City Page 10
“Christ . . .”
“They’re very strict here.”
“All right, OK, forget it, give me the cake.”
“Syrup?”
“No syrup.”
“It’s free.”
“I KNOW IT’S FREE BUT I DON’T WANT IT, OK?”
“Whatever you want.”
“No syrup.”
“Cream?”
“Cream?”
“There’s cream, if you want.”
“I don’t even want the cake, how can you even imagine that I want CREAM?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do: no cream.”
“Not even for the kid?”
“Not even for the kid.”
“OK. Two cheeseburgers, two orange juices, one cake with nothing. This is for you,” she added, holding out toward Shatzy two items wrapped in clear paper.
“What the hell is that?”
“Chewing gum. It’s free, inside there’s a sugar marble, and if the marble is red you win ten more pieces of gum, if it’s blue you win a Combination No. 6, free. If the marble is white, you eat it and that’s the end. Anyway, the rules are printed on the paper.”
“Excuse me a moment.”
“Yes?”
“Excuse me, but . . .”
“Yes?”
“Let’s say just for fun I take this damn chewing gum, OK?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s say, even more for fun, that I chew it for a quarter of an hour and then I find a blue marble inside.”
“Yes.”
“Then I bring it over to you, all covered with saliva, and put it down here, and you give me a fat, fried, hot Combination No. 6?”
“Free.”
“And in your opinion, when would I eat it?”
“Right away, I think.”
“I want a cheeseburger and an orange juice, get it? I wouldn’t know what to do with three pieces of fried chicken plus a medium fries plus a buttered corn on the cob plus a medium Coke. I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I’D DO WITH THEM.”
“Usually they eat them.”
“Who? Who eats them? Marlon Brando, Elvis Presley, King Kong?”
“People.”
“People?”
“Yes, people.”
“Listen, would you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Take back the chewing gum.”
“I can’t.”
“Put it aside for the next obese person who comes by.”
“I can’t, really.”
“Christ . . .”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.”
“Really.”
“Give me the chewing gum.”
“It’s not bad, it’s papaya flavor.”
“Papaya?”
“The exotic fruit.”
“Papaya.”
“It’s this year’s fashion.”
“OK, OK.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, dear, that’s it.”
They paid and found a table. Hanging from the ceiling was a TV monitor tuned to the food channel. Questions appeared on the screen. If you had the right answer you wrote it in the proper space on the paper placemat and gave it to the cashier. You could win a Combination No. 2. Just then the question was: Who scored the first goal in the World Cup final in 1966?
Geoffrey Hurst.
Bobby Charlton.
Helmut Haller.
“Three,” murmured Gould.
“Don’t even try it,” Shatzy hissed at him, and opened the package with the cheeseburger in it. On the inside cover appeared a flaming red patch. On it was written “CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU HAVE WON ANOTHER HAMBURGER!” And in smaller letters: “Bring this coupon to the cashier immediately, you will receive a free hamburger and a drink at half price!” There was another sentence, written on the diagonal, but Shatzy didn’t read it. She calmly closed the plastic package, leaving the cheeseburger inside.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“But I haven’t even started,” said Gould.
“We’ll start another time.”
They got up, leaving everything there, and headed for the door. A man in a clown suit, with a cap displaying the restaurant’s logo, intercepted them.
“A complimentary balloon, miss.”
“Take the balloon, Gould.”
On the ball was written I EAT HAMBURGERS.
“If you tie it to the door of your house you can enter the SUN-DAYBURGER contest.”
“Tie it to the door, Gould.”
“Every Sunday there’s a drawing, and one house with the balloon is chosen and a truck delivers 500 bacon cheeseburgers to the door.”
“Remember to clear the front walk, Gould.”
“There is also a 75-gallon-capacity freezer on special deal. To store the bacon cheeseburgers in.”
“Naturally.”
“If you take the 100-gallon capacity you also get a microwave.”
“Splendid.”
“If you already have one you can get a professional hair dryer with four speeds.”
“In case I should want to shampoo the bacon cheeseburgers?”
“Pardon?”
“Or shampoo myself with ketchup.”
“Excuse me?”
“They say it makes your hair shiny.”
“What, ketchup?”
“Yes, haven’t you ever tried it?”
“No.”
“Try it. Also béarnaise sauce isn’t bad.”
“Seriously?”
“Gets rid of dandruff.”
“I don’t have dandruff, thank goodness.”
“You’ll certainly get it if you go on eating béarnaise sauce.”
“But I never do.”
“Yes, but you wash your hair with it.”
“Me?”
“Of course, you can see from the dryer.”
“What dryer?”
“The one you have tied to the door.”
“But I don’t have one tied to the door.”
“Think hard—you put it there when the four-speed microwave flew away.”
“Flew away from where?”
“From the freezer.”
“From the freezer?”
“Sunday, don’t you remember?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Do I look like someone who’s kidding?”
“No.”
“Correct. You have won 100 gallons of balloons, and they will be delivered to you in cheeseburgers. See you, bye.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It doesn’t matter. See you, OK?”
“The balloon.”
“Take the balloon, Gould.”
“You want red or blue?”
“The child is blind.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“That’s OK. It happens.”
“Do you want to take the balloon?”
“No, he’ll take it. He’s blind, not stupid.”
“Shall I give him red or blue?”
“Don’t you have vomit color?”
“No.”
“Odd.”
“Only red or blue.”
“Go for the red.”
“Here.”
“Take the red balloon, Gould.”
“Here, take it.”
“Say thank you, Gould.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do we have anything else to discuss?”
“Excuse me?”
“I guess not. Goodbye.”
“Good luck on Sunday!”
“Thanks.”
They left the restaurant. The air was cold and clear, as if cleansed by winter.
“It’s a shit planet,” Shatzy said softly.
Gould stood there, still, in the middle of the sidewalk, with a red balloon in his hand. On it was written I EAT HAMBURGERS.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
15
“Larry! . . . Larry! . . . Larry Gorman is approaching our position . . . he’s surrounded by his people . . . the ring is mobbed . . . LARRY! . . . it’s not easy for the champion to make his way through . . . there’s Mondini, his coach . . . a lightning-fast win tonight, here at the Sony Sports Club, let’s recap, just 2 minutes 27 seconds is all . . . LARRY, here, Larry, we’re on the air, live on radio . . . Larry . . . we’re on the air, so, fast work . . .”
“Is this microphone working?”
“Yes, we’re on the air.”
“Nice microphone, where’d you buy it?”
“I don’t buy them, Larry . . . listen . . . did you think it would be over so quickly or . . .”
“My sister would like that a lot . . .”
“I mean . . .”
“No, seriously. You know, she imitates Marilyn Monroe, she sings and she’s the spitting image of Marilyn, the same voice, I swear, only she doesn’t have a microphone . . .”
“Listen, Larry ...”
“Usually she manages with a banana.”
“Larry, you want to say something about your opponent?”
“Yes. I want to say something.”
“Go ahead.”
“I want to say something about my opponent. My opponent is called Larry Gorman. Why do they keep on setting me up with those zeroes wearing gloves and no clothes? They’re always under my feet. So eventually I have to knock them down.”
“DAMN IT, GOULD, WILL YOU GET OUT OF THERE?”
It was Shatzy’s voice. It came from outside the door. The bathroom door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Music of flushing. Tap on. Tap off. Pause. Door opens.
“They’ve been waiting half an hour for you.”
“I’m coming.”
Some people from the local TV station had come to Gould’s house. They wanted to do a feature for the Friday evening special. Title: Portrait of a Child Genius. They had set up the camera in the living room. What they had in mind was a half-hour interview. They counted on working up a sad story of a boy condemned by his intelligence to solitude and success. Its brilliance lay in their having found someone whose life was a tragedy not because he was terribly unfortunate but, on the contrary, because he was terribly fortunate. If it wasn’t exactly brilliant at least it seemed like a good idea.
Gould sat on the sofa, in front of the camera. Poomerang was beside him, also sitting. Diesel didn’t fit on the sofa, so he sat on the floor, although it took him a while to get there. And then it wasn’t clear how he would ever get up. Anyway. They arranged the microphones and turned on the spots. The interviewer smoothed her skirt over her crossed legs.
“Everything all right, Gould?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Let’s just test the microphone.”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to say something into it, any old thing?”
“No, I don’t want to say anything into this microphone, I wouldn’t do it even if you paid me a gazillion . . .”
“All right, everything’s set, OK, let’s start. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Look at me, OK? Forget the camera.”
“All right.”
“Let’s begin.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Gould . . . or can I call you simply Gould?”
“. . .”
“Let’s just say Gould, then. Listen, Gould, when did you realize that you weren’t an ordinary kid—I mean, that you were a genius?”
POOMERANG (not saying): It depends. You, for example, when did you realize that you were an idiot? Did it happen all at once, or did you discover it little by little, first when you compared your grades with your friends’ grades, then when you noticed at parties that no one wanted to be on your team for “Name That Film”?
“Gould?”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering . . . if you remember, from when you were little, an incident, something, when you suddenly felt different from others, different from the other children . . .”
DIESEL: Yes, I remember very well. See, I used to go to the park, with the others, all the neighborhood kids . . . there were swings, a slide, all those things . . . It was a nice park, and we went there in the afternoon if it was sunny. Well, I didn’t know then that I was . . . different, let’s say, in other words, that I was already big but . . . a child can’t tell if he’s different or something . . . I was the biggest, that’s all, and one day I climbed the steps of the slide, for the first time, you weren’t allowed on it if you were too young, but no one saw me—besides, no one even knew exactly how old I was—so I climbed the steps, and what happened is that when I got to the top I sat down on the slide and it was a disaster, I didn’t fit, my bottom didn’t fit in the slide, you know? I tried as hard as I could, but that bastard of a bottom wouldn’t get in . . . It was silly but there was nothing to do, my bottom didn’t fit in the slide. So finally I had to go back. I got down from the slide, but by the steps. Do you know what it means to go down a slide on the steps? Have you ever tried it? with everyone looking at you? have you ever felt that sensation? Maybe you’ve felt it, right? There are plenty of people around, who get off a slide by going down the steps. Have you noticed? There are plenty of people for whom it went wrong, that’s the truth.
“Gould?”
“Yes?”
“Everything OK?”
“Yes.”
“OK, OK. So, listen . . . would you tell us about your friendships with other boys. Do you have friends? Do you play any games, sports, anything like that?”
POOMERANG (not saying): I like to go underwater. It’s different down there. There’s no noise, you can’t make a sound, even if you want to you can’t do it, there’s no noise there. You move slowly, you can’t make sudden movements, I mean fast movements, you have to go slowly, everyone is compelled to go slowly. You can’t hurt yourself, people can’t give you stupid slaps on the back or things like that, it’s a great place. And especially it’s the ideal place for talking, you know? What I really like is to talk down there, it’s ideal, you can talk and . . . you can talk, well, everyone can talk, anyone, if he wants to, can talk, it’s fantastic how people talk down there. Only, it’s too bad that there’s never . . . there’s almost never anyone there, that’s the real drawback, that there’s no one down there, apart from you, I mean, it would be a fantastic place, but there’s almost never anyone there to talk to, mostly you can’t find anyone. It’s too bad, don’t you think?
“Would you like to have a break, Gould? We can stop and start again when you want.”
“No, this is fine, thank you.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Is there something you’d like to talk about?”
“No, I’d rather you asked me questions, it’s easier.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“OK . . . now . . .”
“. . .”
“Well . . . the fact that you’re . . . special, if I can put it that way . . . special . . . I mean, you get along with other kids? It’s OK?”
DIESEL: You know something? It’s their problem. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I understand that things are like that, and it’s their problem. I have no problem being with them, I can take them by the hand, talk to them, play with them, I—I’m not the one who always remembers I’m like that—I forget about it, they’re the ones who never forget. Never. Sometimes you can see that maybe they’d like to play with me, too, but it’s as if they were somehow afraid of hurting themselves, or something like that. They don’t know how to take it the right way. Instead, they get a lot of stuff in their heads, about what I can do and can’t do, who knows what they imagine, they’re always thinking of ways to annoy me, to insult me, or make me mad, so everything’s ruined. They don’t have to be that way. No one has explained to them that people who are a little special, as you put it, really are normal, they have the same desires a
s other people, the same fears, it’s not any different—you can be special in one thing and normal in all the rest—someone should explain it to them. It becomes too complicated, and so in the end they get tired, and then they forget about it. You can understand it, if they stay away—you’re a problem for them, you see? A problem. No one goes to the movies with a problem, believe me. I mean: if you have even just an apology for a friend to go to the movies with, you wouldn’t dream of going with a problem. You wouldn’t dream of going with me. That’s how it is.
“Would you prefer to talk about your family, Gould?”
“If you like.”
“Tell me about your father.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know . . . do you like being with your father?”
“Yes. He works for the Army.”
“Are you proud of him?”
“Proud?”
“Yes, I mean, are you . . . proud . . . proud of him?”
“. . .”
“And your mother?”
“. . .”
“Would you like to tell us about your mother?”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“Would you prefer to talk about school? Do you like being what you are?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re famous, people know you, your schoolmates, your professors, they all know who you are. Is it something that you enjoy?”
POOMERANG (not saying): Listen, I’ll tell you a story. One day someone comes to my neighborhood, someone from somewhere else, runs into me in the street and stops me. He wanted to know if I knew Poomerang. If I knew where he could find him. I didn’t say anything, so he started explaining to me, he told me he’s a guy with no hair, about your height, and he never speaks, you must know him, don’t you?, the one who never speaks, everyone knows him. I didn’t say anything. He began to get mad: come on, he said, he’s even been in the newspapers, he’s the one who unloaded a truckful of shit in front of CRB, because of that business with Mami Jane. Come on, he always wears black, everyone knows him, he usually goes around with a friend of his, a kind of giant. He knew everything. He was looking for Poomerang. And I was right there. In black. Not speaking. Finally he got mad. He was yelling that if I didn’t want to talk to him I could go to hell, what kind of manners are these, you can’t even ask someone something, what sort of world is this. He was yelling. And I was right there. Do you understand? Do you see how stupid it is to ask me if I like it or not? Hey, I’m talking to you, do you understand me?