By Christopher Isherwood 6 страница

speak primly someone who is trying to suppress an ungentlemanly native

accent. But Doris disregards the question (is off in some new direction of

her own, frowning little. She asks abruptly, "What time is it?"

 

"Nearly three."

 

 

There is a long silence. George feels a terrible need to say something,

anything.

 

"I was out on the pier the other day. I hadn't been there in ages. And,

do you know, they've torn down the old roller-skating rink? Isn't that a

shame? It s is as if they can't bear to leave anything the way it to be. Do you

remember that booth where the woman used to read your character from

your handwriting? That's gone too--"

 

He stops short, dismayed.

 

Can memory really get away with such a crude trick? Seemingly it

can. For he has picked the pier from casually as you pick a card at random

from a magician's deck--and behold, the card has been forced! It was while

George and Jim were roller-skating that they first met Doris. (She was with a

boy named Norman whom she quickly ditched.) And later they all went to

have their handwriting read. And the woman told Jim that he had latent

musical talent, and Doris that she had a great capacity for bringing out the

best in other people.

 

Does she remember? Of course she must! George glances at her

anxiously. She lies staring at the ceiling, frowning harder.

 

"What did you say the time was?"

 

"Nearly three. Four minutes of."

 

"Look outside in the hall, will you? See if anyone's there."

 

He gets up, goes to the door, looks out. But before he has even

reached it, she has asked with harsh impatience, "Well?"

 

"There's no one."

 

"Where's that fucking nurse?" It comes out of her so harshly, so

nakedly desperate.

 

"Shall I go look for her?"

 

"She knows I get a shot at three. The doctor told kr. She doesn't give a

shit."

 

"I'll find her."

 

"That bitch won't come till she's good and ready."

 

"I'm sure I can find her."

 

"No! Stay here."

 

"Okay."

 

"Sit down again."

 

"Sure." He sits down. He knows she wants his hand. le gives it to her.

She grips it with astonishing strength. "George--"

 

"Yes?"

 

"You'll stay here till she comes?"

 

"Of course I will."

 

 

Her grip tightens. There is no affection in it, no communication. She

isn't gripping a fellow creature. His hand is just something to grip. He dare

not ask her about the pain. He is afraid of releasing some obscene horror,

something visible and tangible and stinking, right here between them in the

room.

 

Yet he is curious, too. Last time, the nurse told him that Doris has

been seeing a priest. (She was raised a Catholic.) And, sure enough, here on

the table beside the bed is a little paper book, gaudy and cute as a Christmas

card: The Stations of the Cross... Ah, but when the road narrows to the width

of this bed, when here is nothing in front of you that is known, dare you

disdain any guide?. Perhaps Doris has learned something already about the

journey ahead of her. But, even supposing that she has and that George

could bring himself to ask her, she could never tell him what she knows. For

that could only be expressed in the language of the place to which she is

going. And that language--though some of us gabble it so glibly--has no real

meaning in our world. In our mouths, it is just a lot of words.

 

Here's the nurse, smiling, in the doorway. "I'm punctual today, you

see!" She has a tray with the hypodermic and the ampoules.

 

"I'll be going," George says, rising at once.

 

"Oh, you don't have to do that," says the nurse "If you'll just step

outside for a moment. This won't take any time at all."

 

"I have to go anyway," George says, feeling guilty as one always does

about leaving any sickroom. Not that Doris herself makes him feel guilty.

She seems to have lost all interest in him. Her eyes are fixed o "he needle in

the nurse's hand.

 

"She's been a bad girl," the nurse says. "We can't get her to eat her

lunch, can we?"

 

"Well, so long, Doris. See you again in a couple of days."

 

"Goodbye, George. " Doris doesn't even glance at him, and her tone is

utterly indifferent. He is lea... Jig her world and thereby ceasing to exist. He

takes her hand and presses it. She doesn't respond. She watches the bright

needle as it moves toward her.

 

Did she mean goodbye? This could be, soon will be. As George leaves

the room, he looks at her once again over the top of the screen, trying to

catch and fix some memory in his mind, to be aware of the occasion or at

least of its possibility: the last time I saw her alive.

 

Nothing. It means nothing. He feels nothing.

 

As George pressed Doris' hand just now, he knew something: that the

very last traces of the Doris who tried to take Jim from him have vanished

from this shriveled mannequin, and, with them, the last of hate. As long as

 

one tiny precious drop of hate remained, George could still find something

left in her of Jim. For he hated Jim too, nearly as much as her, while they

were away together in Mexico. That has been the bond between him and

Doris. And now it is broken. And one more bit of Jim is lost to him forever.

 

AS George drives down the boulevard, the big unwieldy Christmas

decorations--reindeer and jingle bells slung across the street on cables

secured to metal Christmas trees--are swinging in a chill wind. But they are

merely advertisements for Christmas, paid for by the local merchants.

Shoppers crowd the stores and the sidewalks, their faces somewhat

bewildered, their eyes reflecting, like polished buttons, the cynical sparkle of

the Yuletide. Hardly more than a month ago, before Khrushchev agreed to

pull his rockets out of Cuba, they were cramming the markets, buying the

shelves bare of beans, rice and other foodstuffs, utterly useless, most of

them, for air-raid-shelter cookery, because they can't be prepared without

pints of water. Well, the shoppers were spared--this time. Do they rejoice?

They are too dull for that, poor dears; they never knew what didn't hit them.

No doubt because of that panic buying, they have less money now for gifts.

But they have enough. It will be quite a good Christmas, the mer-chants

predict. Everyone can afford to spend at least something, except, maybe,

some of the young hustlers (recognizable at once to experienced eyes like

George's) who stand scowling on the street corners or staring into shops with

the maximum of peripheral vision.

 

George is very far, right now, from sneering at any of these fellow

creatures. They may be crude and mercenary and dull and low, but he is

proud, is glad, is almost indecently gleeful to be able to stand up and be

counted in their ranks--the ranks of that marvelous minority, The Living.

They don't know their luck, these people on the sidewalk, but George knows

his--for a little while at least--because he is freshly returned from the icy

presence of The Majority, which Doris is to join.

 

I am alive, he says to himself, I am alive! And life- energy surges

hotly through him, and delight, and appetite. How good to be in a body--

even this beat-up carcass--that still has warm blood and semen and rich

marrow and wholesome flesh! The scowling youths on the corners see him

as a dodderer no doubt, or at best as a potential score. Yet he claims a distant

kinship with the strength of their young arms and shoulders and loins. For a

few bucks he could get any one of them to climb into the car, ride back with

him to his house, strip off butch leather jacket, skin-tight Levi's, shirt and

 

cowboy boots and take a naked, sullen young athlete, in the wrestling bout

his pleasure. But George doesn't want the bought unwilling bodies of these

boys. He wants to rejoice in his own body--the tough triumphant old body of

a survivor. The body that has outlived Jim and is going outlive Doris.

 

He decides to stop by the gym--although this isn't one of his regular

days--on his way home.

 

IN the locker room, George takes off his clothes, gets into his sweat socks,

jockstrap and shorts. Shall he put on a tee shirt? He looks at himself in the

long mirror. Not too bad. The bulges of flesh over the belt of the shorts are

not so noticeable today. The legs are quite good. The chest muscles, when

properly flexed, don't sag. And, as long as he doesn't have his spectacles on,

he can't see the little wrinkles inside the elbows, above the kneecaps and

around the hollow of the sucked-in belly. The neck is loose and scraggy

under all circumstances, in all lights, and would look gruesome even if he

were half-blind. He has abandoned the neck altogether, like an untenable

military position.

 

Yet he looks--and doesn't he know id--better than nearly all of his age-

mates at this gym. Not because they're in such bad shape--they are healthy

enough specimens. What's wrong with them is their fatalistic acceptance of

middle age, their ignoble resignation to grandfatherhood, impending

retirement and golf. George is different from them because, in some sense

which can't quite be defined but which is immediately apparent when you

see him naked, he hasn't given up. He is still a contender, and they aren't.

Maybe it's nothing more mysterious than vanity which gives him this air of a

withered boy? Yes, despite his wrinkles, his slipped flesh, his graying hair,

his grim-lipped, strutting spryness, you catch occasional glimpses of a

ghostly someone else, soft-faced, boyish, pretty. The combination is bizarre,

it is older than middle age itself, but it is there.

 

Looking grimly into the mirror, with distaste and humor, George says

to himself, You old ass, who are you trying to seduce? And he puts on his

tee shirt.

 

In the gym there are only three people. It's still too early for the office

workers. A big heavy man named Buck--all that remains at fifty of a football

player---is talking to a curly-haired young man named Rick, who aspires to

television. Buck is nearly nude; his rolling belly bulges indecently over a

kind of bikini, pushing it clear down to the bush line. He seems quite will.-

out shame. Whereas Rick, who has a very well-made muscular body, wears

 

a gray wool sweatshirt and pan covering all of it from the neck to the wrists

and ankles. "Hi, George," they both say, nodding casually at him and this,

George feels, is the most genuinely friend.. greeting he has received all day.

 

Buck knows all about the history of sport; he is an encyclopedia of

batting averages, handicaps, records and scores. He is in the midst of telling

how someone took someone else in the seventh round. He mimes the

knockout: "Pow! Pow! And, boy, he'd had it!" Rice listens, seated astride a

bench. There is always an atmosphere of leisureliness in this place. A boy

like Rice will take three or four hours to work out, and spend most of the

time just yakking about show biz, about sport cars, about football and

boxing--very seldom oddly enough, about sex. Perhaps this is partly out of

consideration for the morals of the various young kids and early teen-agers

who are usually around. When Rick talks to grownups, he is apt to be smart-

alecky or actor-sincere; but with the kids he is as unaffected as a village

idiot. He clowns for them and does magic tricks and tells them stories,

deadpan, about a store in Long Beach (he gives its exact address) where

once in great while, suddenly and without any previous announcement, they

declare a Bargain Day. On such days every customer who spends more than

a dollar gets Jag or a Porsche or an MG for free. (The rest of the time, the

place is an ordinary antique shop.) When Rick is challenged to show the car

he got, he takes the kids outside and points to a suitable one on the street.

 

When they look at its registration slip and find that it belongs to

someone else, Rick swears that that's his real name; he changed it when he

started acting. The kids absolutely disbelieve him, but they yell that he's a

liar and crazy and they beat on him with their fists. While they do this, Rick

capers grinning around the gym on all fours, like a dog.

 

George lies down on one of the inclined boards in order to do sit-ups.

This is always something you have to think yourself into; the body dislikes

them more than tiny other exercise. While he is getting into the mood,

Webster comes over and lies down on the board next to his. Webster is

maybe twelve or thirteen, slender and graceful and tall for his age, with long

smooth golden boy-legs. He is gentle and shy, and he moves about the gym

in a kind of dream; but he keeps steadily on with his workout. No doubt he

thinks he looks scrawny mid has vowed to become a huge wide awkward

overloaded muscle man. George says, "Hi, Web," and Webster answers, "Hi,

George," in a shy, secretive whisper.

 

Now Webster begins doing his sit-ups, and George, peeling off his tee

shirt on a sudden impulse, follows his example. As they continue, George

feels an empathy growing between them. They are not competing with each

other; but Webster's youth and litheness seem to possess George, and this

 

borrowed energy is terrific. Withdrawing his attention from his own

protesting muscles and concentrating it upon Webster's flexing and relaxing

body, George draws the strength from it to go on beyond his normal forty

sit-ups, to fifty, to sixty, to seventy, to eighty. Shall he try for a hundred?

Then, all lit once, he is aware that Webster has stopped. The strength leaves

him instantly. He stops too, panting hard--though not any harder than

Webster himself. They lie there panting, side by side. Webster turns his head

and looks at George, obviously rather impressed.

 

"How many do you do?" he asks.

 

"Oh--it depends."

 

"These things just kill me. Man!"

 

How delightful it is to be here. If only one could spend one's entire

life in this state of easygoing physical democracy. Nobody is bitchy here, or

ill-tempered, or inquisitive. Vanity, including the most outrageous posings in

front of the mirrors, is taken for granted. The godlike young baseball player

confides to all his anxiety about the smallness of his ankles. The plump

banker, rubbing his face with skin cream, says simply, "I can't afford to get

old." No one is perfect and no one pretends to be. Even the half-dozen quite

well-known actors put on no airs. The youngest kids sit innocently naked

beside sixty- and seventy-year-olds in the steam room, and they call each

other by their first names. Nobody is too hideous or too handsome to be

accepted as an equal. Surely everyone is nicer in this place than he is outside

it?

 

Today George feels more than usually unwilling to leave the gym. He

does his exercises twice as many times as he is supposed to; he spends a

long while in the steam room; he washes his hair.

 

WHEN he comes out onto the street again, it is already getting toward

sunset. And now he makes another impulsive decision: instead of driving

directly kick to the beach, he will take a long detour through the hills.

 

Why? Partly because he wants to enjoy the uncomplicated relaxed

happy mood which is nearly always induced by a workout at the gym. It is

so good to feel the body's satisfaction and gratitude; no matter how much it

may protest, it likes being forced to perform these tasks. Now, for a while at

least, the vagus nerve won't twitch, the pylorus will be quiet, the arthritic

thumbs and knee won't assert themselves. And how restful, now that there's

no need for stimulants, not to have to hate anyone at all! George hopes to be

able to stay in this mood as long as he keeps on driving.

 

 

Also, he wants to take a look at the hills again; he hasn't been up there

in a long time. Years ago, before him even, when George first came to

California, he used to go into the hills often. It was the wildness of his range,

largely uninhabited yet rising right up out n1 the city, that fascinated him.

He felt the thrill of being a foreigner, a trespasser there, of venturing into the

midst of a primitive, alien nature. He would drive up at sunset or very early

in the morning, park his car, and wander off along the firebreak trails,

catching glimpses of deer moving deep in the chaparral of a canyon,

stopping to watch a hawk circling overhead, stepping carefully among hairy

tarantulas crawling across his path, following twisty tracks in the sand until

he came upon a coiled dozing rattler.

 

Sometimes, in the half-light of dawn, he would meet a pack of coyotes

trotting toward him, tails down, in single file. The first time this happened he

took them for dogs; and then, suddenly, without uttering a sound, they broke

formation and went bounding away downhill, with great uncanny jumps.

 

But this afternoon George can feel nothing of that long-ago

excitement and awe; something is wrong from the start. The steep, winding

road, which used to seem romantic, is merely awkward now, and dangerous.

He keeps meeting other cars on blind corners and having to swerve sharply.

By the time he has reached the top, he has lost all sense of relaxation. Even

up here they are building dozens of new houses. The area is getting

suburban. True, there are still a few uninhabited canyons, but George can't

rejoice in them; he is oppressed by awareness of the city below. On both

sides of the hills, to the north and to the south, it has spawned and spread

itself over the entire plain. It has eaten up the wide pastures and ranchlands

and the last stretches of orange grove; it has sucked out the surrounding

lakes and sapped the forests of the high mountains. Soon it will be drinking

converted sea water. And yet it will die. No need for rockets to wreck it, or

another ice age to freeze it, or a huge earthquake to crack it off and dump it

in the Pacific. It will die of overextension. It will die because its taproots

have dried up--the brashness and greed which have been its only strength.

And the desert, which is the natural condition of this country, will return.

 

Alas, how sadly, how certainly George knows this! He stops the car

and stands at the road's rough yellow dirt edge, beside a manzanita bush, and

looks out over Los Angeles like a sad Jewish prophet of doom, as he takes a

leak. Babylon is fallen, is fallen, that great city. But this city is not great, was

never great, and has nearly no distance to fall.

 

Now he zips up his pants and gets into the car and drives on,

thoroughly depressed. The clouds close in low upon the hills, making them

seem northern and sad like Wales; and the day wanes, and the lights snap on

 

in their sham jewel colors all over the plain, as the road winds down again

on to Sunset Boulevard and he nears the ocean.

 

THE supermarket is still open; it won't close till midnight. It is brilliantly

bright. Its brightness offers sanctuary. from loneliness and the dark. You

could spend hours of your life here, in a state of suspended insecurity,

meditating on 'the multiplicity of things to eat. Oh dear, there is so much! So

many brands in shiny boxes, all of them promising you good appetite. Every

article on the shelves cries out to you, Take me, take me; and the mere

competition of their appeals can make you imagine yourself wanted, even

loved. But beware--when you get back to your empty room, you'll find that

the false flattering elf of the advertisement has eluded you; what remains is

only cardboard, cellophane and food. And you have lost the heart to be

hungry.

 

This bright place isn't really a sanctuary. For, ambushed among its

bottles and cartons and cans, are shockingly vivid memories of meals

shopped for, cooked, eaten with Jim. They stab out at George as he passes,

pushing his shopping cart. Should we ever feel truly lonely if we never ate

alone?

 

But to say, I won't eat alone tonight--isn't that deadly dangerous? Isn't

it the start of a long landslide--from eating at counters and drinking at bars to

drinking at home without eating, to despair and sleeping pills and the

inevitable final overdose? But who says I have to be brave? George asks.

Who depends on me now? Who cares?

 

We're getting maudlin, he says, trying to make his will choose

between halibut, sea bass, chopped sirloin, steaks. He feels a nausea of

distaste for them all; then sudden rage. Damn all food. Damn all life. He

would like to abandon his shopping cart, although it's already full of

provisions. But that would make extra work for the clerks, and one of them

is cute. The alternative, to put the whole lot back in the proper places

himself, seems like a labor of Hercules; for the overpowering sloth of

sadness is upon him. The sloth that ends in going to bed and staying there

until you develop some disease.

 

So he wheels the cart to the cash desk, pays, stops on the way out to

the car lot, enters the phone booth, dials.

 

"Hello."

 

"Hello, Charley."

 

"Geo!"

 

 

"Look--is it too late to change my mind? About tonight? You see--

when you called this morning--I thought I had this date--But I just heard

from them – "

 

"Of course it isn't too late!" She doesn't even bother to listen to his

lying excuses. Her gladness flashes its instantaneous way to him, even faster

than her words, across the zigzag of the wires. And at once Geo and charley

are linked, are yet another of this evening's lucky pairs, amidst all of its

lonely wanderers. If any of the clerks were watching him, they would see his

face inside the glass box brighten, flush with joy like a lover's.

 

"Can I bring you 'anything? I'm at the market--"

 

"Oh no--no thank you, Geo dear! I have loads of food. I always seem

to get too much nowadays. I suppose it's because..."

 

"I'll be over in a little while then. Have to stop by the house, first. So

long."

 

"Oh, Geo--this is nice! Au revoirl"

 

But he is so utterly perverse that his mood begins to change again

before he has even finished unloading his purchases into the car. Do I really

want to see her? he asks himself, and then, What in the world made me do

that? He pictures the evening he might have spent, snugly at home, fixing

the food he has bought, then lying down on the couch beside the bookcase

and reading himself slowly sleepy. At first glance, this is an absolutely

convincing and charming scene of domestic contentment. Only after a few

instances does George notice the omission which makes it meaningless.

What is left out of the picture is Jim, lying opposite him at the other end of

the couch, also reading; the two of them absorbed in their books yet so

completely aware of each other's presence.

 

BACK at home, he changes out of his suit into an army-surplus store khaki

shirt, faded blue denims, moccasins, a sweater. (He has doubts from time to

time about this kind of costume: Doesn't it give the impression that he's

trying to dress young? But Jim used to tell him, No, it was just right for him

– it made him look like Rommel in civilian clothes. George loved that.)

 

Just when he's ready to leave the house again, there is a ring at his

doorbell. Who can it be at this hour? Mrs. Strunk!

 

(What have I done that she can have come to complain about?)

 

"Oh, good evening--" (Obviously she's nervous, self-conscious; very

much aware, no doubt, of having crossed the frontier-bridge and being on

enemy territory.) "I know this is terribly short notice. I--we've meant to ask

 

you so many times--I know how busy you are--but we haven't gotten

together in such a long while--and we were wondering--would you possibly

have time to come over for a drink?"

 

"You mean, right now?"

 

"Why, yes. There's just the two of us at home."

 

"I'm most terribly sorry. I'm afraid I have to go out, right away."

 

"Oh. Well. I was afraid you wouldn't have time. But--"

 

"No, listen," says George, and he means it; he is extremely surprised

and pleased and touched. "I really would like to. Very much indeed. Do you

suppose I could take a rain check?"

 

"Well, yes, of course." But Mrs. Strunk doesn't believe him. She

smiles sadly. Suddenly it seems all-important to George to convince her.

 

"I would love to come. How about tomorrow?"

 

Her face falls. "Oh well, tomorrow. Tomorrow wouldn't be so good,

I'm afraid. You see, tomorrow we have some friends coming over from the

Valley, and..."

 

And they might notice something queer about me, and you'd feel

ashamed, George thinks, okay, okay.

 

"I understand, of course," he says. "But let's make it very soon, shall

we?"

 

"Oh yes," she agrees fervently, "very soon...."

 

CHARLOTTE lives on Soledad Way, a narrow uphill street which at night is

packed so tight with cars parked on both sides of it that two drivers can

scarcely squeeze past each other. If you arrive after its residents have

returned home from their jobs, you will probably have to leave your car

several blocks away, at the bottom of the hill. But this is no problem for

George, because he can walk over to Charley's from his house in less than

five minutes.

 

Her house is high up on the hillside, at the top of three flights of

lopsided rustic wooden steps, seventy-live of them in all. Down on the street

level there is a tumbledown shack intended for a garage. She keeps it

crammed to the ceiling with battered trunks and crates full of unwanted junk.