Читать книгу The Ambidextrist - Peter Rock - Страница 9

THREE

SNAKE

Behind the Art Museum, Scott finds a path that switches back and forth down the slope to the Schuylkill River. Overgrown grass, tangled with shreds of plastic and other trash, stretches out at the bottom, under a few trees and around a dry fountain; green-roofed buildings, their windows boarded up, stand to one side. The air smells of sulphur. He keeps moving, all the way to the railing. The river slides darkly by, forty feet below, a walkway right at its edge. A man sits on the walkway, only his legs visible, stretched out, his feet dangling over the water.

“Hey!” Scott says, then repeats himself, more loudly. “Hey!”

There’s a spiral staircase to his left, and he descends, his boots ringing on the metal steps. He hurries along the path.

“And just what is your problem?” the man says.

“What kind of a name is that for a river, anyway?” Scott says. He looks out over the water, its surface almost black, greasy, impossible to see through. “I can’t even pronounce it.”

“That name’s from a whole other language. Means ‘hidden river.’” The man doesn’t look up to speak. His hair is black, in a short Afro, barely darker than his skin; his beard is pure white. He wears a pink dress shirt and brown slacks. His feet are bare—a pair of rubber sandals rest next to him—and a length of fishing line is tied around one big toe, stretching down into the dark water.

“What’s so hidden about it?” Scott says. “It’s right there, in plain sight.”

“It’s thick down there,” the man says. “No one knows what all’s in the water. Could send scuba divers under and they couldn’t tell you a thing.”

“You fishing?”

“Just counting the dead fish floating past—they die trying to breathe that water.”

“Could get your toe pulled off,” Scott says. “Fishing like that.”

“This here’s just the way Huck Finn did it.” The man lifts his foot, wiggles his toes, the nails thick and yellow. “You ever read that book?”

“Of course I read it,” Scott says, though he hasn’t.

“Name’s Ray. Sit down, if you like.”

“I’m all right,” Scott says. He stands silently, watching Ray whittle at a stick. The knife has a six inch blade; the stick is taking the shape of a lizard or crocodile. Scott leans closer, wishing he had a knife.

“Where you from?”

“Here,” Scott says.

“Wrong,” Ray says, snorting back a laugh. “And those boots—couldn’t run in those.”

“I got no reason to run.”

“You will.” Ray smiles. He reaches out and slaps the top of Scott’s boot. “Know what they say about guys with small feet?”

“No,” Scott says. “I sure don’t.

“Me neither.”

“Thought you were going to trash talk me there,” Scott says. “That would have been a mistake.”

Across the river, cars race along the highway, glinting all different colors. Ray lifts his foot and moves it side to side, as if enticing or hypnotizing the fish below.

“What are you working on?” Scott says.

“Nothing in particular,” Ray says, but instead of showing it he slides the wood he’s been carving into his pocket. His hand, now empty, jerks toward the sky without warning; his leg flexes, as if it might kick. “Just found whittling’s a good thing to be doing,” he says, “when you’re alone in the city. Gives you an excuse to have a knife in your hand, and that reminds people to keep their distance.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I always hope I don’t have to use it.” Ray shrugs, still holding the knife. “Down here it’s a bunch of crackheads, and you never know what they’ll do, how they’ll react, who they’ll take you for. So you never want to stand too close, never within arm’s reach.” Waving the knife as he speaks, he pushes Scott back a little, with his free hand.

“I’m clean,” Scott says. “And I don’t know where it was I started asking for advice.”

“I like you,” Ray says. “You got a stupid kind of charm. Kind of clueless, kind of reckless, you know what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t.” Scott stares out across the river.

“Whether you asked for it and whether you need it,” Ray says. “Those two aren’t the same thing.”

“Whatever,” Scott says. He claps his hands, trying to laugh it off, and as he shakes his head, looking down at his feet, all at once he sees the long black shape at the edge of the path. It’s pointed right at him.

“Snake!” Shouting, he leaps sideways, almost into the river, and then farther back. At the cry, Ray slides to his feet and dances in the other direction, searching the ground with his eyes, his hands held out flat in front of him.

“Where?” he says. “Where?”

Scott is moving in slow motion now, which seems to have stopped the snake’s progress. He points to where it rests—almost two feet long, poised to strike, a shiny, slippery black.

Laughing, Ray leans forward, then, and picks up the snake by the tail. He whips it closer, laughing even harder as Scott stumbles backward.

“How was I to know it’s dead?” Scott says.

Ray only smiles. Even barefoot, he is still a head taller than Scott. The fishing line is now wrapped around his ankles; the lead weight and the worm on its hook trail out behind him. Setting the snake back on the ground, he begins untangling himself.

“Snake?” he says. “This is a damn eel. Caught it myself, half an hour ago. Was about to ask if you wanted to share a little with me. Good eating.”

“That’s not right,” Scott says, recovering himself. “I remember what you said before, about the dirt in the water.”

“Fish got gills, so they just pass it all through, they filter it out. That’s obvious.” Ray sits down again, lowering the line after checking his hook. “It’s not what’s in the water that you got to worry about,” he says. “It’s what’s up on the land.”

“I can handle myself on the land,” Scott says.

“Seen it all down here,” Ray is saying. “Found dead bodies, everything. You want to get yourself into that situation where a person sees you and doesn’t see you—where they know you don’t have anything they want.”

“Are you even talking to me?” Scott says. “I didn’t ask for a lecture, and I never believed you were going to eat that eel.”

“Those boots,” Ray says, shaking his head. He takes out a new pack of Kools, lights one, and shakes one out toward Scott, who doesn’t take it.

Ray sets the cigarette down, still burning, and resumes his carving. It is quiet except the hollow sound of the cars, carried across the river, the rasp as the knife shaves curls from the stick. From time to time, the old man’s legs twitch, his arms jerk out straight; he pulls them back under control without a word, then picks up his cigarette and takes another drag.

“All these buildings here with the green roofs,” Scott says. “What are those about? That part of Fairmount Park? I seen all the mansions, further up. I know all about that.”

“City owns it,” Ray says. “Waterworks, used to be, long time ago. Can’t sleep in there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I got a place to stay,” Scott says.

“They’ll get you for trespassing, on top of the vagrancy. After the water got so dirty, they used it for an aquarium, but the seals kept dying. Had a Olympic-type swimming pool on the other side, later; that was fresh water, chlorine bleach and all. Blue. Hurricane wrecked it in the ‘70s, but it’s still under there, with roots dripping from the walls and ceiling. I saw it. Found my way down there, one time, through a tunnel. Diving boards, rats all over the place, hardly any light coming down. It’s too damp, all around here, nowhere to sleep.”

Scott just smiles, about to say he understands, that he won’t be tricked, and then water hits the path, ten feet away. One stream, and then another. Standing on the wall, high above, two young men piss off the edge. Scott cannot make out their faces.

“What?” Ray shouts.

The twin streams waver a little, but keep coming.

“What’d you do if someone came over, whipped it out, and pissed in the middle of your living room?”

“I’d wonder what the fuck kind of place I’m living in!” one of them shouts back. And then—after a few shakes, taking their time zipping up—they are gone.

Ray looks out across the river, then up toward the wall again, muttering. He re-baits his hook, resuming the conversation as if there had been no interruption.

“Mayor wants everyone in a shelter, and you know they make you stay in there if you take their food. Makes everyone feel safer, not to see anyone sleeping on the street, but in the shelter they lock you in and you can’t choose who’ll be sleeping, who’ll be lying awake next to you. Then there’s baby bird syndrome—too much gets given to you, you’ll never learn how to care for yourself. You know how it is.”

“I don’t like you intimidating I’m homeless,” Scott says. “I got plenty of places to stay.”

“You got a toothbrush sticking out your back pocket,” Ray says. He has untied the fishing line from his toe and is winding it around two crossed sticks. “Man, I’m not riding you—that’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re kind of sensitive, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter where you sleep, it’s the same all over again. Lonely.”

“This is right what I want to be doing,” Scott says, “at this point—whatever’s next will be building on it. I’ll be carrying all this, all my experiences. I got a lot behind me, and all sorts of hopes out in front. You listening to me?”

“Obvious,” Ray says. He rocks his body forward and farts. “That is obvious.”

“That was flat philosophy,” Scott says. “You wouldn’t know obvious.”

Standing, Ray steps into his sandals. He tightens his belt, tucking in the loose end like he is putting a sword in a scabbard. Turning, he steps back toward the stone wall, which is covered in green vines. Scott had not noticed the bicycle leaning there. He watches as Ray untwists a length of wire from the back of it, then returns, picks up the eel, and pierces its mouth with the wire. The eel’s body widens and flattens at the end, into a kind of tail; other than that, it looks just like a snake. Ray bends down, then lies on his stomach. He leans over and attaches the wire to a metal hook in the concrete, so the eel slips back under the water.

“It’ll keep that way,” he says, dusting himself off. “Fish won’t bother it much. Up here, it’s all birds and squirrels.”

Scott just nods. He decides to let it go, not to comment on the eel. The old man has hold of the bicycle again, and begins pushing it down the path, toward the circular staircase. Scott follows. He notices the strip of grease marking the inside of Ray’s slacks, right at the cuff.

The bicycle has a kind of rack built onto the back, a blue plastic milk crate atop it, bound by wire hangers. Pine tree-shaped air fresheners dangle all over the frame. It’s an old time three speed, its chain and sprocket free of rust; its tires are bald, but its spokes are straight. Plastic streamers hang from the grips, and one car stereo speaker, oval, is attached to the middle of the handlebars, cord dangling.

At the stairway, Ray stops, then lifts the bicycle over his shoulder.

“I could carry it for you,” Scott says.

“No, you couldn’t.” Ray begins climbing, slowly, around and around. Scott hesitates, then follows.

“In the museum,” he says, his neck bent back, his voice carrying upward. “Saw a picture of a bicycle with a bull’s horns for handlebars. Tail hanging down under the seat.”

Ray does not reply. Breathing hard, he climbs without stopping to rest. Sometimes the bicycle rings out against the railing, and then he grunts and adjusts his grip. At the top, he sets it down and stands for a moment, wiping his face with the forearm of his shirt. With his open hand, he pounds the handlebars, to straighten them. The rearview mirrors quiver and settle.

“Where you headed?” Scott says.

“Got some things to take care of before nightfall.” Ray pulls a small radio from his pocket and plugs the speaker’s cord into it; he fiddles with the dial until music blares out. Violins and piano, working themselves up. He turns it louder, then throws a leg over, straddling the seat. He rests one foot on a pedal, then pushes. The speaker points back toward the seat so the music passes around him and is left behind in his wake.

“Catch you again, sometime,” Scott says.

Ray’s body sways side to side, pulling away. In a moment, the music is gone; the path curves, and he disappears from sight.

Scott kicks his way through the tangled grass, toward the abandoned buildings. The gate is broken, forced open, and he steps onto the red brick. The windows of the biggest structure are solid plywood; the smaller ones still have glass—it would be too dangerous to sleep in here, where someone could see you from the outside. Scott smiles to himself, thinking how transparent Ray is to him, how obvious it is that the old man sleeps here, somewhere. He has ridden off as a diversion, so he can return later. Scott knows that trick well.

Atop one of the small buildings, a stone woman reclines with a waterwheel; on top of another, a bearded river god is held down by chains. Scott keeps walking along the bricks, parallel to the river and above it. Past the buildings, the bricks beneath his feet turn to blacktop; here and there, thick glass squares, only four inches across, break the surface. Down on his knees, he squints through and can see nothing; he wonders if the swimming pool is under him, rats diving through the water, or if Ray had been having him on, trying to get him to believe a lie.

The walkway leads out to a gazebo that overlooks the river. A low dam, bent at an obtuse angle, stretches to the other side, allowing a constant overflow, a thin white veil of water. On the lip, a metal keg is hung up, thrown into the river from some party upstream. Scott wills it to go over, but it does not. It stays there, spinning, rolling in place.

Since he has been in Philadelphia, he has not covered the miles like he once had, but now he feels he is really traveling, getting somewhere, even more than in those times. All his circling is unwinding inside him. He leans against one of the gazebo’s rotten pillars, where someone has scrawled IN LOVING MEMORY OF TINO 1974–1993.

Unzipping his pack, he takes out a jar of baby food, pureed peas and carrots, and eats it with a plastic spoon. He found a whole case of it, barely expired, out behind Pathmark, and took all he could carry. It doesn’t taste bad, now that he’s used to the texture, and it is healthy, full of vitamins.

The wind ruffles the water. It pushes the sun farther across the horizon and finally off the edge. Dusk begins to spread. He leans against the railing, warm wind blowing hair from his face. Behind him, he knows, the museum looms. Lights are coming on in the tall buildings downtown. He imagines the figure he is cutting, standing alone against this backdrop; he wishes someone were watching him now, standing in front of the city. If they came within earshot, he would tell them that its possible for a person to change himself. It’s a matter of making that decision, then putting it into action.