Harold and Maude (6 page)

“Oh, my,” said Maude. “We're too late.”

“Is he all right?” asked Harold.

“He's fallen asleep, as usual.” She took the tools from his hands and began removing his boots. “No matter. We'll come back in the morning.”

Harold strolled over to the block of ice. “What is this he's working on?” he asked.

“An ice sculpture. It's Venus—the goddess of love. To get it completed is his unfulfilled dream.”

“It is kind of rough,” said Harold, trying to make out the figure.

“He's never finished one yet. Look around. He's got every kind of tool known to man, but the poor dear has difficulty staying awake.” She finished tucking a rug around him and walked over to Harold.

“Look,” said Harold. “The ice is melting.”

“I know,” said Maude. They watched it for a moment. “That's one of the drawbacks of the medium.”

H
AROLD SAT BEFORE THE FIRE
in Maude's living room and looked at the flames dancing around the log.

“A little after-dinner liqueur?” asked Maude, bringing over a decanter from the sideboard.

“Well, I really don't drink.”

“Oh, it's all right. It's organic.”

She poured him a drink and handed him the glass. She poured one for herself and then sat down in the easy chair opposite him.

“Let's have a toast, Harold,” she said. “To you. As the Irish say, ‘May the path be straight because your feet have trod it.'”

“Thank you,” said Harold and sipped his drink. “It's nice.”

“I'm glad you like it.”

He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

He settled into his chair and gestured above the fireplace. “What's that up there?”

“My umbrella?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that's just an old relic. I found it when I was packing to come to America. It used to be my defense on picket lines, and rallies, and political meetings—being dragged off by the police or attacked by the thugs of the opposition.” She laughed. “A long time ago.”

“What were you fighting for?” asked Harold.

“Oh, Big Issues. Liberty. Rights. Justice. Kings died and kingdoms fell. You know, I don't regret the
kingdoms—I see no sense in borders and nations and patriotism—but I do miss the kings. When I was a little girl in Vienna, I was taken to the palace for a garden party. I can still see the sunshine on the fountains, the parasols, and the flashing uniforms of the young officers. I thought then I would marry a soldier.” She chuckled. “My, my. How Frederick would chide me about that. He, of course, was so serious, so very tall and proper. Being a doctor at the university, and in the government, he thought dignity was in how you wore your hat. That's how we met. I knocked off his hat. With a snowball in the Volksgarten.” She smiled as she remembered. “But that was all …”—she gazed into the fire—“before.”

As Harold looked at her she suddenly seemed very small and fragile. He felt tongue-tied and uncertain.

“So you don't use the umbrella any more?” he said, breaking the silence.

She looked at him. “No,” she said softly. “Not any more.”

“No more revolts?”

“Oh, indeed!” said Maude, sparking back to her old self. “Every day. But I don't need a defense any more. I embrace! Still fighting for the Big Issues, but now in my small, individual way.” She smiled. “How about a song, Harold?”

“Well, I don't …”

“Oh, come on,” said Maude, going over to the piano. “Don't tell me you don't sing. Everybody can sing.”

She sat down and sang a little ditty which began:

“A robin's chirp is the song of the morn,

The nightingale blows an evenin' horn,

A peacock's trill is a thrill stillborn,

But the cuck-cuck-cuckoo

SINGS THE LIVELONG DAY!”

When she had finished, Harold laughed and clapped his hands. “What's the name of that?” he asked.

“It doesn't have one. I wrote it myself.”

“I like it.”

“Good! Let's play it together.”

“But I don't play anything.”

Maude sat up. “Not anything! Dear me, who was in charge of your education? Everyone should be able to make some music. It's the universal language of mankind. It's rhythm, harmony, the cosmic dance. Come with me.”

She went into the bedroom and opened a large closet, full of all kinds of musical instruments—horns, strings, drums, tambourines. She rooted about for a while and pulled out a banjo.

“Here we are,” she said. “Just the thing. Now, you hold it like this and put your fingers like that.”

She showed him how to play a couple of chords, and then they went back to the living room.

“Now, remember,” said Maude, sitting down at the piano. “Don't just strum it. Be impulsive. Be fanciful. Let the music flow out of you freely, as though you were talking. Okay?”

“All right.”

“Okay. From the top. Let's jam!”

With a flourish she began the song, singing the lyrics while Harold strummed carefully along. He managed to keep up with her and they ended together.

“But the cuck-cuck-cuckoo,

'Spite his rote note yoo-hoo,

The cuck-cuck-cuckoo

SINGS THE LIVELONG DAY!”

He looked at her, beaming with delight.

“Okay?” he asked.

Maude whistled. “Superb,” she said.

A
FTER BREAKFAST
H
AROLD SAT
by the pool and practiced his banjo. He played Maude's song over and over but never to his satisfaction. His unlimber fingers kept missing the chords, and the tune was practically unrecognizable.

“Harold,” called his mother from the terrace. “Harold!”

He hid the banjo behind a bush.

“Ah, there you are,” said Mrs. Chasen, coming through the rose garden. “I have the most wonderful surprise for you. It's a little present which I know you'll enjoy. Come with me.”

Harold followed his mother around to the garages.

“There we are,” said Mrs. Chasen, gesturing dramatically. “Isn't it darling?”

She pointed at a brand-new green Jaguar XKE.

“It's for you, dear. I had them tow away that monstrous black thing of yours and leave this in its place. This is so much nicer, don't you think? And so much more appropriate for you.”

Harold started to say something.

“Oh, one more thing,” interrupted his mother. “I've talked on the phone with your second computer date, and she seems a very nice, quiet young lady—not at all hysterical like the first one. She will be here tomorrow afternoon, and I thought we might have sandwiches and coffee in the library. Now please, Harold. Let's be on our best behavior and make her feel at home. Good-by, dear. I'm off to the hairdresser's.” She took a parting look at the XKE. “Cute little thing, isn't it? I like it very much.”

Harold stood for a moment, looking at his new car. He made a decision and walked into the garage.
He took off his jacket and wheeled out to the Jaguar a large acetylene torch. Scanning the car, he made a few rough calculations. Then he fired the torch and pulled the great welding mask over his head.

M
AUDE ENTERED
G
LAUCUS' STUDIO
. “Good morning,” she said.

Glaucus, spryly dressed for autumn, chipped happily away at a new nine-foot-tall block of ice.

“Come in! Come in!” he shouted, not looking around. He made a sweeping scratch across the ice with a metal spoon and stood back to examine it.

“Have you seen Harold?” asked Maude.

“One moment,” said Glaucus, and made another scratch on the ice. He stepped back. This time he was satisfied and jumped down from his stand.

“Ah, Madame M! Greetings,” he cried, kissing her hand. “As Odysseus said to Penelope—”

“Sorry I'm late,” said Harold, rushing through the door.

Glaucus looked up. “A rather free translation, but none the less correct. And greetings to you, too, my gangling young friend.”

“Good morning,” said Harold. “Hello, Maude.”

“Hello, Harold. Ready for today's Operation Transplant?”

“Well, I'm ready, if you are.”

“Aha!” said Glaucus, pounding him on the back. “The spirit of Agamemnon and the courage of Achilles! Come here, my boy. Now tell me,” he asked, gesturing at the ice. “What do you see?”

Harold looked. “A block of ice,” he said.

“Exactly! Now, ask me what I see.”

“What do you see?”

“I see the eternal goddess of beauty and love. I see Aphrodite, the consummate woman, full of warmth and fire—
frozen
.” He picked up a small pneumatic drill, shouting, “And it is I who shall set you free!”

Attacking the ice, he made an incision and stepped back to appraise it. He wiped his brow.

“Each morning I am delivered of a new block of ice. Each evening my eyes grow weary, my hands hang heavy, and I am swept down Lethe to slumber—while my goddess, half born, drips away—unseen, unsung, and unknown.”

He stopped, overcome with feeling.

“May we borrow a shovel?” asked Maude sweetly.

“Wait!” cried Glaucus. “Let me think. Do I need a shovel today? No! I need a blowtorch.” He grabbed a blowtorch, saying, “Take any shovel you want. You are welcome.”

“Thank you, Glaucus,” said Maude, picking up a shovel. “We'll see you later. Come on, Harold.”

“Good-by, Glaucus,” said Harold, and they both left.

“Farewell,” cried Glaucus, absently. “Farewell, my friends.”

He fired the blowtorch and approached the ice.

“‘Where'er he moved, the goddess shone before,'” he quoted, adding in a reverent whisper, “—Homer.”

M
AUDE DROVE THE PICKUP TRUCK
at a steady speed along the highway. She looked over at Harold.

Harold smiled. “So far, so good,” he said, and glanced out the rear window at the little tree standing upright in the back.

“How's the patient?” asked Maude.

“The tree's fine,” said Harold, “but the cop looks kind of mad.”

“What cop?”

“The one following us,” answered Harold glumly.

The motorcycle policeman drove up alongside Maude and flagged her over to the side of the road. He parked his bike and came up to Maude's window.

“Lady,” he said coolly, “you were going seventy miles an hour in a forty-five-mile zone. Could I see your license, please?”

“Certainly,” said Maude. “It's on the front bumper.”

“No,” said the policeman patiently, “I want
your
license.”

“You mean those little pieces of paper with your picture on it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I don't have one.”

“Come again?”

“I don't have one. I don't believe in them.”

The cop looked at his boots and then off down the road. He adjusted his sunglasses.

“How long have you been driving?” he asked.

“About forty-five minutes, wouldn't you say, Harold? We were hoping to start sooner, but, you see, it's rather difficult to find a truck.”

“Could I see your registration?”

“I just don't think we have one, unless it's in the glove compartment. Would you look, Harold?”

“Isn't this your vehicle?”

“No, no. I just took it.”

“Took it?”

“Yes. You see, I have to plant my tree.”

“Your tree?”

“Well, it's not really mine. I dug it up in front of the courthouse. We're transplanting it. Letting it breathe, you know. But, of course, we would like to get it into soil as soon as possible.”

The cop adjusted his gun belt and scratched his nose. He looked down at his boots again.

“Lady,” he said slowly, “let me get this straight.”

“All right, then,” said Maude, starting up the engine. “And we won't take any more of your time.” She threw the gear into first. “Nice chatting with you,” she cried, and zoomed off.

The cop spun around as the truck sped by. He watched for a moment, speechless. Then he ran to his motorcycle, hopped on, and gave chase.

“I think he's following us,” said Harold, uneasily shaking his head.

“Is he?” said Maude cheerfully. “Is that his siren? My, my. How they do like to play games. Well, here goes.”

Maude changed gear and accelerated to top speed. Careening down the highway, she dodged cars and changed lanes. The cop on the motorcycle stayed with her, his siren screaming like a soul from hell. Suddenly, Maude made a hard left turn, sending the truck screeching in a half circle. She raced back down the highway, passing the cop on the other side of the road. Cars pulled over out of her way, while the cop made a similar U-turn and darted after her. Maude immediately made another screeching U-turn and flew off in her original direction. The cop, taken unawares, tried to follow her, but the traffic around him was in total confusion. He dodged an oncoming Ford, ran up over the embankment, and finally halted, sliding and spinning, in a muddy ditch.

Harold turned around to face front and cleared his throat. “He's stopped,” he reported.

Maude laughed and slowed down. “Ah, yes,” she said. “The old double U-turn. Gets them every time.”

She drove down the highway and turned off the road to the National Forest.

T
HEY FINISHED PLANTING
the little tree in a pleasant glade, and Maude patted the earth around its trunk.

“There we are,” said Maude, standing up. “I think it will be very happy here.”

“It's a nice spot,” said Harold, leaning on the shovel. “Good soil.”

“Yes, it is. I like the feel of soil, don't you? And the smell. It's the earth. ‘The earth is my body. My head is in the stars.'” She laughed. “Who said that?”

“I don't know.”

“I suppose I did,” said Maude, and laughed again. “Well, farewell, little tree. Grow up tall, and change, and fall to replenish the earth. Isn't it wonderful, Harold? All around us. Living things! Come. I want to show you something.”