seals. I stood in the door and watched them in the shallow water, three or four big fellows playing in the soft tide, barking as if to laugh.The city was far away. I had no thought of writing. My mind was barren as the long shore. I was Robinson Crusoe, lost in a distant world, at peace, breathing good air, salty, satisfying.
When day broke I walked barefoot in the water, in the moist sand, a mile to the cannery settlement, teeming with workers, men and women, emptying the fishing boats, dressing and canning the fish in big corrugated buildings. They were mostly Japanese and Mexican folk from San Pedro. There were two restaurants. The food was good and cheap. Sometimes I walked to the end of the pier, to the ferryboat landing, where the boats took off across the channel to San Pedro. It was twenty-five cents round trip. I felt like a millionaire whenever I plunked down my quarter and sailed for Pedro. I rented a bike and toured the Palos Verdes hills. I found the public library and loaded up on books. Back at my shack I built a fire in the woodstove and sat in the warmth and read Dostoevsky and Flaubert and Dickens and all those famous people. I lacked for nothing. My life was a prayer, a thanksgiving. My loneliness was an enrichment. I found myself bearable, tolerable, even good. Sometimes I wondered what had happened to the writer who had come there. Had I written something and left the place? I touched my typewriter and mused at the action of the keys. It was another life. I had never been here before. I would never leave it.
My landlady was a Japanese woman. She was pregnant. She had a noble kind of walk, small steps, very quiet, her black hair in braids. I learned from her how to bow. We were always bowing. Sometimes we walked on the beach too. We stopped, folded our hands and bowed. Then she went her way and I went mine. One day I found a rowboat flopping along the shore. I got in and rowed away, doing poorly, for I could not manage the oars. But I learned how, and pulled the skiff all the way across the channel to the rocks on the San Pedro side. I bought fishing equipment and bait, and rowed out a hundred yards beyond my house and caught corbina and mackerel, and once a halibut. I broughtthem home and cooked them and they were ghastly, and I threw them out upon the sand, and watchful seagulls swooped down and carried them away. One day I said, I must write something. I wrote a letter to my mother, but I could not date the letter. I had no memory of time. I went to see the Japanese lady and asked her the date of the month.
“January fourth,” she said.
I smiled. I had been there two months, and thought it no more than two weeks.
Chapter Seventeen
One afternoon as I dozed, I heard a car outside. I went to the door and watched a long red Marmon touring car pull up to the house next door. The car had a royal insignia painted on the hood—a crown with crouching lions in red and gold. Beneath was the inscription: Duke of Sardinia. The driver of the car shut off the engine and stepped down. He was short and powerful, his black hair in a crew cut. He was so muscular he seemed made of rubber, his arms like red sewer pipe, his legs so thick a space separated them. He saw me and smiled.
“How you say?” he asked.
“Fine, fine. How you?”
“Purty good. You live here?”
“Yep.”
“We neighbors.” He crossed to me and shook my hand. I nodded at his Marmon.
“Duke of Sardinia, what’s that mean?”
“I am son of the prince of Sardinia. Also champion of the world.”
“You a weight lifter?”
“Rassler. World champion. I come here to train.”
He moved to the wagon hitched to the back of the car. It was a two-wheeled vehicle with enormous spokes, a big cart. The bed of the vehicle was piled with gym mats, weight-lifting paraphernalia, and sports equipment. He began unloading the cart.
“Who you?” he asked.
I told him.
“Italiano?”
“Sure.”
He smiled. “That’s good.”
I watched him
When day broke I walked barefoot in the water, in the moist sand, a mile to the cannery settlement, teeming with workers, men and women, emptying the fishing boats, dressing and canning the fish in big corrugated buildings. They were mostly Japanese and Mexican folk from San Pedro. There were two restaurants. The food was good and cheap. Sometimes I walked to the end of the pier, to the ferryboat landing, where the boats took off across the channel to San Pedro. It was twenty-five cents round trip. I felt like a millionaire whenever I plunked down my quarter and sailed for Pedro. I rented a bike and toured the Palos Verdes hills. I found the public library and loaded up on books. Back at my shack I built a fire in the woodstove and sat in the warmth and read Dostoevsky and Flaubert and Dickens and all those famous people. I lacked for nothing. My life was a prayer, a thanksgiving. My loneliness was an enrichment. I found myself bearable, tolerable, even good. Sometimes I wondered what had happened to the writer who had come there. Had I written something and left the place? I touched my typewriter and mused at the action of the keys. It was another life. I had never been here before. I would never leave it.
My landlady was a Japanese woman. She was pregnant. She had a noble kind of walk, small steps, very quiet, her black hair in braids. I learned from her how to bow. We were always bowing. Sometimes we walked on the beach too. We stopped, folded our hands and bowed. Then she went her way and I went mine. One day I found a rowboat flopping along the shore. I got in and rowed away, doing poorly, for I could not manage the oars. But I learned how, and pulled the skiff all the way across the channel to the rocks on the San Pedro side. I bought fishing equipment and bait, and rowed out a hundred yards beyond my house and caught corbina and mackerel, and once a halibut. I broughtthem home and cooked them and they were ghastly, and I threw them out upon the sand, and watchful seagulls swooped down and carried them away. One day I said, I must write something. I wrote a letter to my mother, but I could not date the letter. I had no memory of time. I went to see the Japanese lady and asked her the date of the month.
“January fourth,” she said.
I smiled. I had been there two months, and thought it no more than two weeks.
Chapter Seventeen
One afternoon as I dozed, I heard a car outside. I went to the door and watched a long red Marmon touring car pull up to the house next door. The car had a royal insignia painted on the hood—a crown with crouching lions in red and gold. Beneath was the inscription: Duke of Sardinia. The driver of the car shut off the engine and stepped down. He was short and powerful, his black hair in a crew cut. He was so muscular he seemed made of rubber, his arms like red sewer pipe, his legs so thick a space separated them. He saw me and smiled.
“How you say?” he asked.
“Fine, fine. How you?”
“Purty good. You live here?”
“Yep.”
“We neighbors.” He crossed to me and shook my hand. I nodded at his Marmon.
“Duke of Sardinia, what’s that mean?”
“I am son of the prince of Sardinia. Also champion of the world.”
“You a weight lifter?”
“Rassler. World champion. I come here to train.”
He moved to the wagon hitched to the back of the car. It was a two-wheeled vehicle with enormous spokes, a big cart. The bed of the vehicle was piled with gym mats, weight-lifting paraphernalia, and sports equipment. He began unloading the cart.
“Who you?” he asked.
I told him.
“Italiano?”
“Sure.”
He smiled. “That’s good.”
I watched him
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