All of Us (13 page)

First thing to do in Zurich

is take the No. 5 “Zoo” trolley

to the end of the track,

and get off. Been warned about

the lions. How their roars

carry over from the zoo compound

to the Flutern Cemetery.

Where I walk along

the very beautiful path

to James Joyce’s grave.

Always the family man, he’s here

with his wife, Nora, of course.

And his son, Giorgio,

who died a few years ago.

Lucia, his daughter, his sorrow,

still alive, still confined

in an institution for the insane.

When she was brought the news

of her father’s death, she said:

What is he doing under the ground, that idiot?

When will he decide to come out?

He’s watching us all the time.

I lingered a while. I think

I said something aloud to Mr Joyce.

I must have. I know I must have.

But I don’t recall what,

now, and I’ll have to leave it at that.

A week later to the day, we depart

Zurich by train for Lucerne.

But early that morning I take

the No. 5 trolley once more

to the end of the line.

The roar of the lions falls over

the cemetery, as before.

The grass has been cut.

I sit on it for a while and smoke.

Just feels good to be there,

close to the grave. I didn’t

have to say anything this time.

That night we gambled at the tables

at the Grand Hotel-Casino

on the very shore of Lake Lucerne.

Took in a strip show later.

But what to do with the memory

of that grave that came to me

in the midst of the show,

under the muted, pink stage light?

Nothing to do about it.

Or about the desire that came later,

crowding everything else out,

like a wave.

Still later, we sat on a bench

under some linden trees, under stars.

Made love with each other.

Reaching into each other’s clothes for it.

The lake a few steps away.

Afterwards, dipped our hands

into the cold water.

Then walked back to our hotel,

happy and tired, ready to sleep

for eight hours.

All of us, all of us, all of us

trying to save

our immortal souls, some ways

seemingly more round-

about and mysterious

than others. We’re having

a good time here. But hope

all will be revealed soon.

Shortly after three p.m. today a squall

hit the calm waters of the Strait.

A black cloud moving fast,

carrying rain, driven by high winds.

The water rose up and turned white.

Then, in five minutes, was as before —

blue and most remarkable, with just

a little chop. It occurs to me

it was this kind of squall

that came upon Shelley and his friend,

Williams, in the Gulf of Spezia, on

an otherwise fine day. There they were,

running ahead of a smart breeze,

wind-jamming, crying out to each other,

I want to think, in sheer exuberance.

In Shelley’s jacket pockets, Keats’s poems,

and a volume of Sophocles!

Then something like smoke on the water.

A black cloud moving fast,

carrying rain, driven by high winds.

Black cloud

hastening along the end

of the first romantic period

in English poetry.

A crow flew into the tree outside my window.

It was not Ted Hughes’s crow, or Galway’s crow.

Or Frost’s, Pasternak’s, or Lorca’s crow.

Or one of Homer’s crows, stuffed with gore,

after the battle. This was just a crow.

That never fit in anywhere in its life,

or did anything worth mentioning.

It sat there on the branch for a few minutes.

Then picked up and flew beautifully

out of my life.

Last night, alone, 3000 miles away from the one

I love, I turned the radio on to some jazz

and made a huge bowl of popcorn

with lots of salt on it. Poured butter over it.

Turned out the lights and sat in a chair

in front of the window with the popcorn and

a can of Coke. Forgot everything important

in the world while I ate popcorn and looked out

at a heavy sea, and the lights of town.

The popcorn runny with butter, covered with

salt. I ate it up until there was nothing

left except a few Old Maids. Then

washed my hands. Smoked a couple more cigarettes

while I listened to the beat of the little

music that was left. Things had quieted way down,

though the sea was still running. Wind gave

the house a last shake when I rose

and took three steps, turned, took three more steps, turned.

Then I went to bed and slept wonderfully,

as always. My God, what a life!

But I thought I should explain, leave a note anyhow,

about this mess in the living room

and what went on here last night. Just in case

my
lights went out, and I keeled over.

Yes, there was a party here last night.

And the radio’s still on. Okay.

But if I die today, I die happy—thinking

of my sweetheart, and of that last popcorn.

After rainy days and the same serious doubts —

strange to walk past the golf course,

sun overhead, men putting, or teeing, whatever

they do on those green links. To the river that flows

past the clubhouse. Expensive houses on either side

of the river, a dog barking at this kid

who revs his motorcycle. To see a man fighting

a large salmon in the water just below

the footbridge. Where a couple of joggers have stopped

to watch. Never in my life have I seen anything

like this! Stay with him, I think, breaking

into a run. For Christ’s sake, man, hold on!

Talking about myself all day

brought back

something I thought over and

done with. What I’d felt

for Maryann—Anna, she calls

herself now—all those years.

I went to draw a glass of water.

Stood at the window for a time.

When I came back

we passed easily to the next thing.

Went on with my life. But

that memory entering like a spike.

We were five at the craps table

not counting the croupier

and his assistant. The man

next to me had the dice

cupped in his hand.

He blew on his fingers, said

Come
on
, baby! And leaned

over the table to throw.

At that moment, bright blood rushed

from his nose, spattering

the green felt cloth. He dropped

the dice. Stepped back amazed.

And then terrified as blood

ran down his shirt. God,

what’s happening to me?

he cried. Took hold of my arm.

I heard Death’s engines turning.

But I was young at the time,

and drunk, and wanted to play.

I didn’t have to listen.

So I walked away. Didn’t turn back, ever,

or find this in my head, until today.

Cigarette smoke hanging on

in the living room. The ship’s lights

out on the water, dimming. The stars

burning holes in the sky. Becoming ash, yes.

But it’s all right, they’re supposed to do that.

Those lights we call stars.

Burn for a time and then die.

Me hell-bent. Wishing

it were tomorrow already.

I remember my mother, God love her,

saying, Don’t wish for tomorrow.

You’re wishing your life away.

Nevertheless, I wish

for tomorrow. In all its finery.

I want sleep to come and go, smoothly.

Like passing out of the door of one car

into another. And then to wake up!

Find tomorrow in my bedroom.

I’m more tired now than I can say.

My bowl is empty. But it’s my bowl, you see,

and I love it.

Woke up early this morning and from my bed

looked far across the Strait to see

a small boat moving through the choppy water,

a single running light on. Remembered

my friend who used to shout

his dead wife’s name from hilltops

around Perugia. Who set a plate

for her at his simple table long after

she was gone. And opened the windows

so she could have fresh air. Such display

I found embarrassing. So did his other

friends. I couldn’t see it.

Not until this morning.

I’m trying again. A man has to begin

over and over—to try to think and feel

only in a very limited field, the house

on the street, the man at the corner drug store.

—
SHERWOOD ANDERSON
,
FROM A LETTER

Anderson, I thought of you when I loitered

in front of the drug store this afternoon.

Held onto my hat in the wind and looked down

the street for my boyhood. Remembered my dad

taking me to get haircuts —

that rack of antlers mounted on a wall

next to the calendar picture of a rainbow

trout leaping clear of the water

with a hook in its jaw. My mother.

How she went with me to pick out

school clothes. That part embarrassing

because I needed to shop in men’s wear

for man-sized pants and shirts.

Nobody, then, who could love me,

the fattest kid on the block, except my parents.

So I quit looking and went inside.

Had a Coke at the soda fountain

where I gave some thought to betrayal.

How that part always came easy.

It was what came after that was hard.

I didn’t think about you anymore, Anderson.

You’d come and gone in an instant.

But I remembered, there at the fountain,

Harley’s swans. How they got there

I don’t know. But one morning he was taking

his school bus along a country road

when he came across 21 of them just down

from Canada. Out on this pond

in a farmer’s field. He brought his school bus

to a stop, and then he and his grade-schoolers

just looked at them for a while and felt good.

I finished the Coke and drove home.

It was almost dark now. The house

quiet and empty. The way

I always thought I wanted it to be.

The wind blew hard all day.

Blew everything away, or nearly.

But still this feeling of shame and loss.

Even though the wind ought to lay now

and the moon come out soon, if this is

anything like the other nights.

I’m here in the house. And I want to try again.

You, of all people, Anderson, can understand.

Everyone else sleeping when I step

to the door of our tent. Overhead,

stars brighter than stars ever were

in my life. And farther away.

The November moon driving

a few dark clouds over the valley.

The Olympic Range beyond.

I believed I could smell the snow that was coming.

Our horses feeding inside

the little rope corral we’d thrown up.

From the side of the hill the sound

of spring water. Our spring water.

Wind passing in the tops of the fir trees.

I’d never smelled a forest before that

night, either. Remembered reading how

Henry Hudson and his sailors smelled

the forests of the New World

from miles out at sea. And then the next thought —

I could gladly live the rest of my life

and never pick up another book.

I looked at my hands in the moonlight

and understood there wasn’t a man,

woman, or child I could lift a finger

for that night. I turned back and lay

down then in my sleeping bag.

But my eyes wouldn’t close.

The next day I found cougar scat

and elk droppings. But though I rode

a horse all over that country,

up and down hills, through clouds

and along old logging roads,

I never saw an elk. Which was

fine by me. Still, I was ready.

Lost to everyone, a rifle strapped

to my shoulder. I think maybe

I could have killed one.

Would have shot at one, anyway.

Aimed just where I’d been told —

behind the shoulder at the heart

and lungs. “They might run,

but they won’t run far.

Look at it this way,” my friend said.

“How far would you run with a piece

of lead in your heart?” That depends,

my friend. That depends. But that day

I could have pulled the trigger

on anything. Or not.

Nothing mattered anymore

except getting back to camp

before dark. Wonderful

to live this way! Where nothing

mattered more than anything else.

I saw myself through and through.

And I understood something, too,

as my life flew back to me there in the woods.

And then we packed out. Where the first

thing I did was take a hot bath.

And then reach for this book.

Grow cold and unrelenting once more.

Heartless. Every nerve alert.

Ready to kill, or not.