out the page of poetry and signed it below the bottom line. It read: “Mario, Duke of Sardinia.”
“You have envelope?” he asked.
I took one from the desk and rolled it into the typewriter. “Send to Jenny Palladino, 121 Celery Avenue, Lompoc.”
I typed it out and he went away.
At supper time he returned with a tureen of cooked white spaghetti. I rolled a forkful of the pasta and put it in my mouth. It was terrifying—a sauce of garlic, onions, and hot peppers. It simply would not go down. I leaped for a bottle of wine. The Duke laughed.
“Make you strong,” he said, “be a man.”
But I couldn’t eat it. He took the plate from me and ate methodically, down to the last white strand. I poured us glasses of wine, and lit a cigarette.
“How about some more poetry?”
He shrugged. “One more—maybe.”
I turned to my typewriter and wrote effortlessly, ten lines. The Duke watched with folded arms.
“Want to hear it?” I asked.
“Sure—I listen.”
I read:
O tumbrels in the night past the lugubrious sea,
Mute birds ride thy salt-soaked wheels.
Heaviness brings the clouds down to earth,
Seeking the tracks of the wheels.
Gulls cry, fish leap, the moon appears.
Where are the children?
What happened to the children?
My love is away, and the children are gone.
A dark boat passes on the horizon.
What has happened here?
The Duke lifted the poem from my hand and curled his lip dubiously.
“You don’t like it?” I asked.
“I give you seven dollars.”
I snatched the poem from his hand. “No deal. It’s a good poem. One of my best. Don’t chisel me. If you don’t like it, say so.”
He sighed. “Putum in the mailbox.” He meant the envelope.
He dug a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off a ten spot. I thanked him for it and put it away. Turning to the typewriter I said:
“Now I’m going to give you a little bonus, Duke. Something you’ll really appreciate.” I began to type out my favorite sonnet from Rupert Brooke, The Hill:
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, “Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old….” “And when we die
All’s over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips,” said I,
“Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!”
“We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!” we said;
“We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!…” Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
As I finished reading it, his mouth was curled in annoyance, and he snatched the paper from my hand, studying it, glaring at it, half crumpled in his fist.
“Steenk!” he exclaimed, crushing the page into a ball, and throwing it on the floor. He was a very short man, but as he got to his feet he took on the enormity of a great turtle. Suddenly his hands were under my armpits and I was lifted toward the ceiling, and shaken violently. His livid face and smoldering dark eyes looked up at me.
“Nobody cheat Duke of Sardinia. Capeesh? ” His fingers opened and I dropped heavily into my chair. As he left, the crushed ball of paper lay in his way. He gave it a violent kick and walked out.
Chapter Eighteen
Every day the Duke pulled his wagon of sand a mile up the beach to the cannery and back. One afternoon I timed him. It took two hours. He always returned in the same state of exhaustion, falling flat on his face in the sand. I wanted to be friends. I smiled, said “Hi,” but he was still offended, until one afternoon, sweat pouring from him, he said:
“Tomorrow I fight. Olympic Auditorium. You come.” I was startled, about to say something, but he grabbed my jaw. “Tomorrow! Understand?”
I shook my head. “Who you fighting, Duke?”
“Animal,”
“You have envelope?” he asked.
I took one from the desk and rolled it into the typewriter. “Send to Jenny Palladino, 121 Celery Avenue, Lompoc.”
I typed it out and he went away.
At supper time he returned with a tureen of cooked white spaghetti. I rolled a forkful of the pasta and put it in my mouth. It was terrifying—a sauce of garlic, onions, and hot peppers. It simply would not go down. I leaped for a bottle of wine. The Duke laughed.
“Make you strong,” he said, “be a man.”
But I couldn’t eat it. He took the plate from me and ate methodically, down to the last white strand. I poured us glasses of wine, and lit a cigarette.
“How about some more poetry?”
He shrugged. “One more—maybe.”
I turned to my typewriter and wrote effortlessly, ten lines. The Duke watched with folded arms.
“Want to hear it?” I asked.
“Sure—I listen.”
I read:
O tumbrels in the night past the lugubrious sea,
Mute birds ride thy salt-soaked wheels.
Heaviness brings the clouds down to earth,
Seeking the tracks of the wheels.
Gulls cry, fish leap, the moon appears.
Where are the children?
What happened to the children?
My love is away, and the children are gone.
A dark boat passes on the horizon.
What has happened here?
The Duke lifted the poem from my hand and curled his lip dubiously.
“You don’t like it?” I asked.
“I give you seven dollars.”
I snatched the poem from his hand. “No deal. It’s a good poem. One of my best. Don’t chisel me. If you don’t like it, say so.”
He sighed. “Putum in the mailbox.” He meant the envelope.
He dug a roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off a ten spot. I thanked him for it and put it away. Turning to the typewriter I said:
“Now I’m going to give you a little bonus, Duke. Something you’ll really appreciate.” I began to type out my favorite sonnet from Rupert Brooke, The Hill:
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, “Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old….” “And when we die
All’s over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips,” said I,
“Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!”
“We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!” we said;
“We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!…” Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
As I finished reading it, his mouth was curled in annoyance, and he snatched the paper from my hand, studying it, glaring at it, half crumpled in his fist.
“Steenk!” he exclaimed, crushing the page into a ball, and throwing it on the floor. He was a very short man, but as he got to his feet he took on the enormity of a great turtle. Suddenly his hands were under my armpits and I was lifted toward the ceiling, and shaken violently. His livid face and smoldering dark eyes looked up at me.
“Nobody cheat Duke of Sardinia. Capeesh? ” His fingers opened and I dropped heavily into my chair. As he left, the crushed ball of paper lay in his way. He gave it a violent kick and walked out.
Chapter Eighteen
Every day the Duke pulled his wagon of sand a mile up the beach to the cannery and back. One afternoon I timed him. It took two hours. He always returned in the same state of exhaustion, falling flat on his face in the sand. I wanted to be friends. I smiled, said “Hi,” but he was still offended, until one afternoon, sweat pouring from him, he said:
“Tomorrow I fight. Olympic Auditorium. You come.” I was startled, about to say something, but he grabbed my jaw. “Tomorrow! Understand?”
I shook my head. “Who you fighting, Duke?”
“Animal,”
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