City of Night Read online

  The restlessness welled insatiable inside me.

  I discovered the jungle of Central Park—between the 60s and 70s, on the west side. In the afternoons, Sundays especially, a parade of hunters prowled that area—or they would sit or lie on the grass waiting for that day’s contact. Even in the brilliant white blaze of newyork sun, it was possible to make it, right there, in the tree-secluded areas.

  At night they sat along the benches, in the fringes of the park. Or they strolled with their leashed dogs along the walks. . . . The more courageous ones penetrated the park, around the lake, near a little hill: hoods, hobos, hustlers, homosexuals. Hunting. Young teenage gangs lurk threatening among the trees. Occasionally the cops come by, almost timidly, in pairs, flashing their lights; and the rustling of bushes precedes the quick scurrying of feet along the paths.

  Unexpectedly at night you may come upon scenes of crushed intimacy along the dark twisting lanes. In the eery mottled light of a distant lamp, a shadow lies on his stomach on the grasspatched ground, another straddles him: ignoring the danger of detection in the last moments of exiled excitement. . . .

  In Central Park—as a rainstorm approached (the dark clouds crashing in the black sky which seemed to be lowering, ripped occasionally by the lightning)—once, one night in that park, aware of an unbearable exploding excitement within me mixed with unexplainable sudden panic, I stood against a tree and in frantic succession—and without even coming—I let seven night figures go down on me. And when, finally, the rain came pouring, I walked in it, soaked, as if the water would wash away whatever had caused the desperate night-experience.

  THE PROFESSOR: The Flight of the Angels

  1

  THE MAN IN BED—STARING AT me appraisingly—was enormous. In one hand he held a pastel-blue cigarette—poised, daintily between two puffed fingers. He brings the cigarette studiedly to his mouth and blows out a shapeless cloud of uninhaled smoke. He looks crazily like a pink-faced genie emerging from the smoke. The other hand held a tape-measure, which is partly wrapped about his sagging fat neck. . . . Hes somewhere in his 60s. His head is shaved completely. Huge dark eyes bulge behind thick glasses, like the crazy eyes painted on the glasses children wear on Halloween.

  Beside me, in this well-furnished apartment, stands a young malenurse, who has brought me here from Times Square. He is perhaps 28, coldly blond, with a very pale face—a premature Oldness, a bitter knowingness. He acts like a haughty movie butler who feels superior to the guests. Even on the street when he approached me, he had looked at me with unconcealed contempt; lighting a cigarette as we walked here, not offering me one.

  Scattered about the floor are manuscripts, books, magazines. The room is cluttered with statues, unhung paintings, vases with withered flowers. There was a large ugly German beer mug on a mantle.

  Now the malenurse is looking at the old man—waiting, I knew, for some sign of approbation or displeasure from him.

  After long moments of staring at me, unwinding the tape-measure, winding it again, puffing elegantly on the pastel-blue cigarette, the old man, propped halfway up in the hospital bed, said finally:

  “Well!” And his fleshy face shaped a smile—molded as if on pink clay. “Im not one bit disappointed,” he announced grandly. “But then I never am—thanks to Larry here,” acknowledging the malenurse. “Larry knows my subtlest moods, my changing (oh, so changing!) tastes—and hes only been with me—how long, Larry?”

  The malenurse answers quickly: “Four months, Professor.”

  “Ah, yes, of course, four months!” The man in bed goes on: “It’s unfortunate that the world doesnt recognize talent like Larry’s openly. Larry would be an Enormous Success. But then there are many things the world doesnt recognize. Yes. . . . Fine, Larry, now, if youll excuse us—” The malenurse walks out, almost brushing my shoulder, without looking at me.

  “My dear youngman,” the old man announces, “you are about to join the ranks of: My Angels!”

  2

  “Now, sit near me,” he said. “Yes, do bring that chair over. Not that one: the other one, it’s more comfortable, and I want you to be Comfortable. . . . Careful, now—my manuscripts. Push them aside, child—neatly, neatly—I was looking through some things before you came.” Sighing deeply, he waves a chubby hand over the room, indicating the books and manuscripts littering the floor. “They are: Relics—from another life! . . . Now, first of all, let me explain some exterior situations: You see me here, now, in this hospital bed, where Ive been for months and months; Suffice it to say: an Eternity! An automobile struck me—and it would have been Poetic Justice, yes, if I could say I had been hit by a gigantic truck—driven by a young handsome truckdriver, who knelt to gather my shattered heap of flesh (you see: I say ‘shattered heap of flesh’—I am frank with myself: Life wrecks all illusions—but you will find that out later), and to whom—had it been just such a handsome young truckdriver, though the very instrument of my infirmity—I would owe my life: There would have been something extravagantly Sexual—” He affected a slight tremor. “—about being struck by a truck—ummm—Well! . . . But, oh, the perversity of life: no such magnificent luck. It was no such earthangel who ran into me: but—ah, perversity, dear boy, keep it in mind: Perversity!—I was hit by a nervous, high-strung, skinny, homely, ineffectual, simpering oldmaid from Oklahoma, vainly trying to compete with our own glorious system of cabs! Not that I have anything against Oklahomam. As you will learn, I have some fond memories of—But that comes later. . . . And so it has taken all those months. This frail mechanism (if I may be allowed the indiscretion of referring to myself as ‘frail’—ha, ha—but I speak only relatively)—this frail mechanism called the body has refused to heal. In other words, the hip bone is no longer connected to the—How does that song go? . . . Anyway, you see me now rigged up in a 20th-century torture—not entirely unlike those used by the Inquisitors of old. . . . But do bring your chair closer, youngman—I want to hear every word you say, every phrase. . . . You will notice I have a hearing aid—which at times I feel must indeed be connected to an electronic god, who whispers all kinds of naughty electronic gossip to me. And, sometimes, alas! falls deadly silent . . . But you see, I am a bit of a poet, and you will understand—later, because I hope you will become my angel. (Robbie, forgive me, forgive me!)” He entreated Heaven. He draped the tape-measure loosely about his chest, released it momentarily, and let it lie limp along his body. I noticed a little red wire clamp marking a certain spot on the measure. “My dear boy,” he explained, “Robbie is my Guardian Angel—about whom you must hear—but later—perhaps in another interview, a precious interview—because I am also a philosopher. The poet stands in awe of life, and the philosopher penetrates it—and I do both. And life, my dear, dear young angel, is a long series of Interviews. And so: On With The Terms, to plunge, as in epic poetry, in medias res. . . . Lets dispense with the—uh—matter of—funds. Larry, I can suppose—uh—met you on one of our numerous streets, and so I take it you are—uh—seeking—(how did one street angel put it to me not too long ago? Oh, yes:)—bread: a fitting designation for funds, reduced, in the manner of the streets, to The Essential: . . . bread. I will give you (this is always a rather touchy subject, and so I have established a fixed fee)—$7.50 an hour, and if a fraction of an hour, the full amount All right? . . . Very good, thats Marvelous! And you will come to see me as often as—” His voice broke, he stares at the red mark on the tape-measure. “—as often,” he finished sighingly, “as the interviews shall last . . .” He reaches for a Kleenex, also pastel-colored, and touches his nose delicately. “Very well, then. . . . Im looking forward to knowing All About You my novice angel. Angel!” He puckered his lips and threw me a kiss. “I am all love, my dear boy—every inch (and there are, oh, so many!), every thought, every sigh—all Love: Love, dear child, which is, indeed, God! . . . Now do move closer. Yes. Now on with our First Interview!—the most important, really—in which we will get to know each other—in which we will turn a
searchlight on the wonder of our mutual lives—ignoring momentarily the ugliness, of which—” he said sadly “—of which—there is—so much. . . . Ah, life—that vast plain of—what? . . . Like a cold card dealer, God deals out our destinies: It was mine to be born ugly. . . . But let me, now—by way of establishing an Important Contact with you—let me tell you, now, about The Angels. . . .”

  He leaned back on the bed like a puffed-up balloon. I imagined him in a Macy Thanksgiving parade, wobbling from side to side with enormous eyes. . . . He reaches now for another cigarette—retrieves a lavender one, studies it, sets it back in the box. “That—the Lavender,” he says, smiling slyly, “is for later: at the last of our interview. Now—lets see—” He finds a pink one, chooses it “Pink—the color of a young flower. . . .”

  I was staring fascinated at the enormous buttonround eyes in the incredibly childlike flesh of his face.

  “I always like to know my angels—intimately,” he went on. “It is so necessary. And I tell them about the others who have preceded them, so that, through them, they may learn to know me—and then, too, they form an angelic fraternity—a kind of angel-crown swirling about me, I like to think in my more poetic moments.” The tape-measure hypnotized me. He kept winding it about his neck, his stomach, he tossed it toward his feet, brought it back, draped it about his shoulders, and he continued to talk, the bulging eyes staring—his voice tumbling on and on, piling words on words, as disheveledly as the objects scattered about the room. “Now the rules,” he says. “Yes, there are always rules: Let me tell you, first, what I—uh—Like—To—Do—and what we will do at the last of each interview.” He giggled coyly, like a young embarrassed girl. “Come here, dear child. I must whisper it to you—not because Im ashamed but because it is so Dear to me that I must keep it close to me by whispering—” I got up from the chair and stood next to the bed. He whispered in my ear, his rubbery lips brushing it “I like to—” He studied my expression as he said it. “And do you know why? Because—” He puckered his lips again. “—because it is: So Nice! . . . And so you see I ask for very little of My Angels.”

  I sat back down again.

  “Now to get to know you,” he went on. “Let me guess your birthplace. Im good at this. You dont talk like an Easterner. Now where would it be likely you would have been raised? Your descent first?” he asked me. . . . “Oh, yes. . . . The Southwest! Thats it! . . . Texas!” And then he blurted the name of the city where I was born. I was tempted to say no, he was so smug, he had embarked on his game with such cock-sureness. Lying there like an enormous doll, he almost appears to me like what God would look like. I nodded, yes. “You see,” he went on with childish pride, “I told you I would guess. Now your age—” He guessed that too. “Your weight—” He was almost exactly right “Your height—” He hit it “Now the physical dimensions are over,” he went on. “Except for one. Let me see your hand—no, the palm up. Now—bring the middle finger down as far as it will go. Mark it with another finger. Thats it Now raise the middle finger and show me. . . . Fine. . . . A whore taught me that trick, and it is almost one hundred per cent accurate. . . . And now,” he said, “I want to tell you about the angels. . . . But first a word about myself. I am a Professor, child—I am one of that fading breed that belongs to the school of thinking. (And let me add here, parenthetically, that for all I know you are a Brilliant Angel—I never take anything for granted when it comes to that—but then again you might be a—what?—a native angel,” he said tactfully, “who knows only what he needs to know. And I have periods for all kinds, and during our interviews I shall discover what kind of angel you are.) But I was telling you about myself: Yes, I am a Professor—although I have had, variously, other appointments. I went to Yale. . . . And from there—where?—oh, yes, Mexico! I spent a great deal of time there. I met the most adorable people, and it was the famous painter Alfredo Sanchez who gave me the nickname that all my angels have called me in fondness at one time or another; The nickname is—” It sounded like “Tante Goulu.” “It is the name of a fictional madam,” he continues, “or, as you might say, the head whore of a House, ha, ha. And she was a bundle of love—like me. Ah, love. I have been in love many times—but let me tell you, without canceling out the possibility (oh, the infinite possibilities!) of something Magnificent between us (I am quite loyal), that throughout my life there has been but one Great Love: Robbie. . . . Robbie. My Robbie. My Angel. The Angel. (Oh, Robbie, Robbie! Forgive me: Your place is taken by the hundreds of angels who drift into my life.” He invokes someone beyond the room.) “Anyway, child, I am a P-H-D—that is, a doctor, child—a Doctor of Learning: I dont cut up people; I dig into their minds to find, perhaps, a latent jewel! Like a deep-sea diver, I stand breathless before the unopened oyster! . . . And Alfredo (you see, I spent some time in Mexico, as I have told you, with the American embassy)—and, oh, yes, I must tell you about the actress Lola del Rey: a Magnificent woman—the most beautiful in the world—. . . . I must explain that although my preference is for youngmen—as you may—have—gathered,” he laughed, “I can still admire beauty even in the other, less fair sex. I will tell you about Lola—but later—and I must also tell you about the mistress of the President, at the time—oh, it was a scandal!—she was a movie actress, and then his wife—oh, later! . . . Now I must hear all about you.” He repeated the facts of my age, weight, height. “And then, of course—” He indicated on his palm what he had previously determined on mine. Then he went on: “There are three chief categories of angels—though their areas are sometimes not so well defined: earthbound, seafaring, ethereal. . . . The first, child, are the truckdrivers, the marines. One of my finest loves was an All-American. The day he learned he’d been chosen, he came to me, he was my student, and he said: Tante Goulu, I want you to be the first to know.’ He autographed a football for me. I detested football, but I adored him, and he had such a simplicity, such a desire to be on The Team—I helped him along, with his grades—Why, had it not been for my fondness for him, the world might have been deprived of one of its—What was he now? Oh, yes, a tackle! The world would have been deprived of one of its great tackles! . . . And the next category of angels is the seafaring: the sailors. I suppose perhaps they are the original angels. I would watch them in San Diego—one summer I spent at La Jolla—as they invaded our streets, descending, all white, as if just arrived from Heaven, scattering themselves among the rest of us, unworthy, mortals! . . . I knew one, once, a young sailor who stayed with me. He was a very small boy, like a golden child. Outside of his uniform, he would have been an ethereal angel. He was the boyfriend of a very famous writer—who later used one of the sailor’s beautifully naïve expressions as the title of a book. . . . Shall I amuse you, child? (Our interviews must have comic relief: The porter must come humorously to the castle door to admit the murderer.) . . . Anyway, the writer asked the sailor: ‘Where would you like to go tomorrow?’ It was here in New York, on a weekend, and the charming golden angel answered: ‘I would like to see the sunrise on Wall Street.’ And that became the title of the writer’s next book: The Sunrise on Wall Street. Anyway, this sailor, this child, this golden angel, came to live with me—he had an argument with the writer. I thought he was on leave—but it turned out he was: Absent . . . Without . . . Leave. And they came for him—two other angels with arm bands: SPs—Storm Patrols—Shore Patrols—Something Patrol. It broke my heart And, later, Alfredo himself—who I do not wish to imply, by mentioning his association with me, is similarly inclined—. . . . Not that I am ashamed of my own inclinations—not at all—but just as I would resent being thought heterosexual, so I must assume he would resent the opposite. . . . And I have had friends of all sexes! My life has flung itself wide, Wide; like a windshield wiper I have covered my allotted area, fully. . . . But perhaps that is a bad allusion: the windshield wiper being so slender! . . . Alfredo told me later: Tante Goulu, you let the emotions rule you.’ Yes, that is true. I can conceive of no more beautiful world than one rul
ed by the emotions—what a lovely world! One would not push through the subway, thinking one might crush someone lovely. Oh, it would be a lovely world—ruled by the positive emotions. But then, child, the world is All Wrong. You see, it is backwards. How much more logical, for example, had we been brought up on the idea that God is evil? Why, it would make the world completely good. But, alas, they insist God is good (and I am not talking about the God which is Love—I am talking about the Other One, the one they pray to!)—and all around us, cruelty, hunger, perversity—oh, perversity (like why was I run over by a weak old woman when—? . . . but Ive already told you that story, and the time of our interviews is too precious to retrace our footsteps). Yes, all around us, evil—about which, perhaps, you might be able to tell me something. Larry met you on Times Square; that is a world of its own. . . . Now, Larry—he is not an angel.” He made a face. “He serves another function: he brings me angels; he is loyal.” With a shrug. “But we were talking about evil, and I had mentioned Times Square. Lately, I have been intrigued by street angels. Larry brings them to me, I interview them. One, a lovely child, fell asleep during our interviews. He thought I wouldnt notice it behind the sunglasses he wore—the dear child! And I pretended not to. I kept on narrating my comments on life. It seemed fitting to lull him thus to sleep. . . . And so you must tell me all about Times Square, child, all, all. I want you to tell me all about yourself, too, I want to know you, I want to hear you tell me about your life. Was your childhood happy? You see, these interviews are For You—and once I said this to a young Frenchman, who believed it—as I would have you—and wanted him—to believe it But! He believed it differently. He robbed me! . . . You wont rob me, will you, darling? No, I know you wont. Besides, we have a doorman—ha, ha—and—the—telephone—is—within—my—reach. . . . Enough of that: It was merely a feeble attempt at humor, child. . . . And thinking of a doorman—his uniform only—I remember Robbie. I met him at a costume ball—it was a New Year, and Robbie was there: He was dressed in an elegant uniform—I dont know what kind: It was definitely military: sword, gloves, boots to his hips. . . . Frankly, I dont think it was anything definite, really—he had just improvised it, the dear child. But he looked Magnificent! Like a prince! An Angel! . . . Gold brocade. Purple coat White tights. Ah! So slender! . . . The only other person I have ever seen look quite as Elegant—in my long, long, spent life—is Lola—Lola del Rey: She is like a queen of queens: a Beauty. She had left Hollywood in exasperation: those insipid comedies, as if a goddess had been cast as a maid! It was blasphemy. . . . An outrage against Beauty is the only blasphemy. . . . But to pick up the thread of my story: I asked a friend of mine, ‘Who is that magnificent youngman in the white tights?’ And he answered the magic name—Robbie! My Angel!—my love—the first, really, of the Angels: The Angel. Robbie. . . . And that child with the face of purity—that child, I was to learn, was a call boy. . . . But I anticipate my story. There is still another category of angels: The Ethereal Angels—these are the artists, the poets, the dancers. . . . Which will you be? Ah, but we’ll find out later. . . . I knew an ice-skater, who glided across my heart as if it were ice—at first—at first, burying the blades of his ice-skates into my already-wounded heart—. . . I have a weak heart, child—at times I stop and listen to it, listen to its beating, I cling to that sound—can it be, I wonder at times, that it has stopped, and am I now suspended between life and death?—but that would be impossible because no such stage exists: Death is merely the absence of life, and all philosophy that goes further goes on superfluously. It must stop There. . . . So this ice-skater warmed later, but then, as is the way of angels, he flew away—skated away to someone he had met—through me—an investor in a bigger show. . . . So you see, Life—my life—is the delving into the mysteries of the heart: The heart is deceitful above all things. . . . Who can know it?’ We can try! Try, by sharing our mutual space of time together, to fuse the secrets—to find an answer: Love. . . . And I must go on to explain why I think we should believe in an evil God. Why, the belief in a good God, child, is belied all around us, we dont understand, we turn from Him—and so turn toward the opposite: EviL How much more logical if we were taught that God is evil? Life would not belie that We would believe in Him, implicitly—and again, we would turn from Him—rebelling—but this time we would be turning toward Good, the opposite of the evil God, whose existence we couldnt possibly doubt . . . Which leads me somehow to the conclusion,” he chuckled, “that God, like Hamlet, is a woman: She changes Her makeup constantly, She primps, She flirts with us. In other words: She cant make up Her holy mind. . . . (A severely inelegant form, I must add, of unGodly High camp!). . . . And, good, my dear child, takes many forms: Take my earthangel—the All-American. For him, good was the football—and the wedding ring I bought for his sweetheart—Later! . . . For my Robbie—it was—but you shall learn about that in a subsequent Interview. . . . Oh, I am growing slightly tired, child.” He snuffed out the cigarette he had been smoking, looked through the box by the bed, found the lavender one. Held it up toward me. “Now comes the time for the lavender,” he said. He lit it, inhaled it deeply, deeply, this time, placed it on the ashtray; said: “Now, Angel, come here, stand near me—but first, lower the bed for Tante Goulu please. Thats it. Now come closer, you see I have great difficulty moving. There, thats nice, thats fine—stand a little this way—thats—just—fine. Youre a good boy, an angel. . . .”