Authors: William Styron
I heard Poppy’s voice, close by us down the slope now, cross and annoyed: “Goodness, Cass Kinsolving, if you can’t find anything to hate better than those movie stars, running on like that. Mr. Leverett is tired and upset and wants to go up the hill. I
told
you about drinking all that wine on a hot day like this—”
“Look, Leverett,” Cass went on, “am I boring you? Do you want to see faces, real
faces?
Are you going to be here for a while? Let me take you back to Tramonti sometime. There are faces there right out of the twelfth century. I’ll show you a face so proud and tragic and full of mortal splendor that you’ll think you had stumbled on Isaiah himself. More! Back there—”
“Hush!” I heard Poppy say, stamping her foot. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Cass Kinsolving. Why are you
acting
like this—”
“You know,” he said, “there’s an old witch back there makes ninety lire
a day,
hauling stakes for the vineyard on her back. Ninety lire! Fifteen cents! On her back! I want you to see her face. She’s got a face like something out of Grünewald, with this agony, you see, twisted perpetually on her lips so mean and gray that it’s like some living lamentation—”
“Stop
it now!” Poppy shrilled. “You’re such a
bore,
Cass, when you drink all that wine! And you’re going to ruin your
ulcer!
Mr. Leverett, just ignore him. What I was asking you is this: will you please ask Rosemarie de Laframboise to lend us Francesca for the evening? Felicia has a cold and I want to put her
right
to bed and I want Francesca to help out.”
“Yes—” I began, but as I spoke, my warm languid sense of beauty swept away from me, replaced by a sickening feeling like terror.
Oh God not again,
I thought,
not again.
Because I realized that that hurrying, ominous noise I had heard buzzing in my ears was not a trick; it was real and full of peril, and was now almost on top of us. Ear-racking explosions rent the dusk. “Watch out!” I yelled. “Out of the road!” But it was too late. A gray-green blur surmounted by two crouched figures—a black-haired man hugged close behind by a girl in fluttering red pants—the motorscooter was already among us with a roar, sending Cass and Poppy in startled leaps to the fenders of the car, and children flying like wind-blown scraps of paper in all directions. “You fool!” Cass cried, but again too late. The motorscooter shot on headlong past us, in full-throttled acceleration discharging flatulent backfires of smoke, the girl’s shiny red hips cantering with equestrian, rhythmical bounces to the rocking machine as it vanished at the curve. As we turned then in alarm to the side of the road, Nicky was still pinwheeling around as if sideswiped or clipped, and then he sprawled out on his face in the gutter.
Poppy fled to his side. “Nicky! Nicky!” she screamed. “Look up at Mother!”
I knew I had seen this before; abruptly—and I am certain for the first time in my life—I believed in the existence of hell.
“Speak to me!” she wailed.
At once we heard a cheerful voice. “I’m all right, Mummy. I just fa’ down.”
Then over Poppy’s hoarse little sobs of relief, I heard myself telling Cass : “See what I mean about these Italians? They’re sick! They—”
Cass stopped me with an imperious signal, and a gesture with his wine bottle.
“Don’t get yourself in a spasm, my friend,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t no Italian. That was one of the flicker creeps. I think he comes from Ioway.”
2
“It was one bitch of a day,” said Cass. “A bleeding monstrosity.”
I agreed that it was. I had told him—in detail, for the first time —about my collision with di Lieto and all the rest. And from time to time he would mop his brow, sweating in the Carolina sun. Then recalling the way I looked, he had laughed in high uproarious knee-slapping laughter, so loud and long that I began to laugh too, possibly aware for the first time of the humor even in that straggling debut; and finally, when we had laughed ourselves out and our mirth chuckled itself down into a kind of ruminative quiet, he said: “I know it wasn’t funny then. It wasn’t funny at all. But Lord, boy, you should have seen yourself. You looked like a big scared bird.”
“But did you—” I began, then halted, not knowing what else to say. Here we sat, as we had off and on for two days, in a skiff in the middle of the Ashley River, fishing for channel bass. And though he, who had most of the answers, had told me next to nothing, I had told him a lot—I who had nothing to tell. It was hot, and sand gnats skittered about our heads; in place of his beret, which somehow in my memory had seemed a stock cartoon headpiece of the American expatriate, he wore a floppy straw against the blazing noon. This and a pair of old Marine Corps dungarees bleached to the shade of dried grass comprised his angling costume. The heat had misted up his glasses, and he was barefooted. He chewed on a fat cigar, molasses-brown, half-smoked, and unlit.
“Toadfish,” he said with a snort, yanking aboard a pop-eyed struggling fish, flapping and burping. “Nothing more miserable God ever made. Swallow a couple yards of line in two seconds. Swallow your hand if you’d let him.” He threw the fish back, alive. “Don’t come mooching around here again, toad,” he said to the fish. “Rather hook a water moccasin,” he went on, “almost anything. Look out there. See where the tide rips there? Spot. You got spot up your way, don’t you? Drop a line in there and you’d be dragging fish in for six hours. Don’t need no bait at all. Mighty poor sport indeed, though. One time last July I went out with Poppy and we could have gotten a bushel basket of spot in half an hour. They’re all bones, though, just nothing but bones and only a mouthful.” He rebaited his hook and cast out the line again, squinting against the light. The river shores were immensities of shade —water oak and cypress and cedar; the heat and the stillness were like a narcotic. “September’s a good month for this kind of fishing,” he said after a long spell of silence. “Look over there, over those trees there. Look at that sky. Did you ever see anything so
clean
and beautiful?” I had never heard the word “clean” spoken with such passion; it had the quality of an offertory or a prayer. He seemed to sense this and, as if to cover up, said: “Un-unh, it wasn’t really funny, was it? The guy. Di Lieto, that his name? You say that he’s still—what?—
out?”
“Cold as stone,” I said. “In a coma. At least he was that way six months ago. I get a letter from this hospital in Naples every now and then. A nun there, she writes me.”
“Ah merciful Jesus,” he whispered. “So that would make it—how long?
Two years
for the poor bugger. You think he’ll ever pull out of it?”
“I don’t know. Some people have been known to be out five, ten years—even more. I’ve talked to doctors—friends, you know —and they say it’s entirely possible, but don’t bank on it. I send a little money every now and then.”
“So it’s not your fault.” He paused again, and now this swift and vagrant look of sorrow, which I was to notice so many times when I was with him, traveled across his face: it was just a flicker, no more, reflecting loss, regret, yet an infinity of remembered pain. Then it was gone as quickly as it had come, and his face was all repose again, and peace, and wrinkled forbearance and calm. “So it’s not your fault,” he said again. “But you suffer over it. You’re bound to. You suffer over things like that and you can shake—believe me—you can shake at the whole universe like a madman, hollering for an answer, and all you’ll get is this here little snicker. Which is God, or somebody, telling you to keep a stiff upper lip.
Dio buono!
There ain’t—
Hooboy,
watch it! You got a bite!”
But the fish already had wriggled itself off my hook. “Prob’ly a crab,” said Cass, “or an eel.” He looked at the sky. “Must be around twelve-thirty,” he murmured. “Poppy’s just about getting lunch ready, I reckon.”
“But what I could never understand,” I said, getting back to the main topic, “what seemed to me so incredible was not so much what he did at first. Rape. That was right down Mason’s alley, you know.” I halted. “No, maybe not that kind of rape. I couldn’t imagine him going that far. Sadism, you know. Killing and all the rest. But the rape itself was at least believable. What I just couldn’t figure out was this—well, what must have been this remorse of his. The remorse and then what must have been the final courage or guts or something to finish himself off like that in one last act of atonement. You know, it takes—”
“Suicide?” Cass put in. He removed the cigar from his teeth and squinted at me, making a thin smile. “It does not take anything whatsoever, my friend. Maybe desperation. Guts is the last thing it takes.” He gazed at me, not without humor, shrewd, tugging gently at his line. “It don’t take courage, guts, or anything else. You’re talking to a man that knows. Goddam gnats,” he said, slapping.
He had said something like that only the day before; it puzzled me then as it puzzled me now, but again, as at that moment, he allowed me no time to ponder it: almost as if he felt he had let slip something he should not have said, he went on with a question, shoving Mason aside and interrogating
me:
“What happened to your car, anyway? It was a crazy fantastic mess. Did you ever get it fixed?”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t have time. Remember how—well, you know it wasn’t more than a few hours after that when all hell broke loose. It was monstrous, you know. I arrive in that kind of state, shattered anyway. Then the next day Mason’s dead. After that I didn’t care. I sold it to Windgasser for junk. Just before I flew back to New York. I think he gave me a hundred dollars for it.”
“You mean our old sweet
padron di casa
Fausto?” He chuckled. “Now wouldn’t you just know. Swear to God, on doomsday that guy will be scalping tickets for the seats front and center, including his own. I’ll bet he fixed that wreck up and made six hundred percent on the deal.” He chuckled again and fell silent. Then after a bit he said: “Tell me this, boy. Just how drunk was I that day, down there on the road? I mean when we ran into each other.” His gaze upon me was so solemn that I began to fidget.
I started to say something but he broke in: “I mean the reason I ask, you see, is because somewhere along the line there everything just plain blacked out for me. Everything. Then it was the wee hours and I was in the shower and you were trying to sober me up. Everything between is a complete bare-assed blank. I’m trying to pin down the time when everything blanked.”
“I don’t know,” I said, straining once again for memory. “Hell, you didn’t seem so drunk. Well, as I say, you did get wound up finally and started haranguing me about some of those movie stars, but I’ll swear even then you didn’t seem—”
“Mamma mi’!”
he cried suddenly, in a cackle of laughter. “Those outrageous preening Hollywood puffheads! I’d almost forgotten about them. What the hell were they doing there? Oh yes—Jesus, it all comes back! That watered-down Humphrey Bogart type—what was his name again? Burns! And that dream-doll, Alice Adair, with the tiny little brain. And Cripps—yes, I remember him.” He turned, grinning, lined crinkled face rosy with amusement. “You know, the more I think about it the happier I am that you came down here. I was so unmercifully drunk. And now here you are, like some private seeing-eye, taking me back through the blind spots. I mean it.”
“That director,” I said. “Cripps. He was on your side, you know. All the way.”
“I know it,” he said reflectively, scratching his chin. “I wish—” But then again, as if with a sudden onslaught of private, hidden sorrow, his face shadowed over and he fell silent. “Blues,” he said wistfully, after a while. “That’s what we should be trying to catch. Bluefish as big as your thigh, up in North Carolina. There’s a place called Oregon Inlet where they are as thick as fleas. And each one’s mighty good sport, you know. One time when I was a kid me and my uncle went up there on a kind of week end, and got us a boat, and we hauled blues in until I swear my hands got scraped plumb raw—”
“But you know when I first saw you there on the road,” I said with some persistence now, “one thing I remember almost the most was when Poppy said something to me. About, well—” I paused. “Correct me if I’m wrong. She was really upset, you see, and she said something about Mason I think
dominating
you… .”
As usual (and I should have foreseen it) it was as if I were a radio which he snapped off gently, courteously, but with absolute and final determination: about Mason he would utter scarcely a word. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t know about that. It wasn’t really as bad as it looked, you might say.” His eyes went skyward. “Getting late, you know.” And with that we pulled in our lines, Cass started the outboard, and we put-putted back to shore for lunch.
I had looked forward to a week end at most. Yet, risking my job by overextending my vacation (several telegrams went to New York later, proclaiming sudden illness), I stayed for more than two weeks. No doubt it was his native generosity, the mannerly long-suffering hospitality of a fellow southerner, which allowed Cass to put up with my barging in on him as I did—that, and perhaps the fact that I had, after all, done him one or two favors in Sam-buco. But I was not asking for repayment. Generosity, hospitality, kindness—these were a part of his nature, and that we liked each other goes without saying; but the understanding and harmony that grew up between us and drew us together came from another source. I realized it soon: deep down and for reasons I couldn’t fathom, he had his own private riddles to solve and untangle. And just as I thought that he could clear up my oppressive mysteries, so he saw in me the key to his own.
I had offered to stay at a hotel. Cass wouldn’t have it. “We’re not exactly waxing fat off capital gains,” he said, “but we sure as hell can give you a sack.” My share of the groceries, however, he allowed me to buy. I slept in a mildew-smelling attic high up under the eaves of the rambling, desperately run-down and creaking old house he had near the Battery, and each morning I awoke to the sound of his children stampeding below, and Poppy shrilling after them as she got them set for school; for a bachelor it was an oddly pleasant and familial sound, and I would lie there for a while, listening, until this noise diminished finally, mingling with the soft Negro chanting of flower peddlers on the cobbled lanes outside. Directly below, I could hear Cass clumping around in the room where he painted every morning. Around my window the scent of jasmine bloomed, mockingbirds caroled in the garden, and, propped on my elbow, wide awake now, I would look down on the leafy sun-speckled unblemished streets of one of the loveliest towns in the western world.
“It just plain
is”
said Cass. “Funny thing, you know, in Europe there sometimes, when everything got as low as it could get for me, and I was hating America so much that I couldn’t even contain my hatred—why even then I’d get to thinking about Charleston. About how I’d like to go back there and live. It almost never was North Carolina, or the pinewoods up there in Columbus County where I was brought up. I didn’t want to go back there and I sure as hell didn’t want to go back to New York. It was Charleston I remembered, straight out of these memories I had when I was a boy. And here I am.” He pointed across the wide harbor, radiant and gray-green and still as glass, then in an arc around the lower edge of the town where the old homes, deep in shade, in hollyhock and trumpet vine and bumblebees, had been defiled by no modish alteration, no capricious change. “You’ll search a long way for that kind of purity,” he said. “Look at that brickwork. Why, one of those houses is worth every cantilevered, picturewindowed doghouse in the state of New Jersey.”
We fished and we swam. Swimming with Cass was a passion; he was like a porpoise, and gulping bubbles arose where he vanished for interminable moments. Often we rowed in Cass’ skiff with the blond and bright-eyed children. But most of all we talked. Luck, as it turned out, was with us. The painting class he taught ("It’s not like having shares in General Electric,” he said, “but you’d be surprised at how well you can do, if you work at it.") had closed for the summer, his part-time job at the cigar factory had folded, and there was this interim space in which to take it easy. “I only took that job to get free cigars,” he told me, “which I’ve got to have now that I’m off the booze. But it’s absolutely disgusting, you know. These cigars, they’re
homogenized.
Actually, that’s what they do: they take good smoking tobacco and squeeze it up like they were making candy and feed it into a big machine and it all comes out about as tasty as a piece of stale chewing gum. Great big blooping hunks of dog hockey. Don’t tell me these machines help mankind, boy. I ran one. I got so dreary-assed bored it near about soured me on cigars forever. Which would have been a tragedy. Most artists are oral, this head doctor told me once, and they’ve got to have
something
to chomp on.”
We shared a love for music, which helped. He had put together a hi-fi set out of parts. He was on what he described as a Buxtehude “jag” and while I was there we must have heard
“Alles was ihr tut”
fifty times.
And there were outings almost daily to the leaky and half-collapsed fishing shack on the river—sometimes just the two of us alone, sometimes with Poppy, on Saturdays and Sundays
en jamille,
conveyed there in a third-hand army-surplus jeep which Cass had bought for a hundred dollars, and in which the seven of us (eight including the colored girl, Dora) bounced together in a writhing nest of mashed toes, wails, and sticky laps. The cabin was in a grove of live oaks bluish and creepy with Spanish moss. And here on the bank or afloat on the river, half-hypnotized by the heat and stillness and the glimmering noons, we tried to make sense out of the recent past.