Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me Page 20

  “Look, man, I’m Exempt as it is. On my own. I don’t like people getting too close. Especially maniacs who want a piece of my ass for something. Now, what are you getting at, ’cause I’ve got things to do.”

  “Yes, I know. Speaking of which, how are your grades? Good, I imagine?”

  “Why?”

  “Mustn’t have you coming up before any academic review boards. They’re always good, Gnossos; your grades, I mean. It’s just that no one ever expects them to be. You have a way of giving people to think you never study, wouldn’t you say? Like your orphan syndrome.”

  “I don’t follow, man, be explicit.”

  “This quality you exude of having no parents. Who associates you with Brooklyn?”

  Gnossos put down his glass, feeling an insidious threat to identity. “Look, Oeuf, old buddy, Youngblood called me in the middle of the goddamned night to get me over here,” starting for the door, “and the whole scene is just a little too tenuous and middle class for my—”

  “The door is locked, Gnossos, from the outside. And you’re not being quite yourself.”

  “I’ll knock it down, baby.”

  “Be reasonable or unreasonable, whichever you prefer, but pay attention. You want to stay in Athené. Without the ultimate hangup of having to be in school, correct? You want Immunity. I can fix it. You want Exemption, I can fix that too. Look at the map.”

  “I’m looking. And I’m Exempt anyway, just keep it in mind.”

  “Only in a subjective sense. You’re not truly protected, you see. The important color on the flags, of course, is red. At heart I’m a traditionalist. Ex post facto, it will be changed to blue.”

  “Ex post what facto?”

  “The coup d’état. At the moment you’ll notice the coed dormitory areas, in particular the Siren group, denoted by the palest pinks. The same for Lairville. Faculty compounds, men’s dorms, downtown apartments, most fraternities—with the exception of the Southern brotherhoods—these are scarlet to vermilion in hue. The immediate concern, however, remains Lairville. It wants conversion.”

  Gnossos pushed his orange-peaked baseball cap over his eyes and absently fondled the photostat machine. “Come on, Oeuf, really. Me?” He slung his rucksack over his shoulder, as if to leave. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “The independents in Lairville hold you in high esteem. You are in a position to alter their inability to think collectively.”

  “That’s why they’re independent, man, not in the goddamned fraternities. Little anarchy action never hurt anyone. And who the hell ever figured me for the political-vanguard type, to begin with? Now no shit, give the word to whoever works that door or I’ll heave your IBM typewriter clean through it.”

  “Think of Miss Cloud.”

  The point slid in, sensibility still injured by having to rush her back at curfew, her very presence in the pad making her subject to dismissal. But there were other ways. “Leave her out of it.”

  “And Carbon. His is non compos mentis, Paps. He is going to tear down Ovid Hall.”

  “What?”

  “Ovid Hall is the testicular aesthetic extension of the tall Clock Tower. The buildings belong together. Emasculation as a policy should never be condoned. He couldn’t do it without the consent of the Architectural Advisory Committee of course, but as you know, he’s refused to reappoint them.”

  “I read that in the Sun.”

  “Youngblood’s editorial; yes, I know. I did the first draft. The architecture building, if you’ll refer to the map, is represented by a bright red flag.”

  Gnossos glanced, picked up his Metaxa, drained it, and said nothing. Oeuf pressed on:

  “Carbon has too much amour-propre. You couldn’t be expected to know, for instance, that he is about to be considered for a Cabinet post in Washington.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “Secretary of State, Gnossos, bite your tongue.”

  “Of State?”

  “Another Dulles. Now prepare yourself. Are you prepared? Susan B. Pankhurst is a Daughter of the American Revolution.”

  “No.”

  “A descendant of John Adams.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “And we all know about John Adams.”

  Gnossos sat down.

  “Should Carbon leave, for any reason—say, to accept this Cabinet position—she would become President of the university.”

  “Stop.”

  “It’s in the bylaws. There’s a copy at your elbow,” Oeuf cutting the ace of spades from the deck and showing it to Gnossos. Then speaking into the intercom again:

  “Nurse Fang. Another double Metaxa.” After putting the cards aside, he sighed deeply into the temporary silence. “Calvin Blacknesse is on our Junta. So is your composer friend Grün.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Ask them.”

  Nurse Fang entered quietly and filled Gnossos’ empty glass, adding an icecube with a pair of surgical tongs from the bucket. She touched Oeuf on the pulse, “Some of the Junta waiting to see you, sir. And I’m available for the addressograph, effective eleven hundred hours.”

  “In a moment.”

  She left, ass-bouncing, and Gnossos said, “No.”

  “No what?”

  “I still couldn’t. It’s not my scene. Too political.”

  “It’s been that way de novo, old sport.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “Miss Cloud is with us.”

  “What?”

  “So is Fitzgore. And your ace buddy Heffalump, at least until he leaves for Cuba. We will win, Gnossos, and vae victus when we do. You want a Prix de Rome? A Pulitzer Prize?”

  “What about grass? I’m only asking, mind you.”

  “We’ve got a trustee who just won the proxy fight at Sandoz.”

  “Sandoz?”

  “The lab of the same name. Largest manufacturers of synthetic mescaline in the world. You want to do research?”

  “Stop!” Gnossos jumped up and paced the carpeted floor from one wall to the other. He turned his baseball cap back to front, sideways, then forward again. Finally halting, he flicked a couple of beads on the abacus. “You’re evil shit, you know that, Oeuf?”

  “Au contraire, Gnossos, I’m doing good.” Oeuf squirmed into a sit-up position and took off his glasses. “The closed community is our refuge, our salvation. The answers to questions of immediate comfort, as you know, are valid in the microcosm as well. Nearly by definition, nicht wahr?”

  “Enough. I’m going.”

  “Think about it.”

  “I’m too busy. Goodbye. Get a streptomycin jolt, stops the dripping. Clap’s affected your mind.”

  “That’s as may be. Sholom aleicheim, Gnossos.”

  The door swung open and Nurse Fang stepped in, still wearing her pinstriped uniform. But in place of her nurse’s cap she wore a bun, which sported a number of freshly inserted pencils. She sat down at the addressograph machine without a word, efficiently inserted a tray of plates, and stepped on the starter pedal. Behind her came Judy Lumpers in a turquoise angora sweater, Drew Youngblood in white shirtsleeves, Juan Carlos Rosenbloom under an oversized Stetson, and Dean Magnolia in a wrinkled seersucker suit. “Mawnin’, Mistuh Pappadopolum,” from Magnolia with an uneasy smile.

  Gnossos could not speak. George Rajamuttu strolled behind the dean, carrying a transistor radio against his ear and a thermos jug under his arm. There were icecubes tinkling in the thermos.

  When the entire group had entered the room, Nurse Fang surprised them all by pronouncing with reverence the words:

  “Condition Red.”

  The lightbulb on the padlocked telephone was going on and off, and apparently had been doing so for some seconds. Oeuf unhooked the platinum key from the chain around his neck. He paused and transferred a pregnant glance from Gnossos to Nurse Fang, who said, “You’ll have to leave, Mr. Pappadopoulis. Sorry.”

  He was shown summarily out.

  Heffalump was w
aiting in a wheelchair in the corridor. He got up when he saw Gnossos and skipped over, checking his pocketwatch. “Hurry up, Paps, there’s not much time.”

  “Christ, what now?”

  “No chitchat, c’mon, I got the rice an’ everything.”

  “Rice?”

  “For the wedding, man.”

  The word gave a sense of appalling vertigo. The infirmary surroundings slid into an ether of madness around his senses. “Not you and Jack, man, not the dyke?”

  “Keep your cool, Paps.”

  “I don’t feel very well.”

  Heff helped him into the wheelchair and pushed him down the hall to the exit. “It’s that English chic, what’s her name? That Pamela girl.”

  “Watson-May?”

  “Yeah, we’ll just about make it. Jack’s got Fitzgore’s Impala.”

  Gnossos rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger and allowed himself to be hustled out the Victorian doors into the sunshine. The car was at the curb, top down, and Jack helped him in, smiling, asking no questions. As they pulled away he grumbled, “Maniac bitch. Told me Simon had taken the gas pipe.”

  “He did, man,” from Heff in the front seat. “This is someone else.”

  “Someone else?”

  “You haven’t heard? Fitzgore didn’t tell you?”

  “Who, goddammit?”

  “Mojo.”

  He heard the name and repronounced it softly to the space beside him, as if another Gnossos were sitting there. “Mojo.”

  “He wanted you for best man, the way I heard it, but you couldn’t be found.”

  “Mojo?”

  “He’s using that Heap kid instead.” Then, as they turned up Academae Avenue, “Come on, Jack, move it, it’s probably started by now.”

  Gnossos closed his semifeverish, guilt-heavy eyes, slid down into the ersatz leather seat, and held a forefinger cocked against his temple like a Smith & Wesson .38. He thought, just before he pulled the trigger, how

  plucked petals, by any other name

  would be as beat.

  Another one loves me not.

  Bang.

  12

  And bang again.

  One for good measure. Can’t be too careful, bullets reputed to have lodged in harmless wads of little-known tissue, fiber just adjacent to mortal veins and arteries. Wouldn’t do to have a leadlump in the temple, filling in a useless tooth. Bang bang. Bangbang bang. How many, six, seven? Mustn’t violate the unities.

  The Impala rounded the sweeping uphill entrance to the campus and braked to a jerking halt before the university Gothic of Coprolite Hall. When Jack turned off the engine they could hear the electronic harmonium, dissonant Schoenberg frequencies, metallic fifths rattling the stained-glass windows. The sun was hazy-bright, the crocuses and jonquils poked pointed heads through the freshly cut lawn. Crowds of curious students, apparently tipped off, gathered under trees for a look at the new bride and groom, eager for a glimpse at one of the epochs of mortality. But everything seemed to be over. The microbus waited at the curb like a mechanical afterthought in Mojo’s dreamy mind. The whipping scars had been inked in with red lead, the fenders and lights were decorated with white roses and little silver bells, and the happy couple was just leaving the chapel door.

  They were accompanied by a beaming Monsignor Putti and half a dozen zombi attendants. Gnossos, in his mind’s eye, seeing an arch of crossed bullwhips.

  “Goddamn,” said Jack, “we missed it.”

  “I’ve got lentils,” from Heff, “in case you don’t dig rice.”

  Gnossos glared at them, his instincts receiving a number of unmistakably aggressive impulses. “You got any rocks?”

  “Bitter,” said Jack casually, “mustn’t be bitter.”

  There was a sudden, collective indrawn hush as the ensemble reached the car and Pamela, in ivory silk, freed her throwing-arm of confining lace. She was holding a bridal spray of St.-John’s-worts and about to fling. Flashbulbs popped. She paused, then tossed the flowers high into the air. A collective “Ooooooo” of approval as they tumbled over and over, almost in slow motion, arching above knots of hopeful fingers, sailing through the warm breeze, down toward the open Impala. Gnossos watched horrified as they plopped into his lap, petals popping loose like butterflies. “Ahhh,” said the crowd, endorsing.

  Pamela recognized him. She whispered something to Mojo, then waved and giggled insanely before turning and skipping away. Heap was right behind, rolling up the bridal train, donning a chauffeur’s cap. He ushered everyone into the microbus with an extraordinary lack of confusion, then leaned on the horn. A few people cheered, tin cans clattered, Heffalump threw his lentils with a shrug, and the machine eased casually away from the curb. Two of Proctor Slug’s motorcycle campus police met them at the corner and led them away down the hill, sirens wailing.

  Gnossos, a little daffy, looked at the spray of St.-John’s-worts. He felt a breed of sugary nausea enveloping his sensibilities, nearly as if he’d eaten a porridge of sweetmeats and custard while looking at French postcards. The crowd on the lawn continued waving, and Jack and Heff turned around and asked together: “Where to, sport?”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. What could one say? “Fresh air, babies. My tubes need cleansing.”

  “How about a Dairy Queen?” from Jack. And if he could, he would have poached her with his stare.

  As they drove along Harpy Creek, Heff finally whistled and said, “All that money. Wow.”

  “Just think of it,” from Jack, accelerating. “You’d need a Univac.”

  There was a full minute’s silence. Then Gnossos asked, “All what money?”

  “Really out of the question, when you give it a little thought.” She was coming out of a curve and couldn’t hear with the top down.

  Gnossos was busy stuffing flowers into the rucksack, his hair whipping in the wind. “What money?” he tried again, louder.

  “Real spooky,” said Heff, who also couldn’t hear. “Like bread was the only thing keeping him in the small time. He’s really home-free.”

  “Where’ll they go?” asked Jack.

  “Fitzgore figured Monaco,” from Heff, while Gnossos moaned and pounded his knees. “No tax problems, close to international borders, easy access to Switzerland, mountain hideouts, all like that.”

  Gnossos controlled the tantrum, waited for Jack to brake, going into a curve, then leaned over the front seat between them and screamed, “What money, goddammit?!”

  Heff looked back. “Her oil bread, man. What do you mean ‘what money’?”

  “Her oil bread,” repeated Gnossos weakly.

  “Didn’t Fitzgore tell you? He introduced them, you know.”

  Silence.

  “The Watson-May Holdings,” explained Jack, accelerating again. “She’s the only heir.”

  “Heiress,” corrected Heff.

  “Eighty billion dollars,” from Jack.

  “Something like that,” from Heff. “In gold.”

  “Think of it,” from Jack.

  Gnossos near collapse on the floor of the back seat, his fingers kneading the almost moneyless rucksack, musing idiotically to himself:

  I’m thinking.

  Boy, am I thinking.

  13

  Still, he was in love.

  And love was a consolation. Like a sideshow panacea for symptomatic ills, it soothed anxiety, pain, and doubt; eased fear and insomnia, purged the more accessible demons, and apparently acted as a mild laxative. Above mach 1, of course, control systems were likely to reverse. Anxiety might come clawing back on six prickly legs, pain might return with a prodigal scream to the inner ear, fanged demons might drop from the darkness, doubt might creep whispering from a mildewed closet, insomnia might collapse weeping between his eyes, constipation might close insidiously in. But speeds were still relatively moderate and Gnossos liked it down where he could hear the sound of his own exhaust.

  Dreaming, but still tangibly aware of the Epiphanal Defloration to co
me, he wandered in the country alone. The Impala had long since continued to the Dairy Queen without him, and he walked along the swollen, puffy mudbanks of Harpy Creek. In the air were odors of increase. In the wind were sounds of narcosis. He continued on an invisible arc of magnetic flux, more ionized than he had a mind to be, until he found the swampy, stump-punctuated acreage behind the Blacknesse house. Even with the bright sun above, the land was somber and chilly under the pines, and one of the stumps turned out to be not a stump but Calvin Blacknesse in the full lotus. He was under a tree, gazing at nothing, his eyes turned over in his brooding head. The creek, still charging from the thaw, roared and gurgled twenty feet below, carrying branches, bits of spongy sod, erosion, and stone. Gnossos approached him quietly, tired from his walk, not wanting to disturb, but there was no reaction. He sat down nearby and ate a flower, waiting. In a while, the silence of the surroundings was overwhelming.

  “Calvin,” he tried.

  But in his trance Blacknesse failed to answer. A small circular weight was attached by cord to his head. It pressed against his brow where the third eye would be. His fingers were formed in graceful loops and ellipses, palms up, and he made a humming sound. This sound was in harmony with the extraordinary silence, it was the frequency of a thousand insect wings. When Gnossos looked, there were bees and wasps falling from the buds, dropping stunned out of the sky, winging dizzily from an infinity of directions. They swarmed and collided, they bumped pleasantly together, they swam in the modulation of their own flight, they hovered in a fluid dance until Blacknesse broke off with a sudden shriek. Then they scattered and vanished. Two eyes came leisurely open.

  “No,” he said, his fingers making circles of the ellipses. “It is not right.”

  Gnossos leaned forward, his mouth hanging open, to ask what. But Calvin’s eyes had again revolved and the blind whites stared at nothing.

  Another sound commenced, a chirping inflection, a feathered clack. The head rolled slightly, describing small curves, and Gnossos feared (but only remotely) for the man’s sanity. Then two kingfishers came, answering the sudden call. They whirled about one another, they spun as if hinged to some common center, fluttering on the circumference of an invisible pinwheel. Before they could be drawn to the vortex, Calvin’s voice faltered and broke. The birds dropped like stones into the rushing creek, splashed furiously, then rose with gleaming fishes wiggling in their beaks.