, Harry?”

  “I was immature,” said Harry. “I admit it.”

  “And then,” said Celeste, “just when things looked blackest, Harry blossomed! I got a brand-new husband!”

  Harry plucked tufts of hair from the rug, rolled them into little balls, and flipped them into the fireplace. “I had an inferiority complex,” he said. “I thought all I could ever be was a mechanic.” He waved away Celeste’s and my objections. “Then I found out plain horse sense is the rarest commodity in the business world. Next to most of the guys in the catchup industry, I look like an Einstein.”

  “Speaking of people blossoming,” I said, “your wife gets more gorgeous by the minute.”

  “Hmmmmm?” said Harry.

  “I said, Celeste is really something—one of the most beautiful and famous women in the country. You’re a lucky man,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah—sure,” said Harry, his mind elsewhere.

  “You knew what you wanted, and you got it, didn’t you?” I said to Celeste.

  “I—” Celeste began.

  “Tell me, Celeste,” I said, “what’s your life like now? Pretty wild, I’ll bet, with the program and the nightclub appearances, publicity, and all that.”

  “It is,” said Celeste. “It’s the most—”

  “It’s a lot like the industry,” said Harry. “Keep the show moving, keep the show moving—keep the catchup moving, keep the catchup moving. There are millions of people who take television for granted, and there are millions of people taking catchup for granted. They want it when they want it. It’s got to be there—and it’s got to be right. They don’t stop to think about how it got there. They aren’t interested.” He dug his fingers into his thighs. “But they wouldn’t get television, and they wouldn’t get catchup if there weren’t people tearing their hearts out to get it to ’em.”

  “I liked your record of ‘Solitude’ very much, Celeste,” I said. “The last chorus, where you—”

  Harry clapped his hands together. “Sure she’s good. Hell, I said we’d sponsor her, if the industry’d ever get together on anything.” He rolled over and looked up at Celeste. “What’s the story on chow, Mother?” he said.

  At supper, conversation strayed from one topic to another, but always settled, like a ball in a crooked roulette wheel, on the catchup industry.

  Celeste tried to bring up the problem of her investments, but the subject, ordinarily a thriller, fizzled and sank in a sea of catchup again and again.

  “I’m making five thousand a week now,” said Celeste, “and there are a million people ready to tell me what to do with it. But I want to ask a friend—an old friend.”

  “It all depends on what you want from your investments,” I said. “Do you want growth? Do you want stability? Do you want a quick return in dividends?”

  “Don’t put it in the catchup industry,” said Harry. “If they wake up, if I can wake ’em up, OK. I’d say get in catchup and stay in catchup. But the way things are now, you might as well sink your money in Grant’s Tomb, for all the action you’ll get.”

  “Um,” I said. “Well, Celeste, with your tax situation, I don’t think you’d want dividends as much as you’d want growth.”

  “It’s just crazy about taxes,” said Celeste. “Harry figured out it was actually cheaper for him to work for nothing.”

  “For love,” said Harry.

  “What company are you with, Harry?” I said.

  “I’m in a consulting capacity for the industry as a whole,” said Harry.

  The telephone rang, and a maid came in to tell Celeste that her agent was on the line.

  I was left alone with Harry, and I found it hard to think of anything to say—anything that wouldn’t be trivial in the face of the catchup industry’s impending collapse.

  I glanced around the room, humming nervously, and saw that the wall behind me was covered with impressive documents, blobbed with sealing wax, decked
with ribbons, and signed with big black swirling signatures. The documents were from every conceivable combination of human beings, all gathered in solemn assembly to declare something nice about Celeste. She was a beacon to youth, a promoter of Fire Prevention Week, the sweetheart of a regiment, the television discovery of the year.

  “Quite a girl,” I said.

  “See how they get those things up?” said Harry. “They really look like something, don’t they?”

  “Like nonaggression pacts,” I said.

  “When someone gets one of these, they think they’ve got something—even if what it says is just plain hogwash and not even good English. Makes ’em feel good,” said Harry. “Makes ’em feel important.”

  “I suppose,” I said. “But all these citations are certainly evidence of affection and respect.”

  “That’s what a suggestion award should look like,” said Harry. “It’s one of the things I’m trying to put through. When a guy in the industry figures out a better way to do something, he ought to get some kind of certificate, a booby-dazzler he can frame and show off.”

  Celeste came back in, thrilled about something. “Honey,” she said to Harry.

  “I’m telling him about suggestion awards,” said Harry. “Will it keep a minute?” He turned back to me. “Before you can understand a suggestion a guy made the other day,” he said, “you’ve got to understand how catchup is made. You start with the tomatoes out on the farms, see?”

  “Honey,” said Celeste plaintively, “I hate to interrupt, but they want me to play Dolley Madison in a movie.”

  “Go ahead, if you want to,” said Harry. “If you don’t, don’t. Now where was I?”

  “Catchup,” I said.

  As I left the Divine home, I found myself attacked by a feeling of doom. Harry’s anxieties about the catchup industry had become a part of me. An evening with Harry was like a year of solitary confinement in a catchup vat. No man could come away without a strong opinion about catchup.

  “Let’s have lunch sometime, Harry,” I said as I left. “What’s your number at the office?”

  “It’s unlisted,” said Harry. He gave me the number very reluctantly. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself.”

  “People would always be calling him up to pick his brains, if the number got around,” said Celeste.

  “Good night, Celeste,” I said. “I’m glad you’re such a success. How could you miss with that face, that voice, and the name Celeste Divine? You didn’t have to change a thing, did you?

  “It’s just the opposite with catchup,” said Harry. “The original catchup wasn’t anything like what we call catchup or ketchup or catsup. The original stuff was made out of mushrooms, walnuts, and a lot of other things. It all started in Malaya. Catchup means ‘taste’ in Malaya. Not many people know that.”

  “I certainly didn’t,” I said. “Well, good night.”

  I didn’t get around to calling Harry until several weeks later, when a prospective client, a Mr. Arthur J. Bunting, dropped into my office shortly before noon. Mr. Bunting was a splendid old gentleman, stout, over six feet tall, with the white mustache and fierce eyes of an old Indian fighter.

  Mr. Bunting had sold his factory, which had been in his family for three generations, and he wanted my suggestions as to how to invest the proceeds. His factory had been a catchup factory.

  “I’ve often wondered,” I said, “how the original catchup would go over in this country—made the way they make it in Malaya.”

  A moment before, Mr. Bunting had been a sour old man, morbidly tidying his life. Now he was radiant. “You know catchup?” he said.

  “As an amateur,” I said.

  “Was your family in catchup?” he said.

  “A friend,” I said.

  Mr. Bunting’s face clouded over with sadness. “I and my father,” he said hoarsely, “and my father’s father made the finest catchup this world has ever known. Never once did we cut corners on quality.” He gave an anguished sigh. “I’m sorry I sold out!” he said. “There’s a tragedy for someone to write: A man sells something priceless for a price he can’t resist.”

  “There’s a lot of that going on, I guess,” I said.

  “Being in the catchup business was ridiculous to a lot of people,” said Mr. Bunting. “But by glory, if everybody did his job as well as my grandfather did, my father did, and I did, it would be a perfect world! Let me tell you that!”

  I nodded, and dialed Harry’s unlisted telephone number. “I’ve got a friend I’d like very much to have you meet, Mr. Bunting,” I said. “I hope he can have lunch with us.”

  “Good, fine,” said Mr. Bunting. “And now the work of three generations is in the hands of strangers,” he said.

  A man with a tough voice answered the telephone. “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Harry Divine, please,” I said.

  “Out to lunch. Back at one,” said the man.

  “Gee, that’s too bad. Mr. Bunting,” I said, hanging up, “it would have been wonderful to get you two together.”

  “Who is this person?”

  “Who is he?” I said. I laughed. “Why, my friend Harry is Mr. Catchup himself!”

  Mr. Bunting looked as though he’d been shot in the belly. “Mr. Catchup?” he said hollowly. “That’s what they used to call me. Who’s he with?”

  “He’s a consultant for the whole industry,” I said.

  The corners of Mr. Bunting’s mouth pulled down. “I never even heard of him,” he said. “My word, things happen fast these days!”

  As we sat down to lunch, Mr. Bunting was still very upset.

  “Mr. Bunting, sir,” I said, “I was using the term ‘Mr. Catchup’ loosely. I’m sure Harry doesn’t claim the title. I just mean that catchup was a big thing in his life, too.”

  Mr. Bunting finished his drink grimly. “New names, new faces,” he said. “These sharp youngsters, coming up fast, still wet behind the ears, knowing all the answers, taking over—do they know they’ve got a heritage to respect and protect?” His voice quivered. “Or are they going to tear everything down, without even bothering to ask why it was built that way?”

  There was a stir in the restaurant. In the doorway stood Celeste, a bird of paradise, creating a sensation.

  Beside her, talking animatedly, demanding her full attention, was Harry.

  I waved to them, and they crossed the room to join us at our table. The headwaiter escorted them, flattering the life out of Celeste. And every face turned toward her, full of adoration.

  Harry, seemingly blind to it all, was shouting at Celeste about the catchup industry.

  “You know what I said to them?” said Harry, as they reached our table.

  “No, dear,” said Celeste.

  “I told them there was only one thing to do,” said Harry, “and that was burn the whole damn catchup industry down to the ground. And next time, when we build it, by heaven, let’s think!”

  Mr. Bunting stood, snow white, every nerve twanging.

  Uneasily I made the introductions.

  “How do you do?” said Mr. Bunting.

  Celeste smiled warmly. Her smile faded as Mr. Bunting looked at Harry with naked hate.

  Harry was too wound up to notice. “I am now making a historical study of the catchup industry,” he announced, “to determine whether it never left the Dark Ages, or whether it left and then scampered back.”

  I chuckled idiotically. “Mr. Bunting, sir,” I said, “you’ve no doubt seen Celeste on television. She’s—”

  “The communications industry,” said Harry, “has reached the point where it can send the picture of my wife through the air to forty million homes. And the catchup industry is still bogged down, trying to lick thixotropy.”

  Mr. Bunting blew up. “Maybe the public doesn’t want thixotropy licked!” he bellowed. “Maybe they’d rather have good catchup, and thixotropy be damned! It’s flavor they want! It’s quality they want! Lick thixotropy, and you’ll have some ne
w red bilge sold under a proud old name!” He was trembling all over.

  Harry was staggered. “You know what thixotropy is?” he said.

  “Of course I know!” said Bunting, furious. “And I know what good catchup is. And I know what you are—an arrogant, enterprising, self-serving little pipsqueak!” He turned to me. “And a man is judged by the company he keeps. Good day!” He strode out of the restaurant, grandly.

  “There were tears in his eyes,” said Celeste, bewildered.

  “His life, his father’s life, and his grandfather’s life have been devoted to catchup,” I said. “I thought Harry knew that. I thought everybody in the industry knew who Arthur J. Bunting was.”

  Harry was miserable. “I really hurt him, didn’t I?” he said. “God knows, I didn’t want to do that.”

  Celeste laid her hand on Harry’s. “You’re like Louis Pasteur, darling,” she said. “Pasteur must have hurt the feelings of a lot of old men, too.”

  “Yeah,” said Harry. “Like Louis Pasteur—that’s me.”

  “The old collision between youth and age,” I said.

  “Big client, was he?” said Harry.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I can’t tell you how sorry. I’ll call him up and make things right.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything that will go against your integrity, Harry,” I said. “Not on my account.”

  Mr. Bunting called the next day to say that he had accepted Harry’s apology.

  “He made a clean breast of how he got into catchup,” said Mr. Bunting, “and he promised to get out. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.”

  I called up Harry immediately. “Harry, boy, listen!” I said. “Mr. Bunting’s business isn’t that important to me. If you’re right about catchup and the Buntings are wrong, stick with it and fight it out!”

  “It’s all right,” said Harry, “I was getting sick of catchup. I was about to move on, anyway.” He hung up. I called him back, and was told that he had gone to lunch.

  “Do you know where he’s eating?”

  “Yeah, right across the street. I can see him going in.”