To Play the Fool (14 page)

"It was a remarkably ugly car, considering how much money must have been spent on it."

"An expensive car. Foreign? A sports car? A big car? Cadillac? Rolls-Royce?"

"Just like a ten-gallon hat, all show and terribly impractical."

"Imagine the problems with parking it," Kate suggested, with success.

"Exactly."

"But at least he bought American," Kate offered
tentatively, and held her breath. This system of interviewing a witness
was inexcusable, leading questions compounded by guesses and utterly
inadmissible as evidence, but there seemed no other way, and indeed,
the responses kept coming.

"I never thought that a particularly good argument. The last car I owned was a Simca."

"The man driving the car looked the sort who would use that argument, though, would you say?"

"I suppose. The cost of gasoline certainly wouldn't trouble him," she added in a non sequitur.

"Was he actually wearing his ten-gallon hat when you saw him?"

"No." Ah well, it was a try, thought Kate. "He
didn't have it on. A ridiculous notion, isn't it? A hat
that literally held ten gallons would be big enough to sit in. It was
on the backseat." By God. Bingo. Kate sat back in the flimsy
chair.

"You remember what color the license plates were?" Might as well try for the big prize, if one's luck is in.

"Color? I don't remember any color. They weren't
black and gold, though, I'm pretty sure." The old
California plates had gone out of use about the time Kate had her first
pair of nylon stockings, so that wasn't much help.

"I don't suppose you remember when this was that you saw the two men?"

"My dear Katarina, life on the street does not necessarily mean a person is brain-dead."

"I didn't--"

"Of course I remember. It was election day. The church served
lunch outside that day because the hall was being used as a polling
place and there was a mix-up over who was supposed to hold the soup
kitchen instead, so they just worked inside and brought it out the
back. Very apologetic, they were, but it was actually quite festive, I
thought. Gave one a sense of participation in the democratic process.
The last presidential candidate I voted for was George McGovern. He
didn't win," she explained kindly, hr, no.

"I know that the man was in the city for a few days at least,
because I remember seeing the two of them again on the Friday. They
came in here. Didn't stay, just bought something to go, coffees
probably, talked for a minute and looked around, then left. I was busy
and didn't talk to them, but I think John saw me. I was a little
nervous that he would come over, but he didn't, so that was all
right, and he hasn't come in since, either. I did not like the
idea of his taking over my Friday nights."

Beatrice took another thoughtful bite, then said suddenly in a
muffled voice, "Texas!" Kate waited while she chewed and
swallowed rapidly. "Pardon me. Texas, I'm sure, because of
the star."

"Which star was that?"

"The license plate. The Lone Star State. That is Texas,
isn't it? Or is it the yellow rose? No, I'm certain there
was a star on it.

"The yellow--" Kate stopped, struck dumb, and slowly shook her head. The old bastard.

"What is it, Katarina? You look amused."

"Something Erasmus said--or rather, something he told
me." He had told her by humming, over the breakfast table in
Berkeley, a tune she had only half-recognized and ignored: "The
Yellow Rose of Texas."

So, both Erasmus and Beatrice agreed that the mysterious womanizing
John had probably been from Texas, and according to Beatrice, as
recently as the first week of November he had retained a (wealthy?)
possibly Texan connection.

"Did John smoke, do you know?"

"He did not."

"Did he wear false teeth?"

"My dear, I never looked in the man's mouth. Although,
come to think of it, he occasionally hissed his's's, and
once when he was eating a banana it sounded like strawberries, that
click-crunch
noise. Ask Salvatore," she said dismissively, starting to close up her pen, preparatory to moving on.

"Let me buy you a coffee," Kate suggested. "Something to eat?"

Beatrice stopped, suddenly wary, then resigned. "Very well, dear. Krish there knows what I'll have."

Kate ordered herself yet another coffee, a decaffeinated cappuccino
this time, and asked for whatever Beatrice liked, which turned out to
be mulled apple cider with a toasted scone, a large dollop of cream
cheese, and some plum jam. She arranged plates, cup, and cutlery onto
the inadequate table, retaining her own cup for fear it would end up on
her lap, and waited while Beatrice delicately cut her scone and scooped
up cream cheese and jam in a practiced heap, then popped it into her
mouth.

"I need to ask you a few questions about Brother Erasmus, now
that I've had the chance to meet him." Kate's attempt
to make the meeting sound like a social occasion fell flat beneath
Beatrice's rather crumby words.

"You arrested him last week, I heard, and then let him go."

"No. There was no arrest,- he was not even detained,"
she protested, stretching the truth slightly. "I gave him a ride
back from Berkeley so we could take his statement, then we turned him
loose. I admit it took us a while to get a statement, but that
wasn't exactly our fault, if you know what I mean," she
added pointedly. Beatrice got the point and laughed.

"I can imagine."

"Does he talk like that to everyone? Using quotes and sayings for everything he says?"

"Is that what he does? Good heavens. I knew he was using the
Bible a great deal, but that would explain the sometimes...
inappropriate things he says. Surely not
everything
he says comes from somewhere else?"

That's what I was told."

"How extraordinary. How utterly sad."

"Why sad?"

"What I was talking about, the power of names, of words.

He must be very frightened of his own words if he never creates any.
Terrified of his own thoughts, to push them aside for the thoughts of
others."

Kate stared at Beatrice, who took a mournful bite of her scone.
"You're an amazing person," she said without thinking.

"Oh no, not really. I just keep my eyes open and think about
things. One thing about being on the street, there's lots of time
for thinking."

"What are you doing here, anyway? I'm sorry if
that's rude, but most of the street people I see are pretty
hopeless. You're articulate, skilled--you could have a
job."

"Oh indeed, I taught art history at UCLA," she said, and
seeing Kate's astonishment, she added, "There's
really quite an interesting intellectual community among the street
people here. I've met an astrophysicist, a couple of other
university and college teachers, three computer programmers, and a
handful of published poets. To say nothing of the young men, and a few
women, who make a deliberate choice to remove themselves from the race
of the middle-class rat and as a form of practical philosophy choose
this admittedly extreme form of freedom. Wasn't it Solzhenitsyn
who said that a person is free only when there's nothing more you
can take away from him? Dreary man, but unfortunately often
right."

"And you?"

"Oh no, dear. You don't want to hear about me,
it's not a very pretty story." Her voice remained light,
but her eyes began to shoot around the room, looking for an escape from
this topic. Kate relented and gave her one.

"Tell me about Erasmus, then. He won't, or can't, tell us anything except that he's a fool."

"I told you all I know about him. He comes to us on Sunday
morning and leaves us on Tuesday. While he is here, he tells us stories
from the Bible, sings hymns, leads us in prayer.

He listens, with all his being he listens, and does not judge. The
disturbed are quieted,- the drunks are calmed,- the angry begin to see
that there may be ways they can help themselves. He looks, and he
sees,- he listens, and he hears. This alone is an unusual experience
for most homeless people: We are used to being either invisible or an
annoyance. He brings dignity into the lives of those who have lost it.
He is like... he is like a small fire that we warm our hands over.
What else can I say?"

"But you don't have any idea who he is or where he came from?"

"He came here in the summer. It would have been two summers
ago, I suppose. How time does fly. He gives us Sunday and Monday, he
gives the people at this place with the holy hill Wednesday and
Thursday."

"And the other days?"

"Travel, I suppose," Beatrice said dismissively, but her
eyes began to roam and her fingers gave a twitch on the knife.

"Does it take two days to get back from Berkeley?" Kate asked mildly.

"I was never much for distance walking myself." Beatrice
was retreating fast, but this time Kate would not let her go.

"Where does Erasmus go on Saturdays?"

"I have to get back to my drawing."

"Just tell me where he goes."

"The world is a big place."

"Where does he go?"

"It has many needs," Beatrice said wildly. "Even the world needs comfort."

"He is off comforting the world?"

"They don't deserve him. They don't understand
him. All they see is the surface, shallow, silly, violent--no, not
that, I didn't mean that!" she said quickly, looking
frightened. "I meant crazy
-looking,
all they see is the act."

"Beatrice," Kate said evenly, "I know Erasmus
performs for the tourists at Fishermen's Wharf. You haven't
told me anything I don't know. I'm sorry if I've
disturbed you, but I could see that you were trying to hide something
about Erasmus and I wanted to know what it was." Kate did not
make it a habit to apologize to witnesses she'd been pressing,
but this woman, strong to look at, struck her as being too fragile to
leave in an upset condition. Besides, she wanted her friendly and
helpful in the future. "Trust me. I won't be misled by his
act for the tourists. Okay? Good. There was just one other thing: Was
there ever any direct animosity that you saw between Erasmus and
John?"

This last question blew Kate's soothing words out of the
water. Beatrice slapped the top down on her tin box, picked up box and
pad, and rose to her feet.

"Don't I get my drawing?" Kate asked mildly.
Beatrice tucked the box under her arm, flipped open the pad and tore
off the page, and dropped it on the cluttered table. It was a
caricature, a clever one, that emphasized the look of dry cynicism Kate
sometimes felt looking out from her eye. She started to thank Beatrice,
but the woman had already moved off to another table and was fumbling
with unsteady hands at the clasp of her box. Kate put on her jacket,
fished two five-dollar bills out of her purse to shove into the for the
artist cup, and rolled the caricature gently into a tube.

It was raining lightly when she stepped out onto the street, raining
heavily when she got home, and for the first time in her life she lay
awake and wondered where the homeless were resting their heads this
night.

The jester could be free when the knight was rigid.

Saturday morning was clear and clean and cold, and Kate stood
drinking her coffee in a patch of sunlight that poured through a high
side window onto the living room floor, wearing her flannel robe,
talking to Al Hawkin on the telephone, and speculating with one part of
her mind on how Beatrice and Erasmus fared this day.

"Fine. Good," she was saying. "No, I don't
think there's any need for you to cancel. I'm only going
because I'm curious, after Beatrice's reaction. He probably
just talks dirty or something that embarrassed her,- I don't
think she was actually trying to hide anything from me. Right. Fine,
yes I have Jani's number.

I'll call you if anything comes up
_;
otherwise I'll talk to you tonight. Have a good time, Al. Say hi to Jani and Jules for me. Bye."

She pushed the off button and dropped the handset into her pocket,
then closed her eyes and absorbed the pleasure of the winter sunlight
in the silent house. Saturday mornings, Jon and Lee went to a pottery
class, where they produced lopsided bowls and strange shapes from the
unconscious. Three whole hours with a house that held only her was a
treat she looked forward to every week,- illicit, never mentioned, and
resented when her job or an illness--Lee's, Jon's, or
the pottery teachers--took it from her. This morning she could
have half of it before she went hunting Brother Erasmus in his
Fishermen's Wharf manifestation.

Normally she kept this time for something unrelated to daily life:
loud music, frozen waffles with maple syrup, a book in a two-hour bath.
Not today, though. She pulled a pillow from the sofa and dropped it
onto the patch of sunlight. A million dust motes flew up, and she
settled herself with a fresh cup of coffee and the folders from
Professor Whitlaw. Very soon this case would be pushed to a back
burner, superseded by another, probably one considered more pressing
than the odd death of a homeless man in a park. But Erasmus interested
her--no, he bugged her. He was an unscratched itch, and she wanted
him dealt with. So she read the impenetrable files for a second time,
this time with a lined pad to write questions on, things she needed to
know.

Did Erasmus have the scar of a removed tattoo on his left cheekbone? Might John have had one?

There must have been some organization behind the Fools movement.
Where were the original Fools? Someone must have known Erasmus.

Who was the David Sawyer whose notes were marked as a personal communication from 1983? A Fool?

Kate wanted more details on the crimes committed by Fools, both
misdemeanors and felonies, primarily the names of those arrested for
attempted kidnapping (later dropped) and the murder of the bystander in
Los Angeles.