What Is All This? (35 page)

He put his head face down into the pillow. I got over him again. “It might take time,” I said.

“All the time you need.” His head was now right below my behind. A funny thought I had was that I suddenly felt like one of his bombers circling over an enemy town. His head was the town center—the primary target, where the enemy's command post and warworks were, and maybe I sprayed it and a little of the town's outskirts before with my urine like bullets. If I told him this now, would he laugh? No—no jokes. Serious business with him, bombing, and I better get serious too. But a town eager to get bombed—pleading for it, in fact? Enough. Must concentrate. I tried. Nothing. His head turned a little to the side and one of his eyes was now visible and looking up.

“How are you doing?” he said.

“Soon.”

“Good. If you need another glass of wine, take one. Take two.”

“I think I'll be all right without it.”

“Better to take it, and fruit.”

I drank standing up on the bed with him still flat below me. Poured myself another glass and drank that one down too. I reached over for a pear, bit into it and threw it back into the bowl, but I missed and it fell to the floor. He didn't stir. I got over him again.

“I think you should be ready,” he said.

“I just about am.” It came. First direct hit on the town center, and he moved his face back into the pillow. He made noises like a man making noises during the sex act rather than at the end. Then it was over. The enemy town was totally destroyed. Mission accomplished and with a first strike also, or whatever the expressions are that air force people use. “Excuse me,” I said.

“I understand.”

He was still on his stomach with his face in the pillow, though you'd think he'd want to get out fast too. I got off the bed and went to the bathroom and cleaned myself. I looked in the mirror. Hitler, I thought. Nobody would believe it. Or rather: for my own sake, nobody was ever going to have a chance to believe it. He didn't have to tell me that. The woman he lives with: she does it to him too? Has he always done it this way and only with young women? She isn't that young. Nice figure, though: I don't know about her behind. But he said no—“I swear,” he said, “not all the time.” But that girl who cracked up after being with him. Having someone like him plead for you to do such a thing must have been too much for her to bear. Suppose she once worshipped him. She might have been to rallies or at least seen newsreels of rallies with him speaking to half a million cheering people. If only she could have been like me. I'm not tough but I've been around long enough to take the healthy way; in many respects he's inferior, a crazy pathetic pervert, simple as that.

I left the bathroom. He was gone. And the soiled linen was gone and a perfume had refreshened the room. I dressed and left. The commanding officer was waiting outside the door.

“So everything went well?” he said.

“I think he was satisfied. He didn't complain. I treated him as nice as I could, just as you said.”

“If the report back from him is a good one, then I hope we'll see you again.” He snapped his fingers. The same two guards came over.

“Drive her home in an officer's car or to wherever she wants to go.”

“Home,” I said. “And thank you.” We shook hands. The guards and I walked to the elevators. “Wait,” I said, “there's something else. Hitler said I could have all the sandwiches in the room.”

“Forget the sandwiches,” one of the guards said.

“But he said I should ask your officer for them.”

He ran back and knocked on a door. The officer came out. “She says he told her she could have all the sandwiches in his room.”

Then get them for her.”

“You must come with me, sir. I'm not allowed in unless with you.”

They went into the room I was in with Hitler before. The guard came out carrying the tray of sandwiches and gave me it. The officer went back to his room.

“But it's silver and belongs to the hotel,” I said. “Hitler only said the sandwiches, nothing about the tray.”

“If my officer says it's what I should give you, nobody will mind.”

I held the tray, offered each of them a sandwich as we rode down in the elevator. They each took one. I thought maybe one of them would ask me what Hitler was like in the room. As a test of my silence, perhaps. Or maybe because of his curiosity on the subject concerning such a man, he might lose his head for a moment and ask. If one of them did, I'd say “I'm sorry, it's something you know I can't talk about, and if you insist, I'll have to report you to your officer.” That would be the right answer. I also thought that maybe one of them, if he didn't know what Hitler was like in the bedroom, would want to pay to be the first one to make love to me after Hitler. But, that too, neither of them asked.

“Help.”

Lenny said it to himself, though for a moment he wanted to say it out loud.

“Help,” he said softly. He looked around the Student Union cafeteria. Thank God nobody had heard him. His voice was normally deep and resonant and carried much farther than he liked.

A novel was opened in front of him on the yellow table. Underneath it was a cup turned upside down, as a prop. He was getting a headache. He was astigmatic and had broken his glasses a month ago, but hadn't replaced them because Student Medical Service didn't cover eyeglasses and a new pair would set him back thirty dollars. He gently massaged his eyes through the lids.

He'd been on the same sentence for the last five minutes. For sure, he didn't want to read. He looked through the all-glass wall to the outside: there were no windows in this ultramodern room, which was about the size and as brightly lit as a big city's airline terminal. The moon was nearly full tonight, and low, so low it seemed caught in the eucalyptuses in the distance like a helium balloon. If he were with someone now, he'd ask why.

“Question,” he'd say. “Why is the moon so frigging low tonight?”

This person could tell him it had to do with the time of year or the vernal equinox or something. But a simple answer, which he should have known and this person might have picked up in a high school or college general science course. People remembered so many more things than he. He wasn't a well-informed person in anything but literature, and even that, mainly twentieth century fiction.

“Question,” he'd say to this person beside him or even a group seated around the table. “What do you say we go to the Dunes for a burger and beer?” The Dunes was the most popular off-campus hangout. There you could get dark or regular beer in huge pitchers and a real California hamburger, which was grilled and came on a warm sesame roll with tomato slices, onion slices, shredded lettuce, relish, mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, spices and a bag of tortilla chips or garlic-flavored potato chips on the side. Lenny was from New York and was used to having his hamburger broiled and stuck on a cold bun with only a single pickle round on top.

“Question,” he'd say. “What the hell am I doing back in college after graduating six years ago. Forget it; I know.” He was here on a much-coveted creative writing fellowship for a year that carried with it a three thousand dollar stipend and a chance to meet book and magazine editors from the East, scouting for new writers. He'd also come to meet female students, all tanned and blond and built for the beach. But he hadn't had much opportunity to meet them. The English Department parties he'd heard fantastic stories about before he got here, were almost nonexistent, and the one he went to—the first one he futilely drove around looking for in the hills above campus for an hour—was boring and stuffy and he felt totally out of place. And because he wasn't going for a master's like the nonfellowship students in the graduate writing program, he only had one three-hour class a week. Each of these workshops the past two quarters was composed of intense-looking and opinionated students and some professors' wives. The exception, this past quarter, was Miss Prettyface Louise, a senior—she was allowed into the class because her fiction and criticism was on a level with the graduate students, the teacher said—who sat with her thighs locked and breasts high and eyes demurely down. He could go for her and would call her now if she wasn't betrothed.

“Question,” he said to himself. “Why'd he drive to campus just to sit in this cafeteria for two hours? You really want to know? I haven't met any women at the Dunes—they all seem to come in with guys or in groups of women that want to be left alone—and I thought this place would be a good one to, since I'd also been told writing fellows were considered choice company and prize catch by a lot of the unattached literary-minded women on campus. If I met one, or really anybody here to talk to, and I could convince this person to come with me, then on to the Dunes for burgers and beers. For you see, I'd become almost a nightly regular there and want to show the bartenders and barflies that I don't always have to come in alone.”

Maybe he should call the other writing fellow and invite himself over. B.J. Aimlace was married and quite sympathetic to Lenny's loneliness out here and often said he had a standing invitation to visit them anytime he liked. They lived more than an hour's drive over the mountains, in a rented house facing the beach with an ancient redwood growing out of the living room roof. Lenny had been there once, during the first quarter. B.J.'s wife, who after dinner shared a hashpipe with her husband, which she said always made her feel more congenial if not beatific, suddenly swung around to Lenny and said “I loathe you.” Just like that. “I truly loathe you, Lenny Polk. You're so infuriatingly straight.” Mercedes was English, and her long articulated drawl on the word “loathe” made her opinion of him seem that much more virulent. B.J. lit up some more hash, shrugged when Lenny again declined to take a toke—he'd told them he was frankly afraid of drugs like these and could never see himself driving home along winding roads turned on—and passed the pipe to Mercedes. Lenny didn't say anything to her about her remark; he only smiled helplessly at both of them as if there were no excuse for his loathsomeness and lack of courage. Then he whispered to B.J. if she'd been serious. “She's more likely just after your ass,” B.J. said. “I am not,” she said. That's a big fat lie.” “Believe me, if she truly loathed you she would have fled to the bedroom and singly sulked.” Little later, Lenny said he was getting tired, thanked them for a delicious dinner and great time, and sat embarrassed while they stood waving goodbye to him from their porch for the ten minutes it took to start up the car.

He stared at his book for a few minutes. Then he turned the page, though he hadn't finished it yet, just in case anyone was watching him. At the next table, which was a flaming red, a very attractive girl sat down with a mug of tea. A heavy girl with bad skin sat across from her, biting the top off of a tall chocolate freeze.

“So what did you think of him?” the attractive one said.

“Who?”

“You know—him, the lead, the one with the brows.”

“Oh. I thought he was cute.”

“You mean great.”

“Yes, great. That's the word I was looking for. I also liked the way he moved.”

He wondered what movie actor they were talking about. Or maybe it was someone in the university's graduate theater program. If it was a movie actor—brows? Doesn't immediately register—then he'd probably seen the picture. There were four theaters in town and he went to just about every movie they played. Movies were an effective way to horn into people's conversations, mentioning from the next table he'd overheard them and apologizing for what could be considered eavesdropping, but he'd seen that movie and enjoyed or had some problems with it too. He also always tried to toss in something clever and perceptive so these people would have more of a reason than similar moviegoing to ask him to join their discussion and perhaps later their fun. He'd done it successfully last spring in a Paris bar favored by Americans. A Smith student who'd just sat through two straight showings of
Dr. Strangelove
in French and was dying for someone to clear up a lot of what she obviously missed in the film. She thought his comments elucidating and brilliant, especially when he explained the more hidden scatological meanings of some of the characters' names. Later that night they made love in his cramped hotel room, which he'd been living in for several months while he tried to find a job and learn French, and the following morning she left with her college chorus for a concert in St. Paul's in London. If she'd given him her correct American address and last name he would probably go home now and write her a long funny letter or lonely poem.

The heavy girl finished her freeze, snapped the plastic spoon in two, and stood up. The other girl stood up too, glanced past Lenny as if searching for someone in particular, and they walked away. She hadn't touched her tea.

He'd call Louise. Her dorm was nearby and they'd already met for coffee three times in the evening, though never for more than twenty minutes. He was at the stage where he thought he might take her hand and hold it. Through one ridiculously juvenile pretext or another—There's something there that needs to be brushed off”—he'd touched her wrist and once even her cheek and kept his hand there a few seconds, and so far she hadn't objected.

A girl answered the phone.

“Is Louise Robbins in, please?” he said.

“Nope. This is her roommate Penny.”‘

“Louise?” It suddenly sounded like her. “Is that you?”

“Daddy? Uncle Rootie? Father Travers? Who is this? Penny Wolfgang, speaking.”

“It's me, Louise, Lenny Polk. What gives?”

“Oh, hi, Lenny. That routine was for someone else. How are things?”

“Just fine. I was around campus and thought you might like a quick coffee at the Union.”

She laughed.

“You see, I was first going to see a film at University Aud,” he said. “Part of that Ukrainian film festival they've got going every Thursday night. And then I got caught up in a book, and thought—” but she was still laughing. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing, why?”

“You were laughing. Listen, Louise, if you can't meet now, would it be too past your curfew to meet me in the next couple of hours?”

“I can stay out till two if I really have to.”

“I thought eleven was the latest.”

“No, two. If I really have to, I can sign out for three and have a friend sign me in by morning. As it is, you caught me in bed.” She giggled, as if she'd said something naughty. “What I mean is, I'm in my jimmies and about to sleep into bed. I mean, sled into sleep. I mean—I'm high.”

“High?”

“Hi, Daddy. Hi, Uncle Rootie. Father Travers? Grandpa Wolfgang? What I meant was that I'm high on life, Grandpa. Life's what intoxicates me. Solely, life's what makes me high.”

“You don't think you can have coffee, then.”

“Not tonight, Leonard. Thanks.”

“How about us driving to San Gregorio Beach sometime this weekend. I hear it's rough and rustic and gorgeous.”

“I'm going to my future in-laws this weekend, though I don't know which day.”

Then the day you're not going.”

“I better keep both open.”

They keep a close tab on you, no?”

“I suppose, because Hank's in New Zealand, they think they have to.”

She laughed. He also laughed and figured it was for the same thing. It amused him when she spoke about her fiancé being in New Zealand. He'd gone there half a year ago to get his Ph.D in abnormal psychology. She was to follow him out after she graduated, four months from now. Lenny suspected she was a virgin. She'd spoken about “perhaps a certain sexual inexperience for a California girl my age” when they talked, over coffee, about a Henry Miller novel he'd read as a college freshman in the smuggled-in version from France and she was reading for an American literature course. And she'd written explicitly about the inhibitions and frustrations of a virgin heroine who resembled her in looks and read that story in class, but refused to answer—and the writer-professor who ran the program said she was “within every realm of her rights not to”—when one of the male grad students pumped her on whether the protagonist was herself. Lenny had never made love to a virgin. He didn't think he'd ever even had a chance to the past ten years, not that he'd know what to do, though he was eager to test his delicacy in such an event. He felt that with Louise, whom he felt tender to, it would be extraordinary, though maybe not for her.

“Well, I guess that's it then,” he said. “See you Monday.”

“No class Monday, didn't you know? It's Washington's Birthday—or Lincoln's. I forget which.”

“Ronald Reagan's. To celebrate the good governor's fortieth year in show business. But one or the other's all right with me. So long as it means a day off from class and I can get in another afternoon to write.”

“Oh, I don't feel that way yet. I guess I haven't been writing that long, but I love our seminars and everybody in it. But I'll be signing off now, Len. Little Louise Robbins, now flying away.”

He went back to the cafeteria table and finished reading two full pages, but they were mostly dialog. Nathaniel Vest was one heck of a writer, he thought, and I'm probably one of his few readers to take an entire week to complete half of
Miss Lonelyhearts
. He looked at the moon again. It was still pretty low, though seemed to have risen a bit. Or maybe he was just sitting lower in his chair than before, so the moon was actually higher than he thought. Today is Thursday, and there won't be another class till a week from Monday. At least in class he talked and joked and could look at Louise and got into an occasional literary argument. And after the seminar he always had a coffee and pastry here with B.J. and sometimes Louise would come along with a few of the tuition-paying grad students, who read very well though wrote rather poorly and usually criticized his stories he read in class more severely than he felt they even overexaggeratedly deserved. “Hang Washington,” he said. There were classes on Lincoln's birthday this year so why not Washington's? Another thing he didn't know the answer to.

He stuck a napkin between the pages and closed the book. He got up for another coffee, stretched and yawned and looked around. It was getting late; not many people here, and he didn't recognize anyone. If he did, he was sure he'd ratchet up the guts enough to walk over to that person's table and ask if he might join it, even to someone he'd only met briefly or to a girl he'd never met but was sure she was in some way connected to the creative writing program. But he didn't recognize a soul.