City (7 page)

DIESEL: Three minutes passed, and the bell rang. Mondini said, That's enough. He took Larry's headguard off and began to untie the gloves. Larry was panting. Mondini said to him I'll drive you home, OK? It took a while, in the old sedan, to get to the exclusive neighborhood. They stopped in front of a house that was all lights and windows. Mondini turned off the engine and looked at Larry.

“Three minutes and you didn't throw a single punch.”

“Three minutes and I didn't take a punch, either,” Larry answered.

Mondini fixed his eyes on the steering wheel. It was true. For the entire round, Larry had been moving his legs with impressive agility, dancing in all directions, as if he had wheels under his feet. The other fighter had thrown all the punches he knew, and hadn't been able to hit him. He'd left the ring raging like a beast.

“That's not boxing, Larry.”

“I didn't want to hurt him.”

“Don't talk nonsense.”

“Really, I didn't want to . . .”

“Don't talk nonsense.”

Mondini glanced at the house. It looked like an advertisement for happiness.

“Why the hell do you want to be a boxer?”

“I don't know.”

“What the hell kind of answer is that?”

“That's what my father says. What the hell kind of answer is that? He's a lawyer.”

“I see.”

“Nice house, isn't it?”

“I can see that from your face.”

They sat there a while, in that silence of the wealthy. Larry toyed with the car's ashtray. He opened and closed it. Mondini didn't toy with anything, because he was thinking back to what he had seen in the ring: the biggest talent that had ever fallen into his hands. He was rich, the son of a lawyer, and hadn't the slightest reason to box.

“See you tomorrow,” said Larry, opening the door.

Mondini shrugged his shoulders.

“Fuck you, Larry.”

“Fuck,” he answered happily, and went into the house.

It remained their way of saying goodbye. Even during a fight, when they were in the corner, and the bell rang, Larry would get up, Mondini would take away the stool and they would unfailingly say to each other:

“Fuck you, Larry.”

“Fuck.”

Larry went on, and he won. He won twelve in a row. Thirteen, with Sobilo.

Wizwondk fell to his knees. A few feet away, the fat man was spurting blood all over the place, his eyes staring wide and his hands, every so often, groping in the air. Around him, the others woke from their spell. Some ran off. Two men went over to Wizwondk and picked him up, speaking to him. Someone grabbed the phone and called the police. Gould found himself pushed forward, a few steps from the two bodies jerking like fish at the bottom of a pail. He tried to turn back, but couldn't. Suddenly there was a terrible smell. He turned and saw on one of the mirrors a black-and-white photograph, of a soccer team posing, all sweaty and smiling, around a big cup sitting on the ground. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was right in front of the picture. He leaned over the sink and tried to shut out everything around him. He started with the right wing: he was in T-SHIRT and shorts, but his socks had fallen down, he had a silly moustache, and his smile betrayed an intense sadness. The sweeper was the only one who wasn't sweaty, and he was also the tallest: easy. He recognized the stopper in the contorted face and stocky build of the player at the edge of the picture and the center forward in the actor's face of the one who was grasping a handle of the cup and staring into the camera. He began to have trouble when it came to the fullbacks. They all had the faces of fullbacks. He tried to study the legs, when they were visible. But there was such an uproar—people shoving, someone shouting—that he couldn't concentrate. He gave up a moment before realizing that the one in the uniform, but sweaty, was the left back, who naturally had been thrown out of the game. He closed his eyes. And began to vomit.

Wizwondk spent several years in prison. When they realized that he was harmless, they allowed him to have his guitar. He played every night, light cheerful numbers. In the other cells, the other prisoners listened to him.

10

Edge of the field, behind the goal at the right. They sat there, watching. Prof. Taltomar with the cigarette butt between his lips. Gould with a wool cap on his head, hands in his pockets.

Minutes and minutes.

Then Gould, not taking his eyes off the game, said:

“Wild storm on the field. Twenty minutes into the second half. Pass from the left, the home team forward, obviously offside, stops it with his chest, the referee puts the whistle to his mouth, but the whistle, full of water, doesn't work, the center forward kicks with his instep, the ref tries the whistle again but again it misfires, the ball goes into the upper corner of the net, the referee tries to whistle with his fingers but spits in his hand, the forward heads like one possessed for the corner flag, takes off his jersey, leans on the flag, performs some stupid Brazilian dance steps, and then is incinerated by a bolt of lightning that destroys the above-mentioned flag completely.”

Prof. Taltomar took his time removing the cigarette from his lips and shaking off an imaginary ash.

The situation was, objectively, complex.

Finally he spat some crumbs of tobacco on the ground and murmured softly:

“Goal disallowed because of illegal position. Center forward warned for taking off his jersey. When his ashes have been removed from the field, the bench can make the necessary substitution. Once the substitution is authorized by the referee's whistle and a new corner flag is installed, play resumes with a free kick in the exact place where the offside occurred. No penalty for the home team. We haven't yet reached the point where someone is responsible if the opposing center forward has extremely bad luck.”

Silence.

Then Gould said

“Thank you, Professor.”

And went off.

“Take care, my boy,” murmured Prof. Taltomar without even turning to look at him.

The game was tied at nothing-nothing.

The referee didn't run much but he knew what was what.

It was bitterly cold.

Children need certainties.

11

“Give me Miss Shell.”

“All right.”

Gould handed the receiver to Shatzy. His father was on the line.

“Hello?”

“Miss Shell?”

“It's me.”

“Any relation to the oil company?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

“I agree.”

“Your answer to question No. 31 was that you're making a Western.”

“Right.”

“That the dream of your life is to make a Western.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it's a good answer?”

“I didn't have any other.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“But what is it?, a film?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This Western . . . what is it, a film, a book, a comic strip, what in the world is it?”

“In what sense?”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“What is it? a film?”

“What's what?”

“THE WESTERN, what is it?”

“It's a Western.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“A Western?”

“A Western.”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“Miss Shell?”

“I'm here.”

“Is everything all right there?”

“Marvelous.”

“Gould is special, you do understand that?”

“I think so.”

“I don't want to have any sort of upset around him, am I clear?”

“More or less.”

“He should think about his studies, and everything else will follow.”

“Yes, General.”

“He's a strong boy, he'll manage.”

“Probably.”

“You know the story of the hand of Joaquín Murieta?”

“Pardon?”

“Joaquín Murieta. He was a bandit.”

“Fantastic.”

“The terror of Texas—for years he spread terror there. He was a fierce bandit, and he was very good at it: he laid out eleven sheriffs in three years, he had a price on his head that looked like a collection of zeroes.”

“Really?”

“Finally, they had to mobilize the army to capture him. It took a while, but they got him. And you know what they did then?”

“No.”

“They cut off one hand, the left hand, the hand he shot with. They packed it up and sent it on a trip around Texas. It made a tour of all the cities. The sheriff would receive the package, put the hand on display in the saloon, and then pack it up and send it on to the next city. It was like a warning, you see?”

“Yes.”

“So that people would understand who was stronger.”

“I see.”

“Well, you know the odd thing about the whole business?”

“No.”

“It's that they sent around four hands belonging to Joaquín Murieta, to speed things up, the real one and three others cut off some other poor Mexicans, and one day they made a mistake in their calculations, and in a city called Martintown two hands arrived at the same time, two hands belonging to Joaquín Murieta, both left hands.”

“Splendid.”

“You know what people said?”

“No.”

“I don't, either.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don't, either.”

“Oh.”

“It's a good story, don't you think?”

“Yes, it's a good story.”

“I thought it might be useful, for your Western.”

“I'll think about it.”

“The last time I was there, in the fridge there was a yellow plastic airplane and the telephone book.”

“Now everything's fine.”

“I'm counting on you.”

“Of course.”

“The boy needs to drink milk, get the kind with vitamins.”

“Yes.”

“And calcium, he has to have calcium, he's always been a bit low in calcium.”

“Yes.”

“Someday I'll explain.”

“What?”

“Why I'm here and Gould is there. I imagine it doesn't seem much of an idea, to you.”

“I don't know.”

“I'm sure it doesn't seem to you much of an idea.”

“I don't know.”

“Someday I'll explain, you'll see.”

“All right.”

“That was a problem before, with that mute girl. She was a fine girl, but it wasn't very easy to explain things.”

“I imagine.”

“I feel more comfortable with you, Miss Shell.”

“Good.”

“You can speak.”

“Yes.”

“It's much more practical.”

“I agree.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Give me Gould?”

“Yes.”

Gould's father telephoned every Friday, at 7:15 in the evening.

12

Beautiful was the whore of Closingtown, beautiful. Black-haired was the whore of Closingtown, black-haired. There were dozens of books in her room, on the second floor of the saloon, and she read them when she was waiting, stories with a beginning and an end, if you ask her she'll tell you the stories. Young was the whore of Closingtown, young. Holding you between her legs she whispers:
my love.

Shatzy said that she cost the same as four beers.

A thirst for her, in all the pants in town.

Sticking to the facts: she had come there to be the school-teacher. The school had been converted to a storehouse, since Miss McGuy had left. So eventually she had arrived. She had put everything in order, and the children had begun to buy notebooks, pencils, and the rest. According to Shatzy, she was a very good teacher. She did easy things, and had books they could understand. Finally, even the older kids got to like it: they went when they could, the teacher was beautiful, and you ended up being able to read what was written under the faces of the outlaws, the ones hanging in the sheriff's office. These were boys who were already men. She made the mistake of staying with one of them, alone, in the deserted school, one ordinary evening. She fondled him, and then she made love with all the will in the world. Afterwards, when it got to be known, the men would have let it go, but the women said that she was a whore, not a teacher.

True, she said.

She closed the school and went to work on the other side of the street, in a room above the bar. Slender were the hands of the whore of Closingtown, slender. Her name was Fanny.

They all loved her, but only one loved her truly, and that was Pat Cobhan. He stayed below, drinking beer, and waited. When she was finished, she came down.

Hello, Fanny.

Hello.

They walked up and down, from one end of the town to the other, holding each other tight, in the dark, and speaking of the wind that never stopped.

Good night, Fanny.

Good night.

Pat Cobhan was seventeen. Green were the eyes of the whore of Closingtown, green.

In order to understand their story—Shatzy said—you have to know how many shots a pistol had in those days.

Six.

She said it was a perfect number. Think about it. And sound that rhythm. Six shots, one two three four five six. Perfect. You hear the silence afterwards? Yes, that's a silence. One two three four. Five six. Silence. It's like a breath. Every six shots is a breath. You can breathe quickly or slowly, but every breath is perfect. One two three four five. Six. Now breathe silence.

How many shots were there in a pistol?

Six.

Then she told you the story.

Pat Cobhan laughs, downstairs, with foam from the beer in his beard and the smell of horses on his hands. There's a violinist playing, and he has a trained dog. People throw him money, the dog retrieves it, and then, walking on his hind legs, goes back to his master and puts the money in his pocket. The violinist is blind. Pat Cobhan laughs.

Fanny is working, upstairs, with the preacher's son between her legs.
My love
. The preacher's son is called Young. He's kept his shirt on, and his black hair is soaked with sweat. Something like terror, in his eyes. Fanny says to him Fuck me, Young, but he grows rigid and slides away from her parted thighs—white lace-trimmed stockings that come just above the knee and then nothing else. He doesn't know where to look. He takes her hand and presses it on his sex. Yes, Young, she says. She caresses it, you're handsome, Young, she says. She licks the palm of his hand, looking him in the eyes, then caresses him again, barely touching him. Come on, says Young. Come on. She clasps his sex in the palm of her hand. He closes his eyes and thinks I must not think. Of anything. She looks at her own hand, and then the sweat on Young's face, on his chest, and again at her hand sliding over his sex. I like your dick, Young, I want it, your dick. He is lying on his side, leaning on one arm. The arm trembles. Come, Young, she says. His eyes are closed. Come. He turns to lie on top of her, and pushes between her open thighs. That's it, Young, that's it, she says. He opens his eyes. Something like terror, in his eyes. He grimaces, and slides off. Wait, Young, she says, holding his head in her hands and kissing him. Wait, he says.

Pat Cobhan laughs, downstairs, and glances at the clock, behind the bar. He asks for another beer and plays with a silver coin, trying to balance it on the rim of the empty glass.

Want to marry me, Fanny?

Don't talk nonsense, Pat.

I'm serious.

Stop it.

Do you like me, Fanny?

Yes.

I like you, Fanny.

The coin falls into the glass, Pat Cobhan turns the glass upside down, the coin falls out, on the wood of the bar, what's left of the beer drips out, liquid and foam. He takes the coin and dries it on his pants. He looks at it. He would like to sniff it. He places it on the edge of the glass. He glances at the clock. He thinks: Young, you bastard, will you finish up? Sweet is the scent of the whore of Closingtown, sweet.

Fanny glides her lips over Young's sex, and he looks at her: he likes this. He puts one hand in her hair and pulls her to him. She moves the hand away, still kissing him. He looks at her. His hand is in her hair again, she stops, raises her eyes to him and says Be good, Young. Be quiet, he says, and with his hand pushes her head towards his sex. She takes it in her mouth and closes her eyes. She slides faster and faster, back and forth. Like that, whore, he says. Like that. She opens her eyes and sees the skin on Young's stomach shiny with sweat. She sees the muscles contract, suddenly, as in a kind of agony. Come on, he says. Don't stop. A kind of agony. He looks at her. He likes her. Looks at her. He places his hands on her shoulders, holds her tight, and then, suddenly, shoves her back and lies on top of her. Slowly, Young, she says. He closes his eyes and moves against her. Slowly, Young. With her hand, she feels for his sex, he moves her away. He pushes hard between her thighs. Shit, he says. Shit. His hair, wet with sweat, is pasted to his forehead. Shit. He slides away again, suddenly. She turns her head to one side, lifts her eyes to heaven for an instant, and sighs. And he sees her. Sees her.

Pat Cobhan lifts his eyes to stare at the clock, behind the bar. Then he looks at the stairs that lead to the second floor. Then he looks at the full glass of beer in front of him.

Hey, Carver.

Pat?

Keep it cold for me.

You going?

I'll be back.

Everything all right, Pat?

Everything's OK, yes, it's OK.

All right.

Keep it cold for me.

He stands up and leans on the bar. He turns and glances at the door of the saloon. He spits on the floor, then crushes the knot of saliva with his boot, and looks at the wet dust, on the floor. He raises his head again.

Make sure no one pees in it, OK? and smiles.

Why don't you go home, Pat?

Go yourself, Carver.

You ought to go home.

Don't tell me what to do.

Carver shakes his head. Pat Cobhan snickers. He picks up his glass of beer and takes a swallow. He puts the glass down, turns, looks at the stairs that lead to the second floor, looks at the black hands on the yellowed white dial, You bastard, he says softly.

Young has turned, he has stretched out one hand towards the belt hanging on the chair, he has taken the pistol out of the holster and now he holds it tight in his fist. He slides the barrel over Fanny's skin. White is the skin of the whore of Closingtown, white. She starts to get up. Stay put, he says. He sticks the barrel of the pistol under her chin, presses it there. Don't move. Don't cry out. What on earth are you doing, she says. Quiet. He slides the gun barrel over her skin, lower and lower. He spreads her legs. He rests the pistol on her sex. Please, Young, she says. Slowly he pushes the gun in. He takes it out and slowly sticks it back in. Do you like that? he says. She starts to tremble. Isn't that what you wanted? he says. He pushes the pistol deep in. She arches her back, puts a hand on Young's cheek, gently. Please, Young, she says. Please. She looks at him. He stops. Calm down, she says. You're a good boy, Young, right? You're a good boy. She's weeping, the tears falling all over her face. Give me a kiss, I like kissing you, come here, Young, kiss me. She speaks softly, without taking her eyes off him. Stay with me, let's make love, would you like that? Yes, he says. And he starts moving the gun again, back and forth. Let's make love, he says. She closes her eyes. A grimace of pain that contorts her face. I beg you, Young. He looks at the gun barrel moving in and out of her flesh. He sees that it's covered with blood. He cocks the trigger with his thumb. I like to make love, he says.

Fuck, says Pat Cobhan. He moves away from the bar. I'll be back, he says. He passes the Castorp brothers' table, he greets them, touching two fingers to the brim of his hat. Black.

Top of the world, Pat?

Yes, sir.

Bitch of a wind today.

Yes, sir.

It'll never stop.

My father says it will get tired.

Your father.

He says no horse can gallop forever.

The wind isn't a horse.

My father says it is.

Does, does he?

Yes, sir.

Tell him to come see me, every so often.

Yes, sir.

Tell him.

Yes, sir.

Bravo.

Pat Cobhan waves and heads for the stairs. He looks up and sees nothing. He climbs a few steps. He thinks he'd like to have a gun. His father doesn't want him to have one. That way, you don't get in trouble. No one shoots at an unarmed kid. He stops. He glances at the clock, down behind the bar. He can't remember exactly how much time has passed. He tries to remember, but he can't. He looks down into the saloon and thinks he's like a bird perched on a branch. It would be nice to open your wings and fly, grazing their heads and landing on the hat of the blind musician. I would have shiny black feathers, he thinks, while his right hand feels in his pants pocket for the hard outline of his knife. It's a small knife, the blade folded into the wooden handle. He looks farther up the stairs and sees nothing. A closed door, no sounds, nothing. I'm just being stupid, he thinks. He stands there, lowers his gaze, sees his boot on the step. Dust thick on the worn leather. Taps twice, with his heel, on the wood. Then he leans over and with a finger polishes the tip. Just at that moment he hears from above the dry sound of a shot and a brief cry. And he realizes it's all over. Then he hears a second shot, and, one after the other, the third and the fourth and the fifth. He is frozen. He waits. He has a strange buzzing in his head and everything seems far away. He feels someone shove him, and people are running up the stairs, shouting. In his eyes is the shiny tip of his boot. He waits. But he hears nothing. Then he gets up, and goes slowly down the stairs. He crosses the saloon, goes out the door, gets on his horse. He rides all night and at dawn he reaches Abilene. The next day he heads north, passing through Bartleboro and Connox, following the river as far as Contertown, and then for days he rides towards the mountains. Berbery, Tucson City, Pollak, to Full Creek, where the railroad goes. He follows the tracks for miles and miles. Quartzite, Coltown, Oldbridge, and then Rider, Rio Solo, Sullivan and Preston. After twenty-two days he comes to a place called Stonewall. He looks at the tops of the trees and the way the birds fly. He gets off his horse, picks up a handful of dust, and lets it slide slowly between his fingers. There's no wind here, he thinks. He sells the horse, buys a gun belt, holster and gun. That night he goes to the saloon. He doesn't talk to anyone, he sits there, drinking and watching. He studies them all, one by one. Then he chooses a man who is playing cards, who has white uncallused hands, gleaming spurs. A narrow beard, cut with care and deliberation.

That man's cheating, he says.

Something wrong, kid?

I don't like bastards, that's all.

Get your shit tongue outside, and fast.

I don't like cowards, that's all.

Kid.

I've never liked them.

Let's do one thing.

Let's have it.

I didn't hear a word, you get up, you disappear, and for the rest of your days thank heaven it ended like this.

Let's do something else. You put down the cards, get up, and go cheat somewhere else.

The man pushes back his chair, slowly gets up, stands there, his arms by his sides and his hands on his guns. He looks at the boy.

Pat Cobhan spits. He looks at the tips of his boots, as if he were searching for something. Then he raises his eyes towards the man.

You fool, the man says.

Pat Cobhan suddenly grabs his gun. But he doesn't draw. He feels the sixth shot, now. Then nothing else, forever.

Silence.

What a silence.

Shatzy had a poem by Robert Curts stuck on the door of the fridge. She had copied it because she liked it. Not all of it, but she liked the bit near the end where it said: Lovers die in the same breath. It also had a nice closing, but the best part was that line. Lovers die in the same breath.

And another thing. Shatzy was always humming a rather stupid song, which she had learned as a child. It had a lot of stanzas. The refrain began like this: Red are the fields of our paradise, red. It wasn't much, as a song. And it was so long that you might be dead before you'd sung the whole thing. Truly.

Young died in his cell, the day before the trial. His father went to see him, and shot him in the face, point-blank.