Scumbler. William Wharton

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Scumbler - William  Wharton

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my box and a wet canvas in the Métro or on a bus. I keep smearing people. It’s not good for paintings and very tough on people. An old lady hit me on the head with a book once. I’d given her a hand-painted back-of-coat. That coat will be worth a fortune someday but definitely not appreciated now. I really felt sorry, tried to give her twenty francs for dry cleaning. That’s when she hit me over the head.

      I weave home on my bike. Kate is not happy. I’ve missed dinner and I’m drunk; how wrong can you get? I show her the paintings and it’s OK again. My wife knows what’s important.

      She saved my life once when it counted, knows I’m hers. She kisses me, really looks at the paintings; kisses me again and warms up dinner. I eat and we go to bed. It’s hard trying to be an artist, a husband and a father all at the same time. Each one requires a full lifetime and I’ve only got one, probably a short one at that. I don’t know how much I can ask of Kate and still live with myself. She doesn’t want to ask any more of me than she has to, but sometimes I know it’s hard.

      Sweik says the difference between a Dane and a Swede is you go down the hole with a Dane and leave the Swede to hold your rope up top. Nobody should ever leave me holding any rope, any time.

      THE THIN LINE OF LIFE; A ROPE

      OF WOVEN HOPES, RAVELED, WORN,

      WE HANG BY IT TILL DEATH.

      Next day, I take Sweik over to meet Lotte and help with the tunnel. Sweik goes into his very reserved, well-mannered role. Sweik is handsome in a nineteenth-century-sailor kind of way. He and Lotte will be in bed soon’s his back’s better. I can tell he’s surprised with the way she looks. Lotte looks as if she’s going to correct your grammar, straighten your tie or light a candle for your soul. I know he thinks I’m sleeping with her. Let him think, good for the imagination. I can’t say I’d really mind, but it’s too complicated; I need to conserve what little energy I have left. Besides, I don’t think Lotte’s exactly hot for this old man’s flabby body.

      My idea is to map the tunnel, find out where it goes. We’ll use a string to make measurements and a compass to measure directions. I’ll mark it on the map as we go. I tape two flashlights onto my motorcycle helmet to keep my hands free. Sweik gives me a pellet gun to shoot rats. Where the hell did he get a pellet gun? I’m feeling like Tom Sawyer but I’m not shooting any rats if I can help it. After all, it’s their tunnel.

      I climb down the ladder and start counting out on my string. I go in about two hundred feet and come to a cross-road. I see my first rat: big bastard, big as a cat; he stares at me, ruby-eyed, then scampers off.

      I go back, mark measurements and compass reading on the map with Sweik. One arm of the crossroad goes toward the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés across the boulevard; the other arm toward Saint-Sulpice. I’ll try the one to Saint-Germain.

      Lotte’s already leaning all over Sweik. Women are marvelous, have a nose for something valuable. She’ll have him in her sack soon enough, back or no back. She’ll get Sweik all fat with Salzburg cooking. Damn, I’m going to miss the weisswurst. Maybe I’ll raise the rent next month. No, I can’t do that. Maybe I can bargain something for a once-a-month meal. I have a hard time letting go. I’ve got so many strings hanging from me I’m like a three-year-old Christmas tree somebody forgot to take down.

      HOLDING ON, HOLDING BACK, HOLDING UP;

      ROBBERY, BREAKING IN, BRAKING.

      THE PAST BECOMES HEAVY; THE FUTURE

      FURTHER AWAY AND I CAN’T LET GO.

      I inch along the tunnel toward Saint-Germain. It starts dropping sharply. Maybe I’ll get the bends; should’ve brought along my canary, like a coal miner, in case of gas. I can hear traffic rumbling overhead; a Metro goes by, rattling the stones.

      Panic’s surging; I stop a minute to get my bearings. I take slow, deep breaths; whip out the old mantra for a couple of quick Kee Rings; try to think of something else except where I am. What’re they doing up there?

      Sticky cobwebs keep brushing against my face; there can’t actually be spiders in all this dark; these must be left over from the Middle Ages. Maybe secret mystic masses were held down here: Ignatius Loyola and his fighting Jesuits.

      I flash my light around; don’t see anything except more tunnel. There’s water running over the stones, and dirt’s caught in the spiderwebs. It’s warmer down here than outside. ‘OK, get on with it Scum, stop diddling.’ I reach the end of my string, a hundred meters. I check my compass, mark the spot and go back.

      I sneak up the ladder. They’re sitting on her bed. Never trust a Swede at the hole! I climb out and we work over the map again. ‘I’m up to Boulevard Saint-Germain, now; be crossing under the church next.

      I go back down and in. I find my mark, drive in a stake and tie the string to my stake. Maybe I should be dropping bread crumbs as I go along; feed the rats. I move on. The tunnel begins rising and turns to the left. There, at the turn, is a big wooden door with iron hinges and a bolt. I give the door a strong pull; it budges and dirt falls. I try two more tugs and the bolt snaps off. The door swings open on its own; the middle hinge is broken, but there are three hinges, so it holds.

      I flash my light on four steps down. Now I’m into Ali Baba’s cave. I go down slowly into a big room with cut-stone paving. I flash my light around. There are tall boxes standing against the walls. I start pacing to get the size; this room must have two hundred squares, at least.

      Holy mackerel! Those are coffins standing against the walls! Right then, one of my flashlights blinks out and I let myself sink slowly to the ground; time for a little more deep breathing; I need to take a leak, too – mostly just nervous, probably.

      The rats’-nester-scumbler mind is spinning. What a great place I could make out of this, a real rat’s nest, burrows and all. Nobody could ever find me, not even the FBI. I turn my head slowly, the flashlight cutting through the dark. There’re maybe twenty coffins around the walls. There’s also something in one corner made of wooden poles and rotted cloth.

      It might be tough renting with all the coffins; like one of those French apartments you buy already occupied – only occupied this time by a few dozen corpses.

      There’s another door in the wall to my right. I get up, go over, try it. This one’s locked tight; probably leads up to the church, straight into the tabernacle. Hey, maybe I could rent this nest to a religious freak. He’d be the first one to early mass mornings; beat the sexton, the priest, maybe even God himself. I take my leak against the wall while I’m over there.

      INSIDE, UNDER, BEHIND; I BURROW

      OUT OF LIGHT, OUT OF MIND. I DRILL

      INTO A CAST CORE OF CARBIDE HARDNESS.

      NEVER MIND.

      I go around checking coffins. They’re nailed tight; square-headed nails; wood rotten but holding. Nobody’s going to get out from any of those boxes. I’m beginning to have a hard time breathing again; too much excitement for an old man; ticker’s pounding wildly, skipping beats like a Caribbean marimba player.

      About halfway back along the string, I see something moving in the tunnel. I hit the floor without even knowing it.

      It’s Sweik; he borrowed a flashlight from Lotte. He got to worrying what the hell happened; thought maybe the rats had wrestled me to the ground. I take him back and

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