old Commune Hospital, across from the botanical garden. Breathwaite slipped past Ole Suhrs Street and paused on the corner, uncertain where he wanted to go, as a short, craggy-faced, black-haired man walked past with a German shepherd on a leash, tugging him forward. “Easy, Samson,” the man grumbled. October air slid gently through Breathwaite’s hair. Hard to believe such gentle air this time of year. The galleries and northside lakes to his left, Silver Square cafés ahead, East Park to the right. Any number of amusements available here: He could drink a sugared absinthe at Krut’s Karport just ahead and bask in the light of that sweet waitress’s smile. Or wine and a delicate selection of excellent cheeses at the Café Kaava farther down. Café Under the Clock, diagonally across, still had tables out. Rare for October. Could enjoy a thirty-crown beer there from big, quiet Hans. Try to carry it up from the basement bar yourself, and he always says, “I’ll bring it up to you.” Down in the cozy basement with the bookcase of glasses imprinted with names of the regulars. Breathwaite had never made the bookcase.
There were two museums to choose from—the Hirschsprung Collection there on Stockholms Street, sculpture outside of a small equestrian barbarian, three heads hung from his saddle. Put mine there, too. Or the National Museum, across from Brandes Place. He hadn’t been there in an age. Strange sculpture in the doorway—what was it? He’d noticed it one day last summer. Couldn’t remember, but it was strange.
But he had it in his head to go sit on a bench, so he turned toward East Park and strolled among the tree sculptures, dead of elm’s disease and transformed into art. Ought to do that with human beings. Bleach and carve the mighty bones of the dead. There stands my father’s white thigh like a narwhal tusk, pointing to the sky. And there my mother’s pelvis through the port of which you can view the reverse story of my life.
Might as well admit it now, Breathwaite: We have fucked up this world, and you did not a pin to stop it. Guilty as charged. So do I burn in hell? Does, say, Hitler burn in hell? Or not? Because if Hitler’s not burning, I must deserve a peaceful sleep.
He came at last to just the bench he sought. He sat in a dapple of sunlight through the wizening leaves and watched a pack of young men on a small field, grass still green enough, run furiously at soccer. He himself was that rare American who had managed his way through grammar and high school without ever having engaged in any manner of team sport apart from a few mandatory hours on the basketball court, a tiny bit of lacrosse, softball, soccer even. He had been agile enough and large, sought after for football, but it didn’t interest him. The spectacle of bulk smashing bulk to capture a ball. The whole idea of competing, of fighting to win a symbolic battle, had always seemed so … unnecessary. If you work hard, you will prosper; no need to try to bring the other man down.
It made him sad now to see these young men fighting together, testing themselves against and for one another, hooting, groaning, laughing, cheering. Red sweaty faces full of grin and grunt. Clapping of hands and triumphant pump of the arm: Yes! How unlike Molly’s “Yes.” The Y of YHWH.
Sport, he thought, serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. Orwell said that. It’s bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules, and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence. In other words, it is war minus the shooting.
Or what?
Maybe I was wrong.
Then he remembered, some forty years before, knocking out Hugh Powers’s teeth. That sick, pointless feeling of ugliness.
He rose, his solid black Lloyd 46s strolling him on dirt, north, toward where his youngest son lived, the only one of the three who still interested him, the only one who was making a fuck-up of his life. The others were all so … set . IT consultants, the two of
There were two museums to choose from—the Hirschsprung Collection there on Stockholms Street, sculpture outside of a small equestrian barbarian, three heads hung from his saddle. Put mine there, too. Or the National Museum, across from Brandes Place. He hadn’t been there in an age. Strange sculpture in the doorway—what was it? He’d noticed it one day last summer. Couldn’t remember, but it was strange.
But he had it in his head to go sit on a bench, so he turned toward East Park and strolled among the tree sculptures, dead of elm’s disease and transformed into art. Ought to do that with human beings. Bleach and carve the mighty bones of the dead. There stands my father’s white thigh like a narwhal tusk, pointing to the sky. And there my mother’s pelvis through the port of which you can view the reverse story of my life.
Might as well admit it now, Breathwaite: We have fucked up this world, and you did not a pin to stop it. Guilty as charged. So do I burn in hell? Does, say, Hitler burn in hell? Or not? Because if Hitler’s not burning, I must deserve a peaceful sleep.
He came at last to just the bench he sought. He sat in a dapple of sunlight through the wizening leaves and watched a pack of young men on a small field, grass still green enough, run furiously at soccer. He himself was that rare American who had managed his way through grammar and high school without ever having engaged in any manner of team sport apart from a few mandatory hours on the basketball court, a tiny bit of lacrosse, softball, soccer even. He had been agile enough and large, sought after for football, but it didn’t interest him. The spectacle of bulk smashing bulk to capture a ball. The whole idea of competing, of fighting to win a symbolic battle, had always seemed so … unnecessary. If you work hard, you will prosper; no need to try to bring the other man down.
It made him sad now to see these young men fighting together, testing themselves against and for one another, hooting, groaning, laughing, cheering. Red sweaty faces full of grin and grunt. Clapping of hands and triumphant pump of the arm: Yes! How unlike Molly’s “Yes.” The Y of YHWH.
Sport, he thought, serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. Orwell said that. It’s bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules, and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence. In other words, it is war minus the shooting.
Or what?
Maybe I was wrong.
Then he remembered, some forty years before, knocking out Hugh Powers’s teeth. That sick, pointless feeling of ugliness.
He rose, his solid black Lloyd 46s strolling him on dirt, north, toward where his youngest son lived, the only one of the three who still interested him, the only one who was making a fuck-up of his life. The others were all so … set . IT consultants, the two of
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