Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker (15 page)

“Man, you from outa town or something? What do you mean you refuse to play ‘Smoke’? How’d you get on this gig anyhow? Who hired you?”

“I am Hideo Yamaguchi, from Tokyo, Japan.”

“Oh, you’re one of those Japanese cats, eh?”

“Yes I’m the top trombone man in all of Japan.”

“Well you’re welcome here until we hear you play. Tell me, is the Tennessee Tea Room still the top jazz place in Tokyo?”

“No, the top jazz place in Tokyo is the Square Box now.”

“That’s nice. O.K., now we gonna play ‘Smoke’ just like Hokie said. You ready, Hokie? O.K., give you four for nothin’. One! Two! Three! Four!”

The two men who had been standing under Hokie’s window had followed him to the club. Now they said:

“Good God!”

“Yes, that’s Hokie’s famous ‘English sunrise’ way of playing. Playing with lots of rays coming out of it, some red rays, some blue rays, some green rays, some green stemming from a violet center, some olive stemming from a tan center—”

“That young Japanese fellow is pretty good, too.”

“Yes, he is pretty good. And he holds his horn in a peculiar way. That’s frequently the mark of a superior player.”

“Bent over like that with his head between his knees—good God, he’s sensational!”

He’s sensational, Hokie thought. Maybe I ought to kill him.

But at that moment somebody came in the door pushing in front of him a four-and-one-half-octave marimba. Yes, it was Fat Man Jones, and he began to play even before he was fully in the door.

“What’re we playing?”

“ ‘Billie’s Bounce.’ ”

“That’s what I thought it was. What’re we in?”

“F.”

“That’s what I thought we were in. Didn’t you use to play with Maynard?”

“Yeah I was on that band for a while until I was in the hospital.”

“What for?”

“I was tired.”

“What can we add to Hokie’s fantastic playing?”

“How ’bout some rain or stars?”

“Maybe that’s presumptuous?”

“Ask him if he’d mind.”

“You ask him, I’m scared. You don’t fool around with the king of jazz. That young Japanese guy’s pretty good, too.”

“He’s sensational.”

“You think he’s playing in Japanese?”

“Well I don’t think it’s English.”

This trombone’s been makin’ my neck green for thirty-five years, Hokie thought. How come I got to stand up to yet another challenge, this late in life?

“Well, Hideo—”

“Yes, Mr. Mokie?”

“You did well on both ‘Smoke’ and ‘Billie’s Bounce.’ You’re just about as good as me, I regret to say. In fact, I’ve decided you’re
better
than me. It’s a hideous thing to contemplate, but there it is. I have only been the king of jazz for twenty-four hours, but the unforgiving logic of this art demands we bow to Truth, when we hear it.”

“Maybe you’re mistaken?”

“No, I got ears. I’m not mistaken. Hideo Yamaguchi is the new king of jazz.”

“You want to be king emeritus?”

“No, I’m just going to fold up my horn and steal away. This gig is yours, Hideo. You can pick the next tune.”

“How ’bout ‘Cream’?”

“O.K., you heard what Hideo said, it’s ‘Cream.’ You ready, Hideo?”

“Hokie, you don’t have to leave. You can play too. Just move a little over to the side there—”

“Thank you, Hideo, that’s very gracious of you. I guess I will play a little, since I’m still here. Sotto voce, of course.”

“Hideo is wonderful on ‘Cream’!”

“Yes, I imagine it’s his best tune.”

“What’s that sound coming in from the side there?”

“Which side?”

“The left.”

“You mean that sound that sounds like the cutting edge of life? That sounds like polar bears crossing Arctic ice pans? That sounds like a herd of musk ox in full flight? That sounds like male walruses diving to the bottom of the sea? That sounds like fumaroles smoking on the slopes of Mt. Katmai? That sounds like the wild turkey walking through the deep, soft forest? That sounds like beavers chewing trees in an Appalachian marsh? That sounds like an oyster fungus growing on an aspen trunk? That sounds like a mule deer wandering a montane of the Sierra Nevada? That sounds like prairie dogs kissing? That sounds like witchgrass tumbling or a river meandering? That sounds like manatees munching seaweed at Cape Sable? That sounds like coatimundis moving in packs across the face of Oklahoma? That sounds like—”

“Good God, it’s Hokie! Even with a cup mute on, he’s blowing Hideo right off the stand.”

“Hideo’s playing on his knees now! Good God, he’s reaching into his belt for a large steel sword— Stop him!”

“Wow! That was the most exciting ‘Cream’ ever played! Is Hideo all right?”

“Yes, somebody is getting him a glass of water.”

“You’re my man, Hokie! That was the dadblangedest thing I ever saw!”

“You’re the king of jazz once again!”

“Hokie Mokie is the most happening thing there is!”

“Yes, Mr. Hokie sir, I have to admit it, you blew me right off the stand. I see I have many years of work and study before me still.”

“That’s O.K., son. Don’t think a thing about it. It happens to the best of us. Or it almost happens to the best of us. Now I want everybody to have a good time because we’re gonna play ‘Flats.’ ‘Flats’ is next.”

“With your permission, sir, I will return to my hotel and pack. I am most grateful for everything I have learned here.”

“That’s O.K., Hideo. Have a nice day. He-he. Now, ‘Flats.’ ”

1977

VERONICA GENG

MY MAO

“Kay, would you like a dog?
.
.
.” Ike asked.

“Would I? Oh, General, having a dog would be heaven!”

“Well,” he grinned, “if you want one, we’ll get one.”

—“Past Forgetting: My Love Affair with Dwight D. Eisenhower.”

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he said after a while.

“I’m used to it.”

“No, I want you to have a dog.”

—“A Loving Gentleman: The Love Story of William Faulkner and Meta Carpenter.”

W
HY
this reminiscence, this public straining of noodles in th colander of memory? The Chairman despised loose talk. Each time we parted, he would seal my lips together with spirit gum and whisper, “Mum for Mao.” During our ten-year relationship, we quarrelled only once—when I managed to dissolve the spirit gum with nail-polish remover and told my best friend about us, and it got back to a relative of the Chairman’s in Mongolia. These things happen; somebody always knows somebody. But for one month the Chairman kept up a punishing silence, even though we had agreed to write each other daily when it was not possible to be together. Finally, he cabled this directive: “
ANGRILY ATTACK THE CRIMES OF SILLY BLABBERMOUTHS.
” I knew then that I was forgiven; his love ever wore the tailored gray uniform of instruction.

UNTIL now, writing a book about this well-known man has been the farthest thing from my mind—except perhaps for writing a book about someone else. I lacked shirts with cuffs to jot memorandums on when he left the room. I was innocent of boudoir electronics. I failed even to record the dates of his secret visits to this country (though I am now free to disclose that these visits were in connection with very important official paperwork and high-powered meetings). But how can I hide while other women publish? Even my friends are at it. Fran is writing “Konnie!: Adenauer in Love.” Penny and Harriet are collaborating on “Yalta Groupies.” And my Great-Aunt Jackie has just received a six-figure advance for “ ‘Bill’ of Particulars: An Intimate Memoir of William Dean Howells.” Continued silence on my part would only lead to speculation that Mao alone among the greatest men of the century could not command a literate young mistress.

That this role was to be mine I could scarcely have foreseen until I met him in 1966. He, after all, was a head of state, I a mere spangle on the midriff of the American republic. But you never know what will happen, and then it is not possible to remember it until it has already happened. That is the way things were with our first encounter. Only now that it is past can I look back upon it. Now I can truly see the details of the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, with its many halls and doors, its carpeted Grand Suite. I can feel the static electricity generated by my cheap nylon waitress’s dress, the warmth of the silver tray on which I hoisted a selection of pigs-in-blankets.

Chairman Mao was alone. He sat in the center of the room, in an upholstered armchair—a man who looked as if he might know something I didn’t. He was round, placid, smooth as a cheese. When I bent over him with the hors d’oeuvres, he said in perfect English but with the mid-back-rounded vowels pitched in the typical sharps and flats of Shaoshan, “Will you have a bite to eat with me?”

“No,” I said. In those days, I never said yes to anything. I was holding out for something better than what everybody had.

He closed his eyes.

By means of that tiny, almost impatient gesture, he had hinted that my way of life was wrong.

I felt shamed, yet oddly exhilarated by the reproof. That night I turned down an invitation to go dancing with a suture salesman who gamely tried to date me once in a while. In some way I could not yet grasp, the Chairman had renewed my sense of possibility, and I just wanted to stay home.

ONE evening about six months later, there was a knock at my door. It was the Chairman, cheerful on rice wine. With his famous economy of expression, he embraced me and taught me the Ten Right Rules of Lovemaking: Reconnoitre, Recruit, Relax, Recline, Relate, Reciprocate, Rejoice, Recover, Reflect, and Retire. I was surprised by his ardor, for I knew the talk that he had been incapacitated by a back injury in the Great Leap Forward. In truth, his spine was supple as a peony stalk. The only difficulty was that it was sensitive to certain kinds of pressure. A few times he was moved to remind me, “Please, don’t squeeze the Chairman.”

When I awoke the next morning, he was sitting up in bed with his eyes closed. I asked him if he was thinking. “Yes,” he said, without opening his eyes. I was beginning to find his demeanor a little stylized. But what right did I have to demand emotion? The Cultural Revolution had just started, and ideas of the highest type were surely forming themselves inside his skull.

He said, “I want to be sure you understand that you won’t see me very often.”

“That’s insulting,” I said. “Did you suppose I thought China was across the street?”

“It’s just that you mustn’t expect me to solve your problems,” he said. “I already have eight hundred million failures at home, and the last thing I need is another one over here.”

I asked what made him think I had problems.

He said, “You do not know how to follow Right Rule Number Three: Relax. But don’t expect me to help you. Expect nothing.”

I wanted to ask how I was supposed to relax with a world figure in my bed, but I was afraid he would accuse me of personality cultism.

When he left, he said, “Don’t worry.”

I THOUGHT about his words. They had not been completely satisfying, and an hour after he had left I wanted to hear them again. I needed more answers. Would he like me better if I had been through something—a divorce, a Long March, an evening at Le Club? Why should I exhaust myself in relaxation with someone who was certain to leave? Every night after work I studied the Little Red Book and wrote down phrases from it for further thought: “women . . . certain contradictions . . . down on their knees . . . monsters of all kinds . . . direct experience.”

My life began to feel crowded with potential meaning. One afternoon I was sitting in the park, watching a group of schoolchildren eat their lunch. Two men in stained gray clothing lay on the grass. Once in a while they moved discontentedly from a sunny spot to a shady spot, or back again. The children ran around and screamed. When they left, one of the men went over to the wire wastebasket and rifled the children’s lunch bags for leftovers. Then he baited the other man in a loud voice. He kept saying, “
You
are not going downtown, Tommy.
We
are going downtown.
We
are going downtown.”

Was this the “social order” that the Chairman had mentioned? It seemed unpleasant. I wondered if I should continue to hold out for something better.

AS it happened, I saw him more often than he had led me to expect. Between visits, there were letters—his accompanied by erotic maxims. These are at present in the Yale University Library, where they will remain in a sealed container until all the people who are alive now are dead. A few small examples will suggest their nature:

My broom sweeps your dust kittens.

Love manifests itself in the hop from floor to pallet.

If you want to know the texture of a flank, someone must roll over.

WE always met alone, and after several years
dim sum
at my place began to seem a bit hole-in-corner. “Why don’t you ever introduce me to your friends?” I asked. The Chairman made no reply, and I feared I had pushed too hard. We had no claims on each other, after all, no rules but the ones he sprang on me now and then. Suddenly he nodded with vigor and said, “Yes, yes.” On his next trip he took me out to dinner with his friend Red Buttons. Years later, the Chairman would often say to me, “Remember that crazy time we had dinner with Red? In a restaurant? What an evening!”

Each time we met, I was startled by some facet of his character that the Western press had failed to report. I saw, for instance, that he disliked authority, for he joked bitterly about his own. No sooner had he stepped inside my bedroom than he would order, “Lights off!” When it was time for him to go, he would raise one arm from the bed as if hailing a taxi and cry, “Pants!” Once when I lifted his pants off the back of a chair and all the change fell out of the pockets, I said, “This happens a lot. I have a drawer full of your money that I’ve found on the floor.”

“Keep it,” he said, “and when it adds up to eighteen billion yuan, buy me a seat on the New York Stock Exchange.” He laughed loudly, and then did his impersonation of a capitalist. “Bucks!” he shouted. “Gimme!” We both collapsed on the bed, weak with giggles at this private joke.