Hide Fox, and All After Read online

  Hide Fox, and All After

  By

  Rafael Yglesias

  Contents

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  SUCH "NICE KIDS"

  Barbara—The very picture of a well brought-up young lady, she was strung out on speed. Getting high and staying there was her game, and caution was a downer that she avoided like poison.

  Alec—Handsome and almost shockingly physically mature for his years, he was hooked on sex. Seduction was his game, and he was ready to graduate to the big leagues.

  Raul—Brilliant and weird, he was on a power trip. Manipulation was his game, whether you were a parent, a teacher, or his best friend.

  Three "nice kids"—with nothing to stop them from doing whatever they wanted to do…

  For TAMMY, RICHARD and DOBER

  Published by

  DELL PUBLISHING CO., INC.

  1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza

  New York, New York 10017

  Copyright © 1972 by Rafael Yglesias

  First Dell printing—September 1974

  1

  There are two enchanting hours in New York City— from five to seven in the morning. On the most polluted days the dawn's pink can still be seen, and the air is passably fresh. The junkies are gone, the mass of people still asleep. The wind that is there, and gone by noon, is desolate: as shocking and as haunted as the sight of Broadway empty.

  Raul left his apartment to walk the three blocks to the 86th Street Station. For two and a half years he had unconsciously made this journey to the Cabot School, but now the gray avenue in midwinter seemed as austere as Raul's determination. They would know about his cutting today; but they would face the black prince, not a child.

  In the subway station he sat on a bench, daring them to laugh at his awkward legs. He met each stare severely, noting their features. The workingmen and -women: billowing dresses over pointless breasts; barbed wire stockings; pitifully thin, drooping socks— New York Poor and New York Labor. And the students —image of himself that he would not allow.

  The prince, his black cape twirling with grandeur, walked toward the uptown train, everyone making room for him at the sound of his sharp steps. He walked through the train to the last car, though all year he had carefully chosen the first. They all looked up when he passed, but nothing broke his beauty and his greatness.

  Reaching the last car, he sat down. Today they would know, for they had called yesterday asking if he were ill. Today he dare not cut—but he was going to cut! The prince smiles, saying to them, I've only cut nine days. We need a round number, don't we? They are shocked at his true power.

  One of the boys entered Raul's car and, passing by him, flipped his hand up. "What d'ya say, man?"

  "Vengeance."

  The boy gave him a look and went on. That's what I want, the prince said, laughing.

  He hadn't slept all night, and exhaustion now overcame him. Only when rage seized him did he feel supernaturally alive; but the effort was draining and left him in gloom. Try and stay calm, he told himself, but he felt a fixed, mad stare on his face. Someone beside him said, "You're a friend of Tom's, aren't you?"

  Raul looked up. Standard mincing girl in front of him. "Excuse me?"

  "Are you a friend of Tom's?"

  A rush and the prince was saying, "Tom Able? I'd rather be associated with a snail. Ah, but undoubtedly you've seen me with him. Well, you see, I, too, was once a snail." He grinned absurdly.

  "Oh, you're funny, aren't you?"

  The prince screamed with laughter. The girl went away tossing her head to regain her dignity. He was tearing from laughter, and it relieved him. He left with the wave of people getting off at the end of the line.

  The end of the IRT line is 242nd Street at Van Cortlandt Park. At that point the ground is higher than most of New York. On the hill there are trees that suggest fertility. Compared to the sea of concrete thirty minutes away, it is an incredible degree of nature. Strung along the hill are four or five private schools. Consequently, by eight o'clock the swarms of people coming down the steps of the station are dominated by adolescents, most of whom empty into a luncheonette called Mike & Gino's.

  At seven o'clock a few bleary-eyed workers get their breakfasts there. By seven-thirty they are gone and the first students are coming in—the most studious who have stayed up all night cramming. By eight, the place is filled. By nine, it's empty.

  Raul used to get to Mike & Gino's by eight, using the time to his best advantage. One could know who was going to be elected class president by merely listening; here, one curried favor with older, more important students. Today, however, the prince would smash these inanities, and he had, therefore, arrived earlier.

  At seven-thirty the last few transit workers were finishing their breakfasts, knocking Mike or Gino on the shoulder as a good-by. Raul bought a pack of Camels and sat down in the first booth facing the door, restlessly checking the time every few minutes, resigning himself finally to a cup of coffee, waiting for the day to begin.

  At a quarter to eight a group of students came in whom Raul did not know, and he became more and more anxious. He lit a cigarette, his mind's eye following him everywhere: the smooth calm of his puffing; his black, gaunt figure. Without noticing, he had dressed in black today. He felt a tremendous power, fearing only that things might not be organized correctly, that his bravado would dissipate into the commonplace of life.

  They were coming now. The place hummed with their entrance. In a moment the jukebox would begin. Raul slumped back into his booth, putting his feet up.

  "Hey, Raul."

  "How are ya, man?"

  "Well enough. Bill, Jeff, sit down here."

  Tom Able came over, sheepishly saying hello to Raul. Tom was something like a clean-cut Uriah Heep. The prince watched his own head turn, the rock beat on the jukebox making his stare more fierce. Tom shifted his feet. Bill laughed softly, Jeff with screeches. The prince turned his head back with the same determination, saying to Bill and Jeff, "You're both well, I hope?" Tom left.

  Raul looked at the group of boys fixing their books, chatting… The prince stared at the table as his growl began. "Now all of you—quiet! I have specific demands that must be met." Suddenly he laughed genially. These poor children cannot be spoken to like so. But more—this is a Paris cafe. "Picasso." He poked Jeff. "Yes, Picasso, that's very good. Of course, Picasso," Raul said quietly to himself.

  He looked up and saw the fat boy and extended an arm to mark his entrance. "And here's that fat little bolshevik, that sweating mass of innocence. Oh, my God, poor baby, you will be bald by seventeen, and a history teacher at Cabot. You will have given up all hope. The very breath of revolution will die in you."

  A voice to the left of Raul said, "That doesn't sound like you, Raul."

  The prince turned, enraged at this intruder. He rose quickly, without objective thought, his right eye wincing from the stream of cigarette smoke, saying rapidly to the others, "Excuse me, gentlemen, I shall, I will return. Let no one, I repeat, no one, into this booth." He grabbed the elbow of the boy who had just come up, leading him along Mike & Gino's counter out into the street where he turned him against the side of the building, cornering him there: "You see this place, eh? What is it? The world, fool. And within this unfortunate place, two foolish adolescents exist—on an island, within a continent. I say, again, unfortunately we are forced to remain within breath of each other because of our school. Therefore, I must see you." The boy tried alternately to speak and to move. "Quiet. Stay where you are
. There will be time and space enough for you to crawl in. These are realities, which are now changed. I want to hear nothing from you, see nothing of you. Sit near me and I will scream. You understand? Good." The prince began to move, his face flushed clean from his revenge on these mirrors.

  The boy touched him. Raul looked up from under his shoulder, weasel-like. "I don't understand," the boy said. "Are you angry about what happened at my house? I explained… I mean, I told you what…"

  "Perhaps, eh? Perhaps." He laughed hoarsely, giving the boy one significant, mad stare, and re-entered Mike & Gino's.

  Down the corridor the black prince moved, standing with contempt before his group. He glanced at Jeff and, snickering to Bill, commented, "He is, poor devil, disposed of. Neatly, though, very neatly."

  Jeff cackled. "You shoulda seen how you looked— oh, wow, Christ! You really looked insane."

  Raul calmed. "Yes," he said, "I must have. How are botha ya? Huh? You look good. As for me," he sighed, "thoroughly exhausted. Completely, eh? Such scenes might rip one's soul."

  "Well…" Jeff paused. "I didn't understand, were you kidding?"

  "Difficult to say. Listen, I said I had demands to be met, and it is so. I want either you or Bill to go up to the school book lender and get me the complete works of Shakespeare."

  "You're still not going to school?" Jeff asked.

  "No. I didn't answer you completely before, did I? I don't know if I was kidding. I wasn't kidding with that blasphemer Robbie."

  "Why?" Bill asked. "What was…"

  "Ignore me, I'm a fool. And, God, an exhausted one. I sweat now like a pig."

  The fat boy seated next to Raul moved away from him.

  "Ah, fool, you call that humor. I have a mind to whip you, sir."

  Bill and Jeff laughed.

  "Such a release, it's marvelous." Raul rose. "I shall determine the nature of garbage." He sat down again. "Ah, my soul is clean—blue as the sky. The good flight of a bird."

  The fat boy snorted. "Poetry!"

  Raul began hitting him violently with a notebook. The fat boy scrambled out of the booth, with Raul yelling after him, "Join the other fools, you baboon!"

  Bill smiled slyly at Raul. "You'll depress them for the whole day."

  "Bill, I swear to God you're incredible." He patted him on the shoulder. "It's really good to have the two of you here, you know?" All three relaxed with laughter.

  "No," Raul said, "it's true. Why should a group of three meet with one of those fools? What can easily be confided between us cannot be because of their absurd presence. So," he concluded, with a French executioner's mad, indifferent charm, "we let their heads roll in the gutters. Only a woman, eh? is more devastating than the guillotine."

  "Your French accent is heavy, man, really heavy." Raul laughed again. "Ah, switching accents is fatiguing—which reminds me of a funny story, but I shan't tell it."

  "Why not?"

  "Ah, it's a reminiscence of an adolescent that has been estranged from his family, so it has that macabre quality of joy that was false, that was believed, that cannot be escaped, that kills one with its humor."

  Raul saw that Bill was quiet, sketching a drawing on the table with his forefinger, that Jeff's face looked comically confused. Raul laughed louder. "You didn't understand what I said?"

  "Nope."

  "C'est la vie. I can't handle it. The fact is that what I said was more of an excuse than an explanation."

  "I know what you meant," Bill said quietly, almost inaudibly. "Ah…"

  The sudden peace at the table was calm, solemn, and moving. The jukebox and the chattering of the others left them lonely and ambiguous figures.

  Raul's voice was hoarse. "Listen, when you get me the Shakespeare, try and get me some Balzac."

  "Balzac?"

  "Yes. Cousin Pons, I would hope."

  For a time they were silent. A tall boy, looking healthy and collegiate, came soundlessly down the counter area in his desert boots, sliding into the booth, greeting each separately. "Hi, Raul… Jeff… Bill."

  "Wally," Raul said, "how are you?" His hand and cigarette worked with intimacy about him. Streams of smoke trailed from the hollows of his eyes, lips. "I mean it, though, how are you?" Then, with emphasis. "Your being, how is it?"

  Wally, at a loss, shrugged his shoulders.

  "A brilliant and articulate response. What have you written lately?"

  "I wrote a poem last night."

  "Aha!"

  Wally blushed.

  "Oh, God. May I see it? Quickly, please."

  Wally mumbled sure, scrabbling among his books for the poem.

  "You do want me to see it?"

  Wally jumped a yes, his body providing so defined a response that it seemed verbal.

  Raul chuckled and straightened up. "Okay. I didn't mean to kid you. Tell me somethin' about the poem."

  "Well, I was out last night. It was a full moon. And it looked…" Wally strained physically. "It looked…"

  "It looked what?"

  Wally shrugged. "It looked milky."

  Jeff giggled.

  "I mean, I was drawn to it… really. And then I… I began thinking how it was like ..." He looked at Raul, his face upturned, flushed and scheming.

  "Like what?" Raul said.

  "The feeling I have about my mother." Raul gave him a quick look of disgust. He shook his head down, toward the table, following the beat of the music. He sighed. "Let me see it." Wally, confused, handed it to him. "I have to get handed at the obscene hour of eight-thirty an Oedipal poem." Wally blushed.

  "That was a goddamn happy blush, you fool. I assume you want to know, after I've read it, what I really, really, think of it."

  "Yes," Wally said, with an almost sexual hunger. "Okay." Raul's eyes remained fixed on the paper for a brief but uneasy time.

  Jeff whispered something to Bill. Raul stared him into an embarrassed apology. Raul smiled. "Thank God, Jeff, you don't write poetry." At the laughter of the others, Wally smiled genially and shrugged.

  "That's getting to be quite a habit with you, you know?" Raul said. "Okay. Let me ask you a question: why did you write the first stanza?" Bill laughed outrageously.

  "I realize that sounds ridiculous, but I mean it. It's unnecessary."

  "Why?"

  "It just is. Unless you go in for all that high school nonsense about beginning with a topic sentence and pulling the reader by the penis from there until you reach the carcass of your essay, or poem. I mean, what the fuck? It's just the babbling of fools—unnecessary condescension. But that's not the real problem. All the images in the poem are symbolic, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And fucking idiotic symbolism. But that's not the point. You're contradicting yourself. Look, you start out calling the moon, ahem, milky." Bill began gagging. "No, give the kid a chance. He'll pull through, don't worry about it. All rightee, and then you go on, creating the idea of the moon being like—oh, God—like your mother, right? Whew. We got that far—calm down, will ya, Bill? But then, aha! you make the unforgivable, though rectifiable, mistake of calling the moon—oh, Lord, must I repeat this blasphemy?—the night light of the Earth."

  Bill's laughter degenerated into coughing, while all that could be seen of Raul was the back of his head, placed forward on the table, his hair quivering from the laughter beneath. Jeff's face was pink, his lips bubbling from suppressed guffaws.

  "Now look," Raul finally said, "it's ridiculous. And besides being ridiculous, it doesn't make any sense. I mean, it's the mother of the earth," he giggled, "it certainly ain't a night light too." He looked at Wally's flushed, tense face. "Mothers just don't fill that function in society." Raul suddenly looked serious, rising with a finalizing gesture. "Okay." He cleared his throat. "Anybody got a cigarette?"

  Jeff handed him one.

  "Raul," Wally said, "you're right. I said that wrong, but it does make sense. You just ridiculed it and…"

  Raul, lighting his cigarette, said quietly, "I rea
lly don't want to discuss it. It's true I ridiculed it, and it deserved it. However, I showed you the incongruity of your images. If you agree, good. If not, at least put it differently."

  "You have to discuss it."

  "No, I don't! And I don't feel like discussing it because it upsets me. I'm a poet, too, and I'm liable to be subjective, get angry, and ruin what could be a promising day. So that ends it."

  "It's unfair…"

  "Don't be silly. I realize it's upsetting to have something that close to you torn to pieces. And the bad thing is, though it's natural, one's reaction is defensive. It's fuckin' hard to know that you're going to have to work on,, what you're doing, because it ain't gonna come easily. If you write your fuckin' heart out, it's going to be a river of diarrhea."

  Wally slammed his book on the table, said, "You're a bastard," and walked out.

  Raul sighed. "It sounded immature on his lips."

  "What?" Jeff asked.

  "Hmm? Oh, his saying, 'You're a bastard.' It was very weak."

  Everyone was quiet. Raul began laughing again. Jeff looked amused. "What are you laughing about?"

  "I just realized I asked you for a cigarette, and I had a pack on me all the time. Jeff, tell me, what was the story Wally showed you? Was it about some sexual perversion?"

  "That's right. It was about lesbians." He paused. "No, it was more than that."

  "Don't go into details." Bill laughed. "Why not?"

  "Because it's just pretentious for an adolescent to be writing about that. He likes the idea of having an Oedipus complex, so he fakes a whole poem on the subject. I bet you ten to one he wanted to write that story about homosexuals, but he was afraid somebody might infer something from that, so he switches sexes."

  "Yeah, right."

  "It's incredibly difficult for an adolescent to avoid being ridiculous. And when it comes to sex"—Raul gave a bronx cheer—"it's all over."