Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch (46 page)

Well, he came. He examined Moricand from head to toe and inside out. That
done, he engaged him in talk. He paid no further heed to the running sores, made no further
mention of the subject. He talked about all manner of things but not about the itch. It was as
if he had completely forgotten what he had been summoned for. Now and then Moricand attempted
to remind him of the object of his visit but my friend always succeeded in diverting his
attention to some other subject. Finally he made ready to leave, after writing out a
prescription which he left under Moricand’s nose.

I escorted him to the car, eager to know what he really thought.

“There’s nothing to do,” he said. “When he stops thinking about it the itch
will disappear.”

“And in the meantime…?”

“Let him take the pills.”

“Will they really help?”

“That depends on
him
. There’s nothing in them to hurt him, or to do
him any good. Unless he believes so.”

There was a heavy pause.

Suddenly he said: “Do you want my honest advice?”

“I certainly do,” said I.

“Then get him off your hands!”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. You might as well have a leper living with you.”

I must have looked sorely puzzled.

“It’s simple,” he said. “He doesn’t want to get well. What he wants is
sympathy, attention. He’s not a man, he’s a child. A spoiled child.”

Another pause.

“And don’t worry if he threatens to do himself in. He’ll probably pull that on
you when everything else fails. He won’t kill himself. He loves himself too much.”

“I see,” said I. “So that’s how it stands…. But what in hell will I tell
him?”

“That I leave to you, old pal.” He started up the motor.

“O.K.” I said. “Maybe I’ll take the pills myself. Anyway, a thousand
thanks!”

Moricand was lying in wait for me. He had been studying the prescription but
could make nothing of it, the handwriting was too abominable.

In a few words I explained that in my friend’s opinion his ailment was
psychological.

“Any fool knows that!” he blurted out and in the next breath—“Is he really a
doctor?”

“A quite famous one,” I answered.

“Strange,” said Moricand. “He talked like an imbecile.

“OH?”

“Asking me if I still masturbated.”

“Et puis…?

“If I liked women as much as men. If I had ever taken drugs. If I believed in
emanations. If, if, if….
C’est un foul”

For a minute or two he was speechless with rage. Then, in a tone of utter
misery, he muttered as if to himself:
“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, qu’est-ce que je peux faire?
Comme je suis seul, tout seul!”

“Come, come,” I murmured, “calm yourself! There are worse things than the
itch.”

“Like what?”
he demanded. He said it with such swiftness that I was
taken aback.

“Like what?”
he repeated.
“Psychological … pouahl
He must
take me for an idiot. What a country this is! No humanity. No understanding. No intelligence.
Ah, if only I could die … die tonight!”

I said not a word.

“May you never suffer,
mon cher Miller
, as I am
suffering! The war was nothing compared to this.”

Suddenly his glance fell on the prescription. He picked it up, clenched it in
his fist, then threw it on the floor.

“Pills!
He gives
me
, Moricand, pills! Bah!” He spat on the
floor. “He’s a quack, your friend. A charlatan. An impostor.”

Thus ended the first attempt to pull him out of his misery.

A week passed and then who should turn up but my old friend Gilbert. Ah, I
thought, at last someone who speaks French, someone who loves French literature. What a treat
for Moricand!

Over a bottle of wine I had no difficulty in getting them to talk to one
another. It was only a matter of a few minutes before they were discussing Baudelaire, Villon,
Voltaire, Gide, Cocteau,
les ballets russes, Ubu Roi
, and so forth. When I saw that
they were hitting it off nicely I discreetly withdrew, hoping that Gilbert who had also
suffered the afflictions of Job, would raise the other’s morale. Or at least get him
drunk.

An hour or so later, as I was sauntering down the road with the dog, Gilbert
drove up.

“What, going so soon?” I said. It was unlike Gilbert to leave before the last
bottle had been emptied.

“I’ve had a bellyful,” he replied. “What a prick!”

“Who, Moricand?”

“Exactly.”

“What happened?”

By way of answer he gave me a look of sheer disgust.

“Do you know what I’d do with him,
amigo?”
he said vengefully.

“No, what?”

“Push him over the cliff.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“Try it! It’s the best solution.” With that he stepped on the gas.

Gilbert’s words gave me a shock. It was altogether unlike him to talk that way
about another person. He was such a kind,
gentle, considerate soul, had
been through such hell himself. Obviously it hadn’t taken long for him to see through
Moricand.

Meanwhile my good friend Lilik, who had rented a shack a few miles down the
road, was doing his utmost to make Moricand more at home. Moricand liked Lilik and had
implicit faith in him. He could hardly feel otherwise, since Lilik did nothing but render him
services. Lilik would sit with him by the hour, listening to his tales of woe.

From Lilik I gleaned that Moricand thought I was not paying him enough
attention. “You never inquire about his work,” he said.

“His work? What do you mean? What is he working at?”

“I believe he’s writing his memoirs.”

“That’s interesting,” I said. “I must have a look some time.”

“By the way,” said Lilik, “have you ever seen his drawings?”

“What drawings?”

“My God, haven’t you seen them yet? He’s got a whole stack of them in his
portfolio. Erotic drawings. Lucky for you,” he chuckled, “that the customs men didn’t discover
them.”

“Are they any good?”

“Yes and no. They’re certainly not for children to look at.”

A few days after this conversation took place, an old friend turned up. Leon
Shamroy. As usual, he was loaded with gifts. Mostly things to eat and drink.

This time Moricand opened his falcon eyes even wider.

“It’s staggering,” he murmured. He drew me to one side. “A millionaire, I
suppose?”

“No, just the head camera man for the Fox Films. The man who wins all the
Oscars.”

“I only wish you could understand his talk,” I added. “There’s no one in all
America who can say the things he says and get away with it.”

Just then Leon broke in. “What’s all the whispering about?” he demanded. “Who
is this guy—one of your Montparnasse friends?
Doesn’t he talk English?
What’s he doing here? Sponging on you, I’ll bet. Give him a drink! He looks bored—or sad.”

“Here, let him try one of these,” said Leon, fishing a handful of cigars out
of his breast pocket. “They only cost a dollar apiece. Maybe he’ll get a kick out of
them.”

He nodded to Moricand to indicate that the cigars were for him. With that he
threw away the half-finished Havana he had allowed to go out and lit a fresh one. The cigars
were almost a foot long and thick as seven-year-old rattlers. They had a beautiful aroma too.
Cheap at twice the price, thought I to myself.

“Tell him I don’t talk French,” said Leon, slightly annoyed because Moricand
had expressed his thanks in long-winded French. As he spoke he undid a package out of which
spilled some luscious-looking cheeses, some salami and some
lachs
. Over his shoulder:
“Tell him we like to eat and drink. We’ll chew the rag later. Hey, where’s that wine I
brought? No, wait a minute. I’ve got a bottle of Haig and Haig in the car. Let’s give him
that. The poor bugger, I’ll bet he’s never had a tumbler of whisky in his life…. Listen,
what’s the matter with him? Doesn’t he ever crack a smile?”

He went on sputtering like that, opening more parcels, cutting himself a hunk
of corn bread, buttering it with delicious sweet butter, spearing an olive, tasting an
anchovy, then a sour pickle, a little of this, a little of that, at the same time unearthing a
box of sweets for Val, together with a beautiful dress, a string of beads and …
“Here
, this is for
you
, you bastard!” and he flung me a tin of expensive
cigarettes. “I’ve got more for you up in the car. By the way, I forgot to ask you—how are
things going with you? Haven’t made your pile yet, have you? You and Bufano! A couple of
orphans. Lucky you have a friend like me … someone who
works
for a living, what?”

Meanwhile Lilik had gone to the car and brought things down. We opened the
Haig and Haig, then a beautiful brand of Bordeaux for Moricand (and for ourselves), looked
appraisingly at the
Pernod and the Chartreuse which he had also thought
to bring. The air was already thick with smoke, the floor littered with paper and string.

“Is that shower of yours still working?” asked Leon, unbuttoning his silk
shirt. “I’ve got to take one soon. Haven’t had any sleep for thirty-six hours. Christ, am I
glad to get away for a few hours! By the way, can you bunk me for the night? Maybe two nights?
I want to talk to you. We’ve got to make some real dough for you soon. You don’t want to be a
beggar all your life, do you? Don’t answer! I know what you’re going to say. … By the way,
where are your water colors? Drag ’em out! You know me. I may buy a half dozen before I leave.
If they’re any good, I mean.”

Suddenly he noticed Moricand was pulling on a cheroot.

“What’s the matter with that guy?” he shouted. “What’s he got that stink weed
in his mouth for? Didn’t we just give him some good cigars?”

Moricand explained blushingly that he was reserving the cigars for later. They
were too good to smoke immediately. He wanted to fondle them a while before lighting up.

“Fuck that nonsense!” cried Leon. “Tell him he’s in America now. We don’t
worry about tomorrow, do we? Tell him when he finishes those I’ll send him a box from L.A.” He
turned his head away, lowered his voice a trifle, “What’s griping him anyway? Has he been
starved to death over there? Anyway, the hell with him! Look, I want to tell you a little joke
I heard the other night. Translate it for him, will you? I want to see if he’ll laugh.”

My wife is making a vain attempt to set the table. Leon has already embarked
on his little joke, a filthy one, and Lilik is farting like a stallion. In the middle of his
tale Leon pauses to cut himself another hunk of bread, pour a drink, take off his shoes and
socks, spear an olive, and so on. Moricand watches him goggle-eyed. A new specimen of humanity
for him.
Le vrai type américain, quoi!
I have a suspicion he’s really enjoying
himself. Sampling the Bordeaux, he smacks his lips. The
lachs
intrigues him. As for the corn bread, he’s never seen or tasted it
before. Famous!
Ausgezeichnet!

Lilik’s laughing so hard the tears are rolling down his cheeks. It’s a good
joke, and a filthy one, but difficult to translate.

“What’s the trouble?” says Leon. “Don’t they use that kind of language where
he comes from?”

He observes Moricand diving into the viands, sipping his wine, trying to puff
away at the huge Havana.

“O.K. Forget the joke! He’s filling his belly, that’s good enough. Listen,
what did you say he was again?”

“Among other things an astrologer,” I said.

“He doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.
Astrology!
Who
wants to listen to that shit? Tell him to get wise to himself…. Hey, wait a minute, Ill give
him my birth date. Let’s see what he makes of it.”

I give the dope to Moricand. He says he’s not ready yet. Wants to observe Leon
a little longer, if we don’t mind.

“What did he say?”

“He says he wants to enjoy his food first. But he knows that you’re an
exceptional type.” I added this to relieve the tension.

“He said a mouthful there. You’re damned right I’m an exceptional type. Anyone
else in my place would go crazy. Tell him for me that I’ve got his number, will you?” Then,
turning directly to Moricand, he says: “How’s the wine … the
vin rouge?
Good stuff,
what?”

“Epatant!”
says Moricand, unaware of all the innuendoes that had
passed under his nose.

“You bet your ass it’s good,” says Leon. “
I
bought it. I know good
stuff when I see it.”

He watches Moricand as if his nibs were a trained otter, then turns to me.
“Does he do anything else beside read the stars?” Giving me a reproachful look, he adds: “I’ll
bet he likes nothing better than to sit on his fat fanny all day. Why don’t you put him to
work? Get him to dig a garden, plant vegetables, hoe the
weeds. That’s
what he needs. I know these bastards. They’re all alike.”

My wife was getting uncomfortable. She didn’t want Moricand’s feelings to be
hurt.

“He’s got something in his room you’ll enjoy seeing,” she said to Leon.

“Yeah,” said Lilik, “right up your street, Leon.”

“What are you trying to pull on me? What’s the big secret? Out with it!”

We explained. Leon seemed strangely disinterested.

“Hollywood’s full of that crap,” he said. “What do you want me to
do—
masturbate?”

The afternoon wore on. Moricand retired to his cell. Leon took us up to
inspect his new car, which could do ninety per in nothing flat. Suddenly he remembered that he
had some toys for Val in the back of the car. “Where’s Bufano these days?” says he, fishing
around in the trunk.

“Gone to India, I think.”

“To see Nehru, I bet!” He chuckled. “How that guy gets around without a cent
in his pockets beats me. By the way, what are
you
doing for money these days?”

With this he dives into his pants pocket, hauls out a wad of greenbacks
fastened with a clip, and begins peeling off a few.