Magic, page 4
I put a lot of thought into it, old man. It seemed to me that Azazel was a broken reed and that, besides, I didn’t want to see Van get a job. I admit jobs have to be done, but surely not by myself or those I consider my friends and loved ones. So I had an idea.
I sought Van out at his club. “Van,” I said, “I have never met this Dulcinea of yours and I would like to.”
He looked at me with what I can only describe as an ugly suspicion. “She is too young for you,” he said.
“Van,” I said, “you wrong me. Women are entirely safe with me. They may beg and they may offer money, as they frequently do, but except out of pure kindness and a view of ameliorating their suffering I assure you I would have nothing to do with them.”
My earnestness and my transparent honesty had their effect. “Well, well,” he said. “I will introduce you.”
He did, eventually, and I got to know her. She was a rather small girl, thin, beautiful figure, dark hair. She had dark eyes that were very keen. She moved quickly and had an air of suppressed energy about her at all times. She was, in fact, quite the opposite of Van, for Van was easygoing and allowed life to drift casually past him. Dulcinea, on the other hand, gave me the definite impression that she seized life by the throat, shook it, and threw it in the direction she wanted it to go.
Frankly, I have never had the impulse to marry, but had I—if one can imagine so ludicrous a possibility—it would never have been Dulcinea. Being near her was like standing too close to a crackling bonfire—it made one uncomfortably warm. Of course, opposites attract and I was perfectly willing to let Van marry Dulcinea. It would after all remove her from circulation and make it more comfortable for other males she might meet.
“I have longed to meet you, Miss Greenwich,” I said, in my most courtly manner, pronouncing it ‘Gren’ij,’ as any civilized person would do.
“It’s pronounced ‘Green’wich,’ and you can call me Dulcie. I take it you are George, a friend Van has told me much of.” She gave me an appraising look that seemed to skin me.
“A close friend,” I said.
She harumphed, then said, “Well, after he manages this job-thing, I’ll be able to get on to other matters. I’ll have to, obviously.”
I’ll tell you frankly I didn’t like her tone, but I said, “It is about the job-thing that I wish to talk to you. Why on Earth do you want Van to have a job?”
“Because it is not good for a man to be a gadabout, and to waste his life on trivialities.”
“For a man?” I said. “Not for a woman?”
She blinked a few times. “A woman should be up and at ^^em, also.”
“Shouldn’t one of a couple be taking care of the house while the other is out there in the jungle?”
“Blatant male chauvinist propaganda.”
“Nonsense! I said ‘one of a couple.’ I didn’t specify. It’s whichever is best suited for whichever job. I take it you are a feminist.”
“Absolutely. I come from a long line of feminists. One of my ancestresses busted General Ambrose Burnside in the snoot for having the nerve to wink at her. She messed up his sideburns, I can tell you.”
“Exactly. Then it strikes me that you are far more capable of handling yourself in this cruel world of ours than poor Van is. Van is a soft and gentle human being—”
“Yes, he is,” and her voice softened a bit and a look of what was almost human feeling came into her eyes. “He’s my little lambsie-pie.”
I controlled the shudder and went on smoothly, “Where you are as hard as nails.”
“Hard as drop-forged alloy steel, I’ve always thought.”
“Then shouldn’t you be the one who gets the job?”
“Hmm,” she said.
“In fact,” I said. “I think you ought to go into politics. We need a hard-hitting, hardheaded, hardfisted, hard-shelled American telling all those shifty swivel-heads what to do.”
“Hmm,” she said.
“And if you go into politics, what can you better have than a rich husband who can supply the money for all those TV shots? Not that it would be lost money, for once you are elected you will find a thousand ways of earning the money back; some of them nearly ethical.”
“Hmm,” she said.
“And Van is just the type of mate a politician would need—at the left, one step back. Smiling for the camera, charming the elderly female vote, looking up at you adoringly as you make your speeches. The last thing you would want is to have him take a job. He’ll need to use all his time to take up some good cause that will make you look good—like homes for aged polo ponies, where he can teach them all to ‘Just say neigh.’”
“Hmm,” she said. “There’s a great deal in what you say.”
“There usually is,” I admitted.
“Let me think about it.”
“Certainly, but act quickly. Otherwise, Van may get a job and it may spoil him for the exacting task of being First Gentleman.”
“First Gentleman.” She rolled the phrase over her tongue, then she murmured, “Madam President”—and said, energetically, “I’ll see him tonight.”
And so she did, and the results were as I had foreseen.
Van phoned me the next day in the greatest excitement. “George,” he said, “Dulcinea wishes to marry me. I am not in the least required to get one of those nine-to-five jobs. She says I will certainly have plenty to do when I marry her and she can no longer wait to have her heart’s desire fulfilled. —You see, she means me, when she speaks of her heart’s desire, of course.”
“Undoubtedly,” I said. To be sure, it might have been the White House, but I saw no reason to mention that to Van at this happy time in his life.
He was married in less than a month. I was one of the Gentlemen Ushers, and the champagne was superb. When I tell you that I even managed to avoid kissing the bride, you will understand that it was an occasion on which the heavens themselves smiled.
The happy couple went off on a honeymoon, and they then retired to their suburban mansion.
They kept themselves busy, for Dulcinea Glitz, as she now was, did enter politics. I don’t know how closely you follow politics, old man, sitting there, as you do, with your nose in your word processor at all times, but in just a few years she blazed her way through the city council, and is now running for the state senate.
I must tell you that I was very proud of myself. For once, I had not depended on Azazel but had done it all myself, and very neatly, too, you will have to admit. It was clear to me that, in this one case, Azazel had failed. There was no strange emotional force field that lured employers into demanding Van’s services; no wild yearning for menial position on Van’s part. No, he and his loved one simply got married.
All was well.
At least, I thought all was well until I met Van a month or so ago. He had aged considerably. His tan was gone; his hands trembled a little; he walked with a slight stoop; and there was a haunted look in his eyes.
I ignored it all, and said heartily, “Van! Long time no see!”
He turned to look at me and it seemed to take him a while to recognize me. “Is that you, George?”
“None other.”
“How are you, George? Meeting you is such delicious pain. It reminds me of the old days; days that are never more to be, alas.” And tears coursed down his cheeks.
I was taken aback. “Van!” I said. “What is the matter, old chap? Don’t tell me she made you get a job after all!”
“No, no,” he said. “Would that she had. I am busy in other ways. I must consult the head gardeners on the matter of the grounds and gardens, busy myself with the cook in preparing menus, go into a huddle with the housekeeper on the parties we must constantly give, hire nursemaids for the twins that dear Dulcie took two days off to have. In general, the work is very, very demanding, but on top of that—”
“Yes?”
“On top of that, she is in politics, you know. Someone apparently suggested it to her once. Blithering, interfering idiot,” he said peevishly. “If I could find him, I’d hit him over the noggin with my polo mallet. After all, I have no other use for it these days. You wouldn’t know who suggested it, would you, George?”
I said, “I think it must have been her own idea. I can’t conceive that anyone would be so foolish as to suggest it to her. —But tell me, what’s wrong with her having entered politics?”
“What’s wrong? It deprives me of all my individuality. I am constantly being asked by interviewers the extent to which I influence her decisions, whether I actually get to sleep with her, whether it’s true that I consult an astrologer to get the proper time for her to make her speeches? I tell you, George, I have no life of my own anymore. Nobody even knows my first name, and why should they? Do you know Mr. Margaret Thatcher’s first name? Of course not. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.”
My heart was wrung. “Have you told her this, Van?”
“Frequently. But she says that I am the ideal politician’s mate and that someday when she retires from her second term as President, I will be able to visit the beaches and nightclubs again.”
“I hate to say this, Van, but have you considered a divorce? She’s a politician who can’t stand scandal, so she’s sure to let you go quietly and probably even let you retain custody of the children. Then you’ll be a free man again.”
Van nodded his head and said sadly, “I have often thought of this. I would even allow her to retain custody of the rotten—of the precious tykes of ours. But I can’t, George, I can’t.”
“Why can’t you? I’m sure she’d make no trouble.”
“It’s not she, George, it’s I—I—I—I.” He pounded himself on his chest with each I till a fit of coughing stopped him.
When he had recovered, he said, “This marriage I view as a job. From the moment Dulcinea and I stood before the minister I thought to myself exultantly, ‘This is a job—the job I swore to my Dulcinea I would get and keep.’ In fact, I have the feeling that I must never give up this job, no matter what, and Dulcinea feels the same. I don’t know why. It is a kind of mystical thing. And so you see, I’ll never be free. Never.”
So there you are. You see the mistake. Azazel’s workings did do the job. And when I interfered—with the very best motives in the world, I assure you—I arranged a marriage which, under the circumstances, turned out to be the job neither he nor Dulcinea could end, and which he, at least, couldn’t bear. It’s too bad, but it’s just a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth, to coin a phrase.
I shook my head sadly. “You seem to spoil the broth every time, George. What is it with you? —But in any case, as long as you’re on the road to prosperity, would you take care of the tip, at least?”
George looked revolted. “When I have just told you a sad story, a terrible tragedy—is that the time when you should be discussing anything as sordid as money?”
He was right, of course, so I lumped the tip in with the rest of the check and paid it. Then I handed him five dollars to show that I was sorry I had hurt his feelings.
Habit is a hard thing to break. It would be very hard for me to stop giving money to George, and much harder still for George to stop accepting it.
BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE
GEORGE AND I WERE HAVING LUNCH and the waiter had just placed a bowl of navy bean soup before him, a beverage of which he is inordinately fond. He inserted some of it into himself, sighed with pleasure, and, looking out the window, said, “There’s a hint of snow in the air.”
Whereupon I said, “If you call gobs of snow in thick swirls falling from the sky a ‘hint’ then I suppose you’re right.”
“I am merely,” said George, haughtily, “trying to lend an air of poetry to the otherwise bald statement that it is snowing. However, trying to talk poetry to you is much like trying to talk it to a horse.”
“Except that a horse wouldn’t pay for this lunch.”
“And neither need you, were it not that I am short of funds at the moment.”
It was a moment that had lasted, so far, as long as George had, and though it would have been pleasantly unkind to say so, I refrained.
“A sight like this,” I said, “fills me with apprehension at the cold weather to come. Still, I can console myself with the thought that it will be over in a matter of a few months and I can then amuse myself by feeling apprehension at the hot weather to come. A periodic change of apprehension, I suspect, is good for one and feeds that necessary feeling of divine discontent.”
“I wonder why,” said George, “they call discontent divine.”
“Because it’s discontent with things as they are that has driven humanity into the creation of civilization and culture. Contentment would lead to stagnation and to stultification, as in your case. And yet even you, George, if the stories you inflict on me are true, recognize the divine discontent in others and you then labor to improve their lot. Of course, if those same stories that you continue to inflict on me remain true, it would appear that your interference in the lives of your friends invariably leads to catastrophe.”
George reddened. “That’s twice in one short statement you’ve cast doubt on the slices of life which I have favored you with.”
“Slices of life that include a two-centimeter extraterrestrial being that you can call up through a space warp and that can do all sorts of things beyond human technology is not something which it is difficult to doubt.”
“And I also resent your statement that my good-natured help invariably leads to catastrophe. That is a statement so wide of the truth that I’m sure the angels in heaven are weeping on your behalf at this very moment.”
“If they weep, the divine tears are falling on your behalf. You’re the one who recounts the tales and describes the catastrophes. I am merely pointing them out.”
“The fact is, old man, that I have, on occasion, produced a happy, love-filled marriage, replete with fidelity and morality, something that is entirely my doing. The case I am thinking of is that of Euphrosyne Mellon and her husband, Alexius. I will now tell you their story.”
“Actually, I don’t want to hear the story.”
Euphrosyne Mellon [said George] was Euphrosyne Stump before her marriage and I knew her from a child. She was a shy tot, who, when introduced to those outside her immediate family, would shrink behind the nearest item of furniture and peep out through large and bashful eyes. This shyness of hers was never overcome, and as she grew older, it centered itself on members of the opposite sex.
This grew the more incongruous when, as she grew up, she turned into a miracle of appropriate proportion, possessing the body of a goddess. She was a small goddess, to be sure, only five feet two inches tall, but the young men of the vicinity did not fail to notice the phenomenon.
Many a young man attempted to scrape up a friendship and if they had succeeded then, for all I know, they would have engaged her in deep philosophical discussions. I could never put that to the test, however, nor could she, for they never managed to scrape up the necessary friendship that is the prerequisite for such discussions.
Euphrosyne carefully dressed in such a fashion as to obscure the startling nature of her physical attributes, but found that young men have a sixth sense in those respects. A young man with scarcely enough sense to find an omelet resting on a plate in front of him can nevertheless pierce, in his mind’s eye, the layers of burlap with which Euphrosyne swathed herself, to detect the wonders beneath.
I was, of course, her godfather, for, as I have told you on previous occasions, I have been blessed with an inordinate number of beautiful goddaughters, undoubtedly because of my intense virtue and respectability. Even Euphrosyne made an exception of me in what was an otherwise universal suspicion of the motives of the male sex.
She sat on my lap and sobbed into my shoulder while I stroked her golden hair.
“It is simply that I cannot bear to touch any of those creatures,” she said, “and I feel that they have that vicious tactile urge. I can’t help but notice that they generally wash their hands before they approach me, as though they feel that they will achieve greater success with clean hands.”
“And won’t they?”
Euphrosyne shuddered. “Filthy hands I could not endure, but clean hands are not much better, Uncle George.”
“And yet you sit on my lap, and I am stroking your hair and, I believe, occasionally your shoulder and upper arm.”
“That’s different, Uncle George. You’re family.”
I continued stroking. Family has its privileges.
Considering her attitude, though, you can well imagine my stupefaction when she brought me the news that she was marrying Alexius Mellon, a young and husky man, of no great poetic gifts—of no small poetic gifts, either—who made a good living as a traveling salesman.
When she came to me with the great tidings, blushing and simpering, I said, “Considering your views on the male sex, Euphrosyne, how could you bring yourself to agree to marriage?”
“Well,” she said shyly, “I guess I’m just a romantic at heart. I know that it’s unsafe to let yourself be guided by mercenorotic motives. They do say that ‘cash is blind’ and that seduced by it you make terrible mistakes. However, I’ve also heard that ‘cash conquers all,’ and I believe it now. I tried to keep away from Alexius and to lock him out, but everyone says that ‘cash laughs at locksmiths,’ and so it proved. And—well, I guess I’m just a silly girl but, after trying so hard all my life to keep away from men, I just woke up one morning, thought of Alexius and realized that I was helpless—I had fallen in cash. I went around all that day singing, ‘Cash is the sweetest thing,’ and when Alexius proposed again, I said, ‘Yes, dear, we will get married and I promise to “cash, honor, and obey.”’”
I smiled and wished her all possible good luck, but when she had gone, I shook my head sadly. I had seen enough of the world to know that the golden glow of cash can make for a splendid honeymoon, but that when the serious tasks of life make themselves felt, cash alone is not enough. I mournfully foresaw disillusionment for my sweet silly little goddaughter, who had read too many tales of cash and romance.
