twelve-year-old girl in those woods once. Mentally. Well—Keep Maine Green.”
In the airport, he hoisted the bag Buddy had insisted on sending him from the safari place where he had bought Bunty’s presents ever since the thirteenth birthday one—a Camping Companion, otherwise a knife with variously notched blades and many pocket-tools on the side, whose total claimed uses were a minimum of thirty-nine. “No bar mitzvah,” Buddy said. “But from now on, you’re a pioneer.” Beginning to count, from corkscrew to thimble, tiny slide rule to measuring cups, nailfile, pliers and compass, his son had wondered whether his success with Paulina showed. The knife had been stolen from him somewhere back, maybe in the government bar in Amsterdam—El Paradiso—where he had spent a lot of time. But he could still tally its uses, even after he’d lost it, though never getting beyond the guaranteed number. Maybe Tarzan had taken it.
He tucked his head in his chest now and said an admonishing string of syllables to himself; though K-k-k and the concentration camps had gone, the impulse or tic had kept on—some nonsense-score that his subconscious kept. Now and then one of these phrases endured long enough for him to link its language with himself more definitely, as people did their dreams. He thought the habit might come from his Catholic heritage, confessive to the end—though it might just as well be a kind of Jewish “touch wood.” Once a girl he’d spend a lot of time with, Jasmin Straight—on marital leave from a psychiatrist elsewhere in New York, but going back—had been sharp enough to notice, and they had spent an afternoon making up fake examples of these blurtings out, for both her and him, and guessing at them in turn. “Bill made” turned out to be the day she had charged an expensive dress to her husband, and first cuckolded him; “Blood Soy” was when he thought of Vietnam in a Chinese restaurant. But when Jasmin got out of bed, tucking her chin in her chest in mock of him, she’d leaned over him with a last one she wouldn’t explain. “Uh-uh, too worthy a guilt.” Though he took her back to bed, he never wormed it out of her.
He was home now. Where the non-repetition of people in his life could still so worry him, the way they jogged companionably alongside, or intensely, then vanished only to reappear—in the African shadows of a dream, a plain American face mask-hanging—or in daytime memory a Tenniel cat in the trees. The worst was when you saw the face within a strange face, as he had seen Jasmin’s once. But he had a vow that if he were ever to meet again any of these discards that had been winnowed out of the catalogue, it would have to be by the chance that would then be destiny. He would never call Jasmin up. Even though he still wanted to believe that, beginning with the beginning—after that he would take it on trust—his fate would be to re-encounter them all.
H E SAW BUDDY AT the gate, feeling his own pride in him. Little fellow you’d never catch wearing elevator shoes. Or those two-hundred-dollar elephant-hide ones either. The car that drew up for them had a chauffeur in it, but wasn’t a limousine. Since Buddy had become an investment broker without leaving off being a lawyer, and had subsequently become a consultant without leaving off being a broker—after which Bunt was unsure of the details except that Buddy would never leave anything behind—his father had taken on the style of business money with real money, wherever this saved him time, but always kept the style subservient—like making the chauffeur-hire give him a smaller car. And he had never been persuaded—how Maeve had tried!—to make his success physical to himself.
Sitting by his father on the familiar way in from Kennedy, his excitement grew; this time he knew why. The city demanded conclusions of him. False or true didn’t matter; he’d lived in sight of its demands all his life. First came the
In the airport, he hoisted the bag Buddy had insisted on sending him from the safari place where he had bought Bunty’s presents ever since the thirteenth birthday one—a Camping Companion, otherwise a knife with variously notched blades and many pocket-tools on the side, whose total claimed uses were a minimum of thirty-nine. “No bar mitzvah,” Buddy said. “But from now on, you’re a pioneer.” Beginning to count, from corkscrew to thimble, tiny slide rule to measuring cups, nailfile, pliers and compass, his son had wondered whether his success with Paulina showed. The knife had been stolen from him somewhere back, maybe in the government bar in Amsterdam—El Paradiso—where he had spent a lot of time. But he could still tally its uses, even after he’d lost it, though never getting beyond the guaranteed number. Maybe Tarzan had taken it.
He tucked his head in his chest now and said an admonishing string of syllables to himself; though K-k-k and the concentration camps had gone, the impulse or tic had kept on—some nonsense-score that his subconscious kept. Now and then one of these phrases endured long enough for him to link its language with himself more definitely, as people did their dreams. He thought the habit might come from his Catholic heritage, confessive to the end—though it might just as well be a kind of Jewish “touch wood.” Once a girl he’d spend a lot of time with, Jasmin Straight—on marital leave from a psychiatrist elsewhere in New York, but going back—had been sharp enough to notice, and they had spent an afternoon making up fake examples of these blurtings out, for both her and him, and guessing at them in turn. “Bill made” turned out to be the day she had charged an expensive dress to her husband, and first cuckolded him; “Blood Soy” was when he thought of Vietnam in a Chinese restaurant. But when Jasmin got out of bed, tucking her chin in her chest in mock of him, she’d leaned over him with a last one she wouldn’t explain. “Uh-uh, too worthy a guilt.” Though he took her back to bed, he never wormed it out of her.
He was home now. Where the non-repetition of people in his life could still so worry him, the way they jogged companionably alongside, or intensely, then vanished only to reappear—in the African shadows of a dream, a plain American face mask-hanging—or in daytime memory a Tenniel cat in the trees. The worst was when you saw the face within a strange face, as he had seen Jasmin’s once. But he had a vow that if he were ever to meet again any of these discards that had been winnowed out of the catalogue, it would have to be by the chance that would then be destiny. He would never call Jasmin up. Even though he still wanted to believe that, beginning with the beginning—after that he would take it on trust—his fate would be to re-encounter them all.
H E SAW BUDDY AT the gate, feeling his own pride in him. Little fellow you’d never catch wearing elevator shoes. Or those two-hundred-dollar elephant-hide ones either. The car that drew up for them had a chauffeur in it, but wasn’t a limousine. Since Buddy had become an investment broker without leaving off being a lawyer, and had subsequently become a consultant without leaving off being a broker—after which Bunt was unsure of the details except that Buddy would never leave anything behind—his father had taken on the style of business money with real money, wherever this saved him time, but always kept the style subservient—like making the chauffeur-hire give him a smaller car. And he had never been persuaded—how Maeve had tried!—to make his success physical to himself.
Sitting by his father on the familiar way in from Kennedy, his excitement grew; this time he knew why. The city demanded conclusions of him. False or true didn’t matter; he’d lived in sight of its demands all his life. First came the
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