The Caveman's Valentine (7 page)

Pinstripes squinted at him. “Well,” he said. “All right, may
be.
Maybe you’re for real.”

He rolled his eyes up. He deliberated. Then he said, “Come on, then.”

“Huh?”

“Come up with me.”

“Now? To your apartment?”

“You want a suit and tie?”

R
omulus followed him.

Ornate portal. Lobby of travertine and glossy shrubbery, and too many damn mirrors. Reflections and rereflections, miles of travertine, thousands of Pinstripeses and their hobo buddies—and then out of a rerereflection stepped the doorman.

This bouncer dressed like some kind of ridiculous Turkish Zouave. He clapped a hand on Romulus’s shoulder.

“Where you think you’re going?”

Said Pinstripes, “It’s all right, Mahoud. I’m just taking him up for a minute.”

“But this guy—Mr. Clay! This guy’s a
bum.
I seen him hanging around. He’s an absolute loser.”

“There are no
absolute
losers, Mahoud. The man is in the state of bankruptcy. To emerge from which he’ll need to recognize that prior business plans were flawed, unrealistic. He’ll need to reorganize. Most of all, he’ll need an infusion of capital to restore public confidence. Said capital takes the form of a suit and tie, which I’ve agreed to front him.”

“But don’t you think it’s kind of risky—”

“Not at all. However, if tomorrow morning you should find pieces of me in the elevator shaft, I suppose I’ll need to rethink my position. Good night, Mahoud.”

Romulus unpeeled the Zouave’s fingers from his shoulder. He followed Pinstripes.

Up they went.

At the door Pinstripes went in first, calling ahead of him.

“Honey, you decent? Brought somebody up.”

Romulus followed him into the apartment.

Spacious, oh yes, with a killer view, yet something about the place seemed out of kilter. Seemed peculiarly
plain.
Kind of homey and rounded off and dawdling. Simply . . . simply comfortable, that was it. It reminded Romulus of nothing ritzier than easy Sundays at his great-uncle the dentist’s place in Harlem. Sprawled out on the waiting room rug, playing with his toy ambulance.

So where, Romulus wondered, was all the high-tech cutting-edge decor? Pinstripes couldn't afford a designer?

“Hi.”

A woman was staring at him from the sofa.

“Betty, this is . . . what’s your name?”

“Romulus.”

“Romulus. I’m Bob and this is my friend Betty.”

“How do you do?”

“How do
you
do?”

“Betty, Romulus is a homeless man who’s looking for a suit of clothes.”

Romulus muttered, “Not homeless. Not.”

“He’s the one I told you about. Remember?”

Said Betty, “You mean the one who saved you from the Ghost of Christmas Future? The music man?”

Betty’s lips curled up at the corners. She seemed uncertainly amused. A little scared but amused. She was a small woman with big eyes and a pageboy, and right now she looked a little like a toddler beholding her first clown.

Bob said, “That’s right. The music man.”

Then he took hold of Romulus’s elbow.

And terror also took hold of Romulus. For it occurred to him, what if this man had a
piano
? What if they were going to ask him to play? Rich guy like this probably had a piano. In fact there was probably a piano right in this very—

And there it was.

An upright, in the corner by the window. And the man had him in his clutches and was leading him over . . .

“You’ll grace us?”

“Ah. Not now, thanks. Thank you very much.”

“Oh, just one piece.”

“My. Nice view.”

“Play anything at all.”

“My. This is a strange-looking piano.”

“Yes. Yes, it’s a Hammond, 1936. Depression moderne design—you like it? Everything in this apartment is moderne from the thirties.”

That
was it. Everything dulled-out chrome and Bakelite and softly, drably streamlined—everything looking forward to a better future but no rush.

Said Bob, “What can I say? I’m a bankruptcy lawyers—the thirties were kind of a golden age for my kind. But play for us—please.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would kill me.”

“But if you’ve got a gig, you’ll
have
to play.”

“Yes.”

“So why not practice a little now?”

“Because it would kill me.”

Said Betty, “Honey, if he doesn’t want to play—”

“I want to know if he
can
play.”

Romulus looked at his shoes. Then at the piano. He reached over and pressed the B
_b
below middle C. The shock drove through his fingernail, his knuckles, wristbone, elbow and collarbone, slammed into his limbus and drove it up into his cerebrum. He sank down, sat on the stool.

Nobody said anything. Romulus looked down various alleys, but they were all blind. Bob was right, there was no way out.

Presently he looked up, and set his teeth.

“All right. All right, then, you want proof?”

He wheeled on the stool and dove in with his eyes shut tight. He played for fifteen seconds. Slapped down an array of chords, sprayed a menacingly cheerful melody on either side of them. Then ceased, midchord, and wheeled back to face his audience. Put his face in his hands. His saucepan hat fell to the rug. Betty picked it up and handed it to him.

“Jesus. You OK? That was wonderful. What
was
that?”

“A variation on the Mr. Clean jingle. Do I pass?”

Said Bob, “One hand-me-down suit, coming up.”

He went to get it. Betty kept peering at Romulus, looking worried. “Tell me, why did it hurt you to play?”

“Because that was a life. Playing music, that was one life, this is another life. I dare you to turn into a buffalo or a wounded jackrabbit for fifteen seconds and see if it doesn’t discombobulate your whole evening.”

“A buffalo?”

“Also because your blinds are open and you’ve got a view of midtown Manhattan and Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant
saw me playing
the piano.
”

T
he suit turned out to have no label. This puzzled Romulus.

Bob asked him, “Why, what were you hoping for? Brooks Brothers? Bill Blass?”

“It doesn’t matter. I just wondered.”

“This suit was made for me by my tailor in Singapore. I think he’s also Bill Blass’s tailor.”

“Oh. What’s wrong with it, then?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“Lapels are a little too narrow. They smack of the lean and hungry and greedy eighties.”

“Oh.”

Betty wouldn’t let him try on the suit till he took a shower. She gave him a towel, and a pair of Bob’s silk boxer shorts and a pair of Bob’s silk socks, and he took it all into the bathroom, the fixtures of which were also thirties moderne.

He stripped. He showered, and tuned the flow to such force and heat that it melted his bones—and presently his fear. Presently he began to hum the Mr. Clean jingle, and then to sing it, and then to juice it up with toucan trills and jaguar yowls. He stared profoundly into the jet of sizzling water. The grime of the last month fell from him. He washed himself with bubble bath. Then with Oil of Olay. Then with Neutrogena hair conditioner. Then with Comet cleanser. Olympian clouds of steam enveloped him. He washed the wrinkles under his knees and found that a rough area that had started out as dirt had now become fused to him—a kind of tyro flesh. He washed his penis for so long he began to feel little tremors there. Muffled cock-crows. Way down deep beneath the surface but no denying them either.

He held out his arms, a god-king at his own immolation.

He opened and shut his mouth like a fish.

When at last he emerged, he was offended by the odor of his own clothes. He stuffed his old underwear into the pocket of his coat. His socks were a crime against humanity. He opened the window and tossed them.

CITY GARDEN MYSTERIOUSLY BLIGHTED.

Then, in the luminescent cloud chamber of the bathroom, he put on the underwear and the socks and the suit he had been given. His skin was seduced, his skin swooned to the feel of these duds. He came out and Betty tied his tie for him.

Then she sat him down in the kitchen, tucked a towel under his collar, and trimmed his hair. She lathered him up and shaved him. When she was done she pulled off the towel and wiped the daubs of lather from behind his ears.

She asked Bob, “What do you think?”

Bob walked all around him. “I think Galatea. Suit’s a tad tight in the rump. But otherwise Pygmalion and Galatea.”

Said Betty, “You know, Romulus, you’re a very handsome man.”

Said Bob, “Would you like a drink, Romulus?”

“Thanks. I would.”

“Would you care for a rickey? A lime rickey?”

“Sure. Perfect.”

Romulus and Betty sat on the curvy chairs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had crossed his legs. It was one of the perks of being a Man of Elegance.

But Betty noticed his shoes and shook her head. “What size do you wear?”

“Twelve.”

“Bob’s a ten. No good. Better try to keep them under the piano when you’re doing your gig.”

Then she called to Bob. “Darling, you know your old black topcoat?”

“Which one?”

“With the tortoiseshell buttons that I don’t like?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can Romulus have that?”

Bob chuckled. “You don’t want him to freeze to death, do you?”

She ran and got the coat. Romulus tried it on.

“Very nice,” said Betty.

Bob brought the drinks. He lifted his own and said, “To
reorga
nization.
”

They all took a sip. Then Bob lifted his glass again.

“To the eternal cycles of
failure
and
reorganization.
”

They drank.

“Well, you can take it off now,” said Betty. “Relax awhile.”

Romulus took off the coat and draped it on the sofa, and sat beside it. He took another sip of his drink.

Betty, staring, asked him, “OK, now tell us, who is Cornelius Gregg Stuyvesant?”

“Gould.”

“And you say he’s
watching
us?”

“Where do you work, Betty?”

“Seventh Avenue. I’m a rep for Mizzy Jeans.”

“Right. See, Stuyvesant owns Mizzy Jeans. It’s a subsidiary of Robert Hall, Incorporated, which he bought in the sixties. He’s your boss, Betty.”

“Oh.”

“It used to be owned by this guy Robert Hall, but Stuyvesant had him killed.”

“How did he do that?”

“Had him injected with some disease. It’s his usual method.”

“Oh. And he
watches
us?”

“Damn straight. You don’t see him?”

“Where?”

“In his fucking tower.”

Bob didn’t raise his eyes. He muttered, “He’s talking about the Chrysler Building, darling.”

She said, “Which one is that?”

Bob told her, “Left of the Empire State. That little needle.”

She found it. “Oh, yes.”

Romulus scowled. “And do you see the Y-ray beam, Bob and Betty?”

“The what?”

“Look, spare me the bald-ass innocence act, OK?
I know damn
well you see it.
”

Bob coughed significantly.

“Darling, maybe we better not talk about Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant right now.”

“Makes you nervous, Bob? Something you don’t want her to
know
? Huh,
Bob
?”

Romulus realized he hated the name
Bob.
He took another sip and made it a big swallow. Crossed his legs again. What’s the matter with my shoes? They don’t like the holes in my shoes? He wagged his foot at them, insolently.

“In fact,” he said, “Stuyvesant’s got a
lot
of methods for killing people. And so often he likes to toy with them first. Torture them awhile, then dump their bodies in the snow. And what do you know about
that,
Bob?”

Bob had nothing to say.

Said Romulus,
“‘You wouldn’t want him to freeze to death, would
you?’
Oh, I just
loved
that one.
Bob.
”

Bob and Betty took a sip. Romulus didn’t. He shut his eyes.

Boom-boom,
went the blood in his temples. The Moth-Seraphs swarmed and whirled.

He took a breath. Set his teeth. After a long while he produced a brief chuckle, and then said hoarsely: “OK, listen. It may be that I have been impolite. Please . . .”

He found he could speak civilly if he spoke with formality.

“Please if I have been impolite, or ungenerous in any way, please.
Please?
Forgive me, and I think I better go. Right. But my undying gratitude for the clothes. And the shave and haircut. And the lime rickey, which was needless to say excellent. Heh heh.”

In silence, he went to the bathroom and gathered up his own forlorn rags.

When he came out he dug in his pocket.

“I nearly forgot. Your pen. Thank you.”

He set it on the chrome-edged coffee table.

“Thank you, Romulus.”

“I’m very outspoken sometimes. Forgive me that.”

“Good luck, Romulus.”

“Good luck, Romulus.”

That’s when he saw it. Out the big window he saw the blast of light shooting from Stuyvesant’s tower. Though it was thicker than light, and heavier, and not quite so fast. Romulus saw it coming.

He gaped at it, and he was astonished and terrified.
Because this
was not a Y-ray.

A Y-ray was quick and yellow. But this huge blast of light coming at him was sort of a slow, furred green. Like a clump of electric moss—and he stood there, watching, and it passed right overhead. Missed this building entirely. Wasn’t even aimed at this building, but it was headed north somewhere, somewhere upstate.

Said Betty, “Romulus?”

“Yeah.” He blinked at her.

“Don’t forget the coat.”

“Oh, right. Thank you.”

He picked up the coat and left. Went down to the lobby, and he and the Zouave gaped at each other’s outlandish costumes. Then he trudged home.