The Road to Los Angeles (18 page)

He held a gun to his temple and spoke.

"I have failed to find the woman of my dreams," he said. "Now I am ready for Death. Ah, sweet mystery of Death."

I didn't exactly write that he pulled the trigger. This was illustrated by suggestion, which proved my ability to use restraint in a smashing climax.

And so it was finished.

Chapter Twenty-two

WHEN I REACHED home the next evening Mona was reading the manuscript. The tablets were piled on the table, and she was reading the final words on the last page, with its terrific climax. She seemed wild-eyed with intense interest. I pulled off my jacket and rubbed my hands together.

"Ha!" I said "I see you're absorbed. Gripping, isn't it?"

She looked up with a sickly face.

"It's silly," she said. "Plain silly. It doesn't grip me. It gripes me."

"Oh," I said. "Is that so!"

I walked across the room.

"And just who the hell do you think you are?"

"It's silly. I had to laugh. I skipped most of it. I didn't even read three tablets of it."

I shook my fist in front of her nose.

"And how would you like me to smash your face into a bloody, drooling pulp?"

"It's smart-alecky. All those big words!"

I tore the tablets from her.

"You Catholic ignoramus! You filthy Comstock! You disgusting, nauseating, clod-hopping celibate!"

My spittle sprinkled her face and hair. Her handkerchief moved across her neck and she pushed me out of the way. She smiled.

"Why didn't your hero kill himself on the first page instead of the last? It would have made a lot better story."

I got her by the throat.

"Be very careful, what you say, you Roman harlot. I warn you — be very very very careful."

She tore herself loose, clawing my arm.

"It's the worst book I ever read."

I grabbed her again. She jumped from the chair and fought wildly, clawing at my face with her nails. I backed away, shouting at every step.

"You sanctimonious, retch-provoking she-nun of a bitch-infested nausea-provoking nun of a vile boobish baboon of a brummagem Catholic heritage."

On the table was a vase. She spied it, walked to the table and picked it up. She played with it in her hands, stroking it, smiling, feeling its weight, then smiling at me threateningly. Then she poised it at her shoulder, ready to heave it at my head.

"Ha!" I said. "That's right! Throw it!"

I stripped my shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, and stuck out my bare chest. I jumped down on my knees before her, my chest jutting out. I beat my chest, hammered it with both fists until it turned red and stung.

"Strike!" I shouted. "Let me have it! Renew the Inquisition. Kill me! Commit fratricide. Let these floors run red with the rich, pure blood of a genius who dared!"

"You fool. You can't write. You can't write at all."

"You slut! You nunny slutty slut out of the belly of the Roman Harlot."

She smiled bitterly.

"Call me anything you like. But keep your hands off me."

"Put that vase down."

She considered a moment, shrugged, and put it down. I got up from my knees. We ignored one another. It was as if nothing had happened. She went over the rug, picking up the buttons from my shirt. For a while I sat about, doing nothing but sitting and thinking of what she had said about the book. She walked into the bedroom. I could hear the swish of a comb passing through her hair.

"What was the matter with the story?" I asked.

"It's silly. I didn't like it."

"Why not?"

"Because it was silly."

"Damn it! Criticize it! Don't say it was silly! Criticize it! What's wrong with it? Why is it silly?"

She came to the door.

"Because it's silly. That's all I can say about it."

I rushed her to the wall. I was furious. I pinned her arms against her, locked her firmly with my legs, and glared her in the face. She was speechless with anger. Her teeth chattered helplessly, her face whitened and became blotchy. But now that I had her, I was afraid to let her go. I had not forgotten the butcher-knife.

"It's the craziest book I ever read!" she screamed. "The awfullest, the vilest, craziest, funniest book in the world! It was so bad I couldn't even read it."

I decided to be indifferent. I released her and snapped my fingers under her nose.

"Phooey! That for you. Your opinion doesn't bother me in the least."

I walked to the middle of the room. I stood there and spoke to the walls at large.

"They can't touch us. No — they can't! We have put the Church to rout. Dante, Copernicus, Galileo, and now me — Arturo Bandini, son of a humble carpenter. We go on and on. We are above them. We even transcend their ridiculous heaven."

She rubbed her bruised arms. I walked over to her and raised my hand to the ceiling.

"They can gibbet us, and burn us, but we go on — we — the yea-sayers; the outcasts; the eternal ones; the yea-sayers to the end of time."

Before I could duck she picked up the vase and threw it. Her aim was perfect at such close range. The vase hit me just as I turned my head. It struck me behind the ear and smashed to pieces. For a moment I thought my skull was fractured. But it was a small, thin vase. I felt in vain for blood. It had shattered without even scratching me. The tinkling pieces scattered about the room. Not one trace of blood, and scarcely a hair out of place on my head.

A miracle!

Calm and unhurt I turned around. With my finger to the ceiling like one of the Apostles I spoke.

"Even God Almighty is on our side. For amen I say unto you, even when they breaketh vases over our heads, they hurteth us not, neither do our heads cracketh open."

She was glad I was unhurt. Laughing, she went into the bedroom. She lay on the bed and I heard her laughing and laughing. I stood at the door and watched her twisting a pillow with delight.

"Laugh," I said. "Go ahead. For amen I say unto you, he that laugheth last laugheth best, and ye must say aye, aye again and again, thus spake Zarathustra."

Chapter Twenty-three

MY MOTHER CAME home, her arms wrapped around packages. I jumped from the divan and followed her into the kitchen. She put the packages down and faced me. She was out of breath, her face red from pounding blood, for the stairs were always too much for her.

"Did you read the story?"

"Yes," she gasped. "I certainly did."

I took her by the shoulders, gripping them hard.

"It was a great story — wasn't it? Answer quick!"

She clasped her hands, swayed, and closed her eyes.

"It certainly was!"

I didn't believe her.

"Don't lie to me, please. You know perfectly well I hate all forms of pretense. I'm not brummagem. I always want the truth."

Mona got up then, and came and stood inside the door. She leaned with her hands behind her and smiled the smile of Mona Lisa.

"Tell that to Mona," I said.

My mother turned to Mona.

"I read it - didn't I, Mona?"

Mona's expression was unchanged.

"See!" my mother said in triumph. "Mona knows I read it, don't you Mona?"

She turned to Mona again.

"I said I liked it, didn't I Mona?"

Mona's face was exactly the same.

"See! Mona knows I liked it — don't you Mona?"

I started beating my chest.

"Good God!" I yelled. "Talk to me! Me! Me! Me! Not Mona! Me! Me! Me!"

My mother's hands went up in despair. She was under some sort of tension. She was not all sure of herself.

"But I just told you I thought it was wonderful!"

"Don't lie to me. No chicanery allowed."

She sighed and resolutely said it again.

"It's wonderful. For the third time I say it's wonderful. Wonderful."

"Stop lying."

Her eyes tumbled and tossed. She wanted to scream, to cry. She pressed her temples and tried to think of some other way to say it.

"Then what do you want me to say?"

"I want the truth, if you please. Only the truth."

"All right then. The truth is, it's wonderful."

"Stop lying. The least I can expect from the woman who gave me life is some semblance of the truth."

She pressed my hand and put her face next to mine.

"Arturo," she pleaded. "I swear I like it. I swear."

She meant that.

Now here was something at last. Here was a woman who understood me. Here before me, this woman, my mother. She understood me. Blood of my blood, bone of my bone, she could appreciate my prose. She could stand before the world and pronounce it wonderful. Here was a woman for the ages, and a woman who was an aesthete for all her homely ways, a critic by intuition. Something within me softened.

"Little mother," I whispered. "Dear little mother. Dear sweet darling mother. I love you so much. Life is so hard for you, my dear darling mother."

I kissed her, tasting the salty texture of her neck. She seemed so tired, so over-worked. Where was justice in this world, that this woman should suffer without complaint? Was there a God in heaven who judged and found her his own? There should be! There must be!

"Dear little mother. I'm going to dedicate my book to you. To you — my mother. To my mother, in grateful appreciation. To my mother, without whom this great work would have been impossible. To my mother, in grateful appreciation by a son who shall not forget."

With a shriek Mona turned and went back to the bedroom.

"Laugh!" I yelled. "Laugh! You jackass!" "Dear little mother," I said. "Dear little mother." "Laugh!" I said. "You intense moron! Laugh!" "Dear little mother. For you: my mother: a kiss!" And I kissed her.

"The hero made me think of you," she smiled. "Dear little mother."

She coughed, hesitated. Something was disturbing her. She was trying to say something.

"The only thing is, does your hero have to make love to that Negro woman? That woman in South Africa?"

I laughed and hugged her. This was amusing indeed. I kissed her and patted her cheek. Ho ho, like a little child she was, like a wee bit of a baby.

"Dear little mother. I see the writing made a profound effect upon you. It stirred you to the very brink of your pure soul, dear little mother of mine. Ho ho."

"I didn't like that Chinese girl business, either." "Dear little mother. My little baby mother." "And I didn't like that business with the Eskimo woman. I thought it was awful. It disgusted me." I shook my finger at her.

"Now, now. Let us eliminate Puritanism here. Let us have no prudery. Let us try to be logical and philosophical."

She bit her lip and frowned. There was something else biting inside that head of hers. She thought a moment, then looked simply into my eyes. I knew the trouble: she was afraid to mention it, whatever it was.

"Well," I said. "Speak. Out with it. What else?"

"The place he slept with the chorus girls. I didn't like that either. Twenty chorus girls! I thought that was terrible. I didn't like it at all."

"Why not?"

"I don't think he ought to sleep with so many women."

"Oh you don't eh? And why not?"

"I just don't - that's all."

"Why not? Don't beat about the bush. Speak your opinion, if you have any. Otherwise, shut up. You women!"

"He should find a nice clean little Catholic girl, and settle down and marry her."

So that was it! At last the truth was out. I seized her by the shoulders and spun her around until my face was next to hers, my eyes on a level with hers.

"Look at me," I said. "You profess to be my mother. Well, look at me! Do I look like a person who would sell his soul for mere pelf? Do you think I give a hang for mere public opinion? Answer that!"

She backed away.

I pounded my chest.

"Answer me! Don't stand there like a woman, like an idiot, a bourgeois Catholic Comstocking smut-hound. I demand an answer!"

Now she became defiant.

"The hero was nasty. He committed adultery on almost every page. Women, women, women! He was impure from the beginning. He turned my stomach."

"Ha!" I said. "At last it is out! At last the awful truth emerges! Papism returns! The Catholic mind again! The Pope of Rome waves his lewd banner."

I walked into the living room and addressed the door. "There you have it all. The riddle of the Universe. The transvaluation of values already transvaluated. Romanism. Red Neckery. Papism. The Roman Harlot in all her gaudy horror! Vaticism. Aye - verily I say unto you that unless ye become yea-savers ye shall become one of the damned! Thus spake Zarathustra!"

Chapter Twenty-four

AFTER SUPPER I brought the manuscript into the kitchen. I spread the tablets on the table and lit a cigarette.

"Now we'll see how silly it is."

As I began to read I heard Mona singing.

"Silence!"

I settled myself and read the first ten lines. When I was finished with that much I dropped the book like a dead snake and got up from the table. I walked around the kitchen. Impossible! It coudn't be true!

"Something's wrong here. It's too hot here. It doesn't suit me. I need room, plenty of fresh air."

I opened the window and looked out for a moment. Behind me lay the book. Well - go back and read it, Bandini. Don't stand at the window. The book isn't here; it's back there, behind you, on the table. Go back and read it.

Closing my mouth tightly I sat down and read another five lines. The blood rushed to my face. My heart plowed like a wheel.

"This is strange; very strange indeed."

From the living room came Mona's voice. She was singing. A hymn. Lord, a hymn at a time like this. I opened the door and put out my head.

"Stop that singing or I'll show you something really silly."

"I'll sing if I feel like it."

"No hymns. I forbid hymns."

"And I'll sing hymns too."

"Sing a hymn - and die. Suit yourself."

"Who died?" my mother said.

"Nobody," I said. "Nobody - yet."

I returned to the book. Another ten lines. I jumped up and bit my nails. I tore the cuticle loose on my thumb. The pain flashed. Closing my eyes, I seized the loose cuticle between my teeth and ripped it off. A tiny spot of red blood appeared under the nail.