Middle C (32 page)

We shall have to start fresh and see if we can re-place this dimestore dickydoo with one worth at least a quarter. For Miss Moss, repeatedly ridiculing Joseph’s so far single foray into forgery was a convoluted form of acceptance, even affection. She produced a camera from a cardboard box otherwise so full of gray rags the Polaroid could not at first be located, although Miss Moss’s dithering search for it was like a performance put on to tease a child whose birthday present momentarily cannot be found: Is it here? no? where could it be? In order to position him against the one white wall that was unobstructed by steel shelves, Miss Moss was forced to shove Joseph’s shoulders into squareness. Then, from a compact slipped from her purse like a tip to be discreetly offered, she patted powder on one of his shining cheeks—There now, that’s better—before she suddenly flashed him full in the face.

He who has lived and thought can never … look on mankind without dis-dain, Miss Moss said firmly, as if speaking about the photo she’d just taken.

I don’t drive anymore—since the twenty days—but we can still use my license as a model. In fact, she said after a moment of apparently efficient thought, we may be able to do more. We can update and alter mine to achieve yours. Joseph protested that by no means could he allow … there was no circumstance that might possibly permit … but Miss Moss was not to be deterred by wholehearted protests, not to mention Joseph’s halfhearted ones, and in a thrice her card was firmly positioned beneath a large rectangular magnifying glass whose surface she repeatedly sprayed with cleanser because each wipe of the cloth seemed to soak up the ammonia while otherwise smearing the lens. A curse upon all this in-competent equipment, she said, as if she were alone.

After a few minutes of swift adjustments that did not acknowledge his existence, Joseph was allowed to reenter Miss Moss’s world, where she became an enthusiastic instructor in inks and alterations. Here, this is a slow zone, I mustn’t hurry, but I’ve been hasty, she said aloud, yet again as though alone. Against the outside wall, where bottle-glass windows let in a grime-gray light, stood a photo stand made of card table, drafting board, and ingeniously twisted coat-hanger wire. Two rather long-legged flashlights were suspended over the board and a covering piece of poorly wiped heavy glass that had been dented or chipped as if it had suffered the fall of at least one of them. The license was moved to this makeshift mechanism where another fusty old camera had been hung from a clamp affixed to a pole, its barrel nose-down through the hanger’s hook. The entire arrangement appeared perilous.

Every Christmas someone asks me to copy a page they’ve picked, or an illustration they fancy, so I just keep this camera in its place. I think they paste the photos in special homemade greetings. Anyway, they want them for holidays … nearly always … you can imagine … and for valentines. My services don’t come free. Film is not cheap, you know, and people don’t usually want to wait until I’ve finished a roll. Could be months. On your behalf I shall demand a day off for good deeds, Joseph promised. Miss Moss felt obliged to giggle.

I know a valentine. I am sure you do, Joseph said, uncertain of what he meant. I’m sure you’ve received many, he blundered on, with lace and flowers and little hearts. Miss Moss held up a flour-white hand. The valentine I know wasn’t meant to be a valentine. The poet didn’t mean it to be a valentine; he never meant it to be in such service, yet I call it a
valentine. “Why should this flower delay so long to show its tremulous plumes?” Good question, don’t you think? Asked of the chrysanthemums, all the late bloomers, but you know, chrysants don’t have plumes. Plumes grow on hats. A palm remained raised in greeting or surrender. “Now is the time of plaintive robin-song,” she sort of sang, and very softly and slowly, too, as if remembering the lines as she went along, “when flowers are in their tombs.” Actually, I’ve been alone my whole life, she said then in a normal tone. That “bloom” rhymes with “tomb” is very fortunate for the poet, wouldn’t you say? “It … the flower … must have felt that fervid call although it took no heed”—well, I didn’t need a dower did I? great saving there. I went from womb to tomb … hee-hee … no stops in between. Alone in my stone tomb my whole life. I speak every day—and sometimes night—with the dead. There is a wonderful rhyme coming up. “Took no heed,” yes, “waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, and saps all retrocede.” Don’t you love that? I know a valentine when I read it. When the world ends the word will write on … wordulating. Yes, I know a valentine, heart of yours, heart of mine. On this project I can see we shall achieve some savings, too. A fine sentiment, Joseph said, thinking she was finished, but she shushed him with a look. “Too late its beauty, lonely thing, the season’s shine is spent.” Oh dear, Joseph thought, oh dear. “The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,” she hummed, but rather loudly, and then conducted with a forefinger the line to its conclusion, “tones ravishment, or ravishment is sweet if human souls did never kiss and greet.” That kind of repetition has a name, but I’ve forgotten what it is, Miss Moss went on in a different register. The valentine is in the kiss and greet part. Oh, dear, I think I’m in another poem. Have you ever been lost like that? “Nothing remains for it but shivering in tempests turbulent.” An arrow through the heart is a perfect emblem … well … for everything … She was still and silent then as if appreciating a memory and remained so until her raised finger fell.

The plastic that will subsequently be our friend is presently our enemy. Miss Moss kept her thumb over the spaces that stated her age and weight. Your eyes are—open, open’um up, dear—brown would you say? well, mine are hazel it says here, so we’ll leave HAZ alone, hazel can be anything, and no one cares about eyes, they never check. The photo won’t show but a whistle of what color they are anyway. You can open
a checking account now. Establish some credit, don’t they say? we must all die in debt. Height has to go up to what? 508 from 506? that’s easy, but see—she ran a nail across the card—this coating won’t let us get at your vitals … so … we’ll alter … you know … mine. We’ll duplicate it and remake the copy. So you needn’t protest. My card will stay clean of any crime, okay? You are such a silly … Sweet, yes … But a bit silly … I don’t write checks myself, never have. I like to pay in person. Then I know. I know a valentine. Miss Moss studied the situation. “Swell to a green pulp” is a coarse expression, don’t you agree? “Pulp” is a poor word, Joseph, just remember. Weight? you have a weight there? Not much more than mine. You don’t amount to much, dear, do you? Oh, dear. “Green pulp” is from that other poem, the one I got lost in. Miss Moss’s head shook from side to side in a regret that was as slow as a lover’s good-bye. I know I don’t amount. Did once. Around here. But not after the twenty days.

Joseph made a sound that could have meant anything.

Got to squeeze your innocent face into that lower corner … tape over my signature with something the color of dirty dairy cream … to give you a nice blank space to sign. She tapped her index finger on the spot: Name and address are the difficult deal. Numbers, did you ever notice? if not, notice now. They lend themselves to defacements: the 1 to a 7, the 7 to a 9, the 9 to an 8 or a 3, whichever, or a 6 to an 8, alterations as easy as a sleeve’s.
I
’s into
T
’s, or
O
’s into
A
’s aren’t hard, like adding lobes to ears, but letters, on the whole, aren’t agreeable. We’ll remove and re-do them, pretend we can type. She gestured toward an ancient Underwood portable that stood in melancholy disuse upon a small metal stand in a corner facing the door.

While Miss Moss pondered the problems that attended these criminal proceedings, Joseph looked about, now with renewed interest. Everything seemed borrowed, nothing new. He felt a bit borrowed himself. On the edge of a very scarred old library table two vises—one small, one huge—were tightly clamped. They appeared to have been there a long time because the jaws bore patches of bare metal and there were dark dents where their present grips had bitten the wood. Between glue and paste pots, brushes, threads, and needles, pools of remaining varnish still glistened. He saw several weights retired from their grocery scale days, erasers sitting among grains of gum, a dry stamp pad, pens, inks,
fat rubber bands, scissors in several sizes, a tweezers, too, as well as place-mark ribbons, rolls of Scotch and masking tape, a few scrappy endpaper pieces, and a teakettle clearly meant only for steam.

Miss Moss gently edged Joseph aside to remove two developer trays. She positioned his license next to hers on a sheet of bright white paper that nevertheless looked much used. Finding himself a chair length farther along, he counted a couple of clothespins that had been concealed by miscellaneous tubes and tins. At the table’s end, a number of Miss Moss’s ubiquitous rags had collected round a rather large roll of butcher’s paper. There a slightly nicked magnifying glass lay buried near a pair of once-white cloth gloves. At her request he rescued it from beneath a coil of navy-blue velvet ropes full of what he guessed, as he hefted them, were grains of rice. Or beans. Perhaps beans. I always know where everything is, she said as if reading disapproval like a headline from his impassive face. Those are pythons. You know, snakes. So soft. So Mus-cular. They keep your book gently open. Dis-tribute their weight. Joseph read the label of a tube of stuff meant for cleaning suede shoes.

His expression had meant to mask the bewilderment of ignorance, but he was also immensely reassured by what he took to be the residues of creativity: the way pots pans and dirtied spoons signified a whirl of mixing and a busy chef’s surety of measurement and touch. Miss Moss just needed someone to control and calm the fuss she made over the way Joey cleaned up after her. His mind traveled over lines noted down from recent books: all these happenstance arrangements needed a brisk dose of ship’s shape, bit of spiff and polish, weight upon the waters. Nevertheless, he had to admit, the place was spooky. At one corner of the ceiling a small cloud of cobweb had gathered. There was little natural light and what there was looked weary, as though it had traveled a great distance only to die on a cluttered bench.

I do miss riding the bus though, Joseph ventured.

Snake, please. Miss Moss held out a small white palm. I need a weight. Oil upon the waters—that’s it, he thought. Joseph handed her a length of velvet rope. He saw that each end was tied up in a knot by violet thread.

You see some interesting people on the bus.

Meet any? Miss Moss bent intently over her work.

One.

The air felt cool as a cave’s, their voices artificially resonant.

Who?

A teddy bear.

Ever have a toy you were frightened of?

Nooo … Never had many toys.

I was given a bulldog once with a black eye and big teeth. Scared me so. I was supposed to hug him. He was stuffed like a club. Hard as a ham-mer. I buried him in the backyard, I was so scared. These villainous magi wanted me to take bowwow to bed. I screamed, I was so scared. So I buried it in the backyard with a shovel I had for sand. But that bowlegged dog with a pirate’s eye still haunts me. To and in-cluding this day. Even this day. Even down here. Eventually we moved away from the house with its grave. We left that backyard in our wake, but the toothy bulldog followed me. He’s al-ways—good, that should do it—a-round, barking loudly though you can never hear him. “He who has felt such fear is haunted forever … by days that will not come again,” she suddenly half hollered. I bet the teddy bear was better company.

His mother—a great wide woman—was.

Mothers. I never liked mothers much, you know that? None of my mothers were … well—it’s done, and now you are a person to the world—very motherly. Take a card.

Joseph decided silence was the better speech.

I left your weight the same as mine. See. I don’t need weight now that I never drive. Because the cop that stops you always looks in the driver’s window where you’re sitting in your shame and guilt, and he can’t tell, not even if God were to ask him, how much you’re heavied. Of course … if he orders you to get out … the truth may get out, too.

Gratitude made Joseph brim over with that truth. It led him to overlook the misperceptions he had already encouraged: that he was Austrian, that he was a more accomplished musician than he really was, that he had graduated from Augs and done rather well there, when he had done rather poorly and dropped out. Or that he had friends like Chris the King of the tennis courts who would offer him their driver’s license to copy.

Joey rather liked buses, Joseph said. He had ridden on double-deckers in London during the Blitz. They bounced about quite a bit because of the shell—no—bomb holes … craters. Yes, he had endured the bombing.

Hid in basements, sought refuge in sewers, often in the Underground, where people held one another when the earth shook. Yes, he had been frightened by near misses and had seen people blown to pieces before his very eyes. And a piano, too, every key flung up in the air to fall like rainless music. He didn’t remember bus rides in Vienna, though—too young. But he could still recall vast parks. Vienna Woods—yes. Both cars and carriages. Vendors purveying ices and little cakes. “Purveying” was a new word Joseph was pleased to take for a walk. The sea voyage to America was worse than the Blitz because roaring storms bedeviled him and his mother the entire trip, the ship taking on water, whitecaps above the masts like angry spitting clouds.

Details filled in behind his recollections the way leaves blow into a hedge. Although Miss Moss led Joseph out of her office and returned him to his routines, he realized that he was welcome to rap at her door when down in her domain. He was also allowed to use her typewriter to compose a few letters of reference and a CV faithful to its form if faithless in everything else. She taught him a few tricks with inks. And how to steam off stamps and safely remove other sorts of seals.

Miss Moss admonished Joseph not to speak to the Major about his visit. He was to remain particularly mum about the ID and that she had showed him how to ink, Polaroid, or steam. Have you received the green glare of Major’s eyes? Joseph hadn’t. He rather thought her eyes … green in the import of them … I mean, green the way a fire burns. While Quasimodo plies his bells, Quasimama sweeps her keep, she said, adding mystery to mystery.