Yeah.
Okay, but you remember dis, baby: da flute invented before da wheel.
Really, Mr. Mati? asks Belford. I wasnt aware of that.
Freddie is intimating that art is fundamentally more necessary to humankind than commerce or industry, a recurrent theme with him.
Youre the musician, Papa, not me.
Dat right. I dont forget you singing lessons. You both laugh at that dumb memory. Anyway, you got you fingers on da frog skins.
You freeze. The look you give your father is not unlike the look you received from Larry Diamond that evening three days ago when you naively called him a Bozo-Bozo as in clown. What do you mean by that? you implore warily. Frog skins. Does the old man know something?
Noticing the shift in your mood, Freddie hastens to explain that frog skins is a slang expression. Dat street talk, he says. Street talk for money. Dollar bills. He is pleased-and Belford puzzled-to see that you are relieved.
The three of you are silent for a while. AndrE is mostly silent, as well. Then, you consult your watch and nod in the direction of the door. Take care of yourself, Papa. Impulsively, you hug him. I love you, you whisper.
Ah, Gwendolyn, it has been years since you have said those words to your dad. To anyone. Perhaps you say them now because you are going away and are uncertain when, or if, you will return.
You come back soon, Freddie says. Bring you Christian friend. I introduce him to Gods great gift, Saint Pot. Heh-heh. Bring da monkey wit you. Dat monkey a trip, man. You are a quarter of the way down the stairs when he calls, Next weekend I be at dat new Vietnamese joint, da Vo Mit Club. Gigging with Electric Baby Moses and His Golden Helicopters. Yeah, and also da Spanish Flies. You dont wanna miss dat one. I leave you name at da door. Dey make dem banana daiquiris, man. Da monkey like dat shit. Heh-heh.
Belford stops and turns, most likely to explain that his monkey is a born-again monkey, but you nudge him on down the steps.
TWO TWENTY-NINE A.M.
Standing in a lurid cloud of dragon breath, the combined neon exhalations of a half-dozen Chinatown facades, Belford looks confused and a tad leery. Its time to go home, he says in a flat tone. Im tired. Its been an unusual weekend.
Ha! you think. You dont know the half of it. Well, Belford honey, the unusualness is not over yet. But it will be very soon. For you, at any rate.
I cant understand what youre talking about. Im wiped out.
Here, Ill drive. You and AndrE climb in the back.
He does as he is told, and you race eastward on Jackson, wheel to the north on Boren-This isnt the way home, whines Belford-and stop at a convenience store on Broadway, where you purchase two Popsicles and one of those crusty, sugar-frosted little pocket pies manufactured on the assembly lines of the Hostess company. You deposit the bag of goodies on the floorboard by your left foot, whereupon AndrE, smelling the treats, sets up a slobber-jabber.
Why cant he have em now? asks Belford.
Because he hasnt earned them yet. Weve got enough welfare gigolos in this town. If AndrE wants to eat, he has to pull his weight.
Belford looks around. Wherere you taking us, Gwen?
To a nice hotel.
Hotel ?! We cant …
Of course we can.
TWO FORTY-SEVEN A.M.
Notorious crop-raiders in their native land, Barbary apes are dexterous enough, opposably thumbed enough, to pluck grapes off the vine or pick up kernels of spilled corn. This species of macaque also possesses cheek pouches in which it may horde a private stash of food. AndrEs pouches seem ample, all right-they did once conceal the entire contents of the Sultana of Bruneis jewel box-yet you wonder if they can accommodate something as long and inflexible as the device you have just removed from your purse.
Will you please tell me, Belford demands, what in Gods dear name is going on here?
You have parked the Lincoln on Terry Avenue, across from the Sorrento Hotel, parked it, in fact, in the exact space where you and Larry Diamond earlier in the day had enjoyed full-fledged sexual congress in an automotive enclosure so small that no two circus clowns, those who fit thirty to a midget car, would so much as attempt it. Love makes the world go round, its true, but lust stops the world in its tracks; love renders bearable the passage of time, lust causes time to stand still; lust kills time, which is not to say that it wastes it or whiles it aimlessly away but rather that it annihilates it, cancels it, extirpates it from the continuum; preventing, while it lasts, any lapse into the tense and shabby woes of temporal society; lust is the thousand-pound odometer needle on the dashboard of the absolute. You wish you could invoke some of that carnal de-escalation right now, wish you could reenter the funky cocoon that you and Diamond spun around each other, the sexually generated capsule that so effectively insulated you from the hungers of the clock. If your strategy stands any chance of working, then events are going to have to unfold with scrupulous dispatch, for a time factor is involved, closure imminent, and not a resin-bead of lust left to embalm the minutes or slow the march.
With the lime-green felt-tip marking pen that you bought at the pharmacy, you paint your mothers old white rubber enema nozzle. The result resembles jade to the approximate degree that recent presidents have resembled statesmen, and in this light, color is probably academic, anyhow; but Kongo van den Bos is reported to have trained his simian assistant with visual aids, and considering that this caper is sketchy at best, you want to leave as little as possible to chance.
Now whatre you doing? asks Belford.
Stealthily, you slip out of the car and open the rear door. Come on, AndrE, come with Auntie Gwen, honey. Were going to have us some fun. You grasp the monkeys paw and draw him outside. His buggy orange eyes are on the goody bag. Not yet, AndrE. Quiet, now. Belford, you come, too. You told me once how Kongo used to do this, but Im not sure I have it right.
You lead AndrE across the deserted street. Flabbergasted, Belford hurries after you. He catches up with you at the foot of the fire escape, the last rung of which is a full yard above your head. What the heck … ?
After showing AndrE the newly decorated nozzle, you point up the fire escape. You remove a Popsicle and the little apple pie from the bag, offer them to AndrE, then when he reaches for them, snatch them back. Again, you point up the fire escape. You press the nozzle into his tiny fingers. How alive they feel, how nimble and strong. Help me, Belford. We need to get him onto the fire escape.
Belford is dumbfounded. Are you crazy? What do you think youre doing!
Your voice is so tinkly and high and sweet, it could be the little pie talking. Im sending AndrE up to the penthouse to fetch me something.
No youre not! Are you out of your mind? Get back in the car!
Easy. Take it easy. Its only a prank.
What kind of prank?
A funny, harmless prank. I want AndrE to go up and bring down an enema nozzle. Once more you jiggle the treats under the macaques nose, draw them away, point toward the penthouse. You are counting on the fact that your alleged fiancE, having been occupied with a wild-goose chase around San Francisco, is unaware of the nature of Motofusa Yamaguchis cancer cure.
Why? Why would you want … ? Is this some kinda silly scavenger hunt or something? Visibly shaken, Belford is trying desperately to give you the benefit of the doubt.
Its a joke.
On who?
Uh, an acquaintance of mine.
Mr. Adventure?
Well, yeah, if thats what you call him. Hes leaving the country at six a.m., as I said, and Im playing a little joke on him.
Not with my AndrE youre not!
Honey …
If you wanna play some smutty bathroom joke on your … your friend, go right ahead, but you leave my AndrE the heck out of it. He doesnt do this.
Come on, Belford, its nothing but a little piece of hard rubber. With one of your gnawed nails, you tap the enema nozzle, secure now in the monkeys paw. You point up the fire escape. It follows your gesture.
No! It doesnt matter if its an enema nozzle or the Hope diamond, its stealing either way. It took me years to correct the bad habits that evil criminal taught this innocent animal. I wont have you corrupt him again. I wont! AndrE.
Belford starts to reach out for his pet, but his great padded hands have barely left his side before the monkey leaps up onto your shoulders, giving you an instant crick in your neck, and catapults itself onto the fire escape.
Stop! yells Belford. AndrE, come down here!
Hush. Youll wake up the whole damn hotel.
Yeah. I will wake up the whole dang hotel. Im gonna start yelling for the cops if you dont put a stop to this right now. AndrE! The monkey stays put. You rub your aching neck. Belford is coming apart like a double-wide in a tornado. Im calling somebody.
With the unconscious agility of a gunfighter, you flash your hand into your purse and yank out the canister of Mace. Before your rational mind can get its pants on, you have positioned the spout nine inches from Belfords face. Your finger is on the trigger. One more sound out of you and Ill blast you into a goddamn amoeba. Im serious, Belford. Ill turn you to jelly.
The moon has set. Terry Avenue is as dark as a river. So still is the night you can hear your pulse pound, hear the breath stoppered in Belfords lungs. The two of you stand as if transfixed by a clap of psychic thunder. Slowly, the disbelief in Belfords eyes changes to pain and disappointment. Were it not for your pulse, you feel you could hear his heart breaking. He is a strong man who grew up roughly. It occurs to you that he could slap you dead, maybe even before you could fire the Mace. This stuff can buckle a bear, you warn him. But he isnt going to hit you. His hands hang at his side like disenfranchised puppets. His breathing is as pent as home brew in a crock. He begins shaking his head from side to side, and with each cumbrous vacillation, the hurt in his face widens like an incision.
Gradually, feebly, you relax your grip on the Mace. You let the canister fall to the sidewalk. It clatters there and rolls into the gutter.
You couldnt go through with it. No matter the stakes, you simply couldnt do it. Damn it all! Damn it to marginal hell. Whats the matter with you, Squeak? Still an amateur? When the jumbo chips hit the table, you folded like a Mexican road map. What are you going to do now?
TWO FIFTY-NINE A.M.
Tears are blistering your eyes like some chicken pox of failure, some herpes of rage and capitulation. Before the first sob rocks your sugarbowl titties, however, Belford spins on his heavy heels and walks away. And keeps walking. Walks right across Madison and on down Terry, walks southward, away from the Sorrento Hotel, away from the hospital, walks into the neighborhood occupied by buildings belonging to the Roman Catholic archdiocese of Seattle, a leafy, sedate area even darker and quieter than where you stand now.
Soon he is but a silhouette, a shadow receding into more ponderous shadows. There are no restaurants or service stations down those stodgy blocks, no telephone booths, no private homes, even. Where is he going? Why is he going? Has he snapped? Have you broken him? You feel your sneakers starting to shuffle in his direction.
For whatever reason -and it would be simpleminded to attempt to paste a single label on the emotions involved-you are about to run after him. But then, above the surf of your pulse, through the machinery of your sobs, you hear yourself being paged. It isnt your name that you hear. It isnt even a word, exactly. No, its more of a cross between a grunt and a chirp, as if the Bluebird of Happiness were excreting a prune pit. The noise is originating over your head. And it is indisputably intended to get your attention.
THREE OH-TWO A.M.
In the discreet light that seeps from the Sorrentos hallways, you see AndrE poised at a second-story window, an imploring look on his mug, the tip of your mothers enema nozzle protruding from his lips like one of Clint Eastwoods cigarillos. Unless you are terribly mistaken, he is requesting your instruction.
You glance back down Terry Avenue. Belfords sorrowful shadow has merged with the night. You look up again at AndrE. He is growing impatient and commencing to fidget. Suddenly, your pulse changes tempo, your sobs dissolve, the ache in your neck sprouts goose bumps. Okay! Well, all right then!
Making an upward motion with your hands, you direct the monkey to climb higher. It responds immediately. In the bat of a lash, it is at the third-story window, fully prepared to lift it open. So, this is how Kongo did it. Okay! All right then! You signal AndrE to continue his ascent, and the next thing you know, he has stationed himself outside the fourth-floor fire exit. Jeez. If monkeys were bellhops, it wouldnt take so long to get room service. This is a breeze. You signal him to keep climbing. Your spirits climb with him.
The macaque is on the sixth level, and you are just raising your hands to wave him on up to the penthouse when you hear the siren. In the sky, you detect the reflected whirl of red lights. It is not your imagination. The siren squawls louder, the lights flash brighter. Its the cops-damn that Belford! damn his treacherous Lutheran soul to hell! They are bearing down on you. And there is no place to hide. This, on top of your tactless lapses at the disco: you, little woman, could end up having to do some very fancy talking to avoid wasting your peak earning years watching the paint peel on a jailhouse wall. You may have been vexed in the past, you may have been embarrassed, but that was a paler shade of zip compared to the vexation and embarrassment rising in you now.
But it isnt the police. Its an ambulance. It red-balls and waah-bawls right on past you, freighting yet another package of damaged urban meat to the emergency room at Swedish Hospital.
You pull the wooden stake out of your heart and kindle a fire with it to defrost your spine. Jesus Christos! Cesar Romero! That was a scare. It wouldnt surprise you to learn that your hair has turned completely gray. But something is protecting you, some guardian spirit: your mother, maybe, who spied you grieving at her desk tonight; or Grandma Mati or Q-Jo Huffington, both of whom are on speaking terms with the spirit world; or Larry Diamond, who has managed to get himself facedown in the saucer of otherness and who can jimmy the lock on your dreams; or maybe its just that bruised angel who plays goaltender on Gods hockey squad. At any rate, kiddo, you are saved and back in business.
Or are you? When you return your attention to the fire escape, AndrE is nowhere to be seen.
THREE OH-SIX A.M.
Nowhere. The monkey is gone. As near as you can ascertain in this dimness, the seventh-floor window is shut. Did AndrE open it, then close it behind him? Could Kongo van den Bos have trained him that thoroughly? You have heard farfetched stories about his skills.
Or did he simply climb on up to the roof? Perhaps he is up there now, scampering about, doing his Freddie Mati dance of life among the ventilation bonnets. Or there is the possibility, definitely not to be dismissed, that he has run off again; that, chasing the melody of his own bent trumpet, he is fleeing across the rooftops of Seattle, consulting the ancient constellations that will guide him back to the wilds of his birth.
Over the years, there have been such frequent, dramatic fluctuations in the Barbary ape population on the Rock of Gibraltar that a legend was spawned about an underground passageway between Gibraltar and North Africa, a hidden tunnel known only to the macaques. Still other Gibraltarians postulated that the monkeys were secretly amphibian and that on moonless nights (such as this one) they would slip into the sea and swim the nine or so miles across the strait. (Is Diamond aware of this tale, you wonder, has he stirred it into his Nommo mix?)
Minutes pass. Your pulse speeds up its drumbeat. In your bladder, there is so much pressure that your legs feel as if they are wrapped in a rug. You glance around for a place to pee, just in case, but no spot looks promising so you stand there in your black clothing, craning your sore neck to keep watch on the penthouse. Between the rich boys and the monkey, your neck has been turned into a bus stop on the Random Violence line.
More minutes go by. You check your Rolex. Nervously, and with the urine damming up in you like a phantom pond, you walk to the corner,
near the hospital. Through the budding branches of a maple, you notice a fat star, the same star, you believe, that that gutter astronomer sold to you as Sirius. Sirius A. It seems bigger, hotter than it did a couple of nights ago. No telling where a star such as that might lead a wandering ape.
A car door slams. You nearly jump out of your jeans. At the emergency room loading platform, an engine cranks. You perform a stiff pirouette and start back toward the hotel. The mailbox on the corner is laughing at you. Over your shoulder, you see the ambulance glide away from the receiving dock. You quicken your pace and cross the street. When the ambulance passes, you want to be out of view. You drop to one knee and let the Lincoln shield you from the street. The ambulance rolls by slowly, its lamps and sirens as peaceful as drunks who have finally passed out or hyenas who have howled themselves to sleep. You hear it brake at the Madison Street stop sign, shift gears, and continue on its way.
When at last you stand, AndrE is standing beside you.
THREE TWENTY-EIGHT A.M.
So much for born again. Unless it is another example of thrice born-the sinner who finds Jesus, then, due to boredom, embarrassment, education, or need, enthusiastically and without regret resumes his sinful ways. In any event, the manner in which AndrE is clapping his paws together, bobbing his head, and peeling his lips back to exhibit every last molar in a vulgar monkey grin-all this before you have awarded him his ices and pie-would indicate that he is thoroughly delighted to be thieving again, and bombastically proud that he has thieved so well.
You are proud and delighted yourself, scarcely believing that you have actually pulled it off. Perhaps your luck is changing, and the second and third phases of your program shall meet with similar success.
All the way down I -5, en route to the airport (having decided against cruising the neighborhood for Belford, on the grounds that the search would impede your progress and nothing positive would result from intercepting him), you pick up the nozzle, replace it on the seat beside you, pick it up again. You twirl it in your fingers, test its weight in your palm, hold it aloft so that the shine of oncoming headlamps simultaneously penetrates its crystalline tip and bounces off of its jadeite stalk. Heavier than it looks, the nozzle is leaden with the ancient weight of idols; as slick as a bloody quill, as haughty as an unpaired chopstick, as elemental as honeycomb, it has the character of molten ritual, cooled through the palpitating centuries into a frozen ray of primal function. Conduit of lotus-scented waters, hard little harpoon for an empresss gastric leviathans, polished root from a chthonian garden, it has, when you hold it against the light, the distant dignity and grave passion of a pale green star.