Little, Big

“A real mof,” Bruno said. With an unself-conscious languor he disposed himself on the bed so that there would be room there for Auberon.

“A what?”

“A mof. Sylvie.” Laughing, he linked his thumbs together, and with his hands made a winged creature. He made it fly a little, smiling at Auberon; and then made it, wings fluttering, summon Auberon to follow it.

How Far You Have Gone

Fled is that music.

Sure that Burno slept as his sister did, dead to the world, Auberon took no precautions to be quiet; he hauled out his belongings from chest and closet and flung them around. He unfolded his crushed green knapsack and into it put his poems and the rest of the contents of his study, his razor and his soap, and as many of his clothes as would go wadded in; he stuffed what money he could find into the pockets of it.

Gone, gone, he thought; dead, dead; empty, empty. But by no incantation could he exorcise even the palest, most illusory ghost of her from this place; and so there was only one thing to do, and that was flee. Flee. He strode from side to side of the room, looking hastily into drawers and shelves. His abused sex swung as he walked; at last he drew shorts and pants over it, but it glowed reproachfully even hidden. The deed had proved more operose than he’d expected. Oh well, oh well. Forcing a pair of socks into the knapsack’s pocket he found something he had left there: something wrapped in paper. He dug it out.

It was the present he had had from Lily the day that he had left Edgewood to come to the City and seek his fortune; a small present, wrapped in white paper. Open it when you think of it, she’d said.

He looked around the Folding Bedroom. Empty. Or as empty as it would ever be. Bruno weighted the dishonored bed, and his coat of many colors hung on the velvet chair. A mouse, or a brief hallucination of one (had it already come to that? He felt that it had) sped across the floor of the kitchen and hid itself. He tore open Lily’s little package.

It turned out to be a small machine of some sort. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for some time, turning it in his sticky and still-trembling fingers, before he realized what it was: it was a pedometer. The handy kind that attaches to your belt and tells you, whenever you look at it, how far you’ve gone.

Bottom of a Bottle

The little park was filling up.

Why had he not known that love could be like that? Why hadn’t anyone told him? If he had known, he would never have embarked on it; or at least not so gladly.

Why did he, a young man of some intelligence after all, and of good family, know nothing about anything at all?

He had even been able to suppose, when he left Old Law Farm for the streets of the City foul with summer and decline, that he fled Sylvie rather than merely pursuing her farther and in even less warm directions. Drunkards, Great-aunt Cloud had used to say, drink to escape their troubles. If that was his case—and surely he had tried his best to become a drunkard—then how could it be that, not every time but often enough, he found Sylvie there, just there where Cloud said drinkers find surcease, at the bottom of a bottle?

Well: press on. Autumn was harvest, of course, the bound wheat-sheaf, the hale fruit. And faintly in the distance, cheeks puffed out and eyebrows fierce, Brother North-wind came on apace.

Was the girl who with a sickle cut the heavy-eared grain the same one who set out shoots in spring with a little trowel? And who was the oldster, huddled up on the earth piled with riches, brooding in profile? Thinking of winter…

In November the three of them—he, and she, and Fred Savage, his mentor in bumhood, who had begun appearing to him as often in that season as Sylvie did, though more solidly than she— rode a park bench, somewhat afloat in the darkening city, huddled up but not uncomfortable; the newspapers inside Fred Savage’s overcoat crackled when he moved, though he moved only to lift brandy to his lips. They had done singing, and reciting drinker’s poetry—.

You know, my friends, with what a gay Carouse
I took a Second Mortgage on my house

and sat quiet now contemplating that fearful hour before the City’s lights are lit.

“Old Man Hawk’s in town,” Fred Savage said.

“Wazzat?”

“Winter,” Sylvie said, thrusting her hands into her armpits.

“Gonna move these bones,” Fred Savage said, crackling, sipping. “Gonna move these old cold bones to Florida.”

“All right,” Sylvie said, as though at last somebody had said something sensible.

“Old Man Hawk is not my friend,” Fred Savage said. “Price of a Greyhound to outrun that boy. Philly, Baltimore, Charleston, Atlanta, J’ville, St. Pete. Miami. Ever see a pelican?”

He hadn’t. Sylvie, from ancientest childhood, summoned them up, frigates of the Caribbean evening, absurd and beautiful. “Yas yas,” Fred Savage said. “Beak holds more than his belican. Tears out the feathers of his bosom, and feeds they young ones on the blood of his heart. His heart’s blood. Oh Fonda.”

Fred had taken the autumn off, and perhaps the rest of his life as well. He had come to Auberon’s aid, in his most need to be by his side, just as he had said he would on the day when he had first guided him through the City to the offices of Petty, Smilodon & Ruth. Auberon didn’t question this providence, or any other the City gave. He had thrown himself on the City’s mercy, and found that, like a strict mistress, she was kind to those who submitted utterly, held nothing back. By degrees he learned to do that; he who had always been fastidious, and more fastidious than that for Sylvie’s sake, grew filthy, City dirt worked itself into his fabric ineradicably, and though when drunk he would walk for blocks to find public facilities, damn few of them and dangerous too, between these spurts of scrupulosity he mocked himself for them. By autumn his knapsack was a useless rag, a cerement, and anyway had ceased to be large enough to hold a life lived on the streets; so like the rest of the secret City’s epopts he carried paper shopping bags, one inside the other for strength, advertising in his degraded person many great establishments in turn.

And so he went on, hooded in gin, sleeping in streets sometimes full of riot, sometimes quiet as a necropolis, always as far as he was concerned empty. He learned from Fred and from ancients who had instructed Fred that the great days of the secret commonwealth of bums were over, the days when there were kings and wise men on Lower Broadway, the days when the City was marked with their glyphs whose code only the initiate could read, when the drunk, the gypsy, the madman and the philosopher had their ranks, as firm as deacon, sexton, priest and bishop. Of course, over. Join any enterprise, Auberon thought, and you’ll find its great days are over.

He didn’t need to beg. The money he extracted from Petty, Smilodon & Ruth was given him as much to rid their offices of his noisome figure as for any right he had to it—he knew that, and took to appearing there only at his most hideous, often with Fred Savage in tow—but it was enough for a drunk’s few dietary needs, and the odd flop when he feared freezing to death pillowed in booze as some of his buddies’ buddies had reportedly done, and for gin. He never sank to fulsome wine, he gave himself credit for that, he resisted that final degradation even though it was apparently only in the transparent fire of gin that Sylvie (like a Salamander) could sometimes appear.

His topside knee was growing cold. Why his knee should grow cold first he didn’t know; neither his toes nor