William Styron: The Collected Novels: Lie Down in Darkness, Set This House on Fire, The Confessions of Nat Turner, and Sophie's Choice (122 page)

“And I suppose its true, some twisted connection or crossed up circuit between love & hate in me is the secret of it all, & to go in on my own from day to day like some scared electrician & try to fix the circuit will be in the end, I mean if there is an end, my only way out. I could not give up my thoughts or my dreams even to a Slotkin. It is awful & desperate enough to give them up to myself. A man must be chary with his daemons & who knows whether it is not better to suffer a dream & see Hell fire & the gulf & sink in the perishing deep & have volcanos exploding around ones head for a lifetime, than to know its final meaning. Who can say that its meaning once made naked & clear, wont make a man anything but triply damned & free him not into love but into a hatred so immense that all before would seem tender & benign. Who could safely say anything about that, I would like to know that man. Maybe it is just that in the end some secrets should be hid forever. Meantime I am my own soul diviner & I do not hope to dredge up out of the depths any thing but that which would momentarily solace me. And the blame is my own to bear. So that when ever I dream as I have done of old Uncle standing there as my own executioner I do not place the horror in his hands. If he was sweet & gentle though a miserable & dirt poor farmer & burdened & if the most he ever did was whallop me once when he caught me pulling my pork in the outhouse, or that time at Lake Waccamaw when he caught me at 14 all beered up and drug me home by the ear—then he was not very progressive in many ways I guess, but I dont blame him for my present letchery nor for the fact that Im a whiskey head either. Slotkin kept wanting to dig at this, at my being an orphan & at old Uncle, but I guess he was barking up the wrong tree. Its not old Uncles fault any more than it was Cape Gloucester, which scared the living shit out of me just like it did everyone else. Nor when I look into my heart of hearts is it the U.S. I can blame at all though many times I would like to & do, a bleeding expatriate that would put a Bowery bum to shame. Because though say even somebody like Poppy dont know it there are times when just the thought of one single pine tree at home, in the sand, & a negro church in a grove I knew as a boy & the sunlight coming down hot on a Sunday long ago & the sound of the negros singing In Bright Mansions Above (?)—then I feel or know rather that all I would need is that one trembling word to be whispered or spoken into my ear. AMERICA. And I could hold myself back no longer and blubber like a baby.

“Though for the rest of the time I figure you can have the whole smart-Alex, soft-headed, baby-faced, predigested, cellophane wrapped, doomed, beauty-hating, land. And thats a fact. No in the end maybe its good to get to know some of the horrors of the night, & to get old Uncle off the hook I suspect that whosoever it is that rises in a dream with a look on his face of eternal damnation is just ones own self, wearing a mask, and thats the fact of the matter.”

8

Curious to relate, there was at this time living and working on the Adriatic coast a young American painter and sculptor named Waldo Kasz. A native of Buffalo, with a great mop of reddish hair and an expression which, at least in his rare photographs, mirrored a very special and personal detestation of the human race, Waldo Kasz had for a whole year enjoyed a vogue unparalleled by any young artist of his generation. He was of Polish descent; presumably his surname was a simplification of more unpronounceable consonants. His haunting, twisted, abstract forms in oil and gouache, his compressed and tormented statuettes in terra cotta, his larger figures in bronze—skeletal, attenuated, crypto-humans whose knobby outlines and strange, sudden concavities seemed to express the very essence of exacerbated and outraged flesh—all of these had won him, while still in his early thirties, the kind of acclaim for which most artists wait in vain a lifetime. An expatriate, a self-confessed hater of all things American, he lived in sulky exile in a little village on the seacoast not far from Rimini with only (according to a New York fashion magazine) his mother and three Siamese cats for company, and one solitary diversion—this being to prowl the lonely Adriatic shore in search of wild driftwood shapes from which he often took inspiration for his macabre, vaguely anthropomorphic masterpieces. Rumor had it that he was aloof to the vanishing point, a locker of doors and a slammer down of windows, and had even threatened violence upon those persistent souls—chiefly reporters and photographers from popular American journals—who had managed to penetrate his lair. The rare interviews with Waldo Kasz are records mainly of monosyllables and grunts. An article in the
Herald Tribune
called him “the grim young prophet of the ’beat’ generation.” One of the few photographs taken of him—a huge mug shot in a widely circulated magazine which also ran a three-page spread in color of his works—shows the tousled reddish hair, the glittering eyes two blue pinpoints of near-blind fury, the rather simian brow knitted in furious ripples and, in the foreground, a splashy blur of crimson—wine, so the caption explains, flung without ceremony at the prying photographer. The picture is titled “Angry Young Genius.” It was because of the awful though not very precise coincidence of their names—Cass and Kasz—that Cass had his first encounter with Mason Flagg.

Unless you have been to Sambuco in May, you have never known the spring. This is what many Italians say, and it is no doubt hyperbole, but there is truth in the matter. Spring in Sambuco is something to know. It is odor and sweet warmth, bud and blossom, and, in the sky, ecstatic aerial tracings—sunbeam and bumblebee and hummingbird, and silvery, innocent showers of rain. Then the rain is gone, and it comes no more. Perhaps it is the height, the looking downward, that makes spring here the marvel that it is. Flowers clamber up along the hillsides, donkeys bray in the valleys and over all is that sense of the strut and glamour of newborn life. And you are so high, miles above the common earth. Girls, slender in cotton dresses, walk the street arm in arm in gay parade, while old women in doorways seek the sunlight with upturned faces and drowsing eyes. People shout to each other from open windows. There is an odor of pepper and pimiento and cheese in the air. From the depths of the dank cafe and into pure sunlight moves the eternal card game, kibitzed by two pink-cheeked priests and by Umberto, the Bella Vista’s major-domo, decked out in gold-sprayed summer whites like a Spanish admiral. Radios everywhere give voice, unrestrained, to
Pagliacci
and sad songs of Naples, bittersweet
stornelli
that tell of rapture and betrayal, to loud pitches for spaghetti and toothpaste and suppositories, and to Perry Como. Athwart the piazza, portly and grave, moves the begabardined form of Piero Caltroni, M.D., fanning himself with his mail. Rumors buzz like bees in this gentle weather: a cow across the valley in Minuto has given birth to a three-headed calf;
turismo
will be booming this summer—the West German mark is as solid as the dollar; Sergeant Parrinello, the town despot, is due for a transfer—bravo!; the caretaker at the Villa Caruso has heard ghastly moans in the small hours, and has seen flickering green lights. Specters! Ghosts! Rumors! At two in the afternoon all falls silent. There can be heard only cowbells clanging in the valley or the sound of a bus horn, or, far off, the whistle of some coastwise ship plowing southward toward Reggio Calabria or Sicily.

It has been said that most suicides occur when the air is balmy, the sky blue, the sunlight unclouded, jovial and golden; the writhing amputee, skewered upon life like a wingless June bug, finds the climate of spring a heartless last insult, and so gives up the ghost. No doubt it was just this weather that caused Cass, on the morning of the day he met Mason, to dream this fearful nightmare, so poisoned and festering with the casts of self-destruction.

He was in an airplane. High above the Andes he flew, in drifts of cloud and mist, above Aconcagua and Cotopaxi and Chimborazo, their peaks threatening, billowing with the dark fleece and rack of a thousand soundless storms. The plane was crowded with faceless people; there was a constant dim murmuration—a faintly heard, barely discerned babble of humming and chuckles and remote sibilant whispers—and this murmuration chilled him to the bone, touched as it was with the sound of doom. Music, too, attended this flight of his through space, a discordant, atonal sound as of some bizarre ensemble playing off-key yet in unison, a saxophone, a harpsichord, a tuba, a kazoo; and the music like the constant ebb and flow and hum of voices seemed tinged with premonitions of death. Presently then he got up and went to the bathroom. There was a shower stall here—a strange accommodation, he thought, for an airline, for it was vast and made of concrete and in the corners there were damp, enormous webs where spiders as big as saucers feasted upon struggling insects. Panic enveloped him, and terror; the plane pitched and rocked, and as it did so he found himself taking off all his clothes. Then—wonder of wonders —he had withdrawn from himself. Standing aside, clammy and wet with horror, he saw his other self, naked now, step into the shower and, with the numb transfixed look of one already dead, turn on all the faucets full blast. The spiders trembled in their webs, shriveling; a sense of strangulation, of asphyxia. Christ! he heard his watching self dream, for it was not water which emerged from the nozzles but the billowing jets of suffocating gas. The murmuration grew in volume and tempo, joined by the tuba, ponderously belching, and the panic kazoo. Now naked and blue beneath the rush of gas, his other self grew rigid, skin shiny as a turquoise bead, and toppled soundless to the floor, all life extinct. And he, watching, tried to reach out to his corpse, but here several sporty Negroes entered, shouldering him aside, and leaned over the blue body, shaking their heads and grieving. “Man, why did you kill him?” one said, looking up. “Man, why did you let him die?” But before he could answer the Negro, the plane pitched again, vibrating as if rent by mammoth claps of thunder. And now a ripe mulatto girl, entering too, seeing the cadaver, shrieked, shrieked again and again and, as if to obliterate the sight not just from her own but from all eyes, pulled down a shade upon which was written, in blood, this message …

He awoke half-strangled beneath the bedclothes, blotting out the message from his mind even as he awoke, and with chill after chill of terror, of insight and knowledge and recognition, coursing through him like the recurring rhythmic ague that accompanies fever.

“Nossir,” Cass told me, “I didn’t know what that message was, but I knew something else. I mean this crazy chill and thrill of understanding that kept running through me as I lay there in the shadows. I knew
something”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, dreams, you know. I never put much stock in them. That is, those naval wig pickers in San Francisco used to try to worm a few of them out of me, figuring that they’d be able to plug in on my most intimate circuits, I reckon. I knew they probably had something there and all—I wasn’t
that
ignorant—but it did seem to me that it was pretty much my own private business, so whenever they asked me what I dreamt about, I just told them I dreamt about pussy and let it go at that… .”

“So?”

“Except, as I say, I knew they were probably on the right track. It really doesn’t take any supreme genius to know that these various horrors and sweats you have when you’re asleep add up to something, even if these horrors are masked and these sweats are symbols. What you’ve got to do is get behind the mask and the symbol… .

“Well, God
knows.
Jigaboos everywhere! Ever since I’d been in Europe about half of whatever nightmares I’d had—the ones I remembered, anyway—had been tied up with Negroes. Negroes in prison, Negroes being gassed, me being gassed, Negroes watching me
while
I was being gassed. Like that terrible dream I had in Paris. There was always a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, and you’d have thought that as a nice southern boy who was maybe just a little brighter than some of my cornfield brethren I’d have had it all doped out a little bit sooner. But the fact of the matter, you know—and it’s probably a blessing—is that dreams, even horrible nightmares, have a way of slipping out of sight once you’re awake, with the cobwebs out of your eyes. I say it’s a blessing, because I’ll bet you there’s not one white southerner over the age of fifteen—ten! five!—who hasn’t had nightmares just like the one I told you about, or at least variations upon it, replete with Negroes, and blood, and horror. Suppose these nightmares lingered? You’d turn the Southland into a nuthouse… .”

He paused. “Well, I don’t want to sermonize. I guess like your old man—or what you’ve told me about him—I’m a way-out liberal, for a southerner anyway. Comes from living with the Yankees for so long and marrying one. On the other hand, I despise these goddam northerners who’ve never been south of Staten Island and are out to tell everybody down here they’ve got to hew to the line, right now by God, with no wait and no pause and because we know it’s good for you, and it’s humane, and it’s decent and American, and who pretend that Harlem and the Chicago ghettoes don’t exist. The bastards just don’t
know
what’s going on down here.

“But no sermonizing. The point is that there in Europe I was being wakened up in many different ways. God knows it was tough, and sometimes you’d never know it from some of the things I did, but I was being awakened, and now I can see that some of these dreams and nightmares which I remember so vividly were a part of the awakening.

“Take that dream I told you about. Well, first—try to remember. When you were a kid did you ever holler ‘nigger’ at anybody?”

I reflected for a moment. “Yes,” I said. “What kid hasn’t? I mean in the South.”

“Did you ever do anything else—
mean,
that is—to someone who was colored? Really mean, that is?”

Pondering my early youth, I could dredge up nothing more sinister than that sorry old epithet, hoarsely shouted. “We’d yell at them from the school bus I used to ride on,” I said. “Maybe some of the other boys would heave a rotten orange. Nothing more than that. They’re rather genteel about such matters in Virginia, you know.”

“That’s what you think,” he said sourly, but with a sort of smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that morning—the same morning I ran into Mason—when I woke up with that dream still hovering in my mind, these chills were still going up and down my back, these chills of recognition, you see, and all of a sudden I knew what it all meant. No, it wasn’t as clear and as pat as all that, but right there simultaneously with my waking up I remembered something wretched and horrible that I had done when I was about fifteen years old—something really dreadful and wicked that I must have kept way back in my mind all these years. And floating over me like the palest big fat blob of a balloon you ever saw was the image of this guy I hadn’t thought of in so long that for a while I couldn’t remember his name. Then it came back to me. Lonnie.

“Lonnie,” he repeated.

“Lonnie?”

“Well, let me tell you about it.” And now, on the lovely river Ashley, lolling against a pine stump, he told me of something which, seventeen years before, had brought him for the first time into the slovenly presence of shame. He told of the summer of his fifteenth year—or was he sixteen? One year either way, no matter how you looked at it, could not mitigate the crime—when his uncle bought him a bus ticket and farmed him out (as had been his habit from time to time during those depression years when the bottom dropped out of the bright-leaf tobacco market) to a first cousin once removed, Hoke Kinsolving by name, who lived up in southside Virginia in a dinky sun-blistered town called Colfax, pop. 1,600, altitude sea level, in a part of the commonwealth no tourist intent on Williamsburg palaces and elegant river mansions had ever seen or heard of, and boasting in the business way only a peanut warehouse, a lumber mill, a sagging cotton gin and a Western Auto store. Cass remembered that summer for many things (fifteen! He
must
have been, for he came to manhood then, neither early nor late, but enormously and unforgettably, as all men do, in this case after watching Veronica Lake in the sweltering one-horse movie house, and later half-fainting in the throbbing dark, among the summery-smelling mimosas behind his cousin’s house)—for the mimosas themselves and their pale pink watery blossoms, and the dust rising from the scorched back alleys of the town, and old ladies fanning themselves on front porches drenched in green shadow, and mockingbirds caroling thunderously at sunup—for a hundred gentle memories, purely summer, purely southern, which swarmed instantly through his mind, though one huge memory encompassed all. Vaguely, this involved his cousin Hoke, who, being a corn and peanut farmer nearly as poor as his old uncle, got him a part-time job at the Western Auto store, working in the back among the stacked-up tires and cartons of radio tubes and hubcaps and tools odorous of rubber and oil; more distinctly, more clearly, more threateningly, it came to mean someone called Lonnie (if he had a last name Cass never knew it), who was a man of twenty-one or so with bad teeth and a caved-in sallow face and a broad plastered-down wig of unparted, Lucky Tiger fragrant, custard-colored hair. Lonnie was the assistant manager. Now, had I ever been to Sussex County and seen a real Virginia gentleman in operation? No?
Ecco
Lonnie then, who to be sure was somewhat unlettered, a Baptist and only half a cut removed from trash and all, yet a soul neither deluded nor demented and the fairest flower of southern manhood. Let us remember, too, that this was Virginia, Peter, my own Virginia, the Virginia of stately chateaux and green carpeted lawns and bony aristocrats on horseback, the Virginia of the outlawed lynching and the soft word and the enlightened (mildly) Jeffersonian notion of justice—not Mississippi, not Alabama, not Georgia, but the Old Dominion, home of conservatism leavened by gentility and breeding and by a gentlemanly apprehension of democracy. To be sure, Colfax was not that Virginia so dear to chamber-of-commerce pamphleteers—the sunny commonwealth containing so many varied riches: eighteenth-century ladies richly draped in velvet and crinoline, by candlelight shepherding the credulous fritter-stuffed visitor through opulent hallways at Westover and Shirley and Brandon; or darkies starched to the neck and in cocked hats and satin pantaloons looking just like they did when Marse William Byrd owned the whole James River from Richmond to the sea; or that quaint ivy-shuttered church where Patrick Henry voiced his immortal cry for freedom —no, this was a Virginia that no one ever knew, the flat hot Virginia of swamps and scrub pine and sludgy lowland rivers and pigs snorting among the peanut vines, and flop-eared mules, but all the same Virginia. And Lonnie.