Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (52 page)

“And now what about a bed?” said Moricand, slipping into
his shirt and trousers.

“A
bed?”
said the doctor, looking at him in astonishment.

“Yes,” said Moricand. “A place to rest … to recuperate.”

The doctor laughed as if it were a good joke.

“We don’t have beds enough for our serious cases,” he said.

“There’s nothing very wrong with you. Come back day after tomorrow and I’ll
give you some more tests.” He wrote out a prescription for a sedative. “You’ll be all right in
no time.”

I explained that we lived in Big Sur, that it wasn’t easy to make frequent
trips to Salinas.

“Why don’t you put him up in town for a while?” said the doctor. “In a week or
so I’ll know what’s what. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s been through much worse, I can
tell you that…. Just a bit dilapidated. Hypersensitive.”

Outside we decided to look for a bar. We all needed a drink bad.

“How does your back feel?” said Lilik, raising his hands as if to give him a
clap.

Moricand winced. “It feels like a hot grill,” he said.

We found a dingy bar and, while putting away a few drinks, discussed the opium
habit. An illuminating subject, if one penetrates deeply enough.

In Monterey I engaged a room for him at the Hotel Serra. A room with a private
bath. In comparison with the cell he had been living in this was luxury. We tested the bed to
see if it was soft and springy enough, switched the lights on and off to see if they were good
enough to read and write by, showed him how to manipulate the window blinds, assured him that
he would get fresh towels and soap every day, and so on. He was already unpacking the small
valise he had brought along. Already the dresser was arranged as he invariably arranged things
wherever he might find himself. As he was getting out his manuscripts, his writing tablet, his
ink and ruler, I suddenly realized that the table beside the bed would be too small to work
on. We called the manager to
find if he couldn’t supply a bigger one. In
a jiffy the bellhop arrived with a table just the right size.

Moricand seemed really overcome with joy. He looked around as if he were in
Heaven. The bathroom especially put him in ecstasy. We had explained that he could take a bath
as often as he wished—no extra charge, as in France. (This was the good side of America again.
“A wonderful country!”)

It only remained now to hand him some money and arrange with someone who had a
car to drive him back and forth to the hospital. I didn’t know, as I said
au revoir
,
that it would be the last time I would see him.

He had grown ten years younger in the space of a few minutes. As we shook
hands, as I promised to look him up in a few days, he said: “I think I’ll go down in a little
while to have a
porto.”

Walking down the street, Lilik and I, we ran into the painter, Ellwood Graham.
After a few words we learned that he was making trips to the County Hospital every day. It
would be a pleasure he informed us, to drive Moricand back and forth.

We ducked back to the hotel immediately only to find that Moricand had already
left, presumably to have his
porto
. We left a note explaining that he would have the
use of a car and a private chauffeur.

The feeling of relief I experienced on arriving home was beyond words. It was
high time we were rid of him, for my wife was already pregnant several months. Yet she had
borne up under the ordeal better than I.

A few days passed but I simply could not bring myself to go to Monterey and
look him up. Instead I wrote him a note, making some excuse or other. He wrote back
immediately to say that he was feeling better, that the doctor hadn’t discovered yet what was
wrong with him, but that he was enjoying his most comfortable quarters. A postscript reminded
me that the rent would be due in a few days, also that he would need some fresh linen
soon.

We exchanged notes for about two weeks or so, during
which time I did go to town but without looking him up. Then one day I received word that he
had made up his mind to go to San Francisco; he thought he could find something to do there,
and, if not, he would make efforts to return to Paris. He added that it was obvious I didn’t
wish to see him any more.

On receipt of this message I immediately packed the remainder of his
belongings, had someone deliver them to him at the hotel, and sent him enough money to last
him a couple of weeks at least. That he was putting this much distance between us gave me a
still greater feeling of relief. And the fact that he had at last found enough gumption to do
something on his own.

I then fumigated his cell, as Leon had recommended.

In writing him I had given him elaborate explanations and instructions. I told
him where to look for modest French restaurants, bars, and so forth. I even went to the extent
of telling him that if he could not make himself understood he was to write the address down
and show it to the cab-driver, the policeman, or whoever it might be. I told him where to find
the library, the avant-garde cinemas, the museums and art galleries.

I soon learned that he had found a suitable hotel, but at a much higher rate
than I had named; he had also discovered a little bar where he could get his meals and where
there were a few congenial French people. His money was going fast, he explained, because
wherever he wanted to go he had to take a cab; he wouldn’t trust himself to take streetcars
and buses, his English was too poor.

To all this I gave a patient ear, thinking that he would soon adjust himself
and settle down to a less expensive routine. The business about the cabs nettled me. Paris was
a far bigger city than San Francisco and I had managed to find my way about in it with less
money in my jeans and less knowledge of French than he had of English. But then I had no one
to fall back on.
Ça fait une différence!

He had, of course, reported to the Swiss Consul and had quickly
learned that there was no question of finding employment, not with a
visitor’s visa. He could, to be sure, take steps to become an American citizen, but he was not
interested in becoming an American citizen.

What
was
he going to do, I wondered? Would he request the Swiss
Counsul to ship him back to Paris?

Perhaps he had asked the Swiss Consul to ship him home and perhaps they had
told him that was
my
responsibility. At any rate, the impression I got was that he
was simply drifting with the tide. As long as I could keep him in food, cigarettes, taxi
fares, a comfortable room and bath, he was not going to get panicky. San Francisco suited him
far better than Big Sur, even though he found it somewhat “provincial.” At least there was
solid pavement under his feet.

It was after he had been there over a month that the effort to maintain him in
his own style became a strain. I had the feeling that the arrangement could continue
indefinitely, so far as
he
was concerned. Finally I suggested that if he were
seriously of a mind to return to Europe I would see what I could do to get him a passage back.
Instead of being elated he replied in gloomy vein that if it came to a pinch, why yes, he
would go back. As if he were doing me a great favor to even consider the thought!

It so happened that shortly after this exchange of views my good friend, Raoul
Bertrand, came to visit us. He had met Moricand at our home several times and knew what I was
up against. When I explained how matters now stood he volunteered to see if he could not
secure passage for Moricand on a French freighter plying from San Francisco. A free passage,
moreover.

I immediately apprised Moricand of the good news and drew an alluring picture
of a long sea voyage through the Panama Canal, with stopovers in Mexico and Central America. I
made it sound so enchanting that I began to wish I could change places with him.

What his reply was precisely, I no longer recall, only that he gave a grudging
acquiescence. Meanwhile Bertrand had set to work. In
less than a week he
had found a freighter which offered Moricand passage. It would leave in thirty-six hours—just
time enough to send Moricand a wire. In order to circumvent any misinterpretation of the
message on the part of the telegraph company, I wrote the message out in English: a fifty-word
telegram giving full details.

To my utter astonishment, I got a reply by mail after the boat had sailed,
saying that his Highness was not to be rushed that way, that he should have had a few days’
warning at least, that it was most inconsiderate of me to send him a message of such
importance in a language he didn’t understand, and so on and so forth. Extremely hoity-toity,
to put it mildly. Besides, as he went on to explain in a postscript, he was not at all certain
that he would relish a long sea voyage; he was not a good sailor, he would be bored to death,
etc., etc. At the very end—would I please send him some more money!

I was thoroughly incensed. And I let him know it in no uncertain terms. Then I
wrote a profuse letter of apology to Raoul Bertrand. Here he was, a French consul, not Swiss,
putting himself to all this trouble, and that louse, Moricand, hadn’t even the decency to be
grateful for his efforts.

Bertrand, however, understood better than I the manner of man we were dealing
with. He was not at all perturbed or dismayed. “We’ll try again,” he said. “You’ve got to get
him off your hands!” He added: “Perhaps next time we’ll get him a plane passage. He can hardly
refuse that.”

And by God, in about ten days he did come up with a plane passage. This time
we gave Moricand ample notice.

Once again he agreed, grumblingly, to be sure. Like a rat that had been
cornered. But when the time came to depart he was not on hand. He had changed his mind again.
What excuse he gave I no longer remember.

By this time a number of my intimate friends had got wind of “the Moricand
affair,” as they called it. Everywhere I went people would ask—“What’s happened to your
friend? Did you get rid
of him yet? Has he committed suicide?” A few had
the courage to let me know in plain language that I was nothing but an idiot. “Cut him loose,
Henry, or you’ll never get him off your hands! He’ll bleed you dry.” That was the general
tenor of the advice I received.

One day Varda came to see me. He was now living in Sausalito on a ferry boat
which he had converted into a houseboat, dance palace and studio. He was all agog about the
Moricand business, having received all the juicy details from a dozen different sources. His
attitude was one of high amusement and genuine concern. How could he get in touch with
Moricand? He referred to him as some sort of parasitic monster for whom saints and simpletons
were easy prey.

Regarding me as an utterly helpless victim, he then proposed a typical Varda
solution. He said he knew a wealthy woman in San Francisco, a Hungarian or Austrian countess,
still attractive though aging, who loved to “collect” bizarre figures such as Moricand.
Astrology, occultism—that was just her meat. She had a huge mansion, money to burn, and
thought nothing of having a guest remain a year or two. If Moricand were as good a talker as I
said he was, he would be an attraction for her salon. Celebrities from all over the world
converged there, he said. It would be a real haven for a man like Moricand.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he went on. “As soon as I get back to Sausalito
I’ll ask her to arrange a soiree. I’ll see that Moricand is invited. The man has only to open
his mouth and she’ll be hooked.”

“Are you sure she won’t expect something more of him?” said I. “An aging
countess, and still attractive, as you say, may make demands Moricand is no longer able to
satisfy.”

“Don’t worry about
that
!” he cried, giving me a knowing look. “She
has only to wave her hand and she can have the pick of San Francisco’s finest young blades.
Besides, she has a pair of the
most lecherous-looking lap dogs you ever
laid eyes on. No, if she takes him, she’ll use him for her salon.”

I regarded Varda’s proposal as a huge joke. Thought no more of it, indeed.
Meantime another letter arrived from Moricand, a letter full of recriminations. Why was I in
such haste to pack him off? What had he ever done to deserve such treatment? Was it his fault
that he had fallen ill
chez moi?
He reminded me caustically that I was still
responsible for his welfare, that I had signed papers to that effect, and that he had these
papers in his possession. He even insinuated that if I didn’t toe the mark he would inform the
proper authorities of the scandal my books had created in France. (As if they didn’t know!) He
might even tell them worse things about me … that I was an anarchist, a traitor, a renegade,
and what all.

I was ready to hit the ceiling. “That bastard!” I said. “He’s actually
beginning to threaten me.”

Meanwhile Bertrand was making efforts to get him a second plane passage. And
Lilik was getting ready to go to Berkeley on a business errand. He too was going to do
something about this damned Moricand business. At least he would see him and try to talk some
sense into him.

Then came a letter from Varda. He had arranged a soiree
chez
the
Countess, had primed her for the jewel she was to get, found her sympathetic to the idea, and.
… To make it short, Moricand had come, had taken one look at the Countess, and then had
avoided her like sin for the rest of the evening. He had remained silent and glum the whole
evening, except to unleash a cutting remark now and then about the vanity and stupidity of
wealthy émigrées who exploited their salons to rustle up fresh bait to whet their jaded
appetites.

“The bastard!” I said to myself. “Couldn’t even take on a millionairess to
help a fellow out!”

On the heels of this incident Bertrand came up with another plane passage,
this one a good week off. Once again I informed
his Highness that a
silver bird of the air was at his disposal. Would he be so gracious as to give it a trial?