Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [172]
“Yes, he was wonderful and generous. I loved him. He was good.” Strange words these at a clamorous cocktail party. “He wanted with all his heart to give us something exquisite and delicate. He put a heavy demand on himself. But you say that his horse-playing uncle took most of his papers?”
“And clothes and valuables.”
“He must have been hit very hard, losing his nephew, and frightened, probably.”
“He came running in from Co-Coney Island. Humboldt kept him in a nursing home. The old bookie must have fi-figured that the pa-papers of a man who rated such a long obituary in the Times must be valuable.”
“Did Humboldt leave him some money?”
“There was an insurance policy, and if he didn’t drop it all on the horses he’s okay.”
“Was Humboldt in his right mind toward the end or am I mistaken?”
“He wrote me a beauti-beauti-beautiful letter. He copied out some poems for me on good paper. The one about his Hungarian Pa, riding with Pershing’s cavalry to capture Pancho.”
“The toothy horses, the rattler’s castanet, the cactus thorn, and the banging guns . . .”
“You’re not quoting quite right,” said Huggins.
“And it was you that gave Kathleen Humboldt’s bequest?”
“It was, and she’s in New York right now.”
“Is she? Where is she? I’d love to see her.”
“On her way to Europe, like you. I don’t know where she’s stay-staying.”
“I must find out. But first I have to get on to Uncle Waldemar in Coney Island.”
“He may not give you anything,” said Huggins. “He’s can-cantankerous. And I’ve written him and phoned him. No soap.”
“Probably a phone call isn’t good enough. He’s holding out for a real visit. You can’t blame him for that, if nobody comes. Wasn’t Humboldt’s mother the last of his sisters? He wants somebody to go to Coney Island. He’s using Humboldt’s papers as a bait. Maybe he’ll give them to me.”
“I’m sure you’ll be irre-ree. You’ll be irresistible,” said Huggins.
twenty-seven
Renata was greatly annoyed when I said that she must come to Coney Island with me.
“What, go to a nursing home? On the subway? Don’t drag me into this. Go alone.”
“You’ve got to do it. I need you, Renata.”
“You’re wrecking my day. I have a professional thing I need to do. It’s business. Homes for the aged depress me. Last time I set foot in one I became hysterical. At least spare me the subway.”
“There’s no other transportation. And give old Waldemar a break. He’s never seen a woman like you, and he was a sporting man.”
“Save the sweet talk. I didn’t hear any when the girl at the switchboard called me Mrs. Citrine. You clammed up.”
Later on the boardwalk she was still vexed, and strode ahead of me. The subway had been awful, the filth, the spray-can graffiti were not to be believed. She kicked out the skirts of her maxi-coat as she marched, and the hanging fleeces fluttered at the front. The high-crowned Netherlands hat was pushed back. Henri, the Señora’s old friend in Paris, the man who was clearly not Renata’s father, had been impressed by her forehead. “Un beau front!” he said, over and over again. “Ah, ce beau front!” A fine brow. But what was behind it? Now I couldn’t see it. She was striding away, offended, ruffled. She wished to punish me. But really I couldn’t lose on Renata. I was pleased with her even when she was cross. People looked after her as she passed. Walking behind her I admired the action of her hips. I might not have cared to know what went on behind that beau front; and her dreams might have shocked me but her odor alone was a great solace in the night. The pleasure of sleeping with her went far beyond the ordinary pleasure of sharing a bed. Even to lie unconscious beside her was a distinct event. As for insomnia, Humboldt’s complaint, she made that agreeable, too. Energizing influences passed into my hands from her breasts during the night. I allowed myself to imagine that these influences entered my finger bones like a sort of white electricity and surged upward