The Dead Father（by Donald Barthelme）

I have been elevated, in the arrangements! the Dead Father exclaimed.

Temporary happiness of the Dead Father.

And I, relegated, Thomas said. He gave Julie a straight look.

Julie returned the straight look.

The Dead Father reached for Julie's bare toe.

Please release my toe.

The Dead Father continued to grasp the toe.

Toe, he said, now there's an interesting word. Toe. Toe. Toe. Toe. Toe. A veiny toe. Red lines on toe. Succulent toe. Succulent, succulent toe. Succulent succulent succulent --

The Dead Father placed the toe in his mouth.

Thomas rapped the Dead Father sharply in the forehead, across the cloth.

Toe fell from the mouth. The Dead Father clutched his forehead.

You have rapped the Father, he said between moans. Again. You should not rap the Father. You must not rap the Father. You cannot rap the Father. Striking the sacred and holy Father is an offense of the gravest nature. Striking the noble, wise, all-giving Dead Father is --

More grebe? Julie asked.

Is there mustard? Thomas asked.

In the pot.

Have the troops fed themselves? Julie asked.

Thomas peered up the road. Cooking fires were visible.

They are eating hearty, he said, because they know what is ahead.

What is ahead? asked the Dead Father.

The Wends, Thomas said.

The Wends? What are they?

They are what is ahead.

What is peculiar about them? the Dead Father asked.

They don't like us.

He lifted his hand and rotated it languidly, representing negligence and of-no-consequence.

Don't like us? Why is that?

First, because we are armed and alien walkers through their domains. Second, because you are, in one of your aspects, a gigantic and strange and awe-inspiring object.

I do inspire awe, said the Dead Father. Better than anybody. A lifetime of it. Did I not once rule the Wends?

You did, you did, said Thomas, with an iron hand.

How is it I rule them no longer?

It is because you are slipping into the starry starry night, Julie said, together with all your works and pomps. Rule of the Wends was taken away from you in 1936.

It will be a hot thing, probably, Thomas said. Touch and go.

How many of them are there?

Near to a million, at the last census.

How many of us are there?

Twenty-three, Thomas said. Counting Edmund.

Groan from Julie.

Thomas, said the Dead Father, let us change the subject. We can talk about something interesting, giraffes for example. Or you can explain yourself. It is always interesting to hear someone explaining himself.

Let us talk about giraffes, said Thomas, when I explain myself I tend to stutter. Of course I don't know a great deal about giraffes. They are said to be very intelligent. They have beautiful eyes. They have beautiful eyelashes. Tongues extend to twenty inches. Not much of a mane. Terrific base of the neck. Low fluttering voice. Faster than a horse and can travel longer distances at speed. Can beat lion in fight using hooves unless lion gets lucky. Herds running from twenty to thirty are not uncommon each containing several males but many more females.

Thomas paused.

Only old males are excluded and live in isolation, he said.

I am offended, said the Dead Father. Again.

Then we won't talk about giraffes any more, Thomas said, I will instead explain myself.

I will give you the short form, Thomas said, the basic datatata. I was bbbbbbborn twice-twenty-less-one years ago in a great city the very city in fact from which we have subtracted you. As a new creature on the earth I was of course sent to school where I did reasonably well except where I did reasonably badly. As a child I had the necessary sicknesses seriatim a pox here a measle there broke a bone now and then just to keep in step with the others blacked an eye and had an eye blacked now and then just to keep in step with the others. I then proceeded to higher education as it is called and was educated upon by a team of masked gowned and scrubbed specialists, top performers every one. It had been decided that I would be educated up to the height of two meters and this was done over a ppppppperiod of. Next, my convalescence which was spent as was right and proper and natural and good in military service chiefly in far parts and strange climes, learning there how to salute and stamp my foot at the same time in the English wwwwwway, a skill that has been endlessly useful to me ever since. Also a certain amount of truckling, a skill that has been endlessly useful to me ever since. Also how to make friends with the mess sergeant, a skill that et cetera et cetera. Also how to dig a latrine wherein one may spend many happy and productive hours as have we all reading the great Robert Burton. Next, I returned to the educational arena and studied one of the sort-of sciences, sociology to be precise, but quickly learned that I had no talent for it. Nnnnnnext, wishing with all my heart and all my soul to be true to the aspirations and prefabrications of my generation the boys of '34 to be precise, I married. Oh, did I marry. I married and married and married moving from comedy to farce to burlesque with lightsome heart. Oh joy oh bliss oh joy oh bliss. When the bliss had blistered and the smoke had cleared I found that I had fathered, but only once, nota bene nota bene. Then a period of what I can only describ as vacancy. During this period I spent much of my time watching single-engine aircraft practicing stalls and hoping that an engine would fail so that I could see the crash. None ever did. After this I prepared to reenter the main-scream of commercial life. Superbly equipped as I was for nothing-in-particular, I fitted myself into the slot "Navaho lawgiver" but this was a flop because first I am not a Navaho and second there are as you know no Navahos in our country. Pity. I was rather good at chanting. Then I did a bit of poaching. Poached trout from government hatcheries, mostly, sorry disestimable work which dddddid nothing to raise the low esteem in which the organism held itself. I was back where I had started, in low esteem. I then spent some several years in a monastery, but was ejected for consuming too much of the product, a very fine cognac. Then I began to read philosophy.

And what did philosophy teach you? asked the Dead Father.

It taught me that I had no talent for philosophy, said Thomas, bbbbbbut --

But what?

But I think everyone should have a little philosophy, Thomas said. It helps, a little. It helps. It is good. It is about half as good as music.

8
A meeting. The men discontent. Crowded around Thomas. His orange tights, orange boots, silver belt buckle with rubies, white Sabatini shirt. His clear and true gold-rimmed spectacles. Complaints of the men: (1) Quality of the pemmican (2) That the leadership better fed, in general, than the rank and file (3) That the cable was cutting into shoulders and where were promised heavy canvas gloves? (4) Edmund (5) The rum ration could be doubled without damaging the high regard in which the rank and file held the leadership (6) What plan for dealing with possibly hostile Wends? (7) Attention of the women monopolized by the leadership (8) Edmund (9) Couldn't the women just come and talk to them sometimes? (10) That the Dead Father sometimes dead weight, sometimes live weight, variations made feasance more difficult than strictly necessary, see contract provisions D, E, and F (11) Truncation of the pornographic film and what had happened next? (12) What of wholly arbitrary and ill-considered ban on fraternization with locals in territories hayfooted/straw-footed through? (13) Nonexistence of chaplain (14) Happy birthday. It is my birthday? Thomas exclaims, astonished. Yes, men reply, today's the day, where is the party? Thomas counting on his fingers. The men watch. Yes it is my birthday, he says at length, God damn it, you are right as rain. General heehaw, battering of Thomas's back, Edmund whisks flask from hip, tilts. The Dead Father sitting in the road looking off into the far distance where fields of garlic grow. Thomas removes flask from Edmund's mouth. Julie practicing harmonica, tune "Oh, Give Me a Home Where the Buffalo Roam." Emma gazing at immense shoulder of Dead Father, speculatively. Thomas begins to answer complaints point by point. Pemmican good for you, he says. Etc. Julie puts away mouth organ, moves to side of Emma.

Give you a shirtful of sore tit.

Give you a fret in the gizzard.

I tried to tell you but you wouldn't listen.

Think I'm getting nosebleed.

Ways of dealing with them when they don't want you.

Friendship is difficult at best.

People are frightened.

They disagree with me regularly but are not disloyal to me.

Said there were various ways of handling it but I thought I could keep the lid on.

Wake up one dark night with a thumb in your eye.

Strung out like that along the hedges.

Colder weather coming and then warmer.

Since you have not as yet responded to my suggestion.

Matter of paring down to a supportable minimum.

Throw a little shit into the game.

Always darkest just before the dawn.

Take it any way you like it.

Stop being petty, stop trying to cut each other's throat.

If I pop one will you pop one?

I mean when you're feeling bad you're glad to be alive.

What is the motivation?

I can't remember.

At other times unconscious in the street.

How did that make you feel?

Intolerably angry for short periods.

Feeling is what's important.

You can lose confidence in your own experiences.

Various circumstances requiring my attention.

Something trembling in the balance.

Where can a body get a hit around here?

It's all been carefully considered.

Have you tried any of the others?

I just see whether they're friendly or unfriendly.

A week later she applied for a post in Warsaw.

As a wet nurse.

Yes, as a wet nurse. She was accepted.

They like to suck.

They do like to suck.

Worn out your welcome.

Getting very fond of you and your hands.

That's my business.

He's not bad-looking.

It's no mystery.

Why hasn't anyone had the simple decency?

It's perfectly obvious.

Probably we should have spoken up before this.

That's one way of looking at it.

Unable to take him seriously at any level.

Where can a body get a spritz around here?

That's my business.

If I pull this little white string, will you explode?

That's my business.

Then he sobs, and faints.

Does it hurt?

I can make it hot for you.

Learning to put the world together.

The white vase holding the marigolds had fallen to the floor.

The bathtub proved impossible to smash although I tried.

God knows you tried.

God knows I tried.

Dark hair across the pillow.

I can do anything when it's not important.

Very busy making the arrangements.

Will it hurt?

Large piece of white plaster fell off the wall then.

What were we eating?

Cold rolled veal.

Did we have a good time?

Scrumptious.

Will it rain again again?

Something is wrong.

You must have studied English.

The waiter was listening.

Like trying to digest a saddle.

Wake up one dark night with a kiss in your eye.

That was in Barcelona. Rounded up as a work-shy element.

Much cry and little wool.

Ready again to send his Son to die for us.

Like sending a hired substitute to the war.

I rehearsed the argument with him.

Until the scaring bell rang.

What?

Until the scaring bell rang.

What?

Spiritual aridity which was quite hard to reconcile with his surface gaiety.

In a symbiotic hug resembling that which obtains between pigeons and old ladies with bread crumbs.

Did you find the scene disgusting?

I'm not into disgust.

Thought I heard a dog barking.

Reels of 16-mm. film each with a photograph on the box suggesting the particular motif or specialty.

Until the scaring bell rang.

What?

Remembering, leaving, returning, staying.

Two is one too many.

Slept with a man once it was a very pleasant experience.

Where the buffalo roam.

In a bed.

Time to go.

No it's not.

Hair on it.

No it hasn't.

Have you tried any of the others?

Haven't made up my mind.

Dog-Whipping Day. Eighteenth of October.

I tried to tell you but you wouldn't listen.

What?

Simple, honest, generous feelings.

That's one way of looking at it.

Self-respect.

Yes I've had self-respect.

Yes I've had self-respect too it's a very good thing self-respect.

Yes I've had self-respect for a very long time.

Yes I've had it for a very long time too.

Yes I can take it or leave it.

Yes once you've had it for a very long time it doesn't make much difference any more.

You questioning my value system?

Not me.

You questioning what I swear by?

Not me I don't give a rat's ass.

A little forest or a night of dancing.

You can bank on it.

Perhaps it's medical.

Sometimes he smells medical.

Nobody ever died of it.

I've heard that.

Elegant way of putting chairs here and there.

A lady always does.

Any artist will do. Chewing red candy hearts.

And the myriad flower stalls with their bursting sun-dapple. . . of the rainbow. . . good God. I read about it. In Die Welt.

9
I wouldn't mind a drink right now, said the Dead Father. Some little something.

I could stand a drink, said Julie.

Remember the last time you had a drink, Thomas said to her.

Oh boy, she said. Yep. Sure do.

Cobwebs in my throat, said Emma.

The men look like they need a drink, said the Dead Father, shading his eyes with one hand and peering up the road.

Well, God damn it, I guess we'd better have a drink, then, said Thomas.

He signaled the men to halt. The cable loose in the road.

Julie broke out the whiskey.

What is it today? asked the Dead Father.

Aquavit with a beer chaser, she said.

Wow, said Emma, tasting her glass. Wow wow wow wow.

Yes, Julie said. It's giggles in the sphinxeries.

Quite good, said Thomas, the beer helps.

I like this drink, Emma said, this is good stuff, can I have two more?

One more, said Thomas, we have many a league to cover yet this day.

You are being stuffy. I find that quite extraordinary. You of all people.

What does that mean? Thomas asked. Me of all people?

Why are you always telling everybody what to do?

I like telling everybody what to do, Thomas said. It is a great pleasure, being boss. One of the greatest. Wouldn't you agree? he said to the Dead Father.

It is one of the best pleasures, the Dead Father said. No doubt about it. It is bang-up, but mostly we don't let people know. Mostly we downplay the pleasure. Mostly we stress the anguish. We keep the pleasure to ourselves, in our hearts. Occasionally we may show a bit of it to someone -- lift a corner of the veil, as it were. But we only do that in order to certify the pleasure to ourselves. Full disclosure is almost unheard of. Thomas is being criminally frank, in my opinion.

Emma threw down a guzzle of beer, then a guzzle of aquavit.

Okay Fat Daddy, she said, show me how to dance.

What? said the Dead Father. ;

Emma wearing blue velvet pants burnished to silver where she sits.

Do you know the Hucklebuck?

I do not.

Emma begins to demonstrate. Parts of Emma huckle-buckling in various directions.

Amazing, said the Dead Father. I remember.

Julie and Thomas watching.

It is obvious that but for a twist of fate I would be his and not yours, Julie said. Had I lived within his domains at a time when he was administering them with full heaviness of hand --

He was a goat, Thomas said, that's well known.

Goatish still. Cops a feel whenever he can.

I've noticed.

Prefers the bum, she said, a great grab he's got there.

I've observed.

And in terms of verbal rather than physical attentions, he has proposed variously a shake of the sheets, a dive in the dark, a leap up the ladder, and a goose-and-duck.

And you replied?

With harrowing sweetness, as usual. Still he has something.

Oh yes, Thomas said, he has something. I would not dream of denying it.

Authority. Fragile, yet present. He is like a bubble you do not wish to burst.

But remember there was a time when he was slicing people's ears off with a wood chisel. Two-inch blade. And remember there was a time when his voice, his plain unamplified voice, could turn your head inside out.

Hunkwash, she said, you are perpetuating myths.

The hell I am, Thomas said. It happened.

You don't appear to me to be overly hurt or damaged.

There are some times when you are not too bright, said Thomas.

Times when I am not too what?

Bright, said Thomas, there are some times when you are not too bright.

Well fuck you, she said.

Well fuck you, Thomas said, there are some times when I forget and tell the truth.

Sloppy, sloppy, she said. Self-pity monstrously unattractive.

Oh well damn well yes. I'm sorry. But I am taking action, am I not? I could as well have sat at home, worn the cap-and-bells and bought lottery tickets hoping for the twist-of-fate that would change my life.

Me, she said. Me, me.

There is that.

You and I, she said, reaching into her knapsack for a bit of bhang. Have a chew?

Not now, thanks.

You and I, she said, the two of us.

Thomas began counting on his fingers.

Yes, he said.

And Emma, she said. I've seen you looking at her.

I look at everything, Thomas said. Everything that is in front of me. Emma is in front of me. Therefore I look at Emma.

And she at you, Julie said, I've seen some gazes.

She's not bad-looking, Thomas said.

But we, you and I, care for each other, Julie said. It is a fact.

A temporary fact, said Thomas.

Temporary!

Expectoration of bhang juice (emphatic).

My God, I'm simply telling the truth, said Thomas.

Viper, she said.

I know no better soul, he said, and the body is also attractive.

Measuring, are you? A measuring man.

Julie cramming more hemp into her mouth.

You forget the decay of time, Thomas said, I never forget it.

I don't like it.

Who likes it?

I put out of mind that which is injurious to mind. You revel in it.

I do not revel in it.

The two of us, she said, damn it, can't you get this simple idea into your head? The two of us against the is.

Temporarily, said Thomas.

Oh you are a viper.

A student of decay, is all.

Julie began to unbutton her shirt.

Yes, that's a way, said Thomas. Fifteen minutes or in the best case, thirty-five.

Come crawl behind a bush with me.

With all my heart, said Thomas, but I cannot abandon what I know. One doesn't find an absolute every day.

You are an apprentice fool, she said, not even a full fool, nevertheless I will give you a little taste, because I like you. You are a lucky dog.

Thomas spoke a long paragraph to the effect that this was true.

Julie pulling at Thomas's sleeve.

Thomas and Julie underneath the bush. Thomas holding Julie's feet in his hands.

Wash feet, he said.

Yes now that you mention it, she said.

I will wash them for you if you wish.

Not necessary. I know the drill.

Washcloth, he said. That's the little blue square one.

Right.

Rough-textured.

I've seen it.

Usually damp.

I remember.

I could just put some bags on them I suppose, heavy canvas bags with locks like the Mail Department uses.

Oh misery me.

The backs of the knees are on the other hand positively lustrous.

Not too bad are they?

Nine lines and a freckle, all immaculate. Nothing to be desired. The height of.

Could an Emma do as well?

I don't know, said Thomas. I'll have to think about it.

Julie made a circle of thumb and forefinger and popped him smartly on the ball.

Anguish of Thomas.

It will pass, she said, dearly beloved, it is only temporary.

10
Edmund talking to Emma. Beam of Emma. Washing of socks in the small stream. Discussion of foot care (general). Thomas seated on the ground, back supported by tree, smoking, contemplative. Edmund telling Emma that, all things considered, she is the best. Beam of Emma. Julie and the Dead Father holding hands. Thomas smoking. The men playing whist, quoits, boccie. Terrain features being cut down to feed the fires. All the men wearing dark-blue suits with ties. Edmund wearing dark-blue suit with tie. Thomas wearing dark-blue suit with tie. The Dead Father wearing dark-blue suit with tie. Bending over spits rotating with spitted small animals. Edmund tapped on the cheek with Emma's fan. God Almighty. Emma tapped on the cheek with Edmund's thumb. God Almighty. Emma tells Edmund that he doesn't understand. Thumb not to tap cheeks with, she says. Thumb not gracile but rather stumpy, fat, she says. Index finger better if cheek is to be tapped and fan not available. Edmund fucks everything up, she says. Poor wooer, she says. May consider himself as having status of least-favored-nation, wooing-wise. Crushed Edmund. Edmund falls into flask. Thomas turns head, notices distress of Edmund. Thomas does nothing. Julie looks at Thomas and notices him doing nothing. Julie says to the Dead Father: Sometimes best to do nothing. The Dead Father replies: Maybe mostly. They continue to hold hands and the Dead Father also gropes a bare foot with the hahd that is not holding hands. Julie retracts foot. Thomas smokes. Events in the sky. Starfall scattering in the dark part. Clouds moving implacably (left to right) offstage, toward the wings. Thomas smoking. The Dead Father attempting to insert hand (left) between waistband of Julie's skirt and Julie. Repulsed (warmly). Julie takes the Dead Father's watch fob and places it in her pocket. The Dead Father smiles. A gift, he says, for you. Thank you, Julie says, thank you thank you. Thank me, says the Dead Father, I am used to it. I do thank you, Julie says, and your shoe buckles are nice too. They are nice, says the Dead Father, that is why I have them there, on my shoes, because they are nice. Both regard the Dead Father's silver shoe buckles. Thomas smoking. Edmund with most of his mouth around the mouth of the flask. Emma interviewing the men. How high are they? 6'1", 5'11", 4'2", and so forth. For my files, Emma says. Thomas smoking, scratches upper left cheekbone lightly with free fingers of left hand. Alarm arrives from the outpost. Alexander runs to Thomas. Whispers to Thomas. Thomas extinguishes cigar, rises, looks about for his sword. Finds same, buckles on sword belt, tucks orange tight (right) into top of orange boot.

The Wends are here, he said.

They hurried to the spot.

The road blockaded. The path barred. An army deployed across the way and far far up on every piece of high ground available.

Well now, said the chief Wend, aren't you a pretty sight.

Good day, Thomas said.

Julie lit a cigarette as did Emma.

Well now, the chief Wend said again, do you intend traveling more along this road?

With your permission.

Would you be hauling that great ugly thing there through the length and breadth of the country of the Wends?

Only the length, said Thomas. Not the breadth.

We don't want him, the chief Wend said. No thank you.

We hadn't in mind leaving him, said Thomas. Just passing through.

Is it what I think it is? the Wend asked.

It is the Dead Father.

That's what I thought. That's what I thought. About three thousand cubits, I'd estimate.

Thirty-two hundred.

How do you get him around bends in the road?

He is articulated.

No rigor mortis?

None.

Then he is not properly dead.

In a sense.

Has it both ways does he?

In this as in everything.

Is there an odor?

The odor of sanctimony, is all.

Excreta?

Monstrous of course.

Does he molest women?

Not exactly.

What does that mean, "not exactly"?

He tries but I restrain him.

How is that done?

Rap to the forebrain.

Does he converse and issue dicta?

Thomas did not answer.

Well, does he?

Nothing that cannot be enthusiastically ignored.

The Wend chieftain sat down in the middle of the road, cross-legged.

Tarry a bit, he said.

They sat. The nineteen. Emma. Julie. Thomas. The Dead Father.

Then the Wend army sat with a noise like land sliding.

Let me tell you about the Wends, the Wend said. We Wends are not like other people. We Wends are the fathers of ourselves.

You are?

Yes, said the Wend, that which all men have wished to be, from the very beginning, we are.

Amazing, said Thomas, how is that accomplished?

It is accomplished by being a Wend, the leader said. Wends have no wives, they have only mothers. Each Wend impregnates his own mother and thus fathers himself. We are all married to our mothers, in proper legal fashion.

Thomas was counting on his fingers.

You are skeptical, said the chief. That is because you are not a Wend.

The mechanics of the thing elude me, said Thomas.

Take my word for it, said the Wend, it is not more difficult than Christianity. The point is, we are not used to having flaming great fathers about to pick at and badger us. We haven't the taste for it. In fact, we are violently prejudiced against it. Therefore this huge big carcass of yours is not something we care to have within our country, even briefly. Some of him might rub off.

Is there another road? asked Thomas.

None, said the Wend, that will get you where you are aiming. I take it you seek the Fleece.

That is correct, said Thomas.

We are not sure it exists, said the Wend.

It exists, Thomas said. In a sense.

I see, said the Wend. Well, if it exists, it lies on the other side of the country of the Wends.

A problem, said Thomas.

You could of course fight your way through, the Wend suggested.

Thomas regarded the Wend army, in its thousands.

This is just the Third Armored, the chief said, indicating his mailed and belted followers. The First Armored is way back over to the east. The Ninth Hoplites are over to the west. The Twenty-sixth Impi is in a blocking position, I can't tell you where. These are just the border troops. They would be delighted, were you to decide to fight your way through.

We are three-and-twenty, Thomas said. Counting Edmund.

Your mothers are quite beautiful, said the chieftain. Those two there, the light one and the dark-haired one. Very lovely.

They are not mothers, Thomas said.

Probably they could learn very quickly, said the Wend, motherhood comes naturally to most.

What if he were just a little more dead? Thomas asked, indicating the Dead Father. Would he then be transportable through the country of the Wends?

Well of course if he were cut up and cooked, that would put quite a different face on the matter, the chieftain said. Then we could be sure.

Further than I'm prepared to go, said Thomas.

Meet you halfway, said the Wend, just boil him for a day and we'll give you free passage.

Not a pot big enough in the wide world, said Thomas. May I suggest this: We'll whack off a leg and barbecue same as an earnest of good faith and token of guaranteed non-contaminaciousness.

A leg? said the Wend.

He pondered for a moment.

That should be sufficient. But you'll be closely watched, now. No hanky-panky.

As closely as you like, said Thomas, but I can't be held responsible for the stench.

The chief Wend returned to his men. Thomas ordering wood gathered for the great fire.

What's this? asked the Dead Father. What now?

A little tableau, said Thomas, you have the best part, lie down, close eyes, howl on cue, and stay stiff as a board after.

Why? asked the Dead Father.

Why me no whys, said Thomas, quickly, stretch out.

The Dead Father lay down in the road, the whole great length of him.

Anxiety of Emma, Julie, Edmund, Alexander, Sam.

The men return with great bundles of firewood.

Thomas drew his sword and approached the left leg, the leg mechanical, not human. He began to whack.

11
The road. The caravan. People taking pictures of the caravan with little pronghorn cameras. Flashes of light.

My leg is black, said the Dead Father.

But functioning, said Thomas, congratulate yourself.

You carved me very neatly, said the Dead Father. I admit it.

Oh it was a grand fire, said Thomas, very persuasive.

The Wend country is bumpy to a fault, said the Dead Father. I am glad we are out of it.

Jumble-gut lane, Thomas agreed.

Those that are the fathers of themselves miss something, said the Dead Father. Fathers, to be precise.

Fatherhood as a substructure of the war of all against all, said Thomas, we could discuss that.

I can speak to that, said Julie.

Me too, said Emma, for I know nothing about it, and am thus presuppositionless.

A state of grace, philosophically, the Dead Father observed.

Julie began.

The father is a motherfucker, she said.

By definition, said Thomas.

The vagina, she said, is not where it's at.

We agree, said Thomas, we've heard that.

Moving north, one finds a little button.

Nods of comprehension.

Now it does no good to mash down on the button. It's not an elevator button, it's not a doorbell. The button should not be mashed down on. It should be --

She stopped for a word.

Celebrated, suggested Thomas.

Titivated, suggested Emma.

No mashing down! Julie said fiercely.

Nods of accord.

The phallus, she continued, is next to useless for the purpose. Rolling pins should never be employed. Streams of blue blood --

What has this to do with fatherhood? asked the Dead Father.

I talk about what I want to talk about, said Julie, this is a digression.

Indeed.

The fucked mother conceives, Julie said. The whelpling is, after agonies I shall not describe, whelped. Then the dialogue begins. The father speaks to it. The "it" in a paroxysm of not understanding. The "it" whirling as in a centrifuge. Looking for something to tie to. Like a boat in a storm. What is there? The father.

Where is the mother? asked Emma.

The mother hath not the postlike quality of the father. She is more like a grime.

A grime?

Overall presence distributed in discrete small black particles all over everything, said Julie.

Post and grime, said the Dead Father. You do have a dismal view of things.

Where did I learn it? For the mind of me to have formulated these formulations, must they not have a grounding in external reality? I am not just idly --

Are you about to cry? asked the Dead Father.

No, said Julie, I never cry. Except when I realize what I have done.

Who speaks for the father? asked the Dead Father. Who in God's name --

The family unit produces zombies, psychotics, and warps, Thomas said. In excess of what is needed.

Eighteen percent at the last census, Julie added.

I am not saying that it is your fault, he said to the Dead Father.

Edmund would be an example, Emma suggested. Though lovable.

I think not, said Thomas, he is an alkie, is all.

What is he doing now?

Thomas looked up the road.

Sucking on his flask, he said, I have flang three of them into the brush but he always produces another.

Conduct a shakedown, suggested the Dead Father. Stand by your bunks and open your footlockers.

Prefer not to, said Thomas.

Fifty-year-old boys, Julie said, that's another thing.

Are you blaming me? asked the Dead Father.

They exist, said Julie, grinning in their business suits and knickers. And Keds.

What is the cause? asked the Dead Father.

Does he really want to hear the answer? asked Thomas. No. I don't think so. If I were he, I would not want to hear the answer.

They are boys because they don't want to be old farts, said Julie. The old fart is not cherished in this society.

Or old poop, said Thomas, that is another thing they don't want to be.

This language is not very flattering, said the Dead Father. To a man of a certain age.

Stumbling from the stage is anathema to them, said Julie, they want to be nuzzling new women when they are ninety.

What is wrong with that? asked the Dead Father. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.

The women object, she said. Violently.

Emma was peering down the road.

Edmund has fallen flat on his mush in the roadway, she said.

Thomas trotted to the place where the others were picking Edmund up. He returned holding a silver flask.

What's in it? Julie asked.

Thomas tilted the flask.

Anisette, he said, or something sweet.

And furthermore, Julie said to the Dead Father, it is unseemly. Ugly. Nasty-looking, would be a way of putting it.

The Dead Father slipped his cable and stormed off down the road.

He is going to do it again, said Emma. Paint the floor red with blood.

No, said Thomas. He is not.

Thomas caught the Dead Father in two bounds.

Your sword, sir.

My sword?

Surrender your sword. Your maulsticker.

You were being castigatorious, said the Dead Father. Again.

The men watching. Julie and Emma watching.

The sword, said Thomas.

You are asking me to give up my sword?

I am.

Then I shall be swordless. Think what that means.

I have. Long and hard.

Must I?

You must.

The Dead Father unsheathed his sword and gazed at it.

Old Stream-of-Anguish! Companion of my finest hours!

He gazed at Thomas.

Thomas holding out his hand.

He surrendered the sword.

12
The Dead Father plodding along, at the end of his cable. His long golden robes. His long gray hair to the shoulder. His broad and noble brow.

Awfully calm, said Julie.

Placid as a mailman, Thomas agreed, he is trying to be good.

Harder for him than for thee or me, he's not used to it.

I was never good, until I attained my majority, Thomas said. And even then --

I never bothered my pretty head about it, Julie said. Sometimes I did the right thing and sometimes I did the wrong thing. In difficult cases, I shut my eyes and leaped. A great deal of leaping.

And yet in those instances that have feelings attached --

I go against them, she said. My feelings. Method of the utmost trustworthiness, learned from the Carmelites.

I follow my feelings, Thomas said, when I can find them.

He's been very quiet.

Not a peep out of him these many miles.

Has he perhaps twigged?

Look on the bright side, Thomas said, and decide that he has not. It's essential.

A grimace from Julie.

The world's slow stain. Who said that? Preserved from the contagion of, I think, the world's slow stain.

I block on it if I ever knew, Thomas said.

Julie bit off a chew of bhang.

And the men, said Thomas. Some possibility of trouble there.

Nonsense. The men will be adequately recompensed by the reds and blues and silver streaks we have introduced into the gray tusche of their lives. Don't worry about the men. They are only men after all -- a tractor could have done the job as well.

The composition would have suffered, Thomas said. Think of it: Up there, the nineteen, the Old Incorrigibles, hauling upon the cable. The line of the cable itself, taut, angled, running from there to here. Finally, the object hauled: the Father, in his majesty. His grandeur. A tractor would have been très insipide.

Chewing of bhang (noncommittal).

Before attaining your majority, Thomas asked, what did you do?

Schemed, mostly. Scheming away night and day, toward the achievement of ends. I woke up angry one morning and stayed angry for years -- that was my adolescence. Anger and scheming. How to get out. How to get Lucius. How to get Mark. How to get away from Fred. How to seize power. That sort of thing. And a great deal of care-of-the-body. It was young. It was beautiful. It deserved care.

Is beautiful, Thomas said. Is beautiful, beloved.

Thank you, she said. There were many men, I don't deny it, it was moths to the flame. I tried to love them. Damned difficult. Kept a harpoon gun in my tall window. Tracked them as they moved down the street, in their ridiculous dignity. I never fired although I could have, it was operable. Having them in my sights was enough. My finger on the trigger, always about to go off but never quite. Tension of the most exquisite sort.

I thought it was an objet d'art, Thomas said.

Julie smiled.

Often, when I was young, last year, I walked out to the water. It spoke to me of myself. Images came to me, from the water. Pictures. Large green lawns. A great house with pillars, but the lawns so vast that the house can be seen only dimly, from where we are standing. I am wearing a long skirt to the ground, in the company of others. I am witty. They laugh. I am also wise. They ponder. Gestures of infinite grace. They appreciate. For the finale, I save a life. Leap into the water all clothed and grasping the drowner by the hair, or using the cross-chest carry, get the silly bastard to shore. Have to bash him once in the mush to end his wild panicked struggles. Drag him to the old weathered dock and there, he supine, I rampant, manage the resuscitation. Stand back, I say to the crowd, stand back. The dazed creature's eyes open -- no, they close again -- no, they open again. Someone throws a blanket over my damp, glistening white, incredibly beautiful shoulders. I whip out my harmonica and give them two fast choruses of "Red Devil Rag." Standing ovation. The triumph is complete.

You left out Albert Schweitzer, Thomas said.

Hard to patch him in, said Julie, but he is there.

At that moment the Dead Father approached Thomas, holding a small box.

A present, he said, for you.

Thank you, said Thomas, what is it?

Open it, said the Dead Father. Open the box.

Thomas opened the box and found a knife.

Thank you, he said, what is it for?

Use it, said the Dead Father. Cut something. Cut something off.

I spoke too soon, Thomas said, he is not reconciled.

I will never be reconciled, the Dead Father said, never. When I am offended, I award punishment. Punishment is a thing I'm good at. I have some rather fine ones. For anyone who dares trifle. On the first day the trifler is well wrapped, with strong cords and hung upside down from a flagpole at a height of twenty stories. On the second day the trifler is turned right side up and rehung from the same staff, so as to empty the blood from his head and prepare him for the third day. On the third day the trifler is unwrapped and waited upon by a licensed D.D.S. who extracts every other tooth from the top row and every other tooth from the bottom row, the extractions to be mismatching according to the blueprint supplied. On the fourth day the trifler is given hard things to eat. On the fifth day the trifler is comforted with soft fine garments and flagons and the attentions of lithesome women so as to make the shock of the sixth day the more severe. On the sixth day the trifler is confined alone in a small room with the music of Karlheinz Stockhausen. On the seventh day the trifler is pricked with nettles. On the eighth the trifler is slid naked down a thousand-foot razor blade to the music of Karlheinz Stockhausen. On the ninth day the trifler is sewn together by children. On the tenth day the trifler is confined alone in a small room with the works of Teilhard de Chardin and the music of Karlheinz Stockhausen. On the eleventh day the trifler's stitches are removed by children wearing catcher's mitts on their right and left hands. On the twelfth day --

I apologize for saying you were perpetuating myths, Julie said to Thomas. I am beginning to come round to your opinion.

13
The mountain. The cathedral. The stone steps. Music. Looking down. The windows, apertures. Rows of seated people. The altars, lights, singing. Egg-shaped apertures like seats opening onto the void. The drop. The clouds. Slipping in the seat. Thomas slipping in the seat. Toward the void. Brace foot against edge. Lean back hooking shoulder around opening. Out strolling on the grounds. Flowers blue with a border of white. The Dead Father strolling. Julie strolling. Others strolling. Edmund strolling. The music, a Kyrie. The edge. The fall. Stone steps. Mandrills staring. Photographers and cooks. Thomas sitting in the sloping seat. Slipping toward the edge. Braces foot against the outer wall, which trembles. Hooks shoulder around inner wall and grasps with left hand. Out strolling. Julie speaking to the Dead Father. The Dead Father smiling. People sitting on stone benches. Processional. Under a canopy. Golden censers swinging left right left right. Tall old man in golden mitre. Acolytes. Rings with amethysts. The edge. Looking over the edge. Sheer walls. Clouds. Thomas slipping in the seat. Braces right foot against outer wall. A quilt or blanket slipping toward the edge. Shoulder hooked around inner wall. The wall trembling. The alcove shaped like an egg. Quilt slipping toward the edge. Singing. The mountain. A set of stone steps. The cathedral. Bronze doors intricately worked with scenes. Row of grenadiers in shakos. Kneeling. Interior of the egg. Painted brick, white, curving. Rug or quilt of blue and red slipping toward the edge. In the walls of the cathedral. Windows over the edge. Dies irae, dies illa. The Dead Father sitting in the cathedral gardens. Julie sitting at his feet. The Dead Father's head thrown back against the wall. Julie sketching. Edmund standing near the edge. Edmund eating. People climbing the stone steps in pairs. Standing near the edge. Bronze doors opening. Confessionals in rows. Grenadiers. Acolytes two-by-two under the red canopy. Seminarians following, through the doors. Curving white-painted brick but a stone is loose, several. Pressure against the right edge, which trembles. Grasping the inner edge. Trying to wedge shoulder against the rear wall but the rug is sliding toward the edge. Erotic and religious experience. Thomas strolling about the gardens. The Dead Father's head thrown back against walls of the cathedral. Julie sketching. Slipping. Sketching. Slipping.

It is possible to fall here, Julie said.

I feel it, said Thomas.

Very possible to fall, she said, I get a falling feeling.

Are you frightened, beloved? Thomas asked.

He stuck his sword in the ground and put his arms around her.

Arms around me, she said, that is what I like.

Always arms to put around you, always and everywhere, said Thomas.

Move up more under my breasts so that the bottoms of the breasts can rest upon the tops of the arms, said Julie.

Not in front of me, said the Dead Father.

The tops of the brown arms, said Julie.

The whites of the bottoms of the breasts, said Thomas.

They disengaged.

Is that horseman still following? Emma asked.

Still following, Thomas said. Still.

Julie moved to Emma.

Then your bed was taken away from you.

Yes.

A certain butcherliness not inappropriate.

Will you let him see it?

Hard to tell. Dominant tempo of our national life.

Throws you into no-go situations.

Tricycle a bit in the evenings, now.

Spent his time wetting the bottoms of women.

Youth comes to the fore, youth has its hour of glory.

Like a photograph of a photograph.

Probably we should have spoken up before this.

Gray day, gray day.

I was ill, endless series of unpleasant dreams.

Be grateful if you could find the time to see me.

The terrible temptation which was assailing me will now be understood.

Where the buffalo roam.

I had rubbed myself thoroughly with oil and I carried a large flask of whiskey.

Have to be a little bit tougher.

Thought I heard a dog barking.

In wild places far from the heart.

Tiny silvered hairs that I had thought mine alone.

A lady always does.

Told them how Lenin had appeared to her in a dream.

That's your opinion.

Two dozen white roses accompanied by his card.

I read about it in the Corriere della Sera.

It's been so long, been so long.

Free to leave at any moment.

Where can a body get a baiser around here?

Attending, departing, arriving, ignoring.

Hoping this will reach you at a favorable moment.

Fish scales, wastepaper.

Inching by dying by.

Not sad or serious.

It was the damnedest thing.

What?

It was the damnedest thing.

What?

Old Danish saying.

What?

Repetition is reality.

I read about it. In Politikken.

The care that a bystander is obliged to exert for an accessible encounter extends past civil inattention to the question of how and when he can present himself for official participation.

I read about it. In a book.

Yes. Erving's.

Yes. Slit your nose for you.

Your many kindnesses and especial favor.

Eats his kids they say.

One way to look at it.

Thought I heard a hog barking.

Joyous and without joy.

The bourgeois press told stories.

Faces?

Yes faces.

What?

Faces.

Something about faces.

Always been very interested in faces.

I'm not into that.

Forever and ever and ever and ever.

Also possible to be a damned fool.

I'm not into that.

Don't blame you I was raised in the faith.

What?

I was raised in the faith.

What?

Been so long, so long.

Attending, departing.

He's a drunk. Which one? All of them. Must be a reason for that.

Have you tried any of the others?

Follow a track by night.

What?

Steer by the stars.

Extremely interested in this position.

Make his ear glow.

Fill his brain full of frisks.

Must be a reason for that.

Her charms had made it possible for her to gain a close insight.

Glad to hear it.

This idiot had led a thoroughly disorderly life.

Sorry to hear that.

Covered with butter.

Chocolate butter?

Yes chocolate butter.

It's the urge to confess.

I've heard about it.

It's sunset across the bay.

It's pencil shavings in the wind.

Tried to get a handle on it.

Give you a shot in the kisser.

I can take care of myself.

No you can't.

There'll always be another chance tomorrow.

No there won't.

Want to get better but seem to be getting worse.

That's your opinion.

Constant memory in the making.

That's one way of looking at it.

The whole thing hinges.

I've heard that.

So as not to have to defecate while being accessible to others for talk.

I can understand that.

Now let us briefly review the kinds of.

Been waiting all day.

She was vulgar.

She was?

Very vulgar.

She is?

Yes very vulgar. Vulgar to a fault.

Really?

One of the most vulgar. Most consistently vulgar.

I'm surprised. I didn't know.

The vulgarest. Vulgarity everywhere.

Happy to have been able to spend this time with you.

So fucking vulgar you wouldn't believe it.

It's red sails in the sunset.

It's moons over Miami.

I didn't really mean that really.

I was wrong I realize that now wrong.

Were you raised in the faith?

No.

You weren't raised in the faith ?

Yes I mean I was but I busted out.

Vulgarity everywhere.

The wink is a classic device for establishing.

That's true.

I thanked the large black woman and withdrew.

Holding on tight.

That's right. Holding on tight.

Years not unmarked by hideous strains.

I remember.

Wild and free and.

Pray to St. Jude. And Ganesha.

I really didn't mean that really.

Were you raised in the faith?

I was raised partly in and partly out of the faith.

How did that feel?

Foul.

It felt foul?

Yes foul. Foul foul foul.

Being raised in the faith felt foul?

That's what I said you hard of hearing or something?

I think foreplay is the most interesting part.

Yes foreplay is the most interesting part.

Some people like consummation.

I've heard that. But in my opinion foreplay is the most interesting part. It's more interesting.

Haven't thought much about it really I studied English.

Some people like to get it the hell over with.

Yes I've heard that.

Most of it is interesting if you are interested in it.

I've heard that. You must have studied anatomy.

In extenso.

14
Alexander, Sam, and Edmund. Requesting permission to speak.

Of course, said Thomas. What is it?

Well sir, said Alexander, some of the boys have been thinking.

Yes? What is it they have been thinking?

Well sir, said Alexander, the men have a melancholy.

Oh my, said Thomas. Which?

Well sir, I would say it is the pip. Less a sulk than a sourness.

What are the symptoms?

Headache, vertigo, singing in the ears, much waking, fixed eyes, red eyes, high color, hard belly, short and sharp belchings, dry brains, and pain in the left side. Not each man has every symptom. Most have two. Some have three. One has four.

Me, Edmund said.

Did I not double the rum ration? Thomas asked.

You did, sir, you did, and we are grateful. Yet --

Well what is the issue?

Well sir, I was coming to that. The issue, Alexander said, is ethical.

Oh my. Local or general?

Well sir, we feel maybe we ought not to be doin' what we are doin'. We feel it's a scotomizing, you might say.

A what?

A darkening of the truth.

What truth and how darkened?

Well sir, Alexander said, look at it this way. It is this: The grand Father's bein' all hauly-mauly by the likes of us over bump and bumbust and all raggletailed and his poor bumleg all hurty and his grand aura all tarnagled and June bein' a bad month for new enterprises and a bad month for old enterprises accordin' to the starcharts and like that, we that is to say us the men have a faint intustition that maybe the best is not to come in terms of the grand Father the moon-hanger the eye-in-the-sky the old meister the bey window the bit chammer the gaekwarder the incaling the khando kid the neatzam the shotgun of kyotowing the principal stadtholder the voivode the top wali, this Being, I say, being a Being of the highest anthropocentrictrac interest, as well as the one who keeps the corn popping from the fine green fields and the like and the like, is maybe being abruised and lese-majestied by us poor galoots over many meters of hard cheese days in and out but even a galoot has a brain to wonder with and what we wonder is to what end? for what purpose? are we right? are we wrong? are we culpable? to what degree? will there be a trial after? official inquiry? court of condemnation? white paper? have you told him? if you have told him what have you told him? how much of the blame if there is blame is ours? ten percent? twenty percent? in excess of that figure? and searching our hearts as we do each morning and evening and also at midday after lunch and after the dishes have been washed, we wonder whither? what for? can the conscience be coggled? are we doing the right thing? and with all the love and respect we have for you Thomas-the-Tall-Standing and for your wisdom which we do not deny for a moment and for your heart -- To put it in the short form, we are dubious.

An occasion. Thomas rising.

Your questions are good ones, he said. Your concern is well founded. I can I think best respond by relating an anecdote. You are familiar I take it with the time Martin Luther attempted to sway Franz Joseph Haydn to his cause. He called Haydn on the telephone and said, "Joe, you're the best. I want you to do a piece for us." And Haydn just said, "No way, Marty. No way."

You have got the centuries all wrong and the telephone should not be in there and anyway I do not get the point, said Edmund.

You see! Thomas exclaimed. There it is! Things are not simple. Error is always possible, even with the best intentions in the world. People make mistakes. Things are not done right. Right things are not done. There are cases which are not clear. You must be able to tolerate the anxiety. To do otherwise is to jump ship, ethics-wise.

I hate anxiety, Edmund said. He produced a flask and tilted it.

Have some? he asked Thomas.

What is it?

Paint thinner with a little grenadine.

I'll pass thanks, Thomas said.

You have not resolved our dilemma, said Alexander. If you could give us a statement of purpose, no matter how farfetched or improbable. . . Something we could take back to the boys.

We are helping him through a difficult period, Thomas said, that would be a way of putting it.

Then he was struck, as if by a thought.

It is, you might say, a rehearsal.

15
The Dead Father talking to Emma. Pink hazes of the early morning. Vegetation failures visible, blasted sumac, iris, phlox. Dim low hills beyond. The Dead Father in his golden robes. Emma in her green fatigue pants, green fatigue shirt.

Looking very beautiful this morning, the Dead Father said.

Oh am I, said Emma.

You are a very handsome woman, the Dead Father said.

No no, said Emma, just ordinary. Just an ordinary woman. Another among thousands.

Not at all, not at all. Now I have seen in my time many a one.

Yes, Emma said, I believe it.

Some stunning beauties. Some extraordinary ladies. I can distinguish I think between what is ordinary and what is not. You are sui generis one might say.

Hardly that, Emma said. Just another sand dollar on the beach.

No no no, said the Dead Father, really quite remarkable. The bosom, for example.

Yes, said Emma, there are some who've found it adequate.

Adequate! What a word. Why I've not seen its like in twenty years.

Yes, said Emma, there are some who've found it passable.

I would compare it to that of the Aphrodite of Gyrene if you would take off your shirt so I could see it better.

No, said Emma, I do not think that would be right. You will have to content yourself with the rough approximation of the exterior. The shirt trick is Julie's.

I remember a bosom, the Dead Father said. Might be a better bosom than your own. Might be a worse bosom than your own. Although they are all beautiful, bosoms, all beautiful, each in its own way, foolish to talk of "better" and "worse," it's apples and oranges, really.

What bosom is that that you remember?

The lady was a lawyer. Appeared before me in a matter. I was presiding. Case had to do with a homosexual admiral who'd been caught buggering a black gang. A whole black gang. Down there in the engine room 'midst the steam and grease. Some suggestion of coercion. Some suggestion of abuse of rank. And so on and so on. She was representing the admiral, in her robes. I noticed the robes. There is something very sensual about robes. I was transfixed, couldn't keep my eyes off her. There is a certain line, bosom under robe, I can't describe it. Makes one light-headed. She argued very capably, probably the most thoroughly researched brief I've ever read. The government's case on the other hand very sloppily prepared. I found for her. Strictly on the merits. Merits piled on merits. Afterward, a brandy together in my chambers. She said I wasn't as bad as I'd been painted. I said, Oh yes I was. We had a week together on the island of Ahura. The Bee and the Thistle, as I recall. Incomparable. Taught me a lot of law, she did, and I thought I knew it all. Claudia. Married a sky diver, as I recall. One of those people who fall out of airplanes and drop for thousands and thousands of feet waiting for the umbrella to open. Finally it didn't. A Wednesday, as I recall. I gave her a judgeship and she has twice been cited by the Bar Association for excellence beyond the believable. That was Claudia.

And the bosom? What has happened to it?

Growing in wisdom and beauty, still beating with the conviction that the world can be made equitable, I would suppose. One of my best appointments, in retrospect.

Fretfulness of Emma. Adjustment of shirt, etc. Pulling up of pants. Nervous play of fingers about the throat.

I am old, said the Dead Father, old, old, old. That is; why you don't want to show me what is under your shirt.

That's not it, said Emma. Then she changed her mind.

That is it, she said.

What is wrong with me! the Dead Father shouted. You are making me feel like the Congress of Vienna!

Nonsense, said Emma, taking his hand. You are as good as you ever were. Or almost as good as you ever were.

Then come to bed with me, and I will whisper secrets in your ear. Powerful secrets.

Yes, Emma said, secrets, that's the second-best part, the secrets. The best part in my opinion is buying the furniture. Picking out the towels. The stainless steel. The rug. The potted plant. The bolster for the bedroom. The art object. The can opener.

Emma begins lachrymation (serious).

The can opener, she said, and the colander.

Why are you weeping? asked the Dead Father.

I was thinking about the salads, she said through her tears. Salad after salad. I am wonderful with salads.

Don't cry, please.

I am so good with salads, she said.

I am sure you are.

Only virgin imported fresh Italian olive oil. Sliced mushrooms and organic or uninstitutionalized tomatoes, from a little place I know. And fronds, fronds of this and fronds of that. Coke, or snow some people call it, sprinkled on top along with salt, pepper, parsley, prepared mustard --

Come to bed, dear salad-head. Come to bed with me.

No I won't, said Emma. Pardon me for saying it but you are, you are, you are too old.

The Dead Father fell down on the ground and began chewing the dirt of the road.

Don't do that, dear friend, said Emma, plucking at his shoulder blades. It doesn't help.

16
Is everyone ready for the big dance?

How can we have a dance with only two women?

The women will just have to dance twice as hard.

Edmund claims the first dance.

No, that is for the Dead Father.

Happiness of the Dead Father.

The Dead Father and Julie dancing.

Edmund and Emma dancing.

Thomas performing upon the kazoo. Alexander upon the flute. Sam upon the banjo.

The "Immigration Waltz" performed.

Light from the bonfires.

Is that horseman still following us?

Yes, still.

You dance very well.

Yes I do dance very well. You dance pretty well.

Thank you. It's kind of hard to dance with this leg.

No really I mean it's very smooth, considering, but to tell the truth I really think this is a terrible dance.

Why?

There's nobody here.

I'm here.

Yes you but there's nobody else nobody new.

Do you want somebody new?

I always want somebody new.

What's so good about somebody new?

He's new. The newness.

That's a little insulting to those of us who are not new.

Tuff titty.

Why do you keep looking around?

Looking for somebody new.

Who sent out the invitations?

Who hired the band?

Who laid on the champagne?

Who hung the crepe paper?

Who lit the bonfires?

Wish they'd play something else.

What do you want to hear?

Something new.

Anything new?

Anything new.

How about "Midnight in Moscow"?

That's not new.

I know but it's pretty.

Can't dance to it it's too slow.

You're a little picky.

I am a little picky.

What?

I am a little picky. I know that. Tell me something new.

Don't know anything new.

I know that.

What?

Who are those people over there?

I don't know they may be the horseman who has been following us or some of his friends. Attracted by the music probably.

No they're not they're new. The horseman who has been following us is not new.

They seem sort of dark and furry.

Yes now that I look closely they're apes.

Yes I see what you mean they do appear to be apes.

One two three four five apes.

Yes they're tapping their feet to the music.

What's the tune.

It's the "Crabapple Stomp." I always liked that one.

Me too the only thing wrong with it is that it's not new, do you think they want to dance?

What?

Do you think they want to dance, the apes?

Ask them but maybe they would hold on too tightly.

I'll take a chance. They're new.

Maybe they would crush you with their incredibly powerful arms.

That would be new.

Probably they smell terribly.

That would be new too I'm tired of all you sweet-smellers.

What's that music?

That's the "Carborundum Waltz."

I was always fond of waltzes. I remember --

Look she's not scared of the apes she's asked one to dance.

He dances pretty well, for an ape.

Whose idea was having this dance in the first place?

It was the Dance Committee.

Well it breaks the monotony I suppose.

Yes I suppose it does that, in a sense.

I think some are male and some female the smaller ones are female, probably.

Yes they're slightly more graceful than the males.

I'm going to dance with one.

Leave me here in the middle of the floor?

It will be new.

Yes it will be new but I think it's slightly insulting to be dancing with a person and then leave that person alone in the middle of the floor and go off and dance with an ape.

You can have the dance after this one. I'll write your name on my dance card.

I don't particularly want to dance with someone after that someone has been dancing with an ape.




Can you talk at all?

(Silence.)

Nothing?

(Silence.)

That's new.

(Silence.)

You apes live around here in the dense underbrush and move in and out among the trees seeking fruits and vegetables?

(Silence.)

Well you certainly are accomplished dancers except perhaps maybe you're holding me a little tight?

(Silence.)

Thank you that's better I suppose there's no point in asking you your name is it all right if I call you Hector?

(Silence.)

Are any of the females your wife or girl friend I mean, I suppose you dance with each other a lot at night or at festival times special occasions Hector there'll probably be repercussions about this the men don't like it I can see that would you like a plate of chicken or something oh I forgot you're not a meateater and probably it would be wrong of me to get you started but there are some little cakes and things and I think Kool-Aid or the equivalent things change their names so fast these days I'm not sure it's still called Kool-Aid may be just grape juice with a little something added to zip it up ouch! doesn't matter it was my fault where did you go to school excuse me that was a dumb question it's just that when you're dancing you usually feel like you ought to make conversation and it's a little hard when the other person doesn't say anything.

(Silence.)

Well I've certainly enjoyed this dance it was new can I introduce you to one of the other members of our party who's a good dancer too lots of zest and a good personality you'll be surprised some people think she's prettier than I although that's not the sort of thing I can comment on can I ha ha just come on over here for a moment and I'll introduce you oh my she's dancing already well would you like to just sort of sit this one out what a grip, lightly, lightly, that's better you do understand quite a lot don't you an amazing amount considering would you excuse me for a moment I have to go to the ladies' room or I mean I must leave you for a moment Hector let go of my hand now I'll come back and we'll chat some more I promise Hector let go now don't be a --

This is Emma.

Emma, Hector.

Hector, Emma.

He likes to dance that I can tell you and don't be afraid he's really very sweet and quite new, a new experience I can promise you that.

Thomas approaches and asks Julie to dance.

Julie says that she is willing to dance with Thomas.

I saw you dancing with that ape.

Yes I was dancing with that ape his name is Hector I mean that's not really his name I don't suppose I just called him that.

Did you want to go to bed with him?

Never occurred to me I just wanted to try it, is all.

Are you sure you don't have a fantasy of going to bed with him you were dancing quite close I saw it.

Well he tends to hold on very tightly I don't think it's sexual so much I just think he likes to hold on to everything very tightly I mean I think that's the way he holds on to things. Very tightly.

Well it made me feel funny to see you dancing with him and talking to him and all that and you certainly looked like you were having a high old time.

Well he's very pleasant and sweet and believe me I had my work cut out for me just keeping the conversation going you've nothing to be jealous about nothing whatsoever I'm surprised at you jealous of an ape what's that music?

It's the "Registration Waltz." He certainly knows his way around a banjo.

Yes I didn't know he played banjo I knew he played guitar of course but I didn't know he played banjo.

I didn't even know we had a banjo but Sam has been carrying it all this way and a pocket cornet too you should see it it's only about eight or nine inches long but he gets a lot of sound out of it they're made in Warsaw he told me amazing how much musical talent you find around almost everybody can play something a little bit.

Yes I believe the Dead Father plays nine instruments he told me once what they were eight or nine but he can certainly make a banjo sing I think this was a good idea don't you everybody seems to be having a good time whose idea was it?

Edmund's. And Emma's.

What's that they're playing now?

It's the &quotenetration Waltz" I believe.

And the apes coming, crashing I suppose but I don't care, gives you a feeling of newness always good to meet new people get an idea of what others are like new perspectives as it were I wish they could talk almost made a mistake and offered Hector some chicken salad probably a bad idea to get them started.

The Dead Father looks quite happy doesn't he almost benign one could almost forget about his wood chisels and all the rest of it seeing him sitting here keeping time with his mechanical leg and doing that what do they call it trailing I think I wonder where he learned that the old bastard knows a lot of different things you have to hand it to him product I suppose of his long years of. . .

Ouch! I'm sorry probably my fault do you want to get a little taste of something I'm thirsty look at that! that ape just knocked Edmund down now he's picking him up again now he's knocking him down again oh God we don't want a melee you'd better break it up maybe we could organize a lady-in-the-lake or something you try to get the apes in one line and I'll line up our people let me see twenty-three less the three playing plus five apes means roughly twelve on a side.

We'll need a caller, Thomas said, I'll do that, that means twelve on a side.

The lines formed. The trio begins 'The Titanium Polka."

Honor your partner, Thomas said, all gather round, there's a great day comin', let's run it in the ground.

Emma and Hector do-si-do-ing down the lines.

This is the best dance I have ever been to! Emma exclaimed.