Chapter 7: Storming the Bastille

“Here they come,” moaned Kathy. Two dozen tourists descended on the ice cream parlor. “Can I help you?” Kathy grinned from behind the red counter in her blue and white uniform.

“Yeah!” bellowed an overweight man in a straw plantation hat. “I’ll take one of those butter brickles. Three scoops.” Kathy filled a sugar cone and handed it to him.

“Here you are, sir.” As he took the cone from her, one scoop toppled, hit the counter’s edge, glanced off an innertube of fat around his middle, and splatted onto his purple deck shoes.

“Goddammit, Mother, look what she done!” a piggish little gray-haired woman ran to the rescue.

“What happened?” she cried. “Where’s the manager?” Kathy uttered a semi-audible “Oh, shit.” “Did Winny get his new tennies dirty?” his mother consoled him. The scene attracted everyone’s attention. The manager, a thin, middle-aged, levelheaded fellow, popped his head through a door marked “Employees Only.” He quickly assessed the situation and stepped forward to offer public relations.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked calmly.

“My son’s shoes have ice cream on them . . . thanks to her!” the mother replied, shaking her finger at Kathy. The manager quizzically glanced at his employee. Kathy shrugged. “Not really, Mr. Dee.” The manager reached for some paper napkins, but the mother stepped in front of him.

“We don’t need your help,” she snapped.

“And you’re not getting our business,” said her son.

“Now, now,” said the manager, “let’s see if we can’t work this out. Kathy, what kind of ice cream did the gentleman have?” He stooped over with his napkins to pick up the melting globe.

“Butter brickle,” the fat man whined.

“Give this fine customer as much butter brickle as he likes,” Mr. Dee ordered.

“Someone should pay for this,” said Mother, motioning in Kathy’s direction. Mr. Dee looked at the lady and then at the rest of the clientele. They were whispering, with their hands beside their lips.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll deduct this from her next pay check.”

“Like hell you will!” burst Kathy. “You . . . you . . . you worm!” She realized there was no turning back. “Lady, you can stick it!” she added. Yanking off her apron, Kathy tossed it in the manager’s face and stomped out.

 

She had had the job for a month, to the day. Kathy had wanted to save up for camping equipment. Now, with the tourist season well underway, it would be virtually impossible to find other employment. Pushing such thoughts out of her mind, she wandered about the Santa Fe Plaza. Fuck, she said to herself, I thought last year was bad. Look at these fucking tourists. She sat down on a bench to watch the people as they passed. There were tourists driving campers. There were tourists driving jeeps. There were tourists with cameras and cowboy hats. They came form the east. They came from the west. They had backpacks on and large sunglasses. Kathy overheard someone speaking German. She saw an Oriental man looking at a window full of Indian jewelry.

As Donald Bunge came out of the Palace of Governors, he saw her sitting alone. “Hi there!” he said in a bright metallic voice. It startled Kathy, who jumped from the bench.

“Omigod, Donald, you scared me.” Confused and tired, she wept, as she recounted the day’s events. “I hate this place,” she said. Donald wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and tried to comfort her.

“Listen, Kathy, you’re more than half-way through the summer semester. The end’s in sight.”

Kathy sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” said Donald. “Let me take you home.”

 

Elizabeth and Kathy had rented a house for a hundred and fifty plus bills. It was made of abobe and sat on a hill toward the end of Canyon Road. The Cristo Rey Church was across the way, and St. Mary’s College, two miles off, was just visible. Elizabeth didn’t notice, as Donald dropped off her roommate. She was working in the drive, underneath a Volkswagen bug. Fixing up her car and reading about the French Revolution were Elizabeth’s two new hobbies.

“Hey, Liz, let’s go out to dinner tonight,” Kathy shouted.

“You sound happy,” said Elizabeth, peering out from under the car. “Did you get off work early?” Her head disappeared again. “No,” she continued, “don’t tell me.” A wrench hit something. “You quit!” Kathy’s mouth dropped open.

“How the hell did you – ?”

“Easy,” said Liz. She thumped at the muffler again. “How long have you had that job?”

“About a month.”

“There you have it.” Elizabeth pulled herself out from under the car. “You never keep a job for more than a month.”

 

July 2

“Last spring Colonel Cresap murdered all my relations. This was unprovoked. Not one drop of my blood now runs in the veins of a living creature.” Hidio Yatsu leafed through Famous North American Orations, as he stood in a Santa Fe bookstore. Flipping pages, he arrived at the Native American section. “They called us brothers. Their numbers increased. We gave them a large seat. They wanted more, our land and our country.” Hidio shifted his weight on the wooden floor of the Abacus Book Store. It made a cracking sound underneath him. He turned back to the front of the volume. Ben Franklin was urging the adoption of the Constitution. Patrick Henry was delivering a speech: “This, sir, is the language of democracy,” he said.

Hidio bought the book, though he was tempted by a more expensive one on Aztec civilization. As he mounted his bike, his thoughts turned to the subject of his first girlfriend. Though she had been a shit, he had tried his best to be kind. A lot of good that had done! But this was all in the past. He was on his way now to meet Elizabeth for lunch. Looking back, he noticed the tire of his Takaya ten-speed needed air. The tire, he thought, would have to wait, because he knew his love couldn’t. He had a 12:00 o’clock appointment to ascend the cloudy heavens on a breeze.

 

July 3

“Hidio, listen to this.” Elizabeth propped herself up on a pillow. Hidio lay face down on the water bed. The sun was rising, but he wasn’t. Liz flicked the bedside lamp on and began to read aloud: “The cries of the insurrection cast much light upon the plans of reformers. Parisians, delighted with their new slogans, cried, ‘The Nation forever! Liberty forever! The King forever!’ They spoke of the King with kindness but imagined him in his opinions unfavorably restrained by the Comte d’Artois and the Queen. On the 15^th of July the King had addressed the National Assembly: ‘I throw myself upon you; my desire is that the nation and I should be one, and, in full reliance upon the fidelity and affection of my subjects, I have ordered to remove the troops from Paris and Versailles.’ He had delivered the speech and then returned to the palace on foot. So widespread was the opinion among the people that the King spoke only at the bidding of d’Artois and the Queen, that a peasant woman, breaking past the guards, asked the King if he would not be forced to retract what he had just said.

“An immense crowd gathered in the courtyard of the palace. I myself mingled among them. They demanded to see the King and Queen. Another woman, her face veiled in black, spoke to me in gruff tones: ‘Tell your Queen not to meddle with government. Let her husband and the States-General work out our happiness.’”

“Why don’t you read me something about the Reign of Terror?” Hidio asked.

“Because this is July,” Elizabeth frowned. Yawning, Hidio rolled over onto his back.

“I see,” said Hidio. He paused. “Wait! I’ve got an idea.” He jumped out of bed, naked. Giggling, he ran to the living room and seated himself at the piano. Slowly, he lifted both hands and began a prelude. “Elizabeth, let’s pretend that I’m Frédéric Chopin, and you’re Georges Sand.”

“But Hidio . . . uh, Frédéric . . . I don’t take any cigars.”

“Pretend you do,” said Hidio. Liz wrapped a sheet around her and strolled to the piano. She put her fingers to her mouth, as though she were smoking a cigar. “Frédéric, how wonderful! This prelude needs a name.” She touched his shoulder. “Shall we call it raindrops?”

“No,” Hidio groaned. “Chopin detested program music!”

 

July 4

Kathy’s surprise birthday party required special arrangements. “Everyone should come,” the invitation read, “dressed as a Lewis Carroll character. Alice and the Mad Hatter will be the theme. RSVP.” Guests were notified a week in advance, but the last minute preparations were hectic. Out back on the patio two different people, each dressed as the March Hare, had set up a large table. Humpty Dumpty was putting down his devilled eggs next to the Duchess’s French dip. Meanwhile, Donald – the King of Hearts – was sticking in the wickets for the croquet game. Tweedledum and Tweedledee (George and Geoffrey) were finishing a spat, each having threatened to leave, if his opposite kept pinching the other guys. The Mock Turtle drove up to the door in a Ferrari and promptly spilled half his pea soup getting out. And so on. As Liz returned from the liquor store, a general tittering had broken out around the table. The Dormouse had just put on the centerpiece: a twelve-inch penis-shaped cheese. One look at the chili-dusted testicles and Elizabeth felt a little sick.

At 7:30 sharp, according to plan, Akio arrived with Kathy. She had thought the Bruce Lee movie was exciting, but, as the car door opened, twenty or thirty people all jumped out of  the bushes, waving sparklers, and screaming, “Off with her head!”

 

July 10

Linda sat reading Cosmopolitan, as Donald stood in the hall, his hand on the doorknob. “I guess I’ll have lunch at the school cafeteria,” he said limply.

“Whatever,” Linda sighed. Donald closed the front door gently behind him.

“Fucking asshole!” Linda yelled, flinging the magazine half-way across the room. It struck the switch of the TV and turned on a game show.

“Who was it,” asked the announcer, “that likened China to a sleeping bear? (a) Richard Nixon? (b) Napoleon? (c) Chairman Mao?” He was directing the question to Vincent Price. This diverted Linda, who had a weakness for the famous Hollywood figure, art collector and star of many horror classics. Linda sat on the divan, picking the wax from both ears, as Mr. Price pondered the question.

“None of the above,” he intoned, winking. “It was Alexandre Dumas.” Linda flipped off the set and retrieved her magazine. It lay open on the floor to a piece entitled “Patty Hearst and the Natural Look.” The morning’s bland love-making had left Linda unsatisfied.

 

July 12

The fragrance of pine was a foil to the smell of salami. Donald opened a bag of potato chips. Kathy spread out a blanket. “‘I sift the snow,’ said Donald, ‘on the mountains below. / And there great pines groan aghast; / And all the night ’tis my pillow white, / While I sleep in the arms of the blast.’”

“What’s that?” Kathy asked, sucking the pimento from an olive.

“Shelley.” They sat and talked a while longer before moving deeper into the Santa Fe National Forest. “Shit, this is heavy,” said Kathy, adjusting her backpack. Her hair sparkled in the light, which seemed to fall from the trees. With neither radio nor TV they sensed a great hush. As Kathy, however, began to feel as though she and the woods were one, she came across a piece of paper, apparently left behind by an inconsiderate camper. Unfolding the scrap, she discovered inside a surprising message: “HCID TGLOF DNAMEJ.”

“Don, what do you make of this?” She passed him the note. He looked at it briefly and laughed. “Well, what does it mean?” Kathy grinned, but now the smile had passed from Donald’s face. Removing his pack he sat down by the path and continued to study the words.

“Fascinating,” he said, after prolonged silence. “Look at this, Kathy.” She squatted down beside him. “We’re used to reading everything from left to right. We’ve been misdirected by habit. The letters of this note must be read from right to left.”

“But what sort of word is ‘Jemand’?” Kathy inquired.

“German. The note says, ‘Jemand folgt dich.’”

“Which means?”

“Someone’s following you.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Afraid not.”

Donald caught, in Kathy’s eyes, a glimpse of his reflected image. They both lay naked on a soft patch of grass. “Who said the night was made for loving?” Kathy inquired rhetorically. She was observing a cloud as it floated overhead.

“Byron,” Donald replied, as he watched the reflection of the cloud in Kathy’s eyes.

“Don, who do you suppose wrote that note we found?”

“Probably some demented medieval monk. You know the kind. The ones who sit in their rooms eating leg of lamb and licking the flagstones.”

At dusk, the two of them pitched camp beside a running stream. Later, by the campfire, they toasted wieners and sang protest songs from the sixties. “Hey, Don, remember this one?” Kathy sang softly: “‘Say you want a revolution? / Well, you know we all want to change the world.’” Before long they were snug in their goose down sleeping bags, the moon rising high above the trees. After a goodnight kiss, Donald recited a few more lines: “‘Though the night was made for loving, / And the day returns too soon, / Yet, we’ll go no more a-roving / By the light of the moon.’”

 

Sipping tea in Elizabeth’s kitchen, Hidio browsed through one of her books. Liz was in her morning bath. Rubbing apricot jam from the corners of his mouth, the young Japanese lay the text down on the hardwood kitchen table. Its cover made a crunchy sound, as it flattened out a fragment of a toasted English muffin. He had opened to a chapter entitled “Taboos Against Intercourse with Strangers”: “Royal taboos function to isolate the King from all potential sources of danger. The notion of the soul as threatened by external forces is by no means limited to the primitive mind; this thinking characterizes modern man as well. Thus we observe the pains taken by our contemporaries to exclude the influence of magic, alchemical thought and suchlike. So much the greater his concern when the welfare of the nation is at stake.

“Of all the sources of danger to the King, none is more feared by the savage than witchcraft. The primitive mind regards all strangers as potential practitioners of the Black Art. Accordingly, in Central Africa, before the newcomer is allowed to mingle with a village’s inhabitants, two goats are invariably sacrificed. Their blood is then sprinkled on the path leading into the commune, as well as across the royal threshold. Only after the latter ritual does the King emerge, stepping over the blood, to greet the stranger.

“Closer to home, in India, it is believed even today that a person who has come back from a journey abroad may have contracted evil from those strangers with whom he has associated. Thus two Hindu ambassadors, having returned home from England, were thought to have been so polluted by contact with the West that, in order to restore their purity, it was thought essential that they be born again.”

Hidio regarded the western would as impure. Americans are barbaric, he had often said to himself.

“Soup about done?” He bowed to Elizabeth.

“What’s that for?” she replied, stirring the large caldron.

“In honor of golden broth,” said Hidio.

“You mean this stuff?” Liz extracted a large wooden spoon from the kettle.

“Precisely.”

“My little Hidio.” Liz felt his forehead, as if she were taking his temperature.

“Why,” he asked, “do you put your hand on my head when it’s my stomach that is injured?”

 

Linda didn’t think much about Donald’s expressed need for solitude. He’d gone off camping by himself before. It’s common knowledge, she said to herself, that people with creative sensibility are eccentric. Again the question of esthetic purity arose. How is it possible to create beauty in a world marred with imperfection? Here Linda’s work for the welfare department affected her thought, giving it a calloused quality. The artistic project requires absolute solitude, she rationalized. But quickly she rebuked herself: that’s a bunch of shit! Beauty has nothing to do with it. Maybe a long time ago . . . , she wavered, but there’s nothing pretty about a tortured romantic. Thinking like this always exasperated her. Surely there was something more pleasant to do. She could go to lunch with a friend, for example. But all her friends were really Donald’s friends. Where, she wondered, are my friends? This evoked daydreams about her childhood. Soon she found herself imagining her dad raking the yard, her younger sister jumping into a pile of freshly raked leaves. Linda had been born in Spokane, Washington but had grown up in a lot of places: New Orleans; Houston; Hartford, Connecticut. When her parents retired, they had moved to Corpus Christi. Linda thought, with envy, of her sister’s rustic life on a farm in Wyoming.

Along with the usual bills and fliers, the afternoon mail brought a pamphlet. Linda was surprised and delighted. She’d forgotten that she’d even sent for it. When she opened the plain wrapper, though, she saw that it wasn’t the one that she’d ordered. Instead of A Sex Manual: The Feminist Reappraisal they’d sent A Liberated Guide To Masturbation!

After dinner Linda went out in the back yard to look at the sunset. As she cut a single flower from her rosebush, she pricked her finger. Inside, she placed the blossom in a tiny crystal vase and licked the wound. Then she looked around the living room to find the Guide to Masturbation. It was on the coffee table, under an issue of The National Geographic. The disappointment of her afternoon proved the diversion of her evening. She thought about how the book had been sent to her by mistake, it reminded her of a science fiction movie that she’d seen long ago. A scientist had received a mail-order catalogue that he hadn’t ordered. It had been sent instead by extraterrestrials who wanted to make contact. Although Linda realized that aliens weren’t responsible for her having received the wrong book, still she wondered whether people actually worked at those places you sent to out of magazines.

She entered the bedroom and lay down to read without removing the bedspread. Leafing through the book she found many insightful suggestions. One idea struck her as particularly pleasing: to gather women friends and together explore each others’ sensibilities. Yet, as attractive as this seemed, it made Linda face once more the problem of women friends. Though she had one or two good old acquaintances, they lived in different parts of the country. For the most part her associations with local women had been disastrous. Of course there were always the women she worked with, but, aside from them, she had come to know other women only through contact with other married couples. The interaction of couples, she thought, recalling a sociologist’s phrase. These relationships had always been limited: going out to dinner, or something like that; when the women had met apart from heir spouses, they always felt awkward in one another’s presence.

At the booklet’s center Linda found a series of illustrations; skillfully drafted in India ink, they portrayed vaginas in a variety that Linda had hitherto been unaware of. Crouching over a mirror, which she placed on the bedroom floor, she compared her vagina with those in the book. There’s a striking resemblance, Linda noticed, between the general shape of the orifice and that of a valentine. After speculating more about this, she noticed a prickly sensation in her feet. The back side of her legs seemed awfully warm. Getting up from the floor, she spread out on the bed and pointed her toes at the wall. Shutting her eyes, she rubbed one side of her clitoris. From time to time she let her fingers slip into the vagina, pretending that a penis had entered. Her back bowed, as pleasurable sensations mounted. Then the bow collapsed, leaving her breathless and beaded with sweat.

Linda watched the late show in a cotton robe, patterned with blue stars and faded yellow, crescent moons. It was a double feature: The Mummy’s Hand and The Babe Ruth Story. During a toothpaste commercial exposing a young female’s molars Linda remembered once having been called a “dumb cunt.” She liked the insult less now than she had then.

 

July 13

The next day finds Linda in bed drinking a strong cup of coffee. She has discovered the words of Honoré de Balzac: “The hope of being loved is life.” They provide a pleasant distraction. As she reads, the phone rings and continues to ring. Linda refuses to answer, gazing instead into her cup and its sea of black coffee. She slowly repeats the words to herself: “The hope of being loved is life.”

In the afternoon Linda went out to eat. Walking about the Plaza, she ran into Robert Sunkightner, Donald’s college chum, who suggested they have lunch at the deli. Hesitating a moment, Linda agreed. Robert ordered a Rubin sandwich and a Heinekens, Linda a provolone and tea.

“Well, how’re things?” Robert asked, pouring his beer into a glass.

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Linda, stirring her drink with a straw.

The lunch went well enough. Robert didn’t exactly force the relationship, nor was Linda put off by his slight eccentricities. It was something else that bothered her: she felt almost incidental. On reflection she realized: if Robert wasn’t talking about Donald; he was asking about Donald; and if he wasn’t doing that, he was prefacing things with “Donald tells me that,” or “According to Donald.” Linda put up with it, and after lunch they parted friends.

Late in the afternoon, Linda fixed herself a gin and tonic and returned to Balzac. Then, having run out of gin, she switched on the evening news. Sam Ervin from North Carolina was on the tube. The senator, a man well into his seventies, had a large stomach and a droopy hound-dog face. He might, thought Linda, have been a law school professor from somewhere like Austin, Texas, talking of possum hunting over a meal somewhere, say at Ernie’s Steak House in Norman, Oklahoma. Instead, here he was, in Washington, explaining the Constitution to the American people. “As one after another” – his bushy eyebrows moved – “of those individuals” – reaching their peak, they twitched again – “who involved themselves in Watergate” – the eyebrows fell – “goes to prison” – his whole face began its spasmodic routine – “we begin to witness an inexorable spiritual law.” Senator Ervin smiled. “If I’m not mistaken, it was Mr. Rudyard Kipling . . .” He glanced at Counsel Robert Dash for confirmation, and then proceeded: “‘For the sin ye do by two and two, you must pay for one by one.’”

 

July 16

Elizabeth spent most of the morning looking for Hidio. Both he and his brother seemed to have vanished.

“Kathy, it’s just not like Hidio to disappear.” Liz put some water on for tea. Kathy was sprawled on the couch in the living room, engrossed in Immanuel Kant. Through a sliding glass door she watched it drizzle outside.

Liz brewed some Jasmine, one of Hidio’s favorite teas. The turntable spun to the funky sounds of Herbie Hancock, black jazz keyboard artist. After pausing a moment in the doorway, Liz decided that Herbie wasn’t “laid back” enough to study by. When the first cut had finished, she lifted off the dust cover, raised the arm and replaced the record with another. Soon a swiftly tinkling, elegant sound decorated the room. It was Domenico Scarlatti. Injecting what gaiety she could into a dreary afternoon, Elizabeth sat back in an old arm chair to think about court life in the age of the composer. Before long she had drifted from the Spanish courts to the French Enlightenment. Quietly Kathy departed for her Tuesday morning classes.

“Mademoiselle?” A thin dark-haired man with the nose of Charles de Gaulle bent over Elizabeth’s chair. “Mademoiselle, open your eyes.” Elizabeth obliged the young man. Under normal circumstances any young woman dozing would have been frightened by a stranger hovering above her this way. Liz, however, received the gentleman as if he had been an expected guest. (Actually, one could hardly call these “normal times” – but that’s another matter.)

“I am Lieutenant Deflue,” the gentleman continued. “It had been brought to my attention that you have been thinking about Bastille Day.”

“Please to meet you, Lieutenant,” said Liz, casually, offering him her hand. Deflue, dressed in his eighteenth-century uniform, stooped, not to conquer, but to kiss Elizabeth’s hand.

“Consider me as a servant, Mademoiselle. I am your servant, attending to the demands of your curiosity.”

Elizabeth nodded and replied: “Un-huh. But of course you’re not real.” The Lieutenant neither agreed nor disagreed. Instead, sitting on the edge of the couch, he sighed and pulled his boots off.

“Much better,” he said, “I’m not sure when I last had them off.” He rubbed his toes. “Oh yes, it was at the last meeting of an historical society or something.” Elizabeth raised the window by her chair.

“Lieutenant Deflue, may I get you something to drink?”

“Most kind of you, yes,” he replied, “And, uh, would I be intruding on your hospitality, if I asked you for a little food as well?”

“Not at all,” said Liz. Before they knew it, she and the Lieutenant were dining on Vienna sausages and diet cola.

“A few hundred muskets found at the Hôtel de Ville along with the barrels of gunpowder commandeered from a boat at the pont Saint-Nicholas proved insufficient arms for 48,000 men.” The Lieutenant stopped to clear his throat, took a sip of cola, the last Vienna sausage and continued with his mouth full. “So to the Bastille they went!” Shreds of Vienna sausage flew from his impassioned lips. “Do not be deceived, my dear, by the claim that Parisians stormed the Bastille to free five prisoners. This simply is not the case. They wanted arms!” Elizabeth drew back slightly. Deflue paused and scratched his feet against one another. “Since nine that morning,” he resumed, “there had been yelling everywhere: ‘To the Bastille! To the Bastille!’ Then, about 10:00 o’clock, a delegation of electors arrived at the famous dungeon, the purpose of their visit the removal of cannon directed toward the quartier Saint-Antoine. The electors, you see, had been sent by the Assembly on behalf of inhabitants of that quarter. At the very moment when Governor de Launey was courteously receiving them, the militia of citizens at the Hôtel de Ville demanded arms. The representatives met with de Launey for an hour and a half. The good governor offered them lunch, followed by assurances that no harm would befall the quarter.”

Elizabeth had finished her soft drink and was chewing on her ice. “Pardon me, Lieutenant, but what role did you play in all this?”

“Why I . . . I served under Governor de Launey. I had been detailed, along with some thirty others, on July 7, as reinforcements to the governor’s command. Command such as it was! The truth is, Mademoiselle, that the governor had precious little experience when it came to military matters – and a good deal less valor. I could see from the outset that, should we be attacked, we would have no leader. The man, in short, was afraid of his own shadow.”

The lieutenant refreshed his drink before continuing. “When de Launey withdrew the cannon, the crowd gathering outside assumed the guns were being loaded.” He took a sip of cola. “And, since the electors had not yet reported on the progress of their conference, the demonstrators panicked. They ran to their district headquarters, declaring that de Launey held the electors hostage and had given orders to fire on civilians.” Deflue put his hand to his mouth and let out an enormous belch. “Members of the district headquarters sent a deputation to de Launey post haste. Their group was led by a man of law, a lawyer by the name of Thuriot de la Rozière. As the deputation of electors was finishing their lunch, Thuriot arrived and made his demands. He requested not only the removal of the cannon but that de Launey’s men should be joined by members of the citizens’ militia. ‘Sir,’ said de Launey, ‘to spill blood of Parisians is unthinkable, to make war upon the Nation is wrong.’” The Lieutenant was now standing at the center of the room in order to reenact the scene. “Thuriot obviously was accustomed to pleading his case in court. ‘Monsieur de Launey,’ he said, with a tone of authority, ‘what do you mean?’ So as to mollify him, the governor took Thuriot into the tower to inspect the withdrawn cannon. ‘Here is your answer, monsieur,’ said de Launey, pointing first at the cannon, then at the people gathered below. De Launey swore that, unless attacked, not one musket would be raised or fired. ‘You intend to honor our request, de Launey?’ Thuriot pressed the issue further. ‘Monsieur Thuriot, this garrison will not yield to anyone. I am here by order of the King, and only the King’s order do I obey.’ De Launey’s reply came at the very moment when people all about the fortress began their cry: ‘We want the Bastille! We want the Bastille!’

“What could we do? We are soldiers. We execute the orders we receive. I had my orders and de Launey had his. Should we not have resisted, we would have been dishonored. On the other hand, Thuriot too had his orders. His duty as a citizen was to oppose our orders.” The Lieutenant paced the floor, pausing beside an ashtray to rummage through it. Striking a match on the wall nearest him, he lit the remains of a mentholated fag. “The electors having already left, we lowered the drawbridge so that Thuriot might do likewise.”

“The substance of what you say is true, Deflue. There are, however, a few details you’ve glossed over.” A small, plumpish man stepped out from the kitchen. The Lieutenant, taken by surprise, inquired of him, “Whom do we have the honor of addressing?”

“Thuriot de la Rozière, at your service,” Rozière bowed and wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin tucked neatly under his chin. “A thousand and one pardons, Mademoiselle, but I was taking advantage of your ice-box cuisine, when I overheard Deflue, a poor representative of refinement, talking about my encounter with Governor de Launey.” Stepping closer to Elizabeth, he spoke to her momentarily in a whisper.

“Thuriot,” said Deflue, “I did not recognize you. Perhaps you’ve changed a little? Yes, you seem more substantial in the stomach.” Seating himself on the couch, Rozière merely grinned.

“Tell me, Deflue, which are you, a champion of despotism or a traitor to the people?” At this Deflue sprang to his feet and grasped the hilt of his sword.

“Gentlemen, please!” said Elizabeth nervously.

“My apologies, Mademoiselle,” said Thuriot. “Deflue and I have a score to settle. Perhaps another time, Lieutenant?”

“At your convenience, Rozière.” Lieutenant Deflue sat himself opposite the lawyer, in a beanbag chair.

“Charming little house, Mademoiselle,” said Thuriot, patting his belly. “My compliments.”

”Get on with it, Rozière.” Deflue made another violent gesture. Thuriot, however, showed absolutely no willingness to continue. In fact, the more impatient Deflue became, the harder it seemed for Thuriot to say a word. Finally, his cheeks turning cherry red, taking a deep breath, Thuriot folded his hands on his stomach and commenced with his narrative.

“To detail the goings-on that sultry morning transcends my or anyone’s capacity to describe. There are certain parts of the good Lieutenant’s account which could, however, bear elaboration. De Launey invited me – as Deflue has said – to inspect the withdrawn cannon. But the governor also took me on a tour to show me, as he put it, ‘what the Bastille really is.’ I already had some idea of what the Bastille was. My opinions in the matter were shared by my countrymen. Hatred is a strong word; however, our emotions were intense. Of course in France there are twenty Bastilles – the Conciergerie, Vincennes, the Château d’If, and so forth. But only one fortress bore the appellation ‘The Bastille.’ And for five centuries it had existed as a monument to injustice.

“De Launey” – Thuriot continued – “tried in vain to persuade me of two things: first, that the Bastille was invincible; second, that instead of attacking the fortress, the people should kiss the very ground on which it lay – because the Bastille housed so-called ‘enemies of the people,’ free thinkers, people of scientific training, and so forth.” He made another vague, derogatory gesture with his hand. “The governor showed me the many defenses with which invaders would have to contend. One piece of artillery I saw had a song written about it. In fact, de Launey sang me a few measures: ‘Oh my soft cannon / Cannon Oh my love / When men shall fail me / Desert me you will not.’ The song seemed most inappropriate, and I suspected de Launey of being overcome by spirits (and not, I might add, of the supernatural variety). We ascended the heights of the tower as our inspection proceeded, until we reached a platform called ‘La Compte.’ De Launey turned to me and said, ‘Here is the King’s canon.’ So it was, and it had been withdrawn, too. However, ‘the real King,’ I told de Launey, pointing to the masses below, ‘the real King is yonder. Monsieur de Launey,’ I said, ‘in the future you will take your orders from them!’ the governor moved forward, as if to do me violence.” Thuriot stood up to indicate the governor’s posture. “I seized him, however, by the collar, threatening to throw him to the people below, though, I added, justice would eventually be served without my interference. It was then that our Lieutenant here interrupted me, and not a moment too soon.” Liz glanced back and forth between the two men. “He released de Launey, whose face had turned quite pale. The governor now asked me if the real reason for my coming had not been to gain time for an attack, to be launched below. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I have come to have your word as a French gentleman (if nothing else) that you will not fire on your brothers.’ De Launey folded his arms in defiance and said, ‘Brothers? Monsieur, these brothers are screaming for my death and the destruction of this noble institution! They are your brothers, not mine. Unless attacked, not one musket will be raised to fire upon the people of Paris. Of this you have my word. But I cannot honor your request that the citizens’ militia join our ranks.’” Thuriot seated himself again.

“De Launey, Deflue and I then descended the tower. Each knew what had to be done. Nothing more could be accomplished by parley. Although I was to return shortly from the Hôtel de Ville with Ethis de Corny (in order to inform the people of de Launey’s promise), I knew  the instant I left the dungeon that the only way I should enter it again would be in the name of the people.

“I returned to the district headquarters. Whence I was sent to the Hôtel de Ville. There it was decided I should return to the Bastille with Ethis de Corny, in the company of a trumpeter, to inform the public of the governor’s pledge that he should not be the first to fire. But before we had reached the Bastille, fighting had already broken out. A single cannon shot rendered our mission obsolete.” Thuriot paused. Elizabeth (remember Elizabeth?) had a question:

“Who was it, Mr. Thuriot, that fired the first shot?” Thuriot and Deflue fired back together:

“The soldiers!” (said Thuriot). “The crowd!”(said Deflue). Elizabeth threw up her hands. She felt like a World Series umpire. “OK, guys,” she said, “I’m going to give you both equal time. Thuriot, you go first.”

“As you wish, Mademoiselle,” said the lawyer, somewhat startled by this unusual tactic. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It was truly the people who were fired upon,” he began. Deflue cleared his throat in disagreement; Thuriot ignored him and continued. “Since I had left, the crowd had grown considerably. So many were the new arrivals, they pushed the others closer to the porte de l’Avancée. There the two raised drawbridges were forced down by four fellows who had climbed onto the roof of an adjacent perfumer’s shop. When they had entered the guardhouse, they found no keys with which to lower the bridges; so, with axes and sledgehammers they smashed the pulleys that fastened the drawbridge chains. The bridge crashed down on a man who was standing close by the moat. The gates hacked away, the people rushed into the cour du Gouvernement. There it was, in a pitiless act of humanity, that the garrison fired upon citizens of France. Treachery, thought most of the assailants, treachery on de Launey’s part. Of course de Launey was a traitor, but his treachery lay not in having lowered the bridges to the crowd but in having fired first!”

“Have you finished, Thuriot?” Deflue smirked.

“For the moment, sir.” Thuriot fell silent, not out of politeness but rather as though from the contemplation of some exotic delicacy. ‘Down with the bridges,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Down with the bridges, down with the bridges.’ Pa-coo, pa-coo, pa-coo, he said to himself, mimicking the shots of the governor’s brave soldiers.

“If there was treachery” – Deflue had taken over – “it did not occur within the Bastille. The governor had instructed us not to fire on the invaders before calling on them to withdraw. It was apparently out of the question that they should withdraw. The first shots were then fired by the besiegers at our men posted in the towers. We asked the assailants what they wanted.” Thuriot had seated himself on a throw rug in the middle of the room and apparently was paying no attention whatsoever to Deflue. “‘Down with the bridges!’” Deflue continued. “We told them that this could be done. Further, we warned them if they didn’t withdraw they would be fired upon. They simply continued yelling, ‘Down with the bridges!’ ‘Down with the bridges!” The order was then given to thirty invalids stationed in the embrasures on either side of the gate. The assailants took refuge in the kitchens, which stood to the right of the bridge. De Launey posted a Swiss detachment in the main courtyard, whose volleys drove back any attempt to get near the main drawbridge.” Thuriot excused himself for a moment, and left the room. Elizabeth, however, continued to listen attentively.

“Behind me at my disposal were three two-pound guns manned by twelve of my best soldiers. Our duty was to protect the entrance by making it difficult for the besiegers to force the doors. We pierced two holes in the bridge to mount two of the cannons in. We couldn’t bring the cannons close enough, because the counterpoise of the drawbridge hindered us. Accordingly, we replaced them with two rampart guns. These guns, though scarcely used, were kept loaded with grapeshot.” From the kitchen came the sound of someone munching Fritos.

“For the most part,” Deflue continued, “the besiegers were poorly armed and badly led. A handful, however, organized an assault based upon sound military advice. Two carts loaded with what looked like stubble-litter were wheeled into the court and set ablaze.” Elizabeth had begun to doze off. “The smoke served to shield assailants advancing on the gates. This was as effective a use of smoke as I had ever seen. Had not” – there was a sound now of swirling water as Thuriot returned from the hallway – “had not the gardes-françaises intervened with artillery, the Parisians could have been held off.”

“Perhaps, Deflue, perhaps,” said Thuriot, taking his seat again in Kathy’s favorite chair. “But not for long.” Liz opened her eyes briefly to see what was going on and then closed them. Thuriot had seized the floor. “The Bastille may have housed an abundance of misplaced bravery, but your quantities of food and drink would have been insufficient, should it have been a long siege.” This once more brought Deflue to his feet. Seizing an empty coffee cup from the coffee table, he crushed it in his hand. “You see, Mademoiselle,” Thuriot continued, “Deflue here refuses to admit that de Launey was treacherous, or that any treachery existed within the Bastille. Ask him, Mademoiselle, about the delegation at the cour de l’Orme.” Elizabeth opened her eyes long enough to overhear a mumbled insult from Deflue. “When Ethis de Corny’s delegation” – Thuriot rubbed his nose between his thumb and forefinger – “had reached the cour de l’Orme, his drummer sounded a roll – ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum. A flag was waved as two members of de Corny’s party – Boucheron and Piquod – made their way slowly into the cour du Passage. There they encountered a number of persons armed with axes, sticks and guns. One of the two men announced they had come as deputies from the city to parley. He pleaded with them to desist in their assault. They were not insensitive to his request. The two men found the two drawbridges drawn.” Deflue had given up and taken a seat on the couch. “They approached the first without incident. When they reached the foot of the citadel and the second drawbridge, however, Boucheron, waving his hat, shouted that the City had sent them to parley and a cease-fire should be declared. Boucheron’s answer came from the citadel summit. A deputation would be received, but the people must be withdrawn. Boucheron and Piquod” – Thuriot was slapping his thighs now rhythmically as he talked –“proceeded into the second court, the cour de l’Avancée. Again they met people armed with guns, sticks and axes. Again they pleaded with the people to withdraw, explaining their mission. Soon afterwards” – Thuriot glanced at Deflue, but he too had now fallen asleep – “soon afterwards Boucheron and Piquod rejoined de Corny at the cour de l’Orme. They told de Corny they had seen a white flag flying form a platform where soldiers carrying their muskets upside down waved their hats. The ceasefire was about to be negotiated, you see. I say ‘about to be,’ for de Corny suddenly saw a cannon leveled at him. His delegation received a volley of musketry. Three men were killed on the spot. You see. And the question is, Who had given the order to fire on the unarmed delegates?” Elizabeth shifted in her chair. “Was it the Lieutenant here?” Deflue’s eyes batted involuntarily, as though he might awaken, but with a spasmodic jerk of the lungs he began to snore instead. “Perhaps an overexcited Swiss guard? No, no,” said Thuriot. Elizabeth opened her eyes and smiled. “No, it was the French gentleman!” she blinked, wondering who it was Thuriot had in mind. “It was, you see, Governor de Launey!” Again Liz smiled politely. “De Launey’s head,” Thuriot continued, “was certainly lost. And if this was not treachery, then the morning sun does not rise in the east and Polaris is not the North Star.”

“Wake up, Liz” it’s time for lunch. Elizabeth was snoring. Kathy took her head with both hands and shook it. “‘The past,’” she said, quoting something she’d heard in class, “‘is a narcotic. It has consumed the best of minds.’”

“Huh?” said Elizabeth. She opened her eyes. Kathy was lifting the diamond stylus out of the plastic groove. The turntable had failed to reject Scarlatti.

 

July 18

Thursday was a nice day for sightseeing. Hidio picked up Liz in his father’s BMW, and together they set out for Los Alamos. There they picnicked and visited the Bradbury Science Museum, which specialized in exhibits on atomic research. Elizabeth was fascinated by one of the first crude electronics computers. The mechanism had been abandoned by its creators, and now it rested, enshrined in glass. The tour guide, a woman in a bouffant hair-do, referred to another apparatus as “Maniac,” and spoke of it as a “mere protozoa.”

Hidio and Elizabeth toured the museum along with the usual crowd of documenting visitors: retired civil servants, elementary school teachers, middle-aged businessmen, and nuns. The ratio of cameras to people, observed Hidio, is two to three. During the talk about meson physics Elizabeth entertained herself by noting the different kinds of cameras. By the time they had reached the nuclear weapon technology exhibit, Liz had counted twenty cameras and identified seven brands.

The tourists stood together now in an open court. “Members of the 1943 laboratory team,” said the guide, “included Enrico Fermi, Niels Bohr and John von Neumann. They were allowed no personal contacts, nor were they permitted to travel outside a hundred-mile radius. Security controls were rigid, for obvious reasons.” She smiled at the crowd; the crowd smiled back. “In those days everyone’s mail was subject to censorship.” The crowd emitted titters of laughter. Together they moved along to the next exhibit. Looking down at her feet and clasping her hands behind her back, the guide furrowed her brow. Having successfully altered the mood of the crowd, she looked up again to resume her prepared delivery. She was standing with her back to a mock-up of “Little Boy,” the first fission bomb employed in World War II. “By July 16 all was ready at the test site. The mission’s code name was ‘Trinity,’ the desert site ‘Jornado del Muerto,’ or ‘Journey of the Dead Man.’ Physicists, psychiatrists and Army personnel all huddled in the concrete control room to await the experiment’s outcome, an outcome, incidentally, which was by no means certain.” At this point a nervous little man, dressed in a bright Hawaiian shirt, interrupted the routine.

“Isn’t it true,” he asked in a New England yachting club accent, “uh, I read somewhere that at that time it was thought that there was a possibility of igniting the whole atmosphere? Which would have meant the destruction of life as we know it.” The crowd eyed the guide to see if she’d been caught off guard. She responded with an air of authority. “Of course there were risks, but you see Science deals in likelihoods. The ignition of the atmosphere was a remote possibility.” She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and took a deep breath, glaring at the man. “Finally,” she continued, “at 5:29 am the results of the Manhattan Project were in. The team had produced a bomb which surpassed their expectations. The explosive force released that morning had equaled 20,000 tons of TNT.” Liz glanced at Hidio, who was fidgeting with his program. She suggested that they leave the tour party and view the remaining exhibits on their own.

Standing before Oppenheimer’s favorite chair, she tried to recall an anecdote she had once heard about the great physicist. “Didn’t he say,” she said, “that during the fission explosion a passage from some religious text occurred to him?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Hidio, looking at the empty seat. “What passage was it?” he added, half-attentively.

“I don’t know,” said Liz. “I don’t know what passage it was.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Hidio.

 

July 20

Saturday was like a tropical storm only more torrential. It would have been a day to spend outside, except now it was a day to stay inside. It could have been spent at tennis, or even horseback riding; instead it was being spent at chess and conversation.

As Donald selected an FM station, Linda set out the wooden figures. The radio resounded with Beethoven’s “Grosse Fugue.” Taking the black forces, Linda made her first move, pawn to queen’s bishop four. It had been a long time since she had “pushed wood.” When Donald, on his fifth move, played pawn to queen’s bishop four, Linda lost some more of her self confidence. “Well,” she said in a jocular vein, “here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.” The remark, by a series of poetic associations, made Donald think of himself as Napoleon. However, wiping a grin off his face, he turned serious.

“Actually, Linda, this variation was once thought capable of defeating the Sicilian.” He flashed on Corsica, but brushed it aside. “As it turns out, white’s advantage in space is offset by black’s sound position.” Linda picked up her king’s knight’s pawn to examine it. “It’s called the Maróczy Bind,” said Donald, glancing out the window.

“What’s called the Maróczy Bind?” said Linda with a bored look.

“This variation,” Donald replied, looking quickly at the board. Linda dangled her knight’s pawn over her king’s knight three. Gazing out the window again, where lightning had begun to flash, Donald began the story of the Maróczy Bind. Linda knew it was all a bunch of bullshit but listened anyway.

“Once in a distant country there lived an elderly sculptor named Maróczy, who in his lifetime had had many honors bestowed upon him. Nonetheless, all his worldly accomplishments left him dissatisfied and sullen. Abandoning his art, he took up the study of necromancy.” Donald paused to light up an El Producto. “Through the application of these studies,” Donald continued making up the story as he went along, “he sought to attain something enigmatic, namely the creation of a beauty unmarred by imperfection. This obsession consumed his every waking hour.”

“And often his sleeping hours too?” Linda interjected ironically.

“Don’t go overboard,” Donald warned her. “Slowly,” he resumed, “Maróczy progressed, frequently suffering much disappointment. Until, that is, he one day hit upon the notion of constructing a singular device. The mechanism, which he fashioned from enormous crystals, enabled him to achieve what he called ‘the transmutation of light.’ At last Maróczy would accomplish a secret purpose: he was now able to compare the images of people!” Donald paused, relighting his cigar. Thunder rattled the living room windows. “Each evening, Maróczy would sit before a gigantic crystal partition, summoning his human replicas. On one such occasion, it occurred to him that the images themselves might be made even more perfect, if he could cause them to imitate the movements of people. Thus, he set about the task of making them move. This accomplished, Maróczy conceived the possibility of conferring upon them faculties such as hearing, sight and touch. When this, however, was done, something occurred that even Maróczy had not foreseen. The images, without any loss of the faculties already bestowed on them, began to exhibit more human characteristics still: the ability, for example, to understand, the capacity to love. At first, Maróczy was unwilling to believe what happened. Before long, however, he was forced to accept the new actuality. And in fact he soon found himself actively seeking the affections of a certain young woman, imprisoned in the crystal world of his own making. With the intention of freeing her one summer night Maróczy stepped to the crystal barrier as though to kiss her, reciting as he did so an ancient incantation. Again, something unexpected occurred. The young woman, in an instantaneous flash, passed from her world into his. But, sad to report, at the moment of passage, a complementary motion also took place: Maróczy had passed into her world, the world of his own creation. Bewildered, the woman gazed at him, liberated now from the crystal world yet forced to stare tragically at Maróczy’s own image, imbedded in the world of his own making. More tragic yet, as Maróczy moved, so did she, here every motion the mirror image of his.”

Exhaling, Donald extinguished his cigar. The thunderstorm had fizzled into a light sprinkle. Linda, who had been adjusting her king’s knight, looked up at Donald, whose eyes returned to the living room.

“You do love me, don’t you?” Donald gave her a typically intense look for his answer, as though he might be waiting for a passage of D.H. Lawrence dialogue to reproduce itself. But nothing happened. Linda simply looked at him, waiting for some response.

That night she asked him again. Donald, who’d had time to ponder the question, replied, “Linda, I’ve always loved you.” The flowers that people buy me, he thought, recalling Proust, are not real flowers. At one time everything had been unreal to Donald except Linda. She alone had seemed irrefutable. Linda stood up and leaned forward.

“Donald,” she said, “it’s harder on me, because I don’t have another lover.” She walked out of the bedroom, holding her tears back, carefully shutting the door. Donald had somehow been unprepared for this.

 

Linda Finley, Journal: November 1968

 

Many times as we have made love I have opened my eyes and watched you. Last night I searched your expressions once more. Last night I smelled gardenias. Today our bed was filled with the fragrance of other flowers. Donald, there’s no one but you.

 

Diary – Elizabeth Bromley, editor

 

July 22

In many ways my relation with Hidio seems too good to be true. There’s really only one important thing in life and that’s to be happy. Sometimes I wonder how long it will last. How long can anyone be happy? Should I devote myself to finding happiness? There are many disappointments. And it does seem slightly self-centered to believe that your happiness is all that matters. It’s not selfish to help others though. That’s if you don’t benefit from helping them. Surely then there’s nothing wrong with making yourself happy if your happiness means helping other people. But everyone is entitled to some selfish pleasure.

If you’re happy why should you doubt it? Why question your happiness? Why be skeptical?

For me it’s never really been a question of selfishness. The issue is doubt. My doubting and my analyzing are one and the same. I analyze Hidio because I distrust him. My distrust is based on my fear. What fear? What do I have to fear? I suppose I’m afraid of being left alone, of being hurt. Wow, when you make a commitment, you place your head on a guillotine.

Maybe there are some things you don’t question, like breathing and love. It’s not a question of happiness. I shouldn’t worry.

. . . . .

July 23, 12:35 am

Reading of the Tarot using only the Major Arcana
What is coming? Advice: The Pope
What is passing? Flexibility of mind: The Hanged Man
What is manifesting in the present? Rigidity of mind, lack of trust: The Star, reversed
What is hidden? Success: The Chariot
The key card: An unexpected change of circumstances: Death

Hidio, what will I offer you years from now? Will it be, as Baudelaire says, that “A tender heart, hating the wide black void, / Gathers all trace from the pellucid past”?

 

July 24

It was going to be an all-nighter for Kathy and Elizabeth. They both had philosophy papers due Friday. “Let’s start with tea,” said Kathy. “Coffee’s the last resort.”

At 3:00 am Elizabeth sat glassy-eyed at her Smith-Corona, cloudily musing over Kant’s second analogy. “Everything that happens presupposes that something came before it,” she said to herself. “Experience is the only possible way of subjecting ourselves to the succession of phenomena.” Now what the hell does that mean? This guy’s hopeless. She rubbed her eyes and walked into the kitchen, only to find Kathy hard at work on a paper entitled “Kant’s Noumena.” Looking up, Kathy inquired sympathetically, “Time for a little Java?” The coffee itself had already begun to perk.

It is a quarter to 5:00. Elizabeth is standing in a room full of crumpled paper. Space, time and causality have fired her brain.

“We perceive things not as they really are but as they appear.” A woman in a chiffon dress takes a seat on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed.

“Where did you come from?” asks Liz, a little startled.

“Let’s ignore that question,” says the woman.

“Lady, this is my room – ”

“Please, there’s no reason to get distraught. I’ve come to assist you. You see I’m a novelist of wealth and notoriety. But forgive me. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Mary McCarthy.”

“Sure.” Liz glanced at the page rolled up in her typewriter platen. “I’m sure you are, she added, out of politeness. “But when I close my eyes and count to five, I hope that you’ll be gone.”

When Liz opened her eyes, she found her visitor had departed.

 

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