Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [250]
I got this letter off to New York and then flew back to Spain. Cantabile took me to Orly in a cab, now arguing for fifteen percent and beginning to make threats.
As soon as I reached Pension La Roca I was handed a note on Ritz stationery. It was from the Señora. She wrote, “Kindly deliver Roger to me at 10:30 a.m. tomorrow in the lobby. We are going back to Chicago.” I understood why she stipulated the lobby. I wouldn’t lay violent hands on her in a public place. In her room I might go for her throat or try to drown her in the toilet bowl. So, in the morning, with the kid, I met the old woman, that extraordinary condensation of wild prejudices. In the great circle of the Ritz lobby under the dome, I handed the kid to her. I said, “Good-by, Roger darling, you’re going home.”
The kid began to cry. The Señora couldn’t calm him and accused me of corrupting him, attaching him to myself with chocolates. “You’ve bribed the boy with sweets.”
“I hope Renata is happy in her new state,” I said.
“She certainly is. Flonzaley is a high type of man. His IQ is out of this world. Writing books is no proof that you’re smart.”
“Oh how true that is,” I said. “And after all burial was a great step forward. Vico said there was a time when corpses were allowed to rot on the ground and dogs and rats and vultures ate your near and dear. You can’t have ; he dead all over the place. Although Stanton, a member of Lincoln’s cabinet, kept his dead wife for nearly a year.”
“You look worn out. You have too much on your mind,” she said.
Intensity does that to me. I know it’s true, but I hate to hear it said. Despair rises up. “Adiós, Roger. You’re a fine boy and I love you. I’ll see you in Chicago soon. Have a good flight with Grandma. Don’t cry, kid,” I said. I was threatened by tears myself. I left the lobby and walked toward the park. The danger of being struck by speeding cars, masses of them battering from all directions, prevented me from shedding more tears.
At the pensión I said that I had sent Roger home to his grandparents until I could readjust myself. The Danish lady from the embassy, Miss Volsted, was still standing by to do the humane thing for my sake. Depressed by Roger’s leaving I was almost demoralized enough to take her up on it.
Cantabile telephoned every day from Paris. It was of the greatest importance for him to figure in these deals. I should have thought that Paris, with the many opportunities it offered a man like Cantabile, would distract him from business. Not a bit. He was all business. He kept after Maître Furet and Barbash. He irritated Barbash greatly by going over his head and trying to