Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me Read online

  The monkey demon or mandrill-at-the-window story didn’t play as well. Some only thought he was being dramatic, others thought temporarily insane. When winter boredom set in there was always a chance of entertainment in sneaking up to Fariña’s window at unlikely hours and making what we imagined to be mandrill faces and sounds, in hopes of some reaction. But he would only half-smile, and shrug, as if to say, if you don’t get it, you don’t get it.

  But it remains one of the most effective of the many dark scenes in this novel. The darkest of all, and I think the best written, is the sequence that takes place in revolutionary Cuba, in which Gnossos’s best friend is accidentally killed. Although a few pages of campus rioting come later, the true climax of the book is in Cuba. Back in his Hemingway phase, Fariña must have seen that line about every true story ending in death. Death, no idle prankster, is always, in this book, just outside the window. The cosmic humor is in Gnossos’s blundering attempts to make some kind of early arrangement with Thanatos, to find some kind of hustle that will get him out of the mortal contract we’re all stuck with. Nothing he tries works, but even funnier than that, he’s really too much in love with being alive, with dope, sex, rock ’n’ roll—he feels so good he has to take chances, has to keep tempting death, only half-realizing that the more intensely he lives, the better the odds of his number finally coming up.

  Close to the end of his last term at Cornell, Fariña seemed to grow impatient. He had a job waiting in New York, and they didn’t care, he said, if he got his degree or not. There may also have been some romantic disaster involving Kristin McCleod’s original, though we never talked about it and all I heard was vague gossip. We were in one class together that term, and studied for the final at Johnny’s Big Red Grill over bottles of Red Cap ale. Next day, no more than half an hour into the exam, I was scribbling away at an essay question, caught a movement, looked up, saw Fariña handing in his exam book and leaving. He couldn’t have been finished. As he came past I raised my eyebrows and he gave me that smile and that shrug. This was the last I saw of him for a while.

  He went to New York, to Cuba, married Carolyn Hester, got a career in music going, toured overseas, lived in London, Paris, got divorced—then it was back to California, Boston, California again. Sometimes we wrote letters, sometimes—not often enough—we’d run into each other. We talked on the phone the day before he died. His book had just come out. We arranged to connect in L.A. in a few weeks. The next evening I heard the news over an AM rock ’n’ roll station. He’d been riding on the back of a motorcycle on Carmel Valley Road, where a prudent speed would have been thirty-five. Police estimated that they must have been doing ninety, and failed to make a curve. Fariña was thrown off, and killed.

  I called his house—no answer. Called the AP in Los Angeles—they couldn’t confirm anything for sure. It never occurred to me to call the hospital up there. I didn’t want to hear what they’d say. The only person I found in that night was a long-distance friend who’d also known him at Cornell. She didn’t have any more solid news than I did. Both still hoping, hope fading, we talked for a long time, into the middle of the night, about Fariña and the old days, in our voices the same mixture of exasperation and love most of us had always felt whenever his name came up. Finally, toward the end of the conversation, she laughed. “Just thought of something. If that fucking Fariña,” she said, “has only been seriously hurt—if he goes up to the edge of It, and then comes back, you realize—we’re never going to hear the end of it.”

  —THOMAS PYNCHON

  This one is for MIMI

  “I must soon quit the Scene . . . ”

  Benjamin Franklin

  in a letter to George Washington

  March 5, 1780

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  Gnossos finds a Home. Fitzgore and Heffalump see a Ghost. A plan for Sustenance is Conceived. A checkout woman meets the King of Mexico.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Fraternity Smoker Type Thing. The Paregoric Pall Mall. The saga of the Enema Bag begins. Pamela Watson-May: Hooray and up she Rises.

  CHAPTER 3

  Good morning, blues. Heffalump as Mother. Monsignor Putti. A First Encounter with the Dean of Men.

  CHAPTER 4

  Blacknesse and the Dark Goddess. Gnossos tells an Antecedent Tale. A curry dinner of sorts. Mrs. Blacknesse in a sari procures a pair of tweezers for feeding a spider to a Carnivorous Plant. Nostalgia and Ferment at Guido’s Grill (or) The Plot Thickens. A second encounter with the Dean of Men.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jimmy Brown the Newsboy? Two Curious Strangers, The Bullwhip, and the Artificial Eye. A most Peculiar proposition. L’Hopital’s Rule and the homicidal return of Watson-May. Apotheosis in the Rucksack.

  CHAPTER 6

  Morning Martinis and Strontium 90: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. The Beagle and the Bunny-Rabbit (an Interlocking Epiphany). The happy little Grüns, the Greenhouse, and the pot of Pot. The Great Rhetorical Question. Heffalump as Insightful Mother. A Credo?

  CHAPTER 7

  Zombis, Vampires, and the girl in the Green Knee-Socks.

  CHAPTER 8

  Love among the Black Elks. Gnossos tells another Tale. Mojo and the Masochistic Microbus.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Voice of the Turtle, Gnossos as Prometheus. The Object found dwelling in the Commode.

  CHAPTER 10

  A Dream before Dinner. The Virgins Two: a Confrontation. A Paradox in Indelible Ink.

  CHAPTER 11

  Oeuf. The Plot persists in Thickening.

  CHAPTER 12

  Yea, Hooray, the Happy Couple. Madness through Pragmatic Method.

  CHAPTER 13

  Blacknesse, Birds, and Bees. Midshipman Fitzgore on the Bathroom Floor. The Epiphanal Defloration. David Grün Explains the Third Dimension.

  CHAPTER 14

  Gnossos becomes Further Involved. A Theory of Cosmic Origin, Differing Points of View, and an Undesired Guest.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Bower of Innocence Lost. Beth Blacknesse and a Contradiction in Terms.

  CHAPTER 16

  Seeds of Doubt are Sown.

  CHAPTER 17

  America on Wheels, Emporia, a Rendezvous with Da Capo, Social Disease, and Another Country.

  CHAPTER 18

  With Pappadopoulis at the Front.

  CHAPTER 19

  Innocence Regained. General William Booth

  Enters into Heaven. The Reclining Buddha.

  CHAPTER 20

  Irma Tells All. In the Tumult and the Shouting,

  Gnossos Makes a Deal. A Free Ride for Kristin.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Bearer of Bad News.

  BOOK

  THE FIRST

  1

  To Athené then.

  Young Gnossos Pappadopoulis, furry Pooh Bear, keeper of the flame, voyaged back from the asphalt seas of the great wasted land: oh highways U.S. 40 and unyielding 66, I am home to the glacier-gnawed gorges, the fingers of lakes, the golden girls of Westchester and Shaker Heights. See me loud with lies, big boots stomping, mind awash with schemes.

  Home to Athené, where Penelope has lain in an exalted ecstasy of infidelity, where Telemachus hates his father and aims a kick at his groin, where old, patient Argus trots out to greet his weary returning master and drives his fangs into a cramped leg, infecting with the froth of some feral, hydrophobic horror. Oh welcome,

  for home is the madman,

  home from his dreams

  and the satyr

  home to make hay,

  whether or not the sun shines, for in that well-hilled land of geological pressures and faults, there is always much rain.

  Banging up the steepest slope, shoving away mounds of cinder-spoiled snow with his hobnails, smelling of venison and rabbits, the anise odor of some Oriental liquor on his breath. No one has seen him (or if they have, there has been no acceptance of the impossible sight, for rumors have him dead of thirst, contorted on his back at the
bottom of Bright Angel Trail, eyes gnawed out by wild Grand Canyon burros; fallen upon by tattooed pachucos and burned to death in the New Mexico night by a thousand cigarettes dipped in aqua regia; eaten by a shark in San Francisco Bay, a leg washed up in Venice West; G. Alonso Oeuf has him frozen blue in the Adirondacks), he stumbles back from its lakes now (found sitting on a bed of tender spruce boughs, his legs folded under him in the full lotus, a mysterious caste mark where his third eye would be, stark naked with an erection, discovered by the St. Regis Falls D.A.R. out on their winter bird walk).

  I am invisible, he thinks often. And Exempt. Immunity has been granted to me, for I do not lose my cool. Polarity is selected at will, for I am not ionized and I possess not valence. Call me inert and featureless but Beware, I am the Shadow, free to cloud men’s minds. Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? I am the Dracula, look into my eye.

  Shuffling up an insipidly named Academae Avenue from the pea-green walls of the town’s Greyhound station, wrapped tightly in his parka (the blanket of Linus, the warmth of the woods, his portable womb), the rucksack packed thickly with the only possessions and necessities of his life: a Captain Midnight Code-O-Graph, one hundred and sixty-nine silver dollars, a current 1958 calendar, eight vials of paregoric, a plastic sack of exotic seeds, a packet of grapevine leaves in a special humidor, a jar of feta, sections of wire coathanger to be used as shish kebab skewers, a boy scout shirt, two cinnamon sticks, a bottlecap from Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray Tonic, a change of Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear from a foraging at Bloomingdale’s, an extra pair of corduroy pants, a 1920’s baseball cap, a Hohner F harmonica, six venison loin chops, and an arbitrary number of recently severed and salted rabbits’ feet.

  Flipping through the ads of the unbought Athené Globe at the bus terminal, he had come across the number 109 in the list of apartments available for the spring term. He hovered before it now, panting from the climb, evaluating, doing the geometry of escape routes, counting windows and doors. The house was a red frame structure, American Gothic, freshly painted, white trim, Swiss drolleries carved around the window boxes. Touch of the pastoral, pleasant to wake in May with a scalding hangover, lean back your head and breathe forget-me-nots.

  He knocked timidly and was greeted by the thinnest bone of a girl he had ever seen. Terrycloth robe with kitty-fluff on the collar, long brown pigtails tied with yellow rubberbands, no eyebrows.

  “You came about the flat?”

  British. Murderess of Cypriot peasants; innate antagonist, be careful. Lie: “My name is Ian Evergood, miss, you’re quite correct. Could I have a look?”

  “It’s a mess; we’re just moving up over Student Laundries, you know where that is?”

  My God, wearing high heels with the robe, anything under? Be discreet. “I’m not sure, I’ve been away for over a year, they’re always shifting things about. Splendid flat, this.”

  “It does me.”

  Devilishly clever, flat in there instead of pad. She’s looking at me. “Been on a bit of a hunting trip. The Adirondacks. You’ll have to forgive my appearance.”

  “Hunting? You mean animals?”

  “Rather.”

  “How appalling. Killing small things that can’t fight back?”

  “There was a wolf, you see. A marauding bear.”

  “A bear? Really? Won’t you come all the way in, no sense standing in the hall.”

  “Quartered three children before I got him. Ghastly business. Made a topping shot, though.”

  “Are you British?”

  “Greek.”

  “Oh.”

  Too late, could have said anything. Have another try, “Mountbatten blood in the family. Is the place furnished?”

  “Two of the bucket chairs belong to them,” she said, nodding at the bolted French doors that led into the neighbors’ quarters. “One is mine, and that butterfly thing. I could sell it if you really wanted, they’re not comfortable; at least not for sitting.”

  For what, then? The flesh over her eyes arching the way her eyebrows might have arched. Worth a try. I hear water boiling, free food. “I’d need it, all the same. Here, you’re not making tea? I only came by to see—”

  “That’s quite all right. Take a look ‘round, you’re the first to come.” Going off into the kitchen, Jesus, wearing stockings as well. “You take cream and sugar?”

  “Everything.” There was no bedroom but a section at the far end of the room had been partitioned off with bamboo shades, a bad sign. Still, everything else looked good, rice-paper globes on the lamps, white walls, a Navajo rug, roomy couch, fireplace. Have a look at the kitchen.

  “My name’s Pamela,” she told him, pouring through a wooden sieve into handleless cups. The robe open slightly at her throat, kitty-fluff parting enough to reveal a blond chest hair, which caused a spasm of lust.

  “What school are you in?” between cups.

  “Astronomy,” he lied. “Theories of origin, expanding galaxies, quantum mechanics, that sort of thing. You?”

  “Architecture.”

  “How come you’re not living in the dorms?” Hopefully.

  “I’m fifth-year. Do you like the kitchen? There’s an enormous fridge, and they give you all your silver. Is your name truly Evergood?”

  “Took Mother’s name when Father entered the Benedictines.”

  “Ah. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Not at all. Sends me brandy, monk-bread, you know. Smashing tea, this. Pamela what?”

  “Watson-May. But did you really kill a marauding bear? I mean, isn’t that rather a dangerous thing to have done?”

  Just so. And doesn’t your thigh-down tingle to think about it? Shame it’s afternoon, never much on matinees. Good to have the parka covering or she’d see. Hardly care for them skinny, but those high heels and that hair. Push it a little: “Not necessarily dangerous. A lot depends on the man and the first bullet.” Ho ho.

  “Of course.”

  “You either kill them straight away or turn them and make a heart shot. Gets me edgy to discuss, though. You wouldn’t have a drink around the house?”

  “Isn’t it a bit early?”

  “Not today, no.”

  “There might be some gin and a little Scotch left.”

  “You don’t carry Metaxa?”

  “Which?”

  “Scotch is fine; just pour it in the tea. Have one yourself, takes the edge off moving, I always say, ha ha.”

  She poured the drinks and sat straddling the butterfly chair. The robe was up over lumps of knees, a phthisic hand clutching the collar against her throat. Gnossos feeling the need for a paregoric Pall Mall—filter the pain on the way to his brain. But the Scotch did part of the trick.

  “Do you like the flat all right?”

  “What does it go for?” was the question, sipping.

  “Seventy dollars, thirty-five of course if you’re planning to share.”

  “Of course. What about utilities?”

  “Everything’s included but the phone, which I can leave if you cover the deposit.”

  Sure thing. “Who lives over there?” nodding, “behind those doors?”

  “Only the Rajamuttus, George and Irma. From Benares, I believe, but very nice, just the same. They drink gin and tonic all day long, with grenadine, they’ll never bother anyone.”

  Possible connections? “What’s their interest, at school, I mean?”

  “I think George is hotel administration. Factotum studies, master bartending, something of that sort.”

  Cordials at the Punjab Hilton. Pappadopoulis poured himself the last of the bottle. “I just might take it, old girl. Do I have to see real estate agents?”

  “You sublet from me. The landlord lives in the country.”

  And the mice will play?

  There came a feeble knocking at the door, Pamela calling, “Just a moment,” setting down her drink, pulling the kitty-fluff closer together. The police? An angered father? A familiar voice just the same.

 
“. . . ad in the paper; I wonder, could I look—”

  “I’m sorry, there’s a Mr. Evergood seeing it now, I believe he’s taken it.”

  “Is it Fitzgore I hear?” The carrot-red hair and freckled nose peering around the door, going pale with shock.

  “Sweet Jesus Christ.”

  “Come on in, man.”

  “But you’re dead! Frozen up north someplace. God above, Paps.”

  “I’m resurrected is all. And choose your words, paps are the dugs of an old crone.”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Is there any gin in that other bottle, Pam, for this thin-blooded cabbage? Come sit in my new pad, sport, look around.” He stood and shook the tentative hand, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder, guiding him to one of the wicker chairs, where he collapsed with a half smile.

  “Wow, no kidding, what a hell of a noise. There was even some Grand Canyon story, but you were spotted in Las Vegas.”

  “Only heat exhaustion, man, searching for sun gods at Phantom Ranch. Have you met Pamela here?”

  Fitzgore gave a desultory nod and took the offered drink, looking curiously at its cherry-soda color. “Grenadine,” she explained. “A custom in Benares.”

  “And San Francisco Bay, they said—”

  “That was the cop who saved me. He lost a leg to a hammerhead shark; crushing irony, rescued by the law.”

  “Mother of God.”

  “Hardly deified. A fuzz like all fuzz. They gave him a ribbon, a Mickey Mouse stamp, I can’t remember. Where’s Oeuf, anyway?”

  “Recuperating from mono in the infirm. There was some rumor about the clap, too.”

  “No imagination, Oeuf. We’ve got to visit him, though. Drink up your gin, we’ll tour the campus.”