The Road to Los Angeles (7 page)

Ha, there it was! The most beautiful book I ever saw, larger than the others on that shelf, a book among books, the very queen of biography, the princess of literature — that book with the blue binding. Catherine of Aragon. So that was it! A queen reads of another queen — most natural. And her gray eyes had followed the path of those lines - then so would mine.

I must have it — but not today. Tomorrow I will come, tomorrow. Then the other librarian, that fat and ugly one, will be on duty. Then it shall be mine, all mine. And so, until the next day, I hid the book behind others so no one could take it away while I was gone.

I was there early next day - at nine o'clock to the second. Catherine of Aragon: wonderful woman, the Queen of England, the bedmate of Henry VIII - that much I knew already. Undoubtedly Miss Hopkins had read of the intimacy of Catherine and Henry in this book. Those sections dealing with love - did they delight Miss Hopkins? Did shivers run down her back? Did she breathe hard, her bosom swelling, and a mysterious tingling enter her fingers? Yes, and who knew? Perhaps she even screamed for joy and felt a mysterious stirring somewhere within her, the call of womanhood. Yes indeed, no doubt about it at all. And wonderful too. A thing of great beauty, a thought to ponder over. And so I got the book, and there it was, in my own two hands. To think of it! Yesterday she had held it with her fingers warm and close, and today it was mine. Marvelous. An act of destiny. A miracle of succession. When we married I would tell Miss Hopkins about it. We would be lying stark naked in bed and I would kiss her on the lips and laugh softly and triumphantly and tell her that the real beginning of my love was on a day I saw her reading a certain book. And I would laugh again, my white teeth flashing, my dark romantic eyes aglow as I told her at last the real truth of my provocative and eternal love. Then she would crush herself to me, her beautiful white breasts full against me, and tears would stream down her face as I carried her away on wave after wave of ecstasy. What a day!

I held the book close to my eyes, searching for some trace of white fingers no more than an inch from the bottom. There were fingerprints all right. No matter if they belonged to so many others, they nevertheless belonged to Miss Hopkins alone. Walking toward the park I kissed them, and I kissed them so much that finally they were gone altogether, and only a blue wet spot remained on the book, while on my mouth I tasted the sweet taste of blue dye. In the park I found my favorite spot and began to read.

Near the bridge it was, and I made a shrine from twigs and blades of grass. It was the throne of Miss Hopkins. Ah, if she but knew it! But at that moment she was at home in Los Angeles, far away from the scene of her devotions, and not thinking of them at all.

I crawled on all fours to the place at the edge of the lily pond where roamed bugs and crickets, and I caught a cricket. A black cricket, fat and well-built, with electric energy in his body. And there he lay in my hand, that cricket, and he was I the cricket that was, he was I, Arturo Bandini, black and undeserving of the fair white princess, and I lay on my belly and watched him crawl over the places her sacred white fingers had touched, he too enjoying as he passed the sweet taste of blue dye. Then he tried to escape. With a jump he was on his way. I was forced to break his legs. There was absolutely no alternative.

I said to him, "Bandini, I am sorry. But duty compels me. The Queen wishes it — the beloved Queen."

Now he crawled painfully, in wonder at what had taken place. Oh fair white Miss Hopkins, observe! Oh queen of all the heavens and the earth. Observe! I crawl at thy feet, a mere black cricket, a scoundrel, unworthy to be called human. Here I lie with broken legs, a paltry black cricket, ready to die for thee; aye, already nearing death. Ah! Reduce me to ashes! Give me a new form! Make me a man! Snuff out my life for the glory of love everlasting and the loveliness of your white legs!

And I killed the black cricket, crushing him to death after proper farewells between the pages of Catherine of Aragon, his poor miserable unworthy black body crackling and popping in ecstasy and love there at that sacred little shrine of Miss Hopkins.

And behold! A miracle: out of death came life everlasting. The resurrection of life. The cricket was no more, but the power of love had found its way, and I was again myself and no longer a cricket, I was Arturo Bandini, and the elm tree yonder was Miss Hopkins, and I got to my knees and put my arms around the tree, kissing it for love everlasting, tearing the bark with my teeth and spitting it on the lawn.

I turned around and bowed to the bushes at the edge of the pond. They applauded gloriously, swaying together, hissing their delight and satisfaction at the scene, even demanding that I carry Miss Hopkins away on my shoulders. This I refused to do, and with sly winks and suggestive movements I told them why, because the fair white queen didn't want to be carried, if you please, she wanted instead to be laid flat, and at this they all laughed and thought me the greatest lover and hero to ever visit their fair country.

"You understand, fellows. We prefer to be alone, the queen and I. There is much unfinished business between us — if you get what I mean."

Laughter, and wild applauding from the bushes.

Chapter Nine

ONE NIGHT MY uncle dropped in. He gave my mother some money. He could only stay a moment. He said he had good news for me. I wanted to know what he meant. A job, he said. At last he had found me a job. I told him this was not good news, necessarily, because I didn't know what kind of a job he got me. To this he told me to shut up, and then he told me about the job.

He said, "Take this down and tell him I sent you."

He handed me the note he had already written.

"I talked to him today," he said. "Everything is set. Do what you're told, keep your fool mouth shut, and he'll keep you on steady."

"He ought to," I said. "Any paranoiac can do cannery work."

"We'll see about that," my uncle said. Next morning I took the bus for the harbor. It was only seven blocks from our house, but since I was going to work I thought it best not to tire myself by walking too much. The Soyo Fish Company bulged from the channel like a black dead whale. Steam spouted from pipes and windows.

At the front office sat a girl. This was a strange office. At a desk with no papers or pencils upon it, sat this girl. She was an ugly girl with a hooknose who wore glasses and a yellow skirt. She sat at the desk doing absolutely nothing, no telephone, not even a pencil before her.

"Hello," I said.

"That's not necessary," she said. "Who do you want?"

I told her I wanted to see a man named Shorty Naylor. I had a note for him. She wanted to know what the note was about. I gave it to her and she read it. "For pity's sakes," she said. Then she told me to wait a minute. She got up and went out. At the door she turned around and said, "Don't touch anything, please." I told her I wouldn't. But when I looked about I saw nothing to touch. In the corner on the floor was a full tin of sardines, unopened. It was all I could see in the room, except for the desk and chair. She's a maniac, I thought; she's dementia praecox.

As I waited I could feel something. A stench in the air all at once began to suck at my stomach. It pulled my stomach toward my throat. Leaning back, I felt the sucking. I began to feel afraid. It was like an elevator going down too fast.

Then the girl returned. She was alone. But no — she wasn't alone. Behind her, and unseen until she stepped out of the way, was a little man. This man was Shorty Naylor. He was much smaller than I was. He was very thin. His collarbones stuck out. He had no teeth worth mentioning in his mouth, only one or two which were worse than nothing. His eyes were like aged oysters on a sheet of newspaper. Tobacco juice caked the corners of his mouth like dry chocolate. His was the look of a rat in waiting. It seemed he had never been out in the sun, his face was so grey. He didn't look at my face but at my belly. I wondered what he saw there. I looked down. There was nothing, merely a belly, no larger than ever and not worth observation. He took the note from my hands. His fingernails were gnawed to stumps. He read the note bitterly, much annoyed, crushed it, and stuck it in his pocket.

"The pay is twenty-five cents an hour," he said.

"That's preposterous and nefarious."

"Anyway, that's what it is."

The girl was sitting on the desk watching us. She was smiling at Shorty. It was as if there was some joke. I couldn't see anything funny. I lifted my shoulders. Shorty was ready to go back through the door from which he had come.

"The pay is of little consequence," I said. "The facts in the case make the matter different. I am a writer. I interpret the American scene. My purpose here is not the gathering of money but the gathering of material for my forthcoming book on California fisheries. My income of course is much larger than what I shall make here. But that, I suppose, is a matter of no great consequence at the moment, none at all."

"No," he said. "The pay is twenty-five cents an hour."

"It doesn't matter. Five cents or twenty-five. Under the circumstances, it doesn't matter in the least. Not at all. I am, as I say, a writer. I interpret the American scene. I am here to gather material for my new work."

"Oh for Christ's sake!" the girl said, turning her back. "For the love of God get him out of here."

"I don't like Americans in my crew," Shorty said. "They don't work hard like the other boys."

"Ah," I said. "That's where you're wrong, sir. My patriotism is universal. I swear allegiance to no flag."

"Jesus," the girl said.

But she was ugly. Nothing she could possibly say would ever disturb me. She was too ugly.

"Americans can't stand the pace," Shorty said. "Soon as they get a bellyful they quit."

"Interesting, Mr Naylor." I folded my arms and settled back on my heels. "Extremely interesting what you say there. A fascinating sociological aspect of the canning situation. My book will go into that with great detail and footnotes. I'll quote you there. Yes, indeed."

The girl said something unprintable. Shorty scraped a bit of pocket sediment from a plug of tobacco and bit off a hunk. It a large bite, filling his mouth. He was scarcely listening to me, I could tell by the scrupulous way he chewed the tobacco. The girl had seated herself at the desk, her hands folded before her. We both turned and looked at one another. She put her fingers to her nose and pressed them. But the gesture didn't disturb me. She was far too ugly.

"Do you want the job?" Shorty said.

"Yes, under the circumstances. Yes."

"Remember: the work is hard, and don't expect no favors from me either. If it wasn't for your uncle I wouldn't hire you, but that's as far as it goes. I don't like you Americans. You're lazy. When you get tired you quit. You fool around too much."

"I agree with you perfectly, Mr Naylor. I agree with you thoroughly. Laziness, if I may be permitted to make an aside, laziness is the outstanding characteristic of the American scene. Do you follow me?"

"You don't have to call me Mister. Call me Shorty. That's my name."

"Certainly, sir! But by all means, certainly! And Shorty, I would say, is a most colorful sobriquet — a typical Americanism. We writers are constantly coming upon it."

This failed to please him or impress him. His lip curled. At the desk the girl was mumbling. "Don't call me sir, neither," Shorty said. "I don't like none of that high-toned crap."

"Take him out of here," the girl said.

But I was not in the least disturbed by the remarks from one so ugly. It amused me. What an ugly face she had! It was too amusing for words. I laughed and patted Shorty on the back. I was short, but I towered over this small man. I felt great - like a giant.

"Very amusing, Shorty. I love your native sense of humor. Very amusing. Very amusing indeed." And I laughed again. "Very amusing. Ho, ho, ho. How very amusing."

"I don't see nothing funny," he said.

"But it is! If you follow me."

"The hell with it. You follow me."

"Oh, I follow you, all right. I follow."

"No," he said. "I mean, you follow me now. I'll put you in the labeling crew."

As we walked through the back door the girl turned to watch us go. "And stay out of here!" she said. But I paid no attention at all. She was far too ugly.

We were inside the cannery works. The corrugated iron building was like a dark hot dungeon. Water dripped from the girders. Lumps of brown and white steam hung bloated in the air. The green floor was slippery from fish oil. We walked across a long room where Mexican and Japanese women stood before tables gutting mackerel with fish knives. The women were wrapped in heavy oilskins, their feet cased in rubber boots ankle-deep in fish guts.

The stench was too much. All at once I was sick like the sickness from hot water and mustard. Another ten steps across the room and I felt it coming up, my breakfast, and I bent over to let it go. My insides rushed out in a chunk. Shorty laughed. He pounded my back and roared. Then the others started. The boss was laughing at something, and so did they. I hated it. The women looked up from their work to see, and they laughed. What fun! On company time, too! See the boss laughing! Something must be taking place. Then we will laugh too. Work was stopped in the cutting room. Everybody was laughing. Everybody but Arturo Bandini.

Arturo Bandini was not laughing. He was puking his guts out on the floor. I hated every one of them, and I vowed revenge, staggering away, wanting to be out of sight somewhere. Shorty took me by the arm and led me toward another door. I leaned against the wall and got my breath. But the stench charged again. The walls spun, the women laughed, and Shorty laughed, and Arturo Bandini the great writer was heaving again. How he heaved! The women would go home tonight and talk about it at their houses. That new fellow! You should have seen him! And I hated them and even stopped heaving for a moment to pause and delight over the fact that this was the greatest hatred of all my life.

"Feel better?" Shorty said.