Harold and Maude (7 page)

She led him along a trail till they came to a large pine.

“How's that for a tree?” she said.

“It's a tall one.”

“Wait till you see the view from the top.”

“But you're not going to climb it, are you?”

“Certainly. I do it every time I come here. C'mon, Harold. It's an easy tree to climb.”

“But suppose you fall?”

Maude had already started up. “I don't think about it,” she answered. “That's unprofitable speculation and not worth my trouble.”

She looked down at Harold. “Are you coming yourself, or will you only hear about it secondhand?”

Harold shook his head. “Okay,” he said, and started up.

They climbed to about eighty feet. It wasn't difficult, but, as he followed Maude up higher, he felt the tree swaying in the wind. He swallowed.

“Here we are, Harold,” said Maude. “It's like a natural perch, just for us.”

She sat out on a bough and made room for Harold. He climbed alongside her and sat down, keeping a firm grip on the trunk.

“Isn't it exhilarating?” said Maude, looking out over the forest that stretched for miles to the distant mountains.

“Yes.” Harold gulped. “It's high.”

“Imagine! Here we are, cradled in a living giant, looking over millions of others—and we're part of it.”

“It takes your breath away,” said Harold. “It's also windy.”

“Yes. We should hoist sail and strike out for the
horizon. Wouldn't that be fun? I used to love sailing. Especially when we couldn't see land, and we were all alone, surrounded by the wide, flat sea. Then we would harness the wind and cut through the waves like galleons bent on discovery.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, in the twenties, around the south of France and off Normandy. I remember it was frowned upon. Considered frivolous, or dangerous, or unbecoming—one of those terms that the moribund use to keep the adventurous in tow. But we'll pull them along anyway, won't we, Harold? We'll hitch them to our balloon.”

“You could,” said Harold. “But I don't know about me.”

“What do you mean?”

The wind died down. Harold loosened his grip on the tree. “Well,” he said. “Most people aren't like you. They're locked up in themselves. They live in their castles—all alone. They're like me.”

“Well, everyone lives in his own castle,” said Maude. “But that's no reason not to lower the drawbridge and go out on visits.”

Harold smiled. “But you agree that we live alone. And we die alone. Each in his own cell.”

Maude looked over the forest. “I suppose so. In a sense. That's why we have to make them as pleasant as possible—full of good books and warm fires and
memories. Still, in another sense, you can always jump the wall and sleep out under the stars.”

“Maybe,” Harold said. “But that takes courage.”

“Why?”

“Well, aren't you afraid?”

“Of what? The known I know, and the unknown I'd like to find out. Besides, I've got friends.”

“Who?”

“Humanity.”

Harold smiled. “That's a lot of friends. How do you know they're all friendly?”

“Well, the way I figure it, we're all the same, and it's just a question of us getting together. I heard a story once in the Orient about two architects who went to see the Buddha. They had run out of money on their projects and hoped the Buddha could do something about it. ‘Well, I'll do what I can,' said the Buddha, and he went off to see their work. The first architect was building a bridge, and the Buddha was very impressed. ‘That's a very good bridge,' he said, and he began to pray. Suddenly a great white bull appeared, carrying on its back enough gold to finish construction. ‘Take it,' said the Buddha, ‘and build even more bridges.' And so the first architect went away very happy. The second architect was building a wall, and when the Buddha saw it he was equally impressed. ‘That's a very good wall,' he said
solemnly, and began to pray. Suddenly the sacred bull appeared, walked over to the second architect, and sat on him.”

Harold started laughing so hard that he had to hold onto the tree. “Awww, Maude!” he cried. “You just made that up.”

“Well,” said Maude, laughing with him. “It's the truth. The world needs no more walls. What we've all got to do is get out and build more bridges!”

T
HEY DROVE HOME
in the late afternoon, taking the same roads as they took before. Maude drove at her usual pace and talked happily to Harold about children's games and how she had taught Frederick to play marbles when they were in hiding after the
Anschluss
. Neither she nor Harold noticed the motorcycle cop giving out a ticket to a car parked by the side of the road.

“What happened to your husband?” asked Harold.

“He was captured,” she said, “and shot. Trying to escape. At least that's what they told me later. I guess I never will know the real story.”

“Was that in France or Austria?”

Maude did not get the chance to answer. The motorcycle cop, his lights flashing and siren wailing, drew alongside and frantically gestured for her to pull
over. She did, and he parked behind her. He got off his bike and with large steps walked to the truck.

“Okay, lady. Out!” he said.

“Hello,” said Maude, not quite recognizing him. “Haven't we met before?”

“None of that, lady. Out.” He opened the door.

“Oh, well. It must have been your brother.”

“Out!”

Maude stepped out. “But there is a family resemblance,” she insisted.

“You too, buster,” the policeman said to Harold. “Stand over here.”

Harold came around the truck and stood by Maude. The cop hitched up his gun belt and took out his citation book.

“Lady,” he said. “You're in a heap of trouble. I have you down here for several violations: speeding, resisting arrest, driving without a license, driving a stolen vehicle, possession of a stolen tree—where's the tree?”

“We planted it,” said Maude.

The cop glared at her through his sunglasses. He looked in the back of the truck. “Is this your shovel?” he asked.

“No,” said Maude.

The cop threw down the shovel. “Possession of a stolen shovel,” he noted.

“Officer,” said Maude, “I can explain. You see—”

“Lady, you don't seem to realize. Resisting arrest is a serious criminal offense. Under the state penal code, section one forty-eight, paragraph ten—”

“Oh, don't get officious,” said Maude, interrupting him. “You're not yourself when you're officious. But then, that's the curse of a government job.”

The cop stared at her for a long count. He adjusted his stance. “Lady,” he said patiently, “is it true you are driving without a license?”

“Check,” said Maude, equally patiently.

“And that truck. Is it registered in your name?”

“Oh! Not in my name.”

“Then whose name is it registered in?”

“Well, I don't know. Do you know, Harold?”

Harold didn't know.

“Where are the papers?” asked the cop.

“I suppose they are in the truck. Uh, are you going to take a lot of time with this?”

“Wait here,” said the cop, and climbed into the front seat.

“Because if you are—”

“Lady! For Pete's sake. Be quiet.”

The cop opened the glove compartment and began looking through the papers. Suddenly he heard the start of an engine. He looked up. Maude was on the motorcycle, revving it up and motioning Harold to jump on behind her.

“Get the shovel!” she cried.

Harold hesitated. The cop was sliding himself out of the front seat. Harold grabbed the shovel, climbed on the bike, and Maude shot off down the road in a cloud of dust.

The cop took out his gun. “Stop! Stop! Or I'll shoot,” he cried.

He fired several shots after them.

Maude began defensive zigzag maneuvering. “This is just like the Resistance,” she shouted back to Harold.

The cop watched them disappear over the hill. He raced to the truck and climbed inside to start it. He banged his fist on the dashboard. Maude had taken the keys.

I
T WAS EARLY EVENING
by the time Maude drove up in front of Glaucus' studio and parked. Harold helped her off the bike.

“My, those motorcycles are awfully chilly,” she said, laughing. “But aren't they fun!”

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Harold.

“I don't know. I'm going down to the ships tomorrow to say good-by to some friends. Would you like to come?”

“Thanks, but I can't. I have to work on my car. Maybe we could get together the day after.”

“Splendid,” said Maude. “We'll have a picnic.”

They opened the door to the studio and went inside.

Old Glaucus, bundled up in his winter clothes, was valiantly fighting off sleep. He staggered toward the diminishing block of ice, lifted his heavy hammer and chisel, and struck a blow. He turned around and shuffled back to look at its effect. All the time he mumbled snatches of Homer for encouragement.

“‘The bitter dregs of Fortune's cup to drain.'—Iliad…. Almost finished…. Gotta make it…. Going to make it…. Liberate Love…. Set her free.”

“Good evening, Glaucus,” said Maude.

“We've brought back your shovel,” said Harold. Glaucus looked at them vaguely. “Shovel? ‘Shovel the fires till one falls, wrapt in the cold embraces of the tomb!' Excuse me. I must turn up the heat.” He faltered over to the thermostat, and turned it up full.

He came back to the ice. “Create.” He sighed. “‘Verily these issues lie in the lap of the gods.'” He collapsed in a nearby chair. “Just going to sit down for a minute,” he muttered. “Won't even shut my eyes.”

Harold looked closely at the ice. “I think I see it,” he said to Maude.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It's almost there.”

Glaucus stood up, his eyes barely open. He shuffled in place and made a few swipes at the air with his tools. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Not giving up…. Almost done…. Almost finished.”

He wandered over to his large couch and sat down.

“Just a little rest…. Not long…. Then, once more up the hill….” His voice trailed off, and his head fell forward on his chest. He began to snore.

“I think he's asleep,” Harold whispered.

“Aha! Morpheus!” shouted Glaucus, popping up, wild-eyed. “I'll beat … I'll never …” His eyelids closed. “Gonna make it…. Gonna make it…. Make it….” He plopped on the couch and drifted back against the cushions. It was over. He had fallen asleep.

Harold took the tools from his hands, and Maude made him comfortable on the couch, loosening his boots and covering him with a rug.

As they turned to go, Harold took a last look at the ice sculpture.

“It's melting away,” he said.

“Yes,” said Maude.

“Don't you think we should turn off the heat?”

“Why?” asked Maude. “There'll be a new block of ice in the morning.”

F
OR DINNER THAT EVENING
Maude decided to go Japanese. She gave Harold a kimono to wear, and she put one on herself. It was a beautiful robe (“a gift from an admirer,” she said), made of blue and white silk that matched the colors of her eyes and hair. A friendly dragon was embroidered on the back.

They had supper by lantern light in the Japanese nook, and afterwards she explained to Harold how she had fallen in love with the Orient during the many trips she and Frederick made there after the First World War. Indeed, she confessed, her contact with the East had made a profound impression on her life and, striking a match, she lit up her hookah.

Harold leaned back on the cushions and thought over the day.

“I like Glaucus,” he said.

“Yes,” said Maude, puffing away pleasantly, “so do

I. But I think he is a little … old-fashioned.” She gestured at the hookah. “Like a drag, Harold?”

“Well, I really don't smoke.”

“Oh, this isn't tobacco. It's a mixture of grass and poppy seeds.”

“But I've never smoked that kind of …”

“It's all right,” said Maude, offering him the hose. “It's organic.”

Harold took the hose and inhaled. He smiled. “I'm sure picking up on vices,” he said.

“Vice? Virtue? It's best not to be too moral. You cheat yourself out of too much life. Aim above morality. As Confucius says, ‘Don't simply be good. Make good things happen.'”

“Did Confucius say that?”

“Well….” Maude smiled. “They say he was very wise, so I'm sure he must have.”

Harold looked at her intently. “You are the wisest person I know,” he said.

“Me!” cried Maude. “Ha! When I look around me, I know I know nothing. I remember, though, once long ago in Persia we met a wise man in the bazaar. He was a professional and used to sell his wisdom to anyone willing to pay. His speciality for tourists was a maxim engraved on the head of a pin—‘The wisest,' he said, ‘the truest, the most instructive words for all men at all times.' Frederick bought one for me, and back at the hotel I peered through a magnifying glass to read what it said: ‘And this too shall pass away.'”

Maude laughed. “And the wise man was right. Apply that, and you're bound to live life fully.”

Harold sucked thoughtfully on the pipe. “Yes,” he said sadly. “I haven't lived.” He took a deep breath. He suddenly giggled. “But I've died a few times,” he declared.

“What was that?” asked Maude.

“Died,” said Harold happily. “Seventeen times—not counting maimings.” He laughed wildly, obviously feeling the effect of the hookah. “Shot myself in the head once with a popgun and a pellet of blood.”