A Fairy Tale of New York (17 page)

"For Christ's sake. Don't you know what it is to worry about someone, to wonder where they are, if something has happened to them or something. Can't you understand. What kind of misery that can be. Where were you.''

"I got lost on Staten Island.''

"Don't hand me that shit.''

"I'll go."

"Boy one of these times I'm going to let you go and not ask you back. I could kill you. You were probably screwing some little cheap cunt. Like that Miss Musk throwing her ass all around that funeral parlor.''

Fanny sinking with a sigh in her big fat white sofa. Christian slowly turning the magazine pictures of lavish jewelled and gowned women. A loose old photograph in between the pages. Faded brown and cracked at the edges. Man standing on a stoop. A bell in his hand, a wheel in a wooden frame slung over his back. Big ears sticking from the woven cap on his head. Christian holding out the picture.

"Who's this."

"My husband. He sharpened people's knives door to door. He started out as nothing."

''You're sorry he's dead now.''

"Maybe."

"I see."

"He had the good manners to tell me if he was going to be away all night."

''Screwing dolls in a dozen different hotels."

"He earned it pretty boy.''

"Don't call me pretty boy.''

"Pretty boy."

"Don't call me pretty boy.''

"I could kill you."

"Lot of people in this town been trying to do that.''

Christian opening his black smooth wallet. Removing two photos. One full length, the other close up. Of Cornelius reposed angelic in a Vine coffin. Standing and crossing to Fanny to hold them down in front of her face.

"Here. Here I am. Dead."

A flash of agony across Fanny's eyes as she looks and slaps them out of Christian's hand.

''Get them god damn pictures out of here.''

Cornelius picking them up. Putting them back in his wallet. Turning and walking to the wall. To view this bird hanging by its feet upside down with its blue, grey and black plumage. Says Crown Prince Eudolph's bird of paradise.

"O god Cornelius, I didn't mean to do that I'm sorry, they just scare me those pictures. Lately I don't know, my head is tired all the time. In this lousy dump alone. I just wanted you to take me with you. You're so young. I'm so damn unhappy. Marry an old guy with a lot of money. Then he'd die. And I'd be rich. That's what I used to think.''

'"And you did and you 're rich.''

"I'm rich."

"What's the matter then.''

"You. You show up here for what you can get and then you'll beat it. Will you marry me.''

"What."

"Is that what you say. What."

Fanny Sourpuss, her hands tightening diamond glittering fingers. Digging into the upholstery of her chair. She stares out across the early morning at Cornelius Christian. Three shots ring out. Down in the street. And a fourth. As she jumps to her feet, fists clenched and shaking.

"What was that Cornelius.''

"Gunfire."

"It's so early."

"Early gunfire."

"Was it down in the street.''

"Yes down in the street.''

Fanny crossing the carpet, her negligee swirling. Hair on her shoulders. Marriage a prison. Where you do what she tells you. For the money she married.

''O god, three guys are laid out. Three guys.'J

Fanny pressing close to Christian as they kneeled and watched. Turning to kiss him on the cheek. Her fingers picking an embedded pine needle from his coat. As the sirens converge from all the distant empty streets. A breeze fluttering the curtain of the open window. Eleven green and white squad cars. Red lights flashing. Fanny's doorman rubbing where I flipped him on his ass and talking to the blue uniforms. Three tousled heads in pajamas sticking out of embassy windows. One looks up. Give him a wave. And he doesn't think I 'm funny or friendly.

In the dawn light ambulances took the prostrate away. Fanny's brooding eyes watching me undress for bed. Still hear faint sirens. After this long day. Of this sulky fidgety city. Where strangers sleep awake the other side of all the walls. And die dead and vanished quick. Out of minds and memories. Leave not a spook. Pulled the building down where our mother died. And my little brother and I stood and whispered. That she was in the sight of god. She coughed through the nights. My uncle from Rockaway kissed her in her coffin. Tears running down his face. They pulled him away sobbing and his arms clutched around himself. She had ringlets of blond curls. So thin and her veins big and blue. Fanny's hands folded on the sheet pulled tip over her breasts. Soon as she sees my prick her lips begin to move. Quiver to think she lies there my mother. Without my father who was a grey dark shadow. Hung his hat and coat on the back of the door. Saw him a last time when he came with a bottle of whiskey where our mother lived freezing with a stove in the middle of the room. She dried wash above the chimney that stuck out a hole in the window. That looked out on a wall you could touch. Drink was in my father's blood my uncle said, and I heard him tell my mother, I love you Nan. He took my brother and me and bought us black new suits with short pants and black shiny ties. I stood on the grey stoop of the undertakers. Around the corner from the outdoor jewelry market. Wanted everyone to see how nice and dressed up I was. Only an old pig tailed Chinaman noticed. And he gave me a strange lump of candy. Fanny trembles as I come near. Closes her eyes. Put a hand upon her hair. Marry and be rich. Stay free and be poor. Money was always something nobody had. Till my uncle sent us where he said there was fresh air and woods to play. Meager got to be my friend when his mother died. He taught me to have nerve. Against the whole bad world. Where everything was lies. I told him how I pushed a nickel into one of these machines where you had a little derrick to pick up a harmonica and all I got was a chocolate malted ball. We played hooky together in a broken building. His father was away, an engineer on the telephone poles. And after school Meager made his own spaghetti. And washed his own plate when he was finished. He said praying to god was a waste of time. That nuns put candles up themselves. And priests pulled their pricks. That's why they had such big white handkerchiefs. He said everybody at school thought I was dumb but he knew I was smart. We smoked cigarettes in under the eaves of a deserted factory. Meager folded his feet and said that he wasn't going to be ordered around by anybody. That teachers wouldn't do it. Or policemen. Or any other god damn person there was. He combed his hair straight back and parted it in the middle. Said I was small but the toughest fighter he ever knew. That my fists came out so fast you couldn't see them. He told me about screwing girls. You throw them down on the ground in the weeds. That's what they were for and they should clean the house, wash the dishes and let you sit in a big comfortable chair doing nothing. Also they should keep their mouths shut till you wanted them to say something. But what they did was look for rich boys to marry so they could do nothing. Except hang around the house with cups of coffee. And his father hired an ex nurse to clean. Meager made a hole from the attic down into the bathroom. Saturday we watched her floating face up in the tub. When the water wet the hair down between her legs. Meager said that's the slit where you stick it in. Later we visited guys with sisters and Meager would make holes in their attics to peek through. And everybody sat around jerking off. In attics all over the neighborhoods. It was raining sperm. Till someone's mother started taking a bath. And there was a fight. The kid said I'm not going to let you look at my mother. Meager held him choking in a head lock. They wrestled around till plaster fell out of the ceiling on the mother down in the tub. Outside we ran for three miles. And hid in the woods. The kid's father went cruising by looking in his car. Meager said he liked the mother because she had such big ones. And that we were lucky not to have mothers. Because what if we wanted to screw them and then had babies who became our brothers. The hollow cheeks of Fanny's face as she sucks. Little girls used to wipe their mouths off after kissing me. Because I wasn't so hot looking. But Meager said I would make out swell in the dark at the gang bang we would have for graduation. You wouldn't know whose leg or nipple you had in your mouth. And in the dictionary they called it perversion. Fanny reaches out. Her expensive grip. To take my balls in the palm of her jewelled hand. Take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife. Who has her hair done every day. And bought a building which had the first double elevators in New York. Who sells a whole street of tenements. And has seven plants throbbing out textiles. To have and to hold. While she gets richer. And I get a worn cock. Till death do you part. And your prick falls off in heaven. Where wealth is useless in the utter happiness. When on earth it can save you from so much hell. Fuck me Fanny groans. On hot high school summers she used to lie naked on her bed. Wondering what the rich were doing. Said she had the windows open. Could hear old Mr Pribble whispering trying to beg a screw out of his wife, twelve feet away between the houses. Cornelius when I was a little girl that old scrawny fart put his hand up my dress. I wanted anyone to love me. Tried to kill myself. Cut my wrists. If only I had met you thirteen years ago. Before I ruined myself. Because I thought there would never be anything better. And if there wasn't I didn't want to live. Felt I was just standing in an empty train station. After all the people and the trains were gone.

Christian nuzzling his head and kissing his lips into the neck of Fanny Sourpuss. Holds part of me up inside her. So softly enwrapped. Her world dying as mine lives. Legs are the last of a woman to go down the byways of age. Cornelius listen to me. With money you can pay the price of anything you want. A face lift or love. Sleep till ten in the morning or two in the afternoon. You know that out there stacked up in the vault are stocks shares and bonds paying dividends. And you always own a gun to shoot yourself if they don't. I've got all these god damn lawyers. Don't know who's worse, them or the blackmailing relatives, who before I was rich hollered I was a hooker. Now they want me to buy them grain silos and finance operations on their ass holes. I need you Cornelius. A girl doesn't want to be alone in this world.

Where

The greedy

Are waiting

And grinning

18

The leaves a deepening green in the sunshine on the tree outside Christian's window. Fluttering in breezes till the end of June. The Danes celebrating Constitution Day, the Swedes giving a folk and festival dance in the park. And a nice bunch of kids dancing along the curb snapping radio aerials off the cars.

Fanny threw me out of her apartment for the fifth time. And I stayed away penniless reading a tome on job opportunity. The hunchback in his high politely pitched voice called through the door that he respected me as a gentleman and would I please pay the rent. And the pair of rude debt collectors sent by the steam ship company said we'll break this fucking door down.

Christian breakfasting in the automats pouring out unemptied coffee cups. Stealing folks' baked beans when they went looking for ketchup. Till finally getting credit from the Irish grocer round the corner by increasing the thickness of a brogue every day. With selected newspapers from the better garbage pails one sat reading in my window. Lots of action as that swell crew of youngsters dumped garbage on steps and threw bricks through the janitor's fanlight who came out shaking his fist. And once my institutional friend came by wearing white shorts sneakers and a baseball cap. With a new sign.

DOWN WITH DUST

A balmy morning a man stopped me on the steps just as I was trying to belch and sneeze at the same time. Thought by the way he wanted to make sure it was me that he was from some contest, dozens of which I'd entered. And I promptly got handed a subpoena. To appear in court, ten o'clock of a Tuesday.

Christian with a last clean shirt and unholed socks went for a swim at the Game Club. Scrubbing the dirt off his heels with a big soft brush and pine scented soap. Members waddling by with their walrus rolls of fat. Could go without eating for weeks. Just as I lay in my increasing skin and bones, wrapped in three sheets, my name was paged for the telephone.

"Cornelius."

"Yes."

"This is Charlotte Graves. I hope I haven't disturbed you.

How are you."

"Destitute."

"O what's wrong."

"I need a job."

"Why don't you go and see Mr Mott."

Christian dressed, hair combed leaping three steps at a time down into the subway. Thundering trains beating against the brain. A black gentleman sitting across. His shoulders going up and down, his fists banging on his knees as he chants man I'm gonna go, I'm gonna go, just set me alight. I'm gonna explode, I'm gonna blow the place up, I'm gonna knock the place down. Don't nobody stop me because I 'm gonna go.

Christian going. Up dark steps and along a shadowy narrow street. Standing outside this towering beige colored building. Look up at clouds passing overhead and feel the world is falling over. Chiselled in the stone above the battery of bronze doors, the huge word Mott surmounted by an eagle. The pink marble lobby. A directory on the wall and the hot shit faces scurrying by with their briefcases.

Christian zooming up on the elevator. Stepping off on a wide brown carpeted floor. Paintings of countryside, rolling hills and hedgerows. Horses leaping fences. Just approach the reception desk. In all this gleaming polished tranquility.

"May I help you, sir."

"O I'm just sort of making a call."

"Whom do you wish to see."

"Well I guess I only know one person."

"I'm afraid I'll have to know whom you wish to see.''

"I mean it doesn't matter, I was just passing and I thought I'd stop in."

"I'm sorry unless you tell me what your business is and which department or person you wish to be referred to I can't help you."

"Well I'd like to see Mr Mott."

"Mr Mott."

"Yes Mr Mott."

"Do you know who Mr Mott is."

"Yes. He's the owner or something. I 'd like to see him.''

"That's impossible."

"Why."

''Do you have a prior appointment."

"No."

"Then it's quite impossible.''

"I'm a friend."

"Excuse me but there are people waiting behind you.''

''This is a democracy.''

''Would you mind, there are people waiting."

"I demand that you contact Mr Mott and tell him Cornelius Christian is calling.''

Christian bending forward, hands on desk. Perspiration on brow. Bubbles there the instant the world decides yet again to cramp my style. This bitch sitting between me and survival. Tapping her god damn pencil on her pad. Smiling that smirk.

"Unless you have an appointment, I 'm afraid.''

"You'd better be afraid because madam Mr Mott would much prefer to be merely bothered by your enquiry for five seconds than have five squads of police roaring up through this building looking for me after I administer a suitable chastisement to you and send this line standing behind me running for their lives. Unless by god this instant you get in touch with Mr Mott and tell him Cornelius Christian is calling.''

Receptionist with her blood red fingernails. Picking up the telephone. Raising her eyebrows and sniffing down her nose.

"There's a gentleman here, Cornelius Christian would like to see Mr Mott. No he hasn't. But he insists. Yes. He really does."

Receptionist holding her hand over phone. Looking up at Christian. As more folk get off the elevator.

''What is the nature of your urgency.''

''I 'm offering myself."

"He's offering himself.''

Grumbling guy trying to push the sharp point of a package into my back. Jesus what a town. No one will even give you two indifferent minutes out of their lives to save twenty five million desperate ones in your own. As this girl's jaw drops. And she looks up.

"Mr Christian, I'm sorry. You should have told me who you were. You can go in right away. Just see the secretary the last office on the left down the hall.''

"Thank you."

This creature with a blouse of green and a grey flannel dress. Leading me along the hall. Across another reception room. Past flowers. Through a little panelled lobby and a door she pushes open. Feels good to be accidentally somebody for a minute.

Huge room and window. Looking out and down over the city. Water towers on all the flat tarred roofs. That statue of a woman holding aloft a torch over the grey green harbour of New York. Two flat ferries pass, one to and one fro. And this blue suited man with his whitening hair neatly combed back, holding out his hand.

"Well if it isn't my boy Christian, isn't it."

"Yes Mr Mott, it is."

''A party of myson's wasn't it.''

"Yes sir."

"Well, sit down, nice to see you. Have a smoke, my boy. Good cigar. Just bought it yesterday, I mean bought the company. I like to use my new products right away.''

"Thank you."

"Well what can we do for you.''

"Mr Mott I 'd like to make money.''

"That's the smartest thing I've heard anybody say for a long time. Well now. How do you feel we can help. Got something to offer us."

"Myself."

"Well now, another pretty straightforward answer. I like that. Connotes purpose. It's Cornelius Christian isn't it."

"Yes."

"Well now, I'll call you Cornelius. Well Cornelius, so you'd like to make money. Want you to look out and down there. Wall Street and the harbour of New York. Like you could wipe your feet in it. What put us way up here.''

''Well I guess the elevator."

''Boy, I 'm talking on a different level.''

"O."

"Ingenuity. It's a word we use around here. Say it.''

"Ingenuity."

"That's better boy. I remember you. Came along with that wonderful girl Charlotte. Just back from Europe weren't you. You had a bit of sadness with your wife. Which I was sorry about. Juke box short circuited. It was like war for a minute. Remember a couple of comments you made caught my ear. Yeah."

"Yes I was at the short circuit.''

"Look tell you what. Bit rushed just now, excuse me a second."

Mr Mott bending forward, his hand pressing down a lever. A left hand tapping ash from his cigar.

"Miss Peep, get me personnel, Mr How. Go ahead Cornelius, help yourself to the view. Ah. Hello Howard. Got a young man here, friend of my boy's. He wants to make money. Want you to talk to him and show him around. Thinks we can use him. Cornelius you free right now.''

"Yes."

"All right Howard, you take care of that. Kids, Howard, o k. Long time no see. Fine. Well life will get less noisy as you get older Howard and the kids grow up. Great. Fine. Yes. That's great. O k. Howard. Bye. Well Cornelius, our Mr How will take care of you. See what we can do. Maybe we can have a chat again. I like to talk to the young kids coming along. Now what's that word."

"What word."

"That word. That we use around here."

"O. Ingenuity."

"Attaboy Christian. Ok."

"Hope that spot's a little better. You know the red dot you had in front of your eyes, that keeps flying across your horizon."

"You got some memory boy. Yes you have. And memory makes money. Remember that utterance. Words are wonderful. Remember that too.''

"It's been extremely good of you Mr Mott.''

"Anything anytime for the young people. Keep in touch. Find Mr How five floors down.''

"Thanks again Mr Mott."

Christian with a slow swaggering step proceeding along this corridor. Opening the mouth wide to fit in the end of this cigar. Blow a blast of smoke at the receptionist's desk. And one last puff out the elevator doors. As I plunge five floors to blue carpeting and narrower halls. Past a room, a sea of desks. Everybody empty faced.

Christian entering this pale green walled office. Another window looks out and down. Red and black funnels of an ocean liner slowly passing. Flags flying above the white black and monstrous decks. Someone sets sail. Out of this cauldron of woe. And this man sits smiling behind his desk and horn rimmed spectacles. Secretary closing the door behind.

"Mr Christian I presume."

"Yes."

"I'm Howard How."

"Hello. I 'm thinking of moving to the Bronx.''

Christian lifting a hand to his lips. Smoke pouring out between the fingers.

"You're what."

"O sorry, Mr How. Guess I'm nervous. I've just strangely had something on my mind about the Bronx. Once it was meadow land, I 've been reading an old guide book.''

"O."

"Yes, ha ha. Was thinking maybe some parts might still be meadow land."

"We manufacture spark plugs, Mr. Christian."

"Of course, of course. I don't dispute that for a minute.''

"And there are no meadows left in the Bronx.''

''I would never dispute that either."

"What do you dispute Mr Christian."

"I don't dispute anything. Nothing at all. 0 there are some things I don't like, all right. But I don't dispute anything. It's just that there must have been real Indians once canoeing around the bay out there.''

"Well let's get back to the twentieth century now.''

"Sure."

''And you 're interested in our using you.''

"I'd like it if you could."

"Point is Mr Christian, just what can we use you for. I note you smoke cigars and have a rather English tone to your voice. Didn 't by any chance pick that up in the Bronx.''

"As a matter of fact I learned it out of a book. And Mr Mott gave me the cigar.''

"O now look, I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. For what it's worth you might as well know Mr Mott likes to have an English quality about the place. You've noticed the rural scenes of England in the halls. We know how to appreciate that kind of atmosphere here."

"Yes, nice and green. I mean, you know, rustic. I like it."

"Glad. We feel it's a nice contrast to the product. Well, aesthetically we 've made progress together. Arrived at a nice base to use as a springboard. Now what Mr Christian are you exactly interested in doing. What are your qualifications, your degrees."

''Well as a matter of fact, Mr How.''

"Good. The facts. That's what we want, Christian, the facts."

Christian pulling out a handkerchief from a side pocket. Might be able to muffle the words a little through the fabric. And hide my expression behind my smoke.

"Mr How I just missed, I guess, by only a few subjects of course, getting my degree. At the time I had a lot of things on my mind. You see I've always been deeply interested in human nature and I guess I got distracted.''

"Sorry Mr Christian, but I understand you don't have a degree."

"Well. Except of misery I guess. But I almost made it. Gee don't write that down.''

"Don't be alarmed Christian, these notes I'm making are just a few facts. Note you got alacrity with words."

"But I almost made it, I really did."

"Easy boy. Easy. We make spark plugs. You want to make money. Right. You know I can see you really do, don't you."

"Yes."

"I 'm glad your desire is sincere.''

"Thanks."

"We have progressed. You're a friend of Mr Mott's son I venture to conclude. Mr Mott's a friendly but very busy man and this affair more or less, you understand me, rests in my hands if we're going to find you a slot. Do you have any preference as regards production or management."

''Well I 'd like to manage, if that can be arranged.''

"Just give that pitcher of water a push in my direction will you. Want some water.''

"Thanks a lot."

Christian taking his glass. Holding it up to the light.

"You got a far away look in your eye Christian."

"Well you see this water's got a history.''

"O."

''You 'll think I 'm crazy Mr How.''

"I'm prepared to wait until conclusions are conclusive. Let's hear the water's history.''

"Well the water has got to come from the Catskills,''

''That is fairly common knowledge.''

"From the Ashokan Reservoir.''

"Maybe that fact is not common.''

"I read in a geography book as a kid what they had to do. Am I boring you."

"O no. I 'm fascinated.''

"Well I know it's ridiculous but I just can't forget what it took to make this reservoir. Fifteen thousand acres. Seven villages sunk. Thirty two cemeteries with two thousand eight hundred bodies they had to dig up.''