“Glory be. You mean it? I did it? Hosanna!”
A moment of silence, silicone silence, Ira and M under the yellow incandescents on the kitchen ceiling, the specks of memory which, until moments ago, lay irretrievably buried, now excavated and so pleasingly retrieved and reconfigured through the passage of time.
A new moment of silence, a solitary moment, as the gloaming light cast shadows over the books he loved so well. The last streaks of twilight had disappeared over the Palisades so long ago, and now, as Helius’ horse-drawn chariot raced by on its evening run, the desert sunset illumined the basalt horizon.
A moment of silence. The monitor hummed. Had he only dared look at her then with the passionate homage he now so keenly felt.
VOLUME IV: REQUIEM FOR HARLEM
FOR ROZ AND BILL TARG,
PARAGONS OF LOYALTY
Without Haste, Without Rest.
Not thine the labour to complete,
And yet thou art not free to cease!
PART ONE
I
Ira Stigman’s legs were weary, legs and feet and instep, but the long march was well worth its fatigue. He had hiked and hiked, past Grand Central Station and 42nd Street, past all the crosstown trolley lines, at 34th, at 23rd, at 14th, at 10th, and then he turned west to 8th Street. Gut and innards were at peace, head was clear. He had traveled over a hundred city blocks from the red brick tenement, counting the jog west from Lexington to Fifth Avenue. Nearly six miles, according to accepted reckoning. Ahead of him, a block away, loomed two figures of George Washington, either side of the arch named in his honor, heroic in size and monumentally calm. And behind the arch, Washington Square Park spread out in a rectangle of grass and trees still verdant despite the October chill, paved walks and a fountain flourishing at the center. From the slant of sun and hint of chill in the shadows, Ira judged the time must be approaching five o’clock, though Sunday strollers were still numerous in the park, and benches well occupied. Luxuriously, negligent with liberation from acute discomfort, he considered his next step — literally. He could go into the park, find a space on a bench and sit down, rest his weary shanks awhile, and then walk east again, a few blocks past NYU to Astor Place, and take the Lexington Avenue subway home. Sunday, he’d be sure to have a seat. But he had another option: he had the keys to Edith’s apartment in his pocket.
If Edith was home, he could rest while he visited; if she wasn’t home, he could stretch out on the couch; could relieve his bladder in privacy, though it wasn’t too distended: perspiration had taken care of that. No, it would be better to piss right here in the men’s toilet in the park and be done with it, in case Edith was home. Right. He made his way across the park to the men’s toilet, relieved himself against the slate, holding his hand cupped over his cock, a trick he had learned from an obvious gentleman next to him once, learned it eagerly because he was always a little apprehensive that he didn’t stack up so well against other guys.
He exited — and now what? The walk to the pissoir had brought him a few blocks nearer Edith’s. He felt renewed. What were a few blocks more? She would be transported with mirth when he regaled her with an account of his gastronomic adventures with Leo, whom he had just finished tutoring. He could already hear the peal of her laughter as he described the waning of the bowling ball within him — to the tune of “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching.”
Three helpings of pasta with lovely little meatballs he had consumed earlier that afternoon, with collateral slices of bread, washed down with dago red wine. “Wow!” he had told Leo as he put down his fork. “Boy, am I ever full. I’m stuffed.”
He was indeed — and more: sated to stupefaction — arms hanging down, stultified. “Hey, Leo, I got to lie down,” Ira had told his friend after they had finished.
“No kiddin’? There’s a sofa in the front room. Or you want to go in my bedroom?”
“No. Just to lie down for a few minutes. I guess I ate too much.”
Leo had led the way. The front-room windows above the sofa looked out on Lexington Avenue. Early-afternoon sunlight, which had warmed the black horsehair of the sofa, had fallen on Ira as he stretched out on top. Lethean Lexington Avenue traffic three stories below, volleys of Italian from the dining room, clink-clank of dishes and utensils being washed in the kitchen — Ira fell into a slumber like a coma. When he awoke, he felt a huge, gross lump of undigested feast inside his stomach that pressed against his abdomen like a bowling ball. He wasn’t sure he’d survive. Panicky, he got to his feet, tottered, plopped back on the sofa again, and sat there, unable even to slump, rubbing the bowling ball in his belly. “Wow!”
Leo had heard him, and had come in, faithful Leo, snub nose and thick lips awry with concern. “Whatsa matter?”
“Ow, I ate too much.” Ira massaged his bloated paunch and lamented. “Jesus, I ate too much.”
“You’re not gonna be sick or nothin’?”
“No. It’s all in there. What a bellyache.”
“You didn’t eat so much. You’re pregnant,” Leo grinned.
“Aw, cut out the shit. Jesus, I hurt.”
“Waddaye wanna do? You wanna lay down some more?”
“No, no. Jesus Christ.”
“You don’t wanna puke, do you? I can get you some o’ my mother’s bakin’ soda.”
“No, no. Don’t say anything.”
“What d’you wanna do?”
“Lay an egg. Wow!”
Leo cackled.
“I’m not kidding.”
“You ain’t?”
“No. Wooh! Did you ever see an aepyornis egg?”
“A who?”
“That’s what I got in my gut. Go to the Museum of Natural History. I gotta walk.”
“Is that where you goin’?”
“No, I’m just going to walk, walk, walk. Get me my hat and jacket, will you? I don’t want them to see me, you know what I mean?”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, I’ll just go in and say goodbye. Get the hat and jacket.” Only the most heroic kind of locomotion could help him in the fix he was in, Ira was sure. “Wow!”
He was grateful to Leo for helping him into the jacket. He grimaced over suppressed groans, and with a smile like a plaster cast on his face, went into the kitchen and thanked Leo’s mother, then into the dining room, where the three cooks were playing cards. He said something about a great fiesta, and now he had to walk it off, and made for the door and the stairs. Leo, who insisted on following Ira down into the street, to make sure he was all right, again offered to accompany him, but Ira shook hands with him at the stoop and waved his pupil away. “Good luck. I’ll see you after the exam. I got to get goin’. Boy,” he grunted. “Thanks. So long.” And he headed downtown.
Ow, bowling ball, bowling ball. Why did he have to do it? He’d have to churn it up, and churn it up, and churn it down to size. Knead it and knead it back again into the dough it was supposed to be. Oh, bastinado it, drub it, rubadubdub it. No hungry generations tread thee down. O-o-o-h. Jumpin’ Jesus, how do you tenderize a bowling ball? Walk. Hoof it, man, hoof it.
He had first wheeled toward Park Avenue, tramped a block west, and there wheeled south. Forget it, if you can at least get by the side of the Grand Central ramp on 102nd Street; look at the blocks of glittery mica schist and gneiss. Watch the afternoon sun glint off the rock as you knead down the rock in your belly. He groaned.