The Biology of Luck (16 page)

The man calls after her. He's shouting and waving his arms. She cannot hear what he's saying and she doesn't give a damn. All she knows is that she is a beautiful, desperate woman riding a bicycle through Little Italy, and that she is crying, and that the combination is potentially lethal. It's an open invitation to every well-built stranger on the lookout for a victim to console. Now other men are shouting
at her too, offering unwanted assistance. They're on every corner, at every traffic signal. Don't they understand that they're the reason she's crying? That she's tired of being picked at and pulled upon and badgered? That she can't be everybody's Starshine?

An orange slips from the fruit basket and jounces down the asphalt. She does not dare stop, does not dare retrieve the precious fruit.

She has gotten what she always wished for: attention. Yet for the first time in ages, she finds herself wondering, Why won't the world leave her alone?

Larry's corporeal form may be on Pierrepont Street in Brooklyn Heights, edifying his charges on the difference between Romanesque and Federal-style architecture, but his thoughts have drifted beyond the workday into romance. He sees Starshine lurking behind every portico and smiling form every cornice. The wrought-iron urns of pineapple along Monroe Place remind him of the fruit basket in his novel. The bronze Athenian horsemen lining Grace Court recall Starshine's grace atop her Higgins. Even the stained glass windows of Plymouth Church, where Henry Ward Beecher preached and Abraham Lincoln worshipped, send Larry's imagination spiraling through a latticework of grandeur and intrigue and destiny. The return of his letter is not a coincidence, Larry reflects, but part of a foreordained plan. Ziggy Borasch has taught him well. Whether fortune is biologically determined or metered out in just portions or simply happens, Larry does not know, but he is confident that his abortive suicide and Peter Smythe's timely appearance comprise the foundations of a palace of impending luck. His success at dinner this evening is predetermined. As inevitable as the Dutch girl's rescue, as fated as the businessman's sudden demise. His conviction is the certainty of the delivered victim, the unshakable faith of the reprieved. It will endure until either he begins to take credit for his own successes, or until Lady Luck suffers one of her rapid mood swings and his windfalls mutate into woes.

The Dutch do not share Larry's idealism. Their concerns are much more pragmatic, tightly wedded to the exigencies of the moment. They wish to know which of the Middle Eastern oases lining Atlantic Avenue proffers the most bang for their bucks, whether the stuffed grape leaves and honeyed puddings at the Lebanese takeout stand are strictly vegetarian. Willem Van Huizen talks a blue streak through Larry's tour. He enumerates the similarities between the bazaars of Brooklyn and the emporiums of ancient Phoenicia for the benefit of his wife and the hearing-impaired cleric. Some of the younger couples branch off from the group to the lure of Sahadi's pistachios or ice cream parlor sorbet. They pledge to rejoin the company at the foot of the bridge. Larry leads his remaining followers toward the river, following Atlantic and then cutting north into the heart of what was once the city's original commuter suburb. By the time Larry reaches the esplanade with its unfettered view of the Manhattan skyline, prepared to eulogize the literary lions who have strolled the terrace through long-forgotten dusks, pacing, pondering, trying to distinguish the stirring from the sentimental, his audience has contracted to a single follower. Only Rita Blatt wants to hear about Truman Capote's garden parties and Norman Mailer's outbursts of violence. But the journalist is not among Larry's charges. She hasn't paid for the tour, certainly not for a one-on-one guided junket through the history of literature. Larry would like to discuss Starshine. He'd gladly unburden himself to anyone, even Rita Blatt, but he fears the dour woman with her black umbrella may jinx his fortunes. So he opts for the next best alternative. He dismisses the newswoman on the pretext of a business-related phone call. He must ring his boss, he says. He will meet her at the bridge. His real intention, of course, is to pass twenty minutes alone on Atlantic Avenue. He will discuss Starshine's beauty with himself.

Larry traverses Clinton Street and ambles aimlessly in the direction of Boerum Hill. His attention is drawn to the horned beast on the awning of the Unicorn Diner, the windows of the coffee shop where his fictionalized Colby Parker lies in wait on Wednesday
mornings, the lamppost where his imagination has chained Starshine's bicycle. Larry wonders whether there is any truth to his narrative, whether he has done justice to this beauty's universe. He does not know. His sketches are secondhand doodlings, the products of brief anecdotes and conversational snippets that he has culled from years of interaction. He has never met Colby Parker. Or Jack Bascomb. Or even Eucalyptus. And yet, as absurd as it seems, he feels that they're as much a part of his life as his Dutch tourists or his own acquaintances. Maybe more so. Starshine's friends are both figments of his fantasies
and
real people. Somehow this gives them an added depth, a fourth dimension, that renders them all the more palpable than the humdrum characters who occupy Larry's day-to-day life. He hopes his creations are plausible. He hopes they are entertaining. But most of all, he hopes that they exhibit insecurities and desires similar enough to the ones he has conjured to drive Starshine into his hands. Or different ones entirely. It does not matter.

Larry pauses before Blooming Grove and prepares himself for his poetic moment. This is the very florist where Starshine's suitor ordered his forty-eight-dozen red roses. Larry vividly recalls the afternoon Starshine phoned him in tears to ask for his wisdom. She bawled for nearly an hour about how she adored this Colby but didn't want his flowers. All she wanted was his love. Larry lacked the courage to tell her that she didn't want either, that her Colby Parker was a fictional ideal culled from fragments of the real Colby Parker. So Starshine learned nothing. But Larry discovered something earth shattering. He discovered that, while listening and soothing, he could reconstruct a relatively coherent portrait of the actual Colby Parker from Starshine's inadvertent distortions. The next morning, he rode the subway out to Brooklyn and bantered for half an hour with the Armenian florist. A sad creature trapped in a world of pseudoscience. That visit occurred two years earlier. It spawned the birth of Larry's manuscript. His second foray into the Armenian's shop, anticipated through months of excruciating labor, strikes Larry as the epitome of the poetic. He will buy Starshine roses in a shop that is both real
and of his own creation. He wonders if Whitman ever felt the same proprietary hold over lilacs.

The shopkeeper is engaged with a customer when Larry enters. The old man's beard may be longer, his paunch somewhat fuller, but he is otherwise unchanged. A spitting image of his own facsimile, down to the rolled shirt sleeves and the pencil tucked behind his ear. Only now he appears excited. His leathery skin has suffused to a deep vermillion and he is gesticulating wildly at the handsome young business-type across the counter. Larry pretends to browse the aligned vases of lilies and heliotrope to avoid appearing meddlesome. But he listens to the proprietor's harangue with a certain amount of self-satisfaction. The Armenian is fully living up to his expectations.

“You expect me to help you,” cries the florist, “but you don't listen to a word I say. Did I not warn you against the cactus? Cacti are particularly ill-fated specimens. A chrysanthemum, I say. A chrysanthemum or a Hawaiian pineapple. The luckiest vegetation around! But a cactus? You might as well give her a broken mirror. “

“Okay, okay,” concedes the customer. “But she said she wanted a cactus. If a woman wants a cactus, you can't bring her a chrysanthemum. You certainly can't offer a pineapple. Isn't there anything else that might work? A happy medium of some sort?”

The Armenian throws up his hands.

“I do what I can,” he says. “But happy mediums cost money.”

“Money is no object.”

“That's right,” says the Armenian. “You are a man of much wealth, my friend, but little luck. I will arrange for you a bouquet of butterfly orchids. Strong chromosomal properties, radiant color. Twelve dollars a blossom. But I warn you once again, my friend, that your cause is a difficult one. Extremely difficult. I can read your fortune on your face and it is markedly grim. Two misfortune genes. That bodes the worst of luck. Something dreadful will inevitably befall you. “

“That's my concern, not yours,” retorts the customer. “Please just pack up the orchids.”

The Armenian retreats into his stockroom and returns
momentarily with an arrangement of bright yellow blossoms. He rolls them in wrapping paper, shaking his head as he labors, and presents the package to his hapless patron.

“I wish you more luck, my friend,” he says. “Maybe my fortune will rub off on you. We will hope for the best. But it is a shame that such a wealthy man is cursed with so tragic a fate. It is unconscionable. Two misfortune genes! Your parents should never have been permitted to wed. They are not happily married, are they, if you do not mind my asking?”

“They are quite happy,” the customer answers tersely. “Thirty-seven years.”

He deposits two hundred-dollar bills on the counter and departs without taking his change.

“Bah!” says the florist, waving the departing customer out his door. “That man knows nothing. I warn him. Three times I warn him. But does he bother to listen? He will dig himself an early grave. “

The Armenian rests his elbows on the countertop and offers Larry a conspiratorial grin. As though to say, “Let us bond over that man's foolishness.” As though to say, “I know you are infinitely more reasonable than him.” If the florist remembers Larry from his earlier visit, his features betray no recognition.

“How are you today, my friend?” asks the florist.

“Not too bad. I was hoping to get a half-dozen red roses.”

The Armenian steps around the counter and rests his rump against an iron plant stand.

“We talk business soon, my friend,” he says. “First, I must look at you. Come closer. Don't be afraid.”

Larry steps forward. He does not mind humoring the florist.

“Yes!” shouts the Armenian suddenly. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Fleshy nose. Drooping ears. Broad cheeks. It's uncanny.”

“What's wrong?” Larry asks nervously.

“Nothing is wrong, my friend. At least for you. Quite the contrary: Everything is right. You have the most fortunate genetic composition. It's as plain as the nose on your face. You're a one in
a thousand, my dear friend. Two good-luck genes. You look just like me. “

Larry grimaces at this accusation. He recognizes the similarities between his own soft features and the Armenian, but he certainly doesn't consider this a cause for excitement. The absence of a wedding ring on the florist's hand is not lost on him.

“You are frowning,” says the florist. “You do not believe me.”

“I'm not very lucky,” Larry answers diplomatically.

“Maybe not yet. But soon enough. I will tell you a story. I live up in the Bronx. Across the street from me lived an old woman. A delightful lady, but cursed with ill luck. Year after year, I tell her that she must be on her guard. That she carries two misfortune genes. But she does not believe me. She thinks I'm foolish. She laughs at my warnings. My other neighbors also laugh behind my back.
How can she be unlucky?
They ask. She has lived past ninety. She is in good health. Her grandchildren visit her…. But I know the truth! I know!”

“I'm sure.”

“Yesterday,” says the florist, “Her fate caught up with her. A burglar bludgeoned her to death. How do you like that?”

The Armenian beams like a proud parent. He couldn't appear any more satisfied if he had murdered the woman himself. Larry wonders if the peculiar old man is capable of homicide, if he'd sacrifice an elderly neighbor for the benefit of his pet theory. People have committed worse crimes for lesser reasons. The desire to play God can be overwhelming. This seemingly innocuous old man might easily be a disciple of Leopold and Loeb, the Sweeny Todd of Atlantic Avenue, poisoning his customers with toxic foliage. It is possible, Larry thinks. But highly unlikely.

“A half-dozen roses,” says the florist. “Roses are unlucky. Chrysanthemums would be a much better choice. But in your case, my friend, it will not matter. “

“How much will that run me?”

“Bah! Money. We are like brothers, my friend. I never charge
a companion in good fortune. And a half-dozen roses is nothing. A trifle. They are—how do you say in this country?—atop the house.”

“Thank you,” stammers Larry.

“No, my friend. Thank
you
. “

The Armenian wraps the bouquet. Larry watches the old man work, measuring the cellophane, clipping the stems. He wishes he had something to give the florist in return for his prophesies of good luck, something to reciprocate for the roses. But such a gift is beyond his means. He has immortalized the man in his manuscript, he thinks. That is a worthwhile offering. The very sort of gratuity the Armenian would most appreciate. They have traded fame for fortune, Larry notes with amusement. That is an even exchange. The old man's theories will acquire an international audience while Larry will gain Starshine. And all will be happy.

But he must not think this way, he decides as he thanks the florist. Not yet.

The day is still young. He must still recross the bridge.

Jack Bascomb is a dead man.

He served his nation valiantly at Inchon, garnering a purple heart and an officer's commission, but later drank his way out of a field job with the Department of Agriculture and died of alcohol poisoning, penniless and homeless, in the lavatory of a roadside saloon on the outskirts of Sierra Vista, Arizona. His body found its way into the local potter's field at the county's expense, his wallet into the hands of a fugitive. And it is this second Jack Bascomb, Weatherman emeritus and migrant carpenter, who pays tribute to the name on his social security card by living the life of a corpse. The metastasized cancer cannot take credit for Jack's air of morbidity. The disease is impotent; it can only kill him. But there is something much deeper in his composition, maybe a self-destructive impulse, maybe a chromosomal proclivity for misfortune, that cloaks the aging radical in the shroud of a young martyr, of a tragic victim, of a man who no longer exists. His very presence seems anachronistic, symptomatic of an account imbalance in the Book of Life. It is as though he is the last slaughtered revolutionary of the lost generation, part Bobby Kennedy, part James Dean, reprieved like Lazarus to give voice to their collective suffering. He plays the role well. His scraggly mane, a vineyard of black and white tresses, submits to no tonsorial snip; his denim jacket reeks of clove cigarettes and stale sex; cardboard lines the toes of his boots. Yet when Jack Bascomb speaks, lets the contents of his soul roll from his lips in stentorian paragraphs,
his voice resonates with the music of a better world. Jack's words are triumphant, even messianic. But they come from somewhere beyond the grave, like the visitation of a bygone prophet, their jubilee for those who will enter the Promised Land though he may not. He carries on his tongue a prophesy of social justice, of wealth redistribution, of each receiving according to his or her needs—and his every word gives voice to a vision that owes debts to Jesus Christ and Karl Marx and Malcolm X and even Timothy Leary, yet at the end of the day, is distinctively his own. While Starshine makes love to Jack, each Wednesday on the pretext of lunch, she purrs and writhes to the cadence of a cadaver.