no?”
“I don’t think I’ll be executed,” Rudy said. “Not for a while, anyway.”
Medardo stepped forward and gave Rudy a proper Mexican
abrazo.
It took a bit of doing to get the
abrazo
right — like learning to use his Japanese saw, or getting the curves just right forHelen’s bookcases — but in the end Rudy’s right arm went over Medardo’s left, his left under Medardo’s right, and they tilted their heads to the left and administered a series of
palmadas,
little pats on the back, as if they were burping babies, an ancient and powerful means of expressing kinship and love, joy and comfort.
What sorts of things did Medardo get up to at Estrella Princesa? Rudy had a vision of himself as Aristotle, bare-assed with some bare-assed whore riding on his back, while Medardo, like Alexander, watched from behind a bush. No, thank you. But he remained a little uneasy, nonetheless, about Medardo’s invitation, which he had neither accepted nor declined. He felt that Medardo had been a little disappointed in him, and so he was trying to work out an explanation, trying to articulate the things he should have said on Wednesday night when they were irrigating. But what should he have said?
Rudy noodled his explanation all day Thursday and all day Friday, but when Medardo stopped by he had trouble putting his thoughts into words. “
Querido
Medardo,” he said. “Forgive me, but my love for my wife was quite a different thing from what you propose. The pleasure you enjoy at Estrella Princesa is only a rough sketch of true pleasure, like my drawing of Plato’s cave. It is mixed with pain.
Only when your soul follows wisdom do you find true pleasure. Most men live like brute animals. They look down and stoop over the ground; they poke their noses under the table; they kick and butt each other with their horns and hooves because they want these animal pleasures. True happiness is only when the soul acts in harmony with virtue.”
Medardo smiled. “So,” he said, “you don’t want to go?”
Rudy shook his head.
“The trees look good,” Medardo said. “Did you notice how the leaves are opening up? They were starting to curl before we irrigated.
Just a little. You have to know what to look for. Now they’re fine.” He waved from the window of his Buick Riviera as he drove off. In the late-afternoon sun his car looked black rather than sky blue.
A
week later Rudy had a heart attack. If Norma Jean hadn’t picked him up and laid him in the back of his truck, and if the Russian hadn’t driven him to the hospital in McAllen, the date on his tombstone would have read May 3, 1967. And he wouldn’t have cared.
He’d eaten a fiery chicken vindaloo at an Indian restaurant in McAllen, the Taj Mahal, and had spoken to the manager about catering Mollys wedding. He’d been prompted by a call from Molly, who’d found a hotel in Detroit that offered an assortment of Indian wedding packages.
Rudy was annoyed. “Are you trying to punish me?”
“Punish you? Papa, we just thought it would be easier for everyone. TJ’s relatives live in Detroit. Our friends are in Ann Arbor. It just makes sense. All you’d have to do is show up. With your checkbook. The hotel will need a deposit fairly soon.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Rudy said, “and I’m the one with the checkbook.”
“Just think about it, that’s all.”
“I’ve already thought about it,” he said.
“Well then,” she said, “suit yourself.”
The manager of the Taj Mahal had been very accommodating, and had given him the business card of a pandit, a Hindu priest,
who ran a small ashram near Bentsen State Park. Rudy studied the card:
Pandit Sathyasiva Bhagvanulu
WEDDINGS, FUNERALS, HOROSCOPES, PUJAS
“Is this the guy who’s getting rid of the crows?” Rudy asked.
“Yes, he is a very remarkable man.”
“I read about him in the
Monitor”
Rudy said.
“Precisely. I have a copy of the article in my office if you’d like
“I don’t think I’ll be executed,” Rudy said. “Not for a while, anyway.”
Medardo stepped forward and gave Rudy a proper Mexican
abrazo.
It took a bit of doing to get the
abrazo
right — like learning to use his Japanese saw, or getting the curves just right forHelen’s bookcases — but in the end Rudy’s right arm went over Medardo’s left, his left under Medardo’s right, and they tilted their heads to the left and administered a series of
palmadas,
little pats on the back, as if they were burping babies, an ancient and powerful means of expressing kinship and love, joy and comfort.
What sorts of things did Medardo get up to at Estrella Princesa? Rudy had a vision of himself as Aristotle, bare-assed with some bare-assed whore riding on his back, while Medardo, like Alexander, watched from behind a bush. No, thank you. But he remained a little uneasy, nonetheless, about Medardo’s invitation, which he had neither accepted nor declined. He felt that Medardo had been a little disappointed in him, and so he was trying to work out an explanation, trying to articulate the things he should have said on Wednesday night when they were irrigating. But what should he have said?
Rudy noodled his explanation all day Thursday and all day Friday, but when Medardo stopped by he had trouble putting his thoughts into words. “
Querido
Medardo,” he said. “Forgive me, but my love for my wife was quite a different thing from what you propose. The pleasure you enjoy at Estrella Princesa is only a rough sketch of true pleasure, like my drawing of Plato’s cave. It is mixed with pain.
Only when your soul follows wisdom do you find true pleasure. Most men live like brute animals. They look down and stoop over the ground; they poke their noses under the table; they kick and butt each other with their horns and hooves because they want these animal pleasures. True happiness is only when the soul acts in harmony with virtue.”
Medardo smiled. “So,” he said, “you don’t want to go?”
Rudy shook his head.
“The trees look good,” Medardo said. “Did you notice how the leaves are opening up? They were starting to curl before we irrigated.
Just a little. You have to know what to look for. Now they’re fine.” He waved from the window of his Buick Riviera as he drove off. In the late-afternoon sun his car looked black rather than sky blue.
A
week later Rudy had a heart attack. If Norma Jean hadn’t picked him up and laid him in the back of his truck, and if the Russian hadn’t driven him to the hospital in McAllen, the date on his tombstone would have read May 3, 1967. And he wouldn’t have cared.
He’d eaten a fiery chicken vindaloo at an Indian restaurant in McAllen, the Taj Mahal, and had spoken to the manager about catering Mollys wedding. He’d been prompted by a call from Molly, who’d found a hotel in Detroit that offered an assortment of Indian wedding packages.
Rudy was annoyed. “Are you trying to punish me?”
“Punish you? Papa, we just thought it would be easier for everyone. TJ’s relatives live in Detroit. Our friends are in Ann Arbor. It just makes sense. All you’d have to do is show up. With your checkbook. The hotel will need a deposit fairly soon.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Rudy said, “and I’m the one with the checkbook.”
“Just think about it, that’s all.”
“I’ve already thought about it,” he said.
“Well then,” she said, “suit yourself.”
The manager of the Taj Mahal had been very accommodating, and had given him the business card of a pandit, a Hindu priest,
who ran a small ashram near Bentsen State Park. Rudy studied the card:
Pandit Sathyasiva Bhagvanulu
WEDDINGS, FUNERALS, HOROSCOPES, PUJAS
“Is this the guy who’s getting rid of the crows?” Rudy asked.
“Yes, he is a very remarkable man.”
“I read about him in the
Monitor”
Rudy said.
“Precisely. I have a copy of the article in my office if you’d like
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