Bagombo Snuff Box (23 page)

“Yeah, yeah—sure,” said Harry, his mind elsewhere.

“You knew what you wanted, and you got it, didn’t you?” I
said to Celeste.

“I—” Celeste began.

“Tell me, Celeste,” I said, “what’s your life like now?
Pretty wild, I’ll bet, with the program and the nightclub appearances, publicity,
and all that.”

“It is,” said Celeste. “It’s the most—”

“It’s a lot like the industry,” said Harry. “Keep the show
moving, keep the show moving—keep the catchup moving, keep the catchup moving.

There are millions of people who take television for
granted, and there are millions of people taking catchup for granted. They want
it when they want it. It’s got to be there—and it’s got to be right. They don’t
stop to think about how it got there. They aren’t interested.” He dug his
fingers into his thighs. “But they wouldn’t get television, and they wouldn’t
get catchup if there weren’t people tearing their hearts out to get it to ‘em.”

“I liked your record of ‘Solitude’ very much, Celeste,” I
said. “The last chorus, where you—”

Harry clapped his hands together. “Sure she’s good. Hell, I
said we’d sponsor her, if the industry’d ever get together on anything.” He
rolled over and looked up at Celeste. “What’s the story on chow, Mother?” he
said. At supper, conversation strayed from one topic to another, but always
settled, like a ball in a crooked roulette wheel, on the catchup industry.

Celeste tried to bring up the problem of her investments,
but the subject, ordinarily a thriller, fizzled and sank in a sea of catchup
again and again.

“I’m making five thousand a week now,” said Celeste, “and
there are a million people ready to tell me what to do with it. But I want to
ask a friend—an old friend.”

“It all depends on what you want from your investments,” I
said. “Do you want growth? Do you want stability? Do you want a quick return in
dividends?”

“Don’t put it in the catchup industry,” said Harry. “If they
wake up, if I can wake ‘em up, OK. I’d say get in catchup and stay in catchup.
But the way things are now, you might as well sink your money in Grant’s Tomb,
for all the action you’ll get.”

“Um,” I said. “Well, Celeste, with your tax situation, I don’t
think you’d want dividends as much as you’d want growth.”

“It’s just crazy about taxes,” said Celeste. “Harry figured
out it was actually cheaper for him to work for nothing.”

“For love,” said Harry.

“What company are you with, Harry?” I said.

“I’m in a consulting capacity for the industry as a whole,”
said Harry.

The telephone rang, and a maid came in to tell Celeste that
her agent was on the line.

I was left alone with Harry, and I found it hard to think of
anything to say—anything that wouldn’t be trivial in the face of the catchup
industry’s impending collapse. .

I glanced around the room, humming nervously, and saw that
the wall behind me was covered with impressive documents, blobbed with sealing
wax, decked with ribbons, and signed with big black swirling signatures. The
documents were from every conceivable combination of human beings, all
gathered in solemn assembly to declare something nice about Celeste. She was a
beacon to youth, a promoter of Fire Prevention Week, the sweetheart of a
regiment, the television discovery of the year.

“Quite a girl,” I said.

“See how they get those things up?” said Harry. “They really
look like something, don’t they?”

“Like nonaggression pacts,” I said.

“When someone gets one of these, they think they’ve got
something— even if what it says is just plain hogwash and not even good
English. Makes ‘em feel good,” said Harry. “Makes ‘em feel important.” .-.—

“I suppose,” I said. “But all these citations are certainly
evidence of affection and respect.”

“That’s what a suggestion award should look like,” said
Harry. “It’s one of the things I’m trying to put through. When a guy in the
industry figures out a better way to do something, he ought to get some kind of
certificate, a booby-dazzler he can frame and show off.”

Celeste came back in, thrilled about something. “Honey,” she
said to Harry.

“I’m telling him about suggestion awards,” said Harry. “Will
it keep a minute?” He turned back to me. “Before you can understand a suggestion
a guy made the other day,” he said, “you’ve got to understand how catchup is
made. You start with the tomatoes out on the farms, see?”

“Honey,” said Celeste plaintively, “I hate to interrupt, but
they want me to play Dolley Madison in a movie.”

“Go ahead, if you want to,” said Harry. “If you don’t, don’t.
Now where was I?”

“Catchup,” I said.

As I left the Divine home, I found myself attacked by a
feeling of doom. Harry’s anxieties about the catchup industry had become a part
of me. An evening with Harry was like a year of solitary confinement in a
catchup vat. No man could come away without a strong opinion about catchup.

“Let’s have lunch sometime, Harry,” I said as I left. “What’s
your number at the office?”

“It’s unlisted,” said Harry. He gave me the number very reluctantly.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself.”

“People would always be calling him up to pick his brains,
if the number got around,” said Celeste.

“Good night, Celeste,” I said. “I’m glad you’re such a
success. How could you miss with that face, that voice, and the name Celeste
Divine? You didn’t have to change a thing, did you?”

“It’s just the opposite with catchup,” said Harry. “The
original catchup wasn’t anything like what we call catchup or ketchup or
catsup. The original stuff was made out of mushrooms, walnuts, and a lot of
other things. It all started in Malaya. Catchup means ‘taste’ in Malaya. Not
many people know that.”

“I certainly didn’t,” I said. “Well, good night.”

I didn’t get around to calling Harry until several weeks
later, when a prospective client, a Mr. Arthur J. Bunting, dropped into my
office shortly before noon. Mr. Bunting was a splendid old gentleman, stout,
over six feet tall, with the white mustache and fierce eyes of an old Indian
fighter.

Mr. Bunting had sold his factory, which had been in his
family for three generations, and he wanted my suggestions as to how to invest
the proceeds. His factory had been a catchup factory,

“I’ve often wondered,” I said, “how the original catchup
would go over in this country—made the way they make it in Malaya.”

A moment before, Mr. Bunting had been a sour old man, morbidly
tidying his life. Now he was radiant. “You know catchup?” he said.

“As an amateur,” I said.

“Was your family in catchup?” he said.

‘A friend,” I said.

Mr. Bunting’s face clouded over with sadness. “I and my father,”
he said hoarsely, “and my father’s father made the finest catchup this world
has ever known. Never once did we cut corners on quality.” He gave an anguished
sigh. “I’m sorry I sold out!” he said. “There’s a tragedy for someone to
write: A man sells something priceless for a price he can’t resist.”

“There’s a lot of that going on, I guess,” I said.

“Being in the catchup business was ridiculous to a lot of people,”
said Mr. Bunting. “But by glory, if everybody did his job as well as my
grandfather did, my father did, and I did, it would be a perfect world! Let me
tell you that!”

I nodded, and dialed Harry’s unlisted telephone number. “I’ve
got a friend I’d like very much to have you meet, Mr. Bunting,” I said. “I hope
he can have lunch with us.”

“Good, fine,” said Mr. Bunting. “And now the work of three
generations is in the hands of strangers,” he said.

A man with a tough voice answered the telephone. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Harry Divine, please,” I said.

“Out to lunch. Back at one,” said the man.

“Gee, that’s too bad. Mr. Bunting,” I said, hanging up, “it
would have been wonderful to get you two together.”

“Who is this person?”

“Who is he?” I said. I laughed. “Why, my friend Harry is Mr.
Catchup himself!”

Mr. Bunting looked as though he’d been shot in the belly. “Mr.
Catchup?” he said hollowly. “That’s what they used to call me. Who’s he with?”

“He’s a consultant for the whole industry,” I said.

The corners of Mr. Bunting’s mouth pulled down. “I never
even heard of him,” he said. “My word, things happen fast these days!”

As we sat down to lunch, Mr. Bunting was still very upset.

“Mr. Bunting, sir,” I said, “I was using the term ‘Mr.
Catchup’ loosely. I’m sure Harry doesn’t claim the title. I just mean that
catchup was a big thing in his life, too.”

Mr. Bunting finished his drink grimly. “New names, new
faces,” he said. “These sharp youngsters, coming up fast, still wet behind the
ears, knowing all the answers, taking over—do they know they’ve got a heritage
to respect and protect?” His voice quivered. “Or are they going to tear
everything down, without even bothering to ask why it was built that way?”

There was a stir in the restaurant. In the doorway stood
Celeste, a bird of paradise, creating a sensation.

Beside her, talking animatedly, demanding her full
attention, was Harry.

I waved to them, and they crossed the room to join us at our
table. The headwaiter escorted them, flattering the life out of Celeste. And
every face turned toward her, full of adoration.

Harry, seemingly blind to it all, was shouting at Celeste
about the catchup industry.

“You know what I said to them?” said Harry, as they reached
our table.

“No, dear,” said Celeste.

“I told them there was only one thing to do,” said Harry, “and
that was burn the whole damn catchup industry down to the ground. And next
time, when we build it, by heaven, let’s thinkl”

Mr. Bunting stood, snow white, every nerve twanging.

Uneasily I made the introductions.

“How do you do?” said Mr. Bunting.

Celeste smiled warmly. Her smile faded as Mr. Bunting looked
at Harry with naked hate.

Harry was too wound up to notice. “I am now making a historical
study of the catchup industry,” he announced, “to determine whether it never
left the Dark Ages, or whether it left and then scampered back.”

I chuckled idiotically. “Mr. Bunting, sir,” I said, “you’ve
no doubt seen Celeste on television. She’s—”

“The communications industry,” said Harry, “has reached the
point where it can send the picture of my wife through the air to forty million
homes. And the catchup industry is still bogged down, trying to lick
thixotropy.”

Mr. Bunting blew up. “Maybe the public doesn’t want
thixotropy licked!” he bellowed. “Maybe they’d rather have good catchup, and
thixotropy be damned! It’s flavor they want! It’s quality they want! Lick
thixotropy, and you’ll have some new red bilge sold under a proud old name!” He
was trembling all over.

Harry was staggered. “You know what thixotropy is?” he said.

“Of course I know!” said Bunting, furious. “And I know what
good catchup is. And I know what you are—an arrogant, enterprising,
self-serving little pipsqueak!” He turned to me. “And a man is judged by the
company he keeps. Good day!” He strode out of the restaurant, grandly.

“There were tears in his eyes,” said Celeste, bewildered.

“His life, his father’s life, and his grandfather’s life
have been devoted to catchup,” I said. “I thought Harry knew that. I thought
everybody in the industry knew who Arthur J. Bunting was.”

Harry was miserable. “I really hurt him, didn’t I?” he said.
“God knows, I didn’t want to do that.”

Celeste laid her hand on Harry’s. “You’re like Louis
Pasteur, darling,” she said. “Pasteur must have hurt the feelings of a lot of
old men, too.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Like Louis Pasteur—that’s me.”

“The old collision between youth and age,” I said.

“Big client, was he?” said Harry.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I can’t tell you how sorry. I’ll
call him up and make things right.”

“I don’t want you to say anything that will go against your
integrity, Harry,” I said. “Not on my account.”

Mr. Bunting called the next day to say that he had accepted
Harry’s apology.

“He made a clean breast of how he got into catchup,” said
Mr. Bunting, “and he promised to get out. As far as I’m concerned, the matter
is closed.”

I called up Harry immediately. “Harry, boy, listen!” I said.
“Mr. Bunting’s business isn’t that important to me. If you’re right about
catchup and the Buntings are wrong, stick with it and fight it out!”

“It’s all right,” said Harry, “I was getting sick of
catchup. I was about to move on, anyway.” He hung up. I called him back, and
was told that he had gone to lunch.

“Do you know where he’s eating?”

“Yeah, right across the street. I can see him going in.”

I got the address of the restaurant and hailed a cab.

The restaurant was a cheap, greasy diner, across the street
from a garage. I looked around for Harry for some time before realizing that he
was on a stool at the counter, watching me in the cigarette machine mirror.

He was wearing coveralls. He turned on his stool, and held
out a hand whose nails were edged in black. “Shake hands with the new birdseed
king,” he said. His grip was firm.

“Harry, you’re working as a mechanic,” I said.

“Not half an hour ago,” said Harry, “a man with a broken
fuel pump thanked God for me. Have a seat.”

“What about the catchup business?” I said.

“It saved my marriage and it saved my life,” said Harry. “I’m
grateful to the pioneers, like the Buntings, who built it.” ‘And now you’ve quit,
just like that?” I snapped my fingers.

“I was never in it,” said Harry. “Bunting has promised to
keep that to himself, and I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same.”

“But you know so much about catchup!” I said.