Walker Percy - The Last Gentleman

Kitty sat up. Her eyes were fixed in a stare upon a bowl of tiny cactus plants. “The Huichol believe that things change forms, that one thing can become another thing. An hour ago it sounded like nonsense.”

“Is that right?” He had heard it before, this mythic voice of hers. One of his aunts lived in Cuernavaca.

“The hikuli plant is the deer. The deer is the corn. Look at that.”

“What?”

“That color.”

He looked down at the blanket between them where forked Navaho lightning clove through an old brown sky, brown as old blood.

“What about it?”

“Do you see the depths opening into depths?”

“No.” He tried to blow his nose but the mucous membranes had swelled against each other like violet eiderdowns. “I think I’ll be going.”

“Wait,” she called from the doorway as he walked rapidly off into the night, forgetful of summer now, head ducked, shouldering as if he were still bucking the winter gales. He waited.

“All right,” she said. “Where do you want to go?”

He gazed vaguely about at the shuttered shops and dark brownstones.

“We can’t go back there,” she said. Her pale face loomed unsteadily in the darkness. He was thinking about the reciprocal ratio of love: was it ever so with the love of women that they held out until the defeat of one’s first fine fervor, not merely until one feigned defeat but rather until one was in truth defeated, had shrugged and turned away and thought of other matters — and now here they came, all melts and sighs, breathing like a furnace. Her lips were parted slightly and her eyes sparkled. His nose was turning to concrete.

“And we can’t go to the Y.” She had taken his arm. He felt importunate little tugs at his elbow as if he were a blind man and she wanted him to cross the street.

She pulled him close. “Do you notice anything?”

“No.”

“The lampposts.”

“What about them?”

“They seem alive and ominous.”

He was displeased with her. Was it then the case with love that lovers must alternate, forever out of phase with one another? It did not suit her to be fanciful. Was she drunk? She gave him a kiss tasting of burnt corn. He wished she would chew Juicy Fruit like a proper Alabama girl.

“I do know a place,” he said finally. “But it won’t do at night.”

“Why not?”

“It’s in the park.”

“Wait,” she said and flew back to the cottage. He waited, listing at a ten-degree angle. Had he, empathic as ever, got dizzy from her dizziness?

When she returned, she wore a skirt and blouse instead of pants and quezquemetl. “Take this.” She pressed something into his hand.

“What’s this for?” It was a small revolver, a police special, with hardly a quarter inch of barrel.

“For the park. My brother gave it to me as a going-away present when I came to New York.”

“Sutter?”

“Yes. He’s a police surgeon.”

He stuck the pistol into his coat pocket and allowed himself to be nudged toward the subway.

They walked from the Broadway subway exit to the park. Fifty blocks north there were more fires in Harlem and the sense of faraway soundless tumult. Police sirens kicked out, subsided toa growl.

He hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Again the nudge at his elbow. “Don’t worry. They’re all up there.”

He shrugged and took her into the Ramble, a densely wooded stretch. Holding her behind him, he walked swiftly along a path, stooped and holding the girl’s head down, turned into a thicket of privet whose bitter bark smelled like the dry rain gutters of his own house. Dark as it was, with no more light than a sinking gibbous moon, it didn’t matter. He knew the southwest quadrant of the park as he knew his own back yard. (Though he could not see them, he knew when he passed the Disney statuettes, could have put out a hand and touched Dopey.)

The place was down a ravine choked with dogbane and whortleberry and over a tumble of rocks into a tiny amphitheater, a covert so densely shaded that its floor was as bare as cave’s dirt. By day it looked very like the sniper’s den on Little Round Top which Brady photographed six weeks after the battle: the sniper was still there! A skeleton in butternut, his rifle propped peaceably against the rocks.

He set the police special in the dust beside him and drew Kitty down on the other side. They leaned into the curve of a shallow overhang of smooth rock facing the cleft where they entered. There was no sound of traffic or sight of the lighted windows of the apartment houses along Central Park West, or any sign of the city at all except, when he moved his head slightly, a chink of red sky over 110th Street.

“My Lord,” said Kitty. “How could anybody find us here? I can’t even see you.” Her fingers brushed clumsily across his face.

He kissed her with an amiable passion, mainly concerned now to bear with her, serve her anticness as gracefully as he could. He aimed to guard her against her own embarrassment. His nose was no better.

“To answer your question,” she said softly, “Yes.”

“Fine,” he said, nodding in the dark. What question?

“Dearest,” she breathed, holding her hand to his cheek with a tenderness that struck dismay to his heart.

The puzzle is: where does love pitch its tent? in the fine fervor of a summer night, in a jolly dark wood wherein one has a bit o’ fun as the English say? or in this dread tenderness of hers?

“Don’t go away, darling,” she whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

“All right.”

She moved away. As he traced a finger in the dust, drawing the old Northern Pacific yin-yang symbol, he heard the rustling of clothes and the singing of zippers. She returned without a sound. He embraced her and was enveloped in turn by the warm epithelial smell of her nakedness. What a treasure, he thought, his heart beating as rapidly and shallowly as a child’s. What suppleness.

“Hold me,” whispered Kitty with her dismaying tenderness. “My precious.”

“Right.” Now holding her charms in his arms at last, he wondered if he had ever really calculated the terrific immediacy of it.

“Why don’t you—” she said.

“What? Oh. Pardon,” said the courtly but forgetful engineer and blushed for his own modesty, clad as he was from head to toe in Brooks Brothers’ finest. Making haste to sit up, he began unbutton his shirt.

“Now. Oh, my darling, do you love me?”

“Oh yes,” said the engineer, swinging her forty-five degrees in the dust so that he could look past her toward the opening of the covert. The sky was redder. From the same direction there came a faint crepitant sound like crumpled newspaper. The cops and the Negros were shooting it out in Harlem.

“Will you cherish me?”

“Yes, certainly,” said the engineer.

“I don’t mean just now. I want to be protected always. I want to be cherished.”

“I will,” he assured her.

“Do you know what matters most of all?”

“What?”

“Love.”

“Right.”

“Love is everything.”

“Yes.”

“Rita asked me what I believed in. I said I believed in love.”

“Me too.”

“Besides which I want to prove something to myself,” said the girl, almost to herself.

“Prove what?”

“A little experiment by Kitty for the benefit of Kitty.”

“What experiment is that?”

“Let me tell you, there is nothing wrong with Kitty,” she said.

“I didn’t say there was.”

Holding her, he couldn’t help thinking of Perlmutter, his young fresh-eyed colleague at Macy’s. Though he was from Brooklyn, Perlmutter looked like an Indiana farm boy. Perlmutter spoke of his wife with a lack of reserve, though not of respect, which was startling. Making love to his wife, Perlmutter said, was like “being in heaven.” Now he understood. Kitty too, he would have to say, was an armful of heaven. The astounding immediacy of her. She was more present, more here, than he could ever have calculated. She was six times bigger and closer than life. He scarcely knew whether to take alarm or to shout for joy, hurrah!