chatter he would cringe, realizing before the other patient listeners that once again her saga had absolutely nothing to do with anything that had gone before. Nor did it add up to anything else. A story in the Science Times, for example. Breeding experiments with cats: the Scotch fold, a short-eared cat. Another, without fur. Mutants.
Yet there was a certain pleasure to be found in watching the faces of the others as they listened intently to her, curiously trying to figure out how she was going to pull off a connection between Manx cats and the previous topic of Joseph Beuys's sculpture. And then the gradual bafflement on the realization that not only wasn't there going to be any connection, there wasn't even going to be a punch line. For Sistina told her stories with animation and enthusiasm; her timing was that of a stand-up comedian. But even Gracie Allen's vignettes added up to a surrealist attitude toward life. While Sistina's were merely outbursts of encyclopedic information, watered down through the television set of her head. Last night she carried out a pad of paper and a wristwatch. "Victor, you draw a circle on this paper, and I'm going to spin the hands of the watch and concentrate."
"Sistina, I'm exhausted. I don't believe in this garbage."
Her full, meaty lips turned down in a pout. Her blue eyes,
----
smeared with dusky liner, voluptuously fringed, stared at him with childish rage. "Come on, Victor, just try it." She thrust the pad at him. He scribbled hands at the one and three. "Victor! Wait until I'm thinking of the time on the watch! Try and picture the hands in your mind." She ripped the used page from the pad. "Okay, I'm picturing the time on the watch," she said. "Now do you see it in your head?"
"Okay, okay," he said. He drew on the clock, fifteen to seven.
"Let's see," she said. "Look, Victor, look at the watch!" Her wristwatch was set at five thirty-five. "See, it's close," she said. "Only an hour and ten minutes off. Isn't that amazing?"
"It's nowhere near," he said.
"No, it is near," she said. "I mean, you could have written two o'clock, or anything. But you were close." Her tongue, a little blistered flap. Parrots had tongues of the same stumpy variety, pointed, beefy. Her obsession with ESP was perpetual. "What flavor am I thinking of?" "Vanilla." "Close—tomato!" And if he had been able to guess, what would have been the use of ESP of this nature? Often, when she claimed to be cleaning the house, he would come upon her fondling a spoon, attempting—by using psychic energy—to bend it with mind power alone. She insisted this could be done. Yet even if possible, he said, he didn't need or want their spoons bent. "Oh, Victor," she said. "Don't be an old poop." He had ended up with a woman, pretty as a fawn, who used such expressions. "Twat." "On the rag." Words still had the power to offend, coming from a woman. Not by meaning so much as sound.
Years ago, in his artist days, he had written a book. B.B., Before Bomb. The book was called Mgungu, it had little text. His wild English friends, decked in sixties' sequins and satins, arrived in Manhattan and posed for a series of pictures: staggering out of a studio-set jungle, indulging in birdlike mating rituals. The book was a spoof. Once he had been an outsider, a marginal figure, capable of making fun. Now he saw things were too serious for that. The world was on the edge of collapse, like a balloon with a pinprick. Yet on this edge it was
----
possible for exciting changes to occur. The artists he had found were like angry babies, furious, spoiled, needing constant attention. Without his nurturing they would hit their heads against the wall, red and squawling, until they beat themselves into exhaustion and died, or gave up. Only through him could they remain in their childlike state of innocence, carefully tended, receiving enough money and attention to enable them to produce.
His brother was sitting on the sofa in his office. Above
Yet there was a certain pleasure to be found in watching the faces of the others as they listened intently to her, curiously trying to figure out how she was going to pull off a connection between Manx cats and the previous topic of Joseph Beuys's sculpture. And then the gradual bafflement on the realization that not only wasn't there going to be any connection, there wasn't even going to be a punch line. For Sistina told her stories with animation and enthusiasm; her timing was that of a stand-up comedian. But even Gracie Allen's vignettes added up to a surrealist attitude toward life. While Sistina's were merely outbursts of encyclopedic information, watered down through the television set of her head. Last night she carried out a pad of paper and a wristwatch. "Victor, you draw a circle on this paper, and I'm going to spin the hands of the watch and concentrate."
"Sistina, I'm exhausted. I don't believe in this garbage."
Her full, meaty lips turned down in a pout. Her blue eyes,
----
smeared with dusky liner, voluptuously fringed, stared at him with childish rage. "Come on, Victor, just try it." She thrust the pad at him. He scribbled hands at the one and three. "Victor! Wait until I'm thinking of the time on the watch! Try and picture the hands in your mind." She ripped the used page from the pad. "Okay, I'm picturing the time on the watch," she said. "Now do you see it in your head?"
"Okay, okay," he said. He drew on the clock, fifteen to seven.
"Let's see," she said. "Look, Victor, look at the watch!" Her wristwatch was set at five thirty-five. "See, it's close," she said. "Only an hour and ten minutes off. Isn't that amazing?"
"It's nowhere near," he said.
"No, it is near," she said. "I mean, you could have written two o'clock, or anything. But you were close." Her tongue, a little blistered flap. Parrots had tongues of the same stumpy variety, pointed, beefy. Her obsession with ESP was perpetual. "What flavor am I thinking of?" "Vanilla." "Close—tomato!" And if he had been able to guess, what would have been the use of ESP of this nature? Often, when she claimed to be cleaning the house, he would come upon her fondling a spoon, attempting—by using psychic energy—to bend it with mind power alone. She insisted this could be done. Yet even if possible, he said, he didn't need or want their spoons bent. "Oh, Victor," she said. "Don't be an old poop." He had ended up with a woman, pretty as a fawn, who used such expressions. "Twat." "On the rag." Words still had the power to offend, coming from a woman. Not by meaning so much as sound.
Years ago, in his artist days, he had written a book. B.B., Before Bomb. The book was called Mgungu, it had little text. His wild English friends, decked in sixties' sequins and satins, arrived in Manhattan and posed for a series of pictures: staggering out of a studio-set jungle, indulging in birdlike mating rituals. The book was a spoof. Once he had been an outsider, a marginal figure, capable of making fun. Now he saw things were too serious for that. The world was on the edge of collapse, like a balloon with a pinprick. Yet on this edge it was
----
possible for exciting changes to occur. The artists he had found were like angry babies, furious, spoiled, needing constant attention. Without his nurturing they would hit their heads against the wall, red and squawling, until they beat themselves into exhaustion and died, or gave up. Only through him could they remain in their childlike state of innocence, carefully tended, receiving enough money and attention to enable them to produce.
His brother was sitting on the sofa in his office. Above
Similar Books
