We guarantee every effort will be made.
More than I can bear.
No it’s not.
Frightful violation of the ordinaries.
No it’s not.
He’s not bad-looking.
Haven’t made up my mind.
You must have studied English.
Take my word for it.
How did that make you feel?
Wasn’t the worst.
I queened it for a while in Yorkshire.
Did you know Lord Raglan?
I knew Lord Raglan.
He’s not bad-looking.
Handsome, clever, rich.
Yorkshire has no queen of its own I believe.
Correct.
Time to go.
Inclined to tarry for a bit. Thank you.
Two is one too many.
That’s your opinion.
Nevertheless. Nevertheless.
Various circumstances requiring my attention.
I can make it hot for you.
So full and orange.
You don’t know what you’re getting into.
Hoping this will reach you at a favorable moment.
Wake up one dark night with a thumb in your eye.
Women together changing that which can and ought to be changed.
Dangled his twiddle-diddles in my face.
More than I can bear.
No it’s not.
Will it hurt?
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
He’s not bad-looking.
Haven’t made up my mind.
Groups surrounding us needing direction.
Maybe.
What’s he like?
That’s my business.
Have you tried any of the others?
That’s my business.
Want to take a look around. See the sights.
I can make it hot for you.
Is that a threat?
Construed any way you wish.
I asked him about organization.
What did he tell you?
Destroy it in order to let the water flow freely.
That’s referred pain I know about that.
But a maiden drowned.
Did they recover a body?
Three. Two were the bodies of sheep.
Oh yes I read about it. In the Svenska Dagbladet.
And he felt guilty.
I never asked him.
It’s all been carefully considered.
He’s a motherfucker I tell you true.
Nevertheless.
Doing what we must at great personal and emotional cost.
Any of the others any good?
Haven’t tried them.
Thought I heard a dog barking.
It’s possible. The simplest basic units develop into the richest natural patterns.
Are you into spanking?
No I’m not.
Pity. We could have got something going.
I’m not into that.
Where can a body get a hit around here?
Pop one of these if you’d like a little lift.
Thank you. Palm Sunday.
Hope you know what you’re doing. Cordially.
Not too bothered. Thank you.
Time to go, time to go.
Walking by the sea, listening to the waves.
Think I’m getting nosebleed.
Have my handkerchief.
I’ve one of my own thank you.
I could have put it in a brick, he said.
A filthy-mouthed man.
He’s not bad-looking.
Have you tried any of the others?
I am only recently arrived and would like to wash and rest a bit.
Every effort will be made. I can make it hot for you.
Will it hurt?
My discretion. My yea or nay.
Thought I heard a dog barking.
A spiritual aridity quite hard to reconcile with his surface gaiety.
Left Barcelona in disgrace.
I was suspicious of him from the first.
Certain provocations the government couldn’t handle.
Too early to tell. That’s a very handsome pin.
My mother’s. Willed to me at her death.
Goodbye goodbye goodbye.
Think I’ll stick around for a while.
That’s interesting.
Take the lay of the land.
That’s interesting.
Have you told him?
To my shame I have not.
And if it is at all possible for you to see me.
Fond urgings and soft petitions.
It’s all been carefully considered.
What?
Thought I heard a dog barking.
Did you know Lord Raglan?
We nodded when our carriages passed.
Out of here, out of here.
Not today, not today.
Pop one of these it will give you a little lift.
Will it hurt?
4
The line of march. Line of the cable. Viewed from above, this picture:
They came then to a man tending bar in an open field.
Yes, Thomas said.
Relaxation of the cable.
Drinks for everyone.
Ah! said Thomas.
Not too bad, said the Dead Father.
Yum, said Emma.
Another, Thomas said.
That was vodka, right? the bartender asked.
On the rocks and could I have three olives?
Three olives, said the bartender.
Having made the drinks he folded his arms and leaned against a tree.
Did you see the horses? asked the Dead Father.
Clump of eight, Julie said. I counted.
Black plumes, Thomas said. Black bridles, black trappings.
Black horses, said the Dead Father.
Standing in a rank, very well trained, not a whicker.
Perhaps they weren’t real? asked the Dead Father.
They were real, said Thomas.
Julie ordered another drink.
You’ve had enough, said the bartender, no more.
He’s right, said Thomas, you’ve had enough.
I’ll decide when I’ve had enough, Julie said. I want another.
He could lose his license if you fell down or committed an outrage, Thomas said.
That’s true, said the bartender, I could lose my license.
Here? asked Julie, indicating the emptiness. Who is to be outraged?
One never knows, said the Dead Father. Thirsty pilgrims, natives of the district, commercial travelers.
Make it a double, said Julie.
We do not serve unaccompanied women, said the bartender.
I am accompanied am I not?
Do you mean the one in the orange tights or the one in the golden robes?
Both.
I saw him with his thumb under there, said the bartender, had his thumb on it I’ll bet. Shocking rude I’d call it, in a public place.
Shocking, said the Dead Father happily. Never in all my years—
You’re a family man, now, the bartender said to the Dead Father. That’s perfectly plain.
Very much so.
You’ve children, said the bartender, responsibilities.
Beyond counting.
Thought so, said the bartender, I can talk to you. We understand each other.
Yes, fire away.
We can parley, said the bartender, make powwow.
Thomas was looking at the yellow sky.
Till the cows come home, said the Dead Father, so much are we on each other’s wavelengths.
When he’s got his thumb in there, asked the bartender, what do you feel?
Left out, said the Dead Father.
Button button who’s got the button? chanted Julie. I’ve got the button.
Can I see it? asked the bartender.
Can I have another drink?
A double Scotch appeared on the bar.
Julie knocked back the Scotch. Then she removed her shirt. There was nothing under the shirt.
That’s not what I meant, said the bartender, but God Almighty.
A crowd had gathered, both men and women. They were laughing.
Thomas smoothed Julie’s stomach with his hand.
Don’t touch! she said, you’ll make the others angry.
The crowd stopped laughing, both men and women, moved nearer, was looking at Thomas with angry looks.
Who do you think you are? a man shouted angrily.
I am this lady’s lover, Thomas shouted back.
Leave our stomach alone! the man shouted.
Your stomach? Thomas asked pointedly.
They crowded closer.
Hands were stretched out toward the stomach.
Mostly we don’t get this kind of group, the bartender said.
Thomas began to write something with lipstick on the stomach. The white, interestingly folded, stomach.
Oh, you rascal! cried the crowd. Oh, you rogue!
Julie rotated the stomach at the crowd. Sunlight bouncing off the tips of her breasts (purple).
Emma sulking at the bar. Drinking a Campari-and-soda.
Thomas held out the shirt to Julie.
Our stomach! they said. He’s taking it away!
The stomach heaved like a trampoline in the direction of its admirers.
Julie put on the shirt tucking the loose ends of it into her long dark-green skirt to the ground.
She looked at Thomas.
Have I lost my beauty altogether?
Not yet, he said.
Quite wonderful, said the Dead Father. I was offended, of course.
Suffer, Julie said.
The pink of you against the green of the fields, said Thomas. Several of my favorite colors.
They told me you were color-blind, when you were a boy, said the Dead Father. I never believed you were color-blind. A son of mine.
I thought I was color-blind, Thomas said, because they told me I was color-blind. To green, they said.
I never thought you were color-blind. You saw what we had agreed to call green.
I saw what I thought and still think was green.
Never thought you were color-blind or dim either, said the Dead Father, despite what I was told by the specialists.
You had hope, Thomas said. Grateful for that.
My criticism was that you never understood the larger picture, said the Dead Father. Young men never understand the larger picture.
I don’t suggest I understand it now. I do understand the frame. The limits.
Of course the frame is easier to understand.
Older people tend to overlook the frame, even when they are looking right at it, said Thomas. They don’t like to think about it.
Alexander approached Thomas.
Look there, he said. He pointed.
A horseman on the hill.
I think he’s following us, said Alexander.
You’ve seen him before?
Yesterday. Always keeps the same distance.
Not one of those we passed back up the road?
No. Those were black, this is a bay.
I wonder who he is, Thomas said. He looked at the Dead Father’s watch, which he was wearing on his wrist.
Okay, he said, let’s make tracks.
The cable taut. The straggle along the road. The horseman following.
5
Thomas helping haul on the cable. Julie carrying the knapsack. The Dead Father eating a bowl of chocolate pudding.
When I asked you to help me, he said, it wasn’t because I needed help.
Of course not, said Thomas.
I’m doing this for you, essentially, the Dead Father said. For the general good, and thus, for you.
Thomas said nothing.
As so much else, said the Dead Father.
Thomas said nothing.
You never knew, said the Dead Father.
Thomas turned his head.
You told us, he said, repeatedly.
Oh well yes I may have mentioned the odd initiative now and again. But you never knew. In the fullest sense. Because you are not a father.
I am, Thomas said. You forget Elsie.
Doesn’t count, said the Dead Father. A son can never, in the fullest sense, become a father. Some amount of amateur effort is possible. A son may after honest endeavor produce what some people might call, technically, children. But he remains a son. In the fullest sense.
A moment’s quiet.
Have you heard from her? Elsie?
There was a postcard, Thomas said, three months ago. Picture of a puppy dog with large staring eyes. Love, she said.
Four months ago, Julie said.
Three and a half months ago. She said she was playing field hockey. She was a left inner, she said.
Hockey, said the Dead Father. Chasing that round hard thing down the field. Develops the thigh muscles. Beyond what is desirable, sometimes.
Thomas jerked upon the cable. The Dead Father fell down. Julie and Emma picked him up.
Great knotted bunches of thigh muscles like a plate of red empty lobster shells, the Dead Father said, I can picture it. Antiaesthetic. Sad to see in a twelve-year-old.
I wrote that she was not to pursue it to excess, Thomas said, over his shoulder.
Why do you abide with him? the Dead Father said to Julie. A boy. A neonate. A weakwick. Probably not even found the button yet.
He’s found it, she said.
Is it a large one? the Dead Father asked.
Large enough.
A tender red?
Tender enough.
Can I see it?
Oh I am tired of you! Julie cried.
She raised her arms with fists at the end into the air.
I am not tired of you, said the Dead Father.
That your tuff luck, she said. Not my tuff luck. Yours. Tuff titty.
Titty, said the Dead Father. A short suck?
You are incredible.
Thomas walked back to the Dead Father and rapped him sharply in the forehead.
The Dead Father said: This is damned unpleasant!
Then: If only I were myself again!
We are making progress, Thomas said.
When I douse myself in its great yellow electricity, the Dead Father said, then I will be revivified.
Best not to anticipate too much, said Thomas, it jiggles the possibilities.
Possibilities! Surely the Fleece is not a mere possibility?
It is an excellent possibility, Julie said quickly. A wonderful possibility.
Have you noticed the weather? asked Thomas.
All turned to look for the weather.
Good weather, Julie said. Great weather.
A very pleasant day, Emma noted.
Pleasant day, said the Dead Father.
Extremely pleasant, Thomas said.
It was on a day much like this, said the Dead Father, that I fathered the Pool Table of Ballambangjang.
The what?
It is rather an interesting tale, said the Dead Father, which I shall now tell. I had been fetched by the look of a certain maiden, a raven-haired maiden—
He looked at Julie, whose hand strayed to her dark dark hair.
A raven-haired maiden of great beauty. Her name was Tulla. I sent her many presents. Little machines, mostly, a machine for stamping her name on strips of plastic, a machine for extracting staples from documents, a machine for shortening her fingernails, a machine for removing wrinkles from fabric with the aid of steam. Well, she accepted the presents, no difficulty there, but me she spurned. Now as you might imagine I am not fond of being spurned. I am not used to it. In my domains it does not happen but as ill luck would have it she lived just over the county line. Spurned is not a thing I like to be. In fact I have a positive disinclination for it. So I turned myself into a haircut—
A haircutter? asked Ju
lie.
A haircut, said the Dead Father. I turned myself into a haircut and positioned myself upon the head of a member of my retinue, quite a handsome young man, younger than I, younger than I and stupider, that goes without saying, still not without a certain rude charm, bald as a bladder of lard, though, and as a consequence somewhat diffident in the presence of ladies. Using the long flowing sideburns as one would use one’s knees in guiding a horse—
The horseman is still following us, Thomas noted. I wonder why.
—I sent him cantering off in the direction of the delectable Tulla, the Dead Father went on. So superior was the haircut, that is to say, me, joined together with his bumbly youngness, for which I do not blame him, that she succumbed immediately. Picture it. The first night. The touch nonesuch. At the crux I turned myself back into myself (vanishing the varlet) and we two she and I looked at each other and were content. We spent many nights together all roaratorious and filled with furious joy. I fathered upon her in those nights the poker chip, the cash register, the juice extractor, the kazoo, the rubber pretzel, the cuckoo clock, the key chain, the dime bank, the pantograph, the bubble pipe, the punching bag both light and heavy, the inkblot, the nose drop, the midget Bible, the slot-machine slug, and many other useful and humane cultural artifacts, as well as some thousands of children of the ordinary sort. I fathered as well upon her various institutions useful and humane such as the credit union, the dog pound, and parapsychology. I fathered as well various realms and territories all superior in terrain, climatology, laws and customs to this one. I overdid it but I was madly, madly in love, that is all I can say in my own defense. It was a very creative period but my darling, having mothered all this abundance uncomplainingly and without reproach, at last died of it. In my arms of course. Her last words were “enough is enough, Pappy.” I was inconsolable and, driven as if by a demon, descended into the underworld seeking to reclaim her.
I found her there, said the Dead Father, after many adventures too boring to recount. I found her there but she refused to return with me because she had already tasted the food-of-hell and grown fond of it, it’s addicting. She was watched over by eight thunders who hovered over her and brought her every eve ever more hellish delicacies, and watched over furthermore by the ugly-men-of-hell who attacked me with dreampuffs and lyreballs and sought to drive me off. But I removed my garments and threw them at the ugly-men-of-hell, garment by garment, and as each garment touched even ever-so-slightly an ugly-man-of-hell he shriveled into a gasp of steam. There was no way I could stay, there was nothing to stay for, she was theirs.
Then to purify myself, said the Dead Father, of the impurities which had seeped into me in the underworld I dived headfirst into the underground river Jelly, I washed my left eye therein and fathered the deity Poolus who governs the progress of the ricochet or what bounces off what and to what effect, and washed my right eye and fathered the deity Ripple who has the governing of the happening of side effects/unpredictable. Then I washed my nose and fathered the deity Gorno who keeps tombs warm inside and the deity Libet who does not know what to do and is thus an inspiration to us all. I was then beset by eight hundred myriads of sorrows and sorrowing away when a worm wriggled up to me as I sat hair-tearing and suggested a game of pool. A way, he said, to forget. We had, I said, no pool table. Well, he said, are you not the Dead Father? I then proceeded to father the Pool Table of Ballambangjang, fashioning the green cloth of it from the contents of an alfalfa field nearby and the legs of it from telephone poles nearby and the dark pockets of it from the mouths of the leftover ugly-men-of-hell whom I bade stand with their mouths open at the appropriate points—