A Fairy Tale of New York (9 page)

10

With a snap decision in an emotional atmosphere, Cornelius Christian departed the Vine Funeral Parlor in a hurry. Skidaddling crosstown. Popping up out of the shadows to take a nervous pee in an hotel. Through bronze revolving doors bowered with curved panels of gleaming glass. Four East Fifty Fifth Street. One big grey block of stone piled on another.

"The male retiring room is down the stairs and just along and to your right, sir."

There's a chap as what has an idea as how to address a seemly gentleman. At low moments the best I can do is make believe I'm a tenderfoot executive. And when someone stands aside to point the way. 0 merciful god what a splendid relief. I don't have to slug them. Practiced sitting behind Miss Musk's desk. Build myself an empire of bargain priced self service funeral parlors. With attached crematoriums generating electricity. Volts and amps of grief. Juice from burning hearts. And Charlie came in, said Cornelius, you look good sitting there.

Cross over and turn right up Fifth Avenue. Past this brown stone church. Faint organ music inside. Wrote to reinstate myself at the Game Club. As each day now I get richer. Dollar by dollar. Be able to show those posturing international celebrities a thing or two who think they're such hot shit hanging around that hotel lobby.

Fifty Seventh Street and Fifth. The bull's eye of wealth in this town. Makes me so nervous I need to take another pee. Wait for the red light to change. Look down into a refuse basket. A book thrown away. How To Make Profitable Judgements In A Time of Continuing Economic Stress. Instead of, I guess, Bewildered Decisions In Times of Mercantile Terror.

"O what a sweet little sight. Sir can I take your little daughter's picture."

Man with a camera stopping another man with a small girl. As she stands with a flowered umbrella and raincoat. Just as it begins to rain. All delighted with smiles as the flash bulb pops. And people turn to look. A tiny moment like that. And the world knows you're there. Sallying forth. Suddenly noticed. A second's pleasant recognition. To coax you through hours of gloom.

Christian walking round the splashing lamp lit fountain under the branches of the cottonball trees. Step between rows of purring limozines. Go up these crimson carpeted steps by people descending to opening car doors. Drenched in finery. Their money more beautiful than beauty. And Vine said to me, Christian do you know what's eating this city. Besides envy and graft. The cockroach.

In the small mirrored men's room. Unleashed another pee. Down into the gurgling porcelain. Tipped the man a dime. Who turned a faucet to fill a basin and laid out a little towel for me. And some god damn son of a bitch came in and gave him a quarter. For doing nothing. Except maybe counting the drops he was shaking off his prick. Which all added up, made him a big shot. One of those chaps so dressed and so postured that to bring his conceit to its fullest fulfillment only required a resounding slap across his meaty long sideburned jowls. Quake some humility into him.

Christian striding by this elegant enclosure where musicians play. In behind the palms. Beyond the marble pillars. A clutch of loud mouthed women waiting to get inside. Sun scalded skin gaudy with gold and diamonds. And ripe for thieves. To descend and grab the gems from their puffy polished bodies. Enter this other lobby. Past the counter of newspapers, books, candy, magazines and chewing gum. Doors of elevators opening and closing. Telephone ringing on the manager's desk. Dressed just the way Clarance dresses. And saying yes with an understanding face. As someone touches me. 0 so gently on a shoulder. Just as I put the dead hand on Miss Musk. And I turn to see this face. Radiant beneath straw colored hair.

"Pardon me but you aren't Cornelius Christian. 0 you are. I just couldn't believe it was you. You remember me. Charlotte Graves. I followed you all the way from Fifty Seventh Street where the man took the picture of the little girl. I only got up just enough nerve to ask you.''

"I'm glad you did."

"You look so fine. And gosh distinguished. I'm so thrilled to see you. It must be something like five or gosh seven years. When did you get back."

"Last month."

"Your accent. I think it's beautiful. What are you doing. Are you staying."

"I have a job."

''It must be something important.''

"I' man executive ostiary.''

"I don't know what that is but it really sounds something.''

"It's not too bad."

"O gosh. I'm just still nothing. Didn't even go to college. It's so good to see you. You're even married now I hear.''

"My wife died."

"O gosh I'm sorry."

"I'm all over it now. I'd like to see you sometime. Where do you live."

"I still live in the Bronx. Same old place. I was walking from Lexington Avenue window shopping. I was just on my way to meet a girl friend. We 're going to a show.''

"Can I call you."

"I'd love you to. I better go. I'm late and I've got the tickets. Gosh I'm glad I got up my nerve. Even waited till you came out of the men's room. I just kept thinking it couldn't be. Then I thought it is, it is. You've got so mature looking. Anyway that's enough flattery. My number is still in the telephone book. Goodbye. Please call me.''

Go east now and north. After nearly lying to the first girl who ever loved me. Cut through the tip of the park. Where the evening marauders are lurking. Swiftly to get you in headlocks or at knifepoint across the throat. If they don't smash you first to the ground from behind. Look back. The lights glow where I met her in the lobby. The big buildings fight away the little buildings. They grow up high and put out their towering chests of windows and say down at the little dirty roofs below. Get the hell out of here. Before my shadows snuff you out. And a sign posted to this tree.

Diabetic dog lost needs medication. Desperate. Please phone Butterfield 8297. Answers to the name of Julia.

Up Park Avenue. Where that pinnacled building stands down at the end of the canyon. Till a taller one comes one day to tell it to go away. Charlotte Graves. All her smiles she gave me years ago. As I thrilled her coming to her house for a date. Because no boy had ever asked her out before. And I had three girl friends already. All pure in the sight of god. At whom I had not yet shaken my fist.

Another two blocks. Blue uniformed doorman in that entrance. Digging a tooth pick in his mouth. The street number out front on the awnings. Rain thuds down. Turn left on the cement pavement. Into this panelled lobby. Mr Kelly. Sits in front of the great marble fireplace. Gazing out on the blacks and whites of the marble floor. Dreaming on his throne.

"Ah good evening Mr Peabody. It's showing signs of spring. A heavy rain the like of that washes the winter away. Won't be long now till we're scalding fried eggs on every street corner. It's up to your aunt is it."

"I beg your pardon.''

"Your aunt, Mrs Sourpuss. That's where you're going. Wouldn't that be the truth now if you were telling me no lies."

A leather chair and small desk in an alcove. Looks like where a manager sits. Kelly pulling open the elevator doors. His red moon face and balding head. Walks with a little stoop. Tilts his head to view me sideways as he pushes the expanding steel door closed.

"Funny thing. Was a murder just over the street there. The night after the fire. Hadn't your aunt Mrs Sourpuss left just a few hours before. Out to the airport for Florida. And didn't this detective come in wanting to know had I seen any suspicious characters. Unsuspicious ones would be more like it. Three bullets in his head while he was shaving. And didn't the coroner say your man cut himself as he fell with the razor. You wouldn't know when you were safe in this city not even on your own bathroom floor and that's a fact.''

Mrs Sourpuss. Smiling in a white long flowing gown. Stepping back as she opened the door. A white cowl up around her bronzed face. Smoky long lashed eyes beckoning me in. A new array of jewelry on each arm. Clanking as she takes my grey tweed coat. Pushing it on a hanger between other coats in a large closet crammed with furs. The former orange inferno now white. Icons gone. Replaced by drawings of birds. Yachting magazine on the coffee table. And a glass bowl full of the one eyed oily seeds of caviar.

"I'm mad at the moment Cornelius for anything white. And I've got this crazy urge for champagne. Have some."

From a bucket at the side of the chair Mrs Sourpuss takes a dripping bottle, a towel neatly around its neck. Filling two glasses.

''Well how's business.''

"Fine."

"Did you get a customer from across thestreet.''

"I don't think so."

"Right on the same floor as this. He was murdered. I think his wife, she has a penthouse kennel on the roof for her eight white poodles, had him rubbed out. He wasn't cold in the grave before I see her with a boyfriend sitting around drinking out of beer cans in their underwear. I have such high powered binoculars, I could count the hairs on this guy's chest. Might even be there tonight. Well how are you.''

"Fine."

"And how's Vine."

"Mr Vine is fine."

"I just paid his bill. I had my detectives check him out it was so high. You know what their report was. I can't believe it. Scrupulously honest. He must be sick. Or nuts. But not that nuts. Guess you know he has a controlling interest in a demolition and exterminating company.''

"No."

"Well he has. And nobody's got anything on him. Your Mr Vine is beyond reproach.''

''Well I think that's true.''

"Well I think it's a lot of shit. I think he must be in on something."

' ' I don't think Mr Vine deserves that remark.''

"Are you kidding. He gets the rats and bedbugs and cockroaches out of a building. Then he gets the people. Then he can knock the whole thing down. And start all over again. He's even a widower. That guy's not taking any chances. Well how are you. How are those beautiful white delicate hands. You like this carpeting I got specially to match them. You haven't even given me a hug or a kiss. I nearly got bitten by a giant rattle snake on the golf course in Florida. You might never have seen me again. Wouldn't that have made you feel a little bit sad. Go ahead, drink your champagne. I'm fishing for compliments. But you know I've got a bone to pick with you. That was your first day working for Vine. Boy I could have killed you. Did I believe the load of shit you gave me.''

''I beg your pardon."

"O I beg your pardon. The stuck up way you say that. Speak English for Christ's sake. Where did you get that accent."

"I have always spoken as I do now.''

"Bullshit. You know what I think you are. I think you're a phony."

An ashen faced Christian rising to his feet. Fists clenched, teeth locked. Air stilled in his lungs. Let people sidle up close. Let them peek in to see your all loving unblemished soul. And they scratch hatred on it. Their hallmark of being alive. In this skyscraper paradise.

"Hey what are you doing, Cornelius.''

"I'm leaving."

"For what. For what I just said.''

"Yes."

"Wow, no kidding."

"Goodbye."

"Hey come on I'm kidding. Wow. Are you sensitive.''

"You're god damn right I'm sensitive. Nobody talks to me like that."

"Well all right nobody talks to you like that. You want me to apologise. I will. You're like a firecracker."

"You're god damn right I am. I'm not one of your little rat scared shits scurrying around this town. I stand. I fight.''

"All right all right, you stand, you fight. I believe you. I'm the last person you have to prove that to. Sit down. Please. I just felt I'd been taken for a little ride. I've got feelings. Someone says they're a professional undertaker. You believe them. Then you put yourself in their hands. And boy did I put myself in your hands."

"I am. I'm an undertaker. I gave you professional attention. Even though I was just a beginner.''

"You're a beginner. Wow. With that beautiful sad face of yours, wait till you get going. Come on. Please. Sit down. I'm sorry. But you can't stand and fight over everything. Sometimes you've got to go the way of least resistance. Everybody does. And that's not so dumb neither. Come on. Hello there. Get rid of that gloom. You 're such a damn good looking kid.''

"Don't call me kid."

"Whoops. Sorry Mr Christian. I mean can I turn on some music. You know I've made strong men cry. Who thought they could push me around. Men with a lot lot more going for them than you. Not glorified doormen."

Christian turning away. His knee catching the white soft sofa cushion and knocking it to the floor. Picks it up and fires it across the piano. Mrs Sourpuss lowering the cover of the record player. A grin slowly souring on her face. A deep trembling throb of a cello. Christian out in the hall opening the closet door. Inside a light goes on. Over all these fur coats of fox, sable, mink, beaver, leopard, and maybe even chipmunk and polar bear. Pull mine out. Woven from sheep on the outer Hebrides. A long voyage back. To where a salty sea wind cleansed and curled this fibre. Bellowing down across the mountain side heathers. An energy sweet. Trembling the threads of life. Gossamer. Which wrapped you in fragile peace.

"Now wait a minute Cornelius. I like and respect you. Let's patch this up."

"Patch what up."

"Why are we fighting. I could do a lot for you. You're in a crappy funeral parlor. With all those ghouls. Let's really shape you into something.''

"Who do you think you're talking to. Nobody shapes me into anything."

"All right, all right. Nobody shapes you into anything. But what's wrong with being a vice president or something. You name it."

"Nobody buys me. And Mr Vine is not a ghoul.''

"Hey look. Let's have some caviar. Just you. Just me. And some champagne. The way they live in Europe. I got it all ready for you. As a surprise. High brow music. Lemons. Toast in a napkin. Even went all the way over to the west side to buy some special butter. Then we get into this awful argument. Come on. Take off your coat. You're just a really independent guy. So I'll go along with it. I just don't know how to handle it. Yet. Ok now. I'm learning. Here. Come on. Look."