Donald Barthelme: The Dead Father

My dear, Thomas said. He extended a hand which of itself and without guidance grasped one of her handsome breasts.

Not in front of him.

Thomas removed the hand.

Can you tell us, he asked, what that hussar had done? The one we saw hanged by the neck from the tree back down the road a bit.

Disobeyed a ukase, said the Dead Father. I forget which ukase.

Oh, said Thomas.

Nobody disobeys a ukase of mine, said the Dead Father. He chuckled.

Smug, isn’t he, said Julie.

A bit smug, said Thomas.

A bit, the Dead Father said.

They gazed at each other fondly. Three fond gazes roving like searchlights across the prawns.

They packed up. Thomas gave the signal. The cable jerked. The sun still. Trees. Vegetation. Wild gooseberries. Weather.

I’ll let you have a wipe of it sometimes, the Dead Father said. Both of you.

Thanks, Julie said.

When I embrace or am embraced by its damned fine luster, the Dead Father said, all this will seem worthwhile.

He paused. Even the cable. Another pause.

Even those galoots you hired to haul on the cable.

Volunteers, every one, Thomas said. Delighted to be in your service. To be wearing your livery.

No matter. When I clutch its fine golden strands to my ancient bosom —

His hopes are got up, I’m afraid, Julie said.

Thomas flang his sword into a bush.

It’s not fair! he exclaimed.

What’s not fair?

Why do I feel so bad? he asked, looking round him in every direction, as if for an answer.

Are you ill?

I could use a suck of the breast, Thomas said.

Not in front of him.

They retired from the Dead Father’s view, behind a proliferation of Queen Anne’s lace. Julie seated herself on the ground and opened her blouse. Two bold breasts presented themselves, the left a little smaller than the right but just as handsome in its own way.

Ah! said Thomas, after a time. Nothing like a suck of the breast. Is there more?

While I live, beloved.

Thomas indulged himself further.

Julie buttoned her blouse. They emerged hand-in-hand from the Queen Anne’s lace, Thomas swabbing his chops with the hand that was not hand-in-hand.

A bit left out, said the Dead Father. A bit. That is what I feel, at this moment.

Suffer, said Thomas, reclaiming his sword from the bush.

Excluded, said the Dead Father.

It is because you are an old fart, Julie explained. Old farts don’t get much.

The Dead Father leaped to his feet and stormed off down the road, upon receiving this information. His golden robes flaring all about him. The cable trailing.

He has slipped his cable, said Thomas.

They stormed off after him. When they caught up, they found a terrible scene.

The Dead Father was slaying, in a grove of music and musicians. First he slew a harpist and then a performer upon the serpent and also a banger upon the rattle and also a blower of the Persian trumpet and one upon the Indian trumpet and one upon the Hebrew trumpet and one upon the Roman trumpet and one upon the Chinese trumpet of copper-covered wood. Also a blower upon the marrow trumpet and one upon the slide trumpet and one who wearing upon his head the skin of a cat performed upon the menacing murmurous cornu and three blowers on the hunting horn and several blowers of the conch shell and a player of the double aulos and flautists of all descriptions and a Panpiper and a fagotto player and two virtuosos of the quail whistle and a zampogna player whose fingering of the chanters was sweet to the ear and by-the-bye and during a rest period he slew four buzzers and a shawmist and one blower upon the water jar and a clavicytheriumist who was before he slew her a woman, and a stroker of the theorbo and countless nervous-fingered drummers as well as an archlutist, and then whanging his sword this way and that the Dead Father slew a cittern plucker and five lyresmiters and various mandolinists, and slew too a violist and a player of the kit and a picker of the psaltery and a beater of the dulcimer and a hurdy-gurdier and a player of the spike fiddle and sundry kettledrummers and a triangulist and two-score finger cymbal clinkers and a xylophone artist and two gongers and a player of the small semantron who fell with his iron hammer still in his hand and a trictrac specialist and a marimbist and a maracist and a falcon drummer and a sheng blower and a sansa pusher and a manipulator of the gilded ball.

The Dead Father resting with his two hands on the hilt of his sword, which was planted in the red and steaming earth.

My anger, he said proudly.

Then the Dead Father sheathing his sword pulled from his trousers his ancient prick and pissed upon the dead artists, severally and together, to the best of his ability… four minutes, or one pint.

Impressive, said Julie, had they not been pure cardboard.

My dear, said Thomas, you deal too harshly with him.

I have the greatest possible respect for him and for what he represents, said Julie, let us proceed.

They proceeded.

The countryside. Flowers. Creeping snowberry. The road with dust. The sweat popping from little sweat glands. The line of the cable.

Beautiful country around here, said Julie.

Gorgeous, said Thomas.

Great to be alive, said the Dead Father. To breathe in and out. To feel one’s muscles bite and snap.

How is your leg? Thomas asked. The mechanical one.

It is incomparable, said the Dead Father. Magnificent, that would be a word for it. I would I had two as good as the left. Old Plugalong.

How did you come by it? asked Thomas. Accident or design?

The latter, said the Dead Father. In my vastness, there was room for, necessity of, every kind of experience. I therefore decided that mechanical experience was a part of experience there was room for, in my vastness. I wanted to know what machines know.

What do machines know?

Machines are sober, uncomplaining, endlessly efficient, and work ceaselessly through all the hours for the good of all, said the Dead Father. They dream, when they dream, of stopping. Of last things. They —

What’s that? Thomas interrupted. He was pointing to the side of the road.

Two children. One male. One female. Not too big. Not too small. Holding hands.

Children in love, said Julie.

In love? How do you know?

I have an eye for love, she said, and there it is. A clear instance.

Children, said the Dead Father. Whippersnappers.

What is that? the children asked, pointing to the Dead Father.

That is a Dead Father, Thomas told them.

The children hugged each other tightly.

He doesn’t look dead to us, said the girl.

He is walking, said the boy. Or standing up, anyhow.

He is dead only in a sense, Thomas said.

The children kissed each other, on the lips.

They don’t seem very impressed, said the Dead Father. Where is the awe?

They are lost in each other, said Julie. Soaks up all available awe.

Don’t seem old enough, Thomas said. How old are you? he asked.

We are twenty, said the girl. I am ten and he is ten. Old enough. We are going to live together all our lives and love each other all our lives until we die. We know it. But don’t tell anyone because we’ll be beaten, if the knowledge becomes general.

Aren’t they supposed to be throwing rocks at each other at this age? Thomas asked.