The Temple of Gold (32 page)

W
HEN I SAT DOWN
, June 24, 1956, to be totally precise about it, to write what turned out to be this book, I was as lost as any Cortes. But I knew I had to write something, so I did.

What follows is that something.

It is the original first chapter of my novel. When I submitted the book to Knopf, rewrote and doubled it in length (it originally ended a few pages after the chapter called The Army), and they accepted it, the first thing the editor did was cut the first chapter. Totally. The book you hold now starts with what was then chapter two.

One thing you must know about me: I don’t read what I’ve written. A slight exaggeration but only that. I never read what I’m writing while I’m putting it down, and I only read it through one time afterward, just before I meet with the editor if it’s a book, the director if a flick.

So I have never read the original opening since I wrote it. Never will. So if there are typos in what follows, blame my editor, Peter Gethers.

If you hate the chapter, blame me.

First a few facts:

No. That’s enough. I have a whole list of things I could put down, but there’s no point in it I can see. I think you could put down a bookful of facts about yourself, all neat and correct and in order, and the whole thing together with a dime might get you a cup of coffee.

Because a simple fact in black and white doesn’t tell a thing. Like the scar on my face. It’s there all right, but that doesn’t tell you what you want it to. Such as what it means. That scar means something to me, and every time I look at myself in the mirror I see it. And I remember. To live with something every day like my scar and to remember how you got it—that’s important. It tells something. About me. So it’s not the scar alone that counts; not the fact that it’s there. But why it’s there.

Now we all know that Medea killed her kids, which doesn’t deserve a gold star in anybody’s book, but still, you can’t go around saying, “Why, that no-good Medea, killing her kids like that. She ought to be put away.” Extenuating circumstances. In every single thing that happens, there’s extenuating circumstances. And you’ve got to understand what they are and why they are, along with all the rest. Then, after you understand, if you still want to go around saying, “Why, that no-good Medea, killing her kids like that. etc. etc. etc.,” then it’s O.K. But the understanding has to come first.

And you have to start at the beginning. That’s why it’s there. To start from. For example, just from the facts I put down, you might say that I’m a bum. Look. “There he is, twenty-one years of age and not working. He’s a bum.” Well, such may be the case and such may not, but you must be sure you know whereof before you speak. I could tell right now how I got the scar, point-blank. But it wouldn’t be right, because that scar didn’t come until later, and a lot of things led up to it. And you’ve got to know those things, at least the important ones, before you can understand why I’m twenty-one years of age and have no occupation, and why I never graduated from college.

But even that is not as easy as it sounds. Because I’m not sure what’s important and what isn’t. Not really. For example, my killing the guppies. When I put that down I want to say—There! Remember that! It explains something—but I can’t tell you what. I feel it. Or these words: “So seize the moment.” They are the first words of the first poem ever written by my friend Zock, who is now dead. Because of me. I killed him. Or what Felix Brown said to me that hot day down south; or what happened in the bedroom with Helen Twilly. There are lots of things, many more, that I feel are important, but can’t say why.

Which is the main trouble with writing in the first place. You can never say what you mean to say. Not really. Sometimes you come close. And I suppose that coming close is all anyone has ever any right to expect. To want more would be
hubris
. Which, by the way, is a Greek word that you can’t translate into English except by saying that it sort of means pride. Wanting too much. It’s the reason Oedipus got into all that trouble, and why Antigone got hers. They wanted too much.
Hubris
. That’s why.

All of which is just my way of saying that in my opinion, you can’t get much across to anybody at anytime. Communication is in the same class with the elixir of life and the philosopher’s stone. It just isn’t. You can’t explain yourself to anybody. Never in this world. Or why you do something. Or what makes you tick. You can’t ever point to something that happened to you and say—There! That’s me. Right in there. See? Now do you understand?—Because nobody’s going to.

But if there’s one thing that nobody can accuse me of, it’s consistency. Because just to round things off, I’m going to point to something that happened. And I’m putting it here because I think it’s typical. Of me. I’m in it. Somewhere.

It took place on a Sunday afternoon in Kentucky when I was in the middle of my basic training. Kelly was the other kid involved. Actually, he was the only one really involved, as I was just a spectator. But on his invitation. I was there.

I was lying on my sack that afternoon, sweating like a pig because it was so hot, over 100. I was all alone there that afternoon, with my thoughts, mostly of Zock. I was lying naked with my eyes closed, staring up and seeing his ugly face, when I heard somebody coming up the stairs. I don’t think a free ticket to the second coming could have roused me then, and I didn’t move until the footsteps came close, stopping at the foot of my bed.

“Trevitt,” somebody said. I snuck one eye open and saw Kelly standing there in his underwear shorts, the flab of his belly hanging over. Kelly was a big blonde kid, our platoon leader, only not because of anything he could do, but rather on account of his father, who was a colonel and a West Pointer and a hell of a great guy. I knew all that and so did everyone else, since Kelly told us about him every chance he had. His old man won the Silver Star on D day, and I think every man in the company with half a mind, about ten of us, could quote the citation by heart.

I closed my eye and tried a few snores, which wasn’t too clever, but it threw him for a while. Finally, he said my name again, and then a third time, and then he shook me.

“Trevitt,” he said. “Are you asleep?” Which should show how bright he was.

“Who wants to know?”

“Me. Kelly.”

“Don’t know you,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not Trevitt. Trevitt’s gone AWOL. I’m covering for him.”

“C’mon,” he said, all excited. “Quit kidding around.” He shook me again. Harder.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. “I could have sworn I was trying to get some sleep,” I said. “I guess I must have been mistaken.” He didn’t say anything. “I understand your old man won the Silver Star on D day,” I went on. “Is that true? That’s a story I’d really like to hear. You bet. A story like that is worth waking a man up for.” He was shaking a little so I stopped, waiting for him to say something. He did.

“I’m going to kill myself,” he said.

“You go do that,” I told him. “You couldn’t have picked a nicer day.” With that I shut my eyes again.

“I’m not kidding, Trevitt. I’m going to kill myself.”

I sat up. “What the hell are you telling me for? I’m sure not going to stop you.”

He swallowed hard. “I wanted company.”

“Sunday is God’s day,” I said. “Leave me alone.”

“I want somebody to talk to while I do it,” he explained. “I don’t want to die by myself.”

I stared at him. He wasn’t kidding. At least he thought he wasn’t kidding, which is what counts. “Kelly,” I said. “I’m your boy. Go kill yourself. But do it here.” I pointed to the next bed. “Because I’m not moving.”

“O.K.,” he muttered. “Then it’s settled. I’ll get my stuff.”

“How you going to do it?” I yelled after him.

“I’m going to cut my wrists with my bayonet,” he answered.

“Attago, Kelly,” I said. “That’s a swell way.” I lay down again, waiting. Not so long after he clomped up the stairs and came over, sitting down on the next bed. He held out his bayonet.

“Like a razor,” he said. “I spent all morning sharpening it.”

“Fine,” I told him. “You do nice work.”

“Here. Feel.”

“I believe you.” But he kept holding it out so I did what he wanted. It was sharp.

“How about that, Trevitt? Isn’t that like a razor?”

“Kelly,” I said, closing my eyes. “I only paid for the main event. Wake me up when the preliminaries are over.”

“You better watch,” he said. “ ’Cause here I go.”

He took the bayonet and, very slowly, very carefully, brought it down until the tip rested on the blue veins in his wrist. I waited. He began to exert a little pressure and the flesh of his wrist dimpled.

Then he looked at me. “I bet you wonder why I’m doing this.”

“No, Kelly,” I said. “No, I don’t.”

“I’ll tell you why.”

“Kelly, believe me. I don’t care.”

“It’s on account of my father,” he began. “On account of all my life I’ve been filled full of crap about the Army, and I’m going to be an officer someday, because he’s going to make me. And as far as I’m concerned, you can take the Army, fold it three ways, and...”

“Shove it,” I finished. “O.K. You told me. Now do it.”

“What does your father do, Trevitt?”

“He teaches Greek in a little college in Illinois,” I answered.

“There,” he said, pointing his bayonet at me. “See?” I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. “So I got a no-good bastard for a father.” What can I do about it? But this.” He gestured with his bayonet. “You tell me, Trevitt. What’s the point of living?”

I thought for a long time. “Beats the hell out of me,” I said, finally.

“Well then,” he said. “Here I go.” He began pushing the bayonet down again. I watched his face. He closed his eyes. I waited.

Then he opened his eyes. “I mean, what’s the point of living? Tell me. You’re a smart guy, Trevitt. Tell me. I’m asking you.”

“Jesus Christ, Kelly,” I exploded. “Are you going to kill yourself or aren’t you?”

“O.K.,” he muttered. “This is it.” He took a deep breath, flexed his muscles and closed his eyes. I remember how hot it was in the barracks right then. My bed was soaked with perspiration and as Kelly grabbed hard onto his bayonet, sweat ran down across his white knuckles. He pushed down on his rigid wrist, farther and farther down.

Then he screamed, “Ouch,” dropped the bayonet, and began to swear. “Goddamit, goddamit. That hurts.”

I started laughing, kicking my feet in the air. “What the hell did you expect? Of course it hurts.” He was standing up now, bleeding a little at the wrist, the blood dripping down red in a pool on the barracks floor.

“I’ll bleed to death,” he said. “What’ll I do, Trevitt?”

“Try the chaplain,” I told him. He was licking at the cut with his tongue and making faces.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, kicking his bayonet across the floor. Then he ran down the stairs and I heard the water running in the sink. I lay back and began thinking of Zock again, and the temple of gold. But the sight of Kelly standing up and yelling “ouch” kept getting in the way and I just couldn’t help laughing.

Then he was back, walking stiff and looking determined as hell.

“Hi, Kelly,” I said. “What’s new?” He didn’t answer. “You know any more games?” I asked him.

“Same one,” he answered, looking more determined than ever. “I’m going to swallow a bedspring.”

“I don’t know,” I said, scratching my head. “Maybe I’m losing my marbles but I swear it sounded like you said you were going to swallow a bedspring.”

He brought one out from behind his back. “I said it and I meant it.”

“Goddamn, Kelly,” I told him. “You pick the nicest ways. Did you ever think of roasting yourself over a spit?”

He looked at me. “I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “Something I never told anyone else.” He paused. “I’m going to die a virgin.”

“You can’t blame the old man for that,” I said. “It’s nobody’s fault but your own.” I started drawing numbers in the air. “There’s a billion women in the world, Kelly, one nine zeros billion. And out of all of them the law of averages says there must be one who would do the trick for you.”

“Well, I never found her,” he said, staring at the bedspring.

“First, you got to look,” I told him.

“It’s too late now,” he whispered. Then he stuck the bedspring in his mouth.

I’m not going to describe what happened next in too much detail, for it gets a little messy, even though it was pretty funny at the time. Kelly’s face turned different colors, most of them green, and his eyes started watering, and then the bedspring hit the floor, quickly followed by his breakfast and lunch.

After he was done we just stared at each other, me trying not to laugh. He broke out crying, turned, and tore downstairs. I heard him blubbering in the bathroom with all the faucets going full, trying to block out the sound.

I went to the top of the stairs. “Hey, Kelly,” I yelled down. “Best you come back here and clean this up. ’Cause I’m sure as hell not going to.”

I sacked out again, waiting. A while later Kelly appeared, carrying a mop and a bucket of water.

“Clean it up good,” I told him. “Every bit.” He didn’t say much so I just stared at the ceiling and listened to the mop make swishing sounds along the floor. “You know,” I said, after a couple of minutes. “If you want a woman, I’ll do what I can for you.” He didn’t answer. “Goddamit, Kelly. If you want a piece of tail I’ll get you a piece of tail. Now don’t say you never were asked.”