I came to the second dog. It was a little toy dog on wheels. Looked like a plaything abandoned by a child. Just to make sure it wasn’t a real dog I gave it a little kick with my toe. It crumbled to dust immediately. I pretended, of course, that this was most natural, and resumed my leisurely pace.
I was only a few yards from the entrance to the White House when I perceived the third and real dog. The man shadowing me was no longer dogging my steps, unless he had changed to sneakers without my knowing it. Anyway, I had reached the last dog. He was a huge Newfoundland, playful as a cub. He came running up to me with big bounds and almost knocked me over trying to lick my face. I stood a moment or two patting his big warm head; then I circumspectly stooped down and inserted a hand under his tongue. Sure enough there was the pellet, wrapped in silver leaf. As Marshall or Cromwell had said, it was about the size of an oat.
I was holding the dog by the collar as we ascended the steps to the White House. All the guards gave the same sign—a big wink and little flutter of the lapel. As I wiped my feet on the mat outside I noticed the words Fratres Semper in big red letters. The President was coming towards me. He had on a cutaway and striped trousers; a carnation was in his buttonhole. He was holding out both hands to greet me. “Why, Charlie!” I cried, “how on earth did you get here? I thought I was to meet…” Suddenly I remembered George Marshall’s words. “Mr. President,” I said, making a low bow, “it is indeed a privilege…” “Come right in, come right in,” said Charlie, grasping my hand and tickling the palm with his forefinger. “We’ve been expecting you.”
If he was indeed the President he hadn’t changed an iota since the old days.
Charlie was known as the silent member of our club. Because his silence lent him an air of wisdom we had mockingly elected him president of the club. Charlie was one of the boys from the flats across the way. We adored Charlie but could never get very close to him—because of his inscrutable silence. One day he disappeared. Months passed but no word from him. The months rolled into years. Not one of us had ever received a communication from him. He seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.
And now he was ushering me into his sanctum. The President of these United States!
“Sit down,” said Charlie. “Make yourself comfortable.” He proffered a box of cigars.
I could only stare and stare. He looked exactly as he always had, except, to be sure, for the cutaway and striped trousers. His thick auburn hair was parted in the middle, as always. His fingernails were beautifully manicured, as always. The same old Charlie. At the bottom of his vest, as always, he was wearing the old button of the Xerxes Society. Fratres Semper.
“You realize, Hen,” he began, in that soft, modulated voice of his, “why I have had to keep my identity secret.” He bent forward and lowered his voice. “She’s still on my trail, you know.” (She, I knew, referred to his wife whom he couldn’t divorce because he was a Catholic.) “It’s she who’s behind all this. You know.…” He gave me one of those big slippery horse-winks such as George Marshall had employed.
Here he began to twiddle with his fingers, as if rolling a little ball. At first I didn’t catch on, but after he had repeated the gesture a number of times I realized what he was hinting at.
“Oh, the pel.…”
Here he raised a finger, placed it to his lips, and almost inaudibly, went Shhhhhhhhh.
I extracted the pellet from my vest pocket and unrolled it. Charlie kept nodding his head gravely, but making not a sound. I handed him the message to read; he handed it back to me and I read it attentively. Then I passed it back to him and he quickly burned it. The message was in Japanese. Translated, it meant: “We are now inexorably united in brotherhood. The end is the same as the beginning. Observe strict etiquette.”
There was a telephone call which Charlie answered in a low, grave voice. At the end he said: “Show him in in a few minutes.”
“Obsipresieckswizi will be here shortly. He will go with you as far as Yokohama.”
I was just about to ask if he wouldn’t be kind enough to be a little more explicit when suddenly he swung round in his swivel chair and thrust a photograph under my nose.
“You recognize her, of course?” Again he put his finger to his lips.
“The next time you see her she’ll be in Tokyo, probably in the inner court.” Here he reached down into the lower drawer of his desk and brought forth a candy box labeled Hopjes, the kind that Mona and I had been peddling. He opened it gingerly and showed me the contents: a Valentine greeting, a strand of what looked like Mona’s hair, a miniature dagger with an ivory handle and a wedding ring. I examined them intently, without touching them. Charlie closed the box and put it back in the drawer. Then he gave me a wink, flipped his vest flap and said “Ohio!” I repeated it after him: “Ohio!”
Suddenly he whirled around again and thrust the photograph under my nose. It was a different face this time. Not Mona, but someone who resembled her, someone of indeterminate sex, with long hair which fell over the shoulders, like an Indian’s. A striking and mysterious face, reminiscent of that fallen angel, Rimbaud. I had an uneasy feeling. As I gazed, Charlie turned it over; on the other side was a photograph of Mona dressed like a Japanese woman, her hair done up in Japanese fashion, her eyes slanted upwards, the lids heavy, giving the eyes the appearance of two dark slits. He turned the photos back and forth several times. In awesome silence. I was unable to figure out what significance to give to this performance.
At this point an attendant came in to announce the arrival of Obsipresieckswizi. He pronounced the name as if it were Obsequy. A tall, gaunt man entered swiftly, went straight up to Charlie, whom he addressed as “Mr. President,” and began a voluble speech in Polish. He hadn’t noticed me at all. It was lucky he hadn’t because I might have made a grave slip and called him by his right name. I was just reflecting how smoothly things were going when my old friend Stasu, for it was none other than he, stopped talking as abruptly as he had begun.
“Who is this?” he demanded in his curt, insolent way, motioning to me.
“Take a good look,” said Charlie. He gave a wink, first at me, then at Stasu.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Stasu, extending his hand grudgingly. “How does he fit into the picture?” he said, addressing the President.
“That’s for you to determine,” said Charlie blandly.
“Hmm,” mumbled Stasu. “He’s never been good at anything. He’s a failure through and through.”
“We know all that,” said Charlie, thoroughly unruffled, “but just the same.” He pressed a button and another attendant appeared. “See that these men get to the airport safely, Griswold. Use my car.” He rose and shook hands with us. His behavior was exactly that of one holding such a high office. I felt that he was indeed the President of our great Republic, and a very shrewd, capable President to boot. As we reached the threshold he shouted: “Fratres Semper!” We wheeled around, saluted in military fashion, and repeated:
“Fratres Semper!”
There were no lights on the plane, not even inside. Neither of us spoke for some time. Finally Stasu broke into a torrent of Polish. It sounded strangely familiar to me yet I was unable to make out a word except pan and pani.
“Talk English,” I begged. “You know I don’t speak Polish.”
“Make an effort,” he said, “it will come back to you. You spoke it once, don’t act dumb. Polish is the easiest language in the world. Here, do this…” and he began making sibilant, hissing sounds like a serpent in rut. “Now sneeze! Good. Now gargle? Good. Now roll your tongue back like a carpet and swallow! Good. You see… there’s nothing to it. The rudiments are the six vowels, twelve consonants and five diphthongs. If you’re dubious, spit or whistle. Never open your mouth wide. Suck air in and push your tongue against your closed lips. Like this. Speak fast. The faster the better. Raise your voice a little, as if you were going to sing. That’s it. Now close your palate and gargle. Fine! You’re getting it. Now say
after me, and don’t stutter: ‘Ochizkishyi seiecsuhy plaifuejticko eicjcyciu!’ Excellent! You know what that means—’Breakfast is ready!’”
I was overjoyed with my own fluency. We rehearsed a number of stock phrases, such as: “Dinner is served,” “the water is hot,” “there’s a strong breeze blowing,” “keep the fire going,” and so on. It was all coming back to me readily. Stasu was right. I had only to make a little effort and the words were there on the tip of my tongue.
“Where are we headed for now?” I asked in Polish, just to vary the rigmarole.
“Izn Yotzxkiueoeumasysi,” he replied.
Even that long word I seemed to remember. A strange language, this Polish. It made sense, even if one did have to perform acrobatics with one’s tongue. It was good exercise, it limbered up the tongue. After an hour or two of Polish I would be more than fit to resume my study of Japanese.
“What will you do when we get there?” In Polish, of course.
“Drnzybyisi uttituhy kidjeueycmayi,” said Stasu. Which meant, in our own vernacular, “Take it easy.”
Then he added, with a few oaths which I had forgotten, “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Wait for orders.”
In all this time he hadn’t said a word about the past, about our boyhood days on Driggs Avenue, about his good-natured old aunt who used to feed us from the icebox. She was such a lovable creature, his aunt. Always spoke—in Polish, that is—as if she were singing. Stasu hadn’t changed a bit. As sullen, defiant, morose and disdainful as ever. I recalled the fear and dread with which he inspired me as a boy—when he lost his temper. He was a veritable demon then. Would grab a knife or a hatchet and make for me like lightning. The only time he ever seemed sweet and gracious was when his aunt sent him to buy sauerkraut. We used to filch a bit on the way home. It was good, that raw sauerkraut. The Poles were extraordinarily fond of it. That and fried bananas. Bananas that were soft and oversweet.
We were landing now. Must be Yokohama. I couldn’t make out a blessed thing, the whole airport was enveloped in darkness.
Suddenly I realized that I was alone in the plane. I felt around in the darkness but no Stasu. I called to him softly, but no answer. A mild panic seized me. I began to perspire profusely.
Getting off the plane two Japs came running forward to meet me. “Ohio! Ohio!” they exclaimed. “Ohio!” I repeated. We tumbled into rickshaws and began moving towards the city proper. There was no electricity, evidently—nothing but paper lanterns, as if for a festival. The houses were all made of bamboo, neat and trim, the sidewalks were paved with wooden blocks. Now and then we crossed a tiny wooden bridge, such as one sees in old prints.
It was just beginning to dawn as we entered the precincts of the Mikado’s palace.
I should have been trembling now but instead I was serene, perfectly composed, prepared for any eventuality. “The Mikado will turn out to be another old friend,” I said to myself, pleased with my sagacity.
We dismounted before a huge portal painted in fiery colors, changed into wooden clogs and kimonos, prostrated ourselves a few times, and then waited for the portal to swing open.
Noiselessly, almost imperceptibly, the big portal finally swung open. We were in the midst of a small circular court, the flagging of which was inlaid with mother of pearl and precious gems. An enormous statue of the Buddha stood in the center of the court. The expression on the Buddha’s face was grave and seraphic at once. There emanated from him a feeling of tranquillity such as I had never known before. I felt drawn into the circle of the blessedness. The whole universe seemed to have come to an ecstatic hush.
A woman was coming forward from one of the hidden archways. She was clothed in ceremonial garb and carrying a sacred vessel. As she approached the Buddha everything became transformed. She advanced now with the gait of a dancer, to the sound of weird cacophonous music, sharp staccato sounds made by wood, stone and iron. From every doorway dancers now came forth with terrifying banners, their faces concealed by hideous masks. As they circled about the statue of the Buddha they blew into huge conch shells which gave forth unearthly sounds. Suddenly they fell away and I was alone in the court, facing a huge animal which resembled a bull. The animal was curled up on an iron altar that looked somewhat like a frying pan. I could see now that it was not a bull but the Minotaur. One eye was closed peacefully, the other was staring at me, quite friendly however. Of a sudden this enormous eye began to wink at me, coyly, flirtatiously, like a woman under a street lamp in some low quarter of the city. And as it winked it curled itself up more, as if making ready to be roasted. Then it closed the enormous eye and pretended to be snoozing. Now and then it fluttered the lids of that monstrous orb which had winked so jocosely.
Stealthily, on tiptoes, and with painful slowness, I approached the dread monster. When I got within a few feet of the altar, which was shaped distinctly like a saucepan I now realized, I perceived with horror that little flames were licking it from below. The Minotaur seemed to be stirring in his own juice, pleasurably. Again he was opening and shutting that big eye. The expression was one of sheer drollery.
Approaching more closely I felt the heat given off by those little flames. I could also smell the stench of the animal’s scorched hide. I was hypnotized with terror. I stood where I was, rooted, the perspiration streaming down my face in rivulets.
With one bound the monster suddenly sprang upright, balancing himself on his hind legs. I perceived with a retching horror that he had three heads. All six eyes were wide open and leering at me. Transfixed, I stared glumly as the burnt hide fell away, revealing an underlayer of skin which was pure white and smooth as ivory. Now the heads began to turn white also, except for the three noses, and muzzles which were of bright vermilion. Around the eyes were circles of blue, the blue of cobalt. In each forehead there was a black star; they twinkled like real stars.
Still balancing itself on his hind legs the monster now began to sing, rearing its head still higher, tossing its mane, rolling all of its six horrible leering eyes.
“Mother of God!” I mumbled in Polish, ready to faint momentarily.
The song, which had sounded at first like some Equatorial chant, was becoming more and more recognizable. With a skill which was supernatural, the monster subtly and rapidly changed from one register to another, one key to another, until finally with a clear and unmistakable voice it was hymning the Star Spangled Banner. As the anthem progressed, the beautiful white skin of the Minotaur changed from white to red and then to blue. The black stars in the foreheads became golden; they flashed like semaphores.
My mind, unable to follow these bewildering changes, seemed to go blank. Or perhaps a real blackout had occurred. At any rate, the next thing I knew the Minotaur had disappeared, the altar with it. On the beautiful mauve flagging, mauve and pale rose really, on which the precious inlaid gems sparkled like fiery stars, a nude woman of voluptuous proportions and with a mouth like a fresh wound was dancing the belly dance. Her navel, enlarged to the size of a silver dollar, was painted a vivid carmine; she wore a tiara and her wrists and ankles were studded with bracelets. I would have recognized her anywhere, nude or swaddled in cotton wool. Her long golden hair, her wild eyes of the nymphomaniac, her supersensual mouth told me unmistakably that she was none other than Helen Reilly. If she had not been so fiercely possessive she would now be sitting in the White House with Charlie who had deserted her. She would have been The First Lady in the Land.
I had hardly time to reflect, however. She was being bundled into a plane with me, stark naked and reeking of sweat and perfume. We were off again—back to Washington, no doubt. I offered her my kimono but she waved it aside. She felt comfortable just as she was, thank you. There she sat opposite me, her knees drawn up almost to her chin, her legs brazenly parted, puffing a cigarette. I wondered what the President—Charlie, that is—would say when he laid eyes on her. He had always referred to her as a lascivious, no-good bitch. Well, anyway, I had made good. I was bringing her bac
k, that was the all important. No doubt he, Charlie, intended to obtain one of those divorces which only the Pope himself could grant.
Throughout the flight she continued to smoke cigarette after cigarette, maintaining her brazen posture, leering at me, making googoo eyes, heaving her big boobies, even playing with herself now and then. It was almost too much for me: I had to close my eyes.
When I opened them we were ascending the steps of the White House, hemmed in by a cordon of guards who screened the naked figure of the President’s wife. I followed behind her, watching in utter fascination the way she joggled her low-slung buttocks. Had I not known who she was I might well have taken her for one of Minsky’s belly dancers… for Cleo herself.
As the door of the White House opened I got the surprise of my life. It was no longer the room I had been received in by the President of our grand republic. It was the interior of George Marshall’s home. A table of staggering proportions took up almost the entire length of the room. At each end stood a massive candelabra. Eleven men were seated round it, each one holding a glass in his hand: they reminded me of the wax figures at Madame Tussaud’s. Needless to say, they were the eleven members of the original “Deep thinkers,” as we once called ourselves. The vacant chair was obviously for me.