The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children (12 page)

Savagely he strode from room to room, hands clasped behind back, his hair flying with impetuous motion. The mansion seemed too small for his flurry, for the breadth of his shame. How much he would have liked to have spit out his suffering like the pit of an olive. Thoughts of severe acts of penance rode through his heated mind. He could picture himself stripped naked, rolling across North America, over the busy highways of the East Coast, through the Midwest, past thousands of miles of corn, the skin rubbed clean off his flesh, him spiralling over the Rocky Mountains, into California, his body one open sore,—sand, pebbles, bits of broken glass embedded in his carcass. . . . Or else he could sleep on a bed of nails, prostrate on razor blades, brush his teeth with a butcher’s knife, bath in burning coals. . . . In India, from his hotel window, he had seen men, there on the public streets, saw off their limbs, howl out mantras, prayers, while the blue bottle flies thickened around their bleeding stumps, a few devalued coins occasionally clinking before them, from the hands of a passerby. . . . Others, on pilgrimages, hooks buried in their sides, carts attached to the hooks, the weight of the load stressing the meat of the body, creating open holes, pliable and repugnant. . . . Yes, he could see himself running through the streets, flogging himself with tassels of wet leather, a crown of thorns on his head, thick, sappy blood drooling down his face. . . . Because, after all, it seemed to him as if those emaciated ascetics he had witnessed were, if not happy, certainly content,—something he had never been. And then his ego had been attacked; he had unsystematically read, perused in confused incomprehension, countless ashramic and indological publications, crypto-Buddhistic, overtly Jainist—poor, outdated translations from the Prakrit, the Pali, the Sanskrit, which spoke of liberators of living beings, the practice of diverse penances devoid of a desire for acquisition in paudgalic terms, the ever-peaceful soundless and of infinite sounds, the sameness, the illusory nature of waking and dream states;—so a vague, not quite solidified question now haunted his mind: If the objects cognized in both those conditions are illusory, who is it who cognizes them and who is it who imagines them?

XVI.

A)

I am willing, even more than willing, to take the full responsibility for all your little quirks. For me they are so many lovely things; they are things that I admire and believe the world should relish. . . . You are you, never be another; rest awhile, and then visit me, in my humble temple.

Others say that you could never love, but they have not nurtured you, my sprout, my tree. Are you my all?

Just think on me once in a while, and try not to forget the woman who sheltered and taught. There are still deep chasms for me to bridge for you. Walk my body underfoot; there is no need to be gentle.

B)

. . . as she, buried her head in his shirts, sniffed at his discarded socks, slept with a lock of his hair beneath her pillow. . . . It was an obsession, single-minded, that strangled the life from any real, material affection she might have ventured on; and even in the future, when her withered breasts would hang limply from her chest and her back would be bent, that pathetic fantasy would continue, as the most bitter and true pleasure of her life.

XVII.

Denny waited in the library of the great house, one leg draped over the next, a French cigarette hanging from his lax fingers. He had not been invited to lunch, or dinner, or an evening party. He had not been invited at all and had no expectations of receiving exotic nourishment from Pellington’s kitchen. He was there solely for Allen—for his supposed benefit.

For Denny to be concerned with anyone but Denny, the situation must have been grave.

“
Make yourself at home,” said Allen as he walked in, his feet dragging lazily in slippers, body entrenched in a silk paisley bathrobe. “I wasn’t expecting you. . . . Might have called before coming.”

“
No. I might not have. You might not have let me come.”

“
Well, you came, were let in the front door,—so that’s about it. But I may as well tell you,—it’s Pellington’s day off.”

“
It decimates me to hear that I will not be fed a reasonable lunch, but the real reason that I’m here is to talk about you, my friend.”

“
Well, it seems to me you’ve picked the wrong person to talk to then. The best policy, generally speaking, is to talk about someone behind their back, not straight at them.”

Denny took a long drag of his French cigarette, and, exhaling, said, “But you see, you are not a general case, you’re peculiar. . . . Don’t look so faux-shocked. Rumours have been spreading themselves through the social circuit that you’re going a bit . . . well, whack-o to put it bluntly. . . . People are saying that you’re turning into a sort of Howard Hughes. . . . And by the way, you needn’t fib to me about Pellington. I know very well that you let him go. He came to my door with the whole story. . . . Told me about all kinds of monstrous things you wanted him to serve you. . . . Plain rice and unseasoned vegetables. . . . Really! . . . Naturally I hired him on the spot. Of course, when you come around, you can have him back. Only a truly mad man would let a fellow like Pellington go. . . . In other words, if it was not for this gross proof I might not have believed the rumours.”

The silence lasted several minutes. Denny extinguished the butt of his French cigarette and lit another. Allen circled the room slowly in his slippers, hands tucked in the pockets of his night robe.

“
Denny,” he said, stopping abruptly and looking fervently at the other man. “Denny, have you ever considered that there might be something more important in life than choosing whether to wear the apricot tie with the beige sports jacket or the mauve?”

“
Well,” Denny replied, “I have always considered the fruit shades to be out of the question in neckwear. As for mauve, I do believe I owned a tie of that colour some time ago—I think it got misplaced. . . . Why, have you seen it?”

“
The point was not about the ties exactly. You see, I’m fed up . . . with life. . . . Ambitions come to nothing. My money will not buy me happiness you know.”

“
A startling revelation. I hope you haven’t been sticking your nose in Thomas Merton again. Trust me, you would make a ludicrous desert father. . . . Even without the apricot tie.”

“
Joking aside Denny, I am a desperate man,” his face assuming the role.

After a pause in which Denny thoughtfully rolled a third, yet unlit, cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, he said, “Tell me Allen. If I had a sure-fire cure for your malaise, would you take it, no questions asked? Would you let me be your physician, your nurse, even though admittedly I am not tailored for the part? Would you be willing to take some strong medicine administered by my hand?”

“
If it would alleviate this depression I would take a bullet administered by that hand.”

“
I hadn’t anything so gauche in mind,” said Denny with a melancholy smile. “What you need to do is to get yourself out of that robe, and into a decent summer suit. Then we can apply the antidote. . . . And please, don’t forget to shave. Your cheeks look like a coal miner’s.”

Allen appeared thirty minutes later dressed in a double-breasted silk suit of extreme burgundy, with lemon pin-stripes. A pomegranate cravat was wrapped boldly around his neck.

Denny led him by the elbow, as one would a sick patient, out of the house, down the numerous front steps, and into the passenger seat of his car.

“
Where are you taking me?” Allen asked in a quavering voice. “I hope it’s not some kind of home for the uncontrollably eccentric. You know how much I hate to be around sick people.”

“
We are going to my house,” said Denny.

And they drove, under the soft afternoon sun of late summer; into the city; to Denny’s brownstone.

. . . Pellington had been at work all that day, under previous instruction from his new employer. Allen was reluctant at first to even sit at the dining table, but after a rather potent sour sop daiquiri, which Denny pushed on him with a grave and doctoral mien, he acquiesced.

The meal was simple, elegant and unparalleled. Red salmon roe and plantain fritters, a baby corn and conch salad, and, for the main dish, a lovely peacock Rouennaise.

It was eaten in silence, Denny glancing stealthily at the other man. He was glad to see that nourishment was being taken, but uncertain of the ultimate results. Since all things are possible, it was possible that Allen could, even after dining sumptuously, return to his ascetic ways. Were he to do so, Denny pondered, a slice of fritter at the tip of his fork, then all hope would be lost. The flavour of the peacock was too extraordinary to leave his mind in any doubt on that score.

Three quarters of an hour later Allen arose from the meal, a freshly brought cappuccino spiked with Dumante in one hand. Sipping the foam from the rim of the cup, he strode over to the window. The city street below was quiet. The house was in an excellent neighbourhood. A middle-aged man in tight slacks walked by. From across the way came the faint sound of music; the jazz of Dave Brubeck. . . . Allen could see his reflection in the pane of glass before him; far from perfectly, but well enough. The feature appearing prominent was his untrimmed moustache. He could see it arching below his nose, crescentic, serrated and strangely exaggerated in the mirror of glass.

He wiped the bits of foam that clung to it away with his bottom lip and then, turning to Denny, said, “It is time to give this slip of hair stuck to my muzzle a trim; don’t you think?”

“
It might not hurt,” Denny replied blandly. “A quick run over with the scissors would not be entirely uncalled for.”

“
Yes,” said Allen, a speck of scintillation appearing in each eye, “I might even consider shaving the whole shag off. I am about due for a makeover.”

Brother of the

Holy Ghost

“
No! Impossible,” he said, clawing at his cheeks (lean, gouged, as from hunger, suffering) and then rubbing his eyes.

“
It is true though. You have been elected by a unanimous vote of the conclave.”

“
Ludicrous!”

“
Do you accept your canonical election as supreme pontiff?”

He threw his head to the dust.

[
An lxxx year old man kneading his face in the dirt (having fretted himself emaciate for xl years so the devil would not catch him idle—tempting pleading the titter, not merely grilled with hot condiments, but the actual Father of Falsehoods); twisting like a worm, crying like a donkey; an lxxx year old man kneading his face in the dirt, displaying himself grossly, as is all too often the case with the class we call: Saintly Anchorites.
]

This man, very thin, gnarled of face, was named Pietro di Murrone. He ate, once a week, on Sundays, a meal of dried bread and water. He never drank wine or ate meat.
Ora et Labora
. His cell, his chamber, was slightly larger than a coffin; (a living tomb). He wore a suit of knotted hair-cloth bound around the waist with a chain. About his loins, he wore a leather girdle. He shaved once per year, on the anniversary of the Resurrection of Christ Jesus. He had many followers, imitators who were often fanatical, even more so than himself.

July, 1294:

He threw his head to the dust and wept prayers to the being whom he regarded as having power over nature, as well as control over human affairs. The three dignitaries stood by, impatiently, along with a great number of monks and peasants from the surrounding hills.

The question was repeated:

“
Do you accept your canonical election as supreme pontiff?”

The old man, Pietro di Murrone, lifted up his head, blinked and looked around him. His eyes were glassy, his lips pressed tight together.

There was a moment of silence

and all options open;

neglected.

He opened his mouth and, showing two incomplete rows of black teeth, said, “Yes,” believing
I have lain down and overcome the temptation naked. fire hungry I have foregone sumptuous the feast hot. meat Bishop of Rome & Archbishop of Roman Province & Successor of St. Peter & Chief Pastor the Entire Church & Patriarch of Western Church & Vicar of Christ Upon Earth a tree & am little pine tree.

The dignitaries smiled condescendingly, slyly. The people cheered. Pietro stood, almost stupid.

In August, he received the crown: King Charles and his effeminate son Martel, the King of Hungary, led the old man into L’Aquila on a donkey. The women of the city stood by, in their coarse, tight-fitting dresses and squirrel-lined hoods, sweating and letting out a stench. The men, though gazing with less rapture, did look on respectfully, hopefully. (King Charles had imposed a tax, a penalty on the citizens of L’Aquila of two-thousand ounces of gold; the
boni hommeni
, the gentlemen of the town, had asked Pietro to see what arrangements he could make in their favour.) Though they were hard and accustomed to much misery, they had a certain jaunty bearing. For the most part, the people were without manners or education. Pietro, prior to his coronation, convinced the king to have this tax, this penalty of two-thousand ounces of gold, annulled. His wish was granted. Pietro was made pope.