Algren at Sea (15 page)
Authors: Nelson Algren
Verina's glasses had fallen over her nose, which was pugged, lending her the aspect of female boxer wearing glasses.
“Why isn't the Grab-the-First-Thing-That-Comes-Your-Way System, employed by people in finding a soul mate, good enough for dogs?” I inquired courteously yet keeping my distance. You have to be careful about making jokes to Americans these days as they have more troubles than other people.
“Because
anything
is good enough for people,” Verina told me, “but
anything
isn't good enough for dogs. Don't tell
me
âI
know.”
anything
is good enough for people,” Verina told me, “but
anything
isn't good enough for dogs. Don't tell
me
âI
know.”
“I didn't know,” I went along. “Can I ask how you found it out? Or am I being personal?”
“Nothing personal at all. I found it out by marrying
two
of them,
that's
how
I
found out. O
God,
why did it have to be
me?”
two
of them,
that's
how
I
found out. O
God,
why did it have to be
me?”
I waited politely to find out why it
had
to be her.
had
to be her.
“Oh, why did I have to marry an Argentinian built like a
stallion?”
she grieved;
“no
woman could stand
that.”
stallion?”
she grieved;
“no
woman could stand
that.”
“I begin to get the drift,” I assured her, thinking of a Great Dane capturing Mimi's heart.
“You get the wrong drift,” she assured me in turn. “Oh, why did I have
to marry a Frenchman built like a
trout?
I was better off with Ramón! I couldn't even tell if we were in the same bed!” She tossed a lipstick into her handbag and shut it with a click. “O God,” she strangely prayed, “where is the
Truth?”
And she left.
to marry a Frenchman built like a
trout?
I was better off with Ramón! I couldn't even tell if we were in the same bed!” She tossed a lipstick into her handbag and shut it with a click. “O God,” she strangely prayed, “where is the
Truth?”
And she left.
I put my back against the wall and thought about fighters who came up fast and couldn't be beat. Then went down slow and finally didn't fight anybody anymore. Satterfield and Vince Foster and Lew Jenkins and Booker Beckwith and Anton Radek and Johnny Colan and Altus Allen and Nick Castiglione and Carl Vinciquerra and Milt Aron and Willie Reddish and Billy Marquart and Pete Lello and Willie Joyce and Bratton.
Till the moon of the night-trees, at last set free, rose with a single leaf touching its tip.
Then I thought of the friends I had had a lifetime away, but one decade before.
The face of Juliette Greco was no longer memorable. I had seen her again. Waiting to take a train to Marseilles, we had gone to the station's dining room and sat next to a table that looked unusual. A dozen American men and one woman holding a huge doll. She was quite pale, rather fragile, with the appearance of an American starlet. The men, by their conversation, were plainly a film outfit going south, probably to Africa, for a film.
The woman looked familiar. I thought she was an American starlet who was trying to look like Juliette Greco.
When she passed, carting her doll, Castor greeted her as Greco.
“We were wondering who the beauty was, and weren't certain,” she explained diplomatically.
“It's not all it seems to be,” Greco answered, smiling wanly, and passed on.
What transformation a decade had made in Mouloudji I do not know. Having gone through his talent for writing, then painting, then for singing, I had seen him, the last time, in a bit part in an Italian film. I don't think I'll see Mouloudji again.
Cau I had also seen. Cau was a success. He had been assigned by
L' Express
to follow Hemingway on Hemingway's last tour of the bullrings. Hemingway, being sick and dying, would make good reading for a certain type of reader.
L' Express
to follow Hemingway on Hemingway's last tour of the bullrings. Hemingway, being sick and dying, would make good reading for a certain type of reader.
Hemingway had known of this particular danger in Africa.
“Highly humorous was the hyena,” he had written in
Green Hills of Africa,
“obscenely loping, full belly dragging at daylight on the plain, who, shot from the stern, skittered on into speed to tumble end over end. Mirth provoking was the hyena that stopped out of range by an alkali lake to look back and, hit in the chest, went over on his back, his four feet and full belly in the air. Nothing could be more jolly than the hyena coming suddenly wedge-headed and stinking out of high grass by a
donga,
hit at ten yards, who raced his tail in three narrowing, scampering circles until he died.
Green Hills of Africa,
“obscenely loping, full belly dragging at daylight on the plain, who, shot from the stern, skittered on into speed to tumble end over end. Mirth provoking was the hyena that stopped out of range by an alkali lake to look back and, hit in the chest, went over on his back, his four feet and full belly in the air. Nothing could be more jolly than the hyena coming suddenly wedge-headed and stinking out of high grass by a
donga,
hit at ten yards, who raced his tail in three narrowing, scampering circles until he died.
“It was funny to M'Cola to see a hyena shot at close range. There was that comic slap of the bullet and the hyena's agitated surprise to find death inside him. It was funnier to see a hyena shot at a great distance, in the heat shimmer of the plain, to see him go over backwards, to see him start that frantic circle, to see that electric speed that meant that he was racing the little nickelled death inside him. But the great joke of all, the thing M'Cola waved his hands across his face about, and turned away and shook his head and laughed, ashamed even of the hyena; the pinnacle of hyenic humor, was the hyena, the classic hyena, that hit too far back while running, would circle madly, snapping and tearing at himself until he pulled his own intestines out, and then stood there, jerking them out and eating them with relish.
“â
Fisi'
M'Cola would say and shake his head in delighted sorrow at there being such an awful beast.
Fisi,
the hyena, hermaphroditic, self-eating devourer of the dead, trailer of calving cows, ham-stringer, potential biter-off of your face at night while you slept, sad yowler, camp-follower, stinking, foul, with jaws that crack the bones the lion leaves, belly dragging, loping away on the brown plain, looking back, mongrel dog-smart in the face; whack from the little Mannlicher and then the horrid circle starting. â
Fisi,'
M'Cola laughed, ashamed of him, shaking his bald black head. â
Fisi.'
Eats himself. â
Fisi.
'”
Fisi'
M'Cola would say and shake his head in delighted sorrow at there being such an awful beast.
Fisi,
the hyena, hermaphroditic, self-eating devourer of the dead, trailer of calving cows, ham-stringer, potential biter-off of your face at night while you slept, sad yowler, camp-follower, stinking, foul, with jaws that crack the bones the lion leaves, belly dragging, loping away on the brown plain, looking back, mongrel dog-smart in the face; whack from the little Mannlicher and then the horrid circle starting. â
Fisi,'
M'Cola laughed, ashamed of him, shaking his bald black head. â
Fisi.'
Eats himself. â
Fisi.
'”
Cau was the right man for the job.
Boris Vian was dead. He had come out of a movie house, where he had seen an American version of a book he had written, and collapsed of a heart attack on the walk.
The Golden Zazu had lost some of her sheen. But was still the Michele who cared for people.
Bost had both failed and succeeded. He had done no creative work since
The Last Profession,
and had had no commercial success. He had simply gone along doing odd-jobs in scenario writing and journalism. After ten years he had not aged or changed. He had not succeeded, yet had not failed. He seemed content to be a journalist, though he had begun more creatively. But he had kept respect for integrity and had sustained respect for himself in others. He remained Sartre's closest friend.
The Last Profession,
and had had no commercial success. He had simply gone along doing odd-jobs in scenario writing and journalism. After ten years he had not aged or changed. He had not succeeded, yet had not failed. He seemed content to be a journalist, though he had begun more creatively. But he had kept respect for integrity and had sustained respect for himself in others. He remained Sartre's closest friend.
Of all, Castor alone seemed to have gained personal strength in the decade. Djamila Boupacha wrote to her in gratitude from prison in Algiers:
“My fate seems marvelous now.”
Â
The moon of the night-trees, at last set free, rose with a single leaf touching its tip.
I saw the river cruiser returning. The people behind the glass walls were still looking out at the couples walking the quai.
The people on the boat waved at the few lovers still strolling.
And not one lover waved back.
Within The Metro's fluorescent deep
Are cries unheard on the busy street.
One night I rode it all alone
It never stopped. Nobody got on.
That night was ferris-wheeled
For one by one
The darkened platforms passed like being swung.
Dark against the white of the Metro wall
I saw the girl with the black coiffure.
Are cries unheard on the busy street.
One night I rode it all alone
It never stopped. Nobody got on.
That night was ferris-wheeled
For one by one
The darkened platforms passed like being swung.
Dark against the white of the Metro wall
I saw the girl with the black coiffure.
Â
For some girls clocks chime within the heart
For others, each clock must strike apart.
For others, each clock must strike apart.
Â
In a rain that lightly rains regret
Upon the hour of the unbought whore
I'll come in my turn to the final door
To pay up my money.
To spit out the pit.
Upon the hour of the unbought whore
I'll come in my turn to the final door
To pay up my money.
To spit out the pit.
Â
When I come to the dance on the bed of the whore
To marry my bride with the black Coiffure
Let bells marry bells, let no lamp burn apart
Let all clocks of Paris strike hard on the heart.
Let odor of peaches mix with that of perfume
Let the green of the moss break the heart of the stone
Let no clock strike singly
Let all jukes cry one song.
And above a bed on the Rue Tiquetonne
Keep two lamps burning each to eachâ
Tique-DONG!
Tique-DONG!
Tique-DONG!
Tique-DONG!
To marry my bride with the black Coiffure
Let bells marry bells, let no lamp burn apart
Let all clocks of Paris strike hard on the heart.
Let odor of peaches mix with that of perfume
Let the green of the moss break the heart of the stone
Let no clock strike singly
Let all jukes cry one song.
And above a bed on the Rue Tiquetonne
Keep two lamps burning each to eachâ
Tique-DONG!
Tique-DONG!
Tique-DONG!
Tique-DONG!
BARCELONA
THE BRIGHT ENORMOUS MORNING
The-Porter-Who-Almost-Has-It-Made never moves any farther from the elevator door than Yogi Berra does from home plate, but the thing is automatic and I don't need anyone to raise the handle of a door for me.
He blocks me off, raises the handle, smiles while I pass in review before him into the cage, holds the smile when he follows me in, presses the button that says
tercero
âand smiles. The three of us go up togetherâmyself, the porter, and the smile.
tercero
âand smiles. The three of us go up togetherâmyself, the porter, and the smile.
“This thing is
automático,”
I explained this morning, thinking he didn't know. He smiled:
automático.
automático,”
I explained this morning, thinking he didn't know. He smiled:
automático.
If he keeps on smiling like that I'll have to tell him frankly, I am promised to another.
No, I haven't tipped him. That would only be to encourage him.
I took a one-peseta ride down the Rambla de Las Floras on a streetcar called Ataranzas, but the conductor put me off for aiming my camera at something through his window. If you're the conductor of a streetcar anywhere you can't be too careful about who you take aboard.
The Rambla de Las Floras is a wide and prosperous ramble through arbors of flowers and arbors of books. Barcelona is a woman reading with mimosa in her hair. She is reading James Hadley Chase; there is no censorship of flowers.
The Rambla is made for strolling. Though at nine o'clock of a weekday morning the people on it are hurrying to get somewhere as fast as those on Fifth Avenue. I caught a glimpse of an American wearing a pith helmet. Now, what country did he think
he
was in? But the people I wanted to talk to were those who weren't going anywhere, if they were up yet. I took a turn into the Calle de San Pablo, and that was a good move because it brought me into the Barrio-Chino.
he
was in? But the people I wanted to talk to were those who weren't going anywhere, if they were up yet. I took a turn into the Calle de San Pablo, and that was a good move because it brought me into the Barrio-Chino.
The Barrio-Chino is the bottom of Barcelona, a town that tries to go
straight down as well as straight up instead of just slopping over at the sides like Los Angeles. This is because the Spaniard is a person who goes straight up or straight down without slopping over. What some of these straight-up-and-down types were up to was almost any thing they thought would get them over the wall; such as walking down the street with government lottery tickets promising winners to everybody the day after tomorrow.
straight down as well as straight up instead of just slopping over at the sides like Los Angeles. This is because the Spaniard is a person who goes straight up or straight down without slopping over. What some of these straight-up-and-down types were up to was almost any thing they thought would get them over the wall; such as walking down the street with government lottery tickets promising winners to everybody the day after tomorrow.
I didn't see how they could tell which numbers were that sure to win because those who weren't blind in their reading eye had lost the sight of both. I hope nobody was lying as the totally blind aren't supposed to lie. It's alright for people who have lost sight in one, and nothing is any longer expected of people who can see out of both. But if the totally blind were telling the truth that morning in Barcelona, the Chief of State has begun robbing the rich to give to the poor.
To tell the truth myself, the things people do in The Barrio to get over the wall don't come to anything more than what the people who would just as soon stay inside it are doing. A boy of ten had deliberately put himself between the shafts of a two-wheeled cart and was hauling it uphill to the fish market. What made him think his future would be more secure if he got seventy-five pounds of shovelnosed garpike to the top of a hill I sometimes still wonder.
Another, a smaller boy, was putting in his time better by urinating from the curb to the street. Two girls, who looked like sisters, but not his, were watching him with flat-eyed curiosity.
“Qué práctico!”
the taller of the two observed. How practical! The littler one nodded in agreement:
Quite
practical. I was glad to see some people weren't losing ground.
“Qué práctico!”
the taller of the two observed. How practical! The littler one nodded in agreement:
Quite
practical. I was glad to see some people weren't losing ground.
A grown-up girl hurried up to me and stuck a pin in my neck. It was attached to a paper heart and it was my jacket she'd aimed at. I didn't feel entitled to contribute as I don't yet have heart disease, but I looked around to see who'd sent her, thinking it might be someone I knew. In France you're permitted to refuse a paper heart, but if you walk past a heart-tag pusher here you're insulting Franco. He's a fellow in politics here.
Somebody had chalked a cup of coffee, with red and green chalk, on the window of the coffeehouse and written below:
CaféâEl Café Verdadero
Black Coffee
âTHAT's
coffee
Black Coffee
âTHAT's
coffee
But across the window of the coffeehouse directly opposite someone else had chalked a cup of coffee with a jug of milk beside it, and the milk was steaming. This had been done in black and white and under it was another promise:
Café con lecheâEl Ãnico Verdadero
Coffee with milkâ
THAT's
coffee
Coffee with milkâ
THAT's
coffee
I'd known Spain was divided but had had no idea things had gone this far.
A woman with coffee-colored hair was standing in front of the
Café Verdadero
place. She gave me a black-coffee smile. She didn't use sugar either; that much was plain.
Café Verdadero
place. She gave me a black-coffee smile. She didn't use sugar either; that much was plain.
Another woman smiled from the coffee-with-milk capitol, and her smile was pure cream. Grade A.A smile like
that
ânever ask if it's pasteurized, the smile is what matters. I crossed over to find out what she thought of Castro. I didn't intend to join
any
body. What I wanted was both sides of the argument.
that
ânever ask if it's pasteurized, the smile is what matters. I crossed over to find out what she thought of Castro. I didn't intend to join
any
body. What I wanted was both sides of the argument.
When she saw me coming she held the smile and the smile stayed pure cream. Her hair was down on one side of her face and she had a plain, beseeching face.
She knew it was time to turn off the smile; yet she couldn't. She knew all she was doing was grinning like an embarrassed fool at being badly dressed in front of an American millionaire. When she accepted a cigarette I told her to keep the pack.
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