The Saddest Summer of Samuel S Read online

  “What’s right.”

  “They should grow up in Europe. They think they have spiritual values. They should get wise.”

  “You think so.”

  “Yes, and you should problem solve. Plenty of people who are mental cripples work out of it after a while. Take me.”

  “We’ll take you.”

  “They tried to make me a child prodigy at the piano. My parents are rich. I grew up in a green house. My mother tried to suck my father dry. But before she finished, another doll came on the scene, both trying to suck him dry, which, while they were fighting gave him a breather. I mean you want to hear all this.”

  “Please continue.”

  “Don’t be superior.”

  “I’m just listening. Continue.”

  “Well I’ve had my problems. My mother’s built like a mole. I mean she wasn’t always like that but it was like she was taking the fat off my father and putting it on herself. That’s an awful image to imagine. And my father said he really loves me, you know like a man really loves a woman, that kind of stuff. So I said it was abnormal. My father is a sort of good guy, you know, laughs and jokes and stuff. He really has a sense of humour. So we were able to joke. His problem is he’s only half Jewish.”

  Samuel S on this August Friday as the distant booming bell tolled five. Looked into these dark eyes across the table. The eye maker would only have needed a tint of black glass in a big blob of brown. Her American behind ready to drop off with ripeness as it moves. Her gone wrong leg tanned darker and thinner than the other. A bimbo risen right up out of the deep and thick of the tourist season in Vienna. Her person slender. Shoulders small. Bury her with my fat. Delicate fingers, dark pink nails. An ocean cleanliness like autumn driftwood on a sandy coast in Maine. Smiles die on her lips and come back to life again, just when you were sad to see them go. O bimbo. O bimbo.

  “You see Sam, I’m out of Baltimore. I don’t know maybe it doesn’t look it, my father was raised in the back of an ice cream parlour, I mean his parents couldn’t speak English, I mean if my girlfriends met my grandparents my social life wouldn’t be worth a gumdrop. I went to a snooty college, I mean if I didn’t have money those girls would have told me where to get off I can tell you. America is riddled with snobbery. I mean you haven’t been back. You don’t know.”

  “I know.”

  “You think so. Well you should go and see how things are shaping up over there now. I mean it’s masses. Real masses. I mean my eyes, I don’t know how they ever got opened. But they’re rolling them out of the colleges. By the thousands. You don’t know. My uncle’s friend said you isolate yourself. But think of all those brains cluttered with education. I got so scared. I emptied out my knowledge. Lost my virginity. That shocks you.”

  “If you want to think so.”

  “Boy you’re difficult, but I’m talking like a waterfall to you. My uncle’s friend is one guy’s opinions I’m impressed by and he said you were one of the strangest items in Europe. How you go through your daily life in Vienna and when you would get short changed you would say quietly and politely, you have cheated me, and then bow and go on your way. I thought that was really impressive. Then. You want the truth.”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  “Well then when I saw you, I was disappointed. First it was sort of a surprise, meeting you like that. Then as you sunk in. I thought, what. This old-fashioned guy. My father could compete with him. You realise I’m giving it to you straight from the shoulder.”

  “I realise.”

  “Then when I socked you with a couple of remarks and you just showed your sorrow right there in front of us, I said either this guy is pretty sick or something or else he’s really special. When guys cry in America it’s sort of gooey with words coming out as well. But you weren’t really crying. Just big tears rolling out independently. That’s why I want to get to know you. I think you are the most interesting person I have met in Europe thus far. I think I can learn something from you.”

  “Is that all.”

  “Well yeah that’s all. But you’re a sort of uncorrupted person. I mean I don’t know what I mean. But. O God. I’m a woman. And you’re a man. And gee we’re in Europe and we’re alone. I mean doesn’t that get you all excited.”

  “I’m excited.”

  “Well. Sam.”

  “Well what.”

  “Well I told you why I’m here. I’m embarrassed. Do I have to say it again. Like I said you can give me knowledge. I can give you a lay.”

  “Is that all.”

  “Sure that’s all. What else. What did you expect.”

  “I want to get married.”

  “Holy cow. Are you crazy.”

  “And have children.”

  “Boy. Maybe we could change the subject. I mean marry. You. Jeepers. I mean you’re not asking me are you. I was only talking about a lay.”

  “I don’t want a lay.”

  “Wish you wouldn’t shout. I can hear. Maybe you want me to go. I’ll go.”

  “I won’t do anything to stop you.”

  “You mean you really wouldn’t stop me. Well boy you better face facts in the auction of life. And take what you can get. With a young girl like me you wouldn’t stand a chance. You got grey hairs, means your reserves are running low. You can’t even fall back on distinction.”

  Samuel S looking at these two burning brown eyes. Heart pounding in his chest. The knees of her legs as she crossed them, tightening in tiny circles of white. Deep blue vein over the ankle bone. What is a bimbo. Conjugate it in Latin. Conjugate it in life. A bimbo is a small, tan and skinny thing. With a brain you switched off like a light when you took it to bed. Rid the mind of knowledge when looking for pleasure. Or start thinking and find a lot of pain.

  “By the world’s rules I’m a failure. But I live here. I mind my own business. I don’t have visitors. The reason you’re here is because no young ivy league guys are giving you a tumble. You’re not exactly ugly but from the chin up no one could say you were a prize winner. Although crazy enough I think you’re damn pretty but I know what kids of your own age think. The smart talk doesn’t become you one bit. It’s unpleasant, cruel and bad manners.”

  “Wait Sam.”

  “You wait.”

  “But Sam this is the kind of talk I thought would come from you. I’m glad I came. I know I was being smart saying that about laying and all. I just felt awkward coming along like this. I might have got here and found you with someone or something. But they told me you did this, went under, like a submarine or something and no one heard from you for days. I don’t think you’re a failure. Honest.”

  “What am I.”

  “Well like you said about me. People your own age might look down on you. But to me you’ve got maturity not even my own father has.”

  “If you saw me sitting in a cafe just me as I am you would ignore me.”

  “You’re the most stubborn damn person, for Christ’s sake.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Aren’t guys trying to escape marriage. You’re just looking for a wife and kids now so you won’t be lonely in your old age. But me, gee I want to kick the gong around some more before I get all tied up.”

  Abigail sitting elbows on table. Rushing into a future. All the neat little bows tied on her past. While I have just successfully added three more painful days to my life, And when young, with my heart beating like a hummingbird, and not to know there was nectar. Too busy tripping over the tiny little customs that make people like you. Now there’s nectar. With too many years of watching where I was going. Holding outstretched hands ahead, keeping off the obstacles. Knocking over the nectar.

  “Boy is this a seminar, Sam. Have you got some coffee. I’ll make some. What’s the matter did I say something wrong.”

  “No.”

  “You got such a funny look. Have you got some coffee.”

  “You’re outraging American womanhood.”

  “What do you mean. Just
because I said I’d make the coffee. Say what do you take American women for. We’re not cripples you know. I’ll even clean up for you here. You couldn’t have cleaned this place for at least a month.”

  “Three months eighteen days.”

  “Wow you’ve got it counted.”

  This Friday starting to roll away. Out of one’s life. Tumbling down dusty memories of college rooms and other afternoons. A sun sinking beyond the Alps. And Samuel S said he would go and get some coffee beans around the corner. If she could loan him the money. Her eyebrows puckered, she went into a little leather purse and handed across a fifty schilling note, a smile at the corner of her lips. And as he left she asked where’s the broom.

  The blood throbbing Samuel S’s head. Halfway down the stairs, stopping and putting a hand up to the brow. Sometimes one had to give oneself a big bear hug of sympathy. When no one else will ever wrap arms around you like a mother. And hold you tight and safe from harm. So close now. Do I throw myself panting on her chest and locked in sweat say marry me, wash my socks, grind my coffee bean, tint my toast the lightest warmest shade of brown.

  A tinkling bell ringing as he pushed through the door of the coffee shop. Where two white haired fat elderly sisters had nearly given up cheating him. And instead treated him like the managing director of a major mental institution. To which one day haplessly they might go and be glad that the Herr Direktor would give personal attention to their cases. They bow, slipping the groschen into his palm. Danke Herr Professor, danke.

  Samuel S stopping in his tracks on this familiar street. A chill, an end of summer mist, a scent of Viennese winter settling with darkness. The wind grown gusty. In white apron, the candlestick maker behind his window slowly turning into a vision of Abigail with her small gymnastic body. An American girl who was going to commit a domestic chore. Just the way she said his name, Sam. Perhaps he was so behind the times that wives over there were sweating over sinks and stoves while hubby crossed his stockinged feet reading the newspaper. But his friends’ American wives taught him that if he asked for an egg fried, some coffee and toast. He would get the egg. Nicely greased and neatly slipped off the pan into his lap. And coffee. Of course a generous pouring over the wrist. So died the dream to be king, alone at table, a dozen kids squabbling in another room and when the tea came with the bacon, perhaps the egg too, the wife would say, ah your nibs, is the repast to your liking, would you be wanting now a little hot cup of the tea, another rasher of the bacon. And would he, climbing back up these stairs, ever be king. To say another rasher of bacon. Ever be husband to have a wife. Be a father to have a son.

  On the gloomy landing lit with feeble light from the landing below, Samuel S stood before his door, the bottom dented with kicks and the paint rutted with scratches. Inside, a present from God who at his last board meeting said gentlemen, the principles of Samuel S are to be tested today. With a comely bimbo. Who will offer Sam one piece of ass unencumbered by the usual strings. And to be preceded by a good cup of Viennese coffee. If he is not tempted to indulge the ass she will then clean up the flat and wash his dishes. If still he is steadfast, she is then to take all his dirty laundry, wash, starch and iron the bloody lot, serving him with two eggs fried with one boiled Gutsratwurst flapping in sauerkraut on a steamy plate. His stomach will easily survive this mixture according to our dieticians and if still he does not jump her, we will fly in an angel to give him apprentice character guidance, following which he shall be voted assistant to assistant treasurer of our operation, styled with the title of Saint Stubborn Sam Of The Sealed Lips And Crazy Celibacy.

  Samuel S raising his arm. To put his key in the door. Twisting pushing. Into a cloud of dust. Abigail standing in the middle of the room licking the edges of her lips. Samuel S putting the coffee beans on the sitting room table. As she turns and smiles.

  “Doesn’t that look better Sam. Just picking up the papers and stuff. Gee, you know it’s so quiet and sort of lonely here it makes me sad. I need to wash my face now, I got so much dust over it.”

  Sam S’s eyes following her little fiery ass as it spread wings to fly, wagging under its animal skin to his bathroom. Two goodly tough tendons behind her knees in the smooth backs of her legs. And she came back into the room, hair combed, face washed and shining in the light.

  “Sam this place isn’t very soundproofed. I could hear into the next apartment. Maybe you heard me peeing.”

  “There was. That music.”

  “Well I’m not one of those dames who flushes the can while they pee so no one can hear them peeing. You have to pee, everybody does, so they hear you so what. Of course, it might be different if I was having a noisy crap, I might be a little embarrassed by the sound. Does it worry you.”

  “My worries are silent.”

  “Well mine are noisy. I was raised a free farter. Maybe I don’t belch much. It interested me though which of my girl friends ever farted on a date. They would never admit it. I lost four boyfriends that way, three with prospects. Can you imagine just being human, one little innocent fart and.”

  “And.”

  “And that’s all.”

  “Here’s your change.”

  “O don’t bother, that’s all right.”

  “Here’s your change.”

  “God you’re touchy.”

  “I have conditions under which I take money and conditions under which I don’t.”

  “You slay me. You really do.”

  Abigail leaning back against the table, propping her hands along the edge and casually staring at Samuel S’s eyes. Her lower stony lip carved out of her face. Her nose set upturned between her eyes so softly brown which she thinks will make mine waver and avert. Friendship at the corner of her lips. As her eyes flicker and look down.

  “You outstared me, Sam. No guy’s ever been able to do that before.”

  “Is that so.”

  “Is it too much to ask you to address me as Abigail. You haven’t once called me Abigail.”

  “Abigail.”

  “Not like that, after you’ve said something to me. Boy. I get myself into the most lousy situations.”

  A moisture in Abigail’s eyes. She takes two steps forward with a shambling pigeon toed awkwardness. Her wrists and hands up to her throat. Her fingers unbuttoning the top button of her blouse. And the next.

  “Sam you said I was no prize winner from the chin up. How am I from the chin down.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “And here.”

  “You’re all right.”

  “And here further down. And up.”

  “All right.”

  “And now. How am I all over. A surprise package.”

  “Let me sit down.”

  “Sam. We’re really going to do it.”

  “No we’re not. Wait a minute. You forgot what I said about marriage.”

  “We can’t worry about that now. Look at me from the chin down. Really, how am I.”

  “Something.”

  “Really.”

  “To remember. Right into old age. And later in the hereafter.”

  “You’ve got a sense Sam of humour I never thought you had.”

  “Humourous of you. To think so.”

  “Take off your clothes Sam.”

  “Dance.”

  “Sure.”

  Little sounds of a new world inside the threadbare crimson curtains of this sea green room. With night closed down on Vienna. The soft stone colours of streets between the big ghosty friendless shadows of buildings. To go walking at this time shielded from eyes. Figures disappearing from pavements to their soup, bratwurst and chunks of bread. And you keep moving listening to the click of the heels, because stop and you might die right there. Without ceremony or tears. And be parcelled up and deposited in the loamy soil of the Zentral Friedhof with an epitaph.

  He was

  If nothing

  A Nice guy.

  Samuel S took off his clothes. She said as she followed him into the bed that he
was not hairy. He put his arms around her elfin body and squeezed. She said you’re stronger than I thought. Rolling on top of her the horsehair creaked and creaked again when she lay on top of him. And looked him in the eye.

  “You’re not going to do anything are you.”

  “No.”

  Abigail creeping inches away from this walrus. And stretched on her back staring up at the ceiling.

  “You must be the worst rat who ever lived. You don’t know what that can do to a girl.”

  “I know.”

  Abigail turning, eyelids tightening over the big gleaming blackness center of her eyes. Merest tremble of her lip.

  “You couldn’t.”

  “You don’t know what screwing without a future can do to me.”

  Abigail shifting upon her elbows. Her eyes widening. Slight shake of her head and long whitish breasts swinging above her brown belly.

  “I can’t marry you. What would a girl like me do for maybe the thirty or forty years after you were dead. But I would stay right here with you screwing for two whole months. And I wouldn’t mind making coffee and things like that every once in a while. Holy cow. What am I telling you. I mean God who do you think you are, like if you could fart in B flat or something.”

  “That’s right.”

  Abigail’s ears twitching. Samuel S lifting the covers with an elbow and letting go with a neat semiquaver.

  “Wow. You’re a tuning fork. No kidding that was B flat, Sam. You may think that’s just funny but that’s impressive.”

  “Marry me and I’ll give you an organ recital.”

  “I know you could. I believe you. But why can’t you just be content with getting what you’re getting. What I’m offering. Haven’t I got one of the best bodies you’ve ever seen. While you were getting the coffee I took off what I had underneath so I could show you fast all at once. Isn’t it the cat’s meow.”

  “I’m panting.”