YOU’RE ALL WET,
HOW CLOSE CAN YOU GET?
We gab away that afternoon. It’s good talking at this part of a painting. It’s nice having Sweik there in bed. We bullshit some more about what’s wrong with men’s lives. For a young guy he’s figured out a lot of things.
I even tell about World War II and me. Sweik had a student deferment from the Vietnam mess.
Sometimes I can get to feeling guilty, knowing everything we know now. If there ever was anybody worth fighting a war with, I guess it had to be those Nazis. My trouble was I just didn’t want to be a part of any killing – still don’t. Even killing people who are killing other people doesn’t make sense to me. How can it end? I hate being part of anything really stupid. But my own life sure got screwed up; I’ll say that.
A LINE OF EATERS, EATING
EACH OTHER TO THE END.
WHAT BEAUTIFUL FLOWER
IS THIS WE NOW DEVOUR?
Then, somehow. I don’t know how we get started, but we begin working on the idea of a fantasy motorcycle club here in Paris. We’re going to mock up a super-macho Warlock or Hell’s Angels Paris pack; only with practically no real bikes, a totally phony affair.
Sweik gets to laughing so hard tears slide down his cheeks from the back pain. We’ll write to the biggest motorcycle club in America and request a charter for our Paris-American Motorcycle Club. We’ll invent stories of way-out trips and races; send off reports of these hokey events; create a completely ersatz motor scene.
Sweik laughs and hurts; probably the best thing for his back, relax the muscles. I get some paper from his table and Sweik, propped up there in bed, writes out our letter. We get off a very good maniac missive, with baroque and arabesque flourishes.
THE LAST CURE (BEFORE CURARE)
A SURE, PURE UNCARING,
UNBARTERED BURST OF LAUGHTER.
Later, just as I’m finishing for the day, Lubar, Duncan and Tompkins stop by to see how Sweik’s doing. They can’t believe the letter. Lubar thinks it’s for real. Duncan goes out to buy wine. Lubar runs down and brings up some stolen IBM stationery from his saddlebag. We rewrite the letter with more embellishment yet. This letter’s turning into a narrative poem. We describe the kinds of motorcycles we’re supposed to have, developing the most outlandish rare bikes and combinations of machines anybody ever heard of. We’re having a real old-fashioned tribal male-
camaraderie scene. Kate would probably vomit if she could see us. No, she’d shift into her cool, above-it-all mode and make us feel like damned fools. Kate doesn’t have much tolerance for tomfoolery. But I think at the bottom of all art is some taint of foolery – Tom, Dick or Harriette. But she could be right; maybe all this nonsense uses up, wastes whatever creativity is. I don’t really know.
It takes two days to finish the painting. Sweik’s feeling better but he’s still in bed. I find a board, smuggle it up those stringy stairs, beneath sagging burlap, past the concierge, and put it under his mattress. The bed’s still not much good but it’s better. I also sneak out the sheets and run them through a laundromat around the corner. Poor Sweik’s deveoping bedsores; says he thinks he’ll never be up and walking around again.
IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS AN
END AND THAT’S THE BEGINNING.
Meanwhile, over at Lotte’s, I’m building a partition to cut out a room for Sweik when he gets well enough to move. Lotte’s griping because I’m dividing her place; she doesn’t want to share. I tell her she can leave if she wants. She doesn’t want to leave, just wants all that space for herself; Lebensraum!
Lotte’s a true cat, little cat: minx, maybe, or a small leopard. She likes everything neat, carefully wiped. She actually listens to hear if I’ve washed my hands after I take a leak. Maybe old blunderpuss isn’t much anymore but it’s the cleanest thing I’ve got. He rarely even touches air, all swathed in elastic supports. It’s my hands get dirty handling money and crappy things like that. I should wash my hands before I pee. If I’m not careful, maybe I might even get paint on the master brush; give some unlikely, lucky woman a cobalt-blue clit. Ah, fantasy; takes some edge off the bitter dawn. I don’t even use cobalt blue: too expensive, not permanent enough.
So I’m drilling a hole to mount a baseplate for the partition, when I go through the floor! I pull up a flat stone like a paving block; it opens onto a big hole! I pull more blocks out. There’s a tremendous empty space. Lotte’s having catfits; raving about rats, then about graves. It smells like graves all right; black, wet, old; dead smell. I ask Lotte for a candle. I stare into the hole but a draft blows up and snuffs out my candle. I almost scream right there and then; expect Dracula to come swooping up out of the darkness.
I dash off for a flashlight and come back. Lotte’s spread a rug over the hole and she’s crying on the bed. I’m all excited; staring into that dank hole has me turned on. I’m confused about where I want to do my cave exploring. I think of somebody coming in and stepping on that rug. I start laughing. Lotte cries harder; I’m probably not doing Sweik any favor.
This hole is deep. I rig a ladder with the wood for my partition and lower it into the darkness. It’s about eight feet to some kind of surface. I climb down slowly. Lotte’s running around in circles. Maybe she’ll pull my ladder, slide her rug back over the hole; save herself paying rent.
I get to the bottom and look around with my flashlight. There’s a long tunnel. It goes off under Moro’s and is arched with cut-stone vaulting, high enough to walk up straight but just clearing my head.
I go in about a hundred feet, one careful step at a time; creepy, spooky and it gets darker. Then I look behind me. I can’t see the hole where I came in. She did it!
Panic strikes! I scamper back till I see the hole again; the tunnel curved and blocked my view. I climb out and up the ladder. I’ll go ask Sweik to help. I’ll get a rope, more flashlights; more nerve. It’s better I don’t mention anything about this to Kate; she’d be sure it was bad for my blood pressure, only another way for me to be wasting time when I should concentrate on painting. But. Holy God, think of it, tunnels under Paris, I feel like Jean Gabin-cum-Jean Valjean in Les Misérables.
GROUNDED AS WITH ELECTRICITY,
OR AS A PILOT. I’M STUCK TO THIS
EARTH, BURROWING BLINDLY THROUGH IT,
OUR ULTIMATE HOME NEST.
That afternoon, I tell Sweik about the tunnel. He’s moving around some; still being careful, dragging his feet like a prostate case, but moving. He says he’ll help but can’t go down any ladder. That’s OK. I buy some string, some rope, three flashlights, extra batteries, a compass and a detailed map of central Paris. I’m planning a big operation; figure tomorrow I’m into the Paris secret underground world.
WHEELER’S WORMHOLES, PASSPORTS
TO AN ETERNAL INFINITY. I PEEK
IN AND FEEL LIGHT RUSHING PAST
MY EARS – HEARING NOTHING!
I do finishing touches on both paintings of the room. Sweik and I get to drinking wine,
