Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [82]
But no, instead of being a poet he was merely the figure of a poet. He was enacting “The Agony of the American Artist.” And it was not Humboldt, it was the USA that was making its point: “Fellow Americans, listen. If you abandon materialism and the normal pursuits of life you wind up at Bellevue like this poor kook.”
He now held court and made mad-scenes at Bellevue. He openly blamed me. Scandal-lovers were tisking when my name was mentioned.
Then Scaccia the private eye came to the Belasco with a note from Humboldt. He wanted the money I had raised and wanted it right now. So Mr. Scaccia and I faced each other in the gloomy musty cement exit alley outside the stage door. Mr. Scaccia wore open sandals and white silk socks, very soiled. At the corners of his mouth was a grimy deposit.
“The fund is held in escrow by a lawyer, Mr. Simkin, on Fifth Avenue. It’s for medical expenses only,” I said.
“You mean psychiatric. You think Mr. Fleisher is off his nut?”
“I don’t make diagnoses. Just tell Humboldt to talk to Simkin.”
“We’re speaking of a man of genius. Who says a genius needs treatment?”
“You’ve read his poems?” I said.
“Fucking right. I won’t take a put-down from you. You’re supposed to be his friend? The man loves you. He loves you still. Do you love him?”
“And where do you come in?”
“I’m retained by him. And for a client I go all out.”
If I didn’t give the private eye the money he would go to Bellevue and tell Humboldt that I thought he was insane. My impulse was to kill Scaccia in this back alley. Natural justice was on my side. I could grab this blackmailer by the throat and strangle him. O, that would be delicious! And who could blame me! A gust of murderous feeling made me look modestly at the ground. “Mr. Fleisher will have to explain to Simkin what he wants the money for,” I said. “It wasn’t raised for you.”
After this there came a series of calls from Humboldt. “The cops put me in a strait jacket. Did you have anything to do with that? My blood-brother? They manhandled me, too, you fucking Thomas Hobbes!”
I understand the reference. He meant that I cared only for power.
“I’m trying to help,” I said. He hung up. Immediately the phone rang again.
“Where’s Kathleen?” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“She talked to you out by the clothesline. You know where she is all right. Listen to me, handsome, you’re sitting on this money. It’s mine. You want to put me away with the little guys in the white coats?”
“You need calming down, that’s all.”
He called later in the day when the afternoon was gray and hot. I was having a tinny-tasting sandwich of crumbling wet tuna fish at the Greek’s across the street when they summoned me to the telephone. I took the call in the star’s dressing room.
“I’ve talked to a lawyer,” shouted Humboldt. “I’m prepared to sue you for that money. You’re a crook. You’re a traitor, a liar, a phony, and a Judas. You had me locked up while that whore Kathleen was going to orgies. I’m charging you with embezzlement.”
“Humboldt, I only helped to raise that money. I haven’t got it. It’s not in my hands.”
“Tell me where Kathleen is and I’ll call off my suit.”
“She didn’t tell me where she was going.”
“You’ve broken your oath to me, Citrine. And now you want to put me away. You envy me. You always envied me. I’ll put you in jail if I can. I want you to know what it’s like when the police come for you, and what a strait jacket is like.” Then, bam! he hung up, and I sat sweating in the star’s grimy dressing room, the rotten tuna salad coming up on me, and a green ptomaine sensation, a cramp, a very sore spot in my side. Actors were trying on costumes that day and passed the door in their knickers, dresses, and cocked hats. I desired help but I felt like an arctic survivor in a small boat, an Amundsen hailing ships on the horizon which turned out to be icebergs. Trenck and Lieutenant Schell passed with their rapiers and wigs. They couldn’t tell me that I was not an obvious phony, a crook, and a Judas. I couldn’t tell them what I thought was really