Читать книгу This Finer Shadow - Harlan Cozad McIntosh - Страница 4

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Martin looked around the fo’c’sle, swung open the locker door to see if he had packed all his gear and looked under the blankets on his bunk.

“So long, boys,” he said. “I’m shoving off.”

The seamen at the card table and those lying in their bunks glanced up from newspapers and cigarettes.

“So long, Mart—So long. Take it easy.”

He pulled his duffel-bag over his shoulder and walked up the ladder to the afterdeck. Languorous winds and the dark waters of streaming nights lurked in the corners of the bulkheads. Yet the knowledge of his late intimacy with these secrets had no quality of nostalgia for him. He was surprised at the indifference he felt on leaving the ship, all the more so because he had no reason for this coldness.

The chief mate saw him standing by the rail. He had often wondered about Martin—that strange sailor who had gone about his duties so quietly. That was part of it. He was so damned quiet. No wonder the other sailors hadn’t liked that. He did his work well and was the best helmsman on the ship; but off watch, he had the air of a man looking for the unnecessary. He avoided the sailors with such instinctive thoroughness that it was obvious even to them that he intended no offense. It was more, thought the mate, as if he seemed to be thinking a great deal and never getting anywhere with it. Frequently, on sultry nights, when the mate couldn’t sleep and had taken a turn around the ’midship deck, he’d seen Martin sitting alone on the afterhatch looking at the sky. The officer had a few books on psychology which he read instead of fiction; and therefore felt himself pretty well up on the distressed mind. He was a kind-hearted man, and one night he’d called Martin into his cabin to “sort of decide what made him tick,” as he said afterwards. What was it Martin had said?... Something about the sea being a fine girl for a man, or some such rot; and said quite pleasantly. And when the mate had pulled him round to psychology, Martin had agreed with him that it was a nice vehicle for a malingering neurasthenic.... No—damn it!—the fellow had said that first, himself! It was easy to see the chap had read a bit. He addressed the mate’s most ponderous terms with earnestness; but always he’d wound up in a theoretical mess that half sounded like a laugh. Still, one couldn’t get upset over something that wasn’t there; and certainly there was no laughter in Martin’s expression. The mate was sure of it. It was a damned odd feeling though, to have him sitting there looking at you patiently with that peculiar, absent manner. He’d told Martin that it was best for the sailors to get along together and to yarn a bit and get things off their chests. And then the queerest thing happened. Martin had told him that good-fellowship was not only essential, but unavoidable; and from there on, he’d continued to speak in English; only what he was saying didn’t make sense. It was like dumping words into a pot and shoveling them around with your finger. By God!—it was a strange feeling listening to that! And then Martin had gone.... Just the same, when the mate saw him with his duffel-bag beside him, looking out at the bulk of the city, it made him feel funny—sort of lonely for him. And he went over.

“New York in the winter is no place for a sailor, Martin, and you’re paying off with very little.”

“I know.” He leaned toward the officer and spoke in a low voice. “I know. But there’s something important to be found out, Mister. Important to myself, yes—and to you, and perhaps to more than both of us.” He pointed beyond the warehouses to the pinnacles of the city. “That old line won’t stay. But there’s a basic pattern under it that will remain. That ought to be known. Damn it, Mister, I won’t find it nor, perhaps, my son, but if we keep looking—” He picked up his bag.

Infinitely puzzled, the mate looked after him.

“That’s that,” he said to himself.

Martin went down the gangplank and, without turning, started for the city. He took the elevated to Chatham Square where he got off and asked a policeman for an address. The shock of change from the cleanliness and solitude of the ocean to this polyglot of grime and faces was physical; and he tightened up his nerves as though preparing for an explosion. A few minutes later he walked into Relief Headquarters, a rusty, high-walled building in the center of the Bowery. Policemen watched the group of applicants carefully. There were two lines of men, one set apart for seamen. Martin joined this group, noticing how strangely the sailors, tanned, alert and swaggering, contrasted with the white-faced, hopeless habitués. When his turn came a clerk, tired, frowning, looked up from his desk.

“Name?”

“Devaud.”

“De what?”

“Devaud,” answered Martin. “Vaud, as in vaudeville.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Go to that desk.” Aside, the man called to a case-worker. “Mr. Stein, here’s another for you.”

Martin went over and stood patiently in front of Mr. Stein who was fumbling with some papers. Stein had short-cropped gray hair which grew halfway down his forehead. It made Martin think of a Polynesian thatched hut. Stein’s chin sloped backward so abruptly that he appeared more like a primitive man than one of the present. Only his fat lips and stomach were mellowed and sweetened by whisky and a rapidly departing youth.

“Sit down,” he said. Then, smiling so that he showed a large area of widely separated teeth, he slowly drew in his smile and ended by regarding Martin almost beseechingly. “Sit down,” he said again, folding his hands over his fat stomach. “We like to understand, to get closer to our more unfortunate brothers. We are here to help you adjust yourself. We hope to provide you with every facility for rehabilitation.”

Martin felt a momentary irritation.

“Rehabilitation from what?” he asked, wondering what this empiric monstrosity was conspiring.

“Rehabilitation from—” Stein hesitated. He looked at Martin’s dungarees. “Are you planning on returning to the sea?”

“No.”

The case-worker took his pencil.

“I’m sure we can help you.” He smiled again and nodded encouragingly. “It will be all right. Just sketch your history briefly.” He slipped back into his chair, setting the flat convolutions of his brain at a receptive curve.

Martin reflected on his “history.” The walls of this dirty place fell apart and memories came up in a flood.... His father—a story of the one professor, deathless in his circumference of knowledge; a man affectionate, yet untenable within the world, struck close in the mystery of his students; humble with his virtues, out of cognizance, and strong in the strength of those he guided, he lived apart and yet among the compasses of his direction.... His mother, carrying an exotic, foreign beauty into time as though indignant with maturities.... His white child-wife, her white child-fingers screaming on the piano against his inevitable demands.... Her death.... Then ships and oceans and the lust of palms....

“Your history!” Stein’s sharp voice, bringing back the sharper walls and the honesty of where he was, demanded laughter. And Martin laughed until each memory was dead.

“My history?” he asked, wiping his eyes. “You wouldn’t like my history. It isn’t interesting enough. Case-historians would starve to death with me.”

Mr. Stein sat up straight. He frowned and looked at his hands.

“Very amusing.” He filled two forms rapidly. “This,” he said, handing Martin one of them, “provides you with a hotel room for the duration of two weeks. And this,” he continued, “allows you meal tickets at any of our restaurants to the value of forty cents per day for the same length of time.”

Outside, Martin shook his head to free it from the mustiness of dismissed progressions and the impurity of this newer living. He glanced at one of the tickets. “HOTEL PINE LEAF, RESERVED ESPECIALLY FOR SEAMEN,” he read. As he walked on toward the hotel he was stopped twice for a cigarette. One heavy-jawed fellow tried to strike up a conversation and offered to help him with his bag, all the time walking uncomfortably close to him. Martin shook his head and the man dropped behind, muttering.

The lobby of the Pine Leaf was one floor up. A man seated in one of the chairs which lined the walls, was snoring loudly. “He must be sick,” thought Martin, for no one disturbed him. Martin leaned his bag near the desk and as he did so, a bull-necked sailor, his collar open, ran at him.

“Good God!” said the man. “We’ve grounded. Damn you, Captain! Keep her in the channel.” He held his fist menacingly.

“All right,” said Martin, stopping stock-still. “And now, look to your engines.”

The clerk behind the wire netting regarded them worriedly.

“Go back to your cabin, Danny,” he said. “We’ve taken on the pilot.”

Danny, shaking all over, looked once more at Martin and returned to his chair.

Martin handed his slip to the clerk who turned it nervously in his hand.

“Danny’s all right,” he said. “Liquor took his ticket. He never jumped like that before, though. Kind of look out, will you?”

“He didn’t mean anything.” Martin smiled reassuringly. “I jumped like that once myself.” He took his key and towel, packed his canvas up three flights of stairs and walked down the corridor to his room. It was a narrow, cell-like cubicle, furnished with a cot and a small locker. There was no light and the tiny window, high in the wall, admitted only a few indirect rays of sunshine. Martin sorted his gear, found his razor and went into the washroom.

Three men were huddled in a corner. As Martin lathered his face he looked in their direction and saw that they had a bottle of rubbing alcohol which they were diluting with warm water. After a good deal of grunting and shaking and laughing they held it to the light.

“Looks to me like Tri Gin,” said one whose hands shook violently.

“Looks to me like smoke,” said another, laughing and turning to Martin. “Have some smoke, Jack?” he asked.

Martin shook his head.

“Ulcers,” he said, pointing to his stomach, and started shaving.

The men shook their heads sympathetically. This, they understood. They were dancing to the clapping of hands when Martin left.

In the low glim of his room he changed his shirt. He was about to lock his door when a lad ran frantically down the narrow hall, bumping into him. Martin held the boy coldly.

“Hide me,” sobbed the lad. “It’s Danny. He’s had smoke—” the sobs continued. “Danny thinks ... for Christ’s sake!—hide me!”

Martin shoved the boy inside his little room and closed the door, then took a cigarette from his pocket. A moment later, Danny put his head around the shadowy corner and walked slowly toward him. When he was closer, Martin struck a match and lit his cigarette abstractedly.

“Where is he?” asked Danny in a hard whisper. “Where’s my little galley rat?”

“Speak American, buddy,” said Martin. “This is an American vessel—not a Limey.”

“Don’t lie to me, you damned school-ship!” cried Danny, coming forward. “Where is he?”

Martin sighed resignedly.

“He’s here, Danny—under my shirt. Come get him.”

“Ah! That’s better. I’m coming, friend.”

He walked up close to Martin who dropped his cigarette. Danny shot out his right hand and grabbed Martin’s shoulder; but feeling the broad, tensed muscle, he became suddenly quiet and stood for a long time running his hand up and down Martin’s arm. At last, he started to cry gently. Then, and only then, did Martin throw his arm about him and whisper all the lonely, desperate things that sailors know; until willingly, Danny let himself be led into his own room. Martin got down on his knees and took off Danny’s shoes. He covered him with a blanket, looked at him once to be sure he was sleeping and tiptoed out.

When he got back to his own room the boy was gone. So were his small camera and his pea-jacket.

He went out into the street and walked along until he saw a beer sign. He stood at the rail and kicked the sawdust angrily, thinking of his camera. As he took his glass he caught his reflection in the large mirror above the bar and burst out laughing; for his head seemingly rested between the enormous breasts of a nude which had been painted on the wall behind him. Amazed at this unsuspected liaison, he turned to regard with favor the immense mural. The lady reclined, supine and indifferent to the ardent glances of the drunken men about her. Her bottom rested on a couch of lurid green and one arm, disproportionate, held aloft a wreath of garden spray and roses.

Martin was still laughing when a little white-haired man with a thick nose and red eyes walked over to him.

“Ahoy, sailor,” said the little fellow, and blew two sharp notes between his teeth. “Ship ahoy!”

“Ship ahoy,” said Martin.

The little man giggled.

“I like you, mate.” He held out his hand, his eyes watering happily. “I’m a sailor, and my name’s Old Crackin. When my old lady’s sick—when she’s havin’ babies—I don’t take no tea for the fever. I don’t wait.”

He turned and pointed to the mural. “I git mine from her.” His eyes dimmed in affection as he stared at the naked lady. Then he smiled again at Martin. “I can spell too, mate,” he added proudly.

“Spell CAT,” said Martin.

“K-R-Double T,” said the old seaman, an ecstatic glow on his face.

“That’s right,” observed Martin, in a tone of approbation. “Can you spell DOG?”

“Sure I can!” Old Crackin answered promptly, looking as if he could scarcely contain himself for joy. “G-R-Double D,” he recited, and held out his hand once more.

Martin saw the running sores between the old sailor’s fingers. He smiled at him, called the bartender, asked for a beer and paid for it.

“Drink up,” he said and left.

The little man looked at his beer and drank it slowly, bitterness and necessity in his expression.

The nearest Relief restaurant was at the far end of the Bowery. Martin walked along, sticking to the edge of the sidewalk, glad that his dungarees were clean. The horizons of the sea outlined the figures of the people about him. They moved down the street, slack-mouthed, too tired to be desperate. Martin saw them as an old river, full of eddies and currents—muddy, yet retaining the purity of utter despondency.

In a doorway, out of the late afternoon sun, a man lay sleeping as though drugged. And at one corner three men were drinking openly from a bottle while a policeman passed them without interest. A long-haired, wild-eyed fanatic, his shirtfront covered with dark stains, addressed an amused group of loafers on their sins, vividly painting the atrocious hells that awaited them, and turning only to spit at the passing cars. Whenever there was a momentary lull of traffic he would spit on his own thin coat-tails in his excess of hatred. This brought the most hilarious laughter from the crowd. A thick-set drunken woman with one stocking dragging the pavement brought the preacher’s fury to such a height that he rushed at her, his mouth wide open. She swung at him sluggishly, missing his chin by a narrow margin; whereupon he ran around her in ever-widening circles as she continued her forward movement in dignified arabesques.

Martin walked on more slowly, attempting to find a stronger sedative with each horror he passed. A man lay stretched across the sidewalk. His mouth was bleeding, his trousers were open and a slow trickle of urine ran down to the curb. The crowd, apparently oblivious, walked around him and continued down the street. In his rising emotion, Martin nearly stopped. He wanted to cover and protect the man—wanted to carry him to some safe doorstep. But his hesitation was brief; for he knew that this was the accustomed vagary in a clouded, forgotten street—knew that he would be jailed or put to trial as a mischief-maker or a madman if he tried to block the immutable routine of such a land. And so he went on to the restaurant with his heart completely hypnotized because, alive, it could not bear the awareness of such a state.

Noise and confusion were in the cafeteria. A line of men moved slowly past the counter, carrying their trays and pointing to the food they wanted.

Martin picked up a tray, shook off the greasy drops and looked at the signs. They read:

BREAST OF LAMB!	FIFTEEN CENTS.
HAM AND BEANS!	FIFTEEN CENTS.
EGG!	FIVE CENTS.

“Ham and beans!” he shouted against the noise of rattling plates and cups.

The boy behind the counter ladled out a large plate of beans, dropping a slice of boiled ham upon them.

“Milk,” yelled Martin.

He carried his tray to a vacancy on the long, marble-slabbed table.

An old man, bent, unshaven, was scavenging the plates for food that others had left. Martin reached in his pocket for a meal ticket. A boy sitting nearby pulled at his elbow to stop him.

“Don’t be a sucker,” he said. “It’s the old guy’s racket.”

Martin handed the ticket to the old man. He felt irritable as he sat down next to the boy.

“He can take it, and to hell with him,” he said.

The boy laughed.

“I felt like that when I paid off. Now, I’m Red, the Cockroach—and a tighter one you’ll never find in the galley sink!” He talked on rapidly, going from one subject to another and his freckled nose was so impudent that Martin had to smile with him. At last, the boy pulled off his cap, showing his dark red hair. “That’s why they call me ‘Red.’ And,” he continued, putting his hand in his pocket and pulling out a fistful of tickets, “that’s why I’m ‘Red, the Cockroach.’ How’s shipping?”

“I’m not trying to get out,” Martin replied. “No butter?” he added, looking at the stale, brownish bread.

“No butter,” answered the boy, nodding his head. “And watch the beans. See those black fellows?” He pointed to Martin’s plate. “They’ll come up.”

“We’ll leave them,” said Martin, running his fork through the pinkish mixture.

The boy had thrown his cap on the floor. He picked it up with a nervous gesture and got out of his chair.

“I’m going for a stick of weed,” he said. “Do you want to blow one up with me?”

Martin shook his head.

“I’m a drinker,” he said. “I’ll put a beer behind yours if you care for it. I’m not hungry enough yet to manage this.” He stood up, pushing his plate to one side.

“It’s a hell of a racket,” said Red, as they walked out together. “They make plenty on this garbage.”

It had grown dark. Under a streetlamp, Red looked sideways at Martin.

“My connection is around the corner,” he said. “It’s Chilean Hay—good stuff.”

“Sorry,” said Martin. “I’m a drinker. I don’t object to Marihuana, but it depresses me; gives me bum kicks, you know.”

The boy shrugged.

“O.K.,” he said. “There’s my connection.” He nodded to a man watching them from a doorway.

The fellow met them and looked suspiciously at Martin.

“It’s O.K.,” said Martin’s friend. He took two cigarettes and handed back a quarter.

“I’m hot,” said the fellow, and walked away.

“He’s right,” said Red. “The law has his number. They know he’s peddling.”

“That makes it nice for us.” Martin glanced cautiously around him.

“We’re O.K. The law don’t bother the consumer. Here!” Red pointed to a dimly-lighted alley. “We can blast it right here.”

“Isn’t it rather open?”

“It’s all right,” said the boy. He lit a cigarette, puffed on it and held the smoke in his lungs. Talking jerkily, he let out the smoke.

“There’s just two kinds of men in the Bowery,” he said. “Weed-heads like me, and they’re smart. And lushhounds—” he stopped talking.

“Like me?” asked Martin.

Red took several more puffs from the cigarette, jigging on his heels.

“There it is,” he said. “I got it.” He laughed uncertainly. “Come over to the Square with me. I know where we can make a couple of bucks.”

“How?” asked Martin before he thought.

“Hustling,” answered Red.

“Hustling what?” insisted Martin, already in.

“Anything from gin to Jesus,” said the boy dreamily. “Or in a pinch, an Old Auntie.”

“No. I’m turning in.” Martin felt suddenly tired.

Around the corner, Red faced him.

“It’s as soft as roses,” he said. “Just as soft as roses.” He walked to the curb, peered over the edge, and stepped carefully across the street.