Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [89]
“They’re sent from London.”
“Like your cashmere socks, and your face soap from Floris?”
Yes, I must have been eager to talk. I had given Cantabile plenty of information and he had made extensive inquiries besides, obviously intending to develop a relationship with me. “Why do you let your Ex bug you like this? And you have a lousy big-shot lawyer. Forrest Tomchek. You see I asked around. Tomchek is top-drawer in the divorce-establishment. He divorces corporation biggies. But you’re nothing to him. It was your pal Szathmar who put you on to this prick, isn’t that right? Now, who is your wife’s lawyer?”
“A fellow named Maxie Pinsker.”
“Yiy! Pinsker, that man-eating kike! She’s picked the worst there is. He’ll chop up your liver with egg and onion. Yuch, Charlie! this side of your life is disgusting. You refuse to be alert about your interests. You let people dump on you. It starts with your pals. I know something about your friend Szathmar. Nobody asks you to dinner, they invite him and he puts on his louse-up Charlie routine. He feeds confidential information about you to gossip columnists. Always kissing Schneiderman’s ass, which is so low to the ground you have to stand in a foxhole to reach it. He’ll get a kickback from Tomchek. Tomchek will sell you to that cannibal Pinsker. Pinsker will throw you to the judge. The judge will give your wife . . . what’s her name?”
“Denise,” I said, habitually helpful.
“He’ll give Denise your skin and she’ll hang it in the den. —Well, Polly, does Charles look like Charles is supposed to look?”
Of course Cantabile couldn’t bear his elation. Last night he naturally had to tell someone what he had done. As Humboldt after his triumph with Longstaff ran straight to the Village to get on top of Ginnie so Cantabile had roared off in his Thunder-bird to spend the night with Polly, to celebrate his triumph and my abasement. It made me think what a tremendous force the desire to be interesting has in the democratic USA. This is why Americans can’t keep secrets. In WW II we were the despair of the British because we couldn’t shut our mouths. Luckily the Germans couldn’t believe we were so gabby. They figured we were deliberately leaking false information. And it’s all done to prove that we’re not so tedious as we seem but are running over with charm and inside information. So I said to myself, Okay, be elated, you mink-mustached bastard. Brag about what you did to me and the 280-SL. I’ll catch up with you. At the same time I was glad that Renata was taking me away, forcing me to go abroad again. Renata had the right idea. For Cantabile obviously was making plans for our future. I wasn’t at all sure that I could defend myself from his singular attack.
Polly was considering how to answer Cantabile’s question and he himself, pale and handsome, was studying me almost with affection. Still buttoned in the raglan coat and wearing the pinch hat, his beautiful boots on my Chinese lacquer coffee table, he was dark-bristled and wore a look of fatigue and satisfaction. He was not fresh now, he was smelly, but he was flying high.
“I think Mr. Citrine is still a good-looking man,” Polly said.
“Thank you, dear girl.”
“He must have been. Slim but solid, with big Oriental eyes and probably a thick dick. Now he’s a faded beauty,” said Cantabile. “I know it’s killing him. He’s losing the clean jawline. Notice the dewlaps and the neck wrinkles. His nostrils are getting big and hungry-like, and they have white hair. It’s a sign with beagles and horses too, turning white around the muzzle. Oh, he’s unusual all right. A rare animal. Like the last of the orange flamingos. He should be protected as a national resource. And a sexy little bastard. He’s slept with everything under the sun. Awfully vain, too. Charlie and his pal George jog and train like a couple of adolescent jocks. They stand on their heads, take vitamin E, and play racquet ball. Though they tell me you