As Far as You Can Go (23 page)

“You can kick an old tin can, kick it as hard as you like, really knock it around, dent it. But it won’t respond. And your mind wants something that responds; even if it’s only a white-faced, frightened, mean little response, it’s something. You can get a real kick out of making someone mad at you. And you can despise him, that’s good, too. But you can’t despise a thing, not properly. A thing is smug, effortlessly smug, right? So you can smash it, or tear it up or something. But that’s no good. Smashing it, you kill it. And you don’t want to kill your enemy, you want to make him suffer, you want to watch him in pain, you want to humiliate him. You want to see him grovelling, right? If you kill him he beats you, because he’s dead, and the dead don’t make any response. Like the way the Jews beat Hitler. The more he killed, the more he hated them, right? You gotta have a live person to hate. But you can’t get any response out of a thing, the more you kick around that old tin can, the more it laughs in the toe of your boot, because it can’t feel, it can’t be hurt. Take money. You can burn all your dollar bills because you hate money. I hate it, I really hate the stuff. But you haven’t hurt it by burning it, you’ve only hurt yourself, right? A couple of days later you’re stealing the stuff to buy food. And food, that’s another thing. You need it all the time, and it knows it, it laughs in your face because it knows you have to have it. I hate it, I hate the idea of it.”

“But you have to eat,” said Diane.

“Oh, sure, you have to eat. You know what I think of sometimes? I think of the real human being that there’s going to
be in a million years or so. The real self-sufficient
man, who doesn’t need money, because he doesn’t need
anything
else, doesn’t need food, doesn’t need a car or gas. That’s the real superman, the guy who needs nothing, but nothing. Did you ever read Nietzsche?”

“Never,” said Harold.

“Well, don’t waste your time. He’s all wrong. The real superman, he’s the guy who depends on no one but himself, on no one and nothing. He just is. You get it?”

“What does he do for a sex-life?” said Diane.

“He’s got himself. Did you ever read Plato? The
Sym
posium
?”

“Yes,” said Harold. He was amused. “Did you?”

“Sure I did. You remember there’s a guy in that who gets up and says about the people, way back, at the beginning of things, who got cut in half, right? And that’s what human beings are, looking around for their other half all the time? Well, that’s how it’ll be with the superman. He’ll be back with his other half. It’ll be sex all the time, permanent copulation.”

Diane laughed. “You have the craziest friend, Harold.”

“But don’t you see that’ll be it, the millennium and all that jazz? No one will want anything at all? Peace on earth?”

“I’d say,” said Harold, “that it was a real swinging idea.”

“Far out,” said Diane, still laughing.

“What do we do now, though?” said Harold.

“We mess around. You know why there are so many queers about these days? Because the race is beginning to get the idea. If we were all cut in half, way back there at the beginning, we’ve got to be looking for somebody of the same sex, right?”

“I don’t see why,” said Harold.

“Read Plato, you’ll see O.K. And men and women, and having kids and all that, that’s to keep the world going while we get back to the original state. Once we’ve formed up again with our twins, no more fucking.”

Diane laughed again, though a little uneasily, Harold thought. He didn’t like the idea himself, come to that. Eddie had finished, though, for the time being. He was sitting back on the seat with his arms folded, looking a little like Napoleon after a victory. Harold put his hand on Diane’s knee.

“You sure are crazy,” she said. “If I had ideas like that, Eddie, I’d be inside, and glad of it.”

“Everyone is inside,” said Eddie solemnly. “We are all inside and can’t ever get out because we can’t find our twins. We’re inside ourselves. For true liberty, we have to get out. But the only way we can get out is for our twins to unlock the doors. And we’re not ready for that, yet, physiologically.”

“Did you ever go to college, Eddie?” said Harold.

“Sure, off and on. They didn’t like the way I read the books, though. Thought I might take them seriously or something. You aren’t supposed to do that. You’re supposed to say what’s wrong with them.”

“That’s American education for you,” said Diane.

Harold hadn’t really been listening. He was thinking of nothing, letting Eddie’s words, the crazy swirl of fantasies, drift by, enjoying being alive with Diane beside him.

“You know,” he said, “being Americans, you can’t either of you appreciate what an education America is. When I was driving west I spent quite a few days in the desert. There’s nothing like a few days in the desert for
understanding
things.”

“What sort of things, honey?”

“Well—I had a lot of great thoughts about man and nature. Things like that. When you live in a tiny little island with an equable climate, you don’t really have any idea of what the world is actually like.”

“And you’re learning, huh?” said Eddie. He was grinning broadly. “Jesus, I always said all you had to do with an Englishman was to steal his umbrella, and then there was a real man underneath it after all.”

“I’ve learnt a kind of freedom,” said Harold seriously. “It’s something you can only learn from being in a vast country. And with the freedom, you learn a sort of
responsibility
.”

“Honey,” said Diane, “I just love you when you’re all serious.”

“I am, too,” he said. “You know what having travelled in this country, and having met you, and your grandmother, too, have taught me? That you have to be responsible to yourself. You have to do what
you
want, or there’s no point in doing anything. It’s not being selfish, really. Selfishness is different. What I mean is more a question of being tough, of knowing when to say ‘no’, of refusing to be dragged down to the tedious ordinary way people carry on. You can’t learn that in a small country. Or it takes longer to learn. Because there isn’t the sense of being free to get up and go—to Alaska or Florida or wherever you like. You see, when you have that sense of freedom, you have to know where you’re going and why, or you just drift.”

“That’s right,” said Eddie, “that’s absolutely correct.”

“And I’ve been drifting all my life. I drifted until this afternoon, Diane. And then, a simple thing, just the way your grandmother snapped that lock, it made me see. It made me want something—it made me want to defeat her, to do what I’m paid for doing, but
for
my
own
sake.
Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t be cruel about it, Harold.”

“What happened this afternoon?” said Eddie.

“I stopped drifting,” said Harold. “Do you ever go into the desert, Eddie?”

“Me? No, not if I can help it. I don’t like things. The desert is all things. I don’t mind it’s not being fertile—I hate the whole nature business. But I like to be around people.”

“You
are
sick, Eddie,” said Diane. “How can you be against, just
against,
nature? That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s the way I am,” said Eddie.

“Where are you from, anyway?”

“I was born in Bellingham, Washington, ma’am, and I’ve raised myself and a lot of dust the wide world over. I’m what the blues singers call a travellin’ man.”

“Let’s go to the desert one day, Diane,” said Harold.

“O.K.,” she said. If her meekness hadn’t been so glorious, it might have been suspicious.

They came into Santa Monica, without noticing any
difference
between it and the previous suburb with which it merged. After a while, though, the houses became bigger, and Diane directed Harold to stop in front of a pleasant wooden house in the slightly incongruous style of New England. It had a long porch, and even two rocking-chairs.

“Is this the place?” said Eddie. “I never saw it by
daylight
before. I only came here once. That was last night.”

“You’re full of surprises,” said Diane.

A man came out of the house and waved at them as they got out of the car.

“That’s Pedro,” said Diane. “Hi, Pedro.”

“Hi, Diane. Hi, weren’t you here last night? What’s your name?”

“Eddie.”

“That’s
right,
Eddie. That was quite a party. We must do it again some time. Hi, who are you?”

“This is Harold Barlow, Pedro. Harold, Pedro Flamenco. It is Flamenco, isn’t it?”

“Diane, you’re a wicked girl, spreading horrid rumours about my past. I was in show business, but I was never,
never,
a dancer. Oh, Henry, here are some people.”

Henry Washburn wasn’t as bad as Harold was expecting. There was no sign of make-up, and he had close-cropped hair and blue eyes and looked little over Eddie’s dividing line. He was wearing a grey suit with a white shirt and a bow-tie that was perfectly all right, green with little grey spots. Rather smart, in fact.

He shook Harold’s hand, kissed Diane, said “Hi, Eddie”, and “Pedro, why don’t you fix us all a drink?” Pedro went off to fix the drinks after asking what they all wanted, and they settled in the chairs on the porch.

“I understand you’re interested in my mother’s little miniature,” said Henry to Harold. “It’s very pretty, isn’t it? I’ve often wondered whether it’s a Hilliard.”

Harold wondered whether or not he should tell him it was, or at least that the Dangerfields were convinced that it was. There didn’t seem anything to lose by being honest at this stage of things.

“It is generally thought to be a Hilliard,” he said. “The Dangerfields always thought it was, and wherever it’s been in a sale-room, it’s always been labelled as one.”

“Is that so?” said Henry Washburn. “I’m afraid I know very little about these things. Why are you so interested in it, Mr Barlow, if I may ask? My mother told me quite a lot, but she was rather garbled. She is getting on, isn’t she?”

“She’s a very remarkable woman,” said Harold. Then he told Washburn the story of the miniature. He left nothing out, and he didn’t embroider. Eddie listened raptly, and said, at the end, “Man, he must have been quite a kid.”

“Naturally,” said Harold, “any family would be anxious to get back such an interesting heirloom. And Mr Danger field is very conscious of his family history.”

“Is that so?” said Washburn. “That’s a mighty interesting story you told me, Mr Barlow.”

“I understand from Eddie that you were anxious to meet me, though there was no difficulty. I am often in San Domingo Canyon. Diane and I see quite a lot of each other.”

“So I understand. I wonder if you and I could have a couple of words together in private, Mr Barlow? Will you excuse us, Diane? Here’s Pedro with the drinks. We’ll take ours in. Keep everyone happy for a moment, will you, Pedro?”

He led the way into the house and Harold saw nothing unusual about the furnishings. He was beginning to feel rather let down about Uncle Henry. He was taken into a large room with a low ceiling: it seemed in rather a mess.

“Excuse this,” said Washburn, waving his hand at the cushions lying on the floor. “We had a little party here last night. You should have been here, Mr Barlow.”

Harold said nothing. He wondered what Diane was
thinking
out on the porch.

“What was it you wanted to see me about, Mr
Washburn
?”

“You must excuse my bringing you in here,” he said, “but that Eddie Jackson, he’s not exactly a clam, is he? And I don’t want what I’m going to say to you broadcast over the whole of L.A.”

“Look, Mr Washburn, if it’s Diane you don’t want to overhear what you’re going to say, I may as well tell you I shall keep nothing from her.”

“The reason I didn’t want to meet you in San Domingo Canyon, Mr Barlow, is quite simple, and you can tell Diane if you want. But let me ask you a question. How much do you know about my family?”

“Enough.”

“O.K. Then you know I’m Mr Blue Eyes with my mother?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Well, Harold—may I call you Harold?—if you know that, then you also know that for my mother to sell anything she doesn’t want to sell is right out of the question.”

“It seems so, yes.”

“But I, Harold, I can get anything I want out of my mother. And—well, how much are you willing to pay? I don’t like talking about money.”

Harold thought for a moment, then he said, “I shall have to consider this, Mr Washburn.”

“Henry, please.”

“I think that any sum I may offer will surprise you. But first I must ask Diane. Can I come and see you again when I’ve thought about it?”

“You can have as much time as you like, Harold.”

“There’s one other thing. I take it you don’t have any particular wish to keep the miniature—it doesn’t have any sentimental attachment for you?”

“That is so.”

“Well, let me be blunt. Supposing your way doesn’t work—your mother may well be suspicious, since she knows that I am after the picture. She may find it rather odd that you suddenly have an interest in it. Now, your mother can’t live for ever, can she? She will almost certainly leave the
miniature
to you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t wish to discuss that,” said Washburn. He had gone rather pale, in spite of his suntan. “Please don’t ever mention the subject again.” He tried to smile. “You may think it odd, Harold, but I am deeply devoted to my mother.”

Harold looked at him, he looked at the floor. There was a silence.

“I beg your pardon,” said Harold.

“That’s quite all right. Shall we go and join the others?”

“Yes, let’s.”

As they left the room Harold noticed a large framed
photograph
on a table. It was of Henry Washburn as a much younger man, with an older man and woman. Washburn had certainly been handsome in his youth.

“My mother and father and myself,” said Washburn. “Twenty years ago. My father is dead, but things don’t change much.”

Harold wondered what he meant, then looked again at the photograph. Mrs Washburn’s hand was on her son’s shoulder, and her husband was standing quite apart from them.