“Giacomo on the payroll, baby.”
“What payroll, man?”
“He on the Mojo payroll, baby.”
The lockjaw hit Gnossos again, this time from the bottom up.
“Mojo movin’ out,” continued the Buddha. “He goin’ big.”
“He’s looking around, all right,” from Motherball. “Listen to the Buddha.”
“Mr. Giacomo, dig, he only on the payroll.”
Gnossos traced little figure eights on the moisture of the portable mixer, first one way, then the other. Everyone was silent, and in the pause, he fancied he could hear the visceral seepage in his gonococcic cells. The fantasy brought with it a fleeting sensation of mortal danger, blowpipes hidden in crevices, belladonna in the Bacardi. He measured his situation, the three improbable creatures who made up his company, the squadron of cannibal kids who waited outside, the uniformed assassins who cruised the streets, the moneyless rucksack with the dwindling remains of his identity shredded among the fluff. “You guys,” he finally asked, “what about you?”
A pause before Motherball answered with a grin, “Independent.”
“We in the shadows,” said the Buddha.
“No more franchise,” said Motherball. “We have our own little thing. We can’t be bought.”
“Man,” said Gnossos, “I want to believe you.”
“You been down too long,” from the Buddha. “You got to have faith.”
“Ring-a-ding-dong, Mojo-bang.”
“I know what Gnossos needs,” said Motherball practically.
“Bread,” from the Buddha, again touching his opal.
“Let’s us talk a little bread, baby.”
That night Louie Motherball wove his magic circle, spun his rhythmic words, hypnotized his psychedelic legion, spoke to opiated faces. Gnossos sat with taxi drivers, prostitutes, refugee Taos Indians, and the recently paid-off gnomes. Each of them sucked at a private surgical tube connected to a regulator which pulsated in the contents of a cyclopean bowl. The megaphonic voice spoke out:
“Booth led boldly with his big bass drum—
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
The Saints smiled gravely and they said, ‘He’s come.’
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)”
In the shadows behind Motherball, on the tops of a dozen antique barrels, the girl in the red dress from the courtyard worked with her assistants. They unscrewed the hollow shells of castanets by the hundreds, they opened the secretly hinged gourds of embellished maracas, they filled the waiting pockets with sweetly smelling horse.
“Unwashed legions with the ways of Death—
(Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?)
(Banjos)”
A phonograph needle was dropped into place by the swimmer who’d been hit on the head by one of Gnossos’ silver dollars, and a percussive chorus of marching mummers rendered the smoky air.
“Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean.
Rulers of empires, and of forests green!
(Grand chorus of all instruments.
Tambourines to the foreground)”
Mrs. Motherball directed the packing operation as eunuchlike coolies stacked the castanets and maracas in vending trays and stuck little name tags onto their sides. The Cubans and the Indians strained forward, sucking intently on their tubes while the milk machine chugged and the Buddha reclined on his beatified side, smiling on everyone with an expression of inscrutable and abundant love.
The next four days found Gnossos selling souvenirs. He hawked on corners, buses, the backs of trolley cars, under palm-frond huts at Varadero Beach, to old fishermen setting off in marlin dinghys from Cojimar, to couples walking the paseo in Santa Clara, to cabana boys at the Havana Hilton, to Batista army sergeants dressed like field marshals, to bearded law students lurking under sewer plates, to Superman between acts at the Little Theatre, to croupiers at the Nacional, to every genus of lewd stateside pedestrian panting the alleys.
He paid the priest for the funeral, arranged a CARE package for Jack in the Sierra (Hersheys and khaki socks), got three heavy jolts of aureomycin to check his clap, and won nearly fifteen hundred dollars from a near-sighted Palm Beach masochist who couldn’t have seen the double deck anyway. The tide seemed to be turning but Gnossos took no chances.
He bought a first-class ticket on the executive flight to Idlewild. The Motherballs came to wave goodbye with the squadron of gnomes, and a Congo band. From the steps leading to the waiting plane he threw a handful of new dollar bills into the air, and the terminal was chaos. A hostess emerged through the curved door and offered him a bouquet of American Beauty roses. He wore rope-soled sandals, white linen trousers, a freshly starched Cuban boy scout shirt, his bulging rucksack, and a campesino hat for the sun. He carried the quota of liquor in the form of four quarts of Summer Snow, V.S.R. From his woven Pueblo belt were strung six pairs of clacking castanets. He kissed the hostess under the ear, and flashbulbs popped. He waved a blessing to the control tower, and they popped again. Mrs. Motherball fainted, it seemed from the heat and the sudden exposure to daylight.
In his rucksack was a pinch of clay from the grave of Abraham Jackson White.
As the aircraft revved its engines above the sound of the frenetic band, he rolled the grains in his palms and wailed again, this time silently, in his heart, with an anguish of ironies.
Help help, a horrible Heffalump.
Horr Horr, a heffable Horralump.
20
109 Academae Avenue
Athené
May 13, 1958
Selected Friend:
In your hour of sorrow I am imbued with a spirit of agapē. Please to accept humble apologies and felicitations.
The mandrill was of course an error. Conjurations were only practiced on behalf of Mr. Oeuf’s demise. Yet one’s requisite disciplines are perforce compromised by the juniper berry, and my husband was lax in gleaning coherent information. I am shamed. Please to convey amends to your Miss McCleod, who it seems was terrorized in error. Neither was your own person spared tiresome dangers. Alas.
George, having completed factotum studies in the college of hotel administration, has accepted a position with The Dorchester in London. In that sober atmosphere perhaps we will temper our tastes. As you read this, we are on the seas. Please to forgive. Should the demon continue advances, a daily enema of Lux and warm ale is recommended. I love you.
Extreme and fervent condolences,
Irma Rajamuttu, D. B. E.
There was the feeling he might lose his diluted Aegean mind. He put some Corelli on the record machine, drank a warm glass of Summer Snow, and listened to the duel of tutti and ripieno. It did no good. The spongy fibers of his agitated innards sucked up the stimulation and burned it off directly, leaving nothing behind but the subtle fumes of anxiety. Every so often he belched them out.
The letter had been rolled into the neck of a blotched grenadine bottle on the floor of the empty Benares pad. Window shades flapped in the evening breeze, dustballs blew across the vacant floor. Furniture, books, pots and pans, zoom all gone.
But in his own apartment, things had been happening. The Navajo rug was littered with lists of names, ashtrays were piled high with filters, beercans lay crushed on their sides, four electric typewriters stood plugged into an extension, and a Pitney-Bowes mailing machine hummed in the corner. Hunger gnawed at his stomach but the refrigerator was empty of everything save lint, and the Proctor Slug prowl car that had followed from the airport was waiting patiently by the curb.
There was also a hastily scrawled note from Rosenbloom telling him to get to the campus the instant he arrived, but when he used the phone to find out why, no one answered. Even Kristin’s dormitory number, kept for last, rang a mysterious ten minutes. He drank three more fingers of Motherball’s brew, took a bath to pass an hour, slipped his hands into a pair of discarded loafers, clomped about on all fours, did a handstand which knocked a brass plate off t
he wall, rang the weather bureau, chatted obscenities with the recorded operator, fondled his old pillow for Kristin’s jugular, hung the horse-filled castanets from a copper hunting horn, and checked the ever-present fuzz. When it was dark he crept furtively through the Rajamuttus’, climbed out a window, and made his way to Guido’s Grill. The place was empty of anyone he knew, so he bided time with a pizzaburger and cherry malted, finally calling Fitzgore’s fraternity as a last resort. The houseman told him all the brothers were at the Demonstration.
The Demonstration. Dear sweet Mary.
Approaching the arts quad he could hear the swell of massive shouts and cheers, the throb of bass drums muffled by a milling crowd. Here and there a figure darted out of a building, carrying a torch. Madmen ran in the direction of the girls’ dorms, screaming warcries. The sky beyond flickered with violence, the undersides of clouds danced in reflected flame. He ambled toward the noise, rucksack on his shoulder, campesino hat squashing his curls.
A skyrocket shuddered, burst into sulfurous fragments, and inspired a deafening roar from the ground. From the law school, the ag quad, the engineering buildings, rose strong echoes. It sounded as if they were out in the hundreds.
But when he arrived there were thousands. Cars blocking the Harpy Creek Bridge, students standing on hoods with megaphones, banners fluttering colorfully in the wind, torches smoking, coeds surging back and forth on the lawns, whole fraternities shouting slogans. Men with microphones stumbled along, pigeonholing whomever they could. Photographers loaded cameras with frantic fingers. Reporters ran in circles, jumping between centers of activity, taking notes on little pads. One of them bumped into the rucksack as he was screwing in a bulb, and there was a moment of quick recognition. “My God,” he said, “it’s Pappadopoulis!”
Around him came a crush of Leicas, Rolleis, Speed Graphics. “Hey, babies,” was the startled reaction. He tried elbowing free, feeling the first muggy symptoms of panic. “C’mon, get away—”
They pressed closer, whispering, gaping at his clothes, shouting questions. “Look this way, please.” Pop. Click.
“Hey really, get out of here—”
“The wire services estimate seven thousand people, Mr. Pappopoulis—”
“How do you plan to manage them? Will there be a speech?”
“I’m from Look, buddy, hold still, be intense—”
He jerked the Cuban hat over his ears and barreled clear, taking refuge in a galloping cluster of students. But as they ran along they began nudging one another and whispering his name.
“That Greek,” said one, “the nut from Lairville.”
“Where’s the platform? Get him to the platform!”
They galloped right past Juan Carlos Rosenbloom, who was prancing on top of Fitzgore’s Impala, waving his arms, whipping the air with his cowboy hat, leading a cheer. Gnossos did an about-face and tried to get his attention, but he was jostled out of sight.
We bemoan the chaperone
We would rather be alone . . .
Still another chant began, merging with the first. When he tried creeping under the legs of the mob, he was lifted off the grass by anonymous hands and thrust across the shoulders of a trotting phalanx.
Gno-ssos . . . Gno-ssos
Gno-ssos . . . Gno-ssos
He used his rucksack to pound ferociously on their skulls, but all across the campus the demonstrators saw it as a signal and began to pound in kind.
A crimson banner rustled past, flying the cry MOTHERS’ MARCH ON SEX. And behind it Judy Lumpers in a frenzied flash, dancing in fishnet leotards, high heels, a cheerleader’s sweater, holding Byron Agneau by the hand, both of them yelling, “Ying-Yang, Ying-Yang, Ying-Yang . . . ”
More skyrockets, Roman candles, cherry bombs, sparklers, fireworks, sirens, bass drums, bugles, GNO-ssos . . . GNO-ssos . . . He was being hustled toward an elevated platform, which rose above the bobbing heads at the far end of the mob. There were loudspeakers, spotlights, blood-red flags, and two figures side by side who seemed—impossibly enough—to be Oeuf and Kristin, Oeuf in a wheelchair. NON LOCO PARENTIS, read a sign at their backs. They wore serene smiles and looked upon the crashing multitudes.
Gnossos squirmed helplessly for a moment, trying to twist free of the hands that balanced his teetering weight, then threw out an enraged fist, howling without mercy at his betrayers, mustering the blend of outrage and hurt that tore at his senses, “Vennndettaa!”
But again he was misunderstood and the object of his cry was taken as the cue for wilder yearnings. Fists by the thousands jammed skyward, and the thunder of the vengeful word went up:
“VENNNNNNNDETTTAAAAAAAA!”
Right behind it came the rhythmic marching of an approaching legion, Dean Magnolia leading a chanting column of rebellious faculty:
One-two, what d’we do?
Three-four, smash the door.
Five-six, pick up sticks
Seven-eight, abdicate . . .
Hosts of anarchists everywhere, itching to blow things up, tear things down, cave things in. A now steaming Pappadopoulis was rushed through their midst, handed over the heads of the denser crowd, flipped along like a sack of limp kidney beans. He held his rucksack between clenched teeth, the hat over his ears. As he spun nearer the platform the cheers grew more expectant, less purposeless, blending together in the single, lilting utterance of his name. Then, when the motion faltered and ceased, he found himself tipped forward, standing unsteadily, skipping a little from the momentum. For an instant Oeuf and Kristin were directly in front of him; but Youngblood appeared from a ramp, stepped quickly between them, and seven thousand people fell astonishingly silent.
Find a heavy weapon, man, strike the mortal blow.
Youngblood spoke in a forced whisper before he moved, side-stepping the podium microphone, gesturing for good sense. “Gnossos—”
But Greek teeth gave a malevolent hiss.
“Gnossos, take it easy. You may find this difficult to believe, but everything is for the good.”
“That’s right, baby, tell me all about it—”
“Don’t be rash, try to control yourself—”
An apprehensive clapping began when he failed to recognize the crowd. People picked it up in threes and fours.
“Gnossos,” from Kristin quickly, motioning Youngblood aside. “We can settle our differences later. I promise.”
“People are watching us,” said Youngblood.
“Speeeech,” came a distant call, echoed by the clappers. “Speeeeeeeeeech!”
He hissed once more, glancing around like an exhibited captive Apache. Oeuf leaned forward in his wheelchair, speaking under his breath. “Stop that ridiculous noise. Where’s your amour-propre?”
Speech, came the call again. Bass drums picked up the clapping, claxons hee-hawed.
Speech-speech-speech-speech—
“They’ve heard us all,” from Youngblood desperately. “They just won’t be satisfied. You’re the only one left.”
Ven-detta. . . . Ven-detta. . . . Ven-detta . . .
Gnossos shifted weight to cover his flanks, but the crowd’s collective acumen picked up the subtle change and thought he might be about to speak. They sent forth a spectacular cheer. In the midst of the din, as confetti blossomed skyward and showered over their heads, Oeuf tried an importunate whisper, ignoring the pickup of the mikes.
“Bread, Gnossos. Immunity. Sex. Name it quickly, what in hell do you want? There’s no holding this goddamned crowd.”
Knuckles under the nose, came the thought. Stiff fingers in the larynx. But the Slugmen were standing at corners of the platform, Mausers in their coats. He felt his shirt pocket for the little white box he’d prepared in the Idlewild pharmacy, and “Kristin” was what he finally said.
At the sound she looked up, catching her breath.
Speech-speech-speech-speech—
Oeuf’s glance caught her parted lips, but returned to Gnossos all the same. “Kristin?”
“Check
baby.”
Ven-detta . . . Ven-detta . . . Ven-detta . . .
“How long?”
“Half an hour.”
“Too long.”
“Forty minutes.”
“Jesus, Gnossos.”
“Sixty.”
“Hurry,” said Youngblood.
“You mustn’t harm her.”
“That’s right.”
Kristin began to protest but Oeuf motioned her into silence. “I have your word?”
Gnossos’ hand was on his heart.
VEN-DETT-A . . . VEN-DETT-A . . .
A short pause. “Forty minutes?”
“Okay, man.”
“For Christ’s sake,” said Youngblood, perspiring fiercely, “Hurry up!”
GNO-SSOS . . . GNO-SSOS . . .
He grinned openly at Kristin, half concealing the menace that trembled on his lips. Then he threw up his arms for the crowd, palms facing, as if he were signaling a touchdown.
For fully five minutes he was Lindbergh at Orly, MacArthur on Wall Street, Ulanova at the Bolshoi, Sinatra at the Paramount. The cadence of stamping feet shook the campus as if it were an island on a seismic fault. Through the deafening rumble he motioned to Youngblood for words.
“Say something, Christ, it couldn’t matter.”
“What, man?”
“Oh God, Pankhurst, free love, anything!”
GNO-SSOS . . . GNO-SSO . . .
The touchdown arms came slowly to his sides. The chants subsided gradually, hushing noises ran through the mob like the whisper of doom itself, heads came up to listen. He stood, waiting for the periphery of the crowd, ignoring the urgings of Kristin and Oeuf, holding out for complete control. For a moment a lone bass drum continued booming, then nothing but embarrassed laughter, odd shouts from distant stragglers, the sizzle of sparklers burning in the dark.
Seven thousand ivy league smiles flickered and gleamed. Two hundred and twenty-four thousand calcium-white incisors, canines, bicuspids, premolars, eyeteeth, and molars, anxious to bite, ready for the bacchanal, hungry and drooling. A tremble of despotic power shuddered in his loins. A flood of adrenalin buoyed up his blood. He could do worse than give them provender for a night of romping abandon.