Stanley Elkin - Boswell

“What’s he say?”

“He says that all that has been taken into account by the people who make the meters, but that you have to expect to pay a little something extra for the romance.”

“Tell him that I do expect to pay a little something extra for the romance, but that it must be held to a minimum, that one is always paying a little something extra for the romance, and that one expects service rendered too.”

She told him.

“What’s he say?”

“He says what do you mean?”

“Tell him I mean that I see he has a kilometer gauge in the cab. Tell him that I will undertake to engage him and the horse if he will accept payment for distance delivered plus one hundred lire for the romance.”

Margaret told him.

“What’s he say?” I asked.

“He says all right, where do you want to go?”

“Tell him around and around the fountain.”

“Around the fountain?” Margaret said. “Just around the fountain?”

“Around and around the fountain. Tell him.”

She told him. “He says get in,” she said.

We got in and we drove around and around the fountain. After about three circumnavigations the people sitting on the Spanish Steps waiting for American Express and Keats’ house to open began to watch us with interest. Every once in a while one would point. The horseman muttered something, but I didn’t ask Margaret to translate. Soon there was a crowd, and in a little while people began to call things to us. The horseman growled and said something to Margaret.

“What’s he say?” I asked.

“He says this is crazy.”

“Tell him he wants romance I’ll give him romance and a deal’s a deal. Can you say that in Italian?”

Margaret said it in Italian.

Now there was a big crowd watching us; people were standing in the street. As they pushed forward the traffic had to slow down to avoid hitting them. Many of the drivers craned their necks out of their car windows to discover what the crowd was looking at. When they noticed our slow pace around and around the fountain they were as interested as the others. Some of them turned off their ignitions and waited to see what was going to happen.

“Wave,” I said to Margaret. Margaret waved.

“Tell him,” I said.

She did, but he wouldn’t wave. There were too many cars piled up and he had to use both hands in order to maneuver the horse around them. We had barely made another circuit around the fountain when the cars, now bumper to bumper, almost stopped our progress altogether. The horseman applied the whip ruthlessly and tried to force the big carriage through narrow and narrower spaces. He drove valiantly. He used the whip with an almost arch indifference. He swore at the stalled drivers. But none of it was of any use; we could not go another ninety degrees. We were stuck tight in a solid sea of metal.

From our greater height we stared impassively down on the shiny roofs.

“Well, then,” I said after sitting amiably, arms folded across my chest, for about ten minutes, “I think we’ll get out here. Tell him.”

Margaret told him. Tears came to his eyes.

“I notice on his kilometer gauge that we have gone less than one kilometer. Tell him.”

Margaret told him.

I paid the old man for distance delivered, plus one hundred lire for the romance, and Margaret and I stepped down from the carriage.

“But I can get a pass to the studio,” Margaret said.

“I never bring my own bottle and I never use a pass, Principessa.”

“But it would be so easy. Fellini and Antonioni are friends of mine.”

“We must do it my way,” I said. “A man moves in more mysterious ways than a woman.”

“Well, I’ll be recognized anyway,” Margaret said. “There will be no trouble at the gate.”

“There must be trouble at the gate,” I said. “There’s always trouble at the gate. How could you respect me if there were no trouble at the gate? How could I show you what I do? But that’s a point about your being recognized. Perhaps you’d better not come.”

“But it’s my courtship,” Margaret said. “Yes, there’s that.”

Margaret wanted to use the Maserati but I told her that she would certainly be recognized if we did, and so we took the streetcar out to CinecittÃ. We got off one stop before the movie studio.

“But it’s five streets further,” Margaret said. “Never mind,” I said. “We have to get off here.” We got down and I went into the men’s room in a gas station. I took off my shirt. “Here,” I said to Margaret, who was standing just outside the door, and I handed it to her. Then I took my jar of Vicks VapoRub and began to pat the stuff over my arms and chest and back and neck and face. I am not the kind of person who tans, but I am darkish, and the Vicks, thick as butter on my body, gave my skin the fine, high gloss I wanted. I felt like sixteen cartons of burning Kool cigarettes and smelled like something in a sickroom, but the visual effect was startling. The Vicks added a sweaty, faintly greasy definition to each muscle, so that I looked, even at rest, like someone hard at some powerful labor.

It was wonderful, I thought. I had used to think that something always turned up. It was true, of course, but inadequate, and as an only partially optimistic vision of the world it was a little vague. It was no philosophy to live by unless one enjoyed long waiting. I know now that although something will always turn up, one needn’t wait. Any position, any action, however absurd, produces consequences. The wilder the action the more desirable the consequences. Everything works; anything works. Chewing gum will plug a dike. One must remember that, as all aggressors are fond of saying about their enemies, the world is decadent. It won’t fight. So right away I have the advantage of surprise, the high ground of the insane gesture. A steady hand and a poker face are all one needs. Only be bold — brazen it out and the day is yours. Therefore have chutzaph!

Listen, one man with a cap gun and the proper attitude can take the Bank of England. If there’s little comfort in this, all right. If you think, What can I do with the Bank of England, you’re right — but that’s another story. What can you do with victory itself? We winners know, yes? But rich or poor rich is better, and give or take take is nicer. Are you with me?

With the rest of the Vicks Margaret got the spots I had missed and we walked the five blocks up to the gate. She was a little nervous, I think, but outside the gates is familiar territory for me. It’s my home town, so to speak.

“Hi, Pop,” I said to the policeman behind the gate. “It’s a line I learned from the movies,” I told Margaret. I turned back to the policeman. “Parle Inglese?”

The policeman shook his head.

“Sono Boswell,” I said. “Capito?”

The man said something which of course I didn’t understand. Margaret opened her mouth to translate and I interrupted her. “Don’t speak,” I said, “don’t say a word.” I put my hand on the gate to push it open and the policeman moved stubbornly in front of it. He asked me something.

“Sono Boswell,” I said again. “Capito?”

He looked at me a little uncertainly, trying to decide whether he had ever seen me before. He examined my shiny, shirtless torso as if, after all, it was not such a very unusual sight. “Sono Boswell. Boswell,” I said. “Capito?” I said very softly.

He was going to say something, but before he could open his mouth I spoke again. “Sono Boswell. Capito? Capito?”

He shook his head, deciding he did not know me, but a little unsure of it.