CHAPTER XVII. THE GARDENS
Your hero goes to war.
Books are my love. But a bookstore is a demanding mistress, The Last Refuge open ten hours a day. The dog needs his walk, and Jill occasionally lets me take a break, for good behavior. Please join us in the heights of Alhambra, a steady stroll up the hill.
A statue occupies the center. Francis of Assisi preached to the birds, and Ignatius of Loyola also attracts a flock, the good pigeons of the city religiously anointing his feet. The gardens, which take up two city blocks, were the grounds of a onetime seminary, and the soldier of Christ now has to defend himself against another heathen horde, our belligerent board of supervisors, hell bent on his topple. The saint has the domain under lofty survey, and had little to worry about—as yet!
Midafternoon torpor had settled over the square. The saint shed a shadow on the path, where a black Labrador wheezed on brown gravel. And his sandwich bag empty, beer bottle disposed, the dog’s roommate was not long for his nap. Dos señoras occupied the next bench. The two were silently monitoring the formidable black strollers parked within arm’s reach. I recognized the pair; we nodded upon my seating. Rudyard fastened a quizzical eye on an elderly, white-robed martial artist pirouetting with glacial concentration on the daisy-speckled grass. A swimsuited young woman lying on a beach towel ignored the show, her face planted in a paperback. The brightly colored children’s playground was deserted. Beds of pale-yellow roses and lavender bordered the cloisters, vibrant bougainvillea clung to the surrounding mansions, and the elevation allowed a panoramic view of the jagged downtown skyline. The city below was a toy town, friendly and safe, the siren of a distant fire engine barely ruffling the peace. A biplane buzzed the cloudless sky. Yachts and ferries dotted the Bay, framed by the postcard line of hills silhouetted through the haze. My eyes closed and the sun burned through my dark pants, the bustle of enveloping metropolis fading to an unobtrusive hum.
My wife was tucking me in. I was a good boy, curled up to her touch. Disaster struck the dream: I dirtied the sheets, stinking up the bed. I’m so sorry, really couldn’t help it. She recoiled in disgust, stormed out of the room, and it was all over. Victorian women insisted on sexual hysteria, so Herr Doktor would have us believe. And our age has its own jeu d’esprit, an obsession with personal hygiene. Christine treated my bodily presence and maintenance with open disgust, a private abdication of professional mettle that she made on principle and I took as perverse. The house we shared was under siege, the products neatly arrayed in the laundry room preaching a biblical wrath—her agents would not only clean, but kill every scourge known to modern health sciences. We ate salads purchased from upscale supermarkets that were not once, not twice, but triple washed. Was that really enough? One can never be too careful! She filled the dirty linen basket with spotlessly clean clothing. Christine, why?—Because! Every encounter was fraught with mortal danger, the threat of vile plague. She might venture from the antiseptic safety of her home, but the bathroom accompanied her in the purse, a survival kit of wipe, scrub, and sanitizer. The enemy never lets up.
“Adiós, señor.” The nannies left me in the bath. I was swimming in the creek that flowed through Grandpa’s farm, the water warm and clean. Sonja lounged on the bank, with a gangly friend. If only the girls would join me in the water. They were naked. The country has packed up, sold the farm, and migrated to the city. But filth and pestilence allow no escape—odors, fluids, eruptions, pimples, sores, and diseases: The body boasts a carnival of shame. Did Jesus take a dump? At least the Dark Ages had the courage of conviction, mortifying Saint Jerome wholly rejecting the putrid flesh. We dim bulbs of Enlightenment merely hold our noses, shower twice a day, deodorize our privates, freshen our breath, leach all nature from our locks.
Children squealed. The playground pulsed with after-school rambunction. A girl was lying by my side. She put her arms around me, her breasts pressed into my back. I turned to the bidding, and the calf toothed to the suckle, his hooves stuck in the muck. What god allows a fart in polite company, a turd that will not flush? We scold infants for their potty mouths, but adult vocabulary sits longer on the toilet. C’mon folks, get your shit together. What’s your favorite Bach prelude?—You kidding me, I love all his shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! The scholar has to ask, Pourquoi la merde?! Of all potential substance, why do we so revere our waste, make excrement our essence? The incontinence extends to grammar, improper noun to indefinite pronoun, denoting anything at all. You don’t know shit. And the being of an American citizen reduces to the orifice where that reverence meets the light of day—if only the embarrassment we reserve for the bottom would extend to the tongue. Get your ass over here! Gonna teach his sorry ass a lesson. I knew better, but my stupid ass did it anyway. I call on our linguists to explain the choice of anatomy. Why not summon the elbow, identify with the ear, privilege the toe? Even the fairer sex falls foul. Dude, check out that babe, like me some of that ass. And the waitress, damn, nice piece of ass too. To be is to be an asshole.
Music rent the reverie. My eyes opened on Rudyard, angling his muzzle to the source. A visual offense compounded the audible, startling the bucolic gardens like a daylight mugging. The motorized contraption advanced by fits and starts, the approach tracked on pain of giddiness, a black spiral on white background patterning the wheels. Decals plastered a side panel, and a pendant of clumsy lettering fluttered from a pole. I shrugged at Rudyard’s inquiry, although upon nearer inspection the slogans took up a common refrain: U.S. OUT OF N. AMERICA! CAPITALISM THE DISEASE, REVOLUTION THE CURE! FREE MUMIA NOW!
The eyes of the park turned in ridicule. At least they should have. Our rebel came with a red bandana, a maniacal grimace, and was missing both legs. On his abbreviated lap one hand steadied a boom box that exhorted the park’s handful of bemused visitors. Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights. He reined his rig to a large hound of indeterminate breed, negligible grooming, and painful plod, a violation of territory to which Rudyard offered the obligatory but unconvincing growl. The oncoming menagerie not only disturbed my dog’s fine-tuned propriety, but diverted Sensei from his kung fu, distracted the sunbather from her romance, distanced a wild tennis player from his balls, and endangered the life of a portly, hearing-impaired squirrel lounging on the path.
Brent gets bent? Quite possibly, but Merrywood is a model of calm, patience, and control. The virtues provide sterling service in negotiating the reefs that threaten the most routine voyage: No tempest so rages but that the gales will blow over; no wasp stings but that the swelling will subside. I bide my time, eschew complaint, favor the diplomatic solution. Take charge then, Anselm! Fear not, I am more than capable, just a man of higher calling. The legless conductor pretended to ignore me, although his progress was willfully slow. The reggae crescendoed, motor whined, beast panted. I would have covered my ears, but reaction rides an escalator.
The procession pulled abreast. And at the peak of my punishment, the limping creature slowed to a halt. The wagon kept a-rolling, but our disadvantaged driver responded with alacrity, applying the brakes to avoid the collision I would have had to enjoy in silence. His animal companion was not long for this world, though the dead stop had a more troubling explanation. The ugly brute gave me an eye, lifted his tail, and lowered his haunch. An unnerving paroxysm shuddered through the scrawny frame before the bones wearily regained the upright. I am a man of the world. I have seen my share. I am not easy to upset. But the deposit lay in plain view of the whole park, right in front of my bench.
Sweet mother of Jesus! They not only get the prime parking spots, lord it over the sidewalk, ramp up the easiest elevation, but have an open invitation to befoul our fair city? A breeze added to my distress, my nose downwind of the drop. And I could read my sentence, passersby supposing my dog the delinquent. How often proximity frames the innocent! Even if I swallowed pride, pushing public spiritedness to an absurd limit, I still wanted the equipment, the doggie bag of foresight already serving its designated purpose. Do I hear some jeering? All right, I know, I really should remonstrate, suppress my good nature. But a wheelchair! And to what end? The clown gloried in his circus, his animal trained for the deed. Or was the desecration a political statement, a shot fired across the bows of middle-class respectability? Why me, surely the revolutionary could find more deserving targets for his cannon? I may wear a button-down shirt, but don’t judge a bookseller by his cover. Fidel, I’m not the enemy. I feel your pain. I read Marx, study Marcuse, know my Chomsky! I give money to Amnesty. There’s really no need.
Luther nailed theses to a door. Lenin distributed pamphlets on the street. But a pile of poo makes a more powerful statement than any manifesto. The incontinent mutt could have produced a more impressive specimen, but physical dimensions are little measure. Saint Ignatius might be stone, but the granite still groaned. A primal affront to all decency and justice, the compact proclamation could be ignored as readily as a spaceship that had chosen these coordinates for an earthly landing. I didn’t want to meet him in the first place. No good would come of the deed; it never does. The squirrel shuffled off, in evident disgust.
Don’t let appearances deceive. I may dress in worn denim, but drive an eye-catching car. I may rent a temporary billet, but run an established business. My credit card is welcome in fine restaurant, foreign hotel, and fancy emporium. My resume reads Harvard Law, Class of ’77, for crying out loud! I have published a book, shaken hands with a vice president, visited the Galapagos. And I enjoy the full use of all limbs, in case you had any doubt.
War had been declared. But a truncated urban guerrilla had me beat. My defeat came to a head, the wheelchaired warrior further wounding my witness with a whoop of triumph. And surveying the epicenter of outrage, he sprung into motion, celebrating his victory with a lap of laughter.
—Hannibal Lecter, I have some sympathy.—The circle tightened. I could not avert my eyes as the curse dropped the leash, swung round his chariot, and circled my failing fort in a choreographed arc that brushed the offending mongrel and cut off my retreat. The attack took an ominous turn, my enemy readying a noose. The cavalier reached into his shorts, withdrew a plastic bag, extended a long arm, and scooped up the evidence like a sea eagle snatching a salmon from the surface of the waters.
“Peace out, brother.” He executed a remarkable bow. Man and dog rolled their rousing concert onward, a merry kaleidoscope of black and white.
“Take it easy, man.” I pointed a finger of fellowship at my latest friend.