Alexander Theroux - Darconville’s Cat

”When I take the plunge

I drink like a sponge,

No bladder holds liquor like mine—”

sang irrepressible Felice Culpa, flinging the door open, standing there in purple slacks and gold shoes, her wig ablaze with jewels, and continuing, much to the shock of the guests behind her, to round off in near-perfect numbers her romantic roulade:

”So would you get hot

For my sweet little twat

If I peed the most excellent wine?”

It was Darconville, surprised, at the doorstep, and Felice, laughing mightily thereat, stroked down her thighs in a parody of mock-preparation, mock-lust, and yanked him in with a big and most felicitous kiss of welcome. Where was Isabel? she asked, taking his coat. He promised she would come.

Darconville rather liked the Culpas who, few among many, certainly could not be numbered at Quinsy in the taxonomy of academic mumpers, wirepullers, and bootlickers. The two of them, independent and carefree, were simply a commedia dell’arte of pranks, bog-jokes, and liberal thought, the kind of free-spirited teachers who for no particular reason came to these small towns, taught a spell, and then dropped out of sight for good. They were certainly not long for Quinsy College, less for holding spécule views on the equality of races than teaching the virtue thereof. It didn’t go down, and with it they were humming their recessional. President Greatracks, nevertheless, had once been a guest at one of their famous dinners, a copious and mouthwatering manicotti imbottiti à la Culpa, with homemade bread, cannoli, and bottles of sparkling asti spumante, a celebration, in fact, for Isabel’s birthday (Dec. 30). They were both wonderful cooks, and lavish, and so on that occasion, though unbeknownst to them, they were earmarked as the host designate for the May bash. Pushing himself away from the table that particular evening, Greatracks had belched and with perfect seriousness declared, “Lordy, I love Hawaiian food!”

* * * * *

Friday 12:30 P.M.: The débouchement from the Quinsy dining hall is loud. “O, I knew there was something else. I won’t be going up with you to Charlottesville,” exclaims Isabel with a secret smile to her tablemate, Annabel Lee Jenks, who’d given her open invitations for weekend rides. In her excitement, she forgoes dessert: snowcones. She doesn’t lag but scooping up a fardel of books rounds out of the doors (thewm, thewm) on a zip to the library: not, however, before dancing up the stairway to Darconville’s office to try to catch him — catch? kiss! — and assure him that she will (a) hurry to finish her termpaper, (b) call for Miss Trappe who, as understood, would go with her, and (c) meet him, according to plan, at the Culpas’ party the minute ev-erything was done. Drat, the office is empty and — but, wait, what is here? How often the slip between objective cup and subjective lip! But what does it matter? Isabel’s face drops, almost as if she had never in her life seen a letter, or at least one colored lavender.

* * * * *

Pouring a drink, Darconville shoehorned himself into a noisily buzzing crowd that reached to several rooms. It was a large omnium gatherum composed for the most part of the Quinsy administration, faculty, and staff, along with a handful of other Lumpengesindel from downtown Quinsyburg: town officials, local voivodes, and influential porkers from the mayoralty, all grouped together — hale-heartedly chattering, jingling the ice-cubes in their glasses, blinking at each other through a vast smokering — to concelebrate the end of the school year. People embraced each other like orchestra conductors. Allocutive Jill-tipplers and firedrakes with tight permanents hissed salutes of sudden recognition, while gorbellied husbands-in-tow, wearing bright red faces and outlandish sport jackets, barrellassed across the room, napping their hands, to announce themselves and yawp out greetings. A few businessmen in sudoriferous shoes snuffled and snorted, while their pert wives, all bowlegged, stood around with menacing smiles pricing the furniture. Jackdaw perched beside jackdaw. It was not unexpected, for this was not an age for the piety of hesitation, the which, alas, in Quinsyburg at least would have to wait another century or two to come from its ossuary and be recognized. It was the Age of Smirk. It was the Age of Intrusion.

“Hah, har yew !”

Good grief, thought Darconville, what language was that? Pushtu? Wolof? Gic-Goc? He turned.

“Over here.”

Darconville turned again.

“ Dang it, son, over here !”

It was President Greatracks, shinyjowled, hunkering low on his elbows and snickering through the funkhole of the bar. His face ballooned out comically. He stuffed a roll-mop herring into his mouth, then another, and another, and then with a loud thoop sucked a huge gobbet of sour cream from the fat of his wrist. “I saw y’all—” He swallowed hard and wiped his chin. “I say, I saw ya’ll day or two ago, you ol’ coon hunter, with just the prettiest little ol’ gal ever , steppin’ out of that big au-to of yours, huh?” He winked a wink of fat-bound comprehension, eased back, and swung his rumbling, drumbling body around the side of the nook. His tie was stuffed into his trousers, the belt of which, tight, squeezed him just above mid-point like a trans-vected sugar bag. “A mighty tall drink of water, and cute as pie. Mm, mmm, cute as pah !”

“Yes,” said Darconville.

“Beautiful as a o-riole.”

“Thank you.”

“Shoot, you was grinnin’“ he wheezed, “like a unwarshed mule eatin’ briars — and then some.” He fished for a crumb in his teeth. “Well, good. Longhair or no longhair, you still ain’t one of them sad little bumboxes around here about to drive me crazy with damfool requests and extracurricular thises and thats, no you ain’t, son, and I’ll give you that!” Ironically enough, Greatracks liked his people soaped and regimented, a tour years back in the navy having taught him, he repeatedly pointed out, not only spiffiness — here, he always raised his voice in contribution to the betterment of the proximate world — but discipline ! “These touchholes,” said Greatracks, gloomily looking around, “they’re all arse and pockets! Some of these bastards have been on their knees so long, they’ve forgot what it’s like to have feet!”

He grabbed a bottle of bourbon, filled Darconville’s glass, and tapping a toast hausted right from the bottle in one long suck. “We right in hopin’ you find Quinsy here to your likin’?” He burped. “Hell, sure you do, we all do, right?” His tongue was resting on his lower lip in half-witted expectation. “Right?”

For confirmation, President Greatracks leaned over to grab Qwert Yui Op, but he was explaining to Miss Porchmouth and Dr. Excipuliform — unfortunately, in Tibetan-Chinese — about the method used for sowing soybeans in his country: they stored seeds in their ears, if his charade meant anything, and hopped through the fields at a 30° angle. So, reaching out, Greatracks hooped in the then passing Dodypols to reassure Darconville how happy they all were. Dr. Dodypol, a friend of Darconville’s, was a short little fellow from the English department with a sad starched pallor and bloodless, nickel-sized ears and, upon seeing him, always waved at pocket level with a little flap and said, “Hello, Darconville. Fair grow the lilies on the riverbanks?” But on this occasion he said nothing, nothing at all. Twice his height, Mrs. Dodypol carelessly pushed her husband aside and, holding with exaggerated care a fuel-smelling drink at arm’s length to protect a dress the color of winter cabbage, on long morbid feet moved leering up to President Greatracks with a face salacious and rouged to a Grock-like mask, her eyes smiling like moonfish. She playfully squibbled his cheek.