The Ruins 9780814728833

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New York University Press gratefully acknowledges the support of Madeline and Kevin Brine in making these awards possible.

THE NE W YOR K UNIVERSIT Y PRES S PRIZE S FO R FICTIO N AN D POETR Y

The New York University Press Prizes for Fiction and Poetry acknowledge fine works of literature an d poetry by writers whose work, thoug h ofte n alread y a known quantity , remain s under recognized relativ e to the quality and ambition o f their writing. Past winners of the award s are: Indentation and Other Stories Joe Schall (fiction)

Sing, Sing, Sing Bruce Murph y (poetry)

Living with Strangers Robert Schirme r (fiction)

Wild Brides Laura Kasischk e (poetry)

Let the Dog Drive David Bowma n (fiction)

Like Memory, Caverns Elizabeth Dod d (poetry)

The Lost and Found and Other Stories Anne Marsella (fiction)

Man Living on a Side Creek and Other Poems Stephan Torr e (poetry)

Cannibal Terese Svobod a (fiction)

Human Nature Alice Anderson (poetry)

Bird Self Accumulated Don Judso n (fiction)

Crazy Water: Six Fictions Lori Bake r (fiction)

Rodent Angel Debra Weinstei n (poetry)

Bye-Bye Flying Jane Ransom Wounded (fiction) Ann

Out with the e Casto n (poetry)

In 1997 , the jurors selected Trac e FarrelPs novel, The Ruins, and Nanc y Shoenberger' s collectio n o f poems , Long Like a River.

"Wf! TRACE FARREL

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N E W Y O R K U N I V E R S I T Y PRES S New York an d Londo n

N E W Y O R K U N I V E R S I T Y PRES

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New York and Londo n © 199 8 b y New York Universit y All rights reserve d This boo k i s fictional. Names , characters, places, and incident s ar e invented o r used fictitiously. Any resemblance t o actua l people , places, or events is purely coincidental . Partial suppor t fo r thi s work was provided b y the King Count y Arts Commissio n Hotel/Mote l Ta x Revenues . Library o f Congress Cataloging-in-Publicatio n Dat a Farrell, Trace, 1959 The ruin s / Trac e Farrell . p. cm . ISBN 0-8147-2685- 2 (acid-fre e paper ) I. Title . PS3556.A7723R85 199 8 813'.54—dc21 98-1068 3 CIP New York University Pres s books are printed o n acid-fre e paper , and thei r bindin g material s ar e chosen fo r strengt h an d durability . Manufactured i n the Unite d State s of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S , etc .

Among other things, a book's what finally doesn't budg e when you'v e shooe d wha t yo u ca n fro m th e page . Thanks t o m y editor , th e intrepi d Barbar a Epler , fo r a hand i n th e shooing ; an d t o Chri s an d Ma r fo r a timely haven in which to shoo . A heavy debt is owed, as well, to Marianne Faithful fo r her hysterical schtick on the demise of Harry Nilsson (o n which L a Stupenda's accoun t o f "th e ga y dog Doug " i s based). Goethe's th e wa g behin d th e first verse o f the lullab y on p . 146 ; the insight s o n gree n apple s an d uncounte d heads belong to Machiavelli . In the end, of course, I have to hand i t to Tom-Tom .

CHAPTER ON E

In Which Our Hero's Knees—Dicey, a Hazard in the Best of Times—Have Never Been Worse . . .

1— lorn grunt s lik e a girl as he hurdles a black-spotted so w barreling straight for hi m down th e narrow cobbled lan e . . . swerve s violenti y roun d tw o roarin g guttersnipes , hung lik e hams fro m th e bi g re d fist s o f a leering polic e matron . . . vaults a row o f battered meta l foldin g chair s laid ou t wit h bundle s o f colore d wire , use d compute r geegaws an d paper s o f ruste d needles—land s har d o n both tende r heel s an d whisde s t o cove r th e smal l invol untary cr y that escape s him. H e pull s up wincing, mincing like a crab. On eithe r side two wharf hands bellow : "Porca madonna ! v "Guarda! Aiee —" Huh? To m look s u p an d a thirty-pound watermelon , monstrous in the flickering gasli t drizzle of rain, sails elegandy not an inch before his own dripping nose. He rears back—unghl—then grab s t o sav e it . Slic k finger s goos e 1

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the glamorou s gree n butt . To o late ! A hollo w thunk ; a sharp wet crack . Like magic, children swar m from unde r empty produc e crate s an d overturne d dollie s t o cas t themselves, spitting and snarling like monkeys, upon th e bright red , black-eye d fruit : "Crackerjack!" N o smal l booty i n a neighborhood o f weeping mutto n an d gree n potatoes. Tom pauses , impresse d b y thei r bravado . Himsel f high-browed, gaunt-cheeked, small-chinned; with rheumy spaniel eyes set close above the bridge of a long, deferen tial nose, and a calamitous thatch of ruddy curls, flared as a frui t bowl , crownin g hi s tapering , pear-shape d tors o (tragic legs ; broad , delicat e feet) . Tom' s pluckles s exte rior belies a keen admiration for the defiant self-server s o f the world . H e clucks , i s tappe d fro m behind—spins — then back s away, appalled, before tw o abruptly looming , yellow-slickered doc k bulls. "Whoah!" H e tug s a penitent re d forelock . An accident! " I didn't , tha t is , I' m really— " N o use . H e fake s left, cuts right; a pretty cheat, bum knees and all. The yellowbacks spit , cursin g th e tactica l squea k o f rubbe r sneakers on we t cement , th e flagrant whit e flash of fugi tive heels, rising and falling, away and further away , down the long dark tunnel of night. Clos e call! The crooked lane is tight as a hen's ass, snot-slick with rain an d perilousl y lit. Tom hug s his ribs and hightail s i t anyway; th e impac t o f eac h strikin g hee l drive s jagge d bolts of blue lightning clear to his plump, pumping hips. Rickets, is why. Wrung like rags in the tenderness of their

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growing years , ou r hero' s leg s cam e throug h conspicu ously calcifie d i n thei r misfortune : socket s taut , exquis itely bowed , h e warp s wit h th e weathe r lik e a sensitiv e guitar. "Alas," To m woul d b e th e first t o agree , bor n t o a caste o f humbl e shoeshine s oblige d fo r generation s t o make end s mee t b y th e dogged , day-lon g tuc k o f thei r typically inadequate knees . And yet, adds he (th e sor t o f green apple that favors a comforting lie , as they say, to the uncomfortable truth) : "I t coul d b e worse!" Tom knew , for instance , a certain butcher , bor n wit h no eyelids , wh o depende d o n a spra y bottl e o f boile d water t o spar e his eyeballs' drying out . Th e fellow' s wif e covered his face with a damp rag at night as she could no t bear t o wak e an d se e he r husband' s eyes—"lik e tw o boiled onions!"—starin g a t the ceiling while he snored . And the n ther e was Rosie. A real heartbreaker, Tom' s ravishing baby sister; only innocent a s an egg. Talk about luck! She' d bee n hour s eac h da y lightin g candles a t th e parish church , he r hai r a n aprico t clou d boun d clumsil y with dirt y blue string , and despit e he r devotions—or because?—brought hom e a virgi n bell y miraculousl y abloom with child . O h la ! (a coral blush stained he r perfect cheeks). And what was Tom to think? Tubercular Father Ratskin , fro m whos e blunt , nicotine-staine d fingers the meek parishioners weekly received God's inescapabl e dispensations, didn't blin k an eye. "Mysterium tremendum! " h e dre w har d o n th e stal e weed o f a smoldering Pal l Mall . "Penetrate d b y a heav-

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enly incubus whil e tellin g he r beads. " The priest' s voic e rattled wit h furtiv e yello w phlegm . "Happen s al l th e time!" He dropped on e proprietary hand to Rosie's slender nec k an d squeezed , hi s gaz e trailin g a haggar d as h gone t o res t upo n th e child' s precocious , blue-marble d bosom. To m shuffle d hi s feet ; Fathe r Ratski n glared — "Scram!"—turned, an d wit h a convulsiv e hitc h o f hi s long blac k skirt , shepherde d th e waddlin g an d obedien t Rose up the aisle . And that was that. Tom watched the m disappear insid e th e priest' s di m an d airles s sacristy; eyeballed, uncertainly , th e zippe d lip s o f th e plaste r saints ; and finally left , onl y knockin g woo d fo r th e les s in scrutable liabilities of punk knees. ••

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At th e en d o f th e lan e Tom' s sid e stitches , forcin g hi m to walk. Was it weather made things worse? Honestiy, he can't remembe r a les s promisin g spring . Fiv e minute s ago it rained; the backed-u p sewer s ebb an d flow, awash with iridescen t oi l slicks , unsinkabl e filte r tips , an d th e floundering headlight s o f stalle d automobiles , mopeds , and careenin g bicycles . I n five minutes mor e i t wil l rai n again. Peopl e pus h pas t To m i n ancien t oilskins , o r makeshift tarp s of torn an d dirty plastic, sick and tired o f being wet—no surprise!—thei r ruby-lobe d cabbag e ear s shoved dee p int o yawnin g collarbones , thei r drippin g hoods an d hunche d shoulder s reflectin g th e inter minable red , green , an d ambe r o f th e corne r traffi c lights. Rud e cart s insinuat e themselve s amongs t th e in -

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different crowd ; ragamuffin s prow l th e gutter s i n packs, slapping parke d car s wit h freezin g hand s t o se t of f a chorus o f wailing securit y alarms ; broken-tailed cat s slip sourly alon g th e dam p walls , pausin g no w an d the n t o stare wit h wide , accusin g eye s a t th e mes s o f humanit y surging b y Tom draw s bea d o n a rusty viny l awnin g bellie d lo w with rain ; steal s sideway s betwee n th e wearil y kissin g chrome o f checke d traffi c an d duck s in , shudderin g th e water from hi s back like a finicky sparrow . Are all chips vendors junkies? Any port in a storm, Tom reckons. Thi s one' s surprise d holdin g a mustar d dis penser t o hi s whorled gra y ea r with eviden t wonder , hi s mouth openin g an d closin g in astonishment . Well ? To m taps a t th e windo w an d th e ol d ma n jumps . Hi s red rimmed, caramel eyes roll in their sockets like loose mar bles; his face i s a wad of blue-black wrinkles, white stub ble and brillian t gold teeth a s he points at Tom, slaps his skinny thig h an d hoots , hi s bal d hea d wobbl y a s an eg g on end. Tom nods, accepts a cracked cup of pale pink tea, and to pamper his knees squats gingerly upon a splintered orange crate ; the slats give uneasily. He twirl s his tea ba g counter-clockwise, lifts i t up an d observes the drop s tha t fall fro m i t bac k int o th e cup , sink s th e ba g onc e mor e into the steaming pink water. Across the sidewalk thin filaments o f rain attac h themselve s t o a bucket o f Chines e chrysanthemums an d a child' s rubbe r galoshes , a s i f t o catch th e color s u p an d dangl e the m ove r th e gleamin g pavement, th e yellow s a bi t highe r tha n th e reds . To m

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squints an d th e blue-whit e headlamp s o f car s swi m lik e platinum fish. "But, oh! " (an d oh ! her e w e g o again) . "Wh y here ? Why on eart h Q— ?" This is Tom's cross to bear, his bone to chew, the hard yellow pe a tha t won' t le t hi m rest . He' s ha d hi s hea d turned, i s th e problem , b y tale s overhear d whil e plyin g his trade . Ben t ove r th e caulke d boot s o f sailors , th e cracked leather thongs of itinerant saints, the gaudy twotones of fast-talking travelin g salesmen—our hero listens, and marvels at what he hears. . . . three skinny boys, yellow as snakes, with glittering smiles they dangle like bracelets before the faltering guardians of yourdesire . . . . . . tomahawks, uranium, absinthe, you bet! Snake oil for amethysts, marigolds for tin! . . . beyond a frozen, pitiless bivouac of pitchedbones and blood-daubed caribou hide—and in all directions, for miles —the silent drifts like God's dream of angels, or death . . . . . . a naked girl with tattooed breasts, wrestling a puma! ... what isn't light is stone, what isn't stone is sea, and an army of blue mountains standing at your back . . . . . . ruby slippers, glass coffins, poisoned pancakes— and the geese! . . . across the water is Africa . . .

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Tom's hea d spins , an d n o wonder . I n Q —, a tired , brisding city of crumbling brickyards, contaminated nee dles, coal barges and abject fog , the days come an d go in a flat, lurid tide , noon an d midnigh t lik e sullen twins , so indifferendy doe s ligh t distinguis h itsel f fro m darkness . Encrustations o f oil an d soo t eclips e th e shattere d stree t lamps, hissing neon, an d storefron t windows ; grease th e puddled streets , the bald , glabrous tire s of carts and lor ries. A dank , funerea l smok e hang s i n th e ai r every where—down amon g th e slim y dock s beedin g ou t ove r the viscou s yello w river ; chokin g th e crowde d marke t stalls where half-dressed chicken s flap by their heels fro m loops o f rustin g wire ; an d i n th e ope n ulcere d squares , pearled, like vast laboring brows , with gobbets of bloodmarbled sputu m an d the brought-u p bil e of bellies dizzy with chea p yellow ale. The dam p fetor cling s to people' s hair an d skin , an d t o th e filth y matte d hide s o f th e car t horses draggin g thei r haphazar d load s o f pig iron, draff , recyclable glas s an d buste d furniture . Crows , pigeons , and starling s slouc h alon g th e gutters , thei r feather s a boodess debauc h o f greas e an d grit , thei r blac k eye s bulging with ill will. Phew! One da y spen t i n thi s tow n i s too much—on e hour! To m hug s hi s tea an d nod s with understandin g a t the botched , bese t face s o f the peopl e sloggin g by—th e stooping, soot-maske d furnac e tenders ; doome d insur ance adjuster s clutchin g tau t blac k umbrellas ; resdes s crews of saffron-robed Har e Krishnas, their shaved heads stubbly under backward s baseball caps; teen mom s push-

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ing preemies i n stroller s with tor n tops ; apocalyptic fag s in patent leather drag; tiny Asians in tall rubber boots; old people wit h n o home s who slep t o n th e smotherin g as h heaps beside the river for warmth an d woke with cinder s in thei r eye s to star e a t th e mudd y daw n o f another un charitable day. Our hero shivers, his curved spin e rattlin g like a child's stick against the aluminum chips wagon, and lets hi s eye s clos e a s th e gaslight s sputte r overhea d lik e dying star s an d still it rains , vertical ladder s o f water rising up out of the streets, leaning on nothing a t all, going nowhere. "Yet only read the papers!" Tom rouses himself, set in his ways for on e s o young, cc —it could be worse!" Worse indeed. Rogu e viruses , religiou s terrorism , cross-triba l atomic sniping, the stratosphere i n smithereens . Grandmas Favorite Devoured by Deceiving Wolf. Stepmother^ Slave Rescued after Lifetime of Forced Labor! Oh la! "On th e othe r hand, " To m allows , nodding drowsily , "it wouldn't tak e much t o brighten thing s up a bit." Fo r just a moment , eye s flutterin g lik e littl e bird s beneat h sweetiy lowere d lids , Tom yields , cradled an d consoled , to a smal l private raptur e (wholl y invented ) o f Better Days. War m breeze s tumblin g abou t lik e flossy, sun licked kittens, and a cloud o f hummingbirds beatin g th e air to stiff, luminous peaks. There would b e hands, bod iless an d sof t a s butter , t o teas e th e roug h kink s fro m one's sulle n curls ; and a bower o f round-cheeked yello w

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roses, shaking thei r skirt s a t th e leerin g sky ; and th e so porific dron e o f wasps, swinging dizzily among ripe, un reachable apples . A whit e rabbit' s pink , quiverin g nos e . . . and something nice, nice to eat. . . and thickets of tall grass to nap in, and oh!—ecstasy of the golde n carrot ! When Tom' s eye s ope n it' s rainin g bucket s an d th e junkie's out in it, aghast: seven pigeons press toward hi m along th e gutter , shovin g wit h tende r urgenc y lik e ol d people fo r a bus. The frightene d vendo r back s away, one arm throw n u p acros s hi s stunned, streamin g face . To m shakes his head, tucks several pennies beneath a tin of pallid lard, and steps out fro m beneat h th e dripping tarpau lin. The crowds, anyway, have thinned . ••

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At th e nex t intersectio n it' s th e lette r o f th e la w fo r Tom—a dauntles s stickler , natch —who bide s his time a t the deserte d crossin g shifting hi s weight fro m on e peev ish knee t o th e othe r whil e th e traffi c signa l deliberates . Meanwhile hi s idl e belly , nettle d b y th e indeterminat e pink tea, is arranging a conniption. Not surprisingly , Tom' s neve r manage d t o ea t prop erly. Sure he's mouse-poor, motherless , and (beyon d th e niceties o f boilin g water ) neve r rise n muc h t o th e occa sion of cuisine; all more or less to be expected. But it's not strictly a lack of resources tha t frustrate s him ; the fac t is, Tom's saddle d wit h a nervou s stomach . Wha t he'll say, presented with a not unappetizing crust of gravy, the flaccid ski n fro m a kin d man' s pudding : "Mmm ? Oh ! ha

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ha—no really . . . I'm, I couldn't—I've eaten, yes! You go ahead though , g o on ! I'l l jus t . . . " an d h e back s awa y from th e innocen t morsel , hand s palmin g th e ai r a s though you' d pulle d a knife o n him . Modesty , i s it? O r pride? Ba d breeding ? (Ther e i s mor e t o an y her o tha n meets th e eye , and Tom , fo r al l hi s youth an d inexperi ence, i s n o exception. ) Still , yo u wonde r ho w h e man ages; these so-called growing years.. .. Furthermore, and what's worse , peopl e ar e insulted . We're all rats on the same sinking ship, goes their thinking. Who's he to powder his nose? Needless to say, his belly's none too happy about it either. To m ha s a special—indeed , a n inspired —relationship wit h hi s hunger , whic h h e perceive s a s ver y lik e a glowering, one-eyed dachshun d on e used to see dragged through th e market in a fancy cart by an otherwise destitute bum . Heaven knows , that shabb y old man was born dreadful t o loo k at—hi s tiny eyes peered warily from th e face o f a bloated an d blisterin g seal—an d coul d scarcel y provide for his own material needs, much less those of an ill-tempered bitc h name d "Kevin. " Nevertheles s h e doted o n his snarling, darling mascot, his horrid little Cyclops, his Kevver; and would swaddl e it in his own stink ing rags, kiss the tip of its torn ear , beg for it s ungratefu l sake first, and promise it brighter skies, silver linings, pots of gold, a plump an d steamin g phoeni x risin g from old , cold ashes . Just around the corner, little princess, over the next rainbow and we're there . . . Now and then th e nast y little princess would narro w he r one gumm y eye , lift he r

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lip and snap traitorously at the earnest, uneasy bum, who invariably believe d (poo r wretch ! heartles s Kewer! ) tha t he had it coming . Our To m assume d th e sam e tender , futil e guardian ship toward hi s own perpetually dissatisfie d belly . He fe d it hop e i n humbl e crumbs ; h e mad e excuse s fo r it s ba d manners; h e flattered an d indulge d it ; h e di d wha t h e could. When it showed its teeth he clucked and promise d it anything—fis h fingers, malte d mil k balls , ho t cros s buns, chicken a la king. Now Tom's stomach, unappeased since this morning's hasty and wholly insufficient gruel , rattles the cage of his ribs in high dudgeon while the rain streams down the collar o f hi s hoodles s mack , an d th e crossin g ligh t i s pre dictably on the fritz. Overhea d a wrought iro n sign complains o f rust y hinges ; To m look s up : Th e Groanin g Board. Turning around , he admire s the big , blowzy edifice, five stories high , it s beam-buil t fram e haphazardl y stuffed wit h stucco, mortar, lath, and straw. Neon silhou ettes o f implausibl y endowe d barmaid s animat e th e steamy, stree t leve l windows ; th e entir e structur e list s right. Oblivious , now , t o th e abruptl y gree n an d insis tenriy flashing Walk! signal behin d him , Tom whisdes t o distract hi s bell y an d fingers th e pennie s a t scan t libert y inside his pocket. Mm-hmm, mm-hmm . . . When th e double-wid e door s o f th e publi c hous e burst open, discharging a great friendly belch of laughter and curse s an d th e mingle d odor s o f scorche d grease , mildew, an d corrosiv e perfume , ou r her o surrenders .

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Tom dart s in , automaticall y shakin g th e wate r fro m hi s unruly re d crest , befor e th e heav y door s swin g shu t be hind hi m with a great whack like a clap of thunder an d a godawful whoosh of air.

2— Gracious! Transfixed b y the abrup t fluorescenc e o f furi ous orang e bulbs—hundred s o f them , bar e an d hissin g from lon g blac k wire s tha t criss-cros s th e hig h expose d beams o f th e hall—To m hesitates , the n creep s forward , his feet testing the unfamiliar threshol d o f damp clay and rushes, his hands cagey as spiders along splayed walls festooned with spit and vomit. The place is vast and, though unheated, th e stal e air nevertheless steam s with th e con gregate squalo r o f we t dog s an d woole n underclothes , the morbi d ree k o f indoor plumbing , an d th e ran k col lective gorge of countless indefatigable gobs—bared , carious teet h closin g o n plum p sausage s an d meat y whit e shoulders; withere d lung s suckin g greedil y a t fa t cigar s and windy gossip; ambitious tongues lashing away at pert earlobes and promising asshole s and the overlooked bot toms o f unattende d grav y boats . Th e commotio n i s de luxe. "Pretty kettl e offish! " think s Tom , lookin g roun d a little wildly. Here a fairy's strapped to a table, blowing air like a laboring porpoise while a tattooed hoyden sets steel rings through hi s pierced and bleeding nipples. There b y the ba r a turtlenecke d highbro w i n a wheelchai r wit h

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bent spoke s put s a cigarette ou t i n th e pal m o f hi s ow n hand, glaring at a skinny girl who looks away, flicking he r lips wit h th e fa t blac k whis k o f a greas y braid . No t fa r from the m an immense tub of a woman in a tired blue hat has her elbow s ou t aroun d a platter o f meat sandwiches ; her tiny eyes gaze wearily around the crowded room. Oh , a lively spot, all right! Lame dogs, ulcerated pigs and rickety kid s wit h tick s i n thei r seams , ru n hell-ben t an d shrieking, snapping and squealing, up and down the narrow aisles . Walleye d pigeon s sidl e alon g th e overhea d beams, indifferent t o the sizzle and pop of shattering or ange bulbs. In one corner a little goat bleats mildly, head in a sack , twa t impale d o n th e re d ho t poke r o f a n amorous schoolboy . Frowz y chickens brows e amon g th e dirty stra w pallet s o f deadbeat s an d pilgrims , penny-a flop, snorin g roun d a n unli t stove . Rats run lik e eels beneath the long communal tables, while fat cats sneer over filched sprats ; and it's nobody's business if here and there a wink's me t wit h a nod, a likely pocket's picked , a ripe crotch experimentall y squeezed . A small gray mouse, confused, run s halfway u p Tom' s sopping leg . "Sweet! " h e think s (a little velvet sack with claws), then kick s i t of f an d edge s close r t o th e dinin g hall. Waitresses in shapeless paper cap s struggle pas t hi m with platter s o f bashe d neeps , mingle-mangle , an d re d flannel hash . Barmaids ' arm s terminat e i n tankard s o f beer and ale, like enormous glass knuckles, or tall flagon s of boile d wine , fume y wit h gentia n an d juniper . Fres h loaves gro w limp unde r fat , perspirin g arms ; fro m bag -

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ging apro n pocket s come s th e covert , beguilin g clin k o f ash tray s an d bottle s o f sauce . No t bad , no t ba d a t all ! Tom's bell y lift s it s pointe d muzzle , dance s o n it s hin d feet an d moans . Well, our bo y reasons , he that allows A cannot deny B —and s o on . I n othe r words , on e thin g leads to another . To m therefor e fills his lungs, tucks hi s chin, and plunges into the teeming hall. "Sorry, s'cuse me . . . oh pardon! Ughl I mean —v Tom's dogge d a s a dowser' s stick , nosin g hi s wa y among patrons n o mor e mindfu l o f him tha n th e nit s in their ale. He finally squeezes in between a huddle of Chinese cook s sippin g cogna c fro m thimble-size d te a cups , and two wan girl s in flaking black lipstick who tur n thei r backs at Tom's friendly nod. Well! A pig-tailed chef offer s him th e bottle ; flattered, self-conscious , ou r fledgling hero demur s with a flurry of mute, inscrutable gestures . The cook shrugs and Tom reaches for the menu, a single sheet o f greas y foolsca p folde d an d stuc k betwee n a red glass candl e glob e nette d i n whit e plasti c an d a n empt y napkin dispenser . And now, the moment he's been waiting for! Naturally he's short on doug h an d doomed, a s a consequence, t o a sauce r o f dr y groats , a sh y measur e o f cider (i f he' s lucky) . Nevertheles s To m ha s grav e in stincts fo r th e ceremony of dining an d wil l giv e al l possibles a n extravagan t going-ove r befor e placin g hi s final order. H e shrug s of f hi s mac k an d unfold s th e soile d paper.

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Has Tour Bed of Roses Gone to Seed? Is Tour Ivory Tower Besieged? Has the Spice in Tour Life Lost Its Zing? Never Fear , Fret, or Bemoa n Your Fate! The Ruins Will Gladly Engage All Those i n Sincere Pursui t of Prosperity, Prestige, and a Promising Futur e . . . Does This Mean You? No Experienc e Necessary ! Imagine. . . Gainful Employment ! A Glamorous Environment. . . Your Big Chance! Don't Pas s Up Thi s Rare Opportunity ! Join Us and Leave Tour Troubles Behind! The pape r itself , onc e thic k an d creamy , i s no w dog eared an d spotte d wit h sauce , limp an d nearl y tor n acros s the middle fro m repeate d folding . Ah , but th e bold , gold , elegantly bosse d script ! Back-slantin g languidly , glintin g come-hitherly! M m m - m m m - w m w / Ou r hero' s finger s brush th e fac e o f it . Tantalized , provoked , h e lay s on e hand upo n hi s abruptl y gallopin g heart . In th e meantim e a waitres s ha s arrive d and , notin g Tom's preoccupation , take s thi s opportunit y t o sor t furi ously amon g a fistful o f loose yello w receipts—amendin g one wit h th e licke d ti p o f a ravage d re d pencil ; crushin g another t o a grimy yello w nugget—he r darkl y mutterin g

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lips partin g t o revea l tw o row s o f childish , milk-whit e teeth. "Unh huh , that—that was . . . uh oh ! Oh!—what?" Slope-shouldered an d ostensibl y boneless , wit h tiny hands an d a transparently anxiou s brow , she put To m i n mind o f th e littl e gra y mouse , an d seeme d frai l fo r th e job. Her pointed chin shone like the petal of a flower; her wide mouth—a n artless , unrouge d pink—blurre d a t it s edges. He r nose , o n th e othe r hand , wa s th e sharpes t he'd eve r see n ( a littl e chappe d aroun d th e nostrils , a s though recoverin g fro m a cold) . Sh e ha d brigh t black , slightly protruding eyes , unabashed a s buttons, with vigorously arched brow s in marked contras t t o th e clou d o f feckless, fuzzy hair drawn bac k from he r face into a dubious knot at the back of her head. Her bosom, as revealed by th e flagran t plung e o f he r unifor m neckline , stare d one in the face, frankly flat as the bottom o f a pan, chaste as whey. O n th e othe r hand , ther e wa s a delicat e com motion a t th e bas e o f he r throat— a flicker , a seren e churn—as thoug h i t wer e there her hear t lodged , jus t below th e skin , an d no t hidde n behin d th e hard , bon y confines o f the ribs. Tom gaze s politely somewhere t o th e left o f the girl' s sternum, intending , whe n sh e ha s concluded he r paper work, t o inquir e a s to th e strang e an d remarkabl e hand bill he'd discovered in place of a menu. As it happens, the girl sinks slowly—still bitin g her bi g soft lips , totting u p numbers an d exclaimin g unde r he r breath—dow n upo n the benc h besid e him. Tom bend s over to collec t severa l

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dingy receipts she's let slip to the floor; but even as he delivers thes e befor e th e waitress' s distracte d eye , his ow n gaze steal s bac k t o th e luminou s golde n letter s o f th e broadsheet lyin g open o n th e table . The Ruins. . . Some kind of joke? Prosperity! Prestige! "No," Tom reasons , "that's n o joke!" All right then , was it a club of some kind? An agency? The thin g rea d lik e a solicitation, bu t expresse d a disregard fo r experienc e o r credentials . A trainin g program ? An apprenticeship? Ah, the future! Indeed , that certainl y rang a bell! It was no picnic, after all , to have bee n bor n a two-penny shoeshin e wit h lous y knees; Tom ha d ofte n asked himsel f i f there weren't , perhaps , another way. In any case , there wa s only s o muc h can-d o a fellow coul d muster; as things stood it was all he could manage just t o pacify hi s churlish bell y and kee p a thatch ove r his head . The here-and-no w consume d him , n o blam e there ; an d it wa s onl y i n "th e future " tha t h e wa s abl e t o discern , however remote , th e fain t glimme r o f a different, better life. Something, for example , up off his knees. Well then ? Hear t i n hi s throa t an d decidedl y half cocked, our hero slaps his hand fla t agains t the table top , sending a litter o f yellow receipts flutterin g t o th e floor ; the waitres s look s up . Fo r a brie f momen t bot h thei r mouths ar e ope n t o exclaim ; the n eac h indicate s wit h a

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polite nod fo r th e othe r t o g o ahead. Then it' s "no , pardon me^ an d "no , no, you wer e saying?" ; then a volley of "please , I insist"—"n o you"— "no no"—"well" — "well. . ." They break off. Tom' s hands meet precisely in his lap ; th e girl' s mout h nips t o on e sid e o f he r face , a wince of impatience t o the other . "Well I was just going to —v "Iguess you'd like to—* Oh fo r th e lov e of— ! Agai n the y brea k off , eye s nar rowing wit h suspicion . Whe n To m frown s th e waitres s surrenders, throwing up her hands with a contrite yelp. "Oh I am sorry—jeez ! An d no w you'r e mad ? Wel l look, it' s nothing , I won' t sa y anothe r word . Cros s m y heart! You just go ahead! " Tom softens . "Oh , a s for that—mad ! No , no t a t all . Fellow like me? The fact is, well, no, I am a little tired, to be sure , an d o f cours e I migh t orde r a bit e t o eat—oh , nothing elaborate , min d you , a littl e snack , an d onl y when it's convenient for you, naturally . . . " Th e waitress nods briskl y an d pull s a yello w receip t boo k fro m he r apron pocket . "Nfl/^To m nearl y snatches the girl' s pen cil fro m he r hand ; the n sit s back , surprise d an d embar rassed b y his own lathered nerves . He manage s a neutral s'cuse me> then fixes his eyes down the table where a seedy pigeon peck s casually at a plate of battered cod . "The thin g is, really, I'm a little—well, very curious, I must say , about this , this litde circular , or whatever, tha t was left o n th e table. 'Spect you've seen it! Some kind o f

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advertisement? I don't know, exactly. The Ruins, i t says. I was hoping you could, uhmm, fill in the picture?" The waitress , whe n To m peeks , sit s smilin g righ t a t him, blith e an d indulgent , he r blan d brow n hea d o n it s slender stem bobbin g up and down, up an d down, a few ashy tendrils spillin g dreamily fro m th e bu n a t her nape , down th e smoot h ivor y palisad e o f he r neck , t o b e crushed insid e th e sweat-stiffene d colla r o f her uniform . Her dark eyes gleam like chocolate drops in a warm oven. Tom meets her tender gaze, then turn s his head carefull y to on e side , alarme d an d uneasy . H e clear s hi s throat , shifts a little on the bench, looks up with a wary smile and then immediatel y dow n again . N o doub t abou t it , th e girl's beaming; and if there's anything Tom finds dismaying it's the recklessly spilled milk of human kindness. His heart crouches, his own gaze panning left and right, playing for a dodge. The Future! The Future! Of course! Our hero's eye is caught and recalled by the pitched, precipitous storm of burnished upper case letters and bol d exclamatio n point s punctuatin g th e pape r clutched i n his hand. Now headlong (the human angl e of urgency) an d i n hig h relief , th e fearles s golde n fingers charge to the fore, signaling his path: The Future! Tom's stomach rears with excitement, its cold nose shoving hard at hi s timi d heart . Come on, show some up-and-at-em! Well. He dip s hi s head, tug s wit h on e han d a t a n obsti -

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nate cowlick , an d wit h th e othe r pushe s th e fatefu l bil l marginally close r t o th e waitress' s ben t elbow , balance d gravely on its point in a puddle o f spilled sauce. "What I mean is , this, uh, brochure, as it may be—" "You've run a bit off the rails, haven't you?"What\ To m lifts hi s head , startled . Th e waitres s nods , stil l beaming . "Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm . Jus t loo k a t your eyes! " H e looks away in confusion; sh e continues. "You wor k to o hard , I' m sorr y t o say ; and don' t ea t properly, t o boot . No hobbies, a m I right ? Tel l m e th e truth," sh e says, "when was the last time you too k your self down for a nice stroll along the water, say, to feed th e ducks o r gathe r flowers , o r jus t watc h th e laz y rive r g o rolling by ? Well ? That' s th e ticket, yo u know—that' s what the doctor ordered! " She spoke i n a n eager , admonishin g whisper , a s though recalling Tom t o a n intimate secret . H e i s taken aback b y the familiarit y o f her reproach , an d b y her fer vent eyes; and is uncertain of an appropriate response. To begin with , h e can' t remembe r havin g onc e seen a duc k on th e river Q—. "And besides," he thinks, "it's a career I'm after , no t a vacation! Wh o i s thi s so-calle d doctor ? What' s thi s ki d talking about? And . . ." To m pulls up short, despite himself, "—is she correct?" He frowns . It' s tru e h e can' t re member th e las t time h e too k a day off, jus t fo r himself , as she put it. But? Distracted, perplexed, he indicates her arm. "You—there's som e gravy under your elbow! "

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Oh, no," the waitres s lean s towar d hi m wit h a littl e shake of her soft, disheveled head. "You can't tell me anything; it' s a s clea r a s day . Believ e me , I kno w wha t I' m talking about . Whit e cloud s sailin g befor e th e breeze , pink cheek s . . . and porridge! " sh e winks, "—wit h butter!" Tom blushes, tips his head sideways and fusses with his cuffs; inside, his stomach trots in tight, suspenseful circle s round th e fence o f his ribs. "And a s for th e Ruins, " she continues. Tom hold s his breath. The girl sits up very straight, removing her elbow from th e sticky pondlet; she hardly glances at the sheet of paper lying beside them . "Wouldn't car e to kno w what the y eat a t the Ruins , I guess. Hmm?" Tom frowns , agai n impatient ; bu t th e gir l presses he r hands together, leans one chee k against th e upraised fingers an d let s he r eye s fal l close d i n a kin d o f swoon . "Grieves on show-frowl" (Huh? Bu t say, her accent ^convincing. ) "Singing thrushes , that' s what , fattene d o n grapes , then bone d an d stuffe d wit h fwah graw an d truffle s an d served i n a frilly pape r cas e o n choppe d vea l jelly. Jeez , can you imagine? " Sh e open s he r eye s an d mug s a n ex travagant gulp . "O r listen : triple-chocolate torte with brandy-soaked currents, toasted almonds, and loose cream." Surrenderin g t o bliss , he r voic e drop s a n oc tave—"pecan-olive roo-laF —then begin s t o rise . "Littl e black olive s an d roaste d pecan s mince d togethe r wit h

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garlic an d fres h rosemar y an d honey , rolle d u p i n puf f pastry and bake d to savory perfection . . . O r how abou t a nic e filet o f sol e braise d i n Frenc h vermout h wit h lemons an d capers ? Flamin g raspberr y creeps? Poache d celery heart s oh grotten? Lobste r mayonnaise ! An d still , take it from me , that's no t th e half of it!" Easy, easy! Tom glances around, shy of making a scene; but th e girl's zeal goes unnoticed i n the general din. She leans toward To m an d he, helplessly, toward her . "Imagine pin k crysta l chandelier s pirouettin g abov e your hea d lik e ballerina s o n a stage . Tin y winte r rose s smelling o f strawberries an d chille d champagne . A hug e marble portic o gazin g ou t ove r plungin g cliff s t o a ravishing wine-dark sea . . ." A wine-dark sea? The girl sighs. "The waitresses there wear frilly blac k dresses with whit e chiffon sleeves. " Her voice is reverent. " . . . lik e big puff y wings." She thrust s he r ow n arm s out befor e her , burn s and half-healed scratche s lurid in the harsh light, and they both stare down at them, transfixed b y the image of puff y white chiffon . Tom' s eye s lift uncertainl y an d mee t hers , ecstatic. His voice falters . "It's . . . it's a restaurant, then. Is that it?" The waitres s claps her hands togethe r wit h a loud re port, squeeze s them betwee n he r knees an d laugh s mer rily. " A restaurant? O h I shoul d sa y not , th e idea ! O h no, no t jus t a restaurant. It' s fa r mor e wonderfu l tha n any ol d restaurant! Let' s se e . . . what? A restaurant! Look—" Sh e lowers he r voice confidentially . "There' s a life-sized mechanica l elephant . In the ballroom!^

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No! The waitress nods. "S o you see , it's . . . well, very special. Very, very exclusive , you understand . No t jus t any one can go there. No, you must be someone very important, yo u mus t b e a member. An d t o becom e a membe r you mus t b e invited! There ar e rules, yes! it's quit e mar velous, I assure you. And furthermore, " sh e gives Tom's wrist a little , knowin g tap , "it' s no t jus t a place t o eat . They have , oh, cocktail parties, and fabulous , you know , events, and—well, al l that . O h it' s somethin g al l right . You can't begi n to imagine. " The girl' s humble , nail-bitte n hands , n o bigge r tha n a child's , flutte r t o res t i n he r lap ; he r gaz e drift s wit h the serenit y o f a n inviolabl e meringu e hig h abov e th e unsavory mele e i n whic h the y sit . Ah , th e innocence , the idealis m o f youth ! Doe s sh e no t see th e toddle r i n his unblushin g altogether , pissin g dow n th e gappe d hatch o f a pie-eyed , snorin g sailor ? O r th e Pekines e bitch haule d u p o n a nearby tabl e t o b e humpe d b y a n enormous mastiff , thei r tens e fee t scramblin g fo r pur chase amidst piles of greasy plates and puddle s o f spilled beer? Pig s gru b amon g a pil e o f use d nappies ; th e tat too artis t swabs an infected navel ; the ma n i n the wheelchair's go t th e gir l o n hi s lap , on e han d trawlin g th e irresistible channe l o f he r yawnin g thigh s (hi s othe r a screen befor e he r bold , bore d eyes) . Why , it' s enoug h to, well! "Yes," the waitress muses, "it' s really something . . . " One well-chewed fingertip scratche s methodicall y a t a

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spot o f unidentifiabl e matte r stuc k t o th e edg e o f th e table. "So very swank." Tom himsel f i s admittedl y impressed . Champagn e roses? Lobste r mayonnaise ? A n elephant? Mouth-watering, spellbinding—a vision ! But . . . was it real? Coul d i t truly exist ? H e observes , onc e more , a muffle d tremo r just beneath the skin where the girl's collarbones meet in a pale, spreading V like the wing s o f a gull. Her forefin ger rise s an d i s blandl y receive d b y tw o row s o f small , even teet h whic h promptl y seiz e an d g o t o wor k o n th e already savaged nail. Does Tom consider her a reliable source of information? Our hero , a s i t happens , believe s no t onl y i n peopl e but i n th e unforeseeabl e bump s an d grind s o f chanc e that thro w people , places , an d event s togethe r i n sur prising an d occasionall y fortuitou s combinations . Fo r this reason , an d n o other , h e leans—eve r a gentle man!—leans close r still . Gravel y h e remove s th e finger from he r pink , parte d lips . H e speak s wit h care , swal lowing dow n har d agains t hi s risin g urgency . Hi s stom ach whine s an d h e place s th e flat o f hi s han d agains t it, pressin g firmly. "And s o i t seems—accordin g t o thi s flyer—it seem s one migh t find employmen t wit h this , um , establish ment, wouldn't yo u say? Join us, it says, and if. . ." Tom pauses, his mind awhirl . "Uh, what's your name?" Their eye s meet , Tom' s slightl y puckered , straining ; the girl' s wid e wit h amiabl e surprise . She' d starte d t o gather u p th e littl e slip s o f yellow pape r bu t no w stops ,

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impulsively coverin g Tom' s hand , whic h ha s bee n lying , trembling, upon the impassive broadsheet, with her own. "I'm Ada! " Tom nods unheeding. "Uh-huh , well then, uh, Abby? Tell me, do you, uh, do you believ e it's true?" They stare at on e another , hi s thoughts beginnin g t o spi n with th e irresistible vertig o o f persona l destiny ; sh e sympathetic , oblivious, benign . Heavens! There i s a shrill curse ( a chorus of whoops), and Ad a jumps , tearin g he r gaz e fro m Tom' s opaqu e trance to glance round th e riotous hall. "True?" sh e echoe s distractedly . "True ? Why , o f course it' s true , um—u h . . . " Sh e clear s he r throat , a question mark . Blinking, our hero bows . "I'm Tom. " "Tom," sh e repeats , acknowledgin g th e introductio n with a warm, brief smile, "it's Ada"; the n redirects her attention t o th e surroundin g chaos . Goodness , sh e reall y should b e gettin g bac k t o work ! Behin d he r th e girl s in black lipstic k hav e thei r tongue s dow n on e another' s throats. "But, true? O f course, why wouldn't i t be true? Natu rally it' s n o piec e o f cake . Yowl" ( A spectacula r crash. ) "Place lik e that ! They' d wan t a n enormous , um , staff , don't you think? Cooks and dishwashers and janitors and florists and— hey you guysl Maybe plumbers ? And , well , wine steward s an d things . Etcetera . Onl y imagine! Well, order mus t b e kept, mustn't it ? Arrangements an d orde r and—hey, look out! That's n o joke!"

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The fiercest racket seems to be coming from a knot o f broad-backed me n severa l aisle s away. Ada climb s up o n the bench, craning her neck to see what could account for the hullabaloo . "What on earth?v Sh e stop s abruptl y an d look s dow n at To m wit h a little gasp . The n bac k t o th e men . The n Tom, again . Confused . "Jeez , what ar e you saying ? I s it, are yo u thinkin g o f givin g the m a try ? Applyin g a t th e Ruins?" Is the gir l astonished, impresse d (o r a little offended , perhaps!) b y th e prospec t o f Tom engage d a t th e fabu lous Ruins ? He r blac k goslin g eye s seem t o bulge—wit h pleasure? Alarm ? To m instand y regret s hi s probabl e in discretion an d back-pedals hastily, wondering if he might not be exceeding himself, after all. How could one expect the Ruin s t o b e interested i n someon e lik e himself? An d yet i t say s right here : No Experience Necessary. Th e onl y qualification seem s to be . . . sincerity? In Sincere Pursuit. Well? Isn' t tha t jus t abou t hittin g th e ben t nai l o n th e rusty head as regards our Tom? On the other hand, could it really be so simple a s that? "We-ell, " he begin s doubt fully. The gir l starts , covering he r mout h wit h on e grubb y hand. "Oh ! What i n th e worl d a m I thinking , goin g o n and on like this and here you sit, practically starving, and dripping we t an d tire d besides , poor lamb ! I'l l jus t ru n and ge t you something right away . First things first, I always say!" She climbs down fro m th e bench , clutching a Chinaman's head. "Bu t what will it be? What would yo u

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like, hmmm? Let' s see now, there's a pretty fair fribble — or mayb e th e goose d fool ? Say ! How about a big oV sausage?" Oops! He r las t suggestion ring s ou t wit h unexpecte d volume, th e roo m havin g gon e suddenly , inexplicabl y quiet a moment before , an d the y bot h loo k up , startle d and wondering. Dog s an d kid s are collared an d hollere d at to sit, or are kicked yelping beneath tables and benches. Women win k an d pro d thei r hair . Me n pu t ou t thei r ci gars i n saucer s o f ketchu p an d silend y hois t empt y tankards t o signa l fo r mor e beer . Everyon e turn s i n hi s seat t o fac e th e fa r en d o f th e hall , hardl y visibl e fro m where Tom an d Ada sit. Say, what's happening? Ada? Look out! Th e hodgepodg e o f fugitiv e receipt s ex plodes onc e mor e a s th e waitres s leap s t o he r feet ; ou r hero, recalled fro m hi s woozy conjuring, jumps. Ada! "Dang!" Divin g fo r th e waywar d yello w papers , Ada responds t o Tom' s unspoke n quer y i n a breathless, bro ken croak, her upper body more or less beneath the table. "I'm—I . . . it's the , you know , the show! Egh! The Talent, you know ? La Stupenda! —whoops! Yo u don' t sup pose they come fo r th e food, h a ha! Oh, excuse me! No, no, it's—it's . . . d o you know her?" A small hand shoot s up fro m belo w th e table , fingertips purse d the n flun g open i n a gesture o f acclaim . "Stupenda! An d listen , it' s no secre t she's somebody a t th e Ruins. " Ada's face , pin k and laughing, emerges at last from beneat h the table. Her hair, no w completel y undone , make s a large frizz y hal o around he r head . Sh e clamber s bac k ove r th e bench ,

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stuffing th e bundl e o f capture d receipt s dee p insid e he r apron pocket . "Tell you what! Don't eve n bothe r t o decide . I'll jus t trot t o th e kitche n an d se e wha t look s yummy , shal l I ? And in the meantime you sit back and enjoy! Believ e me, you've never seen anything the like of our L'Ultima . . . " Ada turn s an d i s nearly dow n th e aisl e befor e To m ca n utter a word, the n spin s roun d again . "Di d I sa y L'Ul tima?" She claps a hand t o her brow and rolls her eyes— "La Stupenda!" —waves a t To m an d i s sucke d int o th e crowd for good . Well, whatever! The fac t i s Tom hardl y hears , hardl y see s her go , hi s blank, besotte d eye s havin g alread y sneake d bac k (lik e ditched kittens ; like mercur y t o it' s source ) t o th e gol d embossed circula r lyin g o n th e table . The Ruins, The Ruins. Hi s heart squirm s like a worm o n a hook. Join Us and Leave Tour Troubles Behind! Sounds great. But wait a minute! DoesTom hav e troubles? He considers. Surely there was no denying his knees were gettin g worse . Da y afte r day , fo r twelv e o r mor e hours at a stretch, Tom squats at his place against a damp, dirty wal l (hi s officia l an d legall y reserve d place , on e might add , for which he was required t o pay, at brisk intervals, exorbitant property , sales , business, and self-em ployment taxes) . Th e las t i n hi s famil y o f generation s born to the trade, our Tom was subject, alas , to both occupational an d stricti y persona l despair . Afte r all , it' s a

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cutthroat, competitiv e market ! Th e bloc k crawle d wit h shoe shines, many of whom, Tom privately deplored, had no business in the business. No technique, no eye for detail! And yet, through unscrupulou s marketing practices, they were slowly and surely eating away at Tom's already negligible livelihood . So Tom ha d compose d a medley o f catchy phrases t o attract th e attentio n o f passer s by (hi s favorite : I Coul d Take a Shin e t o You!) . Busines s slumped . Wha t wer e fancy slogan s compare d t o priz e drawing s an d glas s collectibles? Tom shoo k his head. By day's end he was lucky to hea r tw o coin s clin k togethe r i n hi s pocket , an d stumped hom e o n knee s gripin g o f poison dagger s an d ground glass . Oh yes , our her o ha d hi s problem s al l right ; still , h e was the las t person t o malinger . Thi s was his world? Hi s slice of the pie? So be it. Tom ha d not made his bed, bu t would li e down an d make the bes t of it anyway. A stoic! And ye t ther e wa s a par t o f hi m tha t yearned—tha t had, i n fact , bee n yearnin g fo r som e tim e now—fo r something nobler, something that might really challenge the untappe d resource s h e suspecte d i n himself . Some thing, tha t i s t o say , upo n whic h t o tes t an d prov e hi s spirit. Modest by nature, Tom nevertheless believed himself capable o f more tha n ha d a s yet bee n hi s glamorles s lot. He kne w well enough h e could out-shin e an y jockey on th e wall ; and yet , h e fussed , surel y ther e wer e other , more inspire d mean s b y whic h t o mak e one' s mark ? Beauty and truth i n other forms? Enlightenmen t bearin g

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upon highe r relations ? Somethin g (w e ar e oblige d t o labor the point) up off his knees—which will not, he fears, withstand th e punishin g demand s o f hi s presen t caree r much longer . To cut to the chase, the spice in Tom's life had lost its zing. Ducks! Tom snorts . Doctors? What I need are first principles, a new beginning. My Big Chancel

3— At the othe r en d o f the hal l something, indeed, was taking place. There was still no sig n of Ada, but th e Groan ing Board was, if possible, even more thronge d tha n be fore. Gang 'way! Coming through! Waitresses curse d an d exclaime d a t th e crush ; father s swung overwrought tot s to their shoulders; women sub dued pig s an d dog s beneat h thei r boote d feet , chicken s between thei r knees . Tom, eye s pricking fro m th e drift ing cloud s o f tobacco, kerosene an d kitche n smok e tha t mingled an d obscure d th e ai r (an d fro m hi s own weari ness and excitement) , knelt upo n hi s bench t o pee r ove r the countless heads and backs that crowded the space between wher e h e wa s seate d an d wha t appeare d t o b e a small platfor m o r stag e se t u p o n th e othe r sid e o f th e room. Just the n th e constellatio n o f overhead bulb s dim s t o a murky orang e nebula . Next : th e sulle n metalli c his s of

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an invisible snare, the spastic crash of tin cymbals. And finally everyone sit s up straight an d crane s his neck to be hold the vision slowly materializing against the far, opposite wall. And lot The stage itself has disappeared! Obscured by a vaporous drift of swelling, upwelling, luminous pink clouds that lurch in the air like sea whuffle, and appear to boil, roiling up from either side of the platform to meet, overhead, in a throbbing pink arch, the whole spectacle crowned to marvelous effect by a great diadem of inexhaustible white lights that spiral and churn, exerting a steady and ineluctable upward traction as they rise, finally vanishing into the darkness like sparks from afire — up, up, up . . . In the midst of this flushed, vertiginous scene, floats a stocky figure swathe d entirel y i n blue . L a Stupenda ? Tom, squinting from acros s the room, has an impressio n of high , imposin g hair ; o f pale , muscula r arm s openin g and closing with the languid precision of butterfly wings; and of two neatly polished blue shoes in which supple little feet kic k coyly, desultorily a t the air, as though th e ascending diva in fact reclined upon th e fluffed pillow s of a providential updraf t an d nee d onl y g o throug h th e mo tions of staying aloft. Indee d sh e rose, or seemed t o rise, by small , swaying , efforties s degrees ; highe r an d highe r through th e shudderin g pin k swoo n o f softl y partin g clouds and seething, inextinguishable stars . "Can you bea t that! " marvels Tom, "And sh e sings?" But whil e th e snar e dru m continue d it s toneles s rattle ,

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punctuated b y a n irregula r flourish o f cymbals , Tom — surrounded b y sighs, whispers, and muffle d crie s o f de light—was unabl e t o mak e ou t th e tune . Crudel y ampli fied, La Stupenda's voice distinguished itself in Tom's ear as a corrosive fizz of bright sputtering pops, tarnished incidentals, and a vicious lisp. One was persuaded nonethe less, and eve n a t tha t distance , b y the divin e composur e of he r languorou s blu e eyes . Th e movement s o f he r shapely hea d an d well-modele d arm s were, if somewha t wooden, appealin g i n thei r simplicit y an d grace . He r leisurely kicking feet lef t a spreading wake of ruffled, in candescent light . Tom rubbe d hi s eyes . Was it enchantmen t o r fatigu e that cas t suc h a beguilin g aur a roun d tha t unlabore d tableau, lendin g it s form s an d color s a n enthrallin g i f somewhat inexplicable vibration an d buoyancy ? I t was as though on e gaze d throug h th e len s o f a n extraordinar y kaleidoscope, roun d whos e peripher y th e color s reele d and eddied and fumed, yet never once disturbed the pure and imperturbable progres s of the central figure. Fantastic! Tom blinked several times in quick succession and felt his knees soften, hi s belly curl at last into a tired, submissive ball. Strange, he'd neve r felt s o weak, virtually prostrate. On the other hand, a positive mental attitude mad e up fo r a lot: hi s fingertips reste d shyl y upo n th e fatefu l handbill, hi s invitation—on e migh t sa y summons —to a future towar d which he found himself ever more inclined. And was there, after all, any reason to resist?

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Eyes fixed somewhat dully upon th e distant blu e diva, Tom drifted, surrenderin g to the fabulously whorled im ages impressed o n hi m b y the exultant waitress. What were capers, anyway? For starters , Tom picture s tiny, sequin-bright fish, leaping gaily in a saucer of sunny lemon juice . H e imagine s gazin g int o th e wise , sad eye s of th e elephan t i n it s sumptuou s ballroom . Glamorou s women i n straples s gown s o f watere d silk , cris p taffeta , and unspeakabl e blac k velve t . . . the flawless chime o f crystal stemwar e (ting-a-ling!) agains t th e drawn-ou t hiissss o f sweetbread s fryin g i n clarifie d butte r . . . th e dizzying scen t o f monstrous , parrot-beake d orchids , of long-waiste d tulips , blu e heraldi c iris , an d thick stemmed, fleshy gardenias. He sees mink stoles slithering to a cloakroo m floor, thei r glas s eye s gleamin g i n th e dark; cocktail s abo b wit h littl e whit e onion s an d mar aschino cherries and fat greas y olives, three t o a swizzle. And wine-dark seas? You bet! But then again, what were sweetbreads? What was chiffon? And di d th e me n wea r i t a s well? And woul d Tom , himself, feel comfortable i n white puffy sleeves ? Well? But after all , maybe he should g o home an d sleep on it . Sure, sure, but first look, just look! At the other end of the hall, over the heads, beyond the wildest dreams of this rough, incorrigible mob, whirls a ravishing pink tornado —sublime! And La Stupenda its blue, unblinking eye . . . Just look!

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Tom shake s himself , goo d lad , an d pinche s hi s arm , but nevertheless succumbs (that's it) t o the mesmerizin g to-and-fro, to-and-fro, of the airborne diva. He blinks the sting fro m hi s eyes ; breathes th e black , hot , murmurin g air of the crowded room; yawns fiercely—once, an d the n again—and then, with a wordless quake of revelation an d alarm (go on!) feel s hi s timi d hear t sli p it s moorings . And? And . . . Ahoy, then! Cast all lines! Square the yards! He's off ! Like a little boat, our hero—trembling at the helm, his hunger t o hee l wit h alert , vigilan t eyes—weigh s ancho r and sets his sails for the blue, uncharted waters of the Future! ••

•

Tom feel s . . . something : a fres h an d unaccountabl e breeze (that's right!) lifts the hair from hi s forehead. Does he snort? He snorts like a startled colt at the pungent, unfamiliar draught s o f salt an d tar . Hi s fair , fainti y freckle d skin redden s fro m th e pric k o f ho t su n an d col d spray . Nice? Indeed, it is pleasant. He lets one hand trail among the blue-green , crestin g littl e waves , station s th e othe r with bashfu l authorit y upon th e straining tiller, but lean s forward t o whispe r reassuringl y int o hi s companion' s anxious, swiveling ear. Easy boy, easy. Nose to the wind, that's it, and keep your eye on the horizon. It's a world of opportunity out there! Are

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you seeing it, old chum ? Are you sniffing it out, do you hear it calling? Listen! A silver bell struck with perfect, regular restraint. . . the clean chime of knife meeting fork . . . wet lips parting with a careless smack . . . and somewhere secret the gurgle and sigh of aroused, ecstatic juices. That's right I And what would you say to a nicely grilled lamb chop? So tender you might not bother to chew, it melts on your tongue like a pat of sweet butter, a perfect swoon . . . Ah! Tom leans back, eyes fluttering naivel y before th e blue, importunat e sky , th e glitterin g waves . H e let s hi s head res t agains t th e gunwale ; hi s ja w slides . A littl e breather, that' s all ! Th e su n feel s fine an d warm , lik e nothing he' s ever known. Why resist? And so , a s i t happens , ou r her o sprawls , witles s an d eager a s the littl e boa t rock s to and fro, to and fro; whil e at the same time a wild, ingratiating song bestows itself in brazen whispers and promises unfurled lik e silk ribbons in the breeze . Shameless , how i t tickles , teases, and finger s the string s of his heart. Plays with abandon upon his bare chest and belly, the moist drum of his inner ear, his naked toes, so that. . . Bare chest and belly? Wait a minute! —so that, eye s struggling t o ope n a t last, oh la ! Tom is astonishe d t o find himsel f nake d a s a baby , hi s scan dalously exposed member standing up straight and proud as a chubby pink mast! Good heavens ! Astounded, Tom covers his lap with both hands, twisting o n hi s benc h fro m on e sid e t o th e othe r i n violen t

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mortification (i n the process driving a large splinter dee p into hi s bar e righ t buttock) . But—than k goodness!—i n every direction, as far as the eye can see, there is only the glittering crest and break of glassy, indifferent waves . Not a smir k fro m a singl e porpoise , n o insect' s insinuatin g hum, nor even a rude gull's harsh, accusing cry. His companion whine s edgily , nudgin g a speculativ e nos e be tween Tom' s tightly squeeze d legs , but th e horrifie d la d slaps hi m away , fo r onc e unobliging . Wher e ar e hi s clothes! What i s the meanin g o f this! Where is he? Wh y will his—you know! —not li e down properly ? All right ! Don' t ge t excited ! There' s n o on e about . Only th e bland , blue , painted-ou t sky ; th e anonymou s kiss-kiss of breeze s a s the y com e an d go ; th e silken , ar rhythmic slap of blind waves against the sides of the boat ; and the sidelong glare of his offended mascot . Tom stiffen s uneasily , bu t doe s no t pul l away , a s th e conciliatory ai r wrap s a n ar m aroun d hi s red , stingin g neck, presses its mouth against his ear, and . . . again Tom does no t hea r s o muc h a s feel a low-pitched , beguilin g song enter him with the slow, clinging, whorled progres s of pink smoke; the smoldering edge of some peremptor y sweetness leaving a black, acrid residue all over the inside of his head. I t was unfamiliar, foul , irresistible. Would h e stop i t i f h e could ? To m crosse s hi s legs , clenches hi s fists—but give s in nonetheless ; furrows hi s brow agains t the brash sky, but (what ! was he made of steel?) falls back against th e tiller al l th e same , permittin g hi s fearles s member, hi s one-eyed sailor , to pop u p onc e more , stal-

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wart in the breeze. The little boat rocks to and fro, to and fro, an d a brusque muzzle pries open the unwilling fist of his right hand , layin g out th e squeamis h pal m wit h lon g wet strokes of its inexorable tongue. Tom whimpers as his imagination, i n previou s time s a humble , predictabl y inert faculty, now wells up, rearing in awkward, powerfu l jerks o f ambitio n an d desire , growin g tau t (indeed , atremble!) with on e buxo m imag e afte r another . The weight, my god,and the blind swing of an elephant's rampant trunk —and the tantalizing lip of a porcelain platter, bedewed with drops of sauce supreme. The tremor and the hasty drip of burning twelve-inch tapers; illumination of a cleft yam, oozing butter; a rum-soaked savarin, split through the middle and fattened with cream and crushed macaroons; the excruciating discharge of a ripe fig between one's tongue and the roof of one's mouth. Sticky pistils, bulbous yellow stamens; and the surrender, petal by petal, of a pale blossom's chaste defenses. . . Tom feels the flutter of white chiffon agains t his vaulting ribs , a slim finger o f swea t descen d hi s belly , down , down . . . As the temperature rises, flames tickling the tiny, swollen veins, steam rising from a full, from an ov erspilling plate\ His fingers splay, distended b y the vehement lick, lick, lick of th e lon g tongu e acros s hi s reddenin g palm ; th e mouth agains t hi s ea r breathe s in , breathe s out , i n hot , sibilant, accelerating commands. He see s himself— Ta-dal Impeccably dressed in stiff black and soft, shimmering white, he parts a sea of ferocious platinum coifs and

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proceeds to the center of the room, carrying aloft (as though it were nothing at all, a mere feather!) a massive silver tray from which arises, trembling, a tapering twelve-layer confection of marzipan, meringue, and sticky caramel syrup. Bravo! Smiles of approval and tasteful linen blots to wellgreased, exquisitely rouged lips, while hands, glittering with sapphires, emeralds and diamonds, come together in a round of well-deserved applause. A real spectacle! He sees himself dining on late, elegant suppers of partridge wings and truffled eggs and an assortment of imported, liquorfilled chocolates. A tall flute of blushing champagne stands beside his plate; a circle of attentive, admiring underlings nods eagerly as he assigns tasks; doting chefs ply him with tender little morsels reserved especially for him. He sees himself sleeping dreamlessly between pressed linen sheets, waking fresh and looking like a million, grateful for another opportunity to make his mark (a flawless, incontestable mark!) in his chosen field. Self-respecting! Well fed! One hell of a fine fellow — "Aaegck!" There i s a squeal, a snarl, a prodigious crash , and ou r enchanted hero' s shi p o f dreams capsize s without warn ing. Ta-da! It' s th e en d o f th e sho w an d th e Chines e cooks have shot to their feet fo r a big round o f applause. Up goes their end of the bench ; down without ceremon y goes ou r bewildere d Tom . Hi s eye s fly open an d whit e chiffon, partridg e wing s an d pink champagn e dissolve —

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poof.—in the unspeakabl e smu t an d smok e an d sudde n uproar o f the Groanin g Board . But! But nothing! Bum smarting ; an abandone d dumplin g squashed beneat h th e pal m o f on e hand—there' s a kick and a curs e a s someon e stumble s ove r Tom' s out stretched legs. He scoots under the table to save his knees and collec t hi s wits while thos e aroun d hi m stam p thei r boots and pound thei r empty steins in speechless admiration. Wha t a finale! As the light s com e u p the y tur n t o one another , exclaiming loudly . "Oooh, th e voice of an angel, that one. " "She's a dirty girl, a real bawd, but what legs!" "I believ e she' s tire d tonight , he r voic e cracke d des perately on severa l high notes. " "Doesn't sh e danc e well ? I wa s t o hav e danced , yo u know. Well I was!" "Flawless technique, classic repertory! " "Saving All My Kisses for My One-Eyed Sailor. When's the last time you heard that! " "There i s Nature. Ther e i s Art. An d ther e i s La Stu penda!" "The stick y little bun. The dirty , delicious girl!" "Ma? How doe s she fly like that? M*/—ca n I fly?" Time to go. Mothers take up hats and sleeping babies, exchanging perfunctor y goodnight s i n fierce, forlor n voices. Me n stan d abou t restlessly , jinglin g th e loos e

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change i n thei r pockets , smackin g thei r lip s an d eyein g the waitresses' behind s a s the girl s bend quickl y and un easily to their tasks, sensing an incalculable peril left in the wake o f L a Stupenda' s performance . Th e ma n i n hi s wheelchair ha s falle n asleep , pitche d forwar d acros s th e legs o f th e maide n stil l o n hi s lap, her finger s no w ten derly strokin g th e dirt y gra y number s inscribe d a t th e nape o f hi s neck . Th e fa t woma n stare s thoughtfull y a t her platte r o f uneaten crusts . A kitten mews , unheeded , from insid e a forgotte n pape r carton . Someon e holler s for a whore. Tom lingers more or less beneath the table. He'd bee n moved (let' s face it, bowled over) b y La Stupenda's stella r performance. Sure, sure, maybe he'd been too far away to see or hear much . Bu t say , he'd see n plenty! Personality , poise, allure? L a Stupenda ha d i t all . A real professional , an artist! Tom marvels at the stroke of luck that brough t him to this place, this very night! If only he could peer direcdy—through thicket s o f bewitching , black-lacquere d lashes, to b e sure!—int o thos e twinne d sapphires , thos e prize dahlias, those blue-blue eyes. Imagine what wisdom (and what tip s for success! ) one migh t discer n there . N o wonder children flung roses at her feet, young women aspired t o he r confidenc e an d chic , me n puffe d an d preened. Tom's ow n ches t ache d wit h longing ; hi s knee s began to prick. Oh, that he could eve r hope for tha t sor t of reputatio n an d esteem ! Al l right , h e wa s a s goo d a shoeshine a s he knew how to be; he could not faul t him -

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self there. Bu t where would tha t ge t him? No , no, when all wa s sai d an d done , h e simpl y had t o tr y somethin g new; pu t hi s lowborn , insignifican t pas t behin d him — good-bye an d goo d riddance—an d ste p boldl y int o th e future. Was he desperate ? Determined! And here, still clutched in his sticky right hand, was the very ticket t o a n incomparable, practicall y unimaginable destination : Th e Ruins ! I n th e blacknes s beneath th e table , Tom' s sensitiv e fingertip s trac e th e lines of embossed script . Gainful Employment. A Glamorous Environment. Wha t di d he have to lose? Surely this might very well be his "Big Chance" ! OK! It was settled. Galvanized b y hi s decision , To m begin s t o craw l o n hands an d tende r knee s beneat h th e row s o f tables , th e aisles bein g a s yet to o thronge d t o admi t him . "I'l l g o right home, " he promises himself, happily sketching ou t a plan of action. "I'll ge t a good night' s sleep , and in the morning spruce myself up—a bite to eat—and then, well, it's of f t o mak e m y fortune ! An d n o funn y business ! At the Ruin s I'll simpl y speak my piece. Not to o proud, bu t not to o humble, either. O h they'l l see right awa y I'm o n the up-and-up—a n hones t ki d wit h a n hones t dream , nothing th e matte r wit h that ! An d then , well , surel y they'll have something for me, p'raps right away. A 'starting position', a s they say, something—" Out o f th e clamo r abov e hi s head , Tom' s ea r pick s up a vaguely familia r voice , candid , conciliatory , frankl y

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imploring. Ada ? Sh e seem s t o b e explainin g somethin g to someon e wh o isn't , apparently , listening . To m pauses. "No!—that is , pleas e don't . Listen , don' t b e of fended, nothin g personal ! It' s jus t that— ungh. O h don't! I f you' d onl y tr y t o se e my position! Tha t is , o f course, my job is to serve, but—mmnph—I be g you! It' s really a question of , oh , propriet y and , jeez! Mutual re spect!" Tom drop s hi s chee k t o th e floo r an d peek s out , bu t can se e n o furthe r tha n a pai r o f chea p whit e paten t leather ankle boots, soles separating, with broken zipper s up th e instep ; an d righ t behind—blun t brow n toe s t o scuffed whit e heels—two huge, hobnailed boots, stolid as tree trunks . The littl e white fee t balanc e weakly on thei r toes, wobbling, neither standin g nor rising . They dangl e rather apart , heels swinging to the outside, and a regular little jolt seems to go right through them, lifting the m altogether of f their toe s to flutte r fo r a moment i n the air . Tom is immediately reminded o f La Stupenda's fabulou s ascent, of her elegandy slippered feet and the discreet, exquisitely langui d litd e kick , kick , kick , a s sh e rose , wit h consummate sang-froid^ above th e maelstro m o f roilin g pink clouds. "Unhh. . . unhh!" Tom oughtn' t t o interrup t Ad a a t he r work , bu t h e does wish to say good-bye (an d thanks a million!) for he r inside dope o n th e Ruins .

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"Excuse me! Um . . . Ada?" The two smaller feet con tinue t o lif t an d drop , lif t an d drop , with perhap s mor e impetus than before . "Is that , oh! Tom?" Ada' s disembodie d voic e jump s queerly. "To m (really, you mustn't!) wher e (ungh) ar e you?" Convulsed wit h increasin g urgency , th e whit e boot s dangle entirel y i n the ai r now. Can Ada be rehearsing a n act o f her own ? To m shake s hi s head . N o one , an d cer tainly not littl e Ada in he r peeling, patent leathe r boots , could matc h th e splendo r an d shee r ingenuit y o f a professional like La Stupenda. An artist, a poet o f Life! Tom wonders if, as Ada implied, La Stupenda actually does frequent the Ruins? The possibility both disturbs and excites him. To m i s anxiou s t o leav e no w (an d fo r mornin g t o come speedio!) that he might embark upon his new career with n o furthe r delay . Afte r all , whe n opportunit y knocks! "Say, Ada? Yes, it's me, Tom, and I only wanted to tell you—" "Tom! I need (no, don't!) com e up! " "Huh? Well yes, I kno w you're prett y bus y now Ada, but I just wanted t o say good-bye an d to—" Ada's voice break s in again an d he r litde fee t scrabbl e at the ai r for purchase a s momentum continue s t o build . "Tom! (ungh, ungh!) O h jeez, I'm a litde—" He got the picture! Things were clearly hectic (and organization, To m chuckled , no t on e o f th e girl' s stron g

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points). T o mak e matter s worse , th e custome r i n hob nailed boots , plante d a t he r heels , begin s t o soun d of f rather obviousl y i n short , excite d huff s o f impatience . What the heck! Tom thinks . Surel y she' s doin g th e bes t she can! Feeling sorr y fo r hi s overburdened friend , To m determines t o b e brief. "Listen, Ada ! You'v e bee n awfull y kind , s o I jus t wanted you to know, well, I have decided to follow up on that ad . You know, the Ruins ! And sinc e it was you wh o sort of helped me think it through, I thought, well, like I said, I just wanted yo u to know, and to thank you—and , well, and say g'night?" Tom cocks his head, waiting for a reply What, actually, is going on up there? H e pokes uncertainly at one twitching white toe. Just then Ada's voice flutters dow n t o him, a little weary? "That's wonderful , Tom , I' m sur e you'l l b e a grea t success. Oh! An d maybe— whoah, oh-oh!" Here Ada' s voice breaks down completely; Tom strains to understand her words. " . . . mayb e we'll se e each other agai n some time." Right-o! To m nods , turn s t o continu e hi s rout e be neath th e tables ; then stops , turns back , an d reache s u p to place his last few coin s ( a tip, howsoever meager! ) o n top of the stool beside Ada's wafting knees. He shakes his head fondly ; sh e wa s n o Stupenda, s o pure , an d lighte r than air ! Bu t sh e wa s good-nature d an d obligin g an d Tom wishe d he r well. Besides , tomorrow h e would em bark on a promising ne w future, risin g out o f a luckless, lackluster pas t towar d a horizo n flus h wit h possibility .

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"The emptie r m y pockets," he justifies hi s extravagance , "the highe r I'l l soar. " And so, his heart made light b y the leaven of undivinable doom , ou r buddin g youn g hopefu l proceeds—o n hands, on querulou s knees—dow n alon g the dirt y aisles, the loose and illimitable squalo r of the Groanin g Board .

CHAPTER TW O

The Consummate Martooni

4— lorn crosse s hi s legs with gloom y discretion , eye s fixed upon a mute star of light that—poised upo n the bobbin g black toe of one flawlesslypolished shoe—struggles like a bird to keep its perch. Recalling th e step s tha t brough t him , howsoeve r un certainly, not just to the Ruins but indeed to the covete d post o f maitre d'hotel, To m marvels , o f course , a t hi s lucky stars (and two glorious weeks were only the begin ning). Still , h e feel s something , well , unreliabl e i n th e ground beneat h his feet. He is oftentimes confused , eve n dismayed, an d no t naturall y encourage d b y a n uneas y sense o f slidin g ever-so-graduall y backward s dow n a glassy yet nearly imperceptible slope. Egh! No wonder he clings to tha t singular sta r of light, hovering bravel y o'e r the toe of his nervously rising and falling foot! And pon ders, furthermor e (whil e Jone s scream s int o th e tele 46

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phone receiver ) wha t keep s him , Tom , fro m expressin g the inner freedom he feels? ••

•

Hmmy welly surely it all started ehirpily enough . . . Pshaw! I n fac t daw n squatte d ove r th e cit y (tha t proverbial "nex t morning") lik e a disdainful ca t doing its business. Al l strategi c imperative s aside , ou r her o ha d risen early, all right, his well-intended repose worried to a threadbare stupo r b y the tireless fingers o f his own anticipation an d dread . Welly if a pimple, say, shouWve eome up on my nose! Or some other horror make me out a clown! Detailsy' know, ifs no joke! Up, h e puttere d earnesdy— a blith e whistle , i f yo u please; too k a lim p whis k t o hi s mud-stiffene d trouser s and wriggle d hi s finger s gamel y throug h th e rudd y an d incorrigible lock s tha t sprun g fro m hi s hea d lik e ruste d corkscrews. H e though t o f th e past y selle r aroun d th e corner ("Sav'rie s an d sweets ! Ve g fo r them' t don't!") ; and then , wistfully , o f th e tw o o r thre e coin s he' d lef t for hi s waitres s th e nigh t before . "Well, " sai d he , the n boiled som e wate r i n a dente d ti n an d would si p i t gratefully al l th e same—whe n a co w kicke d impa tiently a t th e rottin g plywoo d wal l o f a n adjacen t shed. To m jumpe d an d pulle d o n hi s mac k wit h a dainty wriggl e a t th e damp . "H a ha! " h e san g ou t for lornly. "Neve r fear , neve r fear . I' m off , see ! Read y ' n rarin' . . . "

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And i n fact , withou t a backwards glance—th e future , after all , la y before , no t behin d him—To m thre w ope n the door and plunged dutifull y int o the noxious, mousegray drizzle of a questionably new dawn. There's nothing says I, can keep a feller under If up is where he's meant to be! ••

•

Midday find s ou r bo y jacke d dow n o n throbbin g haunches under the battered metal awning of a burnt ou t newsstand: quite , quit e lost . Seamles s cloud s wee p a steady, arguabl y septi c dolor ; an d ther e isn' t a bi t mor e light a t noon, To m reckons , than there' d bee n a t dawn , only a thic k glaz e tha t magnifie s th e we t street s lik e boiled jelly . Diffidenc e an d dashe d hope s encumbe r th e bright, laborin g wing s o f ou r hero' s improvidentl y launched dreams . Alas, he doesn't blin k an eye (or kno w a snak e unti l it' s bi t him ) whe n a lon g yellowis h ra t streaks across the toes of his shoes, dragging a swatch o f mackerel skin still gleaming with anchovy paste and sauce homard. Finally— Like magic, a lucky break! Not five feet away , curdling in sodden strip s against a creosotey pole, the poster's golden script is unmistakable, identical t o tha t gracin g th e gravy-staine d handbil l tucked insid e hi s shirt ; an d i n fac t Tom' s bell y wriggle s with joyful recognitio n befor e hi s scrupling eyes are convinced b y that which they behold .

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But I knew. Of course I knew! In an y case it is an aroma —unspeakably lush , labore d to th e poin t o f virtual deliquescence , decidedl y fetishis tic—that really settles the matter and persuades Tom tha t he has, indeed, arrived . Struggling t o hi s feet , To m take s th e intersectio n blindly—captivated b y the singularl y outrageous smell — to a n unmarke d warehous e o n th e opposit e corner . Painted, none to o recentiy , a flat, gelatinat e brown , with narrow, soaring , multipane d window s tha t begi n severa l feet abov e Tom' s hea d an d surroun d th e buildin g lik e a high , old-fashione d collar . Flatl y abuttin g th e side walk i s a broad, impassiv e meta l door , lavishe d wit h th e same liveris h ename l a s th e adjacen t walls ; an d besid e that, bloomin g fro m a bar e wire , a cracke d plasti c but ton. Hmm, but just suppose I nip around back? Down a dumpster-lined alle y to tw o enormou s load ing docks , thei r stee l door s shuttere d dow n t o a scan t inch shy of the snubbed concrete lip. The lane here is perilous with a rancid hash of vegetable peelings, boiled yellow bone s an d broke n glass . To m take s fou r concret e steps t o hi s right , goe s dow n o n on e knee , an d bends , with n o morta l shame , t o sp y beneat h th e shor t rubbe r skirt of the first hangin g door . / say I That's not— Not a prett y picture , i s it ? Broadis h bu m over-easy , loose tresse s trailing in th e muck , squint-eye d . . . Thus, to hi s disadvantage, is our her o disclose d whe n th e mas-

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sive steel door abruptly, and with a bloodcurdling shriek , furls up , revealing all at once the brigh t an d coiling penetralia of a thriving exogastric metropolis: a vast, ear-splitting, vortical , gorgeous , godforsake n disaste r goin g of f full bor e in all directions a t once. My destiny! Flabbergasted, Tom lifts his head from th e squalid cement, stand s an d slowl y brushes th e coffe e ground s an d broken eggshell s from hi s corduroyed knees . An air horn withers the air behind him and he crouches, fawning with automatic contrition . Flashin g crimso n back-u p light s charge hi m a t high spee d fro m th e rea r bumpe r o f a reversing panel van, and Tom only just manages to leap out of the way as the vehicle brakes to a cursory stop. At once both bac k panels fly open an d a score of young me n an d women tumbl e ou t an d begin , brigad e style , t o unloa d the contents of the van's interior; at the same time, fro m somewhere withi n th e warehouse , anothe r lin e ha s formed. Tom watches, fascinated, as in a flash (indeed before h e ca n distinguis h tha t comin g i n fro m tha t goin g out) th e va n i s emptied, reloaded ; ther e i s a last-minut e inspection while the workers stand at somewhat ironic attention; a bris k shou t t o th e driver—an d they'r e off . When the door of the loading dock begins to rattle down, Tom quails— As though one made such a decision every day! —makes u p hi s min d an d lurche s insid e a s the ware house doo r crashe s to. After all, it was meant to be!

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Indeed i t was a swell and unqualified anarchy : a teeming univers e o f slender , sturdy , smooth-haire d me n an d women, cracke d crysta l punc h bowl s an d dente d plasti c snowmen; sloe-eye d carpenter s i n whit e dus t mask s an d loose jeans; barbaric silver coffee urn s chained to their litters lik e paga n gods ; garbag e pail s o f feti d yello w rose s and leftove r cement ; leanin g tower s o f peelin g plasti c champagne buckets , swayin g lik e stacke d hats ; a larg e bog o f sullenl y disintegratin g particl e board ; tal l meta l racks of cooling tartes Tatin; green plasti c garbag e bag s with slowl y splittin g seams , oozin g a mes s o f clotte d cream, mutilated lemon s an d crushe d aluminu m cans . A bank o f washing machine s an d dryer s throb s alon g on e wall, belt s an d bearing s squealing ; a vacuu m cleane r roars; pneumati c hammer s ca-thunk; win e glasse s ring ; torrents o f wate r thunde r i n unattende d stee l sinks ; a cluster of severe-looking musicians squeak and toode an d blat; a doorbell peal s incessantly; a fat Staffordshir e bull terrier trots underfoot, retchin g and wheezing to itself. I confess it was a bit daunting at first, but right off the bat I believe they all respected me for what I was— No on e s o muc h a s glance d a t Tom , eve n a s h e le t himself be more or less carried into the melee. In the vast, crowded kitchen—aroun d a central island of gas burners and chopping blocks—chefs an d scullions and bakers and line cook s steele d knives , skinne d eels , grate d nutmeg , clarified jellies , raise d cloud s o f whit e flour, quartere d lambs, blanched an d deglazed and — Oof.

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Tom nearl y had his nose flattene d b y the back-wallo p of a well-swung cleaver, when a n invisible hand fisted hi s coif and haule d hi m bac k i n th e nick . H e foun d himsel f cowering befor e a pair o f smolderin g haze l eyes , whic h took hi m i n sharply , narrowed—winked , than k good ness!—and wit h a cheerfu l shov e h e wa s o n hi s wa y again. Down a long insensibl e utilit y hall , a t th e fa r en d o f which (pas t a gray pon y calml y eatin g th e tinse l fro m a tawdry festal wreath) a door opened ont o a cramped an d badly li t bac k room . Her e a hastil y assemble d satellit e kitchen wa s preside d ove r b y a harum-scaru m youn g woman wit h string y hai r an d overbearin g horn-rimme d glasses. a So, count the plates yet?" she hollers, and fixes me with a rude stare. Well I— And he, until this point deliciousl y anonymous, if not invisible amids t th e fantasti c clamor , i s abruptly an d ter rifyingly consciou s of himself as a strictly uninvited guest . He clear s hi s throa t bu t sh e give s hi m th e bac k o f he r head, gruntin g a s sh e pencil s impatien t calculation s o n the white-papered wor k table . "It' s sixt y up fron t whic h leaves u s . . . okay, thirty-five. That' s sou p plate s i n th e warming oven , platter s out—snea k th e Roue n saucer s back i n th e en d fo r dessert , and so on!" She straightens , claps an eye on Tom an d barks again, "Got that? " Someone holler s Richard! an d sh e cuts on on e sneakere d hee l to tackl e th e terrier , aggressivel y nosin g a larg e tu b o f marinating veal. "You're next , Toulouse!"

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Richard? Toulouse? But. . .goodness! Duck and run? On the other hand, how difficult can it be to count plates? Vm not the first and, as they say, I shan't be the last— (In fact , virtuall y unschooled , it' s a slo w boa t pas t ten.) Still! One crosses a bridge when one comes to it, hey? Of the many crates of unsorted china, Tom selects one and hoists it onto th e table beside him. Thirty-five plate s was wha t sh e wanted , thirty-fiv e plate s wa s wha t sh e would get , more or — The overhea d light s hu m excitedly , sputter , an d g o out; an d i n th e subsequen t cla p o f darknes s tw o hand s slip quietl y ove r Tom' s own—h e gasps . Strong, dry , capable hands , the y si t lighd y upo n hi s lik e jockey s o n horseback. Th e padde d ti p o f th e lef t forefinge r stroke s Tom's knuckle reassuringly; but as he shies sideways from the table the strange hands grip him sternly, holding him in place. Uh m ? says I. Hello ? But th e hand s ar e alread y steerin g hi s ow n fro m th e crate o f plates to th e tabl e an d bac k again , counting ou t quick nea t methodica l stack s o f ten , ten , ten , an d the n five—ten, ten , ten , an d the n five. Al l ove r th e roo m voices curse and cry. Dozens of folding chair s slide to th e floor with a resounding crash; two trays of sherbet glasses sail blindly into a closed door; a plastic gallon tub of bearnaise choose s thi s momen t t o hur l itsel f fro m th e precipice o f an unattended tabletop . Tom, his belly convulsing a t ever y report , finds hi s hand s beginnin g t o

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relax, nonetheless , beneat h th e firm, unflappabl e hand s of his invisible accomplice . Nothing to it, really. S^matter of fact— In the midst of this chaos a door flies open and a smug, unctuous voice calls out: "Not to fear! One moment! Yes, now then , i s that no t enchanting? " A host o f pillar can dles is lit, sluicing the room in a syrupy yellow light. Tom whirls to apologize, explain. No on e there. On th e table, however: the sorted china, in luminous stacks often, ten , ten, and five. As I say! That is, nothing to it! Tom turn s back , dumbfounded , t o find a tiny, black bearded, baldin g ma n wit h hig h burnishe d cheek s re garding hi m wit h a smile . A clas s o f gentee l el f wit h a slight permanen t stoop ; his figure describe s a brief, ele gant curv e fro m hi s avi d face , thrus t jus t s o solicitousl y forward, t o th e nea t axi s formed b y his fastidiously kiss ing heels . On e black , cavalie r bro w break s i n a simula tion o f wonder , t o whic h To m respond s wit h a timi d grin. "What this ! Can it b e that i n the rio t o f darkness on e brave soul has managed to create an island of meaning, an oasis of order, a paradise of plates? You!" Me? But his eyes cut to the pushy girl in glasses. "The ambiguou s Richard! I n five minutes—no, make that four!—this lac de bearnaise will be gone if you mus t lap it up with your tongue! Now shoo!" The amused , speculativ e fac e turn s agai n towar d ou r hero. A slighdy upturne d nos e jus t verge d o n snoutish -

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ness; while the angle of his cheeks, no less swank than th e black waxed beard or the sport of his well-groomed brow , perfectly confirmed th e romantic tilt of his lustrous, black Tartar eyes. Explicitly he stared up a t Tom while contin uing to addres s the room a t large. "My friends—feckless , fainthearted , overtake n b y darkness! Bu t se e what wa s lef t i n ou r midst ? A hero, a paragon o f plates! H e counts ! H e stacks ! What, d o yo u think, can he not do?" The room is silent but for the accusing drip of ill-fated bearnaise. In th e flickerin g yello w ligh t impeniten t face s glitter with lively skepticism. "Imbeciles!" the supple voice rises nastily: an implausible bray. " P ^ / ; ; Tom lick s hi s dr y lip s an d open s hi s mouth ; bu t th e suddenly grinnin g el f throw s bot h hand s i n th e ai r an d spins (to a merry, approving roar); then quickl y presses a demure an d perfectl y manicure d finger t o hi s curvin g lips. "It's like this, my dears," he resumes in a tender, con spiratorial voice. "Not a moment to lose, in fact! We must work togethe r o n this . Whic h mean s tha t you, dea r Richard, get lapping! The rest of you no-goodniks follo w the shining example set by our unexpected visitor . . ." h e turns an d wrinkle s a n inquirin g brow . "You r name , m y friend?" Heavens, this isn't at all what I expected. Also, I wasn't sure about the plates—but what could I do? Oh> says I, oh it's Tom—

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"What's that ? Tom ? Excellent ! Tom. An ail-America n name. I n fact ! Ringin g o f naivete, industry , an d hope. " His pin k palm s com e togethe r wit h a terrifyin g crack. "Now hop to it, cottontails, or we'll all land in the stew!" Everyone jump s a t once . Severa l photographers ' lamps, ransacke d fro m anothe r room , cas t a luri d ligh t across the pocke d wall s and quick , flashin g hand s o f th e now gleefull y bustiin g workers . Foodstuff s begi n t o ar rive o n long , stainles s stee l gurneys , accompanie d b y a brisk hazel-eye d chef , an d anothe r woman , wit h who m she is engaged in quiet, friendly conversation . "Ladies!" th e bal d ma n exclaims , an d wit h a lavis h bow draws each by the ar m to where Tom hovers uncer tainly beside his miraculous china . "I presen t . . . " hi s voic e jell s wit h pleasure , "Torn! Tom, you've n o doubt met— " "Mitzi, you can call me!" One hazel eye winked. "And o f cours e th e matchles s Conchita—devastatin g as usual, my dear." Oohl she gave a fella the unnecessariesl Conchita was in fact devastating, her sallow skin powdered t o a n impeccable matte , her thi n lip s rouged a fu rious black-red . An d th e fascinatin g sickl e o f that swart , ruby-studded ear ! That tawn y hai r draw n bac k i n classi cally severe waves from a low, opaque forehead! And tha t short, muscular neck! Straight umber brows made a contrasting an d nearly unbroken lin e across truly breathtak ing eye s o f pale Argentine gray , so shee r the y reminde d Tom o f the unblinking, sighdess eyes of statues.

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Tom's toe s cur l an d h e turn s i n a hurr y t o Mitzi , whose rega l cheekbones , stipple d eyes—roun d an d hooded a s a frog queen's—generou s mouth , an d frizz y gray-brown hai r (woun d int o a crown o f braids, a girlish touch To m finds quit e charming ) strik e hi m a s far mor e reassuring an d approachable . Tal l an d raw-boned , wit h sturdy hip s an d freckled , long-fingere d hands , she look s at Tom in an affable an d approving way, as though b y the candid meetin g o f thei r eye s the y mad e a kin d o f pact , and would hencefort h procee d a s allies. We'll fox'em! she seemed to say. Ton wait, we'll fox'em — Conchita interrupts, "So dithis Tom," growling in her throat, swallowin g bac k he r word s eve n a s the y ris e (moreover brandishin g a n elusiv e an d terribl y intriguin g lisp). "We've bee n waiting for you, 'aven' t we , Ugo?" Ugo's profile is faintiy mocking as he stands with arms folded, hea d bowe d an d uppe r bod y curve d ove r th e floor as though examinin g his shoes. "Ye-ess," he agrees. "Time was running out! " "But he's here now," Mitzi breaks in, "and that's what counts. I expec t h e cam e a s soo n a s h e wa s able. " Sh e grins at Tom encouragingly . What's that? Waiting for met But surely there'd been a mistake! Expecting someone? Well, all right. But listen, some other Tom! Why I'd only cropped up—and counting plates, no less! And before I could. . . but say, for all I knew, I might be speaking to the owner right there! Heavens, maybe Ugo?

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In a pani c t o se t thing s straight , To m began , post haste, to delive r a cringing little speec h he' d memorize d on his way to the Ruin s that morning . Cringing! Listen, if that's a joke it's a pretty poor one! In the first place there's nothing the matter with watching your p's and q's, as they say. We needn't all be high on our horses. Not like some fancy talkers just waiting for a chance to blow their own horns, when —

5— Abruptly th e thre e peopl e standin g befor e To m freeze . Conchita's gaz e drop s lik e a flag an d remain s there , th e lowered violet lids trembling as though stirred by a quick, secret breeze . Ug o cock s a perfectly pitche d ear , scowls. Mitzi winces, mimes a broad, horrified scream , and wit h a final win k a t Tom , take s cove r i n th e anyway-over whelming wilderness of warming ovens and undercooks , swarming ice buckets and bains-mari e and — La, then I heard it too! Indeed, wh o coul d mis s it? The voice, may we say, of a highly tarnished scourin g pad (tak e a moment, now , to imagine it) : i n pitc h insinuatin g a s a dentist' s drill , bu t lavishly intoned, gass y as a five-day corpse. "GAWD! Isn't it AWFUL? We LOVE it!" Tom glance s uncertainl y a t Conchita , whos e gaze , briefly lifted , discomfit s hi m wit h it s faind y suffocatin g vacancy. The extraordinary voice dawdles in its approach,

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whining i n languid discontent , "Look , we'v e go t t o kill these cigars. Now wherein the . . . " unti l there is a violent crash agains t a nearb y door , a brief , forebodin g pause , and th e draw l throttle s u p lik e a petulan t buz z saw , "Gawd fuckinjj dam n it! " In a flash Ug o i s not onl y pushing firml y a t th e doo r but laughing with gay and reassuring aplomb. "There we go! Th e doo r that' s pulled fro m tha t side , pushed fro m this? Inconvenient, bu t changes take time—in fact!—an d others have grown used t o the, uh . . ." The voice snarls. "Well we haven't gotte n use d t o the, uh—and that ought to count for something since it's our door. Our door , yo u . . . you merel y necessar y worm ! And we hate it like this. Gawd! v La! my belly nearly disgraced me, right there and then! For of course it could only be (and indeed was!) none other than— Indeed! Th e celebrate d Jones , whos e broadl y yoke d shoulders an d blunt , tucke d pelvi s swivele d i n notabl y nimble opposition ; whos e vast , admirabl y muscle d bell y was carried high , swaying peremptorily fro m sid e to sid e over abbreviated, yet also roundly muscled legs; and who, for al l hi s impracticable , burst-barrel' d bulk , wa s nonetheless conspicuousl y light on his feet, movin g with the rampan t spin e an d delicatel y outhel d arm s o f an ol d ballroom dandy . His platinum an d vaguely astral hair explicitly haloe d a livi d complexion . Dainty , full-bloode d lips; tiny lashless eyes so deep-set they seemed driven into his head like two lead pellets. Catching sight of Conchita,

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he simpered , hi s dr y cheek s bulgin g wit h unexpecte d roundness. He was not, in any conventional sens e of the word, handsome ; an d ye t ther e wa s somethin g i n th e bland animosit y o f thos e eye s beneat h thei r snow y brows—and i n th e cruel , girlis h curv e o f th e oft-licke d lips—and in the barbaric self-importance o f that heedless, hair-raising voice—tha t on e coul d no t hel p bu t find fas cinating an d perhaps , even , irresistible . Jus t th e sor t o f fellow, in short, with whom ou r hero coul d no t sa y with any confidence h e was "familiar. " This was it! My foot in the door! It was time to hop the threshold —or turn tail and resign myself to the cracked soles and dismal prospects of my former life (which seemed, I should admit, already a million miles behind me). Well! I was never more aware of myself of my abilities and of the potential glory looming before and all around me — Provoked, Tom's bell y thrusts a cold disaffecte d nos e between th e slat s o f hi s rib s an d begins , i n belligeren t tremolos, to pour out th e bitter vials of its woe; his heart ricochets from on e sid e of his chest to the other ; and in deed ou r beleaguere d her o fel t (alas , no t fo r th e first time) a s thoug h h e mus t simpl y burs t int o tears—o r worse—the momen t h e opened hi s mouth. Jones, i n th e meantime , wagge d a short , malevolen t finger beneat h Conchita' s flaring nostrils . "Conchita ! How could you hav e left u s with tha t vulgar littl e healt h inspector? Th e ma n wa s relentless ! W e ha d t o promis e him th e moon an d sen d hi m ou t th e doo r wit h hal f a

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raspberry charlotte ! Wher e d o thes e peopl e ge t thei r nerve!" Conchita's reply is taut with restraint. "You didn't sign anyzing, did you Jonz?" "Sign anything? The ma n was uncompromising. There was no getting him out of our hair." Jones sniffs. "That' s what you get, Miss Invisible. Don't speak! Call him in the morning, but righ t no w we've go t a party to throw. " Ugo cleared his throat and skipped forward t o present Tom. "I n fact! " Bu t th e massiv e whit e hea d i s alread y rearing back ; the tin y eye s roll once , wildly, befor e clos ing wit h unappealabl e doom ; on e ar m support s th e elbow o f th e other , th e termina l en d o f whic h bristle s with splaye d an d wrigglin g fingers a s Jones enumerate s the bone s o f his contention. Hi s voice thicken s with rising bile. "Primo! On e hundre d perfecti y revoltin g cigars . Where di d yo u ge t them , children , a vomitoria ? Two ! Odette Fishbein-Brooke' s insufferable low-fat die t . . ." (Which as a matter of fact has always been kind of a—) "—pain i n the fucking ass. Three . . . " Conchita's eyes catch Tom's and narrow speculatively . "Jonz?" Ugo pull s Tom ou t fro m behin d th e tabl e an d inter rupts once more, his voice beguiling. "See what we have, Jones, just see!" Jones's hackles lift visibly; he raises the lid of a seething brow an d show s the m somethin g quic k an d blac k tha t glitters there in the center of one eye, like a rat at the bot -

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torn of a dripping well. "Obsequious toad! Obscurantist ! Don't pla y games with us!" Conchita takes over, explaining in her burred, slurring voice. "Lizzen , Jonz , i s good news ; di z bo y 'ere , dizzi z Tom." "Oh fo r the—! " Jones winced an d fingered th e fron t of hi s bulgin g yello w pullover , nevertheles s appraisin g Tom with scrupulou s care . "Waalll. Wha t hav e we here? Tom^ di d yo u say ? Now i s that a fact? Tom . That' s cor rect? Tom . . ." Whe n Conchit a an d Ug o exchang e un certain glances , Tom feel s suddenly afraid . Chin i n hand , Jone s purse s disdainfu l lips . "O h he' s perfect, isn't h e perfect ? But, " h e turn s t o hi s assistants , frowning. "Tha t hair. Really ! Tha t hai r i s a sin . W e wouldn't wis h tha t hai r o n a yak. " Conchit a an d Ug o snicker; Tom smile s weakly. Still, things weren't going so badly; so far all was well. Jones sniffed. "Anyway , who cares? Is this the time t o stand aroun d makin g nice ? A hundred bellie s will com e barreling throug h thes e door s i n a matter o f hours. Are the wagons in a bloody circle? Has anyone even bothered to look for tha t awfu l pony? " As forthat! Without even thinking I says to him, "Iknow where the pony is!* Jones stops, turns, slowly narrows his eyes at Tom an d shakes his head in mock wonder. "Jus t perfect!* Then h e whirls, tossing hi s arm s into th e ai r a s Ugo ha d demon strated onl y moment s before . "Al l right , let' s ge t crack ing, kids! Conchita?"

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They leave, and oh what I wouldn't give for a couch—la, a cupboard would do I—in which to bury my head, just for a moment, just to collect myself and consider, as they say, my options. But already Ugo has me by the arm and when we get to the door I push, like he said, but what do you know! The door won't give, when just a minute ago? Ugo shrugs , smirks , pulls ope n th e doo r an d thrust s our uncertain hero into the dining Salon, letting the door fall close d betwee n them . "G o on , g o on ! A moment' s delay." And then, oh, there it was! It was . . . The inaugural moment, yes! Our hero's blind date with destiny! ••

•

Even no w Tom' s hear t flip-flop s onl y t o recal l tha t firs t wordless encounter . Withou t a doubt i t wa s everythin g he ha d dreamed ; indeed (a s is often th e cas e among th e half-fed, th e near-illiterate , th e "disadvantaged" ) i t wa s more. With nothin g an d n o on e t o distrac t ou r dazzle d lad an d hi s fair on e an d onl y (th e fres h an d immediatel y all-consuming appl e o f hi s love-doped , doggis h eye ) those first deliriou s moments were inviolable—we won' t say off the record; only discreetly veiled, as though unde r the protectio n o f a spreading , luminousl y feathered , guardian wing. But look. At eithe r en d o f a vas t rectangula r room , perennia l gas fires cavor t discreed y within celado n gree n an d pin k

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checkered hearths ; ove r thei r statel y carve d mantie s loom ten-by-twenty-foo t mirror s frame d i n peelin g fleur-de-lis, th e ancien t glas s a n inspire d corruptio n o f tarnished silve r and plain old dust. Tasseled hassocks and tapestry pillows accompany well-placed Italia n armchair s in cucumbe r an d lavende r brocade , whil e a bargelik e double-backed chaise tongue i n deliriou s saffro n velve t puckers wit h dozen s o f padde d sati n buttons . Under foot, illustriou s Brussel s carpet s spraw l beneat h stou t porcelain swan s an d crocodile s upo n whos e obse quiously upraise d beak s an d snout s etche d glas s tabl e tops glisten like perfect, imperishabl e dreams . Overhead , yard-wide violet ribbon s swoo p dow n fro m a n imperia l rosette a t the cente r o f a sixty-foot-high daffodi l ceiling , to b e caugh t u p i n colossa l bows agains t th e combed , pistachio walls—th e wainscotin g silveris h beneat h a sober wash . Portrait s i n oi l ( a tall , haughty gir l i n blac k bangs, on e han d claspin g a hoop ; a cringin g whippet , her crave n bell y sucke d i n a s thoug h upo n a pearl ; a moonlit marbl e portico, between whose columns gleam s an indisputably wine-dark sea) engage th e ey e at regula r intervals. Flocked lik e debutantes , thre e doze n dinin g table s sport starched ecru linen (ove r snowy underskirts), upon which squad s o f heavily chase d silve r wink a t th e placi d bottoms of hand blown Venetian stemware. From buxo m table vases flirt pin k magnolias , freckled lilies , and whit e freesia, whil e impossibl y long-waiste d aprico t rose s lea n from gree n glas s vase s o n marble-toppe d sid e table s

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whose cas t bronz e leg s curv e lik e th e tau t haunche s o f squatting satyrs. (Later would com e pert, vanilla-scente d carnations, frille d an d threade d i n shade s o f pin k an d white an d burgundy ; or tulips , whose pri m yellow petals would b e splayed, after on e day in the warm room, like a Russian dancer's upended skirts; or cunning moss baskets brimful o f wil d primroses , violets , candyflowe r an d fai r narcissus.) Encirclin g sidechairs , stripe d i n vivi d popp y and olive silk, flex delicate bras s feet agains t creamy marble an d alabaste r tile d floors , withi n whos e border—a n inlaid garlan d o f desultor y russe t brambles—boastfu l robins lift thei r throats, greedy beaks abulge with tumescent golden worms. Tom sa w all this, and more ! A multitude o f exquisit e and unforgettabl e details . H e greete d eac h "sensation " with th e artless , ecstati c deligh t o f a n unself-consciou s child. Gawked at himself in the cloudy mirrors as though he were a stranger; marveled at the virtuosity of the counterfeit fires ; painstakingl y counte d th e gravel y turnin g pink crysta l chandeliers (an d while s o doing, allowed hi s fingers t o tickle the blac k and ivory keys of a buttery yellow grand , chos e one, and presse d i t gentl y 'ti l th e not e struck—and striking , bot h raise d an d gilde d hi s hear t with its divine tone). Ah! says I, and thought at once of the ineffable La Stupenda and her first-rate ascent into the rafters of the Groaning Board. Noble gestures! A song on her lips! And those shoes! Wasn^t it she who^d mustered in me the confidence to quicken my own wings? Best-ofall-angels y I

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thought (no shame in my blush): I owe everything to you! To imagine that one day, perhaps here at the Ruins itself, I might confront that bright emancipator in person, gaze humbly into those celestial blue eyes, press my lips to that casual, incorruptible hand . . . At last she would know, and without my confessing a word, all that she must mean to me. A debt that can never be repaid, but oh, that one might be allowed to try! ••

•

"Deutsch!" someon e spat , an d To m whirle d a t once , hands clasped befor e hi s crotch lik e a guilty choirboy . Arms folded, hea d throw n back , Ug o glare s a t th e florid chandelier s wit h undisguise d contempt ; the n shrugs at Tom and in another flawless imitation of Jones's high, serrate d gus h sneers , "Yazzss, by all means, i n th e wurst,/##/7-bu-lous taste— " My word, what nerve, and in this of all places! "Not t o worry! " quip s Ugo . " A place fo r everythin g and everything in its—ah, here's the rascal now. Paulie!" Tom's stil l cutting emotiona l glance s left an d righ t a s Ugo leads him to a tall young man standing on the othe r side of an unfortunate pin k marble fountain . The fountain—the dear little goldfish! Paulie's smugly tanned, pox-scarred face was wreathed in laughter. He wore a snug blue athletic suit, zippered t o the middl e o f a soft , hairles s chest ; an d i n a n exces s o f humor pressed both hands flat (diamon d signet ring glittering from on e outstretched pinkie ) against a taut, mus-

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cular paunch. Bleached blond ringlets plunged somewha t deliberately ove r on e brow ; hi s roun d eye s were a star tling blue in the flushed an d cheerfully dissipate d face. In all, one could not escape an impression of coarseness and lechery; but his transparent vanity, good humor, and cunning pu t a drol l spi n o n characte r flaw s i n respec t t o which unheard-of allowances were more often mad e than merited. So described , Pauli e flun g himsel f o n littl e Ugo' s neck, presse d hi s mout h agains t th e other' s ea r an d launched int o a n accoun t th e detail s o f whic h elicite d more tha n on e admirin g shak e fro m Ugo' s gleamin g head. H e doodle d o n th e daint y shir t front ; rubbe d hi s thumb and forefinger togethe r i n a smooth, circular motion. Ug o smiled . In fact, my friend, in fact! With a final burst o f laughte r the y bot h turne d t o fac e To m (strug gling politely not t o overhear) . (Fig mask . . . saddle sores. . . a generous tip? I say!) Ugo spoke sharply. "Tom, Paulie. Paulie leads on out side parties, stands second in the Salon. You'll find his experience valuable . More! " Pauli e gav e To m a friendl y nod, hi s blue eye s bright wit h curiosity . Ug o continued . "I'll leav e yo u t o it ? Jone s i s frantic . Whic h mean s tha t Mitzi—" He sighed and nodded at Tom. "All right? Well, I—" There was a distant howl followed b y Jones's fester ing squawk , an d Ug o wa s of f withou t anothe r word . Paulie's bi g hand s cam e togethe r wit h unexpecte d au thority a s he turned, frowning , t o survey the room . "Okey-doke, here's the drill . . . "

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6— Several hour s late r To m stare d roun d himsel f in wonde r and dismay. The matchless green walls are obscured no w by looming an d uneasil y swayin g papier-mach e cactuse s whose flimsy cardboard foundations ar e camouflaged b y handfuls o f loose , molderin g hay . Frenc h linen s ar e re placed b y re d an d blu e cotto n bandannas , whil e a lon g central tabl e boast s a luminou s shrou d o f brigh t gree n plastic grass (the kind idling in window displays from on e holiday t o th e next) . Bale s o f ha y si t i n stolidl y fo r th e banished sidechairs ; at each place setting a tin horsesho e is inscribe d wit h a guest' s name . Ther e ar e tw o roun d hors d'oeuvr e table s separate d b y a tiny corra l i n whic h the incarcerate d pon y slouche s o n on e fa t haunch , glar ing fro m beneat h th e bri m o f a gaud y sombrero . Past y looking helium balloons labor in batches overhead, brandishing posterboard blowup s (flint y eyes , ten-gallon hat , cigar clenche d betwee n thin , colorles s lips ) o f the gues t of honor, Mr . Hors t Dinwiddie . And i n fac t thi s genrie man ha d alread y arrived , a somberl y dresse d ma n i n a very large hat who stands in the center of the room, gesturing gruffly with his smoldering cigar while Jones, hand on hip , hammer s th e ai r wit h hi s blunt , bore d laugh . Haw. Haw. Haw. Tom sighe d an d looke d dow n a t hi s borrowe d shir t and knotte d kerchief , fel t fo r th e diminutiv e dim e stor e cowboy hat giddil y perched ato p hi s untamed crop , an d

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couldn't hel p bu t chaf e a t the impression h e must make . He turne d an d stare d int o th e liquor-stacke d be d o f th e small Conestoga t o which he , designated bartender , ha d been assigned . Cocktails? But I couldn't mix a cocktail to save my life! And frankly, even the smell of spirits. . . "Don't worry , pal," Paulie assure d him , tweaking th e limp fleec e o f Tom' s preposterou s mustache . "Thes e bubs drink like fish so pour big to keep 'em off your back and i f they as k for somethin g funny , mak e i t up ! Here' s your bible. " Pauli e thrus t a small , dog-eare d boo k a t Tom, slappe d hi m o n th e bac k an d move d t o catc h u p with a plump waitress in chaps and spurs; as they hurrie d along h e ben t an d whispere d somethin g i n he r ea r an d she pushed hi m away , laughing. All right y it's only a matter of doing one's best, like the plates, hey? And anyway — Tom sa t dow n o n a leakin g styrofoa m ic e ches t an d dropped hi s face i n hi s hands, heeding th e mustache . I t felt lik e week s sinc e morning , an d alread y h e coul d scarcely recall his former life as a shoeshine. Since arriving he'd learne d t o set a table for si x courses and nine wines, shucked eigh t hundre d oysters , and watched wit h terro r over Mitzi's signature poached pears while she graciously instructed tw o reveren t scullion s i n th e prope r wa y t o dice a pepper. He'd bee n kicked twice while braiding th e pony's tail, and discovere d h e had a n allergy to furnitur e polish.

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—who'd have guessed! Conchita had him rolling hand towels for the Ladies' ; Jones sen t hi m t o chang e hi s hair twice , in passing . Th e upshot was, his head was spinning. What could b e next? "Martinis—yes or no? Period!" Jones's voic e sawe d throug h th e genera l hubbu b lik e a dull knife. "An d we happen to know where you can get the bes t martini in town! Torn-Tom!" Tom-Tom? Martinis? Jones pilote d a flotill a o f grim-visaged , glitterin g guests towar d th e homemad e Conestoga . Terrified , ou r hero tor e throug h hi s book , hurlin g ice , vermouth, gi n and olives together—alas, with less pomp tha n desperat e pretense. Jone s go t th e pictur e a t once , an d bearin g down i n undisguise d wrath , yet thre w hi s chin ove r on e shoulder t o scol d th e processio n loftily , "Ye s or no ? Period. " Moments late r the y lifte d frost-whiskere d glasse s i n which rakis h olive s lolle d lik e fa t gree n cherubs ; b y th e time the y reele d fro m th e wago n To m had , b y stagger ing repetition , mad e o f th e simpl e "martooni " a n ele gant science , an d th e mightil y loosene d guest s wer e begging Jone s t o saddl e th e pon y fo r ride s aroun d th e Cloud Room . Le w Gottwald , thre e sheet s t o th e wind , made t o thrus t a large bil l into Tom' s ha t band ; th e la d drew bac k star tied. Jones flapped a weary hand a t them . "¥xx\\-leeze. Don't corrup t th e boy ! No w listen , hav e you see n the Avocado Room ? Don' t speak ! O n ou r way

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through th e kitche n you'l l sampl e th e sauc e . . . " A s they tottere d of f Jone s looke d bac k ove r on e shoulder , grimaced meaningfull y an d winked , "Swel l martinis , Tom!" Wha—P Did Jones just wink at me? Tom caugh t hi s breath , smoothe d hi s mustach e an d looked cautiousl y abou t th e room . Hat s cocke d a t jaunty angles , spurs whirlin g hilariously , waiter s an d waitresses circulate d wit h tray s o f hor s d'oeuvre ; th e musicians execute d a haughty Mexica n polka ; th e pon y bared hi s teet h a t a circl e o f half-swacke d admirers . Paulie tappe d hi s shoulder , glance d ove r th e ba r ("mar tinis, right?") an d with a grin ran of f to rusd e mor e gin . Guests began t o arriv e in larger numbers, and Tom onc e again, despit e th e increasin g din , hear d Jones' s unmis takable peal, "Martinis, what else? And we know just th e place. Tom-Tom!" ••

•

For dinner ? Ther e wer e pate s i n aspic , i n pastry , i n mousse . . . oyster croquettes Victoria . . . cherries in vinegar an d savor y dat e fritter s . . . planked turbo t in totoy glassy-eyed an d fabulousl y shellacke d wit h citro n an d herbs . . . wild duc k i n vintage por t . . . purees o f chestnut an d artichok e hear t . . . airy paupiettes of bee f wit h pickled nasturtium buds . . . mock hedgehog, champagne sherbets an d endiv e sala d wit h partridg e tongue s . . . amber jelly, plain and fancy, and ripe cheeses rolled in caraway, capers, and minced pistachios . . . tarte angoulousee,

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tarte d'Angleterre, tarte fanatde, an d puddings! oh dear , puddings b y the score! Waiters fle w i n an d ou t o f bot h kitchens , flourishin g hot plates and finger bowls , fresh napkins and clean forks. Now To m circulate d uneasily , a neatly bibbe d bottl e o f Chateau-Latour i n eac h dubiou s hand . Diligendy—an d like a tall , broad-bottome d bird—h e mad e cantilevere d attacks o n eac h deplete d glas s h e spie d languishin g among th e unfamilia r current s o f freckle d o r stiffl y lac quered heads , smeare d plates , an d liver-spotte d hand s clutching cutiery with casua l or predatory aplomb . Then what? Inspired, I guess, by the farmyard theme, someone launched into animal impressions] And for the rest of thedinner the company resounded with what, er, can only be described as clucks, bellows, and high-spirited whinnies. Mr. Trumbul l Wange r grabbe d Tom , thrus t a greas y dinner plate into his hands and demanded to know where Jones kep t th e feedbagsl—then thre w bac k hi s head an d roared. Before To m could make up his mind to reply the man pushe d hi m away , "Neve r mind , caballero, I foun d one myself! " an d droppe d hi s furiou s re d fac e int o th e shelved, peninsula r boso m o f Candic e Topping , a t hi s side, wh o shrieke d an d wriggle d a s h e roote d playfull y between her dizzily-troughed breasts . Weill I never in my life expected to . . . oh! Tom jumped at a loathsome noise in his left ear, a horrible an d rathe r insinuatin g utterance , couplin g chuckl e and snarl . H e turned , cringing , bu t foun d n o one ; the n turned bac k to find Jones glaring at him from acros s th e

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table, his upper li p furled i n a grotesque charad e o f deferential appeal . "Yoo-hoo Tom-Tom! Mrs. Prosper Gosling here is absolutely parched and wa s just wonderin g i f she wa s eve r going t o ge t tha t glas s o f Armagna c w e promise d her ? How abou t you unloa d tha t plate and make yourself just a lee-tle bi t useful? Gawd!" Well! I started to remind Jones (with all due respect, of course) that unfortunately there was no Armagnac to be had. Indeed, Vd already looked twice and— Jones cut him off. "An d don't give us any of your tired excuses. O f course there' s Armagna c i n th e house . Mrs . Prosper Goslin g adores Armagnac an d w e promised he r she could have it. What coul d b e more simple ! Now tro t along, little piggy, and do as you're tol d . . . " My jaw dropped. Little piggy? But wasn't I doing my best? And furthermore (though Vd never have dreamed of saying so out loud!) why should Jones promise people what couldn't be had? Flirting and prompting... Don't miss the chicken and dumplings! Save room for the banana-coconut cream pie! Is that fair? Tom sought out Paulie , who punched him playfully i n the ribs . "Don' t mak e i t s o har d o n yourself ! Sa y oui oui—make 'em happy—then giv e 'em what we got. They won't kno w the difference. " All right then, so I did. And it was beef gateau with pralines forchicken and dumplings, champagne ice for coconut cream. That's how it was—and just as he promised, no one said a word!

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Courses arrived , loitered , an d wer e relieve d b y subsequent courses. And if no one more than nibbled, there was notwithstanding a grea t dea l o f gus h about food—othe r suppers, teas and brunches. All provided by Jones; indeed, in man y case s featurin g th e exac t dishe s circulate d tha t evening! And ye t i t wa s a s though nothin g i n th e worl d was or ever could be like them,, like those other mouth-watering, sublime , unrepeatabl e dishes . Glasse s wer e filled, drained, an d replenished ; th e musician s thre w bac k thei r heads, narrowe d thei r eyes ; th e balloon s san k graduall y overhead; the celebrate d Mr . Dinwiddi e remove d neithe r his hat nor the cigar from betwee n his teeth. ••

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In the end Tom found himsel f behind a monstrous tum bleweed, but t brace d t o th e wall , knees scissoring , bell y volcanic. It ma y have been "to o much, " afte r all , for ou r hero foun d himself , betwee n shudderin g breaths , enter taining secon d thoughts . Heavens, why'd he come to this place, anyway? What was he looking for? I t wa s al l quit e sensational, a regular squall, and made his hands trembl e and sweat. Was he suave like Ugo ? Could he tease and caper like Paulie?He certainly wasn't beautiful—he guessed that was why they pasted this mustache on him, and put him inside a goofy wagon where no one could see his rump-sprung trousers and humble shoes. Why sure! At thi s ou r her o pulled off the disgraceful whiskers , loosened his kerchief, and—nearly weeping—rubbe d hi s finger forlornl y against the sleeve of his borrowed shirt . Chiffon ?

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Say, don't exaggerate*. It wasn't so bad! Crouched behin d his tumbleweed, our hero quailed at the racket, the glare— a fermen t o f smeared lip s and sagging, half-nake d tits ; luckles s horseshoe s an d bucklin g cardboard cows ; red cotto n kerchief s fluttering throug h the ai r like hens befor e a storm. H e blinked , an d th e ta bles bega n t o turn ; h e blinke d agai n an d oh , didn' t th e shiny plates spin ! The chandelier s revolve d overhea d o n their fraying ropes , while down belo w bellies jiggled an d swelled, and butter balls, bright as suns, rose and fell, rose and fell . Martin i glasse s saile d end-over-end , an d th e sullen pony performed (wer e those cartwheels?) to a chorus of gratified bleat s and honks. Ugh! And everywhere the horrible snapping mouths, wet wrinkled beaks reaching for the worm! Bare d circlet s o f amber-rooted teet h clacked and glittered roun d fa t blin d tongues. An d ho w the y flexed an d writhed , flexed an d writhed, thos e well-honed, eyeles s probes whose unsee n roots dropped dee p into that lower infernal abyss , about which everything finally— All right, too much! . . . everything revolved ! ••

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"Tom-Tom!" What? Jones! Oh . . . Two stron g hand s pinne d To m t o th e wal l just a s his legs sli d ou t fro m unde r him . To m opene d hi s eyes an d met Paulie' s wicked gri n (th e imitatio n o f Jones's nativ e

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caw was, like Ugo's, flawless). Tom-Tom? He gav e Tom a little shak e an d To m ducke d hi s head, embarrasse d an d relieved. Paulie propped one forearm agains t Tom's chest and turned t o survey the room . "Listen Tom," he continued i n his normal voice, "this might be a good time for you to grab a bite. Guess I kind of forgot abou t you , n o offense ! Anyway , skip bac k an d see i f the y haven' t go t somethin g lef t over . I'l l cove r here." So I did and, well, you could have decked me with a feather when Mitzi laid it out. A feast! Oh, I'd ply some knife-and-fork now I People guess I have no appetite, but in fact it's simply a question of— Ravenous, Tom yet would no more than marvel at his heaped an d steamin g plate . He reste d o n a n overturne d crate and reconsidered hi s previous despair . After all, it was only my first day, and natural to feel a bit off Nothing shameful in having to learn. And hadn't they taken my arrival for granted? Knew my name! And without blinking an eye set me to work. There's confidence! Besides, was he prepare d t o wal k awa y (h e ben t ove r his plate and inhaled blissfully ) fro m this? At last Tom picked up his fork, ease d it beneath a tidbit of veal, and raised it to his mouth. Hi s lips parted, his jaw dropped, hi s tongue guide d th e for k in , providing a warm wet altar for the helpless morsel. At once the juices in hi s mout h spurte d int o action : caressin g th e meat ;

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nuzzling the sauce from it s naked flesh; suavely breakin g down th e veal' s resistanc e wit h a host o f persuasive en zymes. Tom's tongu e practicall y squirme d now ; his molars prepared to gnash. The roof of his mouth san k down upon th e swoonin g an d insidiousl y undon e piec e o f meat, whic h coul d no t bu t surrende r t o th e slow , irre sistibly penetrating embrace . Byjove, to grease my gills at last! Suddenly th e stee l doo r burs t ope n an d Pauli e crie d from beneat h a heap of furs: "They'r e off! " Tom choke d an d rose hastily from hi s crate as left an d right workers charged t o the fore . Oh, bat perhaps they could put my dinner aside? Surely I wouldn't be long. . . Ah, bu t th e plac e wa s a shambles ; th e guest s vagu e and hysterical , millin g abou t wit h dim , glass y eyes , crying weakl y fo r thei r coats , thei r cars , thei r servants — who, busdin g an d self-important , happil y adde d t o th e flap. "Well then, happy anniversary, Horstl Birthday? Hell, whatever!" a Tou call this a three-quarter lynx! This is not Mr. Armond Frisson's three-quarter lynx! Where—" "Midge Sprain Wilson! Where've you been hiding!" "Now call us, darling—no, don't call us! Really, we'll call you . . ." "Madam! Madam!" "Say hello, but don't say it was me—

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In th e mids t o f this, Jones swep t throug h th e crowd , braying. "Kiss-kiss , kiss-kiss ! Fabulous, wasn' t it ? Go t everything? Gorgeous chinchilla—think it's me>. Haw . . . " At the door, he suddenly threw up his hands and whirled. "Tom? Tom-Tom!" I never did secure the Armagnac for Mrs. Gosling —did he know? Was this it? God, what did I do with that mustache? Tom hurried, heart in his throat, to where Jones stood waiting besid e th e door . H e though t longingl y o f th e plate o f foo d stil l waitin g fo r hi m i n th e bac k room ; would they let him eat before they made him leave? Jones indicated wit h a jerk o f hi s chi n th e raccoon-eye d Vaf a Herculani who'd bee n fingering Tom' s sleev e a moment before. a Tom-Tom! Don' t believ e a wor d tha t Abbysinia n snake in th e gras s says. Married hi s money! Tired, tired , tired! And listen, we're counting on you to wrap up here, understand? You won't believe what's on the book for tomorrow, so first thing in the morning, Tom, get into that dining roo m an d kill thos e chrysanthemums ! Al l right ? Perfect!" And then he too was gone, the stout terrier trotting at his heels. Me in charge! Why, I. . . Paulie! A waiter, pulling o n hi s own coat , shrugged . "H e al ready left . . . " Ugo gone too. "Off to the movies!" and whoosh. Conchita ? And Mitzi with a wink between salad and dessert.

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That left a few dawdling scullions and five or six waiters, all of whom were throwing off their spurs and takin g their leav e i n th e murk y an d querulou s wak e o f thei r guests. To m (stil l hoverin g besid e th e door ) smile d pleadingly a t the m a s the y went , bu t i n th e en d stoo d alone in a vacant and eerily suspended bedlam . Anyone there? Tom sighed , foun d a serving tray and bega n t o circu late, collectin g stick y glasse s an d desser t plates , over spilling ashtray s an d dente d cowbo y hats . H e wrestle d the papier-mach e cactuse s int o th e bac k storag e room , stacked the bales of hay in the alley. He gathere d the surviving balloon s int o on e bunc h an d tie d the m t o a sawhorse in the garage; broke down the pony's corral and hobbled him in the wine cellar; then starte d several loads of laundry . Pickin g th e litte r fro m a mountai n o f blu e bandannas, Tom suddenly recalled his own deferred sup per. Perhaps? I hurried to the kitchen! Dark an d empt y a s a church, th e sink s wiped dry , th e concrete floor breathin g cold . Tom's heart sank . Oh, the lovely dinner—thrown out? Gobbled by another? His belly laid back its ears and growled . Still, maybe it was here, maybe . . . But searchin g carefully , To m foun d n o daintie s tucked amids t the barrel s of sugar and oil , the blackene d gas rings , th e heavil y chrome d mixer s an d blenders , stacks o f casseroles , custar d cup s an d chafin g dishes . And ye t h e wa s appease d an d gratifie d simpl y t o be in

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this safe , orderl y place ; to stan d an d no t mov e a muscle in th e chast e flicke r o f tin y blu e pilo t lights , dozen s o f scattered blu e light s . . . and th e beckonin g re d "ON " of one overlooke d warmin g oven ! Tom smile d dreamily , dropped th e ove n doo r an d burne d hi s finger s o n th e plate inside . My dinner! After severa l hour s i n a 350-degre e oven , i t wa s un recognizable, th e vea l twiste d a s a dr y shoe , th e sauc e fused t o the plate. Tom shoo k hi s head. Darne d shame . But proof someone was thinking of me! Tom turne d and , o n impulse , tugge d a t th e doo r o f one hummin g refrigerator . Th e sudde n ligh t mad e hi m wince, an d onl y graduall y wa s h e abl e t o mak e ou t th e numberless unmarke d tubs , dam p pape r carton s an d anonymous packet s wit h whic h th e scoure d aluminu m shelves wer e crammed . To m wa s tempted , stoo d wit h wide, fascinate d eyes , bu t finall y le t th e doo r clos e an d the room return t o shadows and scattered blu e lights. As he turned t o go , his eye fell upo n a broken loa f of bread crowning a n overstuffe d garbag e bag . Ho w invitin g i t looked! Luminous, white as— As white chiffon! Surely . . . His stomach, aroused by the proximity of food, thre w itself determinedl y a t Tom' s waverin g pride . H e slowl y grasped an d tor e a piec e fro m th e loaf—the n another , and another . Standin g i n th e dim , pristine kitchen , To m devoured mos t o f the loaf, chewing reverendy . Bread! Incomparable . . .

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Wandering bac k t o th e dinin g roo m (heavenl y onc e more i n th e nacreou s ligh t o f a late-rising , lopside d moon), To m sa t upo n th e mammot h yello w sof a an d placidly gathered hi s thoughts—so fa r as they went; then curled o n on e side , tucke d th e crumblin g hee l o f brea d beneath hi s chin, and fell fast, fas t asleep.

CHAPTER THRE E

Beauty, Truth, and a Call to First Principles

7— A n d where , oh where did that put hi m now ? (Sternu m slipping, spine aslant, hips cocked awkwardly on the edge of his seat. . .) Called on the carpet, is where w e find ou r her o afte r two week s o f earnest , i f inauspicious, service . Sittin g i n Jones's office , th e pandemoni c Maisonette , that' s where! Waiting for Jone s to conclud e hi s telephone call ; impatient (an d who' s t o sa y no t a littl e fainthearted? ) to determin e th e objec t o f thei r meeting . O r perhap s he's guesse d th e prognosi s already , hm ? An d wa s onl y looking forwar d t o a speed y confirmatio n o f hi s con dition? Afte r all , our her o know s i n hi s ow n hear t wha t excuses ar e worth; an d th e fac t i s (his thin fingers pinc h morosely a t th e creas e o f hi s checkere d trousers) , the fact is, after tw o week s h e jus t isn' t cuttin g th e mus tard. 82

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And whos e faul t wa s that ? H e wa s th e on e begge d a challenge, bi d illustriou s opportunit y Knock , Knock ! And now, in some incalculable manner, the Ruin s eluded him. Yes , things happened. Regrettable things . H e doe s not se e the m comin g an d h e canno t see m t o preven t them fro m occurrin g agai n an d again , no matte r ho w he tries. It may, for instance, be the flowers, about which Jones is ap t t o thro w particularl y virulen t fits, snarlin g "d o something, fo r gawd' s sake , abou t thos e fuckin g artemisia!" Jone s calle d the m ol d whores , spoiled cunts , hemorrhages, stinkin g cankers—whil e Tom , hi s ear s burning, wracke d hi s brain s ove r som e ne w disguis e fo r splayed roses and seedy mignonette . Worse yet, complaints had been lodged. Oh , not agains t Tom himself , bu t agains t hi s staff ; an d wasn' t tha t th e same thing ? To m coul d no t hav e imagine d a more way ward compan y upo n who m h e wa s expecte d t o rely : a feckless, indeterminate hord e o f lackeys hired, it seemed , despite diffidence an d a poor understanding of their most rudimentary duties . I n general , when no t cavortin g lik e kids, they stoo d abou t dim-witte d a s sheep; at th e sam e time they were full of scorn for members and guests (who were, it was popularly believed , "unequa l t o th e food") . For tha t matter , conceit s o f al l kinds—cats , ladders, th e counting o f cups—entangle d th e simples t acts . An d i f there weren' t occul t reason s fo r wh y th e sauc e brok e o r how twelv e dozen dinne r napkin s cam e to b e stuffe d u p the kitche n chimney , i t wa s eas y enoug h t o blam e

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Jones—a perfec t alibi , i n fact ; fo r a s i t happene d Jone s was capabl e o f issuin g th e mos t extraordinary , improvi dent commands, and moments later disowning what he'd only just decreed . I n th e end , nothin g wa s accountable , and To m wa s foreve r bearin g th e burde n o f impossibl e deadlines, unspoke n "agreements, " cross-graine d an d enigmatic personnel. (But if Tom knew and sympathized, to som e extent , wit h th e difficultie s place d upo n al l b y the thorny an d indefensible intrusion s o f Jones; still, was it really Jones's fault the doorman—a smoldering Latvian dwarf—swilled a thermos o f cognac every night?) At th e sam e time , the y maintaine d tha t "outsid e th e Ruins there is no salvation," and there was a peculiar mixture of satisfaction an d apath y in their voices as they said this. Tom noted with surprise, however, that they did no t despair, an d responde d t o hi s ow n upset s an d urgenc y with curiosity , a t best . "That' s jus t ho w i t is, " the y as sured him , a s though explainin g t o a child. "That' s jus t how Jones is." To be sure, they were stubbornly resistan t to change , eve n whe n i t promise d a n advantage . Practi cally withou t ego—an d certainl y n o gras p o f persona l boundaries! (Tom' s presse d tunic s wer e foreve r disap pearing fro m hi s locker; an d a day did no t pas s when h e was not astonishe d b y a couplet o f underlings, writhin g in the corner.) Tom, a fusspot b y nature, was still less appalled b y their braze n indiscretion s tha n b y this tacit acceptance o f "circumstances"—includin g a future!—o f frankly the basest sort. And when it could all be arranged, Tom knew , s o differently. Afte r all , h e fumed , thi s wa s

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their "bi g chance " too ! Didn' t the y understand ? Didn' t they care? He recalle d again , an d wit h undiminishe d chagrin , Conchita's fac e a s she hel d ou t th e letter s o f complaint . Those nerveles s gra y eye s i n whic h nothin g coul d b e read! And those dry rouged lips that seemed at times—in their leanness and in the livid cast of their pigmentation— like those of a shrewd monkey , or a fox. After tha t i t wa s n o tim e a t al l befor e Jone s himsel f began to storm the rear of the house with lacerating regularity, denouncin g th e garde-manger' s bombe glacee; looking daggers at an unassuming laundry-maid's starch ; felling cakes with his bellow (and making a perfect federa l case over the regula r spectacl e o f Tom's intractabl e hair , which coul d neve r b e maintained , reall y ever, to Jones' s complete satisfaction) . I n short , asid e fro m hi s preco cious martinis, Tom had come to feel he could do almos t nothing right. Possibly (there was a surly mutter from th e region o f hi s belly ) th e futur e hel d n o mor e tha n sho e polish an d mucid groat s after all . ••

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Jones cooe d ominousl y "Yazzss, yazzss, you kno w we' d never deny you. Tes or no? Fabulous!" then slamme d th e receiver home . "Gawd ! I loathe climbers." He sprawled , overhanging the armrests of his low-backed leather chair, like a prodiga l cho p overwhelmin g a scan t bun . H e sighed, and with th e point o f a sharpened penci l stabbe d wearily a t a profusion o f luncheo n tart s pile d u p befor e

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him—then cuffe d th e platte r t o th e floor. Whe n stou t Toulouse lurche d dow n fro m th e daybe d t o investigate , Jones went still—the n ben t an d whizzsst at him peremp torily, lik e a hog passin g urine . Straightening , h e glow ered a t a puddle o f coffee gon e cold in his cup. Tom shifte d uneasil y in his chair, wishing not t o hee d these garis h and , on e earnesd y hoped , involuntar y be havioral spasms ; an d shuddere d inwardl y a t wha t mus t surely com e next . H e wa s unprepared , therefore , an d transparently taken abac k by Jones's first words. ••

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"Tom-Tom! Yo u know we rely on yo u ab-so-/00£-ly ! Yes or no ? Why , yo u deserv e a medal! " (Di d Jone s smirk ? Tom studie d th e floor.) "Don' t speak ! We al l know th e score. So! Can you imagin e ho w i t pains us, really pains us, to se e you skulkin g abou t so , so . . . Gawd! Well, we just can' t hav e it! " Jone s waited, kicke d peevishl y a t th e litter o f tarts ; then , shutterin g hi s eyes , buzze d silkily , "Tom-Tom! Tel l us, what is the matter? " And her e ou r shamed , spitles s hero—who' d bi d hi s gaze (atrembl e wit h tear s fro m th e momen t h e entere d the room ) remai n prostrat e upo n th e impeccabl e to e o f his shoe—a t las t looke d up , rathe r mor e tha n les s un done. A medal? La! He'd frankl y prepare d fo r the worst; now thes e expectation s buckle d i n a mos t astonishin g manner. He swallowed hard (glancing at the heap of broken tarts—the n hastil y away) . Wher e t o begin ! Arties s hick, ho w his stickling heart hemme d an d hawe d withi n

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his breast; at once fierce , an d the n again , so awfully, aw fully needy . The remorseful chil d in him wanted forgiveness, natu rally enough—and anothe r chance; wanted desperately to succeed, an d believed , perhaps , i t stil l might . Bu t hon estly, the complication s brough t t o bea r upo n th e situa tion rathe r exceede d hi s own ingenuity . I t wa s as simple (wasn't it?) as that. Tom haule d a bit a t th e slac k in hi s spine an d experi mentally coughed ; h e prodde d th e brightl y feathere d spectacle o f his Big Chance to th e foregroun d o f an oth erwise mode y lo t o f doubts . Jones , h e assure d himself , could only want the best for the Ruins; it stood to reason. And wasn't that all Tom wanted, as well? And say! Could Jones (wh o practicall y commande d hi m t o ope n hi s heart!), mightn't h e seem t o have, well, a "soft spot " fo r Tom? Well?

8— Thus it happened tha t To m (hi s misgiving heart makin g cynically for the door) determined t o make a clean breast of things . H e would confid e hi s hopes , hi s fears , t o Jones—why, a s a son t o a father! Surel y then , an d quit e naturally, Jone s woul d gras p an d moreove r commen d Tom's industr y an d zeal ; exonerat e hi s coinciden t de spair; and immediately pledge himself, with every instrument o f his agency , t o a friendly, all-aroun d reorganiza tion o f the Ruins . How coul d Tom lose?

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"Okay, well, the thing is, Mr. Jones, I . . . I have a vision—" To m looke d u p wit h shinin g eye s to find Jone s scrutinizing a small crust of yellowish matter upon the tip of his extended right forefinger. "Uh—you r u m . . . your restaurant, you see—" Jones flicke d th e withere d da b a t Toulouse , leane d back, folde d hi s arm s an d sai d nothing . Rattled , To m could not but envy the impression made by a pair of powerfully buil t knees , broadl y splaye d wit h swan k negli gence, their every tendon and ligament visibly abulge beneath th e tau t sheat h o f polyeste r trousers . Ala s (and , goodness knows , ou t o f th e blue) , thi s pictur e wa s fol lowed b y a private an d horrifyin g visio n o f Jone s o n al l fours amon g th e scattere d lee k an d mushroo m tarts , elbows bent , bell y brushin g th e ground , teet h burie d t o the gum s in th e pungen t scruf f o f the mutel y squirmin g Staffordshire. Fingertip s kneadin g a t th e bridg e o f hi s nose, the confused la d fumbled, understandably , with his next words . "Tha t i s t o say , thi s restaurant—fo r rne, I mean . . . " Jones swiveled in his chair to face Tom directly , form ing a bullhorn ou t o f both cuppe d hands . "NOW HEAR THIS! Mr. Tom—are you listening? THIS... i s NOT. . . a RESTAURANT!" Tom gawked, and Jones, satisfied, sa t back in his chair and continue d i n a slightiy les s strident , thoug h n o les s mocking, tone.

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"Haw! Th e expressio n o n you r fac e woul d b e a rea l holiday, i f i t weren' t al l s o tired-making . Let' s repeat , then, t o dispe l an y laggin g ambiguit y fro m you r grasp ing an d heroicall y mismanage d mind : Thi s i s not a restaurant! A restaur tint?Fegh ! Can' t imagin e wher e you get these unnatural ideas . Well, are you with us thus far?" Tom's prett y dream , half-reveale d an d astonished , withdrew instantly—like a tender white paw from a thundering highway—t o a remote, unmarke d burro w i n th e deepest fores t o f his sadl y vindicated heart . H e blinked . Not a restaurant? "We advise you, Tom, to put the swift kibosh on whatever delusion s you'v e cooke d u p i n tha t rust-buggere d kettle yo u kee p fo r a head . Th e Ruin s i s ours, our so called vision ! A vision t o whic h yo u see m not , withou t reservation, t o subscribe . Que l bore ! Let' s then , i f w e must, take a look a t the stickie r points bollixin g up you r expectations and— " Jone s ben t stiffly , snatche d a hand ful o f broken tart s an d bega n t o hur l the m i n small , calculated pieces , a t th e unblinkin g Toulouse , "Your . . . good . . . faith!v¥Lc spoke with undisguised ennui . "Primo. The people you so obstinately refer to as 'customers' i n your quaint , unimaginativ e way , are not. No t customers. And certainly not—as you now and then sanctimoniously proclaim—no t 'guests' . Numbe r two . You r so-called co-workers ? You've mistaken the m a s well. Further evidenc e o f tha t mawkis h solicitud e tha t earmark s the ran k amateur . Terzo. Imagine wha t yo u will , Tom -

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Tom, th e blindingl y bal d fac t i s you haven' t a shre d o f self-knowledge. Period . Ultimamente. Give n al l this , then what—an d w e can only shudder t o think—ca n yo u have arrived a t regarding us? Some kind of'boss' , i s that it? Is it? Bawz!" Jones glared at Tom, dropped his jaw and bleated lik e a lamb , "ba-aw-awz!"; raised on e eyebro w and sniffed. "Gawd! " Tom, bewildered, his concentration beginning to bob, was ye t agai n take n abac k b y Jones' s nex t pronounce ment which, for all its sour and mincing overtones, made an unexpected, if grudging appea l to hi s own mor e deli cate sensibilities. "What yo u mus t get an d endeavo r t o hol d firml y i n your homespun, workaday paw, is that we at the Ruins— that mean s yourself, Dam e Cynthi a Tilt , tha t tubercula r bum tha t stoke s th e furnace , you'r e gettin g this?—ar e simply One Bi g Family." He stopped , seemed glum , an d peered at Tom, wiggling his fingers squeamishly in the air between them . " I suppos e yo u ha d som e sor t o f famil y before you , egh, fetched u p here?" Tom blushed and bit his lip, remembering for the firs t time sinc e he' d arrive d hi s beloved , misspen t Rose : he r round, fair, yet easily flushed face ; round russe t eyes , like two sunburned apples ; winsome nostrils; chapped came o lips (tha t irresistibl e overbite!) ; an d thos e livel y loopin g copper curls, in which one might espy (as one's fancy betokened) a threa d o f Spanis h gold , o f saffron , o f flax . "And la," he recalled abruptly, "the poor belly, too! Popeyed! Rounder an d rounder . . . " Hi s heart bea t anxiou s

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wings at the thought o f her flagrant, inexpungabl e girth . Darling Rose ! Hi s littl e re d hen ! Hi s luck y chestnut ! His— "Well jus t forge t abou t them, " Jones' s voic e cu t in , "—whoever the y were . Snip ! snip ! an d th e pas t i s past . You have a new family now. Period. Still with us? In short , not a riz-drah-uhn . . . ^ he dangled the word disdainfull y like a shot 'possu m b y its tail, "but i n fact th e bes t o f all homes, an d thos e o f us here you r real family—second t o none. Fabulous, yes or no? Merde!" Jones's face closed up in a cautious, inclement fist . H e sneeze d (To m felt an errant dro p strik e impersonall y agains t hi s cheek) , hel d a finger t o eac h nostril an d sniffe d wit h langui d puissance , then went on . "Now then, like every menage, we have our own special, unspoken little rule s an d what-not . Yaazzss , many , many littl e way s an d what-nots . Naturally ! Thi s i s th e highest of households, ne plus ultra! Now, while some of these unspoke n littl e what-not s ma y seem , t o th e out sider, obscure—you migh t say improvident—they're eac h of them , withou t exception , indispensibl e t o th e bal l o f wax. Tour problem , Tom , i s tha t yo u don' t kno w th e rules! Am I right ? Don' t speak ! Let' s tak e a n example . Let's take , i n fact , a particularl y dreary example . G o ahead, you choose it. " Tom, who was still nowhere up to speed, tugged a t an opportune cowlick . H e simpl y ha d n o ide a wha t Jone s was getting at . "Uhm, well . . . I guess I'm no t quit e following you?"

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"An example, for god's sake! A fucking case in point!" Jones's heel s gnashe d th e floor lik e vehemen t molars . "Really, Tom, you're beginnin g t o tr y ou r patience ! N o doubt yo u hav e names for thes e obstinat e stick s up you r tender, tiresom e ass . Tell you what! I f you can' t remem ber 'em, just reach back, yank one out, and tell us what it says. For gawd's sake!" Tom's ear s burne d an d a woeful lum p forme d i n hi s chest, crept into his throat and took unavailing refuge be hind hi s alread y cowerin g laryn x ( a reluctan t soldie r a t best, an d notabl y unequa l t o th e situatio n a t hand) . T o think he' d imagine d Jone s harbore d anythin g lik e a sof t spot for him ! Obstinate sticks? Jones leane d coyl y ove r th e desk , chidin g To m wit h bland, buttery bonhomie . "Just kidding, Tom-Tom ! We forget you'r e ne w here, the 'baby' of the family, eh? Following our analogy! Now, nothing t o b e afrai d of . Simpl y tel l u s on e thin g that' s been troublin g you , on e thin g yo u feel , oh , get s i n th e way, makes life seem hard, hmmm? Jus t any little thing. " Tom shifte d i n feebl e resentment , stil l smartin g fro m the sting of Jones's previous lashes. "Okay, um, well I guess you could say the menu thin g has bee n botherin g me . Yo u know , ho w th e men u changes ever y night ? Bu t fo r som e reaso n n o on e eve r gets around t o printin g u p new ones? Okay , sure, sometimes there' s on e o r two , but othe r times—no t on e sin gle menu! " To m shoo k hi s hea d incredulously , an d began, despit e hi s initia l doubts , t o war m t o hi s topic .

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"You can' t imagin e ho w annoyin g tha t gets—and , gee , inconvenient! No w I'v e aske d th e offic e t o please make sure an d hav e the m read y before w e open , right ? Bu t I don't know , it's like they don't hea r me or something, or just don't care. Which, come t o thin k o f it, is what really gets—" Jones cut in brusquely. " The menu thing. Perfect. Thi s is precisel y wha t we'r e gettin g at . Gawd." He paused , then leaned on both elbows and aimed a finger at Tom in dour contention . "Ask yourself this, Tom. Would you—and in your own home!—hand ou t menu s t o you r family?" H e nodde d significandy. "G o ahead, think it over. It won't be easy for someone o f your, egh, resources." Young Tom (bu t what did Jones mean: resources?) was clearly in the hot seat ; his response was exploratory. "Well, I mea n . . . no! M y family, you'r e askin g me ? N-no, I shouldn't think— " u Correctamundo. Men u schmenu ! What' s goo d enough for family is perfect here. Get the picture? Say you do." Tom frowned. Th e fact was, he didn't ge t it. The idea didn't reall y hold water, because—well, because . . . "But thes e people!" he finally objected. "They'r e not, well, they're not all the same. They don't—the y expect, I think—to b e treated, well . . . differently. I— " "Differently!" Jone s marveled . "Say , don' t pul l you r punches!" Rising , h e bega n t o wande r th e room , con stellating the blu e and gold Qu m sil k rug with the finally

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irreclaimable remnants of his squandered luncheon . "It's rather more complicated, more insidious, than that." H e stopped befor e a wall display of priceless Sevres china, in the center of which a life-sized bas-relie f wolf disemboweled a wild-eyed ewe. "Tell us Tom, are you familiar wit h the seve n so-called 'deadly ' sins?"

9— Tom perked u p and, sure of himself for once, responde d with impruden t bravado . "Yo u bet! Pride, lechery, envy, anger, covetousness , gluttony , an d uh , slot h . . . that' s them." "You bet!" Jones's voice mimicked Tom's with careless derision. "That's theml Ugh . That's the m al l right. Th e trouble is , you swaggerin g littl e choirboy , th e lis t i s incomplete—a ludicrou s oversight—bu t d o yo u thin k a person coul d ge t anythin g change d i n thi s world ? Sa y what you will, if we ran things our way . . ." Jones seemed to drift, the n spu n on his heel. Arms pressed tightly over his belly , h e leane d towar d Tom , hi s outiandis h voic e ripped by urgency and what struck our hero's astonishe d ears as genuine grief . "Of all the evils and errors practiced by man, Tom, the worst—the very worst —is ingratitude! Ingratitud e an d ambition. Neve r forget ! Ther e ar e n o huma n failing s more regrettabl e tha n these! " Tom felt , an d could not prevent, a rush o f blood suf fuse his cheeks; there was, in fact, a distinct sob in Jones's

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voice. Throwing himsel f into a brocade chai r b y the fire , Jones closed his eyes and folded hi s hands on his pot, elbows winging. "The world, " h e lamented , "i s no t wha t i t onc e was. No! And we gravely lament its decline. It's a fact that th e primary agen t o f mora l deca y is , withou t contest , th e almighty buck . Ar e yo u wit h us , s o far ? Mammo n ha s evermore buttere d th e pans of illicit, unsavory pies." H e sighed. "Oh, it wasn't s o bad when the shekels stayed tight in the hand s o f th e dissolut e few—on e knew them. Popes , princes, no w an d the n a smart whore . Bu t th e proble m these days is that everyonehas it. Chiropractors! TV hosts! Those weird kid s i n software ? Republica n petite-noblesse . . . And why they must brin g their insensible bellie s here . . . they don't kno w Spode from a hubcap. And cognac ? They'll sip—i f you watch —but they' d rathe r hav e beer . "Well excuse me ? It' s tired-making ! We know they'r e faking." Jone s opene d on e eye , skewering Tom wit h hi s glance. "Climbersis al l that they are, get the picture? Un grateful, ambitious— and hal f of them queer. " Tom himsel f fel t increasingl y unfit , an d reele d i n hi s chair like a pie-eyed tailor . Jones's short , powerfu l inde x finger poked absently into the depths of a potted amaryl lis, scattering crumb s o f soil across the inlai d table , as he continued. "Let's face it, your 'averag e man' is, by nature, a more or les s spineless , snivelin g lout . Weak-willed , hairsplit ting. Not ashame d t o tip his hat, lick your boots, or bug-

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ger hi s (obliging! ) mothe r fo r th e favo r o f a musty bun . You may have noticed. These make up the hoi polloi, 'the blunt monster with uncounted heads, the still-discordan t wavering multitude. ' Gawd!" Jone s jerke d hi s chin . "That on e certainly knew his onions. "Bellies, Tom . That' s al l the y are , al l they'l l eve r be ! World without end , amen. Just bellies. Think abou t it. " Tom might have, but for the scarcely muffled, lugubri ous so b tha t rose , immediately , fro m th e regio n o f hi s own belly . Jones, gazing into the flames, twirled his dirtied finger knowingly, dismissively. "You too , of course. Don' t tr y t o hid e it . It' s writte n all over your face . Belly" H e glance d ove r one shoulder . "Why, what's the matter, Tom-Tom? You're looking very withered prune. To o graphic ? Fo r a n old guttersnip e lik e you?" "The point bein g tha t given th e bu n (o r mor e likel y having wrestle d i t fro m someon e else) , eve n a n un counted head might show a little gratitude., as would befi t a strictly unmerited advantage. As it happens, this is rarely the case. While the bellies that have-not pull strings, drop names, and machinate, the bellies that have bite the han d that bestowe d th e bun . Climber s an d ingrates , is what i t amounts to . Th e onl y thin g tha t differentiate s the m i s what sid e o f th e tabl e they'r e fate d t o work—server , o r served. I n th e end , o f course , it' s al l on e trough. " H e paused. "Now liste n Tom , ther e ar e precisel y tw o way s o f combating th e blun t monster : Law , an d th e Bi g Stick .

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The first metho d i s arguabl y prope r t o civilize d men . After all , a well-rendered law represents the imminence of force, whic h i s i n genera l immeasurabl y mor e versatil e than the clumsy stick itself, more incisive, more— gawdl" He pause d t o cas t a cold, furiou s ey e in th e directio n o f Toulouse, jus t awak e an d laborin g immodestl y a t hi s post-slumber ablutions . "Fegh! Mankin d is , as we've jus t agreed , inconstant , and will succumb at once to the blandishments of cruelty, luxury—ambition an d ingratitude!—an d ever y othe r si n of expedience. They're almost never good voluntarily, oh no, bu t mus t b e made goo d b y th e threa t o f force , poverty, shame—and b y their own fear, in the absence of which men submi t t o evil tout de suite." "But surely, " To m finally manage d t o speak , "on e can . . . ca n pu t onesel f i n another' s place ! An d b y s o doing—" "You, Tom , ar e delirious. Don't speak ! Simpl y sho o that idea back beneath whatever rock you found it . Onc e and for all, men do not choose to 'b e good,' the y choose to be fed." "But virtue is teachable, isn't it ? Men ar e morally, uh, educable?" "As a dog who learns to walk on its hind legs! As a rat who, through a maze, sniffs ou t th e cheese! The law, understand, merel y serve s a s a correctiv e bi t i n men' s mouths." "And if. . ." Tom coul d no t hel p himself, "if the laws themselves are bad?"

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Jones heave d himsel f ou t o f th e chai r (upsettin g th e potted plan t i n th e process) , and crosse d t o th e daybed . Arms akimbo , h e stoo d ove r th e immerse d pooc h who , tongue toilin g a t hi s privat e parts , manage d t o rol l on e bleary eye up t o mee t hi s master's. Jones spok e t o Tom , but hi s thought s seeme d t o b e closin g i n o n somethin g else. "What is it with you an d thi s 'bad-good ' thing ? Bad , good, right, wrong! Get this straight, little bean-counter : all things of this world must remain true to the principles governing them at their inception. Ergo men , wh o ar e born int o sin , are not onl y more intelligibl e a s a species, but really most comfortable wit h themselves with tha t provision kept firmly i n mind. Besides , who ar e you t o chal lenge tried-and-tru e principles? " Jone s turne d abrupd y and went bac k to sit behind hi s desk. "Anyway, we'r e no t talkin g philosoph y here , we'r e talking about ho w not t o run a riz-drah-uhn. No w then , as to your perfectiy cynica l request, last week, for a 'coa t check'—" "But, but. . . isn't it possible to—to rule by . . . love?" Tom b y thi s tim e hadn' t a n inklin g a s t o wha t the y were talkin g about , an d hardl y kne w himsel f wha t h e meant b y love. "That i s to say, well, must fear an d fear alon e b e what makes men . . . behave?" At this , t o ou r hero' s grea t surprise , Jones' s fac e changed; a kin d o f resignatio n softene d i t t o nea r ap -

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proachability; and Tom's own fisted belly relaxed the tiniest bit , untuckin g it s nos e fro m beneat h it s turne d tail , upper lip quivering indecisively . "Love! Gaw d yes ! On e woul d kno w you' d brin g u p that ol d saw. " Shoulder s saggin g (weary ? To m won dered), Jone s nevertheles s manage d a schoolboy' s flip pant simpe r and teased his sagging tenor up a n octave. "Is it better to be loved or feared? Well strictl y of f th e record, in our opinion that dull hash will never be settled. Too many variables. We therefore sugges t a more practi cal question : i s i t mor e reliable to b e love d o r feared ? Don't strai n yourself , bo y wonder ! Th e answer , tak e i t from us , is feared. Less equivocal , les s vulnerable t o ap peal. Results , Tom, ar e th e botto m lin e here . And wha t are we asking for, anyway ? Obedience, a little respect. . . this is the fatherland nest. Don' t speak! "

10— The telephone rang as, with one hand, Jones drew a tiny, nickel-plated revolver from th e disorder of his desk, took unhurried aim , and fired thre e shot s in quic k successio n at the preoccupied Staffordshire . Wit h hi s other han d h e lifted th e receiver . Tom (staggere d b y the gun's sudden appearance, he'd immediately covered his eyes with both hands) heard th e shots, the single, astonished yelp. If he'd felt insubstantia l before, h e wa s no w i n dange r o f completel y slithering ,

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like a n unoccupie d se t o f clothes, down th e fron t o f his chair. Folding at the waist, he dropped his forehead t o his knees. "We're talking," Jone s ha d insisted , "about how not to run a restaurant" S o b e it , bu t di d h e mea n ho w not t o ru n a restaurant ? O r ho w no t t o ru n a restaurant! Tom couldn' t say , wouldn' t dare . Indee d hi s hear t (everlastingly abashed) hid its face a t the memory of that private, princely, uncompromisin g optimis m wit h whic h he'd assumed custody of the Ruins. Sure, he'd set his cap, and who wouldn't! A green lad' s untarnished, inaugura l conceit. . . He was tireless in his efforts no t merel y to fi t in (which seemed the right approach), but likewise to impart the sort of dispassionate moral rectitude he'd felt incumbent upo n someon e i n hi s position. And still , at th e first signs of trouble, he' d playe d a modest hand . Draft ing deceptivel y casua l report s (togethe r wit h elegant , inarguable reforms!) , he' d recenti y impresse d thi s note book upo n Ugo , an d hoped , naturally , i t was to discus s these idea s tha t Jone s ha d summone d hi m thi s deadly , unforetellable afternoon . Fair hope, your goose is cooked! Three bris k bullet s an d this , this is what i t ha d com e to, no more : tough love , family values, and a dog bleed ing to death o n th e daybed ! Jones's voice , al l curdle d mil k an d venom , at e a crooked pat h throug h Tom' s thoughts . "Yazzss , yazzss

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. . . whatever yo u want ! Hav e w e eve r faile d you? " H e made disagreeabl e face s a t th e receiver— yazzss—then, bored, jerked the cord from th e wall, dropped th e whole apparatus dow n amon g th e ravage d tarts , an d turne d once more to Tom, still jackknifed acros s his own check ered lap. "Now, fo r th e mos t par t th e syste m works . There is , however, a s yo u yoursel f brough t u p wit h strictl y wit less foresight , thi s pesk y . . . O h fo r gawd' s sake ! You , Tom! Wha t kin d o f insolenc e d o yo u cal l that ? Si t u p this instant ! Gawd. You hav e al l th e gri t o f a sic k kit ten!" Tom force d himsel f int o a n uprigh t position , hi s fin gers leavin g re d mark s wher e they' d presse d int o hi s cheeks. And the gun? No sign of it. Hmmm, perhaps he'd been overreacting; could he have imagined the three neat bullets, th e bodiles s yelp ? Bloo d throbbe d behin d hi s eyes, then whoosh! Ugh. Peopl e worked to o hard; hysterics were th e natura l result . Al l th e same , h e didn' t dar e look over his shoulder. Woo. Sit up this instant! Well, perhaps ther e wa s somethin g t o b e gaine d fro m thi s inter view yet. Jones glared from th e end of a long, dim, fuzz y tunnel, and Tom peered back : skeptical, rather nauseous. He groaned , shoo k hi s head , grinne d sickishly . "Um m . . . I—excuse me? " Jones closed his eyes, lips pursed i n a tight, tremblin g bud, the n burs t out , "Jus t wh o th e hel l d o the y thin k they are , anyway ? Gawd! Gawd! Ingrates! Know-it-alls ! Poseurs!"

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He ben t awkwardly , picke d u p th e telephon e and — with a weak overhand an d a stertorous grunt—sent i t careering, th e receive r loopin g crazil y a t th e en d o f it s springy cord , int o th e wal l o f hand-painte d Sevres . La ! The strident , discontinuou s clamo r o f tumbling plates— one dischargin g th e other ; thei r rollickin g encounte r with a third, an d s o on—seeme d briefl y t o appeas e an d unite, in some unspoken, unaccountable way, the two attentive bystanders . I t was , To m allowed , a surprisingl y agreeable sound . As though readin g hi s mind , Jone s winked . "Divine , isn't it ? The y simpl y don' t mak e chin a lik e tha t any more." H e rummage d impatientl y amon g th e paper s o n his desk . "Yazzss. Th e so-calle d gastronomica l Elect ! Haw! Who si t at their tables , indifferent a s oysters i n a n oyster bed . Wha t they do no t kno w i s tha t fo r wantin g too much , indiscriminately , the y wil l find themselve s i n the en d wit h nothin g a t all . We are her e t o guarante e that. A h . . . " He turned , on e ar m hel d stiffl y awa y fro m hi s body , and fro m th e uncharitabl e pince r o f thumb an d forefin ger dangle d a slender , sky-blu e notebook . "Latel y brought t o ou r attention : Policy and Procedures at the Ruins. Gawd ! A list o f strictl y crimina l bushwah . Don' t kid yourself, Tom . . . " Jone s moved to a candelabra. On e by on e h e rippe d eac h tid y pag e fro m it s bindin g an d toasted it over the circlet of flames; then—as quickly as it darkened, blazed—tosse d eac h on e asid e t o flare wist fully, and expire. In the end, he nudged on e toe throug h

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the scan t gra y ash . "Constructiv e criticism ? Anathema. Don't le t it happen again. " Our her o watche d wit h grogg y fascinatio n a s pag e after pag e o f his lovingly compose d repor t wen t fluttering t o th e floor o n scorched , smokin g wings . Woul d Jones never stop talking ? To m fough t agains t a desire t o close his eyes while Jones's voice tumbled lik e coarse grit in his ears, finally diminishing to an aberrant buzz , a dull fly sluggishly circlin g th e room . ("Chees e paring s an d penny wisdom? No one gets out o f here without dessert ! Is that clear? If they order one, bring them two y and . . .") His hea d lolle d agains t th e bac k o f hi s chair ; h e fel t a s though he were drowning—no, falling! Falling! ("Forge t what you know! Fat of the land, try that on for . . .") Hi s arms and legs began t o prickle. It was pleasant, at first— and then not so pleasant. Forget what you know? ("Sauee is everything . . . v ) Alas, when ou r hapless lad shifts i n his seat, the prick les in hi s arm s an d legs—lulle d t o a blun t tingle , a moment before—flas h suddenl y t o lif e wit h th e exquisit e fury of tiny daggers. Tom's eyes fly open as he yelps "Ow! Oh, no!" WHAT WAS THAT, TOU INSUFFERABLE PUNK?!

Instantly Jones was before him, had seized the front o f his shirt in one colossa l fist, and was hoisting him effort lessly up out of his chair. "That word!" Jones hissed, with a flourish that rattle d th e tack s in the terrifie d lad' s arm s and legs , " . . . i s not par t o f th e vocabular y here! "

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Abruptly, Jones dropped hi m (To m clutche d a t the chai r to prevent a nasty spill) , and turne d hi s attention t o th e daybed wher e stou t Toulous e indee d la y motionless i n a sordid puddl e o f blood. Jone s poked speculativel y a t th e burst brow n sausage , then reache d down , lifte d th e do g by its scruff an d turne d bac k t o Tom , eyebrow s lifte d i n polite inquiry . "We trust this has been a helpful chat ? Not a riz-drahuhn at all, is it? Gawd, the idea!" Jones crossed the room , Toulouse held absendy before hi m like a cat put out with the milk, an exiguous trickle of gore scarcely defacing th e blue and gol d fantasia o f the rug . At th e swingin g doo r leadin g t o th e kitche n Jone s paused, turned, lips puckered in labored vexation. "No w will you ge t thi s mess cleaned up ? The Fe l Belcombes — hirn, not her —claim, with perfecd y savag e insolence , t o have schedule d a private part y fo r thi s room . Liars ! They'll b e her e i n thirt y minutes , with goodnes s know s how man y mang y littl e parasites i n tow . And what, pray tell, we'll fee d the m . . . " To m hear d a horrified gasp — Toulouse!—as th e doo r swung-t o behin d Jones' s broad , impassive back .

11 — Head shakin g i n wordles s denial , ou r her o stoo d o n weak, tremblin g legs . He too k unvarnishe d stoc k o f th e wrack an d squalo r o f smashe d tarts , scorne d ashes , an d unspeakable carnag e stil l roilin g i n th e wak e o f Jones' s

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stunning passage . . . an d with a sigh began, mechanically, to tidy up. Then stops , his thin wrist s danglin g lik e bel l clapper s in their starche d cuffs . H e stops ! His cupped ear s flush a shade of astonished pink . What is it? Stiffly, self-consciously , To m edge s towar d th e stand ing frenc h door s tha t fram e th e vacan t dinin g Salo n where plush , melon-gree n drape s ar e half-drawn , chan deliers dimme d t o a n erubescen t glow . A final bea m o f afternoon ligh t stray s acros s th e room , pensiv e a s a young gir l with downcast , calculatin g eye s (coyly fingering th e cambere d back s of diligently sucke d spoons , th e spent petal s o f exquisitel y pantin g lilies , th e over wrought knob s o f polishe d grate s an d memorialize d marble pates) . A doze n camelli a tree s pres s agains t th e walls lik e tall , bedazzle d debutante s a t thei r first ball ; and a t eithe r en d o f th e roo m eac h beckonin g hearth' s aflutter wit h canar y an d finch-yellow flames. Sure , th e rugs wer e strictl y lousy—claret-stippled , unkempt . Bu t Tom himsel f ha d place d ever y chai r roun d ever y table , just so> th e tau t sil k of each upholstered sea t suavely kissing th e he m o f a table's chaste , maidenly skirt . O n eac h table th e poutin g lowe r li p o f a singl e ros e wa s blush ingly proffered ; an d everywher e th e air , lissom e an d honeycombed wit h light , sighe d an d stoo d an d stretched itsel f wit h th e warm , allurin g curve s o f radi antly inspired flesh. Well? Something tremble d o h s o feebl y i n Tom' s agitate d breast. A discrete spark? A diffident glimme r of. . . what?

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Disaffection? Revolt ? (Well , revolt is perhaps too muscu lar a word fo r wha t ou r her o experienced. ) What , then ? What? Tom straightened, planted both fists atop his hips, and tsk'd out lou d (hi s belly, suspicious, pricking one ear). Whyj this was no fatherland nest!

In the heat of the moment, Jones could certainly queer up a fellow' s thinking . Bu t i n fac t i t wa s a miracl e th e Ruins ( a priceless pearl! ne plus ultra!) ha d survive d tha t madman's visio n thu s far . Di d To m exaggerate ? Ha ! Daily ther e wer e rumor s o f flagrant licensin g violations , condemnatory healt h inspectors , puveyors stormin g th e door. Jone s flatly would not have a financial consultant , but ran through a brisk and illimitable series of junior accountants (each , b y som e remarkabl e coincidence , named Lou) . Revenu e official s levele d fine afte r fine— OK! Hi s bristlin g creditor s calle d hi m Mr . Johns, Jobes, or Joy . Jone s neve r calle d them , an d behave d wit h supreme indifferenc e wit h regard s to th e manifol d peril s of his (as they^d say) "particulars." He was blithe in general, as far as that went; and a day did no t pas s when th e S S Ruins di d no t founde r agains t some unforeseeable iceber g o f Jones' s creation . Some thing he' d promised —never intending t o provide ; something, a s was ofte n th e case , more o r les s impossibl e t o provide. (A certain poet laureate—dead, as it happened— for tea!) Tom negotiated eac h new provocation with tac t

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and ingenuity , onl y thankfu l no t t o b e squattin g o n a sidewalk in the rain. After all — It could be worse!

But could it? The Ruins, Tom now realized, was in the hands o f a n extravagant , i f charismatic , crackpot . Ou r hero trembled, dazzled b y the new, illuminating secret in his heart : tha t fo r al l Jones' s peremptor y huffin g an d puffing, i t was actually he, Tom (th e so-called baby of the family!) wh o really understood th e place. So, it had onl y been a few weeks? Still, Tom wa s sure now that fro m th e moment h e was born (an d indeed , perhaps befor e that! ) the Ruins and he were conjoined i n some unnamable, coincident destiny . Dazed—a t th e portal s o f heaven , a s i t were—our dawdlin g her o gaze d (rapt , reverent ; an d a t last, he ventured t o submit, redeemable) into the soulful , twilit interio r o f the unshuttere d Salon . H e felt , oh ! H e felt like, like . . . Hmm, a champion? Sure, that's the ideal. . . After all, a guy had to draw the line somewhere. If he didn't go to bat for the Ruins, who would? Ugo? Ha ha! that slippery eel! ... As for those others!... Tou had to admit, in a way Jones had hit the nail on the head when it came to human nature. Couldn't call this a trusty bunch . . . 'Mangy little parasites, ' hee hee!—not that they were all bad! Still. . . Time would tell! A champion was a champion! When Tom' s secon d waite r burs t i n loudly , hi s stun ning blu e eye s red-rimmed an d laughing , lip s poised t o

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describe ho w he' d manage d t o arriv e s o lat e (again!) , Tom wave d hi m awa y wit h unprecedente d insouciance , and wit h n o furthe r hesitatio n entere d th e Salon . (Tha t Paulie! A regular wastrel whose wealthy mother had convinced Jones that al l her boy needed was some "practica l experience.") Well, well, they' d see . A champio n wa s a champion ! Ruthlessly Tom inspected the tables, detailing a salad fork here, a salt cella r there , his blissfu l ey e peeled t o th e ar rant ways of water spots , tarnish, an d lint . Just so, just so. By jove, how he admired—revered!—each an d ever y detail, from the cunning brass key used to open the gas fires, to th e imperia l pin k marbl e fountai n plashin g gravel y a t the cente r of the room. H e loved the goldfis h . . . But a moment later , glancing from th e Salon into th e adjacent hall , Tom was arrested, as usual, by the fantasti c and possibly vulgar taste displayed by a series of portraits lining thos e walls , eac h o f whic h feature d a n anima l whimsically portrayed i n the trappings of upper crus t society. There was a thin chinless zebra in top hat an d tails; a dowage r lobste r i n evenin g gown , lorgnette , an d glit tering tiara ; a n apoplecti c biso n a t hi s cups ; a froth y french poodl e flauntin g decolletag e an d a n implausibl e pink bouffant. . . Tom foun d thes e caricatures facetious , even bizarre ; an d vowed , the n an d there , t o hav e the m removed—first thing!—afte r deliverin g th e Ruin s fro m Jones's lethal designs. And just what did that mean, deliver the Ruins?

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Tom too k a dee p breath , turne d o n hi s hee l an d walked straigh t int o th e indifferen t wither s o f a mam moth hog . He clutche d a t his face (hi s nose! was it bleeding?), kicke d furiousl y a t th e bronz e trotter' s clove n hooves an d fumed . Alas , ha d tha t sill y Ada's breathles s disclosures onl y been confirme d wit h regards to thi s notorious titan: to an elephant Tom might have surrendered a place—bu t this! Not onl y di d i t loom , corpulen t an d vastly mor e complacen t tha n an y mer e elephant ; bu t i t was daube d al l over , rathe r farcically , i n gol d leaf , an d moreover festoone d wit h painte d garland s o f simperin g wildflowers an d glossily enticing fruits, with scurrying insects and pursuant, vaguely human-faced birds . An imperial lei of plump plaster sausages encircled it s neck. Inge niously designed , th e razorbac k conceale d a powerfu l motor, accessed through a hatch in its belly, which, when activated, empowere d it s enormous hea d t o circle—eye s to roll, tail to corkscrew—round an d round. Guests never failed to marvel at the leering colossus; the loud mechan ical whine of its motor di d not distrac t the m i n the least . Indeed ther e were any number o f them wh o made a virtual ritual, each time they arrived, of sending Tom dow n among th e pinched , grizzle d teat s t o plug y er in whil e they stoo d b y snickering, o r waggin g thei r head s i n be sotted wonder . The Pig , Tom instantl y resolved, must go , along with the galler y of grotesques. A clean sweep was the thing — reforms! modern methods ! Was this a place for lewdness,

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for caperin g beasts, for scandalou s busines s practices, fo r dead dogs ? The Ruin s had promised him , from th e first , his Bi g Chance . No w To m vowed , wit h al l th e misdi rected fervo r an d credulity o f youth, to d o everythin g i n his power t o defen d tha t chance—t o save the Ruins , and in so doing, to save himself.

CHAPTER FOU R

In Which Tom Is Keacquainted with Some Old Friends

12— U u r her o too k ai m a t hi s targe t anew , fire d b y th e in fatuation an d zea l tha t spel l success . I t wa s no t hi s jo b now, but hi s mission, his crusade, and lik e any fanatic h e not only pledged himself, but labored frankly for the conversion o f others . Mornings , polishin g silve r wit h hi s staff, he congratulated the m generally , then spok e firmly , very firmly, of thei r obligation s ("no t a job a t all , bu t a kind of stewardship, do you see?"), and of the opportuni ties he saw both t o advanc e and exalt their lot . "It's more than ' a place for everything and everythin g in its place,' though tha t would hardl y go amiss , ha ha! " (Here th e hois t of one studie d bro w and a wry, regretfu l nod.) "Kink s need ironing—well, I've go t a slew of ideas on that score, let me assure you! But this is different, eh ? It's go t t o d o with—well , with attitude, an d u h . . . investment. With a n appreciation for—o f the , um . . . " 111

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Come t o think o f it, "attitude " wasn't what he mean t at all. Indeed, Tom hardly knew himself what precisely he was getting at, and could only gesture vaguely at a nameless conviction that had overtaken his heart in those brief, invincible moment s followin g hi s intervie w wit h Jones . An air of. . .for the, uh— "Sublime?" Spoons and forks, murky with polish, hovered i n midai r while Tom, oblivious , continued t o wrestle with his idea. "That might be it. An air of the sublime. Not jus t gettin g th e jo b done , yo u see , bu t havin g th e sense, n o matte r ho w apparend y insignifican t th e task , that in fact. . . Look—" Tom leaned toward the m ove r a clutter o f smeared cutler y an d they , poking on e anothe r self-importandy, leane d towar d him . To m spoke slowly , but wit h urgency . "Thi s i s our bi g chance . Without th e Ruins peopl e lik e u s are , ar e . . . without hope. Do yo u know what I mean?" The bright encircling faces nodded , it seemed to Tom, with approval and encouragement. H e nodded back , bu t wondere d i f h e wa s makin g himsel f perfecdy clear . ••

•

The nex t day he sought ou t Ugo . "In fact , m y friend, i n fact ! Tel l the m wha t yo u wan t from them—you r prerogative , naturally . Yo u mus t la y down th e law." They were standin g i n th e Avocado Room , starin g a t a group of paintings from which one apparendy was missing. Ugo speculate d cheerfully .

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"The questio n is— the question is!—who managed th e heist? Paulie ? No , hardl y Paulie' s style . Ver y delicate , very, hmm, yes . . . delicate." He glanced up at Tom, who couldn't honestl y recal l anothe r paintin g ther e a t all . "Fear not, my friend, you are above my suspicions. Still!" Ugo's bro w arche d with orienta l precision. "Diplomacy , eh? Say , for example , Jone s himsel f instigate d th e re moval—to cover tonight's roast goose? Or our own humble salaries! In fact! Nothing new! A painting here, a case of cognac . . . What d o we do? We close ou r eyes—half close them!—an d wait . W e preten d no t t o notice . W e play heads or tails with ou r paychecks. What else ! In thi s case, w e alte r th e groupin g . . . " Ug o scampere d u p a stepladder, made a few adjustments i n the arrangement of paintings, "—so ! Business a s usual! Th e paintin g i s for gotten!" Shocked, To m burs t ou t angrily . "But , bu t that' s exactly what I wanted t o talk to you about! " Ugo looke d dow n o n hi m coolly . "Yes ? A confession ! Tou took th e painting?" "What? No ! Of course not— " "You know who did?" "No, no—that's no t what I mean a t all! I don't kno w anything abou t th e painting . I' m jus t saying , I mean — well, your attitude! But attitude i s not. . . Oh! this is just the problem I was having before! " And Tom went o n t o describe hi s conversations with th e staff, endin g with: " I only want i t understood tha t thi s is more . . . more tha n just a job ! I mysel f feel—tha t is , pledg e t o protect th e

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Ruins fro m . . . from whateve r migh t har m it, " h e finished weakly. Ugo toye d wit h th e poin t o f hi s elaboratel y waxe d beard. "Yes, well! Of course my friend, your commitmen t is clear . Commendable ! And—i n stric t confidence , yo u understand—long overdu e here. " H e shoo k hi s hea d meaningfully an d repeated, "Long overdue." Tom wa s take n abac k b y Ugo' s candi d admission . "Well, than k yo u . . . tha t is , yes . I hop e yo u kno w you ca n trus t me , tha t I woul d neve r let , um , le t yo u down . . . " "The Ruins, le t down th e Ruins!" "Well yes! Exactly—" "For what, but the Ruins, do we toil? Eh, my friend? " "Yes, yes, that's it exacdy! " "All one in one grea t concern! That's it?" "Why Ugo , yo u understan d exactly. Oh , yo u can' t imagine ho w importan t thi s i s t o me—t o al l o f us , I mean—I mean , to the Ruins^ a s you said . . . " "You said ! N o nee d t o 'imagine. ' Behol d you r radi ant face ! Your , well , shal l w e cal l i t an air of the sublime?" "Yes! That's exactly what I' m tryin g to get across! An air of the sublime. If we all join together— " "But ever y shi p ha s just on e helm ? I n fact ! Yo u tak e my meaning? Les s a matter o f seniority o r rank tha n ini tiative. Inspiration ! I n short , m y friend , ho w very welcome yo u are . Bu t now , a little surprise ! You'l l se e I'v e not bee n blin d to your Augean labors. Come— "

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Ugo hopped from th e rung of his ladder and our hero, elated, inten t o n hi s own thoughts , followe d hi m i n th e direction of the Maisonette. All down the bustiing utility hall, the people they met—secretaries, dishwashers, laundry maids , electricians—greete d To m enthusiastically , making bi g eyes and whispering in his ear. "When th e time comes, Tom . . . " "—count o n me! " "We rely on you, Tom, a thousand percent!" Tom, flattere d b y thei r sudde n an d vehemen t en dorsement, smiled and touched hi s cap, not entirel y persuaded b y th e displa y Could h e coun t o n them ? Eve n Ugo, even Conchita, seemed, well, "unpredictable." Tr y telling him it wasn't hard work understanding thes e people! H e bi t hi s lip, pushing pas t a small Filipin o woma n who clun g t o hi s arm , grinnin g an d shakin g he r hips . Ugo waite d a t th e doo r o f th e Maisonette . "Afte r you , my friend . . . " But—jjood heavens! What was this?

13— A glad cry—a resentful grunt—an d a t once a slight young girl rose from a chair before th e hearth, spilling Toulouse from he r disorderly skirts. Toulouse! but he—? Tom stared . I t was . . . was that Ada? H e glance d un easily at her feet, bu t the white patent leather boots were gone. Atop her cloudy head sat a hat with a scrap of veil.

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"Ada?" "That's right ! Tom , it' s me ! Aren't yo u surprised ? I n fact, /ca n hardl y believe I'm here—here ! The Ruins!" Tom glance d a t Ugo, who immediately bowed—onc e for Ada ; again , wit h a n impuden t wink , a t Tom . "Mis s Ada, Tom . Alread y acquainted ? Ver y good , ver y good ! Then I'l l be off! On e thing, Tom—I have the utmost confidence in you. Miss Ada, welcome! Tom wil l se e to yo u now—can't g o wron g i f yo u follo w hi s lead . I n fact! " And, almost skipping, Ugo was gone. Tom an d Ada watched hi m leave , then turne d t o on e another, Ada beaming a s usual. The fac t is , their origina l meeting a t the Groanin g Boar d no w struck Tom a s having happened in another life, to another person, even. He was terribly taken aback . "You, you're . . . how are you?" Ada continued t o smile, glanced at the floor an d then , timidly, al l aroun d her , takin g i n th e clever , i f slighd y grotesque, antie r chandelier—th e leopar d ski n hearth rug—the ebon y inlai d sid e tables . She was clearl y transported; her ivory skin glowed, her soft, ashe n hair roile d about he r hea d lik e smoke . "Jeez, " sh e whispered , he r round eye s shining, "it' s really something, isn't it?" At thi s To m softened , i f onl y slighdy . H e playe d n o small part in the spectacle, after all , and struggled agains t an impulse to boast . "Of course, silly. It's the Ruins, what do you expect?" Ada, emboldened , no w focuse d direcd y o n him . Sh e took i n hi s spodes s whit e tuni c wit h th e narro w blac k

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sleeves, the strict crease of his black-and-white checkere d trousers, the jaunty black cap with its patent leather bri m and stiff white band—and cam e at last to his hands, fro m which al l traces of shoe polish had bee n erased . "You're lookin g awfull y well . Handsome—don' t blush! My goodness, it's there fo r anyon e t o see ! I'd sa y you've really found yourself , just a s you dreamed. I' m s o pleased fo r you , Tom. " Sh e paused , the n sighe d wit h pleasure. "An d no w I' m her e too ! Jeez, I can hardly believe it. . . like a fairy tale! " "What," To m aske d uncertainly , "—wha t exactl y ar e you doing here, Ada?" She looked a t him curiously , then burs t ou t laughing . "What a m I doing ? Wha t a m I doing ? Yo u dope , I'v e come her e t o work, of course—jus t lik e you ! Afte r tha t night, yo u know , whe n w e met , thing s jus t go t harde r and harder . O r mayb e it was only me tha t changed . Oh , it got to be I couldn't stan d the food, couldn' t stan d th e customers, couldn' t stan d anything—yo u know ? An d I kept rememberin g tha t night , ho w you just . . . I don' t know, just decide d wha t yo u wanted—the n wen t of f t o get it ! I t wa s s o splendi d an d brave , well , I decide d I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do the same. So," she flung out he r arms, taking in the whole of her surround ings, " . . . her e I am! " Whe n To m sai d nothing , onl y pushing carefully wit h his toe at a piece of lint, she innocentiy asked, "But aren' t you gla d to se e me?" Tom cleare d hi s throat , shrugged , nodde d feebly . The trut h is , h e reall y didn' t kno w i f Ada' s presenc e

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here wa s what he' d cal l a good idea. Not tha t h e wasn' t happy t o se e her ! Ad a wa s a swee t girl , good-nature d and kind , with a blithe smil e an d a willing nature—sure , he was glad to see her. It was just that, right now, thing s seemed so , well, delicate, here a t th e Ruins . To m him self did no t kno w exacti y wha t h e mean t b y "delicate" ; but ther e wa s a feelin g i n th e air , a n indescribabl e "something" in the way people looked a t him lately, that made hi m fee l a very importan t thin g coul d happe n a t any moment. Importan t fo r th e Ruins and important fo r himself. I t mad e hi m nervou s an d exultan t a t th e sam e time—and h e was determined t o g o throug h wit h it , n o matter what . Now Ada showe d up . Which wasn' t a bad thin g nec essarily, onl y . . . h e hadn' t expecte d it . An d ther e wa s something abou t thi s gir l that mad e him—oh , h e didn' t know. A little soft ? Tha t i s to say , perhaps, a little "to o nice." Naturall y h e wanted t o b e nice, but h e ha d com e to realiz e tha t hi s positio n a t th e Ruin s wa s no t alway s about bein g nice. Sometimes you ha d t o b e a litde hard ; sometimes yo u ha d t o b e a little demanding . H e wasn' t sure a girl like Ada would understan d a thing like that . "Are you . . . working in the laundry, then?" he aske d hopefully. "No! Ca n yo u believ e it ? Th e Salon , just lik e that ! I told the m I' d ha d som e experience—o f course , in a different sor t o f plac e altogether . Bu t Mr . Jone s an d Mr . Ugo didn' t min d tha t a t all . Mr. Jone s aske d di d I hav e any li p rouge , an d Mr . Ug o sai d that's that! The n Mr .

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Jones sai d fo r somebod y t o fin d Tom, and I though t t o myself, I wonde r i f that's my Tom—I mean , yo u know , the Tom I met. . . that is to say, jyow.^Ada frowned a t her feet, rubbing the palms of her hands together dryly. "And in you walked." On e last time she poked he r arms out i n either direction , bu t withou t conviction , eye s stil l fixed upon he r feet. "An d her e we are!" Tom, nodding hi s head throughout Ada' s long explanation, wen t o n nodding , payin g n o attention . S o Ad a had bee n place d i n th e dinin g room , unde r hi s supervi sion, without eve n consultin g him ? Was he the maitre d y or not! And wha t di d tha t mean, anyway ? Hal f th e tim e nothing—zilch! Excep t tha t he was the accountabl e one , he took u p the slack , he went th e extr a mile. That was all right. Bu t whe n woul d i t mea n respect? When woul d i t mean havin g a say-s o i n ho w thing s wer e don e aroun d here? Tom clucked impatiently and sat down on the daybed, fingertips presse d t o hi s brow . Really , thi s wa s th e las t straw. Ada sa t besid e him , a little furro w shadowin g th e bridge betwee n he r round blac k eyes. "But Tom , loo k a t you ! I shoul d hav e guessed ! Stil l working too hard—and not taking care of yourself! True? And why haven't they been feeding you, I'd like to know? A place lik e this! It's a crime! Why, you'll b e dow n wit h the anemics! Now you just sit right here and I'll run find you somethin g coz y to put i n that ol ' tummy— " At this our hero was surprised b y a feeble spasm somewhere in his middle, followed b y a weak, scarcely audible

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whine—and To m suddenl y realize d week s ha d passe d since he'd pai d any attention t o his stomach. How^s that? After all , he wa s surrounde d b y food, th e best ! Why, he flourished plate s an d flaunted platter s an d parade d dessert cart s al l da y long ; flung th e remain s int o plasti c garbage sacks that by night's end were too heavy with Tbones and broiled endive and pigeon mousse for one person t o tot e alone . Everywhere h e turne d ther e wa s food. So how did it happen h e never ate? It wasn't as though they weren't allowed. Mitzi herself insisted that everyone eat and eat well, and would hersel f prepare littl e "specialties " fo r th e dishwasher' s toddlin g daughter o r th e arthriti c milkman . Somehow , though , Tom never seemed to make it to the kitchen for his meal. There wa s alway s someone' s pampere d mut t t o b e es corted to the alley, or that dreadful Pi g to plug in . . . yes, always something ! Hi s nic e plat e woul d si t o n som e counter, o r b e stuc k in a n oven t o sta y warm; and hour s later Tom would find it beneath a pile of dirty napkins, or cooked t o a n inedible string . H e woul d quietl y empt y i t into a garbage pail and satisfy himself with a cold roll and, if he was lucky, a puddle of clotted sauc e to mop it in. By the en d o f the day he was tired enoug h no t t o care , anyway. Now To m wondere d wha t eve r happene d t o tha t "snarling, darlin g mascot " tha t onc e kep t hi m suc h un gracious company—and wasn't sure he was glad to feel it lurching t o it s fee t onc e again . Ther e wa s another , un -

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equivocal whine , an d th e querulou s scrabbl e o f dull, fa miliar claws . To m grabbe d Ada' s wris t t o preven t he r from jumpin g up . "No! I mean—don' t worry , don' t bother . It' s . . . I was jus t thinking , that' s all . O f cours e I' m eating ! Jus t . . . just sit for a minute. I need to tell you—that is, to give you a n idea of how things work aroun d here. " Ada briskl y tossed he r head. "Sure , sure. Sorry, Tom! Got a little ahea d o f myself, didn't I? " She paused, the n added i n a quick, quiet voice, "I just want t o say, Tom, I couldn't b e happie r it' s you . It' s n o myster y t o m e wh y you're i n charge , an d I inten d t o mak e yo u prou d an d happy to have me as your waitress—and, and your friend , as well . . . " Tom stare d a t Ada, not reall y hearing her, wonderin g how to explai n just what was at stake. "Ada— " h e inter rupted. "Ada , I thin k yo u nee d t o understan d tha t th e Ruins is, well, a very special place . . . that is, uh—uh, not the Groanin g Board, " h e finished lamely . Ada, chewin g he r li p intently , no w laughed . "M y goodness, I' d hardl y b e here right no w i f I didn' t kno w the difference, no w would I?" She shook her head at him fondly. "An d wasn't i t me who told you that, Tom?" Tom nodded . "Yes , well, I guess . Bu t I' m no t sur e . . . I'm no t sure you really get the picture." He scowled , frustrated b y his own efforts . "Why , I'm onl y beginnin g to understand , myself ! And I gues s you'd allo w I migh t have mor e o f a handle o n thi s than you , Ada! O r woul d you?"

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She was startled b y his tone, an d immediatel y concil iatory. "Why , Tom , o f cours e you' d kno w heaps more than I ! That's . . . that's wh y you're i n charg e . . . jeez, that's the last thing I'd wan t t o question! " Tom, still peevish, drew back from Ada' s earnest face . "Oh? An d wha t woul d b e th e first thin g you' d lik e t o question?" Ada was growing confused. "What ? What question? " "You just mentioned questioning. I was simply askin g what exacd y yo u though t yo u migh t b e questioning — let's see, not twent y minutes into your job?" "Oh." Ada , i n dismay , looke d abou t th e roo m fo r help. " I gues s I jus t meant , I don' t know , lik e wher e the creamer s ar e kept , o r . . . o r what—fo r instance , how t o ligh t th e chandelier s . . . Tha t sor t o f thing. " Something wa s wrong ! Onc e agai n sh e stare d a t th e carpet; smal l swallowin g noise s cam e fro m he r slowl y flushing throat . Tom softened , cleare d hi s own throa t t o genti y sum mon Ada's attention, and patted her red, wringing hands. "Of course, of course," he murmured. "Forgiv e me, Ada, for bein g s o . . . protective. I'v e gotte n awfull y fon d o f this place , an d a t time s I'm—h a ha!—well , convince d that I alon e understan d it s needs . Matte r o f fact—be tween yo u an d me!—latel y it' s seeme d t o m e tha t th e Ruins is , well, let' s no t sa y in peril, that' s perhap s to o strong . . . but certainl y cryin g ou t fo r mor e responsibl e leadership, that is . . ." Tom broke. "Oh, you can't imagine, not you or anybody! "

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He stopped , rolle d hi s shoulders , an d continued : " I myself a m onl y beginnin g t o appreciat e th e exten t t o which th e Ruin s is , despite the , ah, bes t intentions , sustaining the mos t frightful abuses." Ada was shocked. Abuses? "But , but— " Tom interrupted . "No w Ada , you've go t t o trus t m e on this . The Ruin s is not al l that it seems. There ar e certain, shall we say, inconsistencies. . . Believe me, I wish it weren't so , but—" h e shrugged . "But Tom, " Ad a glance d roun d th e room . "I t seem s such a paradise!" Ha! To m als o looked , wit h a deft , skeptica l eye . Didn't h e know what lay behind the illusion! How about that gnu-antlere d corona lucis, blandl y hangin g b y a thread ove r th e hamstrun g spinnet ? Priceles s tapestrie s held togethe r wit h tin y aluminu m staples ? (Th e Sevre s table service diminished on a weekly basis!) He shook his head sadly. "At such a cost, Ada, at such a cost . . . " Ada was baffled, yet moved, by Tom's obvious suffer ing. "Why , I ha d n o idea , Tom. Wha t d o yo u . . . what can I do to—to help?" Tom looked at Ada now: the glistening black eyes, the fantastically shar p nose , th e edge s o f he r soft , childlik e lips bruised violet as a hyacinth. He steele d himself. After all, i t wa s no t fo r hi s ow n sake , bu t fo r th e sak e o f th e Ruins (an d consequentl y fo r th e sak e o f everyon e here ) that h e simpl y must tak e a firme r hol d upo n the , uh , helm. Ther e wa s somethin g a t stak e here ! (An d i f h e

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couldn't sa y precisely what tha t "something " was, surely that to o would b e revealed i n good time? ) H e spok e judiciously. "Yes, well , hel p is needed , Ada . Hel p i s certainl y needed. A t th e sam e time , ther e i s th e questio n o f au thority, that is to say command and—naturally enough! — consent. Se e what I' m gettin g at ? So . . . well, think o f it this way. Who's in command here? " "Well, that would b e Mr. Jones, it's his—" "It isn't hisl" To m nearly pinched her in exasperation . "That is, Mr. Jones is the proprietor—but that' s not what we mean , i s it Ada ? Look , thin k o f i t a s a line o f com mand. Is that an y clearer? Now! Who's in command? " Ada was beginning to resent this harangue. Really, she didn't recal l To m bein g suc h a pushy boy . O n th e con trary, h e seeme d genti e an d humbl e an d principle d an d kind—jeez, bu t wasn't he bullying her now! And patron izing? He r spin e stiffened . "Line of command," she repeated sulkily, "Well, I suppose you're th e supervisor . . . " "That's it , Ada! Now you'r e gettin g th e picture ! Fm in command of you—that's ho w it goes. Now I' m sur e I don't have to tell you what that means, eh? Sharp girl like you. Th e thin g is , this i s a critical perio d fo r th e Ruins . I've go t t o b e abl e t o coun t o n you , o n al l my people , while things are, are developing." Tom caught his breath. "So, as I say, can I count on you? Oh! can I, Ada?" The sudde n entreat y in Tom's voice took Ada b y surprise; hi s lukewar m receptio n an d overbearin g sermo n

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had al l but convince d th e poor gir l to thro w u p he r ne w job an d stor m out—le t hi m kee p hi s preciou s "com mand"! But this final plea ("can I , Ada?") quivered in her ear with the ol d sweetness. She ran her hands (tor n cuti cles snaggin g th e gol d embroidere d threads ) ove r th e gorgeous brocad e o n whic h the y sat—snuc k a glance a t Tom. Ho w tire d h e looked ! An d lonely ? He r hear t melted; she leaned forwar d t o catc h hi s eye; she took hi s hands. "Shoot," sh e sai d gently , "wha t kin d o f a question i s that? We're friends, aren't we? And this is our big chance! Don't you be t I'd d o anything to make it work? Why—"

14— Was that a commotion in the front hall ? Ada, inured to all forms o f pandemonium , continue d blandl y eve n a s ou r hero jumped up to investigate. His hands were, however, still presse d betwee n Ada' s own , forcin g hi m int o a clumsy crouched position as she brought to a simmer the nourishing brot h o f her reassurance an d affection . "—there's n o stoppin g u s now ! I'l l wor k eve r s o hard, Tom , an d you'l l sho w m e al l I nee d t o know , an d exacdy how things need to be! With hard work and ded ication—" Tom straine d t o see ove r hi s shoulder . Whil e h e hadn't the faintest ide a what, he knew instinctively something momentou s wa s goin g o n ou t there—somethin g that ha d everythin g t o d o wit h whateve r wa s "next " fo r

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the Ruins , an d fo r himself . H e tugge d a t hi s trappe d hands. "Yes indeed, Ada—of course! But . . . " "And Tom? And . . . listen Tom! We'll be friends, too , won't we? We'll help each other and, and everyone—lik e a family , almost ! O h I kno w tha t sound s a little chirpy , but jeez—" Toulouse tore past them, arf-avfmg grimly . There was an ominou s his s behind th e kitche n door , followe d b y a brief, hollow explosion. "—the Tomster?" Tom heard his second waiter gush, "jus t fabulous!" "Ada!" To m tor e fre e o f Ada' s ferven t grip , "I'v e got t o go!" H e whirle d t o leav e he r an d there , stand ing i n th e doorway , wa s th e las t thin g h e expecte d t o see—a matchles s pai r o f chin a blu e eyes , an d th e help ing han d fo r whic h h e ha d bee n gropin g ineptl y fo r weeks. ••

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She was swathed in simply yards of magnificent blu e tulle, from th e pavonian turba n exaltin g her broad , prominen t brow . . . t o th e glamorou s azur e froc k closel y envelop ing those surprisingly sturdy shoulders and hips . .. t o the tips of her celebrate d toes , just peeking fro m th e he m o f her gow n an d (bu t coul d i t be ? Tom stared ) bewitchin g in the same glistening slippers she'd flourished tha t nigh t at the Groanin g Board . "Say sweetie—"

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Tom looke d up , startle d b y th e singer' s sprighti y drawl. He r eye s sparkle d marvelousl y behin d a translu cent blu e veil. "Where do you suppose a girl might find something in the way of a cocktail? Que l parch! Well, children?" Tom, too stunned t o speak, turned t o Ada, cleared his throat, an d shoo k hi s head i n amazement . L a Stupenda , meanwhile, ha d swivele d int o th e room , th e exquisit e constriction of her hips, waist, and shoulders remarked by a maliciou s blu e his s (th e provocativ e gossi p o f tull e o n tulle). She stopped in front o f Ada and with one fingertip lifted th e girl's pale, pointed chin . "Assumin g you're ol d enough to be working at all, honey, what say you run ou t to the ba r and find this lady a refreshment? Hell , make it champagne." Sh e glance d a t To m ove r on e edeni c blu e shoulder. "Tom , say there's a decent bottl e o f bubbly i n the house? I t z>Tom? " Tom practically gasped. "Yes! I mean . . . yes, go ahead Ada." "But Tom, I— " "Ada, please , just—g o o n now . Someon e wil l sho w you." To m suddenl y fel t tha t i f sh e di d no t leav e th e room this instant he would scream . Frowning, h e jerked his head towar d th e dining room. "G o on. v Ada looke d fro m To m t o th e singe r an d uncertainl y back again . Sh e stoo d up , smoothe d he r horribl e skir t and bobbe d he r hea d a t L a Stupenda . "Ver y please d t o meet you, ma'am. I can't tel l you how much I've— "

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A-da!» Ada gape d a t Tom , he r blac k eye s ablaze wit h aston ished tears , an d scurrie d fro m th e room . To m looke d down uneasil y as she left . "An attractiv e child . Clos e frien d o f yours? " L a Stu penda scanne d ou r hero' s sheepis h face . "Hello? I sa y sport—" To m turned . Painstakingl y recline d acros s th e daybed, ever y heavenly fold i n elaborat e repose , La Stu penda raised an ancient ivory cigarette holder to her flawlessly polishe d lips , while th e ti p o f on e sho e describe d tantalizing circles , indicating a place for Tom a t her feet . Tom's respons e caugh t i n hi s throat . "La , I thin k I may be needed i n the Salon, Miss—" La Stupenda inhaled with surprising violence, her elegant mouth se t in a tense grimace as she remarked a t th e ceiling (through a lungful o f smoke) "Such a lovely place, the Ruin s . . . " Closin g he r eyes , sh e exhale d gustily , smoke billowin g fro m bot h nostril s a s well a s fro m he r slack, glace lips . "Bu t no t fo r long , eh , i f Jone s ha s hi s way?" Tom's stomach suddenl y growled , and he blushed . "Hungry?" Sh e turned , an d fro m beneat h lan guorous, blue-varnished lid s her unfathomable eye s took Tom in with lazy assiduity. "That's good. Hunger's a picnic when you know you'll b e fed, don' t yo u think? " She crooked on e tulle-constrained le g at the knee, drew it up tight alon g the opposit e shin , then straightene d i t again . Then dre w it up . . . Tom hear d th e cover t whisshht as it rose . . . then down: whisshht. He could not help but ogl e

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this sinuous blue convulsion, which came and went, again and again , like waves . . . wave after wav e . . . the his s of blue water as it raced toward him, as it collapsed upon his naked feet , the n recede d . . . gathere d t o mee t hi m again—his toe s curlin g i n anticipation ! . . . Whisshht, whi— "Torn?" The blu e swathed leg went still. Tom shivere d slightly . Hi s eye s move d t o L a Stu penda's, and h e gulped . Sh e studie d hi m leisurely , clicking th e but t o f the cigarett e holde r casuall y agains t on e shining, expose d canin e tooth . Wit h eac h tap Tom' s craven belly dropped lower , lower, lower onto its quivering haunches. "It was me that gave him the idea of a dinner club, did you know ? A place where, at midnight, on e coul d com e for bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwiche s before th e fire, and a decent glas s of champagne." (She said to-mab-to^ To m noted , an d resolved, in th e future, t o do the same. ) "But Jone s ha s hi s limits . Sensationa l i n man y ways , but a stric t materialist—n o vision. You , o n th e othe r hand . . . " Sh e shoo k he r head . "Wel l heave n knows , a well-fed man's hardly the equal of a hungry one! Tell you a secret, Thomas, an d don' t yo u forge t it . All table s ar e bargaining tables, no matter which side you're—" With a final, breathtakin g whissht La Stupenda swun g bot h leg s to th e floo r an d ros e fro m th e daybed . "Jone s darling! " she exclaimed, flung he r arms open wide, then collapse d

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again upon th e heap of pillows, her midnight lashe s flut tering dryly. "—you dog . . . " Tom spun around as Jones entered, grumbling. "Nib bling a t th e staf f again , darling? You'r e s o democratic i n your appetite—make s ou r taste buds curl. Tom-Tom —" "Don't bother , pet, I've ordere d cham— " "Martinis!* Tom venture d a n inquirin g glanc e a t th e prostrat e diva, who grimaced and mouthed champagne with comic desperation, he r hand s beseeching . H e ducke d hi s hea d to hid e a n admirin g gri n an d turne d t o go , Jones crash ing into a chair behind him . "Waalll, old girl, and how's business?. . ." ••

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Our hero was, we may as well admit, almost painfully ex cited. What a day! Was he or wasn't h e beginnin g t o ge t through? Peopl e believe d i n him ! No t jus t people, either—La Stupend a herself ! Who'd hinte d a t visio n an d took a dim view, herself, of Jones's limitations . Idly stirrin g th e gi n an d vermouth , Tom' s gaz e wan dered fro m th e utilit y ba r t o th e war m green-and-blac k striped wal l wher e th e unrecallabl e paintin g ha d gon e missing. H e clicke d hi s tongue. Typical ! The plac e rein vented itself hourly! One day princely Russian side chairs line the Cloud Roo m walls—the next day the place is full of foldin g cam p stools , dressed u p i n pillow s an d chea p gold paint. The menu feature s pink singing scallops for a week—and no t onc e durin g th e wee k ar e th e scallop s

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pink or singing. (Tom' s sur e i t wa s a hoax. ) O n som e level, he fumed, thi s was a restaurant! Lowering tw o fa t olive s int o th e martini s wit h care , Tom admired the limpid viscosity they lent to the clear alcohol. H e place d a bottle o f champagne, a s well, in th e center of a plastic bucket (h e hated these cheap, imitation monstrosities!), bedded it in ice and took two flutes fro m the uppe r shel f of the cabinet . Hmm , chipped . H e dre w two others , also chipped. Tom' s eye s squeezed togethe r tightly. Wa s ther e nothin g no t flawed , rigged , faithles s here? All right, he knew from th e start it wouldn't be easy (he'd no t gotte n tha t coat-chec k ou t o f his system yet). But surel y ther e wer e concern s o f a highe r orde r still ? Heavens, any goomba coul d dra w u p shif t rotation s an d decant claret . True , hi s martini s wer e superlative ; bu t what wer e a few drop s o f vermout h an d a stuffe d oliv e compared, say , to— "For gawd' s sake , Tom!" Jone s jerke d th e tra y fro m his hand s an d wa s alread y removin g th e ic e bucket , th e flutes. "Ho w lon g doe s it tak e t o thro w togethe r a couple o f martoonis ? Really ! L a Stupenda' s abou t a s punctual as a cat, herself, but she does expect to be treated like a queen." Jone s stopped suddenl y an d fixe d To m wit h a look o f suspicio n an d disdain . Hi s voic e sizzled . "And why not? Who ar e you , afte r all , to b e wastin g he r time, lost i n som e unsavor y persona l trance ? I s tha t why w e hired you?" He pushe d To m ou t o f the way, spitting beneath hi s breath . "W e expecte d muc h mor e fro m you , Tom."

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Tom's hear t gallope d unevenly , whil e hi s breat h ex ploded i n shor t furiou s blasts—Jone s ha d surprised him, that's all ! H e move d t o pu t awa y th e gi n wit h shakin g hands, then stopped . We expected much more from you Tom!

So Jones , too , expecte d thing s fro m him ? Well , tha t made i t unanimous , didn' t it ? Tom force d a ghastly, determined gri n an d lifte d th e unstoppere d bottl e t o hi s lips—gagged—but tipped th e bottl e again , an d no w th e hooch wen t dow n smoothl y enough . H e wipe d hi s mouth on his sleeve; with labored bravado tossed an olive in the air—and would have caught it in his mouth o n th e way down, but glance d involuntarily over his shoulder . Olives were a no-no. So, for tha t matter , was drinking on th e job. Well, he needed it, didn't he? He had a bottle—that is, a battle!—ahead; one sure to demand all his crumbling . . . uh, cunning! Tom tittered. The bird flies to the huntsman, h e assure d himself — then briefly , involuntarily bare d his teeth. Again an d again and again .

CHAPTER FIV E

A Real Mob Scene

15— "Hmmph!" lorn tugge d wrathfiill y a t hi s cap , folde d bot h arm s across hi s narro w ches t an d stalke d throug h th e swarm ing Clou d Room , cuttin g stern , accusin g glance s left an d right. Indeed , i t seeme d tha t everyon e ha d hear d abou t the unschedule d meeting — Everyone but yours truly! As you like , but To m kne w th e score : The Maitr e d'hote l o f a Modern Restauran t o r a Great Privat e Concer n Toda y Must B e Thoroughly Familia r with All Details, both Culinar y an d Administrative , in All Departments o f the Establishment . Yes or no ? Hunh? Bunch of yahoos—left me in the dish sculVl 133

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Tom kne w well enoug h ho w t o but t an d burro w hi s way throug h a crowd , an d eventuall y foun d a place o n one side of the lavishly decorated bandstan d fro m whic h Jones ha d alread y commence d th e proceedings . An d what proceedings ! Distracte d b y a profusion o f brightl y painted placards , flutterin g streamer s an d slende r girl s dressed i n brie f white tunic s (complemente d b y beauti fully tassele d gol d belts) , To m pai d scan t attentio n t o Jones's introductory gush . "Halloo, halloo . . .gawd, wha t a crush! Do you really all work here ? N o wonde r we'r e broke , haw! You there! Find a seat, let's ge t this show on th e road! SIT DOW N BACK THERE ! Gawd! " Jone s shifte d hi s weigh t ont o one muscula r hi p an d gaze d a t the ceilin g with a n ai r o f conspicuous forbearance . Can you beat that? A real mouth artist! To m smirked—then spied , o n a raised platfor m lef t o f Jones , the arrestin g profile o f La Stupenda. Whoah! Since thei r brie f meeting th e wee k befor e she' d bee n frequently i n hi s thoughts , infusin g the m wit h a n ebul lient i f uneas y sens e o f provisiona l bliss . Impressed , a s always, b y he r origina l ensemble— a stunnin g aquama rine cafta n affai r wit h a stiffly embroidere d Chines e col lar an d long , flowin g sleeve s tha t conceale d he r hand s clear t o thei r sparklin g rub y fingertips , plu s a taperin g violet scar f with thread s o f gol d tha t encircle d he r hea d twice, it s lon g fringe s trailin g snakil y dow n he r short , sturdy back—Tom' s chole r wa s tempered , fo r a mo ment, b y th e pupp y crus h o f unqualifie d worship . A s

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though he' d calle d he r b y name , th e singe r turne d an d gazed directl y a t him , he r astra l glanc e dynamit e eve n at tha t distance . By jove! She was a peach, all right! But what must she be thinking of me? The maitre d'! Whose place was surely not here among these half-trained monkeys but right up there on the stage, bringing authorit y to bear on the matters at hand. Well, but naturally Vd been left in the dark, not even a— "Yasszz, well , no doub t you'r e al l wondering wha t i n heaven's name oP Daddy Jones has got up his sleeve this time." Snicker s an d dubiou s grins . "Primo , let' s tak e just a moment t o gree t on e another' s smilin g faces . G o on . . . Go on!" Heads ducke d i n embarrassmen t whil e sidelong glance s slippe d fro m th e corner s o f shrewd , speculative eyes . Richard th e coo k thre w bac k he r head , snorting wit h exasperation . Ada , stil l rathe r ne w t o th e staff, nodde d eagerl y i n al l directions . Conchit a exam ined he r nails . "Isn't tha t nice?—that' s much better . Nothin g lik e family, w e alway s say . Yes or no ? Gawd!" Jones, peerin g from beneat h th e viso r o f on e upraise d hand , wave d vaguely a t a stray child, crying for it s mother. "Dam n it , Ugo, get that rotten appl e out, out! We simply won't tol erate that sort , not now. All right . . . " As though o n cue, the bare-limbed, flexible girl s (who until then ha d been moving slowly and artfully abou t th e stage, stopping here and there t o affect posture s of wonder, gravity , an d delight ) slippe d thei r arm s aroun d on e

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another's waists and drew together in a semicircle behin d Jones, who himsel f raised bot h arm s in the air , flung ou t his chest an d screeched , "No w listen , you lowbro w bed lamites! In two weeks the Ruins kicks off the most ambi tious event in its already fourteen-carat history . A gen-uine Saturnalia ! Th e bigges t blowou t thi s plac e ha s eve r seen! Our firs t annua l Spring Frolic!" Tom blinked , banke d a n anxiou s glanc e fro m Con chita—who'd take n ou t a little stee l file an d was makin g rapid adjustment s t o th e nail s of her lef t hand—t o Ugo , whose blandl y narrowe d eye s betraye d nothing . Behin d Jones, th e line-u p o f girl s bega n t o roc k bac k an d fort h with smal l swayin g movement s o f thei r crispl y pleate d hips and pink dimpled knees . "We're pullin g ou t all th e stops , the y won' t kno w what hit 'em! A real razzle-dazzle of events capped off by a glamorous Fool's Ball—they'l l love it! Yes or no?" The crowd—who'd bee n biting their thumbs in an excess of suspense—burst obligingl y int o furiou s applause , squeals o f relie f an d incredulou s guffaws . Th e swayin g girls squeezed on e another' s waists an d smile d dreamily . Jones flapped his hands an d for onc e could no t b e hear d above th e ensuin g commotion ; h e seeme d obscurel y gratified a s caps and flour-cloude d apron s went hurtiin g into th e desperatel y tinklin g chandeliers . Peopl e dance d on teeterin g chairs , whistied throug h rigi d fingers, an d thumped on e another . Wit h a groan , To m folde d hi s arms and dropped hi s head against the edge of the stage , staggered b y the news.

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A what? A Frolic? Wasn't that the limit! Why not a county fair with a watermelon-eating contest as well? And who would be accountable for this three-ring circus? One guess? That's right! Good ol' Tom. (Yes, Tom-Tom, if you like!) Oh that Jones, he couldn't have picked a worse time. . . The fac t is , sinc e Tom' s conversatio n wit h L a Stu penda he' d bee n positivel y itchin g t o launc h a clean re formatory sweep— a new drill, A to Z! Unfortunately no t even Ad a woul d len d hersel f wholeheartedl y t o Tom' s passionate agenda . Com e t o thin k o f it , Ad a wa s occa sionally downright critical of his proposals. Sure, she refrained fro m challengin g Tom directly — Well! But it was clear enough from her silence and from a certain flutter at the base of her throat—doggone if I didn't know all right! Tom, for his part, could not help but feel offended an d vaguely betrayed ; thi s introduce d a gri m an d diffiden t starch to their relations. "Thomas . . . " Our hero , consume d b y hi s ow n disma l reckonings , only shoo k hi s head. Couldn' t thos e knucklehead s leav e him alon e for a minute? "Thomas!" Scowling, Tom looke d up ; directly hi s eyes were me t by tw o dazzlin g blu e orbs , imperative , inescapable , sig naling him from th e other sid e of the stage .

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Strange, the voice seemed so near. Nevertheless i t wa s L a Stupenda , an d non e other , who'd summone d him . I n hi s dim , seldom-visite d sub conscious, To m foun d th e div a adorable ; ful l tilt , how ever, sh e paralyze d him . Indee d h e like d he r bes t a s h e had firs t see n her : blith e an d inscrutabl e amon g th e hokey light s an d pink , acri d smok e o f th e Groanin g Board. Hi s chagri n notwithstanding , To m mad e hi s way around t o th e othe r sid e o f the stage , climbed a narrow flight o f steps , bowe d shyl y an d inquire d a s t o ho w h e might b e o f service . L a Stupend a responde d wit h a benign twan g (t o which ou r hero , despite himself , thrille d like an adolescent girl) . ^DEw-mas, so nice to see you again! Jones has brough t the roo f down , hasn' t he ? B e a duck an d kee p m e com pany—heaven knows , he's quit e capabl e o f keeping thi s up al l day ! Com e on , si t dow n an d tel l m e ever y littl e thing. What's on your mind, caro?" Tom crouche d uneasil y on the edge of a seat. Tou-know-who not thirty feet away! Still, he swore to crack my head for saying no to a guest. Well criminy! What was on my mind? Impelled b y chroni c frustratio n an d unprecedente d ire—alas, before h e coul d catc h himself—th e stricti y un speakable cam e burstin g fro m ou r hero' s nervousl y writhing lips: "The man's a criminal!"Instantly Tom' s han d fle w t o his mouth an d his eyes popped with horror. L a Stupenda threw bac k her head an d crowed .

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"I love it! My dea r Thomas , you couldn' t hav e sai d a more interestin g thin g i f I' d pu t th e word s int o you r mouth myself ! A criminal —you're to o much! " Tom (who' d reall y no idea where the words had com e from an d wa s understandabl y terrifie d o f furthe r indis cretions), jumpe d t o hi s feet . " I be g you r pardon , m y mind was on other things. Actually, I . . ." "Not a chance! Sit down this instant—sit, sit, sit. Sit!" Tom sa t warily , bu t kep t hi s han d befor e hi s mout h and resolve d t o sa y nothing mor e a t al l if he coul d hel p it. God! How could I be so careless! An unprofessional slip, and with her, of all people! "Now, suppose you tel l me what you mea n b y criminal . . . " He r eye s teared ; To m flounced i n hi s chair . "Whoah, now Thomas, I'm sincere , really I am! And you have my word o f honor, thi s is strictly betwee n us , cross my heart. " Sh e smiled . "Th e fac t is , caro, I'v e take n rather a n interes t i n you—don't loo k s o surprised, it' s a thing I do now and then . Positio n carrie s certain obliga tions, after all . You caught my eye from th e first, and I'v e hoped for an opportunity to meet again. And so we have! You see? It's fate. Now then, tell me more about this marvelous theor y o f yours regardin g Jones's— " sh e bi t he r lip, ". . . criminal nature. " Above th e scree n o f his hand, Tom' s eye s were thos e of a penitential setter ; inside, La Stupenda's word s skid ded down his spine like an arsonist's match. Nonetheless , he was guarded i n his reply.

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"Well, mayb e 'criminal ' isn' t quit e wha t I meant ? I n fact, I' m no t sur e what I meant a t all." He pause d hope fully, but La Stupenda only tsk'd. "But gee, it's the truth ! Well I, what I mean is—I mean, what I m e a n t . .. oh oh!" And agai n Tom' s tongu e wa s possesse d b y a gan g o f wildcat, intractabl e word s tha t buste d righ t throug h hi s hot, clutching fingers: "O/// Weill He's nothing but a bat, isn't he? A squeaking mouse with wings!" Now he' d don e it ! Even L a Stupenda's eye s widened with astonishmen t an d sh e clampe d th e cigarett e holde r between he r teeth, her nostrils flaring a t the enormit y o f his act. That did it I Gone too far I Where (oh, where!) were these declarations coming from? And why now? With her! Tom wrung hi s hands, but th e diva' s voice, when sh e finally spoke, only shook with laughte r an d a not-unpardonable measur e o f tende r ribbing . "Thomas—o h Thomas!—a true r ta g wa s neve r given . A bat! I'l l re member that for the rest of my days. Priceless—priceless! Really Thomas , you'r e exceedin g m y highes t expecta tions. What could you possibly come up with next! " (Don't ask!) "—only before you kill me out outright, I'll just interject a few words. Not i n th e way of advice—let's sa y fo r your furthe r consideration ? Fo r it' s obviou s tha t you , caro mio, hav e undertake n somethin g o f grea t import , and it's my personal desir e to hel p you i n an y way I can . Will you pleas e believ e thi s i s true, an d liste n t o wha t I have to say in light of that pledge?"

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Tom stare d wordlessl y int o th e singer' s vertiginou s eyes, doubting, hoping . . . It was true, after all, I had undertaken something big. Just what she meant by "help," however, was unclear, mistakable. And perhaps even repugnant to our hero, who by now subscribed to a notion of himself as a kind of knight, tireless in th e exercise , against al l odds, of his lofty, solitar y office. Trut h t o tell , he'd onl y (an d resentfull y enough ) contrived thi s fanc y a s a so p t o hi s bruise d ego , havin g failed i n hi s attempt s t o organiz e an y practica l suppor t among his staff. Well, you know, it was wink-wink and nudge-nudge 'til the cows came home—laughing on the other sides of their faces! But as for La Stupenda? Tom sighed; she seemed kind. "Okay, well, I kno w he's , oh . . . hair-triggered, ran dom—but he' s no t a passionate man , i s he ? Thoug h you'd thin k s o at first. Mayb e that' s what feel s s o . . . s o sinister m the end. Why, you never know what he's up to! You never kno w wha t h e wants ! And h e doesn' t giv e a , well—" To m lowere d hi s voice . "H e call s the m bellies. Can yo u believ e it ? Bu t the n he'l l tur n aroun d an d act , oh, just pathetic, trying to impress people, getting in th e way. And the y laugh a t him, I'v e hear d them ! Then yo u can't hel p but feel almos t sorry . . . a t the same time you know h e mus t hav e wanted i t tha t way . Honest, " To m shook hi s head i n wonder , "whe n thing s ar e goin g wel l you can see it vexes him."

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How man y time s ha d To m hear d ove r hi s shoulde r that heartles s taunt : "It' s simpl y runnin g to o smoothl y out there! " Bang-o , off he' d go , barreling hi s way like a bull o n a lark through a n alread y scarcel y managed bed lam. Intercepting a crime brulee hercy terrorizing a waiter there, demandin g martinis , draggin g guest s of f t o visi t the Pig just as their entrees arrived, then raving about th e cold vegetables. (On the other hand, Jones himself would disguise ba d foo d withou t blinkin g a n eye . "Mor e sauce!" he' d bellow , thrustin g hi s hea d betwee n th e cooks' shoulders . "You'r e to o sting y wit h th e damne d sauce!") H e though t th e staf f dull and fawning , " a gan g of obsequiou s toads"—the n accuse d them , i n th e nex t breath, o f bloody insolence and a plague of barbaric striving. As for th e latter , i t was Jones himsel f who kne w bes t how to cultivate strife within th e crew. "J'accuse!" cried our hero (o f course to himself) . Ton bet, faccusel Give me one good reason why not? All mischie f ha d vanishe d fro m L a Stupenda' s gaze . She puffed thoughtfull y o n he r interminabl e cigarette , a fine lin e shadowin g he r brow . "O f course, " sh e mused , "no one can accuse Jones of scruples. On the other hand , I happen to know he admits and furthermore relishe s the divisions of good an d evil." Good and evil? (Tom recalled a party at which several guests had bee n extolling th e virtue s o f "scratchin g backs " an d doin g

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"good turns. " Jones , sippin g a martini , turne d t o hi m and drawle d wit h peevis h disdain , "Bla h bla h blah . Cal l that 'strikin g a balance' ? Listen , th e onl y practica l an d proven formula fo r so-calle d 'balance ' i s to retur n goo d with evil . That' s balance. Good— evil. Good— evil. Doesn't tha t mak e more sense ? Period!" ) La Stupend a shoo k he r hea d an d aime d th e ste m o f her cigarett e holde r a t Tom . "Neve r fear , Thomas , au thentic norm s d o exist . Jone s in particular knows this. " She chuckled, though Tom failed t o see the humor. "Cal l him impulsive , a n egoist , depraved—o r a criminal , wh y not! Bu t yo u canno t reproac h hi m fo r disbelief , I think . Never that! " Tom leane d forward , hi s hand s grippin g th e edg e o f the table . "Well , i f h e know s th e difference , the n wh y isn't he good? " "Apropos o f that , youn g man—an d neithe r parado x nor even real news—the gods did not create the universe, the universe created its gods, eh? Which is to say, if Jones is vindictive, scandalous , cruel , it' s simpl y n o more— or less—than what peopl e requir e o f him . If onl y t o giv e vent, yo u understand , t o thei r ow n cruelty , env y an d greed. My goodness, caro, have you ever dished up a 'no' to that skunk?" Defeated, Tom shook his head. "Then they—oh, we— are all corrupt. " La Stupend a clicke d he r tongue . "Don' t b e simple . It's a question o f balance."

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(Tom groaned. ) "For human beings, a bit of misbehavior feels . . . well, it / ^ b e t t e r. Eve n the Hindu, a n impeccable an d almos t insufferably uprigh t people , leav e on e corne r o f thei r temples unfinished—the y trus t onl y th e god s t o mak e something perfect. Am I making any sense?" Tom waved one hand, refusing t o look at her. "You — you're a , uh . . . relativist!" "What in the world! " "—like him, a n excuse-maker! " "On th e contrary, you presumptuous littl e blockhead , / a m a n archhumanistl You, on th e othe r hand , ar e precisely the sort of green apple that prefers a comforting li e to the uncomfortable truth! " (Tom's heard tha t before. ) They face d on e another , wordless abov e the racke t o f the crow d below—L a Stupenda' s blu e eye s glitterin g fiercely, col d an d distan t a s planets ; To m angry , wounded, confused . She called me a blockhead] The singe r dre w violenti y o n he r cigarette , exhale d noisily, the n relented . "Thomas , I—oh , forgiv e me . I swear I have nothing but your best interests at heart. Bu t my-oh-my," sh e chuckled an d gav e Tom's nose a playful tap, "yo u d o hav e a stubbor n streak , don' t you? " To m only brushe d miserabl y a t the en d o f his nose, " . . . an d serious, besides. That is too bad. " She raised the palm o f one hand, and covered her heart with the other, intonin g "Thy priests go forth at dawn, they wash their hearts with

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laughter. A hymn to the sun god Ra, lovely isn't it? I daresay your heart could d o with a wash." Our hero—folde d u p i n hi s seat , hi s chi n hoverin g somewhere nea r hi s knees—could no t bea r eve n t o loo k at her. She, she called me a blockhead . . . (The "gree n apple " business was still unclear t o him. ) —and dirty besides I

16— With a mollifying sigh , L a Stupenda dre w on e o f Tom' s hot, twitching paws into her own fir m grasp , and began , with weary expertise , to coa x th e thin , frustrate d finger s to uncurl , the knuckle s to relent , th e childis h fis t t o sur render it s convulsiv e grip . "Poo r Thomas, " sh e mur mured, "poor, incredulous Thomas. It must be very hard for you. " Well. . . Defenseless, forlor n (hi s inflame d nerve s chastene d by th e regular , tranquilizin g rak e o f he r rub y nails) , Tom's hostilit y sagged , strayed , 'ti l finally , wit h a poignant sigh , his thoughts recalle d tha t firs t worshipfu l night standin g al l alon e i n th e Ruins ' divinel y blue-li t kitchen. S o dreadfully hungry , s o dreadfull y tired , hold ing a piece o f pilfere d brea d i n hi s mouth . Heavenl y a s a littl e clou d upo n hi s tongue , i t was , ingenuou s a s a lamb . . . Ah, that was nice, wasn ytit?

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Ordinary bread , t o b e sure , bu t inviolable. Safe , in deed, a s a snow-white bunny , tucked i n a little wire hutc h 'neath a green an d swayin g appl e tre e . . . He though t o f old-fashioned, jubilan t roses—whit e petticoats , blowin g kisses a t th e sun ! An d finally: th e familia r cres t an d capit ulation o f rakish , blue-eye d waves , tumblin g abou t hi s naked feet , withdrawing , the n whoah ! Whisshht . . . whisshht. . . whisshht. . . Meanwhile L a Stupend a humme d a brusqu e lullab y under he r breath . It s dog-eare d word s To m certainl y knew (recieved , n o doubt , fro m th e lip s o f hi s otherwis e dryly unrecallable mother) , bu t forgotte n 'ti l now, wooe d by L a Stupenda' s gruf f an d scarcel y audibl e crooning . You have the devil underrated, I cannot yet persuaded be A fellow who is all behated Must something be! You will see your castle s tumble , Chariots spli t fore t o aft , You will hang from on e foot , waiting — He know s his craft ! Tom close d hi s eyes , weary t o th e ver y marro w o f hi s wry an d misbegotte n bones , ye t fel t hi s spirit s begi n t o rise. Umy well, you know how it is! On your toes every minute. Hustle! Bustle! The inescapabl e necessit y o f circumstances ?

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And hardly a second for catching one's breathy for thinking an idea through front to back! Well, you get the picture. Fella gets out of touch, carried away. And isn't that me all over7. Tom remembered, with sudden warmth, Ada's wholesome tips: "A nice stroll by the river ! Porridge with but ter!" Well, was she right? Aww. . . (As a matter of fact Tom would not have refused a big helping of porridge righ t that minute , all haloed i n curling steam— a pa t o f swee t butte r dissemblin g i n streams—and cream swimming in circles around the edge of the bowl . . . He fel t hi s belly shudder abruptl y to life ; a delirious moan , a growl o f pure, anticipator y bliss , rising decidedly up, up . . .) "That's better, Thomas." La Stupenda gave his hand a brisk solicitous pat and leaned bac k in her seat, replacing the cigarette holder in her teeth and looking around with lazy interest . A n importunat e mo b ha d croppe d u p around Jones; they stood on buckling chairs, bellowing / have an idea, I have an ideal "Up th e puppy brunch, whaddaya say?" "Let's do wienies!" "Tango lessons, oo-la-la! ..." Distracted, Tom frowned; they must all sit down—this was no way to conduct a meeting! Even Ada, he observed with displeasure , encourage d a littl e toothles s ma n i n overalls, nodding he r hea d a s he jabbered awa y in grav e

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and unintelligible ecstasy . Ugo and Paulie were of course nowhere t o be seen. Those two yllfind a back door in the gravel Tom mad e t o stand , bu t L a Stupenda , wh o wa s blithely enjoyin g th e scene , wave d hi m dow n wit h he r cigarette. "Relax caro y there's nothin g yo u ca n do . They'r e ex cited, naturally, let them fla p an d squawk. " "Darned shame, " h e muttered . "Bunc h o f jumpin g jacks! You've no idea, it's impossible—" "Now, now," La Stupenda tapped hi s hand with a lacquered nail . "Heads without tail s die out quickly. " "Excuse me?" She tried again . "No man' s a n island. " Hunh? "Heavens! The point I am laboring to impress on you, Thomas, is that these people comprise, if you will, a kind of'family'—" Whaaaat?! Alas, ou r hero' s just-lai d hackle s ros e onc e more . "Family! You're—you sound like him, like Jones! What is all this abou t family ? Thi s i s not my family ! That' s just a thing to say—and anyway what about Jones? Isn't he part of the family ? Well , you se e how h e treat s people ! Fam ily!" Tom choked . How could she? La Stupenda, after alll But supposing she, too, had fallen under the spell of that—that thug? This was the limit!

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Bland in the fac e o f Tom's glowerin g pout, th e singe r continued. "Al l right , whatever , don't thin k o f the m a s family i f it nettle s you." Sh e chuckled . " I mus t sa y I a m surprised, howeve r . . . Jones—it's not exactl y in his line. So . . . ecumenical." Tom groaned an d morosely bared his teeth ( a recently acquired ti c he wa s finding increasingl y difficul t t o con trol). La Stupend a dre w out , fro m th e satin y vaul t o f he r aquamarine sleeve , a delicate silve r compact. Sh e pressed a glitterin g jewel , springin g th e top , an d wit h a tiny , pearl-handled brus h touche d u p he r serenel y puckere d lips, glancin g a t To m ove r th e roun d mirro r se t i n th e compact's lid . "Well , m y point—an d you' d d o wel l t o give it some thought, Thomas, given your vow to redeem the Ruins—i s tha t thes e people , cal l the m family , cal l them wha t yo u will . . . " Sh e blotte d he r lip s with satis faction, then snapped the compact shut. "What you mus t remember, carissimo^ i s that a n empir e canno t stan d fai r without recours e t o a principle o f sorts, any sort. An altissimo Iddio^ is what I'm gettin g at. Even Jones worships at a sort of altar and is not in every respect corrupt." Tom shrugged impatiendy . I know, I know, an "air of the sublime." La Stupend a searche d hi s fac e wit h uncharacteristi c urgency. Tom squirmed . Oh , he admired he r all right—a real star, no en d o f style, a professional! Bu t gee , he ha d his own idea s abou t ho w t o ge t thing s done . Surel y sh e

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didn't expec t him t o stan d aroun d whil e th e Ruin s wen t from ba d t o worse ? He' d bee n a timid siste r al l hi s life , well, ther e cam e a tim e whe n a fello w ha d t o stic k hi s head inside the lion's mouth! Besides, it wasn't as though he wen t looking for trouble . Th e salvatio n o f th e Ruin s was not his choice but his Fate. And one can hardly wriggle out of Fate. But as for an &to,uh, simidi . . . oh, # principle!—well, that anyway was in the bag. An air of the sublime! What could be more, uh . . . iddio? Listen, you can always find someone to say X, T or Z—but I say, just follow your star! Tom sighe d an d peeked shyl y at La Stupenda, regret ting his crankiness. Gee, but she was swell to take such an interest! And i n th e en d she' d admi t he' d bee n righ t al l along. Only must they quarrel? "Are you, um, going to be performing her e soon?" he ventured. La Stupenda seemed to be thinking of something else, head tilted slightly, eyes staring vacantly into Tom's own . Tom nervousl y cleare d hi s throat , finger s flutterin g round th e dange r zon e o f hi s ticklis h lips . Bu t L a Stu penda merel y shifte d i n he r sea t an d dre w har d o n he r cigarette, a broken smile playing across her face. "What' s that? Singing? Well, if you mean anything besides this socalled Frolic—" "No! Say , is that so? " Tom perke d u p instantly . "Say , that's great ! I'v e bee n wantin g t o catc h you r show , well, eve r sinc e . . . H a ha ! Remembe r th e Groanin g Board?"

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"Thomas—" "Fact is, that was a special night for me. And it's you I have to—" "Thomas." "What I mea n is—course , I' m terribl y flattered, bu t really you needn't, tha t is, everything's under— " "Thomas!" The singe r pu t he r han d ove r Tom' s mouth ; h e smelled violets and something else, something scorched— and then, oh, ugh! What's that? Ack! He jerke d away , repulse d an d embarrassed . L a Stu penda frowned , swiftl y withdre w he r han d int o it s sleeve, an d sa t back . "You'r e on e o f a kind , caro. But there's somethin g I thin k yo u shoul d know , some thing—" "Vov gawd's sake—WHERE'S TOM!" They bot h starte d a t Jones' s imperiou s bleat . Tom' s hands drew into fists; the singe r glanced a t him sharply . "Listen, caro, don't b e a chump . It' s no t th e wa y it looks . Ther e ar e thing s yo u shoul d b e carefu l of , things . . ." Sh e leaned, and Tom ducked to listen, but his straying foreloc k tickle d he r nos e an d thre w he r briefl y off course. "TOM-TOM! THIS INSTANT!"

Tom slammed both fists into the table and stood, baring his teeth. That destroyer, thatgoatl Why I—

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He covere d hi s gapin g mouth . Tim e woul d tell : a champion! Bu t for now best to avoid calling attention t o himself or his plans. And trust no one! Down belo w th e mo b opene d t o revea l Jone s a t it s center—feet plante d wide , han d o n on e hip—trainin g a thick an d inescapabl e finge r u p a t ou r seethin g hero . "Tom-Tom, quit conspiring with that devil and get down here where you belong! " Tom turned t o La Stupenda, bowed furiously, an d descended into the hubbub o f brawling desires.

CHAPTER SI X

Tango Romantico

17— r o r tw o weeks following Jones's cavalier announcement , there was a dizzying, high-strung hurry up feeling i n th e air. It was a time of crass, unbridled brainstorm s an d calculated restraint; slavish yea-saying, exclamatory booster ism, an d th e swapping o f gleeful , backhande d odd s o n the likelihood o f Jones "reall y putting i t over. " The openin g event— a "fashio n buffet"—wa s throw n together with breathtaking haste and virtually no promotion; ala s th e model s ( a squa d o f hystericall y elongated , pancake-faced waifs ) outnumbere d thos e i n attendance . A colossa l tabl e wa s laid , abou t th e saggin g edge s o f which th e sprinklin g o f guest s nibble d distractedly, rub bernecking th e peevis h designer s an d thei r gaunt , indif ferent minions . Jone s himsel f preside d i n th e kitchen , mincing truffles , mayonnaisin g lobster , bootin g waiter s out the door with tray after tra y of steaming savories and 153

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teeth-numbing sweets , unti l To m dare d t o wonde r i f there wasn't alread y more tha n enough . "The fact is—they, um—well, they're not really eating all that much. " Jones's hand s froze abov e a tiered imminenc e o f rose water meringue s he' d jus t erecte d upo n a crystal servin g dish. To m cringed . "Well , models , yo u kno w . . . " h e mumbled weakly . Jones's voic e curdle d lik e vinegare d cream : "Primo ! Let me tell you in a friendly way that you're a regular May basket o f pueril e cynicisms . Secondly , yo u ough t t o b e given a soun d beating ! O f cours e they'r e eating ! The y just spen t tw o hours oglin g a pack of lurid, herring-gut ted female s i n fur pump s an d plastic loincloths skitter u p and dow n a runway. They're eating, al l right—in witles s defense o f thei r ow n incriminatin g bulk—an d you r merely necessary duty is simply to deliver the goods. Now wthat clear?" Tom seize d th e pyrami d o f satin y meringue s an d si dled uneasil y towar d th e door . "Oh ! well , way way to o much is never enough, eh? Ha-ha. " Jones's eye s withered t o pinpoint s an d h e curle d on e lip. "You r lac k o f vision boggle s th e mind . Way way too much is only the beginning" ••

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The followin g afternoo n whe n To m went t o th e kitche n to ask for the firing time on that evening's Imperial Mandarin Duck (mah-jong g t o follow in the Avocado Room ,

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all got up like a swaggering Canton whore), he found th e well-heeled Mrs . Shad Frick . Maria Frick was still youngish an d suffered from food , batting abou t i n a manifest anorexi c frenzy . Sh e had te n or twelve dogs, a bland husband and two small oscillatory kiddies o n who m sh e kept apatheti c tabs . She an d Jone s publicly doted on one another; privately Jones contrived , when sh e ventured t o din e a t th e Ruins , that sh e gorg e herself green . Sh e maligne d hi m behin d hi s back . No w she stoo d befor e Mitzi , he r lon g thi n passionat e fac e white with loathing, and moaned: "He' s goin g to kill us, you kno w that ? Tub s o f butter ! Bucket s o f cream ! Why don't you d o something ? You'r e th e chef , stan d u p t o him! Why don't you —" Tom inadvisedly muttered, "She' s right . . . " Mitzi—whose solicitou s wink s an d matchles s sauce supreme had prove d a reliable antidot e t o th e sou r anxi ety that croppe d u p in our hero's troublesom e middle — studied a yard-lon g chocolat e route. Skew-jawed, pro truding eye s mor e froglik e tha n eve r (wit h a malignan t shine Tom had never seen there before), she carefully se lected a slende r brigh t blad e fo r despoilin g th e route— then spu n and slashed at Tom. She hissed. Tom stumble d back against the cocked elbow of Richard the cook—jus t drawing a cloud-cappe d cor n souffl e fro m th e oven . Richard yelped; the souffle shuddere d and sank with a despairing littl e sigh ; an d Mitz i levele d th e poin t o f he r knife over Tom's floundering Adam's apple. "Everyone . .. OUT!"

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Maria Fric k smirke d a s ou r hero , tear s blindin g hi s eyes, clapped one hand befor e hi s mouth an d fled. ••

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He foun d Ug o in the back storag e roo m wit h a mess of Paulie's helpers , assemblin g provision s fo r a catere d Confirmation. To m stoo d agains t th e wal l a s the y hauled awa y a life-sized an d casually bloodcurdlin g cru cifix. "Mak e way! " Pauli e crowed , "Mak e wa y fo r th e groom!" Tom edge d t o Ugo' s sid e an d was dismayed t o fin d Conchita, too , perched o n th e splinterin g li p o f a ply wood utilit y shelf, trim calve s swinging like brisk oppos ing pendulums ove r Ugo's ben t and shining head . "Tom," she growled accusingly, "I underztand you'v e been making time with La Ztupenda, no?" She flourished an invisibl e cigarett e holder , ben t t o blo w a hot, impu dent stream of air into Tom's upturned face—the n thre w back her head, exulting. "Mira! He' s blushing!" Tom scowled . "Yes , well, very funny, ha ha" Ugo smiled benignly at Tom's discomfort. "N o disrespect! N o disrespect ! Stres s an d pressure mak e fo r mis chief. Conchita? " Conchita thrus t a venomous pink tongue a t Ugo and pushed fro m he r perch , he r tri m doll-lik e bod y skatin g mercilessly dow n Tom' s thighs , her spiked pumps strad dling hi s wing-tip s whe n sh e hit . "Zat' s right , Tom, " she drawled , "is juzzee prezzure," the n swivele d ou t the door.

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Tom, the hair on hi s legs standing up, stared moodil y after her . Ug o poke d th e smal l o f Tom' s back . "Lad y killer! Well?" "Well," To m replied , hesitating , "well , it' s jus t this , this lame brain circus—" "Frolic. Of course! What else?" "It's gon e too far—I' m no t a magician!" "What? Why, only yesterday you came to me yourself, blazing with the light of consecrated industry , chore lists atremble i n your hands!" "You're mocking me! Every time—" "Not true ! You misunderstand! My friend, you'r e to o thin-skinned. I n fact! " Tom sulked . "You'r e no t th e onl y on e unde r pres sure . . . " Ugo reache d u p an d patte d hi s shoulder . "Onl y s o much a person ca n do!" "As though ther e aren' t mor e importan t thing s tha n blown fuse s an d butte r curls—a s thoug h thi s wer e my idea . . . " To m ble w his breath ou t bleakly . "It's hopeles s anyway, Jones controls everything. " "You're discouraged . Perhap s yo u exaggerat e Jones' s influence?" "Exaggerate! I' m tellin g you , h e won' t giv e m e a n inch! I'm trying to light zfire unde r these people . . . Oh, they nod thei r heads . c You bet, Tom! Right away! ' The y roll ove r when the y se e m e coming—an d laug h i n thei r sleeves behind m y back. And it's all Jones's fault. H e encourages them."

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"They're weak, Tom, only weak—" "And you stick up for 'em ! Next you'll b e whitewashing Jones himself!" "You have to admit— " "Great! Perfect! " To m shoo k of f Ugo' s consolin g hand. "S o that' s ho w i t is? OK! The fac t i s I don' t nee d you anyway. All the same, things'll change! If I have to do everything myself, if I—" "That's th e spirit . W e al l expec t grea t thing s fro m you!" But Tom was already drifting away , his heart wrappe d like a joyless fis t roun d th e stou t brandishe d stic k o f his self-conviction. ••

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"Well, jeez—s o ho w y a doin' , anyway? " Ada mumble d shyly a s together , th e nex t afternoon , the y sorte d through a bushel o f assorte d spoons . Th e questio n wa s rhetorical. She'd grow n wary, if not cool, in her relation s with Tom. Scrupulous in her duties; deferential to a fault; eager an d incurably gratefu l fo r th e chance to do for others . . . but pointedl y professiona l i n he r exchange s wit h Tom. H e i n tur n wa s rattled b y her inexplicabl e formal ity. Just whe n h e neede d a pal, a real—whatchamacallit ? advocate—here wa s Ad a givin g hi m th e col d shoulder . Figured! Girls ! But what'd sh e expect ? Didn' t h e hav e a job t o do ? ( Thought he made that clear enough when she showed up! Anyway, never asked to be tagged after.) Still , she wa s wort h mor e tha n th e res t o f hi s staf f pu t to -

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gether—for al l th e irksom e pluckin g o f he r sympathetic chords. "Oh, there' s nothin g th e matte r wit h me," To m grumbled. "Fi t a s a fiddle! It' s al l a question o f balance , you know. " Ada nodded . He r voic e wa s wistfu l now , an d a littl e coy. "Didj a ever—eve r ge t tha t wal k b y th e river ? Th e ducks, the daisie s . . . " Tom stare d a t her . Again with the ducks? He snorte d violentiy an d smacke d th e ca n o f polis h dow n har d against the table. "Perhaps you think this is all some sor t of a joke? Is that it, Ada? Do you find m e ridiculous?" Ada gaspe d an d fixe d he r roun d blac k eye s o n Tom . For one terrified momen t h e thought h e might ri p out a handful o r two of that cloudy hair. She started, seeing the tightness o f hi s jaw , an d th e edge s o f hi s nostril s gon e white. Immediatel y contrite , sh e brushe d he r knuckle s across hi s tremblin g wrist ; h e jerke d awa y a s thoug h burned. The y stared a t one another : sh e self-reproachfu l and secretl y appalled ; h e gapin g miserably . H e turne d away and muttered int o one hand . "Whoops—sorry abou t that ! Li' l edgy , maybe ? Mat ter o f fact , I wa s thinkin g o f somethin g else . A stroll ? Why no t poetr y too ! H a ha , jus t kidding ! Busy , busy , busy . . . " "Oh Tom," Spoon in hand, Ada automatically contin ued t o rub, "Are yo u al l right? I t seem s to me— " Feeling somethin g i n hi s middl e lurch , To m instinc tively grabbe d fo r hi s belly—releasin g hi s muzzle , alas ,

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and a headlon g pac k o f churlis h words . " I said I was , didn't I ? It' s no t me that ha s the problem , anyway . Th e problem is you, you and everyone else in this stupid place! Wasn't fo r al l o f you I' d really be swell , bu t a s it i s . . . Pieking posies? How dar e you ! Ho w dar e you ! Will I g o to al l this trouble an d b e mocked a s well?" Astonished an d repelle d b y hi s ow n outburst , To m swept th e litte r o f silve r t o th e floo r an d stoo d up . Th e thing insid e him—the thin g tha t bucke d an d hammere d and threatene d i n som e dreadfu l wa y t o tea r loos e an d plunge hi m int o a n uncontrollabl e spin—thi s thin g seemed t o han g b y a thread, a n overtaxe d an d ravelin g thread tha t woul d certainly , wer e Ad a t o utte r a single word more, certainl y giv e way ! Ada' s lip s trembled , parted. To m coul d practically see the words hatching inside her; saw them rise to her lips, her demure little chest lift an d fall , an d th e muscle s i n he r slende r throa t open , open . . . H e backe d awa y fro m th e prospec t o f thes e words—feathers stil l damp , fluttering a t hi m blindly — cruelly seeking that final thread b y which the thing inside him might yet, oh, yet be restrained! Tom yelpe d an d fled befor e Ad a coul d speak . Stum bling through a side door into the dish scull', he was immediately swallowed up by founts o f seething, velutinous steam. "Poor Tom, " murmure d Ada ; and poor Tom again, as she bent t o gather th e scattered, shining spoons. •• •

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In th e dis h scull ' Rober t th e busbo y an d Pauli e jumpe d at Tom's sudden appearance . Robert snorte d smok e int o one cuppe d han d an d cocke d a sabl e bro w a t Pauli e i n wordless inquiry. Paulie winked and pulled deeply from a haggard fa g befor e passin g i t bac k t o Robert , the n pounced a t Tom. "Behold th e Tomster ! What' s cookin' , ol d buddy ? I tell you, this place is shakin' lik e a two-dollar joint, a m I right, brother Ro?" Robert's gorgeous copper face crum pled i n helples s agreemen t a s Pauli e linke d hi s ar m i n Tom's an d sidled up close. "Needless t o say , we're countin ' o n yo u fo r a shakedown. I know you know I know . . . Heh heh . Natives gettin' resdess , though . I say s stay cool, that's the rule! Brother Tom'll set things straight. But as my ol' lady used to holler , if you're coming come quick! So, whaddaya say, are we backin' th e right horse o r what? . . . " By tuggin g an d tickling , Pauli e steere d To m t o th e other en d o f the roo m wher e the y stoo d amon g leanin g towers o f thirty-gallo n stoc k kettles . To m scowle d a t Paulie's fatuou s gri n an d folde d hi s arm s sternly , hi s cheeks hectic fro m th e stea m an d fro m th e effor t t o collect himself . H e sai d nothin g fo r a moment , the n ben t abrupdy a t th e waist , hi s voice a passionate croak . "Listen, you want fair and square? I'l l tel l you what's fair an d square. Sink or swim!That's fai r and square! " Paulie shove d hi s hand s int o th e ai r a s thoug h To m had thrust a gun a t him. "M y man! "

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"Get this : I' m not you r man ! How' s that ? I' m no t your man , I' m no t you r brothe r an d I' m certainl y no t your—your stupi d horse! Why shoul d I bea r th e burde n for the rest of you? Every man for himself. All I asked fo r was a little cooperation . A n appreciation , a n air, that is , of—" "Whoa righ t there , o P buddy . They'l l abolish you, think that' s a joke ? Yo u mad e a commitment. Sin k o r swim? Now that just ain't done" "Is that right?" "Zackly right." "Well I'll tell you what, oP buddy, you just watch me!" Tom pushed Pauli e aside and strode toward th e door. As his trembling hand s fumble d wit h th e rust-pocke d bolt , Paulie's voice drawled ou t cheerfull y behin d him . "Ain't tha t easy ! Not i n this rat's ass, it ain't! "

18— Tom pulle d ove r jus t insid e th e Clou d Room , proppe d his back against the pink silk wall and shook like autumn's last leaf. What was happening? First Mitzi—Ugo . . . Ada! And no w Paulie. La! There was a lump in his throat lik e a desiccate d walnut , blun t an d bitte r an d unrelenting , and hi s knees stuc k hi m ba d fo r th e firs t tim e i n weeks. He skated down his spine to the parquetry floor, eased his skewed and checkered legs out befor e him , and pillowe d his head sideways on a carved lavender pilaster. What was happening!

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Thoughtful, Tom' s eye s automaticall y rove d abou t the exquisitely appointed Clou d Room . A dozen pairs of beveled glas s doors ranged lik e wedding couples, frame d by tal l arche d alcoves , th e ape x o f eac h enclosin g a larger-than-life, ye t no t unnaturall y rendered , ornitho logical tableau . There' s a pontifical re d cardinal , leerin g from th e branche s o f a well-hung peach tree ; a swaggering blu e stellar' s jay , on e ey e peele d a s he plunder s th e booty o f a black-eye d cherry ; a seigneurial hummin g bird, hi s avi d needl e buried—t o th e hilt!—i n th e am brosial depth s o f a tremblin g youn g honeysuckle . On e bloodless whit e parrot , disembowelin g a n orange . On e (insufficientiy) swift , it s hear t explodin g i n th e dispas sionate talon s o f a grea t horne d owl . An d a humbl e sparrow, hun g b y it s nec k o n a dirt y string , danglin g from th e branc h o f a winter birch . Hmm. That sparrow, come to think of it— He mad e a menta l not e t o rearrang e th e chinoiseri e bamboo armchair s in the loggia an d have the petit-poin t cushions cleane d a t the earlies t possible opportunity . H e reckoned th e platinu m silk-taffet a drape s migh t g o an other month , the n wondered , wit h a tremendou s wrench, wha t (i f anything! ) migh t surviv e th e nex t fe w weeks' onslaught. Thing s were certainl y going fro m ba d to worse. Is Tour Tropical Paradise Gone to Seed? Is Tour Ivory Tower Besieged? Has Tour Affair with Life Lost Its Zing?

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Tom's forlor n gap e wen t unremarke d i n th e empt y Cloud Room . "No w mor e tha n ever, " h e mourned , "now more than ever." He closed his eyes and was within a heartbea t o f fort y invaluabl e wink s whe n h e becam e vaguely aware of broad, soft, whiskery lips nuzzling at his neck . . . warm velvety gusts of air . . . the sudde n dispo sition o f larg e an d importunat e teet h upo n th e paten t leather bri m o f his cap? Tom's lazy peek was blown wide by the glar e o f the walleye d malevolen t pony . Flailing a t the gray , bullet-shape d head , h e scramble d t o hi s feet . "What! How ! Who let this pony out?" he roared . Th e sl y animal prompdy reared on its corpulent hindquarters and Tom backe d away , cowerin g behin d a marbl e pedestal . "Hey now ! Settle down, you, or I—or I . . . help!" ••

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"All right, " snarle d Tom , hi s thi n nec k conspicuousl y flushed, a squall of petulant curls springing from his head. The lawles s pon y (capture d a t las t afte r a memorabl e romp amon g th e lacquere d armchair s an d agreeabl y windmilling arm s o f the thrille d an d ineffectua l person nel) was banished t o th e loadin g dock . No w Tom' s staf f stood i n a circle , th e obligator y remors e o n thei r face s corrupted b y illicit smiles and outright grins . "No laugh ing! Yo u wer e supposed t o b e settin g u p fo r tonight' s Tango Lessons . What' s th e bi g idea , turnin g tha t pon y loose!" "Exercise?" volunteered someone . "Accident!"

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"Wasn't us , Tom!" (". . . 's he blaming us?" ) "What make s you so sure, Tom?" "Yes, what makes you s o sure!" Tom espie d an d snatche d hi s ca p fro m th e untid y braids o f a nearby laundry-maid ; the n fixed a n outrage d and accusin g ey e on Ada , standin g wordlessly apart , he r small solicitou s fac e a n unmistakabl e petitio n fo r clemency. He snorted . "Ees'cuse mee , Tom," piped a young parking valet in back, " . . . fo r why you as k us? Eee s you i n charg e here , no?" The crow d smirke d encouragingly ; the wag continued, "s o ee s your job. Thee s caballito , wh y you no ge t heem under your thumb? Seems like," he suggested slyly, "ees th e othe r wa y roun \ Pobricitol Wha' els e yo u g o turn' roun'? " A chorus o f delighted yelps, which no on e bothered t o concea l (sav e "Rodrigo"—th e abjec t danc ing maste r wit h badl y dye d blac k hai r an d plucke d eye brows—who double d hi s hand s ove r hi s sweatshirte d belly to curb a self-conscious guffaw) . "See here , I don' t kno w wha t you'r e talkin g about, " Tom snapped . "An d furthermore , i f you've go t a problem wit h th e management , just com e righ t ou t wit h it. " He declaime d with a n automatic lif t o f the chin , "Direc t communication—" the n stopped . "Say , jus t wh o ar e you, anyway ? I don' t thin k I'v e see n yo u aroun d her e before." "Mee?" th e boy' s blac k eye s seemed t o contract ; on e shoulder lifte d i n rhetorica l regret . "I' m nobody , capi-

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tano. Un mus—a leetle mouse, you say? Eee, eee . . . Jes' a leetle squea k behin ' th e cupboar d door , no? " H e hunched hi s slende r shoulder s an d tucke d tw o elegan t brown paws beneath his chin, sudden whiskers glinting as he turne d int o th e light . Th e other s hoote d i n admira tion, an d in a twinkling everyone' s paw s were tucked u p and danglin g befor e starche d whit e tunic s an d greas y T-shirts. To m exclaimed , an d ther e wa s a n immediat e dash in all directions, a riot of long tails flirting acros s the dance floor lik e whips. Eee, eee, eee I

"Hey!" Tom protested. Doggone it, they were gettin g out o f hand again ! He watched, dismayed, as they scampered off in mock terror, squeaking and tittering and racing each other fo r hideouts. "He y listen, we've go t a job to do! C'mon yo u guys!" But they'd already disappeared, shivering wit h gle e beneat h lo w gil t stool s an d plushl y padded benches , vanishin g amon g th e ruffle s o f satin slipped pillows, invisible in the guttere d shadow s aroun d the long, unlit loggia . "He-y!" He begged this time, two irreducible syllables in whic h on e coul d no t bu t catc h a n ancient , universa l plea fo r justice ; an appea l no t onl y t o som e higher , pre sumably sportsmanlik e power , bu t t o th e mor e account able sensibilitie s o f th e mic e themselves . Fair play I he could a s well hav e argued . I n an y case, there wa s no re sponse, save a few cynical squeaks.

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"Look," To m offere d next , "we'v e all , tha t is , o f course I appreciat e the , uh , effort everyone' s pu t int o this, this Frolic—but..." h e took a few improvident steps in the direction o f a teak and ivory tea trolley — Eee! Eeel

Tom winced , fel l away , an d wit h slo w appeasin g move ments of his arms and hands, cautiously addressed a stack of folding table s against the opposite wall. "The proble m is, it's not over yet! OK? Just betwee n you an d me , I wish it were, ha ha ! Bu t reall y we're . . . we've go t lot s t o d o here—lots! All together! You're responsible to o . . . " "We're mice !v shrilled a nearby laundry cart, but when Tom ben t t o pee r int o th e abys s of filthy linens , the en tire roo m brok e ou t i n hysterica l eeks and brusque , bel ligerent squeals . H e stopped , repulsed , an d slappe d on e hand agains t his brow. "You're . . . I can't believe this! What do you expect me to do?" A peal of silvery tee hees. "Look," Tom tor e off his cap and ran a hand throug h his waywar d mop . " I promise , w e ca n pla y later ! Fun , whatever you want! But right now—you know we've go t this tango thing! Can't we just, can't you just stop being, uh, mice?" He the n hastil y seize d and , a s a demonstration o f his need, flun g som e chair s int o a slopp y circl e aroun d a nearby table. "No kidding! How about, you know, laying

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some silver ? Sure ! I'm—we'l l ge t thi s thin g licked ! An d the bar , somebody stock the bar . They'll b e drinking like fish! And . . .oh! please come on , there's stil l a chance if we all pitch i n together!" To m turne d t o a pordy crysta l vase an d plucke d wit h nervou s fingers a t th e haphazar d arrangement o f glowering red peonies, then whirled sud denly, a sagging , long-stemme d pos y clenche d i n hi s teeth. "An y of you m-m-mice!. . . care to tango? " At that moment Jone s barreled into the vacant Clou d Room—he bawled : "Fo r gawd's sake ! This takes the bloody cake!" La! Tom's knee s denounce d hi m an d h e nearl y buckled ; the peony plunged from hi s teeth as he gasped, clutching the vase to his belly, "You . . .oh! yo u startle d me ! Egh , if you're lookin g for— " "Looking for?" Jone s loome d fro m acros s th e room , threw bot h arm s int o th e air , and leane d forwar d a t th e waist. " What we're looking for, Mr. So-Called Maitre d\ i s some redeeming glimme r of intelligent lif e in that feebl e bulb we mistook fo r a brain! Gawd!" He stalke d wit h monumenta l ir e acros s th e gloss y floor; without warning, one meaty fist punched sideways, sending a white plastic bucket of cutlery crashing into an adjacent wall . I n a flash h e stoo d clos e besid e Tom , mouthing the lad's ear like a microphone, long threads of saliva insinuatin g themselve s betwee n hi s red , infernall y writhing lips and our cringing hero's waxen white whorls. "Get it, Tom-Tom? Coming in loud and clear?"His voice

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sawed bac k an d fort h acros s th e bleedin g stump s o f Tom's ravage d nerves ; hi s scaldin g breat h smelle d o f dead cat s and th e feti d wate r in which flower s hav e bee n left t o rot. "LOUD AND CLEAR?" Tom dull y perceived th e indecen t but t o f Jones's vast belly against hi s own tremblin g arm : pushing, thrusting , pushing, thrusting! He clun g to the vase. "GET IT, GET IT?"

Alas, poor gull . His thoughts whirled i n a rising spire; his sickened bloo d surged , then plummete d t o his feet; a black an d terrifyin g abys s rose befor e hi s eyes; his weeping ear boomed and throbbed. I n the end his own hands, suddenly boneless as bread, betrayed him , lifting i n cowardly supplicatio n befor e th e monstrous , th e unimagin able Bite . . . ••

•

When To m opene d hi s eyes he was flat o n hi s back, sur rounded b y mice. There was a great dea l of cheerful tskinjj and a lively wringing of paws. "Go away," he grunted, and made to sit up. "Tom," and here was Ada crouched b y his side, pressing him gentl y int o a litter o f outraged peonies . "It' s al l right, you'v e only—bette r li e still , though . Ho w d'yo u fed? Dizzy? " Tom stare d a t a tumbler o f water someon e thrus t a t him an d recalled th e ghastl y plunge o f the vase from be tween hi s faithless , renunciator y palms . Ho w i t seeme d

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not t o fal l s o much a s bluntly subtrac t itsel f from space ; his hand s meetin g i n a hollo w clap— a pucke r o f air — then nothing. He frowne d a t th e glass , turne d an d demande d o f Ada, "Where . . . where's Jones? What time is it?" "Jeez, I don't know . Nearly seven? Mr. Jones—" "Then there' s barel y a n hour. " To m struggle d t o hi s feet, glancing at the circle of inquisitive faces around him. "And listen. I've definitel y had it to here with you guys. I mean it! Anyone who wants to play better expect . . . ex pect a different game ! G-g-get it? And where' s tha t kid , that valet or whatever? . . . that ridiculous mouse! " There was a swift, collectiv e intake of air—Tom inter cepted a villainous wink—and Ad a lai d a timid han d o n his arm. "Tom , don' t yo u thin k . . . ar e you sur e you'r e all right?" "Fine!" he snarled, still glaring at the others. "Leave a fellow i n th e lurch ! Ver y amusing , I suppose , t o som e people! Well, now that you've all had your fun, maybe we could ge t a little work done! " Ada's shar p nos e ha d gon e whit e wit h concern , he r clear bro w purse d i n confusion . Behin d Tom' s bac k sh e nodded at the others, then herself bent to collect the long pointed shard s of broken glas s into a prudent pile . Tom wa s surprise d an d somewha t pacifie d t o se e th e others turn and go dutifully t o work. In a few minutes the tables were up an d se t with heavy silver and tal l beeswa x pillars i n iridescen t glas s chimneys . Fres h flowers ap peared ( a miracl e i n itself 1.): slender , unaffecte d freesi a

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with long bent backs and a stupefying perfume . Th e puddled floor was firmly sopped and chairs arranged in sober lines down the pink moire walls; precise circles round th e stiffly skirte d tables. Silver chaffing dishe s whuffled softl y along a decorou s buffe t lade n wit h roas t pheasant , dressed i n it s tai l feathers ; truffle d quail s a la moelle; a massive Rhin e car p wit h apocalypti c eyes ; wild fig s an d poached Italia n pears ; bowl s o f beaten , brandy-lace d cream; a moa t o f multicolore d sherbet s surroundin g a fantastic ic e casri e in whos e froze n depth s starfruit , pas sion flower s an d opiu m poppies , hun g suspende d i n a transparent, slightl y fish-eye d dream . Ther e wer e parfai t glasses o f black , unblinkin g caviar , an d a veritable Mat terhorn o f Strasbourg pate. The rosewoo d floor , hand-buffe d wit h a n ancien t chamois, wa s the n duste d wit h tiny , pearlescen t soa p flakes t o enhanc e it s action . Th e chandelier s wer e dimmed, an d Rodrigo—mercilessl y squeeze d int o blac k spandex trouser s an d a beade d jacket ; hi s unfortunat e hair waxed to cruel perfection; th e faintly pocked surfac e of his skin neutralized b y thick bluish powder—waited i n the cente r o f th e room . He' d draw n hi s inelegan t spin e disdainfully erect ; on e black-swathe d kne e rotate d ou t and wa s meticulousl y bent ; a lean spotligh t cam e dow n like a lance over his far shoulder, throwing hi s ill-favore d visage into menacing silhouette . Ada (a dusky moth i n ruffled blac k taffeta fro m whic h chiffon sleeve s fluttered whitely , like wings) presided over the buffet ; whil e a battalio n o f cook s an d server s stoo d

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merry-eyed an d read y fo r action , th e ric h re d bloo d blooming zestily in their tender cheeks. The band filed in as the cloc k struc k eight , th e littl e chin a cucko o dartin g in and out with melodious ease. Tom stoo d behin d th e bar , a polished nicke l cocktai l shaker i n on e hand , hi s relie f an d wonde r a t havin g brought th e thing off evident only in the few and forgiv able drop s o f perspiratio n makin g thei r invisibl e wa y down th e pal e knob s o f hi s spine . I t was , considerin g their inauspicious start, rather a triumph.

19— Forty minute s late r ou r her o stole yet anothe r glanc e a t the smugl y ticking clock , an d fo r th e secon d time sen t Paulie skipping out to confirm tha t the front doo r was indeed unlocked, and that the doorbell (i n fact notoriousl y fickle) wa s no t playin g trick s o n them . Naturall y ther e was n o malfunction , excep t tha t th e carillon, onc e im pelled b y Paulie' s zealou s finger , no w woul d no t sto p ringing; an d a s th e insistent , three-tone d ding-dang dongl ding-dang- Aongl san g ou t agai n an d again , an nouncing no one, Tom felt his knees begin to sicken an d shake. He tried to catch Ada's comforting eye , but at that moment Jones , arm s flun g emblematicall y wide , barge d obscenely into the room. Rodrigo started nervously fro m his studied pose, the spotlight painting a lurid portrait o f his frivolous brow s and ghastly , acne-scarred cheeks .

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"Kept u s tappin g ou r toes , yo u craz y wracks ! Waal, let th e dancin g begin ! We— " Jone s stopped , hi s arm s falling t o hi s sides , an d looke d abou t wit h scrupulou s formality, inspectin g th e vacant , resplenden t room , th e expressionless musicians , th e meltin g sherbet , an d th e crabbed for m o f th e Tang o Master , mincin g backward s off th e floor . H e seeme d t o smile—a t an y rate hi s lowe r jaw sho t forward , sheere d harshly ; an d hi s nex t words , directed a t n o on e i n particular , cam e ou t i n a half strangled simulatio n o f casua l inquir y "Anyon e go t th e time?" Cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo!

Jones tipped hi s head sideways , closed hi s eyes, "Yazzss, than k you. " Thoug h hi s voice , lik e a n ol d rope , twisted an d kinke d eve r mor e tightl y o n itself , Jone s stood nonetheles s calml y enoug h i n th e cente r o f th e gleaming floor . "Nex t question—ho w ou r memor y fail s us!—at what time did we expect our company?" The musicians looke d a t eac h othe r an d bega n t o disassembl e their instruments . Jone s watche d the m wit h meticulou s interest as he waited for a reply, finally prompting, u TomTom?»

Tom burs t out , "Oh ! . . . cocktails and heav y app.s at eight; dancing a t nine—" "Eight o'cloc k yo u say?" Jones turned t o face him . "For cocktail s . . . "

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"And—our sill y lapses!—what time i s it now? " As he spoke Jones clasped his hands and took one coy, deferential step toward th e bar . Tom set down the cocktail shaker and stepped out, his own hand s droppin g griml y t o hi s sides ; Pauli e sidle d away. "I—it isn't. . . Nine" "Ah yes. Nine, and a little change, eh?" Jones took another step , laying on e finge r t o th e sid e o f his nos e an d furrowing hi s brow. "And , dea r me, just on e mor e time . When did we expect— " "Look—" "Yes, Tom-Tom ? There' s somethin g you' d lik e t o say?" No w Jone s extende d bot h arm s befor e hi m a s h e advanced, hands rotating o n thei r wrists, inveigling To m forward. "B y all means, don't hold back!" Tom too k a step ; th e ai r betwee n the m crackled . I t seemed, indeed, it seemed that — Suddenly Ada dropped her utensils with a peculiar cry, a high, remonstrative whinny, which was immediately endorsed b y a n equall y surprisin g an d vigorou s Too hool from somewher e amon g the opulen t silve r draperies. In stantly the ban d stabbe d int o the firs t bar s of Tango Piccolo MortOy and a short, robust elderly woman with an improbable blon d fli p an d a n enormous overbit e staggere d at last into the Clou d Room . "To hell with these curtains! Where's the dance! " Jones (who' d stoo d t o mee t Tom' s diffiden t charg e with ope n arm s an d on e le g crosse d befor e th e other ) pivoted smartl y an d withou t missin g a bea t strod e for -

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ward t o welcom e thei r huffin g an d violend y dishevele d guest. "Waalll, loo k who' s herrrel I f i t isn' t Bett y Garsin Greer herself! Love your hair! Ready and rarin'? Of course you are , you'r e th e bell e o f th e ball! " Jone s lai d Mrs . Garsin-Greer's pudg y han d upo n hi s pin k velou r sleev e and execute d a viciou s turn-step-dip-and-spin , raspin g over his shoulder, "Martinis, Tom-Tom! v Rodrigo, sidlin g out fro m behin d a large ornamenta l palm, bisecte d th e danc e floo r wit h furiousl y swivelin g hips, on e powdere d han d danglin g carelessl y fro m th e end o f a glittering, outstretched arm . O n th e bandstan d the cellist glowered, threw back her head and let her fin gers snar l ove r th e string s o f he r instrument . Ad a col lected her wits, found her tongs and with a brave smile resumed he r post . For a moment, To m coul d no t move . A long tremo r went through him . I.. .Jones! Why, we nearly! He close d his eyes and returned to the bar. "Fresh ice," he muttered automatically; then wearily reached for the gin. The party commenced. ••

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Betty Garsin-Greer simpl y could not fatho m wh y no on e else had com e to take advantage o f Jones's "Fu n Idea. " "Why," she gasped, "those bloodless old sticks haven't any idea what they'r e missing ! Just loo k a t al l this FU N FOOD! An d tha t wonderfu l youn g ma n i n th e FU N COSTUME!" I t wa s virtually impossibl e t o understan d

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her excited speech, hampered as it was not only by a magnificent overbite , bu t b y he r gallan t an d forthrigh t at tempts t o subdu e th e b y now rather irredeemabl e quail . "Thtickths!" sh e repeated—lurchin g fo r a depleted glas s of caviar on its way to the kitchen . Jones slouche d besid e her , proppe d o n a fist planted smack betwee n a bouquet o f bristiing chees e straw s an d the disconsolate carp. "Yazzss..." h e replied. "Isn't it too fun!" Th e ban d playe d wit h matchles s condescension , now le d b y a lean , porpoise-face d accordianiste, wh o tossed his shoulders seductively behind the back of his instrument. Jone s sniffed, turne d abrupti y an d inquired o f the wheezin g matro n a t hi s side , "Madam , wil l yo u tango?" A s the y sallie d acros s th e roo m t o wher e th e Master waited, Jones leaned over and confided gloomily , "It's fabulous, really, and so de rigueurl" Mrs. Garsin-Greer, an easy foot shorte r tha n th e loft y and suddenl y suav e Rodrigo , prove d a wonde r o n th e dance floor . Sh e tro d a s thoug h i n glas s slippers ; sh e turned o n a dime; she kept her neck long and her elbows high. Th e Tang o Maste r poute d hopefully . Really , th e senorita was s o promising ! What a shame ther e weren' t three students wh o wit h himsel f woul d for m tw o idea l couples. Perhaps?... Th e corner of one mascaraed eye on Jones, Rodrig o gesture d a t th e room . Bett y Garsin Greer, delighte d an d embarrasse d b y thi s praise , huffe d and patted he r do and flapped he r hand a t Jones. "Go on , ther e mus t b e someon e wh o ca n com e an d dance. It's FUN," sh e announced, peering nearsightedl y

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around her. "M y goodness, there's no end of people just standing around!" Motor racing, she shoved naughtily at Jones's stomach. "G o o n then . Get someone!" Jones parried th e woman's impetuou s slap , wagged a stiff finger, then turne d an d dourly surveyed th e room . Our hero , observing thi s exchange, was frankly aston ished by Jones's however graceless acquiescence; and more astonished stil l when Jone s raised a hand an d snapped hi s fingers at the buffet, whence Ada, innocentiy surrendering her tools, now hurried to see how she might be of service. "Impossible," To m murmured ; an d Paulie , half-swacke d by the numerous glasses of brandy he'd nipped in his function as bar-back, ground a n elbow into his ribs. "Jealous, Tom-Tom ?v he squawke d wit h booz y satis faction. "Green-eye d so-and-so got you by the—" Goosing Tom , h e jumped bac k gigglin g a s Tom whirle d an d swatted hi s hand. "Oooh ! Touche d a nerve? Can' t sa y I blame you. I mean, after al l you've done for him . . . And now he throws you over for a mousy little nobody in big white sleeves?" Paulie shook his head, belched cheerfully . "It's tough, kid. " They paire d up , Mrs. Garsin-Gree r wit h th e gloatin g Tango Master, Jones with Ada. Jones with Ada! The porpois e counte d of f tw o bar s an d the y wer e off—over th e grow l o f th e ehitarm an d th e excite d protestations o f th e clarinet , Rodrigo' s shril l voic e ex horted hi s students, "Slow, slow, fast-fast, slo w . . ." An d

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while ou r hero' s nerve s coile d an d smoke d lik e snappe d wires, the two couples swaggered up and down the dance floor, spine s rigid , fee t shadowin g on e anothe r lik e thieves. Inexcusable! Ada! A table servant! It wa s wicked , To m felt , t o persecut e Ad a thi s way . Look ho w sh e blushed ! an d stumbled ! an d struggle d to mee t Jones' s eye . Jone s wh o refuse d t o loo k a t he r at all ; wh o glare d contemptuousl y ove r th e to p o f he r dizzily whippin g head . Next thing he'll put her on stage to, to . . . Do somethin g shameless ? Rodrigo flun g Bett y ove r on e disdainfu l arm , jerke d her upright an d executed a savage quarter-turn, hurtiin g himself and his partner straigh t at the bar, Jones and Ada smoldering in his wake. Our hero's throat tightene d an d a fin e swea t filme d hi s uppe r lip . H e coul d hea r Pauli e laughing hystericall y behin d hi m an d knew he was alone (with no idea what to do!), only sure, from th e slow sick rising pressur e i n hi s bell y tha t something must be done! He steppe d blindl y from behin d th e ba r to mee t th e ad vancing couples. The clarinetist' s eyes began to roll with premonitory alarm . Two feet in front o f Tom the music reared, staggered , and fell to its knees but for a single, deliriously prolonged tremolando. The firs t coupl e screame d t o a halt. "Reall y FUN," gasped Mrs. Garsin-Greer, supine over the Tango Master's peremptory arm, as he sneered and with his free hand pulled a thin black cigarette from hi s breast pocket ,

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lighting i t o n a matc h struc k agains t th e powder-cake d stubble o n hi s chin. The clarinet' s A clawe d it s wa y t o B-flat , t o B , t o sharping C . . . Jones bore down on the bar, his gaze, like a lightning bolt , impaling Tom on the spot. Snap, crack! Ada flippe d right , rolle d left , wa s spun lik e a top, Jone s cutting i n t o catc h he r b y the wais t an d drap e her , defi antly, practicall y i n Tom' s lap . I t wa s thi s spectacl e o f Ada's upside-dow n face—th e normall y reassurin g smil e overturned, the round eyes oddly flattened, her hair drift ing t o th e floo r (th e slende r rubber-tippe d pin s fallin g soundlessly aroun d it)—tha t appalle d an d finall y galva nized Tom . As though she were a puppet, a doll! The clarine t player was by now standin g o n hi s chair, back arched as though he too were slung from th e ebon y will o f his instrument, hi s sweating lip s clenched o n th e merciless stic k an d th e outrageousl y upward-spiralin g note. To m an d Jones faced on e anothe r fro m eithe r sid e of Ada's dependin g form . Ou r her o picke d nervousl y a t the girl's exultant white sleeve. "Uh! C'mon Ada, you're—I need you in the kitchen." He wa s ashamed t o mee t Jones' s n o doub t witherin g gaze, kep t hi s eye s on th e naked , flutterin g puls e a t th e base o f Ada' s throat , an d longe d fo r th e dreadful , de mented musi c t o stop , just stop! And fo r Mrs . Garsin Greer t o stan d an d pa t he r fli p an d oh , g o finis h th e caviar! For Rodrigo (whos e real name, Tom suddenly re-

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called, wa s plai n ol d Roger ) t o chang e hi s clothe s an d dash th e powde r an d roug e fro m hi s dissolut e face ; fo r Ada t o collec t he r hairpin s an d retir e t o th e buffet . An d for everyone , everyon e t o jus t g o away , g o home , just leave him alone I "Urn, uh, " To m plucke d agai n a t th e whit e chiffon , "So listen, Ada? Ada!" There's abrup t mayhe m o n th e bandstan d a s the clar inetist's chai r collapses , plungin g hi m directi y int o th e outraged brasse s ( a predictable cacophon y o f crosse d french hor n an d coronet, music stands and metal foldin g chairs . . .). Servers dashed t o th e scene, laughing madly . Paper-capped cook s hallooe d throug h th e doorway , pointing thei r lon g drippin g ladles . Mrs . Garsin-Gree r yelped to be up, both hand s paddling ineffectually a t the air until her partner flipped hi s cigarette away, set the ol d woman o n he r feet an d slun k off t o cadg e a sherry fro m Paulie behind th e bar . Jones's li p curle d i n disgust . H e dryl y withdre w hi s hand from the small of Ada's back and she dropped to the floor: "Oh! " sh e exclaimed , th e win d knocke d fro m he r in on e astonishe d pooff. Tom' s mout h twitche d i n protest. "Way to go, Tom . Brok e ou r concentration—don' t speak! Your lack of timing is flawless. Gawd!" Jones made a fac e an d flappe d hi s han d a t th e mele e gatherin g hys terical momentu m aroun d them ; whe n a stou t brow n sausage tor e acros s th e floor , h e stuc k ou t hi s foo t an d Toulouse wen t careenin g int o th e bandstand . H e quit e

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ignored poo r Ada , stil l hiccoughin g fo r breath . "Jus t what is this ad o about ? Yo u call this Tango Komantico^ Do you ? Well , gues s what—w e cal l thi s a n unqualifie d flop! Get the picture?" At the buffe t table , Mrs. Garsin-Greer (practicin g he r steps roun d th e puddlin g ic e casde ) wen t dow n wit h a shriek an d a twisted ankle , clutching a t th e tableclot h a s she foundered . Brandie d figs, pyramid s o f canapes , an d the untouche d platte r o f Strasbour g pat e wer e scuttle d along wit h her . Jone s didn' t blink ; hi s voice pierce d th e commotion lik e a poisoned auger . "What I S the bi g idea, Tom?" An eage r crow d gathered . Tom' s fac e wa s fishy an d damp; hi s forearm s presse d agains t hi s middl e wher e a terrible batter and wail was swiftly undoin g him from th e inside out. Still , he tried t o speak. "J— * "Save th e excuses ! You just don' t hav e wha t i t takes . Sorry to tell you." Jones simpered an d rolle d hi s eyes and the surrounding faces approved th e farce . Tom flinched. "No ! I— " "You . . .^ Jones sniffed. "You don' t kno w chal k fro m cheese, you bootlickin g littl e table hag. Whatever smart s you had got used up finagling a place here a t all." "That's no t . . . I do too! I know— " a You know nothing! You stan d i n th e pantr y an d pla y in your pockets ! You pu t carrot s dow n you r pants ! You ogle th e candle-butt s an d drin k of f th e pickl e juice an d slick you r lip s wit h clarifie d butter ! You' d fancy a fir m steamed pudding, period! "

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Jones wa s ravin g now , an d To m woul d hav e happil y accepted a n ally. But even Ada (stil l on her back , thoug h breathing normally ) di d no t speak , her rapt , acquiescen t gaze skippin g mutel y bac k an d forth , a s a sparrow hop s from twi g to twig and bac k again. Tom grippe d hi s belly where dogge d claw s gouged an d tore ; his throat burne d from som e caustic reflux. All right, he'd show theml Right to Jones's face! He'd— "Who th e hell do you thin k yo u are , Tom? A nobody. What's worse, you don't kno w enough to stay where you belong: on your knees!" Jone s smirked . "There' s a thought! Di d yo u hea r us ? Down on your knees . . . NOW!" And that , as they say, was that. Tom's head snapped up; his arms fell to his sides. "No," he croaked. Then again , a broken whimper, " No—" "No?" Jones repeated with interest. "No?" The crowd around the m too k a judicious step back . "HOWDARE TOW"

Jones roared; the champagne flute s literall y rattled . "Now hear this, you insubordinate, greedy little goose egg! YOU ar e asking to b e DISMISSED! " There wa s a gas p o f genuin e horro r al l around , an d Ada bore down on her lower lip so earnesdy it bled. Jones folded hi s arm s an d yawne d a t th e ceiling . "No w then , Mr. Too-Big-for-His-Britches , i s that wha t you'r e after ? Zf it? Yes or no, Tom?"

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Oh! Our her o coul d no t se e for th e tear s scouring his eyes; could no t hea r fo r a howl tha t echoe d somewher e beyond the burst and swinging gates of his ribs, the black and smoking vacancy of his once and for all empty belly \ "TworNo!" "I, I— " To m wa s stunned, astonishe d b y and unabl e to contro l th e surging , unspeakable grie f that brok e like a storm agains t the empt y fortress o f his heart. " I . . . " "YES O R N O ! "

"I . . . " To m reeled , the n lunge d unseein g a t th e linked arm s gleefull y encirclin g him ; recoiled, tramplin g Ada's outsprea d skirts . H e lurche d forwar d an d back , back an d forth , 'ti l a t las t h e fel l t o hi s hands an d knee s and, weeping , crep t betwee n th e leg s o f th e merry , re morseless crowd . Away fro m Jone s an d hi s infernal buf fet (hi s ow n blood y cocktai l shaker)—an d oh , fro m hi s bright an d perilous Salon! From everything , from it all! At the edge o f the danc e floor Tom pulled himsel f u p on th e towering folds o f gelid silver drapery; turned — "You—I. . . I quit! v And a t last broke , sobbing, from th e on e plac e in th e world he' d eve r savore d th e rip e an d divinel y swolle n fruits o f glory.

CHAPTER SEVE N

Mortificatio

20— The massiv e fron t doo r fel l t o with a reverberant clang ; Tom was, in a word, shattered. Outside, the air was a rancorous brot h o f congealed smok e an d fog , desolat e a s a week-old pudding ; bu t ou r her o flun g himsel f int o i t heedlessly, his only desire Koget away! from thi s bear garden o f ridicule an d betrayal . How dare they! He sputtered , swipin g a t fa t salt y tears . That' s right , how dare they! Jones was a monster, a real predator—tha t was one thing! But the others, the others! Unnatural, appraising a s alley cats, they'd watche d an d laughed . Afte r all he'd done for them! To be sure he adored the Ruins— the Ruins , first and last ! But he' d labore d a s well to ele vate thevn, t o raise their expectations , to inspire them. I t was thei r Bi g Chanc e too ! The y didn' t se e that ! Selfis h and arrogant , laz y an d lecherou s an d greed y an d bad 184

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tempered . . . they wer e jealou s o f him ! Yes ! And he' d only tried to set a good example ! Tom stumble d o n a litter o f broke n brick s an d wen t again to hi s knees, double bolt s of pain firin g straigh t t o his annihilated belly . He bi t hi s lips and rocke d an d ulti mately coul d no t contai n th e rud e sob s sluggin g thei r way up from hi s lungs. Pbuh, pbuh, pbuh. His frowzy hea d bobbed blindl y bac k an d fort h lik e some decrepi t pony ; his raised hands insensibly beseeched, wrists bared to th e rain streaming down th e inside of his cuffs . Never fear, fret, or bemoan your fate! Impossible! T o who m migh t h e appeal ? I t wa s over , over. His "promisin g future" ! H e writhe d i n a n appre hension of grief and shame and inconsolable loss. His lilyscented paradise, his ting-a-ling of knife on fork . . . The air around hi m soured an d wet his clothes like a spiteful cat . Burying hi s face i n hi s hands h e caugh t a whiff, already , of the blight and putrefaction o f the streets. His fate! He sobbed an d retched an d struggled t o his feet, slipping on the rancid offscum o f backed-up sewage and random shit. Hours later, ravaged by the the horror and sheer havoc of hi s reverse d fortune , an d waste d b y hour s o f haples s staggering throug h street s aloo f and disobligin g i n thei r terminal camouflag e o f fo g . . . To m stumble d a t las t through th e plank door o f his old abandone d hut . Two wall s o f wattle an d mud , anothe r o f corrugate d fiberglass, th e las t o f stuffe d lath . Th e thatche d roo f moldered an d smelled of mice; a torn shee t of dirty plas-

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tic bellie d ou t ove r th e small , unglaze d window . H e shared th e yar d wit h hal f a doze n hog s an d a gan g o f malevolent hens, and when they all got going it sounde d like hell's own ee-yi-ee-yi-oh. Now, with a sob, he flung himself down o n the must y straw pallet that made his bed. There was a furious squea l and tw o lea n rat s skippe d reproachfull y acros s Tom' s shins to wriggle beneat h a heap o f blackened rag s in th e corner. This was Tom's work kit, his "outfit": a couple of steel picks , a fe w sof t brushes , fou r o r fiv e tin s o f rich , redolent polish . H e stare d a t thes e thing s throug h th e predawn smu t o f light. Curle d o n hi s side, laced finger s pressed agains t th e bligh t o f his once-immaculat e tunic ; his hand-boned shoe s now cake d with mu d an d corrup tion . . . still he winced a t the wors e memor y o f the old days, squatting for hours against a pissed-upon wall, tirelessly wooing impervious passersby. Oh those stupid, humiliating jingles! Then painfully , almos t twitching , To m recall s th e Ruins a s h e firs t sa w it . Wanderin g alon e i n a predaw n trance fro m th e Clou d Roo m (erubescent , lilac-shad owed dream ) into the humming, stainless steel mysteries of th e kitchen , illuminate d b y a hos t o f tin y blu e pilo t lights (an everlasting combustion—a scarcel y audible, antiphonal chorus!) . And finall y th e Salo n itself , its silenc e broken onl y by the murmurin g pin k fountain, tremblin g waters lace d wit h gilde d carp , black-and-silve r samurai , and corpulen t orang e guppies . Remember ? Th e wa y th e table silve r collecte d an d multiplie d th e lamben t yello w

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flames o f tiny votiv e candle s scattere d acros s th e ecr u linens like so many fallen, flickerin g star s . . . He'd rambled , that first night, like green Adam in the world's first garden , no t darin g t o touch—blushing , a t times, jus t t o peek—s o blandl y bared , s o unconcealed were thes e infinit e delights . What a dope he' d been ! In nocently addressin g a Loui s XV I raspberr y taffet a duchesse: Chair. And th e barbaric , velvet-tongued mu g of a vituperative purple orchid : Flower. Why, he'd know n nothing! He was ignorant, then, as a . . . well, all right, as a plain piece of chalk! But swelling with an almost painfu l desire, a will to rise. So h e shirke d nothing . Listen , h e couldn' t coun t th e times he' d crept , a t som e idiot' s command , amon g th e wizened teat s o f th e smug , sartoria l Pig , gropin g fo r it s frayed cord ! And was it all in vain? Had h e really learned nothing, as that snake Jones maintained? It wasn't so! For how abou t hi s martinis ? Non e finer! Furthermore , L a Stupenda hersel f had allude d t o vision! How abou t that ? Was that chal k from cheese ? La Stupenda! Tom's face flamed. Fo r it was La Stupenda, more tha n anyone, who'd believe d i n him (a s he'd believe d i n him self!). What would she think? Would she .. . was there any hope sh e migh t defend him ? Alas , thi s notio n perishe d quickly i n th e deadl y climat e o f Tom's ripenin g despair . After all , what was he to her? A polite young man, an unobjectionable tabl e servant ; i n short , a nobody . H e whimpered. Thos e fluttering , azure-slippere d feet , pad -

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dling th e pin k an d impressivel y hig h cloud s abov e th e rheumy eyes , th e outstretche d hand s o f th e masses ! Could on e s o eminent a s she still take a n interest i n on e so low, so certainly lost, as he? Tom groane d an d lurche d t o hi s swolle n feet , stoo d in th e middl e o f his godforsake n hove l an d glared , firs t in on e directio n an d the n another . I n truth , h e sa w nothing—not th e tilting , three-legge d stool , no r th e battered ti n bucke t he' d filche d fo r a pot , no r hi s old , bump-toed sneaker s gon e gree n beneat h th e drippin g window. Onl y . . . Only mice! Agh! A whirling ring of impudent, red-cheeke d mice , their black eyes bulging, and not a hair out of place! And righ t there amon g them—th e blowhard , th e rat!—hi s wind big belly gassy with malice, his broad fla t nos e a blizzard of exploding capillaries, his wicked lips always just-licked, always wet! Was it? It was— Tom ben t on e le g an d kicke d ineffectuall y a t th e crooked stool. Made fists, grimaced, and flailed a t the air. He shivere d in the inadequacy of his rage. In th e en d h e spun o n on e hee l an d tor e a t th e curtai n o f a litde blu e cupboard; thrust a blind han d amon g th e unlabele d tin s and blackened fruit jars; dumped half a sack of barley into a splash o f rusty water an d se t it ato p a litde ga s burner . For the next thirt y minutes h e paced th e dir t floor , flap ping an d wringin g hi s hands , exclaimin g unde r hi s breath, an d occasionall y breakin g int o shockin g parox ysms o f strippe d down , inarticulat e sobs . Eventuall y h e

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smelled the gruel burning. Poking the pot to the floor h e squatted besid e it . Wit h tw o ben t fingers h e bega n t o shovel the scorched, half-cooked grain s into his mouth. "Mmm, mmm, " h e assure d himself , deliriou s wit h anger, remorse, and self-loathing. "No w this is what I call food . . ." Alas, for as long as he'd been at the Ruins, he never did find time to sit down an d ea t a proper meal . And now? Well now, ha ha! If nothing else one could eat! No black cloud without its silver liningl Eh? That's the spirit I Gagging a little , hi s fingers travelin g wit h grudgin g obedience betwee n th e ca n an d hi s joylessl y gapin g mouth, Tom laughed an d wept and stopped up the terrifying abys s that wa s his belly with a great stick y mas s o f indigestible chuck . When h e could ea t no mor e h e crep t on hand s an d knee s t o hi s meage r pallet , collapse d an d continued t o reassur e an d congratulat e himsel f o n hi s change of fortune . "Ah!" h e cried . "Wha t luxur y t o li e her e al l unboth ered! A regular lazybones! Suits me to a T!" He chuckle d and belche d fire, the poisonous gree n bil e lapping a t th e back of his throat. In fact for several hours poor Tom was thoroughly wracke d a s he waite d fo r hi s mea l t o relent , for his knees to leave off their caviling and his head its jeremiad o f ignomin y an d woe . I n th e en d h e submitte d gratefully t o a twitching, troubled sleep . Thereafter, th e pattern of Tom's days was more or less the same . H e gobbled—giggling , o r pbuh pbuh-'mg i n sheer bathos—o n colossal , half-cooke d messe s o f gruel ,

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or pin k wrinkle d bean s tha t conspire d i n hi s middl e fo r hours, organizin g shameles s collusion s o f ga s an d bil e that detonate d haphazardl y lik e terrorist' s bombs . H e gorged himsel f 'ti l h e groane d an d then , stil l groaning , collapsed o n his pallet and slept; his dreams were vile. He saw himself naked, bent over his own outstretche d leg. A fat greenis h vein ran u p his thigh t o a small, inexplicable hole . Again an d agai n h e dre w hi s index finge r firmly u p this vessel to its outlet, from whic h issued a copious go o o f littl e roun d worms , plum p whit e O' s sus pended i n a gluey , transparen t mucus . Tom—annoyed , repelled, and yet determined t o discharge the mess completely—continued t o run hi s finger u p the swollen vein, forcing it s contents u p hi s leg and ou t th e mout h o f th e litde ragge d hole , wherefrom i t dribble d inconvenientl y down th e inside of his thigh. He dreame d h e was working a t the Ruins . The Salo n roared with people furious t o be served, while Tom stood frozen befor e a whalelike fello w i n a rumpled suit . Th e man gazed down a t the menu in his hands, dicating with interminable deliberation. Well, he'd have the pressed duck, the eclairs, the collared eel a la royale, and a pink£f in—and the rice croquettes, plus mushrooms in Madeira . . . the man never looked up from hi s menu . . . apricot flan,cassoulet, then crayfish bisque, and coffee . .. Tom gazed desperatel y about him . S o muc h t o do ! Celeriac puree, macaroons . . . Without eve n pretendin g t o tak e dow n th e prepos terous order, Tom was nonetheless riveted by his office — mute, paralyzed, i n a perfect agon y o f dire an d conflict -

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ing impulses. Convulsed b y the need t o do^ he could no t stir an inch. Well, what morbidness! And what preoccupation wit h the soft white underbelly of his own carnal existence! H e had a n unsavory fascination wit h hi s daily "b.m.," whic h was vehement (i f of an unwholesome tint) , plunging be tween the cheeks of his windy white bum into a thick slippery coil round th e bottom o f the bucket . Pullin g up his trousers he' d tur n an d star e a t hi s issue with satisfactio n and disgust, relishing its noxious vapors—actually kicking the sid e o f th e bucke t t o se e ho w inflexibl y i t hel d it s ground! Bu t how, he sneered, could anythin g so explicit and rud e an d resolut e com e from on e s o trifling an d in competent a s himself? Huh? K goose eggl Clearly our hero felt not only dashed by his recent misfortune, bu t bluntl y betraye d b y life : a victim,, even, o f Fate. It was impossible, of course, for To m t o undertak e the cat' s cradl e o f deed s an d token s leadin g t o hi s dis grace; to consider , eve n a s a simple exercis e i n plain rea soning, that, for example, he might have had a hand in his own unmaking. No! He could only feel, to the very nadir of his being, that something really wronjjhad take n place; something that , unti l i t happened , wa s no t merel y un thought-of, but literally unthinkable. "How could they?" he raved, and "I t can' t be! " Alas, that the unthinkable i n fact occurs with breathtaking regularity up and down th e course o f any given day , had no t ye t mad e itsel f clear t o our hero , who fo r al l his hard knock s was still , afte r all , rather fatuous an d inclined to dote on Life. The sophisti-

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cated reader will marvel at poor Tom's blindness to these salient and certainly well-advertised facts of existence; indeed, ther e ar e thos e wh o woul d sa y h e had it coming. That's a s it may be. That To m experience d th e annihilatio n o f this world , his world, i n th e lim p sinew s an d waste d marro w o f hi s very bones , wa s indisputable . H e certainl y looke d a wreck. Right off the bat he'd shucked his white tunic and checkered trouser s fo r th e fraye d gree n legging s an d burlap blous e he' d sporte d a s a shoeshine. "Muc h bet ter!" h e growled , an d swaggere d acros s th e roo m o n gladiatorily sprea d legs . Bu t th e coars e shir t quickl y chafed his wrists and the back of his neck; his gummy, unattended hai r matted lik e beach kelp; and it wasn't long , either, before h e began t o smell himself. He wished , i n th e beginning , fo r company . Som e other t o who m h e migh t unboso m himself ; some othe r with who m t o baw l ou t loud : "Th e fiends! " an d "Ho w could they? " I n short , sympatheti c an d enlightene d fel lowship. To b e sure, he went s o far a s to steal , one driz zly afternoon, bac k to th e Groanin g Board . What a mistake! Immediately he entered, his knees dissolved and his voice cracke d an d stammered . Tremblin g befor e th e plank and barrel bar he could not get over the feeling tha t he wa s bein g deliberatel y ignored ; h e wa s certai n h e heard a waitress titter. "Huh! " h e pronounced (mor e o r less at th e sawdus t floor , bu t wit h a s much contemp t a s he could muster); then turned and fled the place, arriving

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back a t hi s ow n doo r wheezin g an d moreove r soppin g wet. He shivere d an d exclaime d fo r a moment outsid e hi s hut, the n turne d an d slun k alon g on e wal l t o th e bac k where th e pig s an d hen s wer e kept . H e barge d i n o n them, roarin g "M y friends! " an d spen t th e nex t quarte r of an hour stumpin g bac k an d fort h acros s their bed s o f straw an d manure , discoursin g incoherently , choke d b y intermittent sobs , finally prizin g of f a couple o f the rot ten planks that separated his own interior from thei r dark, fetid stalls. "Come in, yes of course—do!" he urged, staggering wit h a gasp int o hi s col d littl e room . H e turne d and tore one knuckle on a nail, beckoning them hopefull y through the ragged gap, and was granted a few dismissive oinks and clucks. "Of course," he replied, stung b y their indifference, "A s yo u wish ! Don' t mentio n it ! A s yo u wish!" Tears pricked his eyes, and he surrendered himsel f once more to his lonely pallet, one arm crooked beneat h his cheek, both knees tucked agains t his desecrated belly , his foregone hear t awhisde with cold, reproachful winds . "Little brother," he finally, weepily confided t o a small blind potat o bu g trundlin g u p th e wal l befor e hi s face , "thou art myself." And s o saying , Tom collare d th e tin y creature between two fingers and placed it solemnly upon his own extruded tongue, gagging only slightiy as the dry and tasteles s "pill " was fetched (wit h understandabl e re sistance) down the bac k of his throat . •• •

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After tha t Tom could eat no more. Indeed, following hi s debauch o f glutton y an d sloth , vengefiilnes s an d stella r pride (the last couple of which, if nothing else, were fizzy and empowerin g emotions) , Tom foun d hi s passion ab dicating to a potent lassitude that dripped like a slow IV, diluting an d anaesthetizin g al l trac e o f persona l conse quence, of subjectivity, of stead. Sipping indifferentl y fro m a ca n o f brackis h water , Tom sprawled, gazing at the underside of his disintegrating roof , hi s min d utterl y blank , hi s bod y a drearily lit , conspicuously empt y hallway . Nobody home. Overhea d the sk y reeled with constellation s turnin g i n a vast, inexorable wheel; with th e weeping color s of a small and fu riously squalling sun in the throes of its own unremarke d rising an d falling ; an d wit h th e massive , implacabl e moon, he r powdere d jowel s obscure d b y insolubl e car bon veils , b y nightbird s swarmin g i n vas t cryptograms , and by high, guileful clouds . Down below, in the city of backed-up sewers and baleful cats , at the en d o f a narrow, unkempt lane , tucked i n the mucked-out corner of a dilapidated shed, our hero lay dry-eyed, motionless , mute . Hi s min d creake d lik e th e swing of an empty cupboard's door . Waiting? But for what? Perhaps no t waiting , then ; perhap s somethin g else . Who knew? Ah, how could on e tell? He stare d unseeing , he breathe d no t a word, his slack jaw hung askance , bestowing on him the half-dazzled loo k of idiots, and those meeting death . And yet , perhaps no t overtly , somethin g

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was afoot . A s a matter o f fact , hi s expressio n wa s rathe r that o f someone falling—unfathomably falling!—plung ing throug h th e star k an d durationles s ethe r o f being . Just falling. It was in thi s peculiar stat e that , tw o day s later, Tom , finally sought , was with lively interest found .

21 — "Oh, is he dead!" cried Ada in a tiny, horrified voice ; and she tumbled t o her knees in the dirty straw. "Pshaw! To o man y novels , m y girl. " Ug o shooe d a venomous he n fro m th e li d o f a splintered crat e and , i n breezy holiday humor, took a seat. He gaze d around th e little shed with sympathetic delight . "Wha t a hole!" Conchita stoo d fas t in the center of the room, rebuff ing a goa t com e t o whif f a t th e savorou s he m o f he r woolen cape . "Ugo! You don' d o zomzing , we'll be 'er e all day!" Eager, uncertain, Ada pit-a-patted Tom's lifeless hand. "Tom, Tom dear? . . . Tom?" cc Tom-Tom!v san g Ugo , borrowin g Jones' s serrate d treble and chuckling with grim satisfaction a s Tom bolte d upright i n th e straw , turnin g o n the m a n astonished , stricken face. Ada caught her breath . "Nize plaze, Tom," observed Conchit a through cour teously clenched teeth. She was all business, as usual, and going straigh t t o th e poin t announced , "We'v e com e t o collect you. "

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But say, who were these . . . these others? Poor Tom coul d onl y gawk, his long spare parenthet ical fal l abruptl y arrested . Saved ? H e struggle d t o gras p the material significance o f these faint, disorientin g shad ows shiftin g abou t hi s room—thes e distractin g crie s in terrupting a length y an d increasingl y restfu l tenur e o f silent, disembodie d vacancy—thes e vaguel y obligin g modifications i n that pure suspension in which he'd dan gled (no , plunged? no , soared!), well, for who knew ho w long? Finding himsel f uprigh t (an d disagreeabl y sensibl e o f a cold draft upo n his back and the riddle of straw through the sea t o f hi s threadbar e britches) , h e peere d a t thes e others throug h th e wrong end , a s it were, of a badly fo cused telescope: tiny and indistinct, they might have been insects, or mer e imperfection s i n th e glass . He squinte d at Ada' s distant , anguishe d face , an d whispere d "Wh y you're . . . aren't you? A fig—a fig—" "Tom!" Ada pleaded, poking his shoulder doubtfully ; but our hero recoiled violendy from tha t outright contac t with hi s ow n dismisse d an d obliviou s corpus . H e dre w against th e wall and bi t his lip at length. Sh e turned an d bawled at the others. "He's—there's something wrong! I think he's . . . " "Malingering!" confirmed Ugo , shaking his head with elaborate regret. "To o bad, too bad! My friend, leav e of f this unbecoming little drama. " Conchita marched to the edge of the pallet and leaned over, scrutinizing Tom; her terse, throaty growl was cau-

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tious wit h complaint . "I s za t right , Tom ? Yo u gettin g puzzy-catty wizzus? Hmmph . . . " Sh e looked skepticall y about th e wretche d hut . "Bu t now , 'o w abou t offerin g your guezt s somzing—dat i s . .. a little refreshment? " Ugo snorted. " A cache, no doubt, o f vintage cognac ? No doubt ! Fortunately, " h e dre w a magnificen t silve r flask from th e insid e pocke t o f hi s greatcoat , " A littl e something! Ladie s first—Ada ? No? " Ug o shrugge d an d tipped th e flask with balm y complaisance. Conchita swipe d a t him . "Giv e m e zat! " Sh e tosse d back a quick one, then kneeled hastily at Tom's side. Supporting his head with uncharacteristi c charity , she placed the flask against hi s lip s an d murmured , " A dro p o f di s may greeze your wheel. Zlowly, Zlowly . . . " And i n fact th e littie snort di d not g o amiss. Tom was transfixed b y a long causti c trickle of something diaboli cal and bright , which cleave d a path straigh t throug h t o his middle , ticklin g hi s disenthralle d flesh: h e cam e to , shuddering and a little sick. Raising his hand to steady the flask he graspe d Conchita' s warm , well-kni t wris t (t o b e sure, seemed to hang from it!) , her pulse so firm and regular withi n hi s tremblin g grip . Whe n sh e withdre w h e wiped hi s chin with a blush, reassuringly eloquen t o f his old bashful ways . Ada grinned t o hear him stammer . "Oh! It's , wel l . . . A s yo u ca n see ! I haven' t bee n quite, that is—not myself! Not exactiy , no, not lately. " Alas, th e morta l extremit y o f hi s earlie r straits—hi s near-fatal disenchantmen t wit h life's inscrutable buff and puff—came ove r him suddenly, as though he stood in the

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wake of whooshing air left behind a barreling and narrowly side-stepped bus . Despite th e brand y bracer and his own customary restraint, Tom turne d an d hid his face agains t the wall, sobbing in a backlash of retrospective terror . The girls , embarrassed, sa t bac k o n thei r heels ; it was Ugo wh o unexpectedl y cam e t o th e rescue . Pushing th e others aside , he hooke d bot h elbow s unde r Tom' s sag ging shoulder s an d muscle d hi m u p fro m th e straw , reviving hi m wit h friendl y shake s an d reassurin g word s a s they shuffle d together—Ugo' s littl e ar m encirclin g Tom's waist—back an d forth acros s the dirt floor. "In fact, my friend, in fact! Best to get it all out! That's it! Ge t i t out, ge t it al l behind yo u . . . " To m blubbere d gratefully. "Yes , yes, and whe n you'r e finished we'l l dis cuss the future— " Huh?! Our hero sniffed . He migh t hav e seen i t coming : The Future ! And jus t look a t him! Was this the time for tasteles s gibes? Barely, barely, he'd manage d t o dodge , oh ! h e didn' t lik e t o think wha t h e dodged ! An d anyway , wh o sai d h e eve n wanted a future ? Tom scowled , cheeks stiff with interrupte d tears , an d could almos t have wished t o b e left alon e with hi s "litd e drama" after all, so loath was he to discuss the future. Ner vously he eyed his rumpled pallet, wondering if a modest relapse migh t discourag e hi s friend s fro m furthe r inter vention. Instead , Ug o sa t hi m briskl y dow n upo n th e

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wooden crate ; then , givin g th e la d a final, affectionat e shake, he too k u p a post besid e him , arm s folde d acros s his chest like two cudgels. Conchita stood at Tom's other side, and Ada pulled up on the little stool in the event fur ther nursing should b e wanted. "So," bega n Ug o wit h a knowing wink , "wher e hav e you been hiding these days?" Tom's ja w droppe d wit h a last-second , disbelievin g click of his tongue. What sort of a question was that? Di d they mock him? He replie d stiffly, indicatin g with a wave of his hand th e desperat e littl e room . "A s you ca n see, I . . . egh! That is, just keeping more o r less to myself." "Charming," interrupte d Conchita , narrowin g he r eyes to imponderable gra y slits. "But zelfish , Tom." And when ou r her o exclaimed , astonishe d an d uncompre hending, sh e repeated , noddin g he r hea d wit h indis putable conviction , "Ver y zelfish. " Ada patte d Tom' s han d helpfully . "Th e thin g is , Tom, yo u haven' t com e t o wor k i n ages , an d naturall y we wondere d . . . Well, you shoul d se e Mitzi . Flappin g around lik e a hen shor t on e chick! " Ada chuckled , the n lowered he r voic e apologetically . "Course , sh e woul d have com e too , bu t there' s a reall y ke y even t tonigh t and—" sh e shrugged . "Gues s I don' t nee d t o tel l you how i t is!" How it is?

Tom recalle d wit h abrup t an d poignan t clarit y thos e evenings h e thrille d t o th e openin g ding-dang - Aongl of

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the Ruins ' fron t doorbell . Hi s cocktai l shake r a t th e ready, his serving tray poised, polished 'ti l it matched hi s own han d fingertip fo r fingertip, pal m fo r quicksilve r palm (b y the en d o f the nigh t i t seemed almos t alive , an indispensable extensio n o f hi s ow n insignifican t flesh; cool and imperturbable an d . . .) 'Yes," he grunted, " I kno w how it is." "Zo i f you know 'ow i t is," Conchita brok e i n (reall y she was in a waspish mood!), "why inzist on dis hide-andzeek? You were 'ire d for a reezon—" "Hired?" Tom yelped, having now had quit e enoug h of thi s pretense , "—an d fired! A t least , tha t i s t o say , I quit." Ho w dar e the y trea t hi m so , so . . . and Ada too ! And in his own home! He opened his mouth t o say more (indeed, t o sho w the m th e door , tha t wa s more lik e it! ) but Ugo held up one hand and regarded Tom with grave surprise. "Again! That last bit?" "He said , oh ! H e sai d h e was— " Ad a gulpe d an d turned he r wide, appalled eye s on Ugo , "fired. Can tha t be?" "Nonsense! Fired? That's— " "Not fired," averre d Tom , lookin g dagger s a t th e floor. "Quit." "Equal nonsense ! Fired , qui t . . . " Ug o considered ; then coaxed , "Come , m y friend . You'r e sensitive ! An d even—" "I kno w whe n I'v e bee n fired— quit! Oh , mus t yo u torture me! "

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At tha t momen t To m hate d Ugo , hate d the m all . What di d the y wan t fro m him ? Suddenl y Conchit a snapped he r fingers. "Aiee! An intrigue , Pauli e zaid . Unrequite d pazzion ! And . . ." Ugo slapped a hand t o his shining head. "I n fact ! Th e Tango Lessons! " He looke d a t Tom , on e bro w describ ing a n innocen t questio n mark . "Ther e wa s . . . a n incident?" When Tom only slumped lower on his crate, Ugo turned, "Ada , you may elaborate." Ada, who had ever been weak, if earnest, in the mem ory department , no w tippe d he r hea d t o on e side . "Well, uh, ther e migh t hav e bee n som e confusio n a t th e end . . . " "Look," Tom was decidedly spent. "I—Mr . Jones and I . . . there was a difference o f opinion an d he . . . There was no alternativ e an d I—I quit . That's all. " " That'sall>" Ugo planted his hands on his hips. "A difference o f opinion ? M y friend , a sow' s ea r fro m a sil k purse! Yo u deserted, for a differenc e o f opinion? " H e struck hi s hands together. "Enough ! Collec t your essen tials and we'll be—" "I'm no t goin g back . You don't ge t it. " To m sighed . "He wa s goin g t o fire me , and s o instead I quit . I can' t go back." Tom shoo k his head. "Prozper Gozzling' s askin g for you, " Conchit a men aced. "Mrs. Gosling," interrupted Ada, puckering her brow. "Jeez, now is she? Did she come in that time— "

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"Shuddup, Ada," Conchit a snapped , the n adde d dis tractedly, "zill y idiot." Sh e fixed Tom with a challenging eye. "Sh e inzists you return. She' s throwing hors d'oeu vre at ze ozzer waiters." Tom close d his eyes. "It's no t m y beeswax anymore. " He wa s b y now longin g t o cree p bac k int o hi s straw . I t honestiy paine d hi m t o thin k o f Mrs . Prospe r Gosling . What wa s h e t o her ? An d a s for th e others , le t food b e thrown at them. They were hooligans and probably asked for it. "Shame yo u misse d th e Pupp y Brunch, " Ug o re marked. "Mmph." (Really ! he couldn't hav e cared less.) But Ada chuckle d an d shoo k Tom' s arm . "O h Tom , you shoul d hav e see n Toulouse! All bathed an d brushe d and perfumed up—h e wore a little red jacket! " Conchita snorted pointedly. "Wh y mus' you bring zat up? A cataztrophe!" Oh?

"So there were . . . complications?" Ugo jerke d hi s head i n vehement agreement . "Com plications!" "Well, I—" "You predicted! Don't say it! And you were right! Now you're thinkin g we got what we asked for? Just desserts! Well, you'r e righ t again . Still , on e speculates ! Ha d you been there . . . " "What, um—" Tom could not resist, " . .. happened? "

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"Go ahea d zen , Ugo , tel l 'im. " Conchita' s voic e was tantalizing. "About ze animal trainer." Ugo ble w out hi s breath an d bega n t o explor e Tom' s little room, sticking his nose into corner after corne r with evident relish, smacking his lips as he went, "I n fact ! Th e abominable woe-man ! Th e one-eye d misanthrope ! Th e tighdy buttoned Cyclops!— " What was he talking about? "Recall th e plan ! A professiona l do g traine r t o wor k the crowd, create a mood. Biscuits and gravy, then Wanda makes he r entrance. " Ug o ben t ove r th e cach e o f filth y rags in the corner. "Heavens , don't tel l me?" He glance d over his shoulder at Tom, who quickly looked away. "You don't say ! Anyway. Enter Wanda, brow beetiing over two mad eye s so narrowly se t they seemed , a t first glance , t o be one. She was . . . portly, and sported a short red tunic, some kin d o f sausag e casin g woven o f sequin s an d gol d military braid . A glamorous whi p an d helmet ! And hig h black boots . . . Tom was bewildered, intrigued. "And ? What?" Withdrawing his head from th e breach in the wall that opened onto the hoggery, Ugo shrugged. "Imagine! Parents and thei r pooches! Each th e incontestabl e cente r o f the other' s universe. Muffin, Rex , what-have-you." Ada cooed, "An d weren't the y good! And even— " "She mak e a zpell!" Conchit a interrupted . "Da t Wanda—" "In fact ! Sh e conjured ! Cracke d he r whip , 'volun teers!' Poor Junebug, poor Sparky, one by one they trot -

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ted off , prou d parent s lef t behind. " Ug o stopped , on e hand lai d protectively upo n Ada's down y head. "Tragic ! God knows how many were lost. " "What!" Ada's mouth bega n to blur as her pupils widened with abrupdy recollecte d horror . "Oh, " sh e whimpered . "They—oh, Torn!" and she burst into tears, her little fac e dropping onto Tom's ben t knees. "A litde 'owz, like a tower," Conchita hissed. "One by one des e doggie s g o in . Wand a marche s roun ' an d roun'." "Versemongering!" frowne d Ugo . Hippity-hoppity into the pot Day's not done 'til the rabbit is caught! "But—" "Oh Tom! " Ada's fist surprised hi s tender ribs . "They never came back!" Ugo threw up his hands. "We passed it off! A brilliant sleight-of-hand, wha t else ? Skipped the peach melb a an d shooed the m ou t th e door. " H e flicke d a careless finger against th e plastic-covere d window , the n turne d an d pointed a t Tom . "Bu t that' s whe n Mrs . Goslin g com plained. He r bal d bitc h Missy ? Wouldn' t mis s her . Bu t said i t wa s al l in savag e tast e an d thre w a squeak to y a t me!" Tom had to ask. "Urn . . . Toulouse?" "Toulouse? Poppe d u p later. In fact! " Of course.

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"Few survivors. A schnauzer o r two , on e resourcefu l Yorkie. The rest, I'd say , are gone for good. " The roo m wa s silent , then , bu t fo r th e melanchol y honk o f Ada' s nose . Ug o coughe d apologetically . "S o you see ! Heave n know s wha t coul d happe n next—an d this Saturday , well! " H e nodde d a t Tom , knowin g h e need sa y no more . The Fool's Ball!

On the one hand, Tom had a hard time believing their story. But would Ada? . . . Never! Not eve n to coax Tom back to the Ruins? He shook his head and had to wonder what was on th e men u th e day after th e brunch . "Tom." Fluffy arrosto) Ruffles Royale> "Tom—" Better, an enormous cassoulet. Tha t way, they'd all— "Oh Tom! " Tom would not meet Ada's imploring eyes, but stoo d and move d determinedl y t o hi s pallet . Ug o followed , squatting dow n besid e him . "Thi s tif f betwee n yo u an d Jones? A mere nothing! Less! People get excited, they say things, it' s perfectl y natural ! Lif e move s on . An d th e Ruins need s you. " H e adde d shrewdly , "An d what' s good fo r th e Ruin s i s good fo r you , eh ? Ca n yo u forge t that now, my friend? " Conchita scolded, "You know, Tom, Jonz didn't zen d us. I t was de ozzers, de ztaff." He r laug h wa s quicksan d and amber. "Al l lef fee t wizzout you. "

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Ugo whistled. "Th e ol d place doesn't loo k itself." "And Mitzi, " Ada chime d in , "she' s read y t o scratc h our eye s out . An d swearing ? Jeez! " Ada' s cheek s wen t pink, " I don' t lik e to say." Tom gaze d a t th e ceiling . Oh , ho w littl e the y kne w him! The staff in a shambles! Prosper Gosling in a snitl Next they' d announc e i t was raining, ha ! Bu t h e wasn' t heardess, and guessed he felt a little sorry for them. Afte r all, the bi g Ball! One las t chance t o mak e up for th e tor turous recitals , unattended hobb y night s . . . and catastrophic dance lessons. I t wa s alway s th e final impressio n that counte d most ; yes , h e coul d appreciat e thei r ur gency. On th e othe r hand , the y shoul d hav e though t abou t that earlier , shouldn't they ? He turne d t o face th e wall. "Well!" declared Conchita, after a moment of shocked silence. And sh e drew her cap e aroun d he r an d marche d to the door . Ugo rested his hand on Tom's shoulder. "M y friend? " he invited. Then, "I regret to say, not al l your oars in th e water!" H e joined Conchit a a t the door . Ada droppe d t o he r knee s behin d Tom' s back . " I guess you mus t hav e though t thi s out prett y clearly , bu t I—oh, Tom ! Won't yo u reconsider ? O f course, I'm sur e you'll do the right thing, whatever it is." Tom's gaz e nervousl y panne d th e wal l a s hi s wil l threatened t o waffle. Sort of a shame to treat one^s friends so coldly. Assumin g they' d com e i n goo d faith , wa s i t

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strictly necessar y t o sen d the m of f withou t a word? A n appropriate gestur e o f regret? O n th e othe r han d i t was true that , no t t o minc e matters , h e owe d the m noth ing. A clean break, h e tol d himself—i t wa s bes t fo r everyone. "Well," Ada wa s lef t t o say , her bewildermen t trans parent, "s o long, I guess." Tom heard th e straw rustle as she turned, then, "Jeez ! I nearly forgot!" an d a pale blue envelope dangled before his nose, began to rise. "La Stupenda aske d m e t o giv e you this . I'l l just— " Quic k a s a flash, Tom snatche d th e envelop e fro m Ada' s ascendin g fingers. "Hey ! Well , I gues s that' s it , then. " A last, disconsolate pause. "Good luck , Tom . . . " Tom waited for his friends' footstep s t o die away, then sat up quickly in the straw, tearing at the sealed envelope. Inside wa s a singl e shee t o f folde d blu e paper , an d thi s Tom held in his fingers for a moment, not daring to proceed. La Stupenda, his only real regret. Forgetting their several differences o f opinion, Tom rubbed on e finger softl y over th e stif f blu e paper . She'd touched thi s paper , an d what's more , she'd bee n thinkin g o f him. H e brough t i t to his nose; there was the scorched , faindy acri d scen t o f violets h e associate d wit h her , wit h he r cigarette s an d flamey eyes and the slow-burning fuse o f her central cor e (all the more bewitchin g under coo l blue wraps). Tom's fingers shook as he unfolded th e note an d rea d what was written i n a casual, back-slanting hand .

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There's no hurry. H e frowne d an d turne d i t over : nothing . I t wasn' t even signed . There's n o hurry ? What wa s tha t suppose d t o mean ? To m sa t bac k against th e wall . H e fel t disappointe d an d obscurel y pro voked, an d reache d absentmindedl y fo r a dis h o f stal e millet sittin g o n th e floor . Wha t was th e bi g idea ? On e minute h e was petitioned, pestered , beseeche d t o resum e his post . An d then ? A blith e blu e there's no hurry. Puzzling, h e scratche d loos e an d one-by-on e nibble d the har d grain s glue d t o th e side s o f th e bowl . Well , wa s there a hurry o r wasn't there ? Di d h e matte r o r didn' t he ? Tick, tick , tick , th e dr y grain s fel l t o hi s chastene d bell y like loave s fro m a blan k blu e sky . Outside , th e su n wen t down behin d a ban k o f gra y clouds , an d tw o ecstati c swallows chase d eac h othe r ove r roof s an d crumblin g chimneys int o th e hig h broke n window s o f a n empt y warehouse. Th e stee l li d o f a nearby dumpste r fel l wit h a crash. An d a bore d youn g so w cam e wrigglin g throug h the broke n plank s int o ou r hero' s room ; To m passe d he r his bowl . His decisio n wa s made : bac k t o th e Ruins . Clearly there wasn't a moment to lose!

CHAPTER EIGH T

The Ball (About Which Please See Explanatory Remark)

22— I hree day s later ou r recalle d her o stand s tal l and incon testably presentabl e i n a freshl y laundere d tuni c an d pressed checkere d trousers . Guest s ar e expecte d a t an y moment. If young Tom waits with doughty, not to say insensible, composure , o n th e othe r han d hi s silve r tra y flashes lik e the rollin g ey e of an overwrough t heifer . Hi s hair (he considers , belligerently) is , for once , flawless. What follows—the whol e o f th e bizarr e an d unaccountabl e evening , t o be sure , bu t i n particula r th e reall y siniste r denouemen t jus t afte r mid night—is surel y th e mos t disquietin g an d painfu l par t o f ou r story . On e could, fo r th e sak e o f discretion , writ e th e whol e affai r of f t o "th e in evitability o f circumstances." Jus t leav e it , an d ou r hero' s fate , a t that ! I t i s not, however , ou r busines s t o writ e of f anythin g a t all . Having introduce d our tale , and ou r earnest , uneas y hero , we mus t se e the m throug h t o thei r mutual end . A debacle ? S o b e it . Thoug h fo r this , admittedly , word s ma y serve a t bes t a s but th e frailes t o f sticks o n whic h on e nonetheles s stumps , eyes bulgin g wit h disbelief , acros s th e tor n an d smokin g field o f battle .

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Tom's return to the Ruins was unflinching an d strictly business—he fel t neithe r obligate d no r incline d t o en large upon the already prodigal drama of his leave-taking. And fo r onc e Jones , consume d b y last-minut e prepara tions for the Ball, was willing to let sleeping dogs lie, only throwing up his arms from acros s the teeming kitchen as Tom quied y reentered an d all heads turned . "At last and no t a momen t to o soon ! Don' t speak ! The place is bloody bon to n central ! And why not? First , and immediately . . ." Tom stood impassively in the doorway, but his bashfu l glance panne d th e roo m wit h swellin g emotion . Ther e were a t leas t a doze n peopl e toilin g breathlessl y a t on e thing or another. Mitzi, at the butche r block , blew a kiss from he r stick y cleaver ; Ada stuc k he r hea d aroun d th e door o f th e walk-i n an d the y exchange d tremulou s smiles; eve n Richar d pause d i n he r furiou s mincin g t o look up and, with a curt nod, acknowledge Tom's return. He smelle d shallots melting in hot yellow butter, and th e fresh rud e brin e o f pin k crab s stil l wavin g weakl y fro m their sinkin g beache s o f shaved ice, and th e sweeti y needled scen t o f ripenin g strawberries . A violent strea m o f water hammered the bottom o f the sink behind him, and he reached bac k to hush the thunder a s Jones continued , one fis t brace d agains t hi s aprone d hip , th e othe r bran dishing a leek at Tom acros s the wary, wordless kitchen . " . . . jus t wher e thi s youn g firebran d eve r picke d u p such ways^ such adorable defiance! You minx! Waall, new discoveries are always—"

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Wham! Toulous e charge d i n fro m th e Maisonette , wheezing authoritatively . Befor e th e doo r fel l to , To m had a glimps e o f azure-slippere d feet , th e provocativ e curve o f a silk-hose d gam , an d a clingin g stor m o f sk y blue feathers . Tw o veiled , imperturbabl e periwinkle s squarely met an d transfixe d Tom' s uncertai n glance . H e caught his breath, she winked, that was all. ("Dammit, where' s Ugo ! People! Tom-Tom, ge t Ug o to giv e yo u th e drill, " Jone s whirle d an d flun g u p hi s hands, "oh fo r gawd's sake!" ) Tom, mesmerize d b y th e dwindlin g wi g an d wa g o f the door, nodded. Soon enough, he thought . ••

•

Arrangements fo r th e Bal l made a hash o f th e nex t tw o days, an d ou r hero , bac k a t hi s celebrate d helm , ha d t o content himself with mere fleeting glimpses of the elusive diva. I t wa s naturall y hi s desir e t o consul t wit h he r di rectly; h e wa s kee n t o kno w wha t sh e really thought, wished t o justify, t o speculat e an d accuse . He wante d t o know if, in her opinion, he'd done the right thing. Above all, h e hope d sh e migh t remar k wit h pleasur e a t hi s re turn. That is , if she was pleased? (What did she mean b y that note! ) Alas, though L a Stupenda wa s daily a t th e Ruins , ostensibly preparing her act, she'd spoken to Tom but once, and thi s i n virtuall y heedles s passin g (a t that , he' d bee n down o n hi s knees , attemptin g t o shi m a perilou s sid e

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table). Rushing past, trailing smoke, arm in arm with th e unctuous Ugo , she'd rake d bitte r fingers throug h Tom' s trailing locks , the n ben t an d ble w int o hi s immediatel y flaming ear , "you won't regret it!* H e started , brainin g himself on the edge of the marble table, but she'd alread y gone, calling at Jones across the room to get her floor-to ceiling blue satin, or the show, darling, was off. ••

•

Tom's sensitiv e finger s pres s delicately, now, on tha t stil l tender nob; and he wonders, resentfully, ho w it is that little Ug o ha d tim e t o sasha y L a Stupend a hithe r an d thither whil e he , Tom , toile d roun d th e clock . Stuffin g olives an d trimmin g wicks , tunin g th e mechanica l Pig' s innards; detailing, detailing! Things certainl y had gotte n out of hand. Tom discovered brandy bottles in the pony's manger; the glas s chandelier i n th e Ladies ' had a luxurious gra y fur upo n it ; an d th e coa t rac k . . . the infernal , never-to-be-resolved coa t rack ! Confronted , hi s staf f hung their gleaming heads, twisting their fingers an d exchanging perfecti y senseles s allegations , innuendoes an d smirks. To m merel y sighe d (twic e shy!) , turne d an d began t o pu t thing s t o right s himself . Immediatel y the y leaped t o hi s side , plucke d urgenti y a t hi s sleev e an d swore in chorus tha t a t any rate now they were uncondi tionally a t hi s service—whateve r To m wanted!—the y promised. And for a wonder they seemed to do just that! And fo r two day s wer e o n thei r best—indeed , never-before -

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seen—behavior, boundin g upstairs and down for cases of swizzle sticks and frilled pape r anklets for the lamb. They oohed and ahhed at Tom's distribution of cocktail napkins, nodding wit h approval , a s thoug h ther e wer e n o con ceivable alternative , whe n h e shifte d th e ebon y ashtra y left, th e silve r filigre e matchbo x right , o n th e lo w tabl e before th e saffro n velve t chaise longue. "What next ! Wha t next! " the y caroled , an d tumble d after him , pointin g an d exclaimin g whil e h e inspecte d the premises . The y elbowe d on e anothe r asid e t o han g on hi s nec k an d pee r a t hi s hastil y scribble d notes , a t which times Tom fel t besiege d b y a flock of importunat e crows, and would shak e his shoulders roughl y t o ope n a little space . A t thi s the y woul d fal l back , an d ey e eac h other accusingly , and eve n flap their hands , complainin g loudly, u Get back , you . Can' t yo u se e he' s tryin g t o work!" Periodicall y To m woul d tea r of f a squar e o f paper an d loo k doubtfull y a t hi s candidate s a s the y bounced u p an d down , thumpin g thei r chests , or stoo d by lickin g thei r lips . "Me ! Le t m e thi s time , Tom ! I' m the one! " There seeme d n o en d o f volunteers , an d a s th e da y wore o n To m observed , quit e t o hi s ow n astonishment , that i n fac t thes e commission s wer e bein g carrie d out ; and, what's more , with somethin g approachin g hi s ow n lofty standards. Rags and water and baking soda were lavished o n tarnishe d grate s an d th e ornamenta l knob s o f tea carts . Pillow s wer e pounde d an d vigorousl y per fumed. Sal t cellars were filled, burned-out bulbs replaced.

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Furthermore, no sooner was a task accomplished tha n its executor would be back panting at Tom's side, dizzy with dust an d scent, knees crusted with patches of paste, petitioning for a new assignment. Frankl y disbelieving, To m would double-chec k eac h job , hi s disciple s literall y breathing dow n hi s colla r a s h e ben t t o scrutiniz e th e work—which invariably , incredibl y measured up. "Wel l done," he' d grumble , straightenin g i n embarrassment , "well done , actually." The n followe d a chorus o f enthu siastically echoe d "wel l done's, " whisdin g an d th e pat ting o f on e another' s cheeks . "Wha t next! " the y de manded, "Wha t next! " Tom wa s naturally reluctan t t o pu t an y fait h i n thes e zealous exhibitions; hadn't the y always been a clever, deceptive bunch ? H e remaine d o n hi s toes . Bu t gradually , grudgingly, h e ha d t o admi t thing s were getting done ; and h e di d no t frow n o r squir m wit h quit e suc h eviden t distaste when, at the end of the day as they sat down to a sumptuous mea l prepare d b y Mitz i herself , hi s helper s snuggled u p o n al l sides , plyin g hi m wit h tidbit s fro m their own outstretche d forks . Out o f habit, Tom too k onl y a little bread an d a small glass of weak ale. At one point, certain he'd heard La Stupenda's voice in the next room, he struggled t o rise fro m the mes h o f anxious , encirclin g arms . Perhap s h e migh t catch he r a s sh e lef t ( a momen t o f privac y amon g th e blooms and marble haunches of the Florentine sculptur e garden!). Bu t the y laughe d an d pulle d hi m dow n again , patting his knee. "What a worker, our Tom! But now it's

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time fo r a snack!" H e hear d th e fron t doo r sla m an d re signed himself to another comfortless day , having not yet managed th e longed-fo r commendator y wor d wit h th e one perso n fo r who m he' d really, albeit frowningly , re turned. "Welcome back , Tom. " Simpers and a hasty shifting of hips as a place was made for Ada at Tom's side. "Jeez, we'r e al l s o excite d an d relieve d t o hav e yo u back." Sh e beame d loyally , he r slende r bac k rounding , her smal l head stuc k ou t a t th e en d o f her neck , her fingers playing idly in the crumb s o f yellow cake trimming s heaped o n he r plate. "Egh," To m allowed , rememberin g wit h a prickle o f guilt th e col d shoulde r he' d offere d Ad a when sh e knel t beside hi s dirty pallet . "Yes ? Ahem! Well, I wasn't reall y doing anything so important a t home. It seemed like . . . a good idea! I mean— " Ada wagged he r fingertips vaguely . "Yo u really did us a favor, Tom. " "Yes . . ." To m repeated . And then, more sternl y (because h e di d no t kno w ho w else , in hi s sham e an d em barrassment, t o behave) , "Ahem! Well, we'll al l certainly have to buckle down before the big night, won't we! Ugo wasn't exaggeratin g when he said the place—that is . . ." He brok e of f again , strictly loathe t o remin d he r o f tha t unfortunate conversation . "Anyway , we made a dent in it today." And h e recounte d wit h gruf f an d ye t unfeigne d approval th e remarkabl e result s o f his staff' s labor s ove r

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the course of just one day, while they wriggled and puffe d their chests. Ada nibbled her bits of cake and listened appreciatively to Tom' s account . "The y are wonderful, aren' t they? " and she looked abou t th e table with a grateful smile . Tom snorted . "Wonderful? " There wa s a n abrupt , begrudgin g silence ; an d Tom , realizing he' d hur t thei r feelings , relente d a bit . "Th e point is , they'r e takin g som e prid e now . Thi s i s ho w things should go, don't yo u think? " He pu t hi s hands o n the tabl e an d looke d around , eyebrow s pointedly raised . Feelings assuaged , the y nodde d bac k a t hi m happily , knocking thei r knee s togethe r beneat h th e tabl e an d chewing their dinners with wide, self-laudatory smiles . ••

•

The following day was essentially the same, a high-strung fiiss-and-ruckus stew . An extr a shif t wa s calle d t o assis t with th e banquet , an d th e kitche n resounde d wit h th e metallic chatte r o f wir e whip s o n spu n copper , steele d blades snippin g throug h cris p vegetables, deep fa t snap ping, sauc e foaming , th e lugubriou s chu g o f th e enor mous mixe r a s i t ploughe d th e heav y dough , th e shril l whine o f th e electri c blende r tha t drowne d ou t every thing else—and of course the ubiquitous and rarely justified thunde r o f water assaultin g th e stainles s stee l sinks . From other parts of the Ruins came the demented wail of the vacuum cleaner , the fidget y tinkl e o f glass, the pow dery, concussive boom of blown electrica l circuits . In th e

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midst o f this Jones swishe d an d storme d an d threatene d to "cheese the whole damned thing, and to the other side of hell with all of you!" La Stupend a closete d hersel f i n th e Maisonette , an d Tom wa s periodically oblige d b y Jones t o inquir e a t th e door as to her possible needs. "Not a thing! Not a thing!" she'd cal l bac k i n a thick , unfamilia r voice ; an d Tom , transfixed o n the other side of the door, struggled agains t a desire t o knoc k mor e urgentiy , perhaps eve n t o sli p inside and cadge a brief audience, "a word or two, between old friends, er , well!" The problem was, ever since he returned to the Ruins, and despit e th e exceptiona l dutie s o f th e pas t coupl e o f days, Tom's fel t . . . well, neither ho t no r cold ? Oh , o n the outsid e h e ma y manage a reasonable facsimil e o f his old uncompromisin g rigor ; bu t insid e he' s thinkin g t o himself: whatever! H e calle d hi s shot s half-heartedly . When a sweat-drenched laundry miss came to him wringing he r hand s becaus e sh e coul d no t locat e si x hundre d hand towel s fo r th e men' s an d ladies ' washrooms , To m longed t o repl y "Coul d i t possibly matter?" When hum ble Ad a denounce d hersel f fo r acceptin g shipmen t o n forty instea d o f fort y doze n yello w orchids , To m rolle d his eyes and hummed . So what! But thi s was surely "no t him"; and what could have become of his previous ardor? Naturally h e coul d discus s thi s wit h n o on e o n hi s staff, no t eve n Ada , who , thoug h admittedl y a loya l booster, wa s still an underling . H e coul d hardl y ris k hi s own authority, so recently recovered, by confessing t o an

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inexplicable an d untimely ennui. Nor coul d he, for obvi ous reasons , confe r wit h th e like s o f Ugo , Conchita , o r even Mitzi . H e ha d a positio n t o maintain , afte r all ; i t would d o him no good t o undermine tha t position now . But La Stupenda, that was different . To m believe d h e might la y anything upon th e alta r of those smokin g sapphire eyes . Strangel y enough , h e wished to confess , t o open up to her. She'd understood so much already; surely her sympathy might see as far as this? Unhappily, To m coul d neve r find he r alone . Sh e was surrounded b y a n entourag e o f lackey s an d hangers-o n who hovere d an d buzze d lik e obsequiou s bee s abou t their eminent queen . She was busy. A fanned stag e was erected to her specifications i n th e Cloud Room . Two acutel y intersecting planes suggeste d a mammoth , seemingl y fathomles s "flue, " wher e th e afore-haggled blu e satin panels hung, from som e invisible place hig h amon g th e rafters , lik e gleamin g scroll s le t down b y heaven itself . Th e effec t wa s highl y sculptural , breathtakingly simple, and (it was agreed all around) perfectiy stunning. Bu t when the last gorgeous fold had been hung an d L a Stupend a summone d fo r approval , sh e stood a t it s foo t fo r a long moment , no t sayin g a word while her crew murmured anxiously . At last she dragge d deepl y from he r smolderin g ciga rette, leaned towar d th e curtai n an d release d th e smok e in a long , languorou s stream . Th e impressionabl e satin received and disseminated the force o f her breath. An exquisite tremor , emanatin g fro m wher e she' d blown ,

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quickly flared up—the n out , sensationally , i n al l direc tions—until th e entire spectacle shimmere d an d seethed : a looming, apocalyptic grott o o f royal blue flame. Those standing b y gaspe d a t it s splendor . "Right, then," mut tered L a Stupenda; the n strod e awa y an d locke d hersel f in the Maisonette, wherefrom sh e refused t o be lured fo r the remainder o f the day. ••

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At th e ris k of laboring th e point , we repeat: Tom woul d have given a lot for just a word o r two from thos e solicitous lip s before th e commencemen t o f the Bal l itself. I n truth, he feels uneasy in a way he cannot put his finger on, and does not look forward (la , quite the contrary!) to the unavoidable excesse s of the evenin g ahead . With charac teristic chagrin , h e recall s th e girlis h faintin g spel l t o which he'd succumbed his very first night at the Ruins. It seems a hundre d years , a t least , sinc e tha t fraugh t an d perhaps ominou s first night . To m sigh s an d shake s hi s head. Well , here h e i s again. Smarter , h e hopes ; at leas t better dressed . Bu t what else has in fact changed ? An earsplitting , broad-minde d curs e announce s th e kitchen, whic h doo r flies open a s Toulouse rocket s pas t (splat into the wall, with a stunned ski d to th e floor, lik e a pigeo n collidin g wit h a plat e glas s window) . Again ! More shabb y monkey business! Glumly Tom nudge s th e dog with the toe of his shoe; it lifts its head, rises and trots off i n th e directio n o f th e Clou d Room . To m rest s hi s forehead agains t th e coo l plaster , the n jump s a s thre e

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yardmen i n coverall s lumbe r blithel y behin d hi m wit h a forty-foot palm . As they pass, Tom bites his lip. Is this the time for last-minut e landscaping ? Jone s alway s wante d something rearranged even as the guests were ringing the bell! I t wa s just th e sor t o f thin g tha t drov e To m ma d . . . and would it ever be any other way? Suddenly our hero is unspeakably (indeed, he suspects unrecoverably) tired . S o tired , s o utterl y tired , tha t a warm and importunate pressure precipitates a mist befor e his eyes; and he lifts his hands and covers his face, a testimony to powerlessness an d finally t o plain resignation . Dear. Oh dear. Alas, the poor lad gives himself—impractically, an d all at once—to a brief despairing fit. As a matter of fact, he' s never felt quit e so alone in his life; nor, he realizes with a violent start , so . . . well, quite so terrified. He blinks , he pinches himself , h e whimpers . Poo r Tom ; a world sur rounds, contain s him . A world o f backed-u p drain s an d overstuffed gullet s belchin g u p indigestibl e lump s o f truth; of cupboards where th e half-bake d cake s of hopeless o r forfeite d dream s si t languishing . A world wher e behind ever y door, doomed, ruby-eye d bunnie s hang by their ear s fro m th e rafters , innocen t nose s quivering . I n this world's every pantry rats bored holes through colos sal wheels of moldering regret; gallant rainbows dimme d on th e ice-bedde d flanks o f dying trout ; silverfis h wrig gled along the walls of elegant sham—and half the cook s were consumed b y scabies, head lice, and ringworm .

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Lord! To m ca n practicall y hea r th e choru s o f gnash ing jaw s swellin g aroun d him : tin y hooke d mandible s and pink-gumme d molars , smackin g lip s an d snappin g beaks an d go d know s wha t else ! An d wh o wa s eatin g whom? An d who , i n th e end , woul d b e left ? An d wh o (did he? ) ha d th e stomac h fo r suc h inexorable , omnivo rous zeal ? Well, did he? Ding-dang- dong! Ding-dang- dong! The bel l tolls . The ban d strike s u p a churlish march . The Ball , for bette r o r worse, begins.

23— Polk and Pansy Datzenbach as Beauty Chased by Tragic Laughter! J. J. Jacobs as Old Probability; his wife, Cindi, A Transient Madness! Hot Minis with carrots, cold Minis with caviar, Lithuanian Minis with sour cream and butter; foisgras croquettes a la reine, with truffles; oyster croquettes and rissoles and bouchees. . . Martinis—of course! —but also Manhattans, Rob Roys and daiquiris, side cars and flips. . . Ding- dang- dong! Ding- dang- dong! Jack Niagra as a Six-Foot Carrot. . . There is no telling how, in the haphazard exigencies of arrival (o f champagn e cocktail s an d brusque , enigmati c

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kitchen dispatches ; o f eel—jellied , collared , an d cold — and an immediate insufficiency o f coat hangers). . . there is simply no telling how y inside of thirty incredulous minutes, ou r her o coul d hav e foun d himsel f farcicall y sprawled, effectivel y disemployed , an d i n al l respect s aghast upo n th e saffro n velve t divan ; with thic k slab s o f pecan rol l an d smal l pate s aux duxelles pillowing eac h elbow, an d a n overful l martin i wettin g hi s cuff. Hi s ca p was gone; a strange boso m clef t t o eithe r sid e of his virtuously hackled neck. His consternation may not be overstated. It's! But! What the—! He sputtere d i n the redoubtable candleli t crush . Maria Fric k (th e first t o show , wit h he r cabbage headed husban d an d tw o butterflie d children , a s Paradise Lost), flung her mink a t the grinnin g dwar f attend ing the doo r an d catapulte d hersel f at ou r waitin g hero , hooking hi s silve r tra y wit h a whoop . Tom , hi s weltschmerz unruffled b y even this brash an d portentou s prank, could only stare as she scampered aroun d th e cor ner, his filched tray perched o n the consummate pitc h o f her soaring filigree bouffant . Without skippin g a beat , th e fron t doo r burs t ope n and a flood o f illustrious Fool s overra n th e fron t hall . I t was lik e nothin g poo r To m coul d eve r hav e imagined , not i n his worst nor his wildest dreams. Archie de Bonaventura—A Boy, Beguiled—shouldered him from th e bar to tackle a fleet of gin rickeys.

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Betty Garsin-Greer— a stou t blon d Rabbit —having peremptorily summone d hi m t o th e chaise tongue, then razed hi m horizonta l wit h he r bulldoze r boso m an d a crafty hassoc k behin d th e knees. "Rog" Beemis h (Natural Piety) thrus t a fa t Havan a between Tom's teeth and loudly solicited his angle on the latest securities scandal. ••

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Our hero's eyes popped. What had gotten into these people? Like an overturned beede , Tom thrashed to no avail. Where was his tray! His cap! And what would Jones say if he saw Tom floppe d here ! And—but wha t a crush! ••

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Tom lost his drink to a vaguely familiar Maiden i n a white pleated tunic , no w drowsil y commandeerin g hi s tray ; brushed "Rog's " ciga r ashe s fro m hi s ow n smolderin g hair. H e mean t t o si t up ; h e wa s quickl y straddle d b y a Hapless Grasshopper. Finished your drink? Have another! Tried the curried tartiets? Met my Colleague) Met The Wife? (But did they mistake him fo r Someone Else?) He proposed , "Nee d t o mak e a quick round , bac k in a sec! " Apologized, "Actually , I' m du e i n th e kitchen. " Desperately cajoled , "Say , folks , you-know-who'l l hav e my head o n a platter!" N o use .

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All right then, what did they want? Dame Cynthia Tilt showed off her new choppers while Horst Dinwiddie squeezed his buttocks with a damp pink wink an d a n apologeti c whinny . Voice s hallooed fro m across th e room , clamorin g fo r cocktails , declaimin g toasts, bawling for To m t o com e o n over , what th e hell ! Get a load o f the Girls! Shake hands with th e Most Powerful Man in the City! And say , here's Mom! Mom? Ada staggere d pas t unde r a load o f coats , curtseyin g and bobbin g he r head, tripping ove r trailing scarve s an d umbrellas an d fu r stoles . Whe n To m thre w u p a han d to ge t he r attention , tha t han d wa s seize d an d cheer fully pumpe d b y a sociabl y drippin g Man Overboard. He endeavore d t o cal l ou t an d wa s nearl y asphyxiate d by a passin g Noxious Miasma. Still , couldn' t Ad a se e what wa s happenin g here ? An d wher e i n thi s unnatura l hurrah's nes t wa s Ugo ? Wher e wa s Conchita ? (H e looked suspiciousl y a t th e well-se t thorn s o f a Rio Samba Rose i n gathere d yello w satin. ) Coul d n o on e see h e neede d help ? Ou r hero , fo r al l hi s strenuou s protests, wa s subdue d b y a barrag e o f pin k gins an d toffee peanuts . My cocktail shaker, my cap!

When Mrs . Prosper Goslin g hobbled by , our hero , in desperation, clutche d a t her sleeve . "Mrs.—Ma'am! I u h . . . help! Why is everyone, you know ? Oh , I' m Tom! It's me! But what's going on?"

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Mrs. Goslin g narrowe d he r shrewd , dryl y hoode d eyes. "Of course you're Tom. What do you take us for, idiots?" She sneered. "Yes, we know you, we know you very well." Then sh e moved o n int o the crowd, boring a path with th e hea d of her barbaric silver cane. At tha t momen t To m fel t th e floor plung e beneat h him as the band changed tempo for a rollicking polka and his saffron barg e was hoisted, dismayingly conveyed, and deposited i n the Clou d Roo m (grounde d wit h a mortal, sepulchral groan, deep inside the ancient frame; a cry our hero echoed , sur e th e priceles s diva n wa s wrecked, an d that he, as always, would b e liable for th e crime). The modey of Fools swarmed i n after, an d again Tom was captive ; mortified, besieged ; an d rap t wit h disbelie f as one b y one th e reveler s staggere d an d weave d befor e him in a bawdy mockery of their regular Reception Line , wagging their heads and dandling their jewels and having one hell of a time, oh you bet ! Boogie-woogie? No, rumba! He writhes , anglin g fo r what ? a wa y out ? a friendl y face? Bu t aren' t thes e droll , importunat e face s friendly , after all ? At a signal fro m th e glowerin g cellis t th e ban d lurches into a genial two-step. ••

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"I don' t believ e this!" groans our hero . "Don't believ e what, carissimo?" Tom, floundering i n th e opulen t squalo r o f tassele d cushions an d chips , beer nut s an d evenin g bags , can't —

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quite—get . . . oh, t o see! But he' d kno w tha t ravishin g twang anywhere, and that indisputable perfume. L a Stupenda! Bodiless fingers teas e Tom' s unnaturall y tame d hai r into a reckless capriccio; in objection to which (despite his thrill at having her, in any event, near) Tom fidgets like a kid. "M y dea r Thomas, " th e voic e whisper s intimately , reassuringly int o Tom' s ear , "yo u ain't , a s they say , seen nothin'yet!" And the n sh e i s off , again! Leavin g ou r her o t o hi s own scant resources, a solitary pea on a saffron raft , in the pitch an d tumble o f a preposterous, unnavigable sea .

CHAPTER NIN E

Sacrificio

24— There's a fanfare o f stridulant brass , a throaty, unintelli gible rol l o f timpani , th e menacin g chatte r o f a tam bourine . . . a s th e ban d assemble s on e outlandis h an d pretentiously deafenin g chord , whic h hovers—glower ing, senseless , aggrieved—ove r th e agreeabl y cringin g crowd. Tom squirm s and is at last allowed a perch on his knees. Indeed th e Fools, for the moment, have forgotte n him. The Show! The Big Show!

In a flash al l voices ar e hushed , al l eyes trained upo n the stag e an d th e monumenta l intersectio n o f royal blu e silk. The great orchestral chord dissembles, disintegrates, but fo r on e querulou s not e fro m th e clarinet , which cir culates lik e a pesk y was p abov e th e crow d unti l peopl e shuffle an d mutter an d look around, frowning , fo r Jone s to make it stop. 227

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Meanwhile To m i s recalling , wit h a tender , anticipa tory thrill, his first glimps e of La Stupenda's Artistry, re member? Th e teemin g publi c house ; th e unforgettabl e stench o f wet wool , ranci d beer , an d unheede d diapers ; the bar e bulb s popping overhead ; and the cutthroa t rus tle o f vermin traffickin g beneat h one' s feet . An d finally, fatefully, acros s a sea o f tousle d heads : a n ineffabl e pin k cloud, an d a n azure-mantle d for m tha t ros e lik e a feather o n a incidental updraft . Th e distan t illuminatio n of a pale, auspicious face ; an d a voice (s o refined ! s o remote an d refine d it s source!) tha t lapse d an d wandered , despite th e slavis h hus h o f the crowd . Obscured , equiv ocal; stil l ou r her o knew tha t thi s distan t beacon , thi s exquisite coincidenc e o f heave n an d earth , thi s Sign, was, withou t a shado w o f doubt , fo r him . Calle d him, summoned him. Raise d a n illustrativ e questio n mean t for hi m an d hi m alone , th e answe r t o whic h he' d bee n after, eve r since . Perhaps it was revealing itself at last7. Tom gaze s a t th e crypti c blu e curtai n an d feel s sure , come wha t may , it is his destiny starin g a t him fro m th e other side . Not a vision in the offing , a s at the Groanin g Board (virtuall y indiscernible) ; but righ t here , front an d center. Tonight h e has the bes t seat in the house, and h e knows it was meant to be. No buts about it, this is the moment he's bee n waiting for ! Finally, and t o everyone's explicit relief, the clarine t is mollified b y the lo w repeated boom of a libidinous kettl e drum, and it looks as though the boundless blue veil is up

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to something . Ther e i s a singl e bewitchin g convulsio n along th e shimmerin g hem , lik e th e swif t la p o f a lak e upon its shore; but no, it happens again! And is met with an appreciativ e choru s o f oohs and ahhs. On th e thir d g o a nimbl e arpeggi o skip s par t wa y u p th e curtain , the n turns, ripplin g t o th e floor. Afte r tha t ther e ar e n o fals e moves, and an exotic life seem s to possess the blu e satin , and t o animat e i t i n ways bot h beguilin g an d unmistak ably lewd. The drum boom-booms; the clarinet squeals indecently. The curtain seethes, flourishing itself in waves that rise from it s foot , shive r fro m sid e t o side , coyl y plum b th e unplumbable (tha t arrestin g vertica l crux! ) an d los e themselves in the remote entanglement s of high invisible rafters . . . To m i s uneasy , bu t th e guest s aroun d hi m chuckle an d nod , roc k thei r hips i n tim e t o th e guttura l sob of the drum , an d wipe the gi n from thei r lips. Eventually th e dru m an d clarine t ar e accompanie d b y other , less menacing instruments ; an d soo n ther e i s a conciliatory bolero in full swing . Reassured, Tom lets his toes tap and his mind wander , but keep s his eyes riveted t o th e now-innocuousl y sway ing curtain (from behin d which, he is thrilled to imagine, La Stupenda i s no doubt preparing t o emerge) . There i s a final, frivolous racke t (really , the musician s seem exceptionall y unreliable!) , an d a t las t th e curtai n furls. Oh ! But — There are no pink elouds, Tom observe s wit h disap pointment, hi s eyes anxiously sweeping the stage . In fac t

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there is nothing much up there at all. A few folding chair s unrecalled agains t th e wal l (To m flushes— a housekeep ing oversight), dust bunnie s . . . and a filthy rop e which , initially fla t upo n th e floor , no w pop s u p an d i s draw n taut fro m on e sid e o f th e prosceniu m t o th e other . I t wobbles a bit, and jerks, and edges oddly across the stage until, to Tom's surprise, a swaybacked and barely upright piano appears , tie d t o on e end . An d ato p tha t spavine d nag: La Stupenda, a t last! A savage h'rayl goes up from th e crowd . Tom applauds as eagerly as the others (who also stamp their fee t an d whisde i n what strike s him a s an unseeml y manner). A t th e sam e tim e h e i s take n abac k b y th e shabby, unvarnished aspec t of the production . In n o time at all he is appalled.

25— Scrambling dow n fro m th e to p o f th e bucklin g instru ment, L a Stupend a simper s lik e a seasone d burlesqu e bawd. Sh e i s joined onstag e b y a grinnin g accompanis t and the y launch , wit h a regrettabl e lac k o f ado , int o a scandalous medle y o f hit s fro m aroun d th e world . I t would b e ungallant to observe that she sang with no evident musica l sensibilit y whatsoever , no t t o sa y a grea t many farcical aside s in unreliabl e foreig n accents . And i f she forgo t th e words , whic h happene d wit h coquettis h frequency, sh e merel y strod e abou t th e stag e wit h on e hand churnin g th e ai r abov e he r hea d whil e th e pianis t

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shot maliciousl y ahead , leavin g he r t o catc h u p a s sh e might. This firs t travest y i s a marvelou s succes s wit h th e crowd, an d withou t a moment' s hesitatio n sh e reprise s the las t number . ( " C ' m o n , sing it wit h me ! . . . Flyyyy me to the moooon And let meplaayy among the staaaars. . .*) At a surl y ja b o f hi s neighbor' s elbow , ou r her o nod s and gloomil y mouth s th e word s t o th e final chorus . Bu t what, To m frets , ca n b e th e meanin g o f this , this spectacle? A hastily rigge d soun d syste m corrupt s th e musi c wit h cheerfully interruptiv e feedback . Th e lightin g i s haggard , La Stupend a showin g u p a pale , poisonou s shad e o f green, with n o eye s to spea k of, bu t a frankly dazzlin g rol l of flesh billowin g ove r th e snu g elasti c waistban d o f he r shiny turquois e "cocktai l pajamas. " Topsid e he r solid , broadish ches t is chapped a n uneven red , arms slung fro m meaty, slopin g shoulders . Sh e sport s a n intrepi d turquoise camisole , plu s tw o grim y rhineston e "cuffs " that skitte r u p an d dow n th e snagge d nylo n evenin g gloves ensheathin g he r heav y forearms . He r fac e an d neck, beref t o f th e usua l veil , ar e luri d beneat h th e mer ciless lights ; he r make-u p dripping , dogge d an d ye t in sufficient t o camouflag e a suspiciou s shado w abou t th e chin an d uppe r lip . What, ou r her o ma y righti y exclaim , ca n accoun t fo r this inconceivabl e an d dismayin g transformation ? Wher e

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is the glamorous siren, the sublime provoeatress? And wh o is this husky, stubbled impostor ! And yet , i t is La Stupenda . I t mus t be ! For wh o els e could whip these bigshots , easily piqued an d resentfu l a s a rule, into a comparable lather of delight? Indeed , while their glamorou s sta r looke d t o hav e bee n aroun d th e block any number of times (check the unhealthy pallor of her gums as she throws back her head to roar at her ow n jokes), still, everyone in the room (save Tom) roared with her, spewin g gi n an d maraschin o juice , chokin g o n peanuts an d stuffe d olives , wipin g delirou s tear s fro m their eye s with th e hand-turne d hem s o f oversize d nap kins. Who els e could have done al l that? ••

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"And now it's time to tell you about an old and very dear pal of mine—a real carouser, know what I mean?. . . v Oh, Tom doubted not that it was La Stupenda sizzling up there in the lights; but never, never could he have foreseen thi s shameles s perversio n o f wha t he , anyway , ha d for s o long and so reverendy regarded a s her Art! cc . . . wouldn't you know it? After a life-long bender, when he finally gets off the sauce, well! His body just goes to pieces! One nasty indisposition after another. At the same time he finds his accountant's been buggering him for years! Poor Dougie, things certainly looked black .. ." Our her o shifte d rebelliousl y in his seat. La, was it fo r this he'd calculate d an d dreamed , piousl y pledging eac h

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thought, whil e beseechin g prickl y dishwasher s fo r unchipped dinne r plates ? O r swabbin g ou t th e Ladies ' each tim e th e plumbin g refluxed ? O r dail y dustin g th e mechanical trotter' s irksom e clove n hooves ? cc . . . next thing his teeth fall out, the fate of every reformed tosspot! And the accountant's off to Rio with half Dougie's cash and the wife he'd always (sort of) fancied. I give up! he hollers, and a cagey dentist puts him down to yank the lot, uppers and lowers, and set your man up with first-class dentures. Oh, said the rat, he'd do it for a song. . ." Plus, sputtere d Tom , he' d throw n ove r a thriving — well, a reliable—well, his own business. And lef t hi s baby sister in the lurch! And al l for this ? cc . . . course they knocked him out. The old laughing gas! (Five-to-one he begged for it —no one prized a laugh like Dougie.) But it was the wrong juice, or too much. For my dear disreputable mate, all splayed out in the dentist's chair, his savage mouth open as a whore's—ahem!. . .well the thing of it is, he died! That's right! A mortal overdose, at last!" (Tom is distracted by a scuffle ove r in the corner. Tertz Wanning an d I . M. LeClerq? ) a . . . which only goes to show you, as it bloody did old Dougie, in the end there's no eluding Destiny. But that ain't all!" The two men are furiously clenched , crouched with elbows hooke d roun d on e another' s fat , glistenin g napes ; lurching this way and tha t agains t a stanch, grinning cir -

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cle of people wh o flatte r an d provok e them . To m stare s forlornly. cc . . . they laid him out leering like a wolf, looking properly a lei with his gaudy new dentures —only double the rate!. . ." Oh, thos e faithles s wink s an d nudges , an d th e wa y they'd al l so casuall y betraye d him . And Jone s (tha t vil lain!) with hi s flagrant contemp t fo r virtu e an d hi s inexcusable voice! cc . . . you won't believe it, though I swear on Doug's own squandered eyeteeth, but the very morning of his, uh, interment, there happened a whacking earthquake, and a chasm big as a—aheml—a regular gashopened up beneath the funeral home, and into it tumbled our man's coffin! True! Swallowed him whole, and with a will!—for never were they able to fish o I' Dougie out. . ." All for this—thi s mockery, this sham! cc . . . and that was the end of the gay dog Doug, and a more distinguished end he'd never have mustered if he'd stayed respectable all his days. So there you are, drink up! This one's for Dougie!" ••

•

The ban d i s moved t o yawn , then lashe s into a scathin g dirge. Th e pony , ma d eye s rolling , highball s int o th e Cloud Roo m with Toulouse o n its back. But our pensive hero doesn't blink . And eve n whe n th e guest s ar e inspire d t o stor m th e stark, bewitchin g stage , shouldering sil k trains an d pop -

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ping sati n cummerbund s t o hau l themselve s ove r th e front lip ; Tom merel y notes , with n o particula r interest , that actuall y thes e well-heeled , elderl y goat s wer e fa r more limber than on e might suppose . Meanwhile L a Stupend a throw s he r lust y arm s wide , and bawl s ove r th e commotion , "That' s it ! Don' t hol d back! C'mo n up , ever y Jac k Far t o f you!" whil e th e pi anist abuse s th e ivorie s for al l he's worth—and a caustic spotlight comes up like a blister in the center of the teeming Clou d Room—an d al l the peopl e (every Jack Fart!) open thei r heart s an d thei r ravage d throat s t o th e mem ory of poor old Dougie . He waltzed about the belfry while The bats danced with the moon . . . He'd saved a single nickel So they played a single tune— (they played a single tune) It was a vast and unimaginable chorus . Arm i n ar m the y stood linke d an d swaying : Tattooe d Hoyden with Venomous Hen, Dancing Master with Ob stinate Stick , Plaste r Saint , Swaggerin g Jay , Cardboar d Cow, Brightly Feathered Hop e . . . Prosper Goslin g an d Richard th e coo k ar e dancin g cheek-to-cheek . There' s the rakehel l pony gnawin g placidl y o n th e corne r o f th e rattling piano, and over there, Toulouse making dashes at the winking , lip-smackin g Pig . An d bayin g o r blubber ing, each to his abilities, they all roared ou t a last hurra h for Dougie of the Ill-Omened Molars! Dougie and his

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Treacherous C.P.A.! Good ol ' pore ol' rotten ol ' Dougie ! (who was, for al l his flaws, after al l swallowed i n a rather incomparable fashio n b y th e swee t earth' s providend y gaping mug). Stealing sweet nothings but in the end Can you blame him for a dream? The bi g spot— a leering , lidles s eye—careene d thi s way an d that , disclosin g th e hal o o f a gilde d headdres s here, th e sanguin e win k o f a rub y cufflin k ther e ( a cracked glas s slipper , a candi d tear!) . Plu s innumerabl e uncorked, incarnadin e maws , tau t throat s pitche d lik e black bottomles s wells . Holding back ? I shoul d sa y not ! No mor e tha n th e uncompromisin g cellis t hold s back , her righ t ar m sawin g wit h exquisit e fur y acros s th e ec static gut ! JUSST. . . A . . . DREEAMM!

Our her o shade s hi s eye s agains t th e exterminativ e glare; feels an old familiar tickle in the region of his belly; and struggle s wit h a private an d implacabl y mountin g sense of dread. The fac t is , you see, no one is holding back .

26— "You're not singing , Thomas." La Stupend a collapse d upo n th e dishevele d chaise longue, leaned bac k and casually lit a cigarette.

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"It's my usual pinochle night, I can't think how Jones managed t o lur e m e away . Bu t it' s turne d ou t a cream y do, if I say so myself. A regular scream." She poked To m with the tarnishe d to e o f a silver lame mule. "You'r e awfully quiet—didn' t muc h fanc y m y so b stor y abou t o P Dougie? I dra g i t ou t ever y show , bring s th e hous e down." Whe n To m woul d no t repl y sh e shrugged , "course I stole it," then laughed an d waved her cigarett e dismissively. "A h well, everyone's a critic." Tom leane d forward , clutchin g a n abandoned feathe r harness t o th e tense d muscle s o f hi s belly . "I t isn' t runny!" La Stupenda stared , her stubble d chi n lifting i n moc k reproof. "Wh y Thomas , o f cours e it' s funny . Loo k around you, caro. Aren't thes e people laughing? " And Tom di d glance swiftly roun d th e teeming Clou d Room, an d observe d th e fit o f hilarit y tha t i n fac t pos sessed th e crowd , s o tha t everywher e curve d finger s clutched a t swellin g throats , tear s sloshe d fro m th e turned-up corner s o f incredulous eyes , bosoms an d bel lies quaked, desiccated old ladies doubled over hiccoughing. Blushing, he shook his head. "It's , it's not . . . " "'Thy priests go forth a t dawn,'" reminded th e singer. "'They was h thei r heart s wit h laughter. ' It' s antiseptic^ dear boy , and like any antiseptic, it often stings , or taste s bad. Nevertheless, it's very good for discouraging certai n undesirable complexes. " She nudged hi m agai n with th e toe o f her shoe. "Lik e I said, you should tr y it yourself." Tom dre w bac k offended , an d L a Stupend a presse d a

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knuckle betwee n he r eyes with a frown o f contained im patience. "Look, I'm a n artiste. I have a message to deliver, and strategy is everything. Believ e me! I've bee n i n the busi ness a lon g tim e an d trie d a lo t o f gimmicks , man y o f them against my better judgment. Why, I've been grim as the grav e itself , bu t wher e di d tha t ge t me ? No , tak e i t from me , there's nothing t o gai n by estranging your au dience. Whe t th e sauc e wit h a little salt ! G o wit h wha t works, the indestructible Ha-Ha ! That's right, make 'e m laugh, unhing e thei r jaw s wit h laughter ! Withou t eve n knowing it , they'l l stagge r tha t muc h close r t o th e truth—that is , to see what I see, love what I love . . . " "You cal l yoursel f a n artist, " To m hissed . "Wha t ex acdy is this so-called message of yours? What do you see? What d o you love? What is this truth!" "Well naturall y there' s mor e tha n one , an d damne d few o f the m ver y pretty! " L a Stupend a leane d ove r th e prow of the padded divan and collared an unfinished bot de o f champagne . Sh e swun g i t but t en d u p an d To m watched th e sturd y muscle s o f he r throa t contract (an d relax), contract (an d relax) , hi s ow n bell y involuntaril y following along ; an d h e fel t bot h absolutel y knackere d and tha t thi s night—thi s perilous , compulsor y night — would neve r end. The singer watched hi m from th e cor ner o f on e eye , winke d reassuringly , the n lowere d th e botde an d smacked her lips. "Me, I lik e surprises . Truth' s perversity ! Perversity' s truth! There lies the jelly in the donut, agreed? The ques-

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tion is , where doe s th e lin e o f perversit y exis t fo r you ? Where d o desir e an d repulsion , Tes and No, rear u p an d defy on e another? There's th e truth I love, and to which I would entice you. Yes, and especially you! All unhinged, unfettered b y laughter." Tom caugh t hi s breath . "Wha t d o yo u mean ? Wh y would—I jus t wan t t o b e good , t o bette r myself ! I onl y m e a n t . . . I always thought o f you." "Flatterer! I sense, however, that you now feel o f two minds o n th e subject ? You'r e confused , no ? You r visio n was clear , an d now , to o bad , it' s gon e al l muddy . Well , let m e tel l yo u fro m experience , on e doe s no t becom e enlightened b y visualizing figure s o f light , bu t b y mak ing th e darknes s visible . That , b y th e way , is why Jone s is so important—indeed , th e mos t importan t o f us all, " she shoo k he r hea d affectionately , " . . . th e ol d hooli gan." "Jones! But he's . . . he's the worst! Why, if it weren't for him! " "—heys your best ally." "He's a monster!" "Yes." "He—he trips you up at every step. He humiliates and interferes! And besides , he's sinister, he lures people int o doing th e wron g thing , h e trap s them . H e ha s n o con science!" "Yes." "Yes! Well—but then . . . how can you say he's my ally? Why, black is perfecdy whit e t o him—you cal l that help-

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fill? I tell you he' s a double-crosser! A snake in the gras s and a gobbler!" "Now you're beginnin g to understand. " "What? I don't. . . you're no t makin g any sense!" La Stupenda shrugge d an d ben t t o examin e a vicious run laddering the heel of her stocking. "Listen, you want to b e free o r not?" Tom's bell y lurches. "What do you mean? " "I mea n g o ahea d an d be gobbled. I f you want t o b e free, tha t is. " Sh e spi t o n he r ringe r an d dabbe d a t th e run. "But. . ." Tom was incredulous. What kind of freedom is that? "Look, Thomas, and listen carefully. You'll only ever be as powerful as your most powerful adversary. Get it ? Th e wolf a t th e doo r happen s t o b e man' s bes t friend ! Wil l you open tha t door ? "I as k you again : at what, earo, do you dra w the line ? Is it mortality, the blind worm gnawing at the back of the eye? Is it some 'Dougie' scuttled in his own vomit? A hair in your soup? Is it ghosts? From what in the world do you most violentl y recoil? And t o what , m y sweet swee t dar ling, my precious, well-intentioned ass , to what will you consent?" Tom pale d an d turne d away , plucking distractedl y a t the feathe r harness . Consent? It wa s the n h e notice d a n exceptional thril l i n th e crowd . Peopl e n o longe r mille d and yodeled, bu t stoo d o n thei r toes, lips stretched tigh t in anticipator y smiles . L a Stupend a raise d he r bottl e i n

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salute. The coole d swea t lef t a glaze o n he r cheeks , an d she shoved a savage nail under her skewed blond wig and scratched luxuriously . Tom winced and bit the inside of his lip, struggling t o revive his perishing first impressions of the now-sprawle d and frankly yawning diva. Genius? Yes, in part. Virtue and breathtaking finesse? He guessed (now shaking his head). The dar k stubbl e shadowin g he r ravage d make-u p sad dened an d confuse d him ; the sulle n red ras h granulatin g her stout uppe r arm s and chest seemed, well . . . What a brute! h e though t helplessly , wit h lov e an d timid horror . Cigarette s an d pinochle , broa d jokes an d vulgar ditties. How . . . why, she!—oh, I can't ! Consent? To this?

In the end Tom's eyes fill with tears of loyalty—no less tears of grief and unrecoverabl e loss ; and then , fo r just a moment, through the warm bright glittering veil, La Stupenda appear s just a s he'd first see n her : exalted , ineffa ble, a luminous an d surely providential Star . He blinks—th e tears are dashed from hi s eyes; and she is gone, leaving in her absence only a mawkish blond wig and the wistful, bitte r scent of her smoldering cigarette .

27— There's another roll from th e timpani, the obligatory fanfare o f brass; and the lights are struck completel y bu t fo r two hectic spots that pan the stage with questionable de -

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sign. Peopl e blin k an d exclaim , fumblin g a t thei r domi noes, their plumes and fans. In a flash (having made himself inexplicably scarc e thus far), Jones himself sallies out onto th e stage, advancing with quic k mincing steps. The two roving spots hastily collide, then merge , Jones's illuminated hai r brandin g a platinum hal o in the ai r aroun d his head . H e glare s ou t acros s th e se a o f upturned , ex pectant faces ; th e spodight s shif t an d flutter o n eithe r side. "Gawd, wil l yo u look what th e ca t dragge d in . W e LOVE it! Kiss KISS! Let off some steam, did you? Yes or no? Period ! But no w it's time t o ge t dow n t o business. " He flapped on e han d i n th e directio n o f the ban d an d a low, boding, undulant rhythm bega n to prowl the room : Boom, boom-boom-tftfxff/. . . Tom struggle d up . La, what time is it? Time to go? That struck him as not a bad idea; for to tell the truth ou r newly shattere d hero—wrun g out , obscurel y wounded , and downright rattled by the wig—had quite lost track of his professional obligations . Was he? What was the drill? He admonishe d himself , c ymon! get this thing over with! Indeed, manage d t o stan d fo r a moment; the n twitche d once an d violentiy swayed , forward an d back , a s thoug h having seen over the edge of a thundering precipice. For a fact , h e rathe r frightene d himsel f (no fainting!), an d cautiously sa t dow n o n th e edg e o f th e divan , hea d be tween hi s knees, to wait out th e extravagan t wobble an d plunge.

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Boom! Th e thum p o f a n abysma l dru m cam e u p through th e sole s o f his shoes , convulsing hi s knees, his hips and belly . Boom-BOOM. A rousing, rhetorical goad . All the same , he fel t s o . . . s o creaturely, so anonymou s and overlooked . Curiousl y (h e ha d t o admit) , it wasn^t bad. Nose tucked comfortably betwee n two momentaril y well-behaved knees; why he was almost invisible! It com forted hi m to think that this latest and as yet poignant letdown migh t confe r it s ow n not-to-be-sniffed-a t al lowances; a secredy satisfyin g isolation , fo r one . An d s o he hunkers down a little further, relishin g the unlit, fugi tive respite, into which one might spoo l backwards like a snail into it s shell, tucking i n its tender, offende d horns . To do nothing, see no one! Boom, boom-boom . . . Boom, boom-boom— ssssss! Down her e Jones's voice is, if not completel y dismissable, a t an y rat e relieve d o f it s characteristi c virulence . "And so , without furthe r ado , the Grand Fool for who m we've al l been waiting! Officiating wizar d of the double barreled martini ! Blan d pantr y despot ! Illustriou s over lord o f winekeys and kitchen matche s . . . " Tom listens wearily at first, and then with growing apprehension, " . . . cracker jack fussbudget! . . .gallant old maid of the prudent simper . . ." gradually realizin g tha t the entertainment , fa r fro m bein g over , ma y hav e onl y just begun . "Well , have you guesse d it? Gawd, you aske d for it ! Foo l o f the Hou r an d furthermor e o f th e highest rank!—"

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The crowd, in an agony of impatience, erupts, drowning Jones's voice. Both spot s sheer off t o rifl e th e room ; and al l head s swivel—yap s unstoppered , roaring—i n search o f their exalted , delinquen t prodigy . Jone s stand s with bot h hand s propped agains t his lower back, brayin g into th e microphone , "Torn! Where i s tha t littl e flirt ? Come out , come out thi s instant. Torn-Tom!" With merciless delight the spotlights cut to and impale our cowerin g would-b e mollusk , obliviousl y adhere d t o the lee of his saffron raft . Automatically looking up at the lash of Jones's voice—not having grasped the significanc e of the announcement—Tom visor s his eyes, intending t o take hurried stoc k o f the mo b determinedl y howlin g hi s name. Only now, as it happens, they've turned their backs and are gazing as one in the direction of. . . that is? Of — What in the world?? Hastily, instinctively , th e spectator s ope n u p a wid e and unobstructe d pat h betwee n ou r dumbfounde d her o and,and— But. . . you don't say! Broad a s a barn a t its base; rising in tiers to a tapering peak nearly tickling the rafters; an d literally swaying with urgency, wit h th e rivetin g absurdit y o f inescapabl e kismet. It was a thing which . . . T o be sure, it could onl y . . . Well! Th e fac t is , it was constructed entirely of food. Jones skippe d t o th e li p o f the stag e a s the blu e curtai n descended i n a single shimmering glissand o behin d him .

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H e sprea d hi s arms , ros e t o hi s toe s an d cackle d ove r th e extravagant oohs and ahs of th e crowd — "We Give Tou The Purely Gratuitous Acme of the Gastronomical Sublimel" Smoked joints , watermelons , an d hug e waxe n wheel s of chees e (b y th e hundreds! ) forme d th e undercarriage ; cabbages, fruitcakes , an d whol e sucklin g pig s buttresse d it further , wit h som e mosti y decorativ e breastwork s i n sculpted pumpernickel . Truffle d turkey s an d roas t squa b perched o n scrolle d ledge s o f nouga t an d nutte d fudge . Elegant molding s i n asparagu s an d artichok e pure e wer e a sophisticate d complemen t t o well-place d parquetr y panels of butter bricki e an d zwieback . Ther e wer e slende r quivering palisade s o f orang e gelati n an d processe d cheese, an d littl e fau x gallerie s o f fis h sticks , chees e straws, an d licoric e whips . Rampart s buil t o f meatloaf , cold porridg e an d matzo h ball s gave th e thin g a stolid ai r at whimsica l odd s wit h th e numerou s pistachi o mouss e rosettes an d trefoils , cornice s o f sponge cak e an d cra b au gratin. And oh ! th e ga y swag s o f veal sausage s an d interlock ing suga r donuts ! Th e artles s spray s o f peppercorns , caviar, an d Jorda n almonds ! Th e drol l border s o f Latvia n sprats, dancin g o n thei r tail s amon g marshmallo w peanuts an d devile d eggs ! At th e top , th e incontestabl e zenit h o f monstrou s overmuchness: a blinding , twelve-laye r whit e chiffo n gateau supreme, full y si x fee t i n diameter , wit h a n apica l

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bower o f yello w marzipa n rose s high-hattin g a chast e white dais. It was grotesque. It was spellbinding. It had a n air, yes, of the sublime ! Stunned (i n extrem e cases , streaming ) face s gaz e i n worshipful silence , move d b y th e lofty , preposterou s monument t o milk and honey, gilded lilies, and the overrunning cup . N o tw o way s abou t it , Jone s ha d strictl y outdone himsel f this time. Three additional spotlights were required t o fully illu minate th e thing ; and under thei r collectiv e 10,00 0 wat t glare, what didn't glisten, smoked; and the frank proxim ity of ill-met odors stewed woozily into one vast miasmic dream; an d To m himself , despit e hi s natura l an d swiftl y accruing shock and embarrassment, found himself—wit h scarcely an y hedging—bewitched . Indeed , a s th e ban d struck up a saucy triumphal march , our hero found him self creepin g o n hands , o n eagerl y trucklin g knees , to ward th e irresistible , half-cooked palace . High abov e hi s head Jones played his dreadful voice like a barbed-wire violin. Because you counted swizzle sticks, And counted on fortune's wizened grin, Because you scrubbed grates, dreamed of roses Tippled gin . . .

Only, why was Tom crawling ? Afte r al l that ha d hap pened—the straw s he' d graspe d at , th e chicken s he' d

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counted, th e spille d mil k he' d mopped—afte r al l hi s rising star s an d sunke n ship s . . . Why g o throug h wit h thi s suspicious drama ? Wh y no t jus t stan d u p an d cal l it a day? What more , afte r all , could on e expect ? Knowing there are puppets (and then there is the puppeteer) Fearinggorgons, hydras, and chimaeras dire Tom trundle d on . H e kep t hi s hea d dow n an d aime d for th e grea t overturne d cornucopia . H e di d no t as k himself why? Neither di d h e len d a n ea r t o Jones' s inter minable (and , fro m wha t littl e on e coul d catch , unintel ligible) oration . H e went—i n a tidy , tru e line—fo r per haps n o othe r reaso n tha n tha t h e coul d no t imagin e what h e woul d d o wer e h e t o stop. Som e thing s ar e tha t simple. And because you're tired (And your feet, like anyone's, Smell when they're tired) Tom paused , sa t bac k o n hi s heel s an d trie d t o loo k around. Ackl coul d the y no t brin g thes e light s dow n a bit! H e wince d an d batte d lik e a kitte n a t th e dazzle . I t would b e reassuring , h e felt , t o catc h a friendly eye . Per haps Ada , eve n Paulie ! Yes , bu t wher e ha d the y go t to ? Disappointed, chi n sinking , he consequend y faile d t o no tice a tall , childis h cylinde r o f stif f pape r an d dust y re d velveteen—with a n ink-stipple d borde r o f cotto n woo l and a saw-toothe d crest—approac h an d deftl y b e settle d

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atop hi s head. To m started , liftin g hi s hands. What? O h dear! What now? The crown weighed virtually nothing an d gave Tom a perilous feeling , a s though h e balance d a plate o f peac h flambe o n hi s noggin. One more thing to take care of'. . . His ches t squeezed , pumpin g hi s eye s full, whic h len t a weird underwater effec t t o the swarming overhead light s and th e form s darkl y refracting aroun d him . Meanwhil e the boom of th e bass , th e bongo s (an d a n intermittent , strangled cowbell) , pulsed an d throbbed i n his ears. He blinked ; tears tumbled t o the floor; an d the towe r reared, vehemen t a s a lightnin g bol t an d inconceivabl y perverse, befor e him . To m caugh t hi s breath , leane d close. Ther e wer e boile d crawdads , stil l alive , thei r leg s waving dazedly from chuckhole s of congealing sauc e . . . slender eel s kinkin g i n disma y beneat h th e blisterin g lights . .. bog s of terrine, and alcoholic babas soggy as old sponges in puddles of turning cream . Some of the game , haphazardly butchered , an d despit e scorche d an d eve n smoking flesh , continue d t o blee d unsavoril y fro m th e joints. And in certain, admittedly bizarr e cases, creatures unfortunately no t ye t expire d mad e patheti c (an d than k goodness unsuccessful) attempt s to prey upon their more prostrate neighbors ; o r instinctivel y munched , wit h touching optimism , upo n whateve r migh t b e withi n reach: a limp parsley sprig, a pretzel. Tom cas t a dubious glanc e abou t th e lowe r fortifica tions, eventuall y spyin g a kin d o f porthol e throug h which, it occurred t o him, one might handil y enter. For -

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getting for a moment th e mo b whoopin g a t hi s back — still carefu l o f his horribl e crown—h e stuc k hi s head in side. Hmm. Ther e wa s a low craw l spac e leadin g t o th e center of the tower where a ladder rose up a narrow central shaft , presumabl y t o th e ver y summit . Impulsively , Tom wriggle d int o th e passageway , los t t o th e apprecia tive thunder o f applause fro m th e crow d behin d him . At once he felt he' d bee n transporte d t o a world unlik e any he'd eve r known, and his heart danced nervously agains t his ribs. My, but it's quiet! Indeed, th e silenc e was profound, shake n onl y b y the regular boom, boom-boom o f the distant , soni c bass , no w muffled b y the surroundin g wall s of food (ye t unmistak able a s a change o f pressur e withi n one' s ow n sinuses) . Tom crep t to the botto m o f the ladder an d looked up ; it was as though from th e bottom of a very deep well: dank, a bit airless, very dark. But look, a little lightl He craned his neck, squinting at the high, mild unruffled light, so cooly aloof after th e ruthles s strafin g o f the big spots; but hi s tall crow n jostle d th e wal l behin d hi m and force d hi m t o fac e straigh t ahead . Th e ai r inside th e tower wa s virtuall y unbreathable , ho t an d ponderou s with th e collective , implodin g odor s o f encompassin g food. Agai n Tom' s ches t tightened, an d no w h e presse d his forehea d t o a dust y ladde r rung . H e gulpe d an d breathed throug h hi s mouth, bu t th e tear s glided swiftl y down his cheeks anyway, wetting his wrists.

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Oh for peters sake! one might well exclaim at this point. For what, now, does our inconstant hero weep? Is he no t at las t precisel y wher e h e scheme d (i n goo d faith! ) la bored (hammer s an d tongs! ) an d indee d shamelessl y aspired to be ? And doe s h e no t stand , furthermore , a t th e center, th e foca l heart , o f a monumen t create d fo r th e sole an d conspicuou s purpos e o f acclaimin g thos e ver y labors, dream s an d machinations ? Really , it's quit e clea r Tom himself has no idea, no idea at all! Can he really not understand what' s at stake here? Oh, must I goon? Can't I . . . ? Goose! Though our stickling hero be deaf to it, there's a mob out there working itself into an opulent lather, fo r him! Moreover (i f not vouchsafed t o his tightly pinched , terrified eyes) , way hig h abov e the m all , an d a s thoug h waiting fo r thi s moment , th e jewel-encruste d vestment s of heaven swirl, gather, and with the tenderest o f obliterating blows , a t onc e ravis h an d exal t th e tawdr y Ruin s and all whose hearts beat within it—and Tom's too! And perhaps especially our poor Tom, who quake s at the foo t of hi s ow n colossa l an d monstrousl y ripenin g throne , blubbering lik e a stubbor n ki d an d wishin g t o b e any where bu t here, going anywhere bu t up I (But anyway , wha t wa s i t h e alway s said ? Could be worse! So buc k up ! It' s no t enoug h t o wan t t o "g o home"; one way or another, the show must g o on! ) Well, Fm . . . I guess— Wiping hi s nos e o n th e bac k o f on e hand , ou r her o braces himself and begins to climb the ladder, pausing for

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a moment o n eac h run g befor e proceedin g t o th e next . BOOM, boom-boom! Th e wall s o f th e shaf t convuls e per ceptibly aroun d him . Whe n hi s pape r crow n clear s th e top, Tom takes a deep breath and peeks out over the glistening white dais. Oh! but one*s quite high above the crowd now! To m cranes his neck, catching the tiny flash of diamond signe t from a far off salute, the twinkle of an upturned sequine d mask. And every eye in the house trained on him! But say, this wasn't so bad after all ! Top of the world! Above it all! And bes t o f all , nobody bu t him ! Okey-doke ! Wh y no t see this thing through t o the end, if that's how it is? Why not— Clambering onto the small round platform, Tom peers over the li p and i s immediately aghast , his gaze skiddin g like a tiny , incidenta l pebbl e dow n stee p an d tumblin g pitches of stacked partridge galantines, malodorous grot tos o f Limburge r an d Stilton , unli t thicket s o f wilting , impenetrable greens , plungin g spire s o f tire d pate , fon due wallows, blackened crab . . . down, down, down! Whoah! Tom reel s backward with a gasp, recoiling instinctively from th e view; sitting on his heels, his hands fly like a giddy girl's to abrupdy bloodles s cheeks. He close s his eyes, struggling t o compos e himself . Whoah! The ai r up here is even hotter than below, and at alarming liberty, sweeping in vast unbridled currents . The shee r exposur e saps th e marro w o f ou r hero' s bones ; indeed , i f som e bodiless hand stretched out an d with one finger poked a t the bas e o f his spine, he wa s sure h e woul d topple . And

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yet, conscious that his crown was about t o slip, he raised his hands automatically to secur e it. Boom, boom-boom! Only, mustn't kneel ! Ever sparing of his unreliable knees , Tom (defyin g hi s natural cowardice) , gingerly crook s one le g forward an d plants hi s foot fla t o n th e white dais , hands stil l palmin g his crown . Th e secon d foot waril y join s th e first ; an d from thi s awkwar d squattin g position , To m slowly , painstakingly begin s t o rise , his eye s still squeeze d shut , the littl e dai s tippin g lik e a great pi e beneat h hi s feet , a few marzipa n rose s partin g compan y fro m thei r ricket y arbor. Never , never have his legs so begrudged thei r un kinking. At las t erect , ou r her o open s hi s eye s and , withou t thinking, look s dow n agai n upo n th e crowd . Th e light s have opened u p now , and hundred s o f well-known face s can b e see n grinnin g u p a t him ; he moreove r (an d eve n quite naturally), grins back down a t them. No t a word is spoken; th e lugubriou s bea t o f th e dru m an d bas s hav e ceased a s well. Indeed , a sonorous hus h fills the Clou d Room. Tom feels a cold nose thrust chummily against the walls of his belly, hears a familiar whine . Lickin g hi s impulsively stretched lips he savors, timidly, the pungent salt of his own previous tears. Whet the sauce with a little salt . . . it's antiseptic, my dear boy. . . consent, consent! . . . a Champion— Tom feels the crown topple once more down the back of his head an d makes no effort t o catch it . A champion at last!

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A voluptuou s shudde r goe s throug h him , unseatin g every particle o f his singular, misshape n being ; followe d by a gasp that sucks deeply at his heart a s though upo n a straw. A broad, buzzing prickle, a fizz, rolls in waves from the effervescin g hair s o f hi s hea d t o eac h taut , curlin g toe—and back—setting the protons and neutrons of each humble cell spinning at the double. He is ultimately possessed by a brief, peculiar spasm, something like those little mounte d doll s whos e limbs , strun g o n a n elasti c thread, explode, uncoupling at the joints to fly chattering together again. He drops to his knees beneath the yellow marzipan roses ; a tiny blu e flame dance s abou t hi s pale, amazed brow . Where, where is the line? Tom gaze s dow n o n th e crowd , eye s streamin g wit h tears o f plai n recognitio n an d incredulity . Pbuh, pbuh, pbuh . . . His voice fails him; and what, anyway, could h e possibly say? In the end he can only lift his shoulders, and with the ardessly curved fingers of one hand, indicate his heart. ••

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And that , for al l practical purposes, was that. With a deafening collectiv e roar , th e compan y hurle d itself upon th e las t bastio n o f the gastronovnical sublime. Our her o fel t th e first impac t vibrat e u p throug h th e tower's inne r shaf t an d (abandonin g th e flickering blu e flame) immediately droppe d t o al l fours, blinkin g uncer tainly. Far below, contenders whistled and brawled, vault-

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ing right over one another like stampeding game. Weaker guests fel l upo n th e peripher y wher e preserve d lemon s and potat o gnocch i mingle d i n pool s o f whisky-lace d cream; while others ranged the lower slopes, breaking of f slabs o f Belgia n waffle , suckin g th e clove s fro m th e swelling pink flesh o f glazed holiday hams. Sticky fingers filched th e praline s fro m puddlin g custards , an d cronie s stood o n on e another' s shoulder s t o cla w dow n jugge d hare, chitterlings, and veal quenelles. When Candic e Topping crown s Mari a Fric k wit h a mammoth lam b shank , practical Shad borrows his wife's crumpled for m a s a step to reach his favorite mincemea t tarts. Betty Garsin-Gree r has hike d u p he r skir t an d i s scaling a particularly stee p slope, he r overbit e snappin g a t a high cornic e o f truffl e mousse. Toulous e yap s happil y ato p a hil l o f Russia n cakes; and there was Ada— She tool

—helping I . M . LeCler q extricat e a pheasan t a s sh e gnawed contentedl y a t a butterscotched apple . Tom fel t a second drasti c tremor a s a sugar ros e shat tered o n th e crow n o f hi s head . Whol e terrace s wer e shearing of f now ; ornate balconies , their mosti y decora tive support s jerke d heedlessl y ou t fro m unde r them , went pitching down upon th e diners below. People gob bled and bickered and inevitably choked on the fistfuls of food cramme d practicall y whole dow n thei r gullets . Bu t all of them—stowed o n thei r hinie s i n wallows o f sauer kraut, o r spiderin g u p a cleft fac e o f nougat, o r beatin g their chest s fro m collapsin g pastr y battlements— all ha d

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their shin y eye s fixed o n jus t on e thing : th e as-yet-un touched summita l white cake , itself crowned b y a bower of yellow roses. Three massiv e blows aft an d Tom was pelted b y sugar posies wrenched fre e o f their overhea d wires. The soun d itself was concussive, like the hubbu b o f thunder, a s the mob storme d eve r higher , buckin g ever y hurdl e i n it s path. Mesmerized, To m watche d the m advance , lickin g their lips, gobs stretched wit h desire . They're coming for me —he thought , a s a triumphan t hrrg-wack finally snapped th e dais beneath hi m like a thin sugar wafer an d he fel t himsel f can t forward , hi s outstretche d hand s plunge, int o th e fathomles s buttercrea m frostin g o f th e sublime and divinely unlayering cake. They are! They are coming for me!

CHAPTER TE N

Kee-kee-kkiree! An Epilogue . . .

VT hen To m open s hi s eye s th e firs t thin g h e see s (through a n intervening scree n o f tousled yello w straw ) is a white porcelain dinne r plate, artfully cowle d b y a not unfamiliar whit e brocad e napkin . The plate is parked on the pitched seat of a staggering three-legged stool . Tom's sprawle d acros s his own rum pled pallet, sneezing at the faint spore s loosed b y the ol d and molderin g overhea d thatch , whil e th e mornin g su n maneuvers i n the plastic window with th e cheerfu l insis tence of a well-intended busy-body . Kee-kee-kkiree! insists the cock in the yard, while under the table his distraught coppery hen tacks her head at the clamor of ten identica l dollops o f dazzlin g yello w floss . To m rub-a-dubs , wit h one unthinking foot, the primrose belly of a dusky young sow writhing in blis s at the othe r en d o f the bed . With a yawn he rolls to his back, then sharply turns his head an d 256

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stares agai n a t th e plate . A t last , reluctantly , h e pushe s himself to a sitting position . His elegan t shoe s ar e gone , blac k sil k sock s laddere d with runs ; an d moreove r he' s caked—fro m knee s t o toes, cuff s t o collar—wit h a stif f whit e paste . H e start s automatically t o pic k a t th e stuff , the n stops ; shyl y h e reaches instead t o lif t on e corne r o f the napki n fro m th e plate. Underneath : a mangle d lam b shank , a cluste r o f squashed grapes , a geli d wedg e o f coconut-banan a cream pie . Tom gets up and moves the plate to the table; he looks down a t i t an d yawn s again , stil l absentl y pickin g a t hi s sleeve. Phew, am I beat! At leas t (i f o n th e othe r hand ) it' s a n exhaustio n h e feels on-the-other-side-of ? Th e sabbatical fatigue , a s i t were, of achievement ? Oie, he affirms, now Vm resting. As if to illustrat e To m lean s ove r th e table , forearm s crossed o n th e to p run g o f th e laddere d chair , eyelid s gravely lowered . Eve n s o littl e su n a s manages t o pierc e the mildewed plastic window is indulgent, succoring; and the scuffe d an d overstraine d place s withi n ou r her o ar e assuaged b y this mild green sap. At the same time, even if he happens to recall the previous nigh t (even if, befor e h e know s it , a fugitiv e tea r slips fro m th e corne r o f on e eye) , h e ca n an d doe s nonetheless sa y to himself , and know it to b e true: Done . . . now Vm done with all that. He open s his eyes and re-

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peats very softly, gazing at the wetness of the split grape s seeping u p throug h th e distende d napkin . "That's all over now." Turning, To m strip s of f hi s soile d tunic , hi s shabb y checkered trousers ; finds a pair o f ol d sweatpant s an d a clean flannel shir t an d digs i n a cupboar d fo r hi s duct taped sneakers . Glancin g curiously , onc e more , a t th e white-tented plate , he pulls open th e door an d walks out into the squalid, shining lane. The very air is blue, clean as a whistle and full of beans after al l that rain. In th e smal l plot acros s the ope n ditc h behind hi s hut , To m see s hi s neighbo r ha s bee n tilling : long tende r hillock s o f steamin g blac k dir t ru n u p an d down; starling s an d ding y pigeons wit h mother-of-pear l throats pec k practicall y a t th e overturne d soil . Furthe r on, th e hig h brigh t pane s o f factory window s blin k lik e squares of flung confetti. And further still , a parking strip, poetically plante d i n ornamenta l plums . Th e tree s hav e already begu n t o bloom ; tin y pin k rag s explod e fro m twigs still black and spongy with rain . Tom saunter s on , stoppin g t o pee r i n a departmen t store windo w wher e eage r mannequin s gathe r roun d a plaster watermelon , pape r plate s grippe d i n rigi d hands . Dandelions bristl e emphatically from th e cracked asphal t of a freshl y painte d crosswalk ; an d glancin g ove r on e shoulder To m i s astonished t o se e the rive r Q — blazin g at th e en d o f th e bloc k lik e a shee t o f stretche d alu minum. And, heavens! Can that b e a duck?

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A truck honk s to announc e itself ; as Tom jumps asid e to let it pass, the driver, in a natty pink polo shirt and sunglasses, smiles and waves. ••

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Without "exactly " meaning to , our hero finds himself in the neighborhoo d o f th e Ruins . Bu t i s h e goin g back , then, afte r all ? Oh , perhap s onl y t o hav e a word o r tw o with Ugo , sa y hello t o Ada; make sure , at an y rate, tha t someone managed t o corral that witless pony. Goodness, and wasn't he something last night? Up on that stage! Ta-da! (That is ! He mean t th e pony!) But no w (a s of course, eventually, it must ) th e whol e scandalous, unaccountable Bal l comes rocketin g bac k a t Tom i n bris k uncompromisin g detail . Th e rampan t daughters Frick, like trained circus terriers, back-treading a hug e an d implacabl y turnin g whee l o f Gruyer e . . . A half-devoured lobste r in situ atop Ax Axelrod's head , it s surviving claw s goosin g th e ai r lik e a lewd , predator y crown . . . An d then—straddlin g a massiv e smoke d goose—Midge Sprai n Wilso n ablus h i n blac k rubber , a myopic dominatrix i n tortoiseshell pince-ne z . . . And don't forget the ultimate plunge of two cocked arms, two braced knees, that splay on impact, wallow engulfed. Or no, not engulfed! Exalted, surmounting—yes, or as though borne aloft! A placid, omphalic buttercream cloud! Sticky-feathered-happy-ever-after kiss!

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(It was Toulouse, of course, who dug the lad out, himself no stranger to the bombshell s of the sublime. ) Our hero bites his trembling lip, grins sheepishly, then slows hi s step s a t th e recollectio n o f L a Stupenda . Tha t unspeakable wig ! Still , credi t wher e credi t i s due ; th e crowd adored her, didn't they? Ha ha! That tired old tale of desperate Dougie ! Tom's heart flutters wit h pride an d with th e smal l blu e flam e o f a n inextinguishabl e crush . Well? Wasn^t she something? And even if things did get a little out of hand (hi s shoulders tense, then relax)—heck , a party was a party! And what's a bit o f rough-and-tum ble anyway? A litde hoorah among , uh . . . Family? Tom's ey e i s caugh t b y a lon g glittere d plum e lyin g across a sewer grate. Oh, they were a "bunch," al l right! Richard th e cook , th e Datzenbach s . . . why, only thin k of Ada! He'd never have pegged her for such a sport (jus t the sight oi her, dimpled knees twinkling up a tricky bank of pheasant in aspic; nostrils flaring, cheeks flushing wit h effort). Tom is met by an empty bottle of gin standing outside the entranc e t o th e Ruins . He bend s t o pick it up; looks over on e shoulder ; take s carefu l ai m wit h hi s taped-to gether sneake r an d send s th e botd e caromin g dow n th e sidewalk, ringing like a sturdy bell as it banks a brick wall. The front door , normally closed, today stands blandly on its hinges . Ou r her o (who' d onl y eve r entere d fro m th e loading dock ) considers , shrugs , the n duck s i n wit h a good-natured Haallooo!

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Tom's rubbe r sole s sla p th e bar e cement . H e stops . Huh? But , where' s th e yello w paisle y runner ? Arm s akimbo, he look s up . And say , what abou t thos e notori ous portraits—th e aristocrati c giraffe , th e woo-abl e pooch? Sur e h e neve r like d them ; still , where were they? The walls, flatlywhitewashed (formerl y a warm chocolat e brown), suggest the unappetizing pallor of unglazed pastry. Tom hurrie s alon g th e hall , glancin g wit h a gas p through th e hig h expose d portal s o f th e conspicuousl y vacant ballroom . Th e platinu m silk-taffet a drapes ! Th e lavender pilasters! And th e wall s themselves, denuded o f their pin k moir e silk ; they to o a vapid, lackluste r white . Where . . . ? Oh, bu t hurry ! What if? Prepared fo r th e worst , hi s brace d hear t nonetheles s lurches a t th e spectacl e o f the forme r Salon , hi s darling , his pride. No! Tom exclaim s at the gaping hole where the pink marbl e fountai n onc e flirte d an d foamed . For god's sake where are the fish11 Hardly breathing , sneaker s catchin g o n th e smooth , unfamiliar floor, ou r her o slowl y explores his harbor, hi s heaven, hi s bowe r o f bliss . Lai Col d grate s wher e onc e pranced perennia l flames. Ghastl y whit e wall s wher e once shimmere d th e limpi d green s an d yellow s o f spring. The bird s who (onl y yesterday!) winked from th e painted alcove s over the paire d frenc h doors ? Flow n th e coop! Fro m th e cente r o f th e ceilin g dangle d a n enor mous viole t ribbon , twistin g i n a desultor y draft . Bu t besides al l that , To m sense s . . . there's somethin g . . .

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He whirl s o n on e heel : th e Pig ! Th e mammot h Pi g i s gone! Nothing coul d impress our hero more profoundl y than this . For a while Tom simply drifts, stunned, through wha t was th e "Maisonette " (recallin g th e matchles s celestia l clamor o f a Sevre s breakfas t servic e trippin g dow n th e once brigh t wall) ; acros s th e echoin g loadin g dock ; i n and ou t o f indistinguishable offices ; wha t was the laun dry, the florist. . . He arrives, ultimately, at the kitchen itself. Stainless stee l refrigerators , convectio n ovens , rame kins; rubber scraper s an d coffe e urns ; candy thermome ters, soup tureens; fish kettles and various presses; steamers an d fryers , ic e trough s an d pastr y brushes—every thing, dow n t o th e las t jelly mold, gone ! Indeed , you' d never have known it had been a kitchen at all, but for th e bank o f (strangel y silent ) sinks , i n th e las t o f whic h a dented saucepa n loiters. Tom tsks in awe and, tugging a t a stray forelock, shuffle s thoughtfull y bac k to the Salon . Well! What to think of this? All gone? Well yes, as it appears, quite empty . But where ? Wha t doe s tha t mean , gone? How i s i t a thing ca n b e her e on e minute—vociferous , ablaz e wit h life—and th e nex t minut e b e gone? Vamoosed, white washed . . . kaput! Yes. In the Salon Tom's eye nearly misses a quick spasm of light astrid e the spine of an overlooked spoon—there , in the corner ! H e pick s i t up , twirl s i t betwee n hi s fingers:

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the scan t dazzl e fill s (the n empties) , fills (the n empties) , its round poutin g belly . Hello, what's that? Steps in the hall! Tom take s the spoo n an d hurrie s t o th e fron t gallery . Too bad, no one here! But what's that again? The slam of a dryer door i n the laundry room? Hurry ! Egh! Again he finds n o one. What nonsense ! No, bu t listen ! . . . Now sure of a voice mumbling t o itself somewher e nea r th e kitchen , To m race s dow n th e utility hall , nip s acros s th e Salo n an d burst s int o th e Maisonette, th e spoo n clutche d i n on e han d lik e a left over stub of wand. Not a soul, and (outsid e th e no t quit e regula r thum p of his heart) no t a sound. H e sags , slaps the bac k o f th e spoon idl y agains t th e hee l o f his han d . . . and literall y yips whe n Ad a rushe s in—she , too , exclaimin g i n sur prise. "Why Tom! " "Ada!—" "What are you—v "Ada, what's happened, where —v As usual, they are eager, abrupt, stepping on the heels of on e another' s words . The y bot h stop , Tom a t a loss; Ada, too , surprisingl y demure , smoothin g he r hair . Bu t when sh e spies the spoo n i n Tom's han d sh e laughs, sof t lips parting over small, childish teeth . "Jeez, I'v e bee n lookin g fo r tha t everywhere ! Jone s won't leav e without it , you know? Every spoon accounted fori Well, that's to be expected, that's just how he is! But

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now it's found, an d none the worse for wear, I guess. So, uh—can I?—I'l l jus t tak e that , why don' t I? " An d sh e thrusts ou t he r hand , fain t puls e quakin g a t th e bas e o f her throat , thoug h he r blac k eye s hol d Tom' s steadil y enough. Tom, bewildered , hand s he r th e spoon . "Sure , o f course, but . . . Ada, where's th e crew , what's goin g on? Where is everything?" Ada's brow furrows. "But , I thought you knew! We're leaving—that is, we're moving on. The thing is, uh, Jones had thi s idea—" Tom break s in. "Movin g on! Moving o n where? What are you talking about? I don't understand! " "Jeez, I' m saying! " Ad a rap s th e ai r betwee n the m with th e silve r spoon. "Jone s say s we need a new image. He won' t sa y wha t exactl y bu t everyone' s go t a ne w contract. We'r e all going. Tha t i s . . . " Sh e stops ; then , with a catch i n he r voice , "O h Tom , sur e yo u won' t g o too?" Tom b y no w ha s turne d an d nervousl y paces , hand s milking the tai l of his flannel shirt. Ca n it be as she says? That Jones! What can he be up to this time? Anyway, the point i s . . . Tom mutters painfully a t the floor. "But I don't. . . no, listen Ada—uh . . . how about the pony? No! That's not what I mean! I mean—" He stop s and wails , "Oh , bu t I can' t believe—an d yo u too ? Bu t Ada . . . sure, I know I didn' t listen . Ducks ! Porridge! I thought I was after—oh, i t doesn't matter . I was wrong, you wer e right ! I kno w tha t now ! I mad e a mess, did I

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hurt you r feelings ? Well , that's al l different! Vm no t dif ferent, bu t I' m changed. Oh , I can't explain! " Ada's eyes glisten, as ever, with affectio n an d approval . "But Ada, I don't see how you of all people could sign up fo r this , thi s surel y harebraine d scheme . Move on? With Jones ! What ca n it come to?" Ada chuckles . "A s fo r al l that , Tom , yo u simpl y mustn't worry . Goodness , don' t I kno w wha t I' m doing? Didn' t I pi n m y wishes t o a star? Jus t lik e you! " She throw s ou t he r arms—"thi s i s m y Bi g Chance!" — then sieze s Tom' s han d i n he r own , th e spoo n cruell y bruising hi s knuckles . "Bu t Tom , i t won' t b e th e sam e without you! " There's a ters e honk-honk from outsid e th e window , followed b y a breezy "Yoo-hoo , kids! " Tom catche s hi s breath an d glance s ou t t o discove r a slee k chauffeure d convertible coup e drawn u p beside the sidewalk . La Stupenda (swathe d an d snoode d i n powde r blu e chantill y lace) waves from th e capaciou s bac k seat. "Ad a darling! " She blows Tom a cheerful kis s as Ada pulls away. "Oh, th e pet ! Isn' t sh e something ? Jeez , I just gott a run! Bu t say , I'll b e lookin g fo r you , al l right? An d yo u look fo r me , Tom, don' t forget ! I' m th e on e wit h puff y white wings! " An d wit h a final , excite d littl e wave , sh e hurries from th e room. Tom stand s at the window, hears her footsteps sla p down the hall; now she's tumbling into the ca r besid e L a Stupenda , an d wit h a powerfu l jwooosh—they're off . ••

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For a long time To m remain s a t th e window . Ada , i n he r haste, had ru n of f quit e forgettin g th e fugitiv e spoo n stil l clutched i n Tom's hand . Thi s he absentl y twirls , taps, an d rubs agains t th e fron t o f hi s shir t (even , rememberin g a cute tric k of Rosie's, attempts t o han g fro m th e en d o f his nose), a s he gaze s with shining , unreadable eyes , out int o the street . Finally placin g th e spoo n o n th e sill , he wander s onc e more throug h th e vacan t Salon , th e gallery , th e hal l . . . O n hi s way out o f the buildin g h e stop s t o inspec t a shee t of whit e foolsca p scotch-tape d t o th e bac k o f th e dra b metal door . THE RUINS (Now in a New Location!) Has Tour Bed of Roses Gone to Seed? Is Tour Ivory Tower Besieged? Has the Spice in Tour Life Lost Its Zing? Never Fear, Fret, or Bemoan Tour Fate! The Ruins. . . Imagine. . . Join Us and Leave Tour Troubles Behind! Tom brushe s pensiv e fingers acros s th e embossed , back-slanting gol d script . Above hi s head, o n th e ridg e o f a steepl y pitche d roof , tw o pigeon s ar e takin g turn s gag ging eac h other—firs t on e an d the n th e othe r plungin g its bea k int o th e other' s craw , snatchin g a grai n o f cor n

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back an d fort h betwee n them . To m flexe s hi s knees an d whistles; steps nimbly into the empty street and strikes for home beneath a blue, line-dried dream of a sky. A bun, he muses amiably. Or a cold bottle of ginger—that's what the doctor ordered! Behind hi m th e silve r spoo n boil s lik e a shaft o f bro ken lightning, quietly blistering the liverish brown sill beneath a small (an d eve r smaller ) winkin g casemen t window.

A B O U T TH E A U T H O

R

Trace Farrell currently lives and works in Seattle.

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