Winston has developed the habit of going away every weekend. He becomes evasive whenever Josip inquires about the reason. He is looking at some horses, he says—polo horses—as if this failed polo player cannot shake an obsession. After three months of evasion, he admits that he also visits a woman who lives in a place called Yale, in Connecticut (a strange name for a state—a connection that severs!). She is a teacher, and she likes horses. They both like horses, he adds.
“Oh, that is a congenial shared interest”, Josip replies. Winston shakes with suppressed mirth, leaning on his cane.
“Would you like to come with me one weekend?” he asks.
“I am honored, Winston, truly, but I am not interested in polo. If the game were played with elephants, however, I would not hesitate.”
“I regret, the only elephant present at the games is a small one made of ivory. But to be honest, Josip, I would like to introduce Miriam to my friends. Correction, to my single and singular friend.”
“In that case, I will eagerly come.”
Josip hopes that Winston’s heart will not be broken. It seems to him that there are far more broken hearts in this world than there are fulfilled ones. Thus the statistical odds are not favorable.
It turns out that Yale is a prestigious university, with many faculties and fine old brick buildings, walkways, and a lavish number of trees. “This is quintessential New England”, Josip’s tour guide proudly informs him, poking his ivory cane here and there as they walk about the campus—as if to say that this, and not Oxford or Cambridge, is the center of the world. Indeed, for Winston it has become the epicenter, because there is a heart beating for him here. She is a professor of Asian Studies, and they are “betrothed.” Josip worries that the beloved will turn out to be an American girl entranced by Winston’s mystique, a purely cultural infatuation. That would be a recipe for a broken heart.
Before meeting her, they go to an early afternoon polo match at a park near the university. It is an elegant though brutal game—an interesting juxtaposition. At one point, a horse throws its rider, gallops in a circle around the grounds, then comes to a halt by the fence guarding spectators from the play. In fact, it stops right in front of Josip, whinnies, and stands there without moving, gazing at him with its dark eyes. It is a white horse. It is speaking, but what it says he cannot hear. He is instantly a boy again, and with an ache of longing in his throat, he thrusts his arms impulsively through the rails to touch its neck. It steps back a pace or two, smiles in a way that only a horse can smile, tosses its mane, wheels, and breaks into a gallop. It takes some minutes for its rider to capture it, and then the game resumes.
They have a late lunch in a restaurant in New Haven, and there Winston’s beloved joins them. She enters the dining hall in a purple sari and Oriental sandals, carrying her briefcase. She is a lovely woman, quite a few years younger than Winston. She is East Indian. A Fifth-Avenue platinum wristwatch glows at her wrist as she shakes Josip’s hand and lets Winston kiss her cheek. A small silver crucifix dangles at her neck. It is explained over oysters and wine that she is a Goa Catholic. Josip does not know the term. He guilelessly asks her when she converted to the Faith. She replies with a gentle laugh, “Actually, our family converted more than nineteen hundred years ago, when St. Thomas the apostle evangelized India.” The Goa branch of her family were late-bloomers, converted by Portuguese missionaries.
This information affords Josip (supposedly ancient Catholic that he is) a little reflection. Her ancestors were disciples of Christ five or six centuries before his own barbarian forefathers were converted by the Romanized Illyrians they had invaded and overcome. Overcoming the overcomers. Life is strange. You learn something new every day.
But what about Winston? What does the agnostic Park Avenue banker make of all this Catholicism that has surrounded him and perhaps even threatens to metamorphose him? Does he feel himself to be the victim of a conspiracy? Does he wonder if a metaphysical chess player moved a Catholic friend to the square beside him, and then a Catholic maiden to the flanking square—and is he now boxed in? Checkmate?
They plan to be married next summer. In May, Winston will resign from his job and move to Connecticut to be closer to her. He has obtained a position as an associate professor of religious studies, explaining to Josip that his business card does not list all of his degrees. He is, as well, taking instructions in the Faith from the Dominican Fathers at the university, and his betrothed is teaching him to pray the Rosary.
Dumbfounded by these developments, Josip remains fairly silent on the bus ride home to Manhattan.
“You do not seem pleased, Josip.”
“I am very pleased”, he replies in a subdued voice.
“Do you not like polo? Was it a boring afternoon?”
“It was not a boring afternoon.”
“Then you think Miriam is unsuitable for a person of my heritage . . . or personal qualities?”
“She is very suitable.”
“What is the problem, then?”
“It is not a problem, Winston. I am merely trying to compute the statistical probability of two miracles occurring on a single and singular day.”
Winston chuckles.
Arriving in the city in the late afternoon, they find a fish market not far from home, and there Josip buys a salmon to make a supper celebration. The lady who sells it to him is extremely rude. She is a Serb, he thinks. Though it’s uncertain whether she has spotted him as a Croat, the fact remains that she is polite enough to other customers and treats him as if he is utterly despicable. Winston is outraged by the woman’s bad manners; Josip is merely intrigued. It has been a day of surprises. Two pluses, one minus.
Now, this Serb-lady: There is something in her eyes that suggests a history of suffering, of crushing personal defeats. Yet she has survived, and she is here in the free world. Did Ustashe kill her family members? Or did she merely detect a whiff of Yugoslavia in Josip’s accent and bristled with animosity to protect herself from the mayhem of the land she left behind? It’s hard to know.
Nevertheless, after some prayer and not a little musing, he decides that God has offered him an opportunity to put into practice the counsel of the Franciscan friar of St. Peter’s piazza. Though he continues to make excursions up the Hudson whenever he can afford the time and bus fare, he changes his routine significantly, doing more and more fishing at the market. Her scowls, her contempt, her eyes that grow icy at the sight of him, all are somewhat daunting—intimidating really. Whenever he asks for a specific kind of fish, enunciating clearly, she inevitably barks “What?” It makes other customers turn their heads in curiosity, because she can hear everyone else quite well. No pleases or thank yous for him but always good manners for others. Why does she treat a customer this way? Has she smelled a Croat and wrinkled her nose in disgust? Does race hatred come with the birthright, or is it a private grievance? Her employers do not seem to mind her behavior—perhaps they are oblivious to it or perhaps they are Serbs. Nevertheless, they really know fish, these people, and do their jobs very well. The place smells like the bottom of Drago’s boat, but the quality and choice of fish are excellent. Wealthy people from the big avenues around Central Park are much in evidence, as well as less prosperous fish lovers. The woman treats rich and poor alike with moderate courtesy, though it is never effusive, and never cheery. For Josip, and Josip alone, she exercises something akin to diabolic loathing. It is so astounding that he takes it on as a challenge. He estimates that it will take three or four years to tame her, but he is resolved that even if he cannot tame her, he is willing to spend a lifetime enduring her as reparation.
The word springs unbidden into his mind: reparation? Reparation for what? he asks himself. I have not hurt this woman. We have never met before. My parents and ancestors surely did hers no harm. General reparation, then. He can accept the insult as a mild form of humiliation offered for her soul and offered as payment for sins committed against her people by Croats. The disproportion in this, however, seems i
ncredibly unfair, because most of the victims of Yugoslavia’s confusion were not, are not, and probably will not be Serbs. Even so, she has an eternal soul, and he feels pity for her. Whenever she throws a dart, he takes it in the chest and says a silent prayer for her.
When she slaps the package of fish onto the countertop, he always smiles, always says thank you. Whenever he augments this by saying thank you, Madame, her scowl worsens. She throws his change onto the counter, but carefully hands other people theirs. What on earth is troubling this woman?
Caleb’s academic ability is entirely latent, potentially outstanding. However, his actual achievement is pathetic. He hates to study, hates sitting in a classroom all day, wants to be out pounding the streets with his feet, drinking up life with his eyes in fast-fast-fast quantities. On those evenings when Coriander is working nightshift upstairs, the boy comes down to the basement, and Josip becomes his tyrant. A nice tyrant, rewarding the subject with chocolate and mysteries.
He purchases a low-power microscope, along with a tray of sample slides, and presents it to Caleb on his birthday, the date extracted from his mother.
“Why you give me dis?” Caleb barks, when he suspiciously unwraps the box and sees what is inside.
“To help with your biology studies.”
“I hate biology.”
“I know you do. Now you will go hunting deep into the interior.”
“What interior?”
“Yours. Here, let me show you. Look into the lens.”
“Shee-it, that some monster down there.”
“Don’t fall into its mouth.” A grudging smile from the street rat.
Street Rat is the logo Caleb has painted on his sweatshirt. He still asserts his mask, Mean-and-proud-of-it, and he still carries a switchblade in his back pocket. He now wears a gold ring in his earlobe. But he has accepted to be the slaughterer whenever Josip hosts a large fish in the bathtub. And sometimes, of his own volition, the boy will help carry heavy trash to the dumpster behind the building.
“I sho’ don’ wanna meet that creep in a back alley”, he mutters, peering into the lens. “He one big’n’ugly.”
Josip knows that the street jargon is part of the mask. He has got Caleb reading Macbeth. Homer will come later. Perhaps Virgil as well. He will see how it goes.
“I regret to inform you, Caleb, that this monster is already inside of you.”
“No shee-it. Don’t gimme dat!””
“Unfortunately. it is true. There are approximately three million of his kind running around in your intestines.” Caleb looks disgusted, says nothing.
“Now, this one is worse”, says Josip putting another slide under the lens.
“No joke, that one bad customer. How many of him?” “About the same number.”
Caleb shakes his head. “We should stir em up, get a fight goin’. Then they kill each other off.”
“Did you know that Louis Pasteur came up with the same suggestion?”
“Whoinahell is Louie Pasture?”
And so it goes.
Winston and Miriam are married by a Dominican friar in a chapel at Yale. Josip is the best man—though he feels quite unworthy of this honor. After the nuptial Mass, there is a small celebration in a faculty lounge. Josip later recalls little of this event, other than the curry—curry so hot that it killed every single monster in his intestines. Also, the word svat passed through his mind more than once.
When Winston is baptized at Easter, Josip is the godfather. He feels an almost unprecedented joy as the water pours over the brown dome of the skull, a head so full of intelligence and skeptical considerations, yet submitting to the ancient rite with the heart of a child. He also feels a weight of apprehension because the responsibility is great. He must help Winston to arrive safely in paradise.
At Christmas, he purchases a little golden carp to bake for his solitary dinner (Winston is at Yale this year with his wife). As the Serb-lady wraps the fish in newspaper, Josip takes from his pocket a package of European cream-biscuits wrapped in red foil. Orthodox Serbs celebrate Christmas in January, not on the 25th of December, but perhaps she will accept the gift anyway. He pays for the carp, she slaps it onto the glass, and tosses his change beside it as usual.
“Thank you, Madame. I wish you a merry Christmas”, he says in English and places the gift where her hands can reach it. She examines it from the corner of her eyes, steps away with her down-turned slit of mouth, and says nothing (not even “What!”).
“Thank you for your dependable service throughout the years”, he adds, tipping his cap and walking out the shop door into the street. He admits that he is not quite man enough to wait for her reaction, if there is any. He will leave it to her to deal with. Snow is falling heavily on the sidewalks, and the recent history of human comings and goings is written there. He beats a fresh trail toward Sts. Cyril and Methodius, where he will sit in the pews for a few hours, waiting for Midnight Mass. He always loves this time, so silent, so abandoned, waiting, waiting, waiting in peace. And the more alone he is, it seems, the greater is the peace.
Fragment:
(A progress report on the disunified field theory of human relationships)
Caleb:
Year one, he read Macbeth, hated it. Looked down a microscope, was intrigued, kept looking. Various discussions about street life, weird people, his career as a tough guy. Regrettably, he failed his year at high school and was enraged that he must repeat it. His mother informed me that he failed a number of grades at the lower levels. He carries a weight of discouragement, the false conviction that he is “stupid”.
Year two, he read The Iliad (I began with that because he prefers brute fighting to strategy). This opened the door for more poetry to seep in. I gave him Kipling (more fighting). He added a couple of Kipling novels to this, very much on his own. Applied for a library card and apparently uses it. He graduated to the next level of high school—the second, I think. He was relieved, though he feigned indifference.
Year three, practically a throw-away year, but it was better during the final months. First, the boy fell into wholesale madness, a love interest. She demolished him and departed for Chicago to become an exotic dancer. He could not concentrate, and thus he failed another year at high school. Though he did not seem angered by this, he displayed something more worrisome, a dark despondency that gripped him month after month. He dropped out of school, got a job loading trucks at night, and was soon fired for failing to appear on time for work. Then he just disappeared.
Year four: He was gone for more than six months, and not a word did Coriander receive from him during all that time. She was sick with perpetual anxiety; all banter ceased between us; her eyes were often red from secret tears. She prayed constantly that he would suffer no harm. I did too. You may become a surrogate father by appointment or by default, but this does not guarantee authority. You may plant seeds and tend vines, but you are never the master of another’s soul. It is the problem of freedom, again. Freedom and love. Yes, it seems that certain claims upon the heart cannot be erased: I was surprised by how much I missed him.
Then, suddenly, he was home. Chastened, bearing a new scar on his upper lip, he would give no explanations. And in September he returned to school. That autumn, I took him to Connecticut one weekend, and we stayed with Winston and Miriam. They treated Caleb like a visiting African royal. I felt quite “white” over the weekend, a real cracker-biscuit. The cumulative effect on the street rat was an evocation of his genuine self, perhaps even his royal self buried somewhere down deep in his “interior”, overlayered by strata of democratic ethos, exile, and slavery. Dig deep enough and we are all kings, despite our rags.
Around Yale there is less sky glow at night than over New York City. Caleb was fascinated by Andromeda, which we saw through Winston’s telescope. C frowned when W told him how far away it is. At first he wouldn’t believe it, but of course he does believe it. Abstractions and sensory input are connecting.
Caleb earns mo
ney as a part-time pack boy at a local “super-market” and at Christmas gave me a present that he bought at a used-book shop. It was a quaint old volume printed in England, The Compleat Angler, illustrated with engravings of fish. The gift touched me, both the giving and the thought that went into it. When he dropped it off at my room on Christmas Eve afternoon, along with a cake his mother had made, his street jargon was worse than it has been in years. He now wears rings up and down the rims of both ears and a small one in his nostril. The mask. Yet choices and acts are the real man beneath the mask. He knows this, and he knows that I know, but for good reasons we did not start ripping off masks just because it was Christmas and he had displayed vulnerability.
Caleb grumbled about his literature teacher. She told him that he wouldn’t pass his year unless he wrote a poem. He was very angry about it and wanted me to write it for him. I adamantly refused.
Year five, Miriam and Winston expecting a baby. Winston is happier than I have ever seen him—ecstatic, actually. However, he has become more didactic than ever (always a tendency in him), a fervent Catholic, extremely involved with devotions (perhaps predisposed by the rich symbolic life of his country of origin). I am the same but not quite to his degree. Winston has metamorphosed into an apologist of epic proportions. On a recent visit I teased him about it. He laughed at my teasing and laughed at himself—a good sign. He loves the Eucharist and our Lady especially and frequents the confessional weekly. He urged me to do the same. I already do, I assured him. Oh, good, he replied, with a whiff of disappointment. It may be he wanted to evangelize his sidereal evangelizer. Overcome the overcomer. However, it was all quite pleasureable for both of us. I have never seen him so effusively elated. The soon-to-be-born baby is his greater joy.
Winston and Miriam’s baby was born, a tiny brown sweetheart whom they baptized Christiana. I am her godfather.
Caleb passed his year but wouldn’t show me the poem he wrote. “It’s crap!” he said.
The Serb-lady:
Year one of my campaign. I gathered all the slights and hurts and atavistic fears she had engendered in my little heart and offered them at Christmas Eve Mass for her soul. For two weeks I wondered what effect my Christmas package had had on her. When I entered the shop the day after Epiphany, I learned that it had had no immediate effect. I bought some fish, endured another “What!”, gathered up the tossed coins, repeated my customary manners, then departed. No visible changes.