New Celebrations: The Adventures of Anthony Villiers (23 page)

,” Villiers answered.

“He doesn’t really mean it,” Ralph said.

“We’re simply going to call about thirty friends and have them come here. Then we’re going to talk about what we can do in the way of revolution.”

“Are you going to put out a magazine?” Villiers asked.

“Why, yes. I suppose so.”

“Good. I hope you’ll send me a copy.”

“Why didn’t anybody ever do this before?” Fred asked.

“I suppose nobody ever thought of it. Nobody I know ever came to Pewamo. Besides, we have an unfair advantage. I don’t think they’ll put us in jail. Not people like Larry Ajamian and Pyatt Blevko and me.”

“Really?” Villiers asked.

“They’d put us in jail if we blew up buildings,” John said.

Fillmore said, “
I
think it would be fun as long as we didn’t get caught.”

“Pyatt is the son of Judge Blevko, and Larry is the Administrator’s son. My uncle might want to arrest me, but my aunt wouldn’t let him.”

Villiers had his private doubts as to the effectiveness of what Ralph and John (and Fillmore) intended—revolts are common as peanuts, revolutions rarer. Nonetheless, it seemed like a good sane way to raise hell.

“I wish you good luck,” he said.

“Mr. Villiers, what was that you said a few minutes ago? You said something very odd sounding.”

“We were quoting Aristotle’s
Poetics
,” Villiers said. “He thought that metaphors were a mark of genius in style.”

“Because he was a metaphorist,” Fred said. “I’m proud of myself for remembering. We studied that a long time ago.”

Villiers said, “Have any of you read the
Poetics
?”

Heads were shaken. John said, “What is it?”

“It’s the first formal attempt at dramatic criticism. We’ll get you a copy. And Fred, why don’t you do them an article for their magazine? ‘The Pertinence of Aristotle to Modern Art.’ ”

“Another hurdle, Tony,” Fred said. “Another hurdle.”

“That’s the
pleasure
in life.”

“We would like an article, sir,” Ralph said.

Fred said, “All right, Tony, what are you going to do for them?”

“Fair enough,” Villiers said. “Let me think.”

He paced up and down by the fire for some minutes, mumbling and rubbing his hands lightly, and manifesting other evidences of thought. At last he said, “Aha. How would you like an article that discusses the metaphors in the Mrs. Waldo Wintergood books?”

“Metaphors?” Ralph said slowly.

“Yes,” said Villiers. “I read the five books I have and they are all metaphors.”

“What do you mean?”

So Villiers explained, using
Sammy Swims Upstream
and its spermatozoic symbology as his example. There was silence as he finished.

Fillmore laughed in the silence, a laugh compounded of delight and shock. He stopped laughing abruptly.

Fred said, “Say, Tony, I’d like to read that book.”

John said, “I see it. I see it, but I don’t like it.”

(David, as usual, said nothing, but watched with deep eyes.)

Ralph said nothing, either. He shook his head numbly.

Torve said, “Book is nothing like that at all.”

Fillmore, John, and Ralph, not to mention David and Fred, would have been totally upset to see the book through Torve’s eyes. Admiral Beagle was saved an apoplectic seizure.

Ralph said, “Did you read the others the same way, sir?”

Cautiously, Villiers said, “Yes.”

“Oh, my heaven.”

Fillmore said, “I sort of like it,” in a tentative voice.

John said, “I’m not sure I do.”

Ralph took a deep breath, and manfully said, “I think we should use it. We are determined to offer people alternatives in art, after all. This is an alternative.”

“You’re right,” John said. “Besides, it’s going to bother most people more than it bothered us, and that will be fun. I think we should use it, too.”

They all nodded at each other.

Ralph said, “Of course, Mr. Villiers, your article must satisfy our editorial standards.”

“I understand perfectly,” Villiers said. “I wouldn’t ask you to lower your standards for my sake.”

“I’m going to contribute some of my poems,” John said.

“Who’s going to decide if they meet our editorial standards?” Fillmore asked.

“That will be up to the Editorial Board,” Ralph said firmly.

“Who’s that?”

“Us.”

“Oh.”

Ralph said, “And we are going to record Torve. That’s another alternative.”

“
Thurb
,” said Torve.
“Thurb.”

Torve might have maintained that this new moment of inspiration was purely the result of lines of occurrence, but a damned convenient moment, I say, for inspiration to strike.

“Just a minute,” Villiers said. “Quiet, Torve. Do you honestly mean to tell me that you are going to make people listen to Torve’s compositions?”

“Yes,” said Ralph. “They’re an alternative.”

“That may be, but I’ll tell you for myself that I and many others are deaf to the charms of
Frobb.
”

Fred raised his hand. “I am.” David raised his hand, but didn’t say anything.

Torve said, “Very good, Tony. Almost you said
Frobb
as should be.”

“Thank you,” Villiers said. “Do you recall the composition you were working on several nights ago? The night in the park.”

“Is finished. Is gone. Is set free in universe.”

“Can you recall it?”

Torve closed his eyes and looked beatific while he consulted his inner processes. “Yes,” he reported at last.

“Good,” said Villiers. “Now I propose that we offer a real alternative. Torve will
Frobb
and the rest of us will accompany him. Ralph, I notice you have a mandolin. Can you play it?”

“Of course he can,” John said. “He plays very well.”

“I’ve got perfect pitch,” Ralph said.

“Oh, yes. I remember your saying so. That’s fortunate.” Villiers looked around the fire-lit campsite and in no time had found a metal tub and a hammer. “Take this tub off a distance and bang it into a musical instrument while we find other things to play.”

John looked after Ralph as he dragged the tub toward the meadow, assaulting it experimentally with the hammer. “How do you turn a tub into a musical instrument?”

“I don’t know,” Villiers said. “But he has perfect pitch. He’ll figure out something. Now do we have any other instruments among us?”

“Kazoo,” said Fred.

“That’s two instruments, or maybe three, plus Torve. We need some rhythm. Spoons. Jug.”

“Can I play the tub?” Fillmore asked.

It was some minutes before they were all assembled. Villiers, as the conductor, arranged people to his satisfaction. Torve was in the center. On his left was Ralph and his mandolin. On his right was Fred and his kazoo. Fillmore was playing the tub—four clear notes plus a number of sour ones. John on jug. For David they had improvised a mouth bow—curve of wood, metal string, twang, twang. Villiers had his hands full of spoons.

“Join in as I give the signal,” Villiers said. “Torve, will you start?”

Poised silence. Then,
“Thurb, thurb, thurb.”
As usual, a noise of uncertain appeal.

Villiers nodded to Ralph, and the mandolin joined. Villiers hung his spoons from his fingers and began to click a rhythm. Kazoo, tooting a grainy melody. Clear mellow notes from the gently tapped tub, plus some sour ones.
Hoomp
,
fump
,
fump
from the jug.
Twang
,
twang
. Thurb,
tinkle
,
boing
,
fump
,
twang
. Music, by heaven. Music.