The way things go, though, he was a stocky five three or
four--no more than that. His hair was blue-black, his hair-line
extremely low, his nose was large and fleshy, and his torso was just
about as long as his legs were. In his leather windbreaker, his
shoulders were powerful, but narrow and sloping. At the time,
however, it seemed to me that in the Chief all the most photogenic
features of Buck Jones, Ken Maynard, and Tom Mix had been smoothly
amalgamated.
Every
afternoon, when it got dark enough for a losing team to have an
excuse for missing a number of infield popups or end-zone passes, we
Comanches relied heavily and selfishly on the Chief's talent for
storytelling. By that hour, we were usually an overheated, irritable
bunch, and we fought each other--either with our fists or our shrill
voices--for the seats in the bus nearest the Chief. (The bus had two
parallel rows of straw seats. The left row had three extra seats--the
best in the bus--that extended as far forward as the driver's
profile.) The Chief climbed into the bus only after we had settled
down. Then he straddled his driver's seat backward and, in his reedy
but modulated tenor voice, gave us the new installment of "The
Laughing Man." Once he started narrating, our interest never
flagged. "The Laughing Man" was just the right story for a
Comanche. It may even have had classic dimensions. It was a story
that tended to sprawl all over the place, and yet it remained
essentially portable. You could always take it home with you and
reflect on it while sitting, say, in the outgoing water in the
bathtub.
The
only son of a wealthy missionary couple, the Laughing Man was
kidnapped in infancy by Chinese bandits. When the wealthy missionary
couple refused (from a religious conviction) to pay the ransom for
their son, the bandits, signally piqued, placed the little fellow's
head in a carpenter's vise and gave the appropriate lever several
turns to the right. The subject of this unique experience grew into
manhood with a hairless, pecan-shaped head and a face that featured,
instead of a mouth, an enormous oval cavity below the nose. The nose
itself consisted of two flesh-sealed nostrils. In consequence, when
the Laughing Man breathed, the hideous, mirthless gap below his nose
dilated and contracted like (as I see it) some sort of monstrous
vacuole. (The Chief demonstrated, rather than explained, the Laughing
Man's respiration method.) Strangers fainted dead away at the sight
of the Laughing Man's horrible face. Acquaintances shunned him.
Curiously enough, though, the bandits let him hang around their
headquarters--as long as he kept his face covered with a pale-red
gossamer mask made out of poppy petals. The mask not only spared the
bandits the sight of their foster son's face, it also kept them
sensible of his whereabouts; under the circumstances, he reeked of
opium.
Every
morning, in his extreme loneliness, the Laughing Man stole off (he
was as graceful on his feet as a cat) to the dense forest surrounding
the bandits' hideout. There he befriended any number and species of
animals: dogs, white mice, eagles, lions, boa constrictors, wolves.
Moreover, he removed his mask and spoke to them, softly, melodiously,
in their own tongues. They did not think him ugly.
(It
took the Chief a couple of months to get that far into the story.
From there on in, he got more and more high-handed with his
installments, entirely to the satisfaction of the Comanches.)
The
Laughing Man was one for keeping an ear to the ground, and in no time
at all he had picked up the bandits' most valuable trade secrets. He
didn't think much of them, though, and briskly set up his own, more
effective system. On a rather small scale at first, he began to
free-lance around the Chinese countryside, robbing, highjacking,
murdering when absolutely necessary. Soon his ingenious criminal
methods, coupled with his singular love of fair play, found him a
warm place in the nation's heart. Strangely enough, his
four--no more than that. His hair was blue-black, his hair-line
extremely low, his nose was large and fleshy, and his torso was just
about as long as his legs were. In his leather windbreaker, his
shoulders were powerful, but narrow and sloping. At the time,
however, it seemed to me that in the Chief all the most photogenic
features of Buck Jones, Ken Maynard, and Tom Mix had been smoothly
amalgamated.
Every
afternoon, when it got dark enough for a losing team to have an
excuse for missing a number of infield popups or end-zone passes, we
Comanches relied heavily and selfishly on the Chief's talent for
storytelling. By that hour, we were usually an overheated, irritable
bunch, and we fought each other--either with our fists or our shrill
voices--for the seats in the bus nearest the Chief. (The bus had two
parallel rows of straw seats. The left row had three extra seats--the
best in the bus--that extended as far forward as the driver's
profile.) The Chief climbed into the bus only after we had settled
down. Then he straddled his driver's seat backward and, in his reedy
but modulated tenor voice, gave us the new installment of "The
Laughing Man." Once he started narrating, our interest never
flagged. "The Laughing Man" was just the right story for a
Comanche. It may even have had classic dimensions. It was a story
that tended to sprawl all over the place, and yet it remained
essentially portable. You could always take it home with you and
reflect on it while sitting, say, in the outgoing water in the
bathtub.
The
only son of a wealthy missionary couple, the Laughing Man was
kidnapped in infancy by Chinese bandits. When the wealthy missionary
couple refused (from a religious conviction) to pay the ransom for
their son, the bandits, signally piqued, placed the little fellow's
head in a carpenter's vise and gave the appropriate lever several
turns to the right. The subject of this unique experience grew into
manhood with a hairless, pecan-shaped head and a face that featured,
instead of a mouth, an enormous oval cavity below the nose. The nose
itself consisted of two flesh-sealed nostrils. In consequence, when
the Laughing Man breathed, the hideous, mirthless gap below his nose
dilated and contracted like (as I see it) some sort of monstrous
vacuole. (The Chief demonstrated, rather than explained, the Laughing
Man's respiration method.) Strangers fainted dead away at the sight
of the Laughing Man's horrible face. Acquaintances shunned him.
Curiously enough, though, the bandits let him hang around their
headquarters--as long as he kept his face covered with a pale-red
gossamer mask made out of poppy petals. The mask not only spared the
bandits the sight of their foster son's face, it also kept them
sensible of his whereabouts; under the circumstances, he reeked of
opium.
Every
morning, in his extreme loneliness, the Laughing Man stole off (he
was as graceful on his feet as a cat) to the dense forest surrounding
the bandits' hideout. There he befriended any number and species of
animals: dogs, white mice, eagles, lions, boa constrictors, wolves.
Moreover, he removed his mask and spoke to them, softly, melodiously,
in their own tongues. They did not think him ugly.
(It
took the Chief a couple of months to get that far into the story.
From there on in, he got more and more high-handed with his
installments, entirely to the satisfaction of the Comanches.)
The
Laughing Man was one for keeping an ear to the ground, and in no time
at all he had picked up the bandits' most valuable trade secrets. He
didn't think much of them, though, and briskly set up his own, more
effective system. On a rather small scale at first, he began to
free-lance around the Chinese countryside, robbing, highjacking,
murdering when absolutely necessary. Soon his ingenious criminal
methods, coupled with his singular love of fair play, found him a
warm place in the nation's heart. Strangely enough, his
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