unload the cart for a while. Then I went inside. It had been weeks since I sat down before the typewriter. I began a letter to my mother. After a while I felt a pair of intense eyes drilling the back of my neck. I turned. The Duke stood in the doorway watching me.
“Come in,” I said.
He entered and carefully inspected the room, the walls, the sink, and finally the typewriter.
“Write some more,” he said, gesturing. “Don’t stop.” He sat across from me and I pecked away at the letter.
“What you write?” he asked.
“Stories. Movies. Sometimes poetry.”
“You make money?”
I laughed. “Naturally. Big money.”
He grinned doubtfully and stood up. “I go now. Time to work out.”
Half an hour later I heard the cluck and clatter of cartwheels as the Duke of Sardinia pulled the empty cart out upon the beach. He was in wrestler’s tights and barefooted, hitched to the tongue of the cart by a strap about his waist and another strap from his forehead down to the front of the cart. He pulled the cart without effort, the big wheels crunching in the soft sand. After he had gone a few yards he snatched a shovel from the cart and began filling the vehicle with sand. I walked out and watched him. Sweat was popping from his back and down his neck. He worked furiously.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Workout,” he panted, continuing to shovel. It wasn’t long before the cart was full. He threw the shovel atop the load, adjusted the harness around his waist, fixed the strap about his forehead, grunted mightily and began to pull. The wheels dug into the sand, but there was no progress. He struggled, his feet gave way, he fell, he struggled and triedagain. I pitied him. I leaped to help him, butting my shoulder against the back of the cart. It began to move. The Duke turned in shock and saw me. Enraged, he grabbed me under the armpits and threw me across the sand. I landed on my back with a thud that took my breath away.
“No,” he said, shaking his fist. “Go away. I train myself.”
I sat there gasping, watching him get into his harness and try again. The Duke of Sardinia! He had to be crazy. I turned my back and went into the house. An hour later I stepped out on the porch and saw him far down the beach. He seemed barely to move, like a distant turtle. It was two hours before he pulled the cart up to his house. His body was awash with sweat. Sand clung to the sweat, and he looked frosted, and very tired. I watched him trot to the edge of the water, then fling himself into the depths. He played in the water like a short, stumpy fish. It was dark when he dragged himself out and came back to his porch. I watched him towel off.
“You like spaghett’?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I fix.”
Next day he heard my typewriter and came inside again. He sat there watching me rattle the keys.
“What you write now?”
“Letter.”
“You write poetry?”
“Any time.”
“How much for one poetry?”
I looked at him. I really didn’t like him very much. He had handled me badly the day before. And there was this insolent smile, and his preposterous title. He was stupid and I would use it against him.
“Ten dollars,” I said. “Ten dollars for ten lines. What do you want me to write about?”
“I have woman in Lompoc. She like poetry.”
“Love?” I said.
“Yeah.”
I turned to the typewriter, wrenched myself into a poetic mood, and began to peck away:
O paramour of New Hebrides
Beseech me not to deride thy trust.
Love’s a strophe amid the bloom of lost heavens.
Bring me the weal and woe of scattered dreams.
My heart lusts for fin de siècle,
That vision of beleaguered days.
Want not, oh love! Look to the bastions!
Flee the scoundrel, grant mercy only to love,
And when the bounty is sated in reparation
Believe what is in my heart.
I cleared my throat and read it to the Duke.
“She’sa beautiful,” he said. “I take. Give me pencil.”
I handed him a pencil. He spread
“Come in,” I said.
He entered and carefully inspected the room, the walls, the sink, and finally the typewriter.
“Write some more,” he said, gesturing. “Don’t stop.” He sat across from me and I pecked away at the letter.
“What you write?” he asked.
“Stories. Movies. Sometimes poetry.”
“You make money?”
I laughed. “Naturally. Big money.”
He grinned doubtfully and stood up. “I go now. Time to work out.”
Half an hour later I heard the cluck and clatter of cartwheels as the Duke of Sardinia pulled the empty cart out upon the beach. He was in wrestler’s tights and barefooted, hitched to the tongue of the cart by a strap about his waist and another strap from his forehead down to the front of the cart. He pulled the cart without effort, the big wheels crunching in the soft sand. After he had gone a few yards he snatched a shovel from the cart and began filling the vehicle with sand. I walked out and watched him. Sweat was popping from his back and down his neck. He worked furiously.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Workout,” he panted, continuing to shovel. It wasn’t long before the cart was full. He threw the shovel atop the load, adjusted the harness around his waist, fixed the strap about his forehead, grunted mightily and began to pull. The wheels dug into the sand, but there was no progress. He struggled, his feet gave way, he fell, he struggled and triedagain. I pitied him. I leaped to help him, butting my shoulder against the back of the cart. It began to move. The Duke turned in shock and saw me. Enraged, he grabbed me under the armpits and threw me across the sand. I landed on my back with a thud that took my breath away.
“No,” he said, shaking his fist. “Go away. I train myself.”
I sat there gasping, watching him get into his harness and try again. The Duke of Sardinia! He had to be crazy. I turned my back and went into the house. An hour later I stepped out on the porch and saw him far down the beach. He seemed barely to move, like a distant turtle. It was two hours before he pulled the cart up to his house. His body was awash with sweat. Sand clung to the sweat, and he looked frosted, and very tired. I watched him trot to the edge of the water, then fling himself into the depths. He played in the water like a short, stumpy fish. It was dark when he dragged himself out and came back to his porch. I watched him towel off.
“You like spaghett’?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I fix.”
Next day he heard my typewriter and came inside again. He sat there watching me rattle the keys.
“What you write now?”
“Letter.”
“You write poetry?”
“Any time.”
“How much for one poetry?”
I looked at him. I really didn’t like him very much. He had handled me badly the day before. And there was this insolent smile, and his preposterous title. He was stupid and I would use it against him.
“Ten dollars,” I said. “Ten dollars for ten lines. What do you want me to write about?”
“I have woman in Lompoc. She like poetry.”
“Love?” I said.
“Yeah.”
I turned to the typewriter, wrenched myself into a poetic mood, and began to peck away:
O paramour of New Hebrides
Beseech me not to deride thy trust.
Love’s a strophe amid the bloom of lost heavens.
Bring me the weal and woe of scattered dreams.
My heart lusts for fin de siècle,
That vision of beleaguered days.
Want not, oh love! Look to the bastions!
Flee the scoundrel, grant mercy only to love,
And when the bounty is sated in reparation
Believe what is in my heart.
I cleared my throat and read it to the Duke.
“She’sa beautiful,” he said. “I take. Give me pencil.”
I handed him a pencil. He spread
Similar Books
