Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [88]
“They won’t like me no matter how big an opal you get,” I said.
“No, that’s true. They’ll hit the roof. There’s all kinds of sin in you. They wouldn’t be impressed by Broadway. You write things that aren’t so. Only the Bible is true. But Daddy is flying down to South America to spend Christmas at his Mission. The one he’s such a big giver to, down in Colombia, near Venezuela. I’m going with him and tell him that we’re getting married.”
“Ah, don’t go, Demmie,” I said.
“Down in that jungle with savages all around you’ll seem a lot more normal to him,” she said.
“Tell him what I’m making. The money should help do it all,” I said. “But I don’t want you to go. Is your mother coming too?”
“Not here. I couldn’t take that. No, she’s staying back in Mount Coptic, giving a Christmas party for the kids in the hospital. They’ll be sorry.”
These meditations were supposed to make you tranquil. To look behind the appearances you had to cultivate an absolute calm. And I didn’t feel very calm now. The heavy shadow of a jet from Midway airport crossed the room, reminding me of the death of Demmie Vonghel. Just before Christmas in the year of my success she and Daddy Vonghel died in a plane crash in South America. Demmie was carrying my Broadway scrapbook. Perhaps she had just begun to show it to him when the crash occurred. No one ever knew quite where this was—somewhere in the vicinity of the Orinoco River. I spent several months in the jungle looking for her.
It was at this time that Humboldt put through the blood-brother check I had given him. Six thousand seven hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty-eight cents was a smashing sum. But it wasn’t the money that mattered much. What I felt was that Humboldt should have respected my grief. I thought, What a time he chose to make his move! How could he do that! To hell with the money. But he reads the papers. He knows she’s gone!
eighteen
I now lay there grieving. Again! This wasn’t what I was looking for when I lay down. And I was actually grateful when a brassy hammering at the door made me get up. It was Cantabile on the knocker, forcing his way into my sanctuary. I was annoyed with old Roland Stiles. I paid Stiles to keep intruders and pests away while I was meditating but he wasn’t at his post in the receiving room today. Just before Christmas tenants wanted help with trees and such. He was much in demand, I suppose.
Cantabile had brought a young woman with him.
“Your wife, I presume?”
“Don’t presume. She’s not my wife. This is Polly Palomino. She’s a friend. Of the family, she’s a friend. She was Lucy’s roommate at the Woman’s College in Greensboro. Before Radcliffe.”
White-skinned, wearing no brassiere, Polly entered the light and began strolling about my parlor. The red of her hair was entirely natural. Stockingless (in December, in Chicago), minimally dressed, she walked on platform shoes of maximum thickness. Men of my generation never have gotten used to the strength, size, and beauty of women’s legs, formerly covered up.
Cantabile and Polly examined my flat. He touched the furniture, she stooped to feel the carpet, turning over a corner to read the label. Yes, it was a genuine Kirman. She studied the pictures. Cantabile then sat down on the silky plush bolstered sofa, saying, “This is whorehouse luxury.”
“Don’t make yourself too comfortable. I have to go to court.”
Cantabile said to Polly, “Charlie’s ex-wife goes on suing and suing him.”
“For what?”
“For everything. You’ve given her a lot already, Charlie?”
“A lot.”
“He’s shy. He’s ashamed to say how much,” Cantabile told Polly.
I said to Polly, “Apparently I told Rinaldo the whole story of my life at a poker game.”
“Polly knows it. I told her about yesterday. You did most of the talking after the poker game.” He turned toward Polly. “Charlie was too smashed to drive his 280-SL so I took him home and Emil brought the T-bird. You told me plenty, Charlie.