Three by Cain: Serenade, Love's Lovely Counterfeit, the Butterfly (21 page)

I made some records, went on three times a week at the opera, did another broadcast, and woke up to find I was a household institution, name, face, voice and all, from Hudson Bay to Cape Horn and back again. The spig papers, the Canadian papers, the Alaskan papers, and all the other papers began coming in by that time, and I was plastered all over them, with reviews of the broadcast, pictures of the car, and pictures of me. The plugs I wrote for the car worked, the horn worked, and all of it worked, so they had to put more ships under charter to make deliveries. Then I had to get Winston’s program ready, and began seeing him every day.

I didn’t have to see him every day to get the program up. But he dropped into my dressing room one night, the way he had done before, and it was just luck that it was raining, and she still had a hangover from the cold, and had decided to stay home. She was generally out there when I sang, and always came backstage to pick me up. There was a big mob of autograph hunters back there, and instead of locking them out while I dressed, the way I generally did, I let them in, and signed everything they shoved at me, and listened to women tell me how they had come all the way from Aurora to hear me, and
let him wait. When we walked out I apologized for it and said there was nothing I could do. “Don’t ever come around again. This isn’t Paris. Let me drop up to your hotel the morning after, and we’ll have the post-mortem then.”

“I’d love it! It’s a standing date.”

From the quick way he said it, and the fact that he had never once asked me where I was living, or made any move to come and see me, it came to me that he knew all about Juana, just like he had known all about Gold. Then I began to have this nervous feeling, that never left me, wondering what he was going to pull next.

What I was going to do with her the night of his concert I didn’t know. She had got so she could read the papers now, and had spotted the announcement, and asked me about it. I acted like it was just another job of singing, and she didn’t pay much attention to it. Her cold was all right now, and there wasn’t a chance she would stay home on that account. I thought of telling her it was a private concert, and that I couldn’t get her in, but I knew that wouldn’t work. Going up in the cab, I told her that as I wouldn’t have to dress afterwards, it would be better if she didn’t come backstage. We’d meet in the Russian place next door. Then I could duck out quick and we’d miss the mob of handshakers. I showed it to her and she said all right, then she went in the front way and I ducked up the alley.

When I got backstage I almost fainted when I found out what he was up to. I was singing two numbers, one the aria from the Siege of Corinth for the first part of the program, the other Walter Damrosch’s Mandalay, for the second part. I had squawked on that Mandalay, because I thought it was all wrong for a symphony concert. But when he made me read it over I had to admit it was in a different class from the Speaks Mandalay, or the Prince Mandalay, or any of the other barroom Mandalays. It’s a little tone poem all by itself, a piece of real music, with all the verses in it except the bad one, about the housemaids, and each verse a little different from the others.
One reason it’s never done is that it takes a whole male chorus, but of course cost never bothered him any. He got a chorus together, and rehearsed them until they spit blood, getting a Volga-Boat-Song-dying-away effect he wanted at the end, and by the time I had gone over it with them two or three times, we had a real number out of it.

But what he was getting ready to do was have them march on in a body, before I came on, and I had to throw a fit of temperament to stop it. I raved and cursed, said it would kill my entrance, and refused to go on if he did it that way. I said they had to drift in with the orchestra after the intermission, and take their places without any march-on. But I wasn’t thinking about my entrance. What I was afraid of was that those twenty-four chorus men, marching on at a Winston Hawes concert, would be such a murderous laugh that it would tip her off to what the whole thing was about.

I peeped out before we started, and spotted her. She was sitting between an old couple, on one side, and one of the critics, alone, on the other, so it didn’t look like she would hear anything. In the intermission I peeped out again. She was still sitting there, and so was the old couple. She had sneaked a piece of chewing gum into her mouth, and was munching on that, so everything seemed to be all right, so far.

The chorus were in white ties, and they went on the way I said, and nothing happened. The orchestra played a number and Winston came off. He kidded me about my fit of temperament, and I kidded back. So long as everything was under control, I didn’t care. Then I went on. Whether it was what Damrosch wrote, or the way Winston conducted, or the tone of those horns, I don’t know, but before the opening chords had even finished, you were in India. I started, and did a good job of it. I clowned the second verse a little, but not too much. The other verses I did straight, and the temple-bell atmosphere kept getting better. When we got to the end, with the chorus dying away behind me, and me hanging above them on the high F, it was something
to hear, believe me it was. They broke out into a roar. It had been a program of modern music, most of it pretty scrappy and this was the first thing they had heard that really stuck to their ribs. I took two calls, had the chorus stand, came off, and they called me out again. Then Winston did something that’s not done, and that he wouldn’t have done for anybody on earth but me. He decided to repeat it.

A repeat is something you do mechanically, God knows why. You’ve done it once, you’ve scored with it, and the second time out you do it with your mouth, but your head has already gone home. I went through with it, got every laugh I had got before, coasted along without a hitch. I hit the E flat, the chorus was right with me. I hit the F, and my heart stopped. Hanging up there, over that chorus, was the priest of Acapulco, the guy in the church, singing down the storm, croaking high mass to make the face on the cross stop looking at him. “Who is these man?”

We were in the cab going down, and it was like the whisper you hear from a coiled rattlesnake.

“What man?”

“I think you know, yes.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“You have been with a man.”

“I’ve been with plenty of men. I see men all day long. Do I have to stay with you all the time? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I no speak of man you see all day long. I speak of man you love. Who is these man?”

“Oh, I’m a fairy, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, thanks. I didn’t know that.”

It was a warm night, but on account of the white tie I had to wear a coat. I had been hot as hell going up, but I wasn’t hot now. I felt cold and shriveled inside. I watched the El posts going by on Third Avenue, and I could feel her there looking at me, looking at me with those hard black eyes that seemed to
bore through me. We got out of the cab, and went on up to the apartment. I put the silk hat in a closet, put the coat in with it, lit a cigarette, tried to shake it off, how I felt. She just sat there on the edge of the table. She had on an evening dress we had got from one of the best shops in town, and the bullfighter’s cape. Except for the look on her face, she was something out of a book.

“Why you lie to me?”

“I’m not lying.”

“You lie. I look at you, I know you lie.”

“Did I ever lie to you?”

“Yes. Once at Acapulco. You know you run away, you tell me no. When you want, you lie.”

“We went over that. I meant to run away, and you knew what I meant. Lying, that was just how we got over it easy. Then when I found out what you meant to me, I didn’t lie. That’s all … what the hell squwk have you got? You were all ready to sleep with that son-of-a-bitch—”

“I no lie.”

“What has this got to do with Acapulco?”

“Yes, it is the same. Now you love man, you lie.”

“I don’t—Christ, do I
look
like that?”

“No. You no look like that. We meet in Tupinamba, yes? And you no look like that I like, much, how you look. Then you make
lotería
for me, and lose
lotería
. And I think, how sweet. He have lose, but he like me so much he make
lotería
. Then I send
muchacha
with address, and we go home, go where I live. But then I know. You know how I know?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. It’s not true.”

“I know when you sing. Hoaney, I was street girl, love man, three pesos. Little dumb
muchacha
, no can read, no can write, understand nothing like that. But of man—
all.…
Hoaney, these man who love other man, they can do much, very clever. But no can sing. Have no
toro
in high voice, no
grrr
that frighten little
muchacha
, make heart beat fast. Sound like old woman, like cow, like priest.”

She began to walk around. My hands were clammy and my
lips felt numb. “… Then the
politico
, he say I should open house, and I think of you. I think maybe, with these man, no like
muchacha
, have no trouble. We got to Acapulco. Rain come, we go in church. You take me. I no want, I think of
sacrilegio
, but you take me. Oh, much
toro
. I like. I think maybe Juana make mistake. Then you sing, oh, my heart beat very fast.”

“Just a question of toro, hey?”

“No. You ask me to come with you. I come. I love you much. I no think of
toro
. Just a little bit. Then in New York I feel, I feel something fonny. I think you think about
contrato
, all these thing. But is not the same. Tonight I know. I make no mistake. When you love Juana, you sing nice, much
toro
. When you love man—why you lie to me? You think I no
hear?
You think I no
know?”

If she had taken a whip to me I couldn’t have answered her. She began to cry, and fought it back. She went in the other room, and pretty soon she came out. She had changed her dress and put on a hat. She was carrying the valise in one hand and the fur coat in the other. “I no live with man who love other man. I no live with man who lie. I—”

The phone rang. “—Ah!”

She ran in and answered. “Yes, he is here.”

She came out, her eyes blazing and her white teeth showing behind something that was between a laugh and a snarl. “Mr. Hawes.”

I didn’t say anything and I didn’t move. “Yes, Mr. Hawes, the
director.”
She gave a rasping laugh and put on the god-damdest imitation of Winston you ever saw, the walk, the stick, and all the rest of it so you almost thought he was in front of you. “Yes, your sweetie, he wait at telephone, talk to him please.”

When I still sat there, she jumped at me like a tiger, shook me till I could feel my teeth rattling, and then ran in to the telephone. “What you want with Mr. Sharp, please? … Yes, yes, he will come.… Yes, thank you much. Goodbye.”

She came out again. “Now, please you go. He have party, want you very much. Now, go to your sweetie. Go! Go! Go!”

She shook me again, jerked me out of the chair, tried to push me out the door. She grabbed up the valise and the fur coat again. I ran in the bedroom, flopped on the bed, pulled the pillow over my head. I wanted to shut it out, the whole horrible thing she had showed me, where she had ripped the cover off my whole life, dragged out what was down there all the time. I screwed my eyes shut, kept pulling the pillow around my ears. But one thing kept slicing up at me, no matter what I did. It was the fin of that shark.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. I was on my back after a while, staring at nothing. It was dead quiet outside, and dead still, except for the searchlight from the building on Fourteenth Street, that kept going around and around. I kept telling myself she was crazy, that voice is a matter of palate, sinus, and throat, that Winston had no more to do with what happened to me in Paris than the scenery had. But here it was, starting on me again the same way it had before, and I knew she had called it on me the way it was written in the big score, and that no pillow or anything else could shut it out. I closed my eyes, and I was going down under the waves, with something coming up at me from below. Panic caught me then. I hadn’t heard her go out, and I called her. I waited, and called again. There wasn’t any answer. My head was under the pillow again pretty soon, and I must have slept because I woke up with the same horrible dream, that I was in the water, going down, and this thing was coming at me. I sat up, and there she was, on the edge of her bed, looking at me. It was gray outside. “Christ, you’re there.” But some kind of a sob jerked out as I said it, and I put out my hand and took hers.

“It’s all true.”

She came over, sat down beside me, stroked my hair, held my hand. “Tell me. You no lie, I no fight.”

“There’s nothing to tell.… Every man has got five per cent of that in him, if he meets the one person that’ll bring it out, and I did, that’s all.”

“But you love other man. Before.”

“No, the same one, here, in Paris, all over, the one son-of-a-bitch that’s been the curse of my life.”

“Sleep now. Tomorrow, you give me little bit money, I go back to Mexico—”

“No! Don’t you know what I’m trying to tell you? That’s out! I hate it! I’ve been ashamed of it, I’ve tried to shake it off, I hoped you would never find out, and now it’s over!”

I was holding her to me. She began stroking my hair again, looking down in my eyes. “You love me, Hoaney?”

“Don’t you know it? Yes. If I never said so, it was just because—did we have to say it? If we felt it, wasn’t that a hell of a sight more?”

All of a sudden she broke from me, shoved the dress down from her shoulder, slipped the brassiere and shoved a nipple in my mouth. “Eat. Eat much. Make big
toro!”

“I know now, my whole life comes from there.”

“Yes, eat.”

C H A P T E R