The Hotel New Hampshire

times a summer. Once he danced with a girl who worked here—the last dance; we never saw her again. A week later, some other guy came for her things.”

“What’s his name” Father asked.

“Maybe he’s Arbuthnot, you know?” Freud said. “Someone said he’s Dutch, but I never heard his name. He knows all about Europe, though—I can tell you that!”

My father was dying to ask about the Jews; he felt my mother nudge him in his ribs. They were sitting on one of the putting greens, after hours—when the green turned blue in the moonlight and the red golfing flag flapped in the cup. The bear called State o’Maine had his muzzle off and was trying to scratch himself against the thin stem of the flag.

“Come here, stupid!” Freud said to the bear, but the bear paid no attention to him.

“Is your family still in Vienna?” my mother asked Freud.

“My sister is my only family,” he said. “And I don’t hear nothing from her since a year ago March.”

“A year ago March,” my father said, “the Nazis took Austria.”

“Ja, you’re telling me?” Freud said.

State o’Maine, frustrated by the lack of resistance the flagpole gave him—for scratching—slapped the flagpole out of the cup and sent it spinning across the putting green.

“Jesus God,” said Freud. “He’s going to start digging holes in the golf course if we don’t go somewhere.” My father put the silly flag, marked “18,” back into the cup. My mother had been given the night off from “serving” and was still in her chambermaid’s uniform; she ran ahead of the bear, calling him.

The bear rarely ran. He shambled—and never very far from the motorcycle. He rubbed up against the motorcycle so much that the red fender paint was shined as silvery as the chrome, and the conical point of the sidecar was dented in from his pushing against it. He had often burned himself on the pipes, going to rub against the machine too soon after it had been driven, so that there were ominous patches of charred bear hair stuck to the pipes—as if the motorcycle itself had been (at one time) a furry animal. Correspondingly, State o’Maine had ragged patches in his black coat where his fur was missing, or singed flat and brown—the dull colour of dried seaweed.

What exactly the bear was trained to do was a mystery to everyone—even something of a mystery to Freud.

Their “act” together, performed before the lawn parties in the late afternoon, was more of an effort for the motorcycle and Freud than it was an effort for the bear. Around and around Freud would drive, the bear in the sidecar, canopy snapped off—the bear like a pilot in an open cockpit without controls. State o’Maine usually wore his muzzle in public: it was a red leather thing that reminded my father of the face masks occasionally worn in the game of lacrosse. The muzzle made the bear look smaller; it further scrunched up his already wrinkled face and elongated his nose so that, more than ever, he resembled an overweight dog.

Around and around they would drive, and just before the bored guests returned to their conversation and abandoned this oddity, Freud would stop the motorcycle, dismount, with the engine running, and walk to the sidecar, where he would harass the bear in German. This was funny to the crowd, largely because someone speaking German was funny, but Freud would persist until the bear, slowly, would climb out of the sidecar and mount the motorcycle, sitting in the driver’s seat, his heavy paws on the handlebars, his short hind legs not able to reach the footposts or the rear-brake controls. Freud would climb into the sidecar and order the bear to drive off.

Nothing would happen. Freud would sit in the sidecar, protesting their lack of motion; the bear would grimly hold the handlebars, jounce in the saddle, paddle his legs back and forth, as if he were treading water.

“State o’Maine!” someone would shout. The bear would nod, with a kind of embarrassed dignity, and stay where he was.

Freud, now raging in a German everyone loved to hear, climbed out of the sidecar and approached the bear at the controls. He attempted to show the animal how to operate the motorcycle.

“Clutch!” Freud would say: he’d hold the bear’s big paw over the clutch handle. “Throttle!” he would shout: he’d rev the motorcycle with the bear’s other paw. Freud’s 1937 Indian had the gearshift mounted alongside the gas tank, so that for a frightening moment the driver needed to take one hand from the handlebars to engage or change gears. “Shift!” Freud cried, and slammed the cycle into gear.

Whereupon the bear on the motorcycle would proceed across the lawn, the throttle held at a steady low growl, neither accelerating nor slowing down but moving resolutely toward the smug and beautifully attired guests—the men, even fresh from their sporting events, wore hats; even the male swimmers at the Arbuthnot-by- the-Sea wore bathing suits with tops, although the thirties saw trunks, on men, prevailing more and more. Not in Maine. The shoulders of the jackets, men’s and women’s, were padded; the men wore white flannels, wide and baggy; the sportswomen wore saddle shoes with bobby socks; the “dressed” women wore natural waistlines, their sleeves frequently puffed. All of them made quite a colourful stir as the bear bore down on them, pursued by Freud.

“Nein! Nein! You dumb bear!”

And State o’Maine, his expression under the muzzle a mystery to the guests, drove forward, turning only slightly, hulking over the handlebars.

“You stupid animal!” Freud cried.

The bear drove away—always through a party tent without striking a support pole or snagging the white linen tablecloths that covered the tables of food and the bar. He was pursued by waiters over the rich expanse of lawn. The tennis players cheered from the courts, but as the bear drew nearer to them, they abandoned their game.

The bear either knew or didn’t know what he was doing, but he never hit a hedge, and he never went too fast; he never drove down to the docks and attempted to board a yacht or a lobster boat. And Freud always caught up with him, when it seemed that the guests had seen enough. Freud mounted the cycle behind the bear; hugging himself to the broad back, he guided the beast and the ’37 Indian back to the lawn party.

“So, a few kinks to work out!” he’d call to the crowd. “A few flies in the ointment, but nichts to worry! In no time he will get it right!”

That was the act. It never changed. That was all Freud had taught State o’Maine; he claimed it was all that the bear could learn.

“He’s not so smart a bear,” Freud told Father. “I got him when he was too old. I thought he’d be fine. He was tamed as a cub. But the logging camps taught him nothing. Those people have no manners, anyway. They’re just animals, too. They kept the bear as a pet, they fed him enough so he wouldn’t get nasty, but they just let him hang around and be lazy. Like them. I think this bear’s got a drinking problem because of them loggers. He don’t drink now—I don’t let him—but he acts like he wants to, you know?”

Father didn’t know. He thought Freud was wonderful and the 1937 Indian was the most beautiful machine he had ever met. On days off, my father would take my mother driving on the coast roads, the two of them hugged together and cool in the salt air, but they were never alone: the motorcycle could not be driven away from the Arbuthnot without State o’Maine in the sidecar. The bear went berserk if the motorcycle tried to drive away without him; it was the only event that could make the old bear run. A bear can run surprisingly fast.

“Go ahead, you try to get away,” Freud told Father. “But better push it down the driveway, all the way out to the road, before you start the engine. And the first time you try it, don’t take poor Mary with you. Wear lots of heavy clothes, because if he catches you, he’ll paw you all over. He won’t be mad—just excited. Go on, try it. But if you look back, after a few miles, and he’s still coming, you better stop and bring him back. He’ll have a heart attack, or he’ll get lost—he’s so stupid.”

“He don’t know how to hunt, or anything. He’s helpless if you don’t feed him. He’s a pet, he’s not a real animal no more. And he’s only about twice as smart as a German shepherd. And that’s not smart enough for the world, you know.”

“The world?” Lilly would always ask, her eyes popping.

But the world for my father, in the summer of ’39, was new and affectionate with my mother’s shy touches, the roar of the ’37 Indian and the strong smell of State o’Maine, the cold Maine nights and the wisdom of Freud.

His limp, of course, was from a motorcycle accident; the leg had been set improperly. “Discrimination,”