Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (43 page)

In the art of resuscitation he was a master. Touching anything
that smacked of death, he came alive. Everything filtered through to him
from the tomb in which it was buried. He had only to wave his wand to create the semblance of
life. But, as with all sorcery, even the most poetic, the end was always dust and ashes. For
Moricand the past was rarely a living past; it was a morgue which at best could be made to
resemble a museum. Even his description of the living was but a cataloguing of museum pieces.
There was no distinction in his enthusiasms between that which is and that which was. Time was
his medium. A deathless medium which had no relation to life.

It is said that Capricorns get on well together, presumably because they have
so much in common. It is my own belief that there are more divergences among these earth-bound
creatures, that they have more difficulty understanding one another, than is the case with
other types. Mutual understanding between Capricorns is more a surface agreement, a truce, so
to speak, than anything else. At home in the depths or on the heights, seldom inhabiting any
region for long, they have more kinship with the roc and the leviathan than with one another.
What they do understand, perhaps, is that their differences are altitudinal, due primarily to
shifts of position. Capable of running the whole gamut, it is easy for them to identify as you
or me. This is their bond and explains their ability to forgive but never to forget. They
forget nothing, ever. Their memory is phantasmagorical. They remember not only their personal,
human tribulations, but their prehuman and subhuman ones as well. They can slither back into
the protoplasmic slime with the ease of eels slipping through mud. They also carry
remembrances of higher spheres, of seraphic states, as if they had known long periods of
liberation from earthly thralls, as if the very language of the seraphim were familiar to
them. Indeed, one might almost say of them that it is earthly existence to which they, the
earth-bound, are of all types least suited. To them the earth is not only a prison, a
purgatory, a place of expiation but it is also a cocoon from which they will eventually escape
equipped with indestructible wings. Hence their mediumship, their
ability and desire to practice acceptance, their extraordinary readiness for conversion. They
enter the world like visitors destined for another planet, another sphere. Their attitude is
one of having a last look around, of perpetually bidding good-bye to all that is terrestrial.
They imbibe the very essence of the earth, and in doing so prepare the new body, the new form,
in which they will take leave of earth forever. They die innumerable deaths whereas others die
but once. Hence their immunity to life
or
death. Their true locus is the heart of
mystery. There all is clear to them. There they live apart, spin their dreams, and are “at
home.”

He was hardly with us more than a week when he called me to his cell one day
for a “consultation.” It was about the uses of codeine. Beginning with a long preamble about
his sufferings and privations since the year one, he ended with a brief account of the
nightmare he had lived through during his recent sojourn in Switzerland. Though he was a Swiss
citizen, Switzerland was not his country, not his climate, not his bowl of soup. After all the
humiliations he had suffered during the war (the second one) came even worse ones which the
unfeeling Swiss had imposed. All this by way of leading up to the seven-year itch. He paused
to roll up his trousers. I was horrified. His legs were nothing but a mass of sores. There was
no need to dwell further on the subject.

Now if he could only get a little codeine, he explained, it would help to calm
his nerves, allow him to get some sleep at least, even though it could not cure the itch.
Wouldn’t I try to get some for him, perhaps tomorrow when I went to town? I said I would.

I had never used codeine or any drug that puts one to sleep or wakes one up. I
had no idea that codeine could only be had by doctor’s prescription. It was the druggist who
informed me of this. Not wishing to disappoint Moricand, I called on two doctors I knew to ask
if they would furnish me with the necessary prescription. They refused.

When I informed Moricand of the situation he was almost
beside himself. He acted as if there were a conspiracy on the part of American physicians to
keep him in misery. “How absurd!” he cried. “Even in Switzerland it’s sold openly. I would
have more chance, I suppose, if I asked for cocaine or opium.”

Another day or two passed, during which time he got no sleep at all. Then
another consultation. This time to inform me that he had thought of a way out. Very simple,
too. He would write to his druggist in Switzerland and ask him to mail him the codeine in very
small particles. I explained to him that such importation would be illegal, no matter how
small the quantity. I explained further that he would be incriminating me too should he do
such a thing.

“What a country! What a country!” he exclaimed, raising his hands
heavenward.

“Why don’t you try the baths again?” I suggested. He promised he would. He
said it as if I had requested him to swallow a dose of castor oil.

As I was about to leave he showed me a letter which he had just received from
his landlady. It was about the bill he owed and my failure to keep my promise. I had
completely forgotten about her and her bloody bill.

We never had any money in the bank, but I did have a few bills in my pocket. I
fished them out. “Maybe this will quiet her for a while,” I said, laying them on his
table.

About a week later he called me to his room again. He was holding an envelope
in his hand which he had just opened. He wanted me to look at the contents. It was a letter
from his Swiss druggist say that he was happy to be of service. I looked up and saw the tiny
pellets which he was holding in the palm of his hand.

“You see,” he said, “there is always a way.”

I was furious but tongue-tied. I could not deny that, were the situation
reversed, I would probably have done the same. He was desperate, that was obvious. Besides,
the baths had been no help.
They had aggravated his condition, if I was
to believe him. At any rate, he was through with the baths: they were poison to his
system.

Now that he had what he needed he took to roaming the forest regularly. Good,
thought I, he needs the exercise. But he overdid it; the excessive walking made his blood
boil. From another standpoint these excursions did him good. The forest bequeathed something
which his Swiss spirit demanded. He always returned from his walks elated and physically
exhausted. “Tonight,” he would say, “I should be able to sleep without taking any pills.”

He deceived himself. The itching grew worse. He continued to scratch himself
furiously, even in deep slumber. The itch had traveled too. Now it had attacked his arms. Soon
it would devastate his whole body, all but his genitals.

There were remissions, of course. If guests arrived, particularly
French-speaking guests, his morale improved overnight. Or if he received a letter from a dear
friend who was still doing a stretch in prison because of his activities during the
Occupation. Sometimes an exceptionally good dinner was sufficient to change his mood for a day
or two. The itching never ceased, apparently, but the scratching might be halted for a
while.

As the days passed, he became more and more aware that I was a person upon
whom it gave people pleasure to shower gifts. With the mail there came packages containing all
manner of things. What astounded Moricand was that they were usually the very things we were
in need of. If we ran out of wine a friend was sure to turn up with an armful of excellent
bottles; if I needed wood, a neighbor would appear with the gift of a load of wood, enough to
last several months. Books and magazines, of course, poured in steadily. Now and then I would
receive postage stamps, whole sheets of them. Only money failed to pour in. That always came
in a trickle, a trickle which often dried up altogether.

It was with a falcon’s eye that Moricand eyed this steady influx of gifts. As
for the steady flow of visitors, even the bores, the time
wasters, he
observed, were instrumental in lightening our burdens. “It’s altogether natural,” he would
say. “It’s there in your horoscope. Even when Jupiter deserts you at times you are never left
unprotected. Besides, with
you
misfortune only works to your ultimate advantage. You
can’t possibly lose!”

I never dreamed of responding to such remarks by pointing out the struggles
and the sacrifices I had made throughout my life. But to myself I would say: “It’s one thing
for ‘it’ to be in your horoscope; it’s another to make it manifest.”

One thing seemed to escape his notice entirely—the favors, the services which
my friends were constantly rendering him. He had not the slightest notion how much everyone
was concerned for his welfare. He behaved as if it were all a matter of course, now that he
was in the land of plenty. Americans were like that, naturally kind and generous, don’t you
know. They had no grave problems to worry about They were born lucky, the gods looked after
them. A shade of contempt always crept into his voice when he referred to the benevolence of
the American. He lumped us with the huge cauliflowers, carrots, squash and other
monstrous-looking vegetables and fruits we produce in inexhaustible quantity.

I had asked only one little favor of Moricand when I invited him to stay with
us for the rest of his days. That was to teach my daughter French, if possible. I had asked it
more to relieve him of an undue sense of gratitude than for any deep concern about the child’s
acquisition of French. All she ever learned during his stay with us was
Oui
and
Non
, and
Bon jour, Monsieur Moricand!
He seemed to have no use for
children; they annoyed him, unless they were extremely well behaved. As with most people who
stress behavior, being well behaved meant keeping out of sight and reach. He was utterly at a
loss to understand my preoccupation with the child, the daily walks we took, the efforts I
made to amuse, entertain and instruct her, the patience with which I listened to her idiotic
questions, her excessive demands. He had no idea, naturally, of the joy she gave me. It was
obvious, but perhaps he did not wish
to recognize it, that she was my
only joy. Val always came first. It irritated everyone, not only Moricand. And particularly my
wife. The opinion roundabout was that I was an aging dolt who was spoiling his only child.
Outwardly it did indeed seem so. The reality which underlay the situation, or the
relationship, I hesitated to reveal even to my intimate friends. It was ironic, to be sure,
that the very ones who levelled these reproaches were guilty of doing the same silly things,
of showing the same exaggerated affection, for their pets. As for Val, she was my own flesh
and blood, the apple of my eye; my only regret was that I could not give her more time and
attention.

It was about this time that the little mothers all became interested in the
dance. Some went in for singing too. Very fine. Commendable, as we say. But what about the
children? Were they also taught to sing and dance? Not a bit. That would come later, when they
were old enough to be sent to the ballet class or whatever the fad might be which the little
mothers deemed indispensable in the cultural advancement of their progeny. The mothers were
too busy at the moment cultivating their own latent talents.

There came a day when I taught Val her first song. We were marching home
through the woods; I had hoisted her on my shoulders to save her weary little legs. Suddenly
she asked me to sing. “What would you like?” I said, and then I gave her that feeble joke of
Abraham Lincoln about knowing only two songs: one was “Yankee Doodle,” the other wasn’t.

“Sing it!” she begged.

I did, and with a vengeance. She joined in. By the time we arrived home she
knew the verse by heart. I was supremely delighted. We had to sing it over and over,
naturally. It was Yankee Doodle this and Yankee Doodle that. Yankee Doodle dandy and the Devil
take the hindmost!

Moricand took not the slightest interest in such diversions. “Poor Miller!” he
probably said to himself, meaning what a ridiculous figure I could cut.

Poor Val! How it cut me when, endeavoring to have a few
words with him, she would get for rebuff: “I speak no English.”

At table she annoyed him incessantly with her silly chatter, which I found
delicious, and her poor table manners.

“She ought to be disciplined,” he would say. “It’s not good for a child to
receive so much attention.”

My wife, being of the same mind, would chime in like a clock. She would bemoan
the fact that I frustrated all her efforts in this direction, would make it appear that I took
a diabolical pleasure in seeing the child misbehave. She could not admit, naturally, that her
own spirit was of cast iron, that discipline was her only recourse.

“He believes in
freedom,”
she would say, making the idea of freedom
sound like utter rubbish.

To which Moricand would rejoin: “Yes, the American child is a little
barbarian. In Europe the child knows its place. Here the child rules.”

All too true, alas! And yet…. What he forgot to add is what every intelligent
European knows, what he himself knew only too well and had admitted many times, namely, that
in Europe, especially
his
Europe, the child becomes an adult long before his time,
that he is disciplined to death, that he is given an education which is not only “barbarous”
but cruel, crazy, stultifying, that stern, disciplinary measures
may
make
well-behaved children but seldom emancipated adults. He forgot, moreover, to say what his own
childhood had been like, to explain what discipline, good manners, refinement, education had
done for him.