Is That What People Do? (27 page)

Most of these, naturally, were fought to the death.

Then bull fighting, lion fighting, and rhino fighting, followed by the more modern events. Fights from behind barricades with bow and arrow. Duelling on a high wire.

The evening passed pleasantly.

Frelaine escorted the girl home, the palms of his hands sticky with sweat. He had never found a woman he liked better. And yet she was his legitimate kill.

He didn’t know what he was going to do.

She invited him in and they sat together on the couch. The girl lighted a cigarette for herself with a large lighter, then settled back.

“Are you leaving soon?” she asked him.

“I suppose so,” Frelaine said. “The convention is only lasting another day.”

She was silent for a moment. “I’ll be sorry to see you go.”

They were quiet for a while. Then Janet went to fix him a drink. Frelaine eyed her retreating back. Now was the time. He placed his hand near the button.

But the moment had passed for him, irrevocably. He wasn’t going to kill her. You don’t kill the girl you love.

The realization that he loved her was shocking. He’d come to kill, not to find a wife.

She came back with the drink and sat down opposite him, staring at emptiness.

“Janet,” he said. “I love you.”

She sat, just looking at him. There were tears in her eyes.

“You can’t,” she protested. “I’m a Victim. I won’t live long enough to—”

“You won’t be killed. I’m your Hunter.”

She stared at him a moment, then laughed uncertainly.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m going to marry you.”

Suddenly she was in his arms.

“Oh, Lord!” she gasped. “The waiting—I’ve been so frightened—”

“It’s all over,” he told her. “Think what a story it’ll make for our kids. How I came to murder you and left marrying you.”

She kissed him, then sat back and lighted another cigarette.

“Let’s start packing,” Frelaine said. “1 want—”

“Wait,” Janet interrupted. “You haven’t asked if I love
you.”

“What?”

She was still smiling, and the cigarette lighter was pointed at him. In the bottom of it was a black hole. A hole just large enough for a .38 caliber bullet.

“Don’t kid around,” he objected, getting to his feet.

“I’m not being funny, darling,” she said.

In a fraction of a second, Frelaine had time to wonder how he could ever have thought she was not much over twenty. Looking at her now—
really
looking at her—he knew she couldn’t be much less than thirty. Every minute of her strained, tense existence showed on her face.

“I don’t love you, Stanton,” she said very softly, the cigarette lighter poised.

Frelaine struggled for breath. One part of him was able to realize detachedly what a marvelous actress she really was. She must have known all along.

Frelaine pushed the button, and the gun was in his hand, cocked and ready.

The blow that struck him in the chest knocked him over a coffee table. The gun fell out of his hand. Gasping, half-conscious, he watched her take careful aim for the
coup de grace.

“Now I can join the Tens,” he heard her say elatedly as she squeezed the trigger.

CORDLE TO ONION TO CARROT

Surely, you remember that bully who kicked sand on the 97-pound-weakling? Well, that puny man’s problem has never been solved, despite Charles Atlas’s claims to the contrary. A genuine bully
likes
to kick sand on people; for him, simply, there is gut-deep satisfaction in a put-down. It wouldn’t matter if you weighed 240 pounds—all of it rock-hard muscle and steely sinew—and were as wise as Solomon or as witty as Voltaire; you’d still end up with the sand of an insult in your eyes, and probably you wouldn’t do anything about it.

That was how Howard Cordle viewed the situation. He was a pleasant man who was forever being pushed around by Fuller Brush men, fund solicitors, headwaiters, and other imposing figures of authority. Cordle hated it. He suffered in silence the countless numbers of manic-aggressives who shoved their way to the heads of lines, took taxis he had hailed first and sneeringly steered away girls to whom he was talking at parties.

What made it worse was that these people seemed to welcome provocation, to go looking for it, all for the sake of causing discomfort to others.

Cordle couldn’t understand why this should be, until one midsummer’s day, when he was driving through the northern regions of Spain while stoned out of his mind, the god Thoth-Hermes granted him original enlightenment by murmuring, “Uh, look, I groove with the problem, baby, but dig, we gotta put carrots in or it ain’t no stew.”

“Carrots?”
said Cordle, struggling for illumination.

“I’m talking about those types who get you uptight,” Thoth-Hermes explained. “They
gotta
act that way, baby, on account of they’re carrots, and that’s how carrots are.”

“If they are carrots,” Cordle said, feeling his way, “then I—”

“You, of course, are a little pearly-white onion.”

“Yes! My God, yes!” Cordle cried, dazzled by the blinding light of satori.

“And, naturally, you and all the other pearly-white onions think that carrots are just bad news, merely some kind of misshapen orangey onion; whereas the carrots look at you and rap about
freaky round white carrots, wow!
I mean, you’re just too much for each other, whereas, in actuality—”

“Yes, go on!” cried Cordle.

“In actuality,” Thoth-Hermes declared,
“everything’s got a place in The Stew!”

“Of course! I see, I see, I see!”

“And
that
means that everybody who exists is necessary, and you
must
have long hateful orange carrots if you’re also going to have nice pleasant decent white onions, or vice versa, because without all the ingredients, it isn’t a Stew, which is to say, life, it becomes, uh, let me see...”

“A soup!” cried ecstatic Cordle.

“You’re coming in five by five,” chanted Thoth-Hermes. “Lay down the word, deacon, and let the people know the divine formula...”

“A soup!” said Cordle. “Yes, I see it now—creamy, pure-white onion soup is our dream of heaven, whereas fiery orange carrot broth is our notion of hell. It fits, it all fits together!”

“Om mani padme hum,” intoned Thoth-Hermes.

“But where do the green peas go? What about the
meat,
for God’s sake?”

“Don’t pick at the metaphor,” Thoth-Hermes advised him, “it leaves a nasty scab. Stick with the carrots and onions. And, here, let me offer you a drink—a house specialty.”

“But the spices, where do you put the
spices?
”
Cordle demanded, taking a long swig of burgundy-colored liquid from a rusted canteen.

“Baby, you’re asking questions that can be revealed only to a thirteenth-degree Mason with piles, wearing sandals. Sorry about that. Just remember that everything goes into The Stew.”

“Into The Stew,” Cordle repeated, smacking his lips.

“And, especially, stick with the carrots and onions; you were really grooving there.”

“Carrots and onions,” Cordle repeated.

“That’s your trip,” Thoth-Hermes said. “Hey, we’ve gotten to Corunna; you can let me out anywhere around here.”

Cordle pulled his rented car off the road. Thoth-Hermes took his knapsack from the back seat and got out.

“Thanks for the lift, baby.”

“My pleasure. Thank
you
for the wine. What kind did you say it was?”

“Vino de casa
mixed with a mere smidgen of old Dr. Hammerfinger’s essence of instant powdered Power-Pack brand acid. Brewed by gnurrs in the secret laboratories of UCLA in preparation for the big all-Europe turn-on.”

“Whatever it was, it surely
was,
“Cordle said deeply. “Pure elixir to me. You could sell neckties to antelopes with that stuff; you could change the world from an oblate spheroid into a truncated trapezoid...What did I say?”

“Never mind, it’s all part of your trip. Maybe you better lie down for a while, huh?”

“Where gods command, mere mortals must obey,” Cordle said iambically. He lay down on the front seat of the car. Thoth-Hermes bent over him, his beard burnished gold, his head wreathed in plane trees.

“You okay?”

“Never better in my life.”

“Want me to stand by?”

“Unnecessary. You have helped me beyond potentiality.”

“Glad to hear it, baby, you’re making a fine sound. You really are okay? Well, then, ta.”

Thoth-Hermes marched off into the sunset. Cordle closed his eyes and solved various problems that had perplexed the greatest philosophers of all ages. He was mildly surprised at how simple complexity was.

At last he went to sleep. He awoke some six hours later. He had forgotten most of his brilliant insights, the lucid solutions. It was inconceivable: How can one misplace the keys of the universe? But he had, and there seemed no hope of reclaiming them. Paradise was lost for good.

He did remember about the onions and carrots, though, and he remembered The Stew. It was not the sort of insight he might have chosen if he’d had any choice; but this was what had come to him, and he did not reject it. Cordle knew, perhaps instinctively, that in the insight game, you take whatever you can get.

The next day, he reached Santander in a driving rain. He decided to write amusing letters to all his friends, perhaps even try his hand at a travel sketch. That required a typewriter. The
conserje
at his hotel directed him to a store that rented typewriters. He went there and found a clerk who spoke perfect English.

“Do you rent typewriters by the day?” Cordle asked.

“Why not?” the clerk replied. He had oily black hair and a thin aristocratic nose.

“How much for that one?” Cordle asked, indicating a thirty-year-old Erika portable.

“Seventy pesetas a day, which is to say, one dollar. Usually.”

“Isn’t this usually?”

“Certainly not, since you are a foreigner in transit. For you, one hundred and eighty pesetas a day.”

“All right,” Cordle said, reaching for his wallet. “I’d like to have it for two days.”

“I shall also require your passport and a deposit of fifty dollars. “

Cordle attempted a mild joke. “Hey, I just want to type on it, not marry it.”

The clerk shrugged.

“Look, the
conserje
has my passport at the hotel. How about taking my driver’s license instead?”

“Certainly not. I must hold your passport, in case you decide to default.”

“But why do you need my passport
and
the deposit?” Cordle asked, feeling bullied and ill at ease. “I mean, look, the machine’s not worth twenty dollars.”

“You are an expert, perhaps, in the Spanish market value of used German typewriters?”

“No, but—”

“Then permit me, sir, to conduct my business as I see fit. I will also need to know the use to which you plan to put the machine.”

“The
use?”

“Of course, the use.”

It was one of these preposterous foreign situations that can happen to anyone. The clerk’s request was incomprehensible and his manner was insulting. Cordle was about to give a curt little nod, turn on his heel and walk out.

Then he remembered about the onions and carrots. He saw The Stew. And suddenly, it occurred to Cordle that he could be whatever vegetable he wanted to be.

He turned to the clerk. He smiled winningly. He said, “You wish to know the use I will make of the typewriter?”

“Exactly.”

“Well,” Cordle said, “quite frankly, I had planned to stuff it up my nose.”

The clerk gaped at him.

“It’s quite a successful method of smuggling,” Cordle went on. “I was also planning to give you a stolen passport and counterfeit pesetas. Once I got into Italy, I would have sold the typewriter for ten thousand dollars. Milan is undergoing a typewriter famine, you know; they’re desperate, they’ll buy anything.”

“Sir,” the clerk said, “you choose to be disagreeable.”

“Nasty is the word you were looking for. I’ve changed my mind about the typewriter. But let me compliment you on your command of English.”

“I have studied assiduously,” the clerk admitted, with a hint of pride.

“That is evident. And, despite a certain weakness in the Rs, you succeed in sounding like a Venetian gondolier with a cleft palate. My best wishes to your esteemed family. I leave you now to pick your pimples in peace.”

Reviewing the scene later, Cordle decided that he had performed quite well in his maiden appearance as a carrot. True, his closing lines had been a little forced and overintellectualized. But the undertone of viciousness had been convincing.

Most important was the simple resounding fact that he had done it. And now, in the quiet of his hotel room, instead of churning his guts in a frenzy of self-loathing, he had the tranquilizing knowledge of having put someone else in that position.

He had done it! Just like that, he had transformed himself from onion into carrot!

But was his position ethically defensible? Presumably, the clerk could not help being detestable; he was a product of his own genetic and social environment, a victim of his conditioning; he was naturally rather than intentionally hateful—

Cordle stopped himself. He saw that he was engaged in typical onionish thinking, which was an inability to conceive of carrots except as an aberration from oniondom.

But now he knew that both onions
and
carrots had to exist; otherwise, there would be no Stew.

And he also knew that a man was free and could choose whatever vegetable he wanted to be. He could even live as an amusing little green pea, or a gruff, forceful clove of garlic (though perhaps that was scratching at the metaphor). In any event, a man could take his pick between carrothood and oniondom.

There is much to think about here, Cordle thought. But he never got around to thinking about it. Instead, he went sightseeing, despite the rain, and then continued his travels.

The next incident occurred in Nice, in a cozy little restaurant on the Avenue des Diables Bleus, with red-checkered tablecloths and incomprehensible menus written in longhand with purple ink. There were four waiters, one of whom looked like Jean-Paul Belmondo, down to the cigarette drooping from his long lower lip. The others looked like run-of-the-mill muggers. There were several Scandinavian customers quietly eating a
cassoulet,
one old Frenchman in a beret and three homely English girls.