But now, closing my eyes, Syd vanished from the picture... there was this big blonde—truly tremendous and naked... kind of nudes the old masters painted. The blonde had shoulders and thighs large as those of a tackle I once roomed with— the guy later became a TV wrestling clown. In my mind, the blonde had a tough, craggy face like his, too.
Fear gripped me: was I really dreaming of men now? I'd known so many musclemen who were queer... No, this was a fantastic woman: blonde, large, ugly, with nipples the size of roses and a bosom beyond measurement. The bosom part reassured me... somewhat. She had to be a woman.
I sat up and yawned—the picture vanished. My head was okay; I wasn't hanging too much. The wrist watch on the dirty table said it was 9:17 a.m. The watch was a wedding gift, even if I couldn't recall from which of my many in-laws. Seemed odd I could feel this rested after less than four hours of shut-eye. Squirming to another cool part of the sagging bed, I debated going to the W.C., then stretched out again... seeing my easel standing next to the window, the mess of paints on the busted chair doubling as a table, the cracked, dusty-white walls.
I'd slept in cheap hotels all over Europe. Coarse linen, dim bulbs, bad plumbing, harsh toilet paper —when there was any. God, that a simple thing like toilet tissue should become a big deal in my lousy life! You could shove the Cote D'Azur, Paris was a phony sales pitch—what a moth-eaten country France was! Italy, the Greek isles, Spain, the whole goddamn broken-down Europe was mangy, preoccupied with their stinking past because they couldn't afford anything new or modern or... Still, no one had dragged or invited me over, I'd come under my own steam.
Fifteen months? Eighteen months ago? It had been long enough to raise and shave two full beards. I'd come to Europe because I'd believed all “artists” came here during some point in their career. Paris had been an absolute drag, but here in the South of France I'd truly learned to appreciate color, actually became fascinated by technique. I'd been painting damn well and enjoying it. In the States I'd been a cocky bastard, loudly blowing my own horn... perhaps because I'd actually been unsure of my talent. But here, relearning the fundamentals and understanding them, after all these years, utterly amazed to find a kind of primitive beauty bidden in my brush, had been deeply satisfying and truly exciting... Until it wore off. It was strange, really painting for the first time in my life, plenty of women to support me... yet it hadn't lasted.
I stared at my laundry drying on the chair. The money stretched farther here, if you went in for franc pinching. And old buddy, when you start scrimping on one fifth of a penny, you're living real low on any hog.
Closing my eyes to try for more sleep, I wondered what had become of Syd (I wished she didn't have this damned man's name) last night? There's a steady stream of lonely American and English broads floating around Europe. Between twenty-five and thirty, they save like crazy for their “great adventure”—dreaming it will end with romance, marriage, a Prince Charming with a villa, at least sex, and whatever else babes of thirty dream about. The USA gals very soon learn it ain't so—the dollar no longer what it was in 1949 or '50. I don't know what the British gals hope to find. But after the first disillusioned and lonely weeks, they are all happy to settle for any pair of pants, pay his way in a pitiful, last ditch effort to save the whole trip from being a dud.
Skinny Sydney was younger—about twenty-three —and while not loaded, she had a scooter, plus a sense of humor. We would lay on the beach, watching the French dames parading around in brief bikinis as if the rump was their own private invention—certain they were breaking things up with each quiver. My trouble was, lately, bikinis bored me.
Some flies began a racing course above my bed. Scratching my can good, I jumped out of the sack, astonished to find my “wash” completely dry. Blinking out the window I saw a blind woman and a one-armed man selling lottery tickets on opposite corners. Leaning farther out—the legless man in his cart was peddling tickets down the street.
I suddenly realized it had to be Wednesday, the day of the weekly lottery drawing. On the mawkish assumption God compensates their deformity by giving them luck, people purchased chances from the mutilated, and on Wednesday—the last day, the maimed were out hawking tickets all day.
No wonder I felt rested—I'd slept around the damn clock!
I shaved and dressed quickly, found less than four hundred francs on me. But I had sixty dollars in travelers checks from the still-life the Chicago teacher had bought. Since the sight of it would be a reminder of the loss of her stale virginity, was it now on her apartment wall or hidden in a closet? Probably in a closet—she was a jerky lollipop. Sixty bucks, have to start hustling again, unless Hank had sold one of my things... hadn't been around to his Galeries D'Azure in ten days. My feelings about exquisite Hank worried me...
But I was far too starved for any self-analysis. Taking my passport from the pocket of my old suitcase, I rushed off. Madame—sitting behind the hotel desk, yellowed teeth a collection of miniature tombstones—mumbled something about using her hot water for laundry. I walked by—sorry she knew English and I understood French. Old bag had her nerve, sneaking into my room while I was sleeping —seeing my “wash” on the chair. I was damn well fed up with all flea-bag hotels, pensions, and their grubby owners.
The day was hot and dry, the sort of weather which used to excite me when I first came to Nice from the raw cold of Paris. Stopping for coffee, I laced it with a rhum. Buying an orange and a hunk of wonderful rough bread, I finished my breakfast walking to the nearest cambio. I'd changed checks here once before and the nervous creature behind the counter nodded as I signed a twenty-dollar American Express check, took my passport from its plastic bag. The cambio man counted out the francs, opened my passport.
We both reached for the money on the counter— his bony mitt won. Jerking the francs away, he pointed toward my passport, sharp, sallow face full of suspicion, told me in French, “This is not yours.”
“What?” I packed up the open passport. Okay, it was impossible but the passport photo was of a young guy with a sandy crewcut topping a silly, weak puss. A face I'd never seen before. The name was Robert Parks and Washington, D. C. stated he had been born twenty-three years ago in California, resided in New York City. Turning the page the rubber stamp read he had entered France exactly nine weeks before.
It was all so unreal, I had to be in a nightmare. Staring at the plastic bag, I stupidly felt of it—the same old bag I always carried my passport in—had this faded cake ad on it. On first landing at Le Havre I'd bought a bag of cookies, kept the bag to protect my passport. I shook myself several times, but this wasn't any dream.
What the devil was I doing with another man's passport? Far more important—where was mine? I've been both hungry and flat broke in Europe, but neither gave me the sickening, naked feeling of being without my passport.