The Man in the Tree

Chapter Twenty

-- Con su permiso. The porter wheels up His cart, dumps litter beside the trash can. Smiling taxi drivers ask, -- żAmigo? -- Si, amigo. The telephones demand special coins. The seats Have been stolen. Children are asleep Under corrugated cardboard. They wake, Stand in a circle like football players. -- żDonde vamos a robar hoy? The particles Are too small to be seen, a miasma of the mind. Over the tilted city, in bright sun, the sky is gray. --Gene Anderson

Next day Gene announced that they were all going to the beach for a party. After a light lunch Pongo packed a huge picnic hamper; they set out a little after two in Gene's motor home, drove across the causeway and up the line of islands, past the funereal row of hotels and condominiums, to a public easement on Redington Beach, where the sea-front was still lined with private houses on ample lots. They walked through yucca and sea-grape and found themselves on a deserted beach. To the south they could see a few tiny black figures, small as ants; to the north, no one at all. Almost on the horizon, a white pleasure boat was trudging northward.

Anderson walked through the gentle surf until he was thigh-deep, then dived and disappeared; they saw him after a few moments stroking out toward the breakers. A bottle-green wave curved over him; he dived again and reappeared, a dark moving dot on the white glare.

Margaret and Irma swam nearer shore; Linck and Pongo were still busy putting up a shelter on four poles near the seawall. The water was only a little cooler than the air; Margaret felt it as a caressing softness on her body. When she came out, the sand was hot underfoot and the sun warm on her head; she was deliciously cool in between. Walking along the shore with Irma, she saw Anderson coming in with powerful slow strokes. He rose dripping like Triton, waded ashore, and walked up to the shelter.

Margaret trudged up through the loose sand. Pongo and Linck were in the water now, Pongo with a mask and flippers snorkeling in the shallows, and Linck performing a decorous side-stroke farther out. Anderson was sitting cross-legged in the luminous blue umbra of the shelter. Margaret sat down on the blanket beside him. "This is so beautiful," she said.

"Yes."

"I still can't get used to the colors, and how clean everything is. It's like a child's drawing, almost."

"Some people would call it gaudy."

"It seemed that way to me at first, but now when I remember Albany, I realize how drab it was. All those muddy colors, gray and brown, and the grit and grime over everything."

Linck came trudging up toward them, his broad gray-haired chest glistening with moisture. "That was very pleasant," he said, dropping beside them. He reached over and opened the cooler. "What do we have? Heineken's, all right." He brought up a bottle with a rustle of ice, offered it. "Maggie?"

"No, thanks. Do we have any Coke?"

"Almost certainly." He handed the bottle to Gene, rummaged in the cooler, found a Pepsi for Margaret and another beer for himself. "You have chosen a good place," he said. "It is very beautiful here."

"So Maggie was just telling me."

"How easy it is to know beauty when you see it, and how hard to define."

"Aquinas said that the three requirements for beauty are wholeness, harmony, and radiance."

"That is in Joyce's 'Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,' isn't it?" Linck asked. "Yes. But the Latin is claritas, which is better translated 'clarity.' "

"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."

"There are some very good organizations," Linck said.

"I belong to about thirty of them," said Gene, "but it isn't enough. It isn't working. Let's go home."

Later that evening Irma found Margaret in the patio, staring at the fountain. "Still thinking about those kids?"

Margaret nodded. "I know he's right -- he can't help them all, but it just seems -- "

"That if he wasn't a son of a bitch, he would have done something?"

"I didn't mean it that way."

"That's the way it is, though. When you get right down to it, Gene doesn't give a damn. Maybe it's because he was an only child. Or it could be that just because he was so big, he never could make friends with the other kids."

"It sound s terribly lonesome."

"There you go. Feeling sorry again for the poor rich man."

She smiled. "I was, wasn't I?'

"Sure you were, and so was I. That's what drives me crazy."