Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (51 page)

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I heard myself saying to him:
“Eh bien
, what then?”

“What then?” he exclaimed, his eyes aflame with a ghoulish glee.
“Je I’ai
eue
, that’s what!”

As he uttered these words I felt my hair stand on end. It was no longer
Moricand I was facing but Satan himself.

The rains continued to descend, the leaks grew worse, the
walls got wetter and wetter, the sow bugs increased and multiplied. The horizon was now
completely shut out; the wind had become a howling fury. Back of the two studios stood three
tall eucalyptus trees; under the lash of the gale they seemed to bend in two. In Moricand’s
shattered state they were three demons with a thousand arms beating a terrifying tattoo upon
his brainpan. Wherever he looked, indeed, there was nothing but a wall of water, a forest of
swaying, swirling, twisting tree trunks. And with it, what disturbed him more than anything,
the whine and moan of the wind, the whistling, crackling, hissing sound which never abated. To
anyone in his right senses it was grand, magnificent, absolutely intoxicating. One felt
deliciously helpless, insignificant, even less than a rubber doll. To venture outdoors at the
height of it was to be slapped down. There was something insane about it. All you could do was
to wait it out. It must die of its own fury.

But Moricand could not wait it out. He was at the breaking point. He came down
one afternoon—it was already dark—saying that he couldn’t stand it another minute. “It’s a
howling inferno!” he cried. “Nowhere in the world can it possibly rain like this.
C’est
foul”

At dinner, rehearsing his miseries, he suddenly burst into tears. He begged
me—supplicated, rather—to do something to relieve him of his torment. He pleaded and entreated
as if I were made of stone. It was sheer torture to listen to the man.

“What
can
I do? said I. “What is it you think I
should
do?”

“Take me to Monterey. Put me in a hospital. I
must
get out of this
place.”

“Very well,” I said. “I’ll do that. I’ll move you just as soon as we can get
off this hill.”

What did that mean? he wanted to know. A feeble look of terror spread over his
countenance.

I explained that not only was my car not working but that the road leading to
the highway was blocked with boulders; the storm would have to abate before we could even
think about moving.

This only increased his desperation.
“Think,
think!”
he begged. “There must be some way to get out of here. Do you want me to go
stark mad?”

The only thing left to do was to walk down the road to the highway next
morning and leave a note in the mailbox for the mail man to deliver to Lilik. The mail was
still getting through. All day long and into the night the highway crew kept clearing the road
of debris. I knew that Lilik would get to us if it were humanly possible. As for the boulders
that blocked the foot of the road, I would just pray that some Titan would push them
aside.

So I got down, dispatched the message, making it life and death, and told
Moricand to be in readiness. I had told Lilik to come the next morning, at six o’clock, or
perhaps I said five-thirty. I figured that by that time the storm would have moderated and
some of the boulders been cleared away.

That night, his last night, Moricand refused to go back to his cell. He
decided to sit up all night in the armchair. We kept him at table as long as we could, plied
him with drink, regaled him as best we could, and finally, towards morning, bade him
goodnight. There was just the one room, and our bed was in the middle of it. We climbed in and
tried to go to sleep. A tiny lamp flickered on the table beside him as he sat in the big
armchair, bundled up in overcoat and muffler, his hat pulled down over his eyes. The fire went
out, and though not a window was open, the room soon grew damp and chill. The wind was still
whistling around the corners of the house, but it seemed to me that the rain was letting
up.

Naturally, I couldn’t sleep. I lay there as quiet as I could and listened to
him mumbling to himself. Every now and then he groaned and broke out with a
“Mon Dieu, mon
Dieu!
when will it end?” Or—“
Quel supplice!”

About 5:00
A.M.
I climbed out of bed, lit the Aladdin lamps,
put some coffee on the stove, and dressed. It was still dark, but the storm had broken. There
was just a normal high wind which was sweeping away the rain.

When I asked him how he felt, he groaned. Never had he
known such a night. He was finished. He hoped he would have the strength to last till we
reached the hospital.

As we were swallowing the hot coffee, he got a whiff of the bacon and eggs.
That gave him a momentary lift.
“J’adore ça,”
he said, rubbing his hands. Then a
sudden panic seized him. “How do we know he will come, Lilik?”

“He’ll come, never fear,” I said. “He would wade through Hell to rescue
you.”

“Oui, c’est un chic type. Un vrai ami.”

By this time my wife had dressed, set the table, lit the stove, served the
bacon and eggs.

“Everything will be fine,” she said. “You’ll see, Lilik will be here in a few
minutes.” She spoke to him as if he were a child. (Don’t worry, dear, mamma’s here, nothing
can happen to you.)

Seized with a sense of the dramatic, I suddenly decided to light the lantern
and go to the top of the road above us to signal Lilik. As I climbed the hill I heard his car
snorting down below, probably at the bend near the Roosevelt’s. I waved the lantern to and fro
and, now thoroughly elated, gave a great shout. He must have seen the light, for immediately
there came the honk-honk of his horn, and in a few moments the car came into sight, puffing
and snorting like a wounded dragon.

“Christ!” I shouted, “What luck! You made it!
Grand!”
I gave him a
warm hug.

“I had a bad time of it down below,” he said. “I don’t know how I ever cleared
those rocks away. Luckily, I brought a crowbar with me…. How’s Moricand? Is he awake yet?”

“Is he awake?
Man, he’s never been to sleep. Come on down and have a
cup of coffee. Have you had breakfast?”

He hadn’t. Not even a cup of coffee.

We walked in, and there was Moricand licking his chops. He seemed quite
revived. As he greeted Lilik, tears came to his eyes.
“C’est la fin,”
he said. “But
how good of you to come! You’re a saint.”

When it came time to go Moricand rose to his feet,
tottered, staggered to the bed and collapsed.

“What’s up?” cried Lilik. “You’re not going to give out now, are you?”

Moricand looked up woefully. “I can’t walk,” he said. “Look!” And he pointed
to the swelling between his legs.

“What’s that?” we cried in unison.

“My testicles!” he exclaimed. “They’ve swollen up on me.”

They had indeed. They were like two rocks.

“We’ll carry you to the car,” said Lilik.

“I’m too heavy,” said Moricand.

“Nonsense!” said Lilik.

Moricand put his arms around our shoulders, and Lilik and I joined hands under
his legs. He weighed a ton. Slowly, gently, we hoisted him up the garden steps and into the
car. He groaned like a bull in agony.

“Easy, easy now. It will pass. Just hold your breath, grit your teeth.
Du
courage, mon vieux!”

As we cautiously picked our way down the winding hill, observing the havoc the
storm had wrought, Moricand’s eyes opened wider and wider. Finally we came to the last
stretch, a rather steep descent. Huge boulders towered above menacingly. When we reached the
highway I saw what Lilik had done. It didn’t seem possible for human hands to have
accomplished such a task.

Dawn had come, the rain had stopped altogether, and we were on our way. Every
few yards we had to stop and clear the road of debris. This continued until we reached the
sign which said: “Watch for falling rocks. Dangerous curves and falling rocks for the next 46
miles.” But that was all behind us now.

My thoughts reverted to Moricand’s promenade between the battlefronts. The two
valises. And Iamblichus! By comparison, all that seemed unreal, a nightmare that he had
dreamed up.

“How do your balls feel now?” I asked.

He felt them. Somewhat better, he thought.

“Good,” said Lilik. “It’s just nervousness.”

I restrained a laugh. “Nervousness!” What a word to describe Moricand’s
anguish!

When we got to Monterey we stopped to fetch him a cup of coffee. The sun was
out strong, the roof-tops glistened; life was pursuing its normal course again. Only a few
more miles, we told him, and you’ll be there. Meaning at the County Hospital in Salinas.

He felt his testicles again. The swelling had almost disappeared.

“What did we tell you!”

“Ouais!”
said Moricand.
“Mais, c’est drôle
. How do you
explain it?”

“Nervousness,” said Lilik.

“Angoisse!”
said I.

We rolled up in front of the hospital. It didn’t look as bad as I had
imagined it would. From the outside, in fact, it seemed rather cheerful. Just the same, I was
glad it wasn’t my turn.

We went inside. It was still rather early. The usual routine: questions,
explanations, papers to fill out. Then wait. No matter if you’re dying, they always ask you to
wait.

We waited a while, then inquired when the doctor would show up. I had thought
we would get Moricand a bed immediately, then see the doctor. No, first you see the doctor,
then a bed—if there is one vacant!

We decided to have a second breakfast. There was a glassed-in dining room
which was connected with the hospital, or so it seemed to me. We had bacon and eggs again. And
more coffee. The coffee was vile and weak, but Moricand said it tasted good. He lit a
gauloise bleue
—and smiled. He was probably thinking of the comfortable bed, the
attention he would receive, the luxury of relaxing in the midst of ministering angels.

Finally it came time to visit the clinic. It was like all such places, cold,
bare, glittering with instruments, smelling of disinfectants.
You bring
your poor, frail body and you hand it over to be inspected. You are one thing and your body is
another. Lucky you if you get it back again.

He’s standing there nude, naked as a herring. The doctor is tapping at him,
just like a woodpecker. We’ve explained that it’s the itch he’s suffering from. No matter.
Must see if there’s anything else first—phthisis, gallstones, asthma, tonsilitis, cirrhosis of
the liver, miner’s elbow, dandruff…. The doctor’s not a bad chap. Affable, courteous, willing
to chatter. Speaks French too. Rather pleased on the whole to see a specimen like Moricand for
a change.

Moricand too seems rather pleased. At last some real attention. Something
indefinable about his expression gives me the impression that he hopes the doctor will find
something seriously wrong with him, something more than the itch.

Without a stitch he looks lamentable. Like a broken-down nag. It’s not merely
that he’s potbellied, full of sores and scabs, but that his skin has an unhealthy look, is
spotted like tobacco leaf, has no oil, no elasticity, no glow. He looks like one of those
derelicts one sees in the washroom of a Mills hotel, like a bum that has just crawled out of a
flophouse on the Bowery. His flesh seems never to have been in contact with air and sun; it
looks half-smoked.

The physical examination over, and nothing seriously wrong except that he’s
run-down, anemic, bilious, weak heart, erratic pulse, high blood pressure, spavined and
double-jointed, it’s now time to investigate the itch.

It’s the doctor’s opinion that he’s suffering from an allergy, perhaps several
allergies. Allergies are his specialty. Hence his certitude.

No one demurs, not even Moricand. He’s heard of allergies but never attached
any importance to them. Neither have I. Neither has Lilik. However, today it’s allergies.
Tomorrow it will be something else. Allergies then. Go to it!

While assorting and arranging his test tubes, syringes,
needles, razor blades and what not, in preparation for the tests, the doctor plies Moricand
with questions.

“You’ve had the drug habit, haven’t you?”

Moricand nods.

“I can tell,” says the doctor, pointing to Moricand’s legs, arms, thighs,
where traces of the needle still showed.

“What did you use?”

“Everything,” said Moricand. “But that was some years ago.”

“Opium too?”

At this Moricand seemed somewhat surprised. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I’ve treated thousands of cases,” said the doctor. He fiddled with something
behind Moricand’s back. As he wheeled around, he said swiftly: “How did you break it, tell me
that!”

“By my own will,” said Moricand.

“What’s that?” said the doctor. “Say it again!”

Moricand repeated: “By my own will. It was not easy. It almost killed me.”

“If that’s true,” said the doctor, taking his hand, “you’re the first man I’ve
known to accomplish it.”

Moricand blushed as a man might who was being given a medal for a deed of
valor he had never performed.

Meanwhile the doctor had begun the game of ticktacktoe on Moricand’s back. He
started up near the left shoulder, worked clear across to the right shoulder, then down and
across. Each time he finished a game he waited a few minutes. The first game was all in blue
ink, the second in pink, the third in green, and so on through the spectrum. Nobody was
winning. Since Moricand’s back was only human size, and since it was completely covered with
welts from neck to waist, there was nothing to do but call it a draw for the day. There were
still thirty or forty more tests that could be given. One of them had to turn out positive. At
least, that was how the doctor regarded it.