The Man in the Tree (25 page)

"No, I think radiance is right."
Margaret looked up at Anderson; he was staring out at the bright
ocean." 'Clarity' seems to be much simpler," he went on slowly. "But
then what you're saying is that a work of art must be clear. To whom?
That's a prescription for poster art. No, I think it's radiance -- a
shining. That's where the mystery comes in. You can understand wholeness,
the unity of a work, and you can understand harmony, when all the parts
work together. But where does radiance come from?"
"At the moment, I should say from the sun," Linck said comfortably,
and took a long draught from his glass.
Irma was strolling back along the water's edge. They saw her stop and
talk to Pongo, who was standing up in the shallows with his mask on top
of his head. Something she said made him laugh.
"As for poster art," Linck said, "I have seen some very good posters.
Toulouse-Lautrec made them, for instance. Even if you mean posters
advertising toothpaste, it may be there are people who find them
beautiful. If so, why not? Do we all have to admire the same things ?"
Gene gave him an ironic glance. "Retro me, Sathanas," he said.
"Well, really," Linck said, "you may treat this as frivolous if you
choose, but beauty is relative, isn't it? I know a man who sincerely
believes that Boston bull terriers are beautiful, whereas to me they
are simply a mistake."
"Depends on how you define the term. To some people, beauty is just
whatever is desirable or useful. My father would look at a painting of
some old barn and say, 'Why can't they paint a picture of a nice house?' "
Margaret said, "I've known people like that. My mother's housekeeper
couldn't see anything beautiful in snow, because she hated it."
"Sure," said Gene. "And then there's physical beauty in people. It
varies a lot from one culture to another, but it all comes back to what
the person is good for -- bearing children, or fighting off tigers,
or whatever. But there are other kinds of beauty you can't explain that
way. Beauty in nature that doesn't seem to have any function, it's just
there. Geometric beauty. Patterns."
"If by patterns you mean things like a butterfly's wing," said Linck.,
"or the veins in a leaf, those are certainly functional. In the butterfly
it's a matter of species recognition, or sometimes misdirection, and in
the leaf -- "
"All right, but have you thought about coquinas?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You haven't seen them? Maggie, have you?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Well, if I'm not mistaken, Irma has just found some." He raised his
voice. "Irma!"
She looked up; she was on her knees in the strip of wet sand above the
water. Anderson beckoned. She came toward them with her hands cupped
together, and Pongo followed her.
"Let me see," said Gene. Irma held her two hands over his palm and
took them away. In his hand was a heap of little glistening shells,
seed-shaped, each no more than half an inch long. Some were white,
some pale yellow, some pink; others had delicate ray patterns of blue
or violet alternating with white. Gene stirred the pile with his finger
while the others bent close.
"Pretty little things," he said. "They live along the beaches here, and
use the tides to move back and forth. When the tide starts to go out,
you'll see them coming to the surface and washing out in the water,
hundreds of them. Shore birds eat them. So what are these patterns and
colors for? Not for camouflage. If you wanted to hide from shore birds,
wouldn't you be the color of sand?"
"I would certainly try to be," said Linck.
"So that leaves species recognition. But these little creatures have no
eyes -- they can't see their own patterns. They are beautiful, and they
are blind."
They had been so absorbed in what he was saying that nobody noticed the
intruder until he was in front of them. It was a man in brown bathing
trunks, well built, a little pudgy around the waist; his long hair
was wind-blown.
"I'm sorry," he said to Gene, "but I don't suppose your name is John
Kimberley?"
"Yes!" said Gene. "Who are you?"
The man smiled and took off his sunglasses. "Mike Wilcox. My God, is
that Irma? What are you all doing here?"
Irma squeaked, shot forward and embraced him. He freed one arm to shake
hands with Gene.
"I could ask you the same question," Gene said. "Come and sit down. Irma,
leave some for the sharks. Mike, this is Margaret Morrow, and this is
Piet Linck. That's Bill Richards down in the water." They made room under
the canopy; Irma, her eyes brighter than Margaret had ever seen them,
sat next to Wilcox and held his arm.
"Mike and I were in the carnival together -- what, twenty years ago?" said
Gene.
"It can't be. You know, this is amazing luck. I almost didn't come out
this morning; I was really more drawn to the idea of sulking in my room
with a bottle. What
are
you doing here?"
"I live here. What about you?"
"I was playing a club on Treasure Island. Not a great success, I'm
afraid."
"Doing magic?"
"Yes. It was all right, actually, until my assistant broke her knee. I
offered to go on alone, but the manager wouldn't have it. I think he
felt the customers were more interested in her legs than my card tricks."
"You're free, then?"
"At liberty is more like it."
"Come home with us, then, and we'll talk. Where's your assistant?"
"In hospital, poor old bird. I've got to hang around until I see she's
all right."
"Stay with us, we've got plenty of room," said Irma. "Mike, I can't
believe it's you! Have you seen any of the old gang?"
"No, not for donkey's years. I used to get a note now and again from Ed
Parlow. He told me about Ray -- that was hard lines."
"No, it's all right."
"Are you, ah -- ?" He glanced from Irma to Gene.
She laughed. "I'm the housekeeper. Gene is rich now -- wait till you see."
"This calls for a celebration," said Linck. He was rummaging in the
cooler. "Aha," he said, and drew up a frosted bottle. "I thought this
might be here." He poured five small glasses and handed them around.
"What is this, gin?" Wilcox asked.
"No, jenever." He pronounced it as if the first letter were a 'y.' "It
is like gin, but much better. This is the new kind, I think. We have
the old and the new. Some like one, some another."
Margaret tried a sip; the liquor was like icy water, and tasted almost
as innocent.
Pongo came up glistening wet, carrying his mask and flippers, and was
introduced. Linck handed him a glass; he sat down on a towel just outside
the canopy.
"Well, I must say this is superb," said Wilcox, with a broad grin. "Wait
till I tell Nan. Gene, whatever became of you, after you blew the show
in West Virginia?"
"I went to France and joined a circus."
"No! How long were you in Europe?"
"Almost ten years, but I left the circus in seventy-two."
"Just before me. I was there from seventy-three on."
"Did you ever work the Circus Romano?"
"Yes! My God, now I come to think of it, they told me they'd had an
American giant in the sixties. But the name was different, and you were
long gone by then."
Pongo unpacked the hamper, and they ate huge sandwiches of cold chicken,
Westphalian ham cut in paper-thin slices, raw Bermuda onion, cole slaw.
"Working a circus is quite different to carnivals," Wilcox said. "I
don't know if you've found that."
"Oh, yes," said Irma.
"Because of the animals?" Margaret asked.
"Well, partly. It's a difference in attitude, though, I think. A circus
is, well, you know, a traveling entertainment -- it's a theatrical
performance really, except too big for a theater. But you're right, the
animals do make a difference. I used to like being around the elephants --
bulls they call them, I don't know why."
"Aren't they bulls?"
"No, they're cows as a rule. Bulls are too hard to handle. You know,
animals are near the top of the heap in a circus, right up with the
aerialists and so on. I remember once in Georgia, we were showing a
little town where they had a home for retarded children -- we did a
special matinee there, and so on, and when we got to the next town we
discovered that one of the inmates had joined us. Well, the circus sort
of adopted him, kept him for years, and the point I was getting at,
they treated him like an animal, which is to say, several ranks above
a common working hand."
"Was that with Clemens Brothers?" Irma asked.
"Yes, and you know, Clemens housed him with the workmen, gave him a
little spending money -- never paid him any wages, as far as I know,
but he was sort of a privileged character. The working hands got paid,
but they were the lowest of the low."
"That's the truth," Irma said. "Once when I was with Vargas, I saw a
workman get laid out with a stake because he spit at a llama that had
just spit at him."
"That's terrible," Margaret said.
"Well, the workman had probably been hired a week or two ago down on
Skid Row, and the llama was worth a thousand dollars."
Pongo brought out lemon tarts for dessert, coffee hot from the thermos,
brandy. The sun was low by the time they finished, and a little group
of people walking northward along the tide line cast shadows like
spears. "This beach is getting too crowded," Gene remarked as they came
closer. There were half a dozen in the group, all very young, the boys
bare-chested, the girls in T-shirts and cutoffs. They stopped and looked
up toward the shelter; after a moment one of them detached himself and
walked up through the dry sand.
"Could you tell me what time it is?" he asked, halting a few feet away.
"Just a minute." Margaret got her watch out of her bag. "Five-thirty."
"Thanks." The boy needed a haircut; his body was slim and muscular, and
very red across the shoulders. He was looking curiously at Gene. "Are
you in the circus?"
"I used to be. I'm retired now. Where are you from?"
The others had been drifting closer as they spoke. "I'm from Schenectady,"
the boy said. "My name's Carl. This here's Scott, he's from Schenectady
too" -- a tall boy with sandy hair, also sunburned -- "and this is Karen,
and Christine, and Rebecca, and Tony, they're from Cincinnati."
"My name is Gene Anderson. What are you all doing here?"
The boy shrugged. "Nothing to do at home, I guess. Nothing to do down
here, either, but the beach is pretty nice."
"We were in St. Augustine," said one of the girls, a frightened-looking
blonde, "but we heard they were going to spray the garbage cans with
poison." One of the boys gave her a nudge with his elbow; she pushed
him away.
"Haven't you got any money?" Gene asked. They shook their heads.
"Pongo, see what's in the hamper."
Pongo opened the lid, looked in. "Couple of sandwiches."
"Push it over here." Gene reached in, withdrew two wrapped sandwiches
that looked small in his hand, and offered them. "Are you hungry?"
"Gee, yeah, thanks."
Gene reached into the hamper again, drew out two more sandwiches, then
another two. The young people crowded up, sat in a row and began to
eat. Gene passed out soft drinks and bottles of beer. "Were you really
getting food out of garbage cans?" he asked.
"Sure. People throw all kinds of stuff away -- you wouldn't believe
it. I mean good stuff, not rotten or anything."
"And they sprayed poison in the cans?"
"It's true," Irma said. "I heard about it on the radio last week. It
made me sick. I can't believe how rotten some people are."
Margaret moved closer to the girl who had spoken about the garbage cans;
she was one of the youngest of the group, not more than fourteen or
fifteen; the bones of her shoulders were visible through her unicorn
T-shirt.
"My name is Margaret," she said. "You're Christine?"
"No, Karen," said the girl, with her mouth full. "That's Christine over
there. Hi."
"Have you been away from home long?"
"Couple of weeks, I guess."
"Going back there sometime?"
The girl shook her head. "They don't want me anymore."
Margaret felt her eyes blurring. She reached for her beach bag, found
her wallet and a tube of suntan lotion. She pulled out the bills without
trying to count them. "You'd better take this," she said, handing Karen
the tube of lotion. "And this." She pressed the money into the girl's
hand. "Will you share it with the others?"
"Oh, yeah. Gee, thanks. Thanks a
lot
."
The sandwiches were gone; Gene handed out lemon tarts and poured
coffee. The corners of the children's mouths were sticky yellow; their
voices grew loud and cheerful. When Pongo collected the empty cups and
began packing things away in the hamper, they glanced at each other and
stood up.
"We've got to be going now," said Carl. "Really appreciate this --
that was really good food." The others came up to shake Gene's hand,
and Karen kissed Margaret quickly on the cheek.
"Be careful," said Margaret, in a voice she did net recognize.
"We will. Good-bye!"
The children walked away, some with their arms around each other;
they turned once or twice to wave. Beyond them, over the ruddy ocean,
a line of pelicans was moving north. The birds drifted motionless for
a long time. First one, then the next, beat its wings for a few strokes;
then they drifted again.
"What's going to happen to those kids?" Margaret asked.
Linck said quietly, "They will survive, some of them. They are surplus
children. We have them in Amsterdam also. In Bogotá there are thousands,
sleeping in the streets. It's nothing new."
"Can't somebody do something about them?"
"There are various ways. One way is to put them into monasteries and
convents. Another is war."
She turned to Gene. "Couldn't you -- ?"
"Take them in? Give them jobs on the grounds crew, or something like
that? Yes, I could. And then what would I do with the next batch? There
are hundreds of thousands of unwanted teenagers in this country alone."
After a moment she said, "I'm sorry."
"No, it's all right. I understand how you're feeling. 'Surplus children'
is an ugly phrase. But that's what they are. Years ago I met a man who
was beating the drum for population control. That was in the sixties. He
was right, but he couldn't get anybody to listen to him. It's this funny
idea we have about the future, that it's somebody else's problem."