Naked Before the World

CHAPTER 1

Welcome, wenches, to Maya, a tall, slender young man said from the top of the cafe steps. He was smiling, his arms outstretched, and his long black hair falling in curly disarray on each side of his face.

The two girls, exhausted by the climb with their heavy bags, stopped to rest and stare up at him. Katya, the shorter one, tried to smile. The August sun was unbearably hot, and the last ten steps to the terrace of the cafe seemed almost beyond her strength. As she climbed the stone steps up from the road toward the cafe patio, she couldn't keep her two heavy bags from banging against each stone step. She hoped she still looked cool in her neat white T-shirt and fitted black skirt and that the sweat wasn't showing through. Glancing back and seeing Diane's lanky jean-clad body looking like a wilting string bean wasn't too encouraging. They both looked like they'd been traveling for days, which they had.

Thank you, she said and tried again to smile. The handsome young man, his blue eyes smiling and his arms still outstretched in welcome, spoke again:

May the Maya furies mix you rubadubdub into our soup. I'll even help stir. And he bounced down the ten stone steps, his long arms dangling loosely from his shoulders like puppet sticks. When he reached the girls he leered first into Katya's face, picked up her two bags, one a battered suitcase, the other a large backpack, then leered at Diane--who leered exaggeratedly back--somehow managed to pick up both of her bags as well, and began to trudge back upwards.

The two girls followed, collapsing into the wooden chairs in the shade of the vine-entwined lattice of the cafe.

I'm Katya Keegan, the smaller girl said, brushing a streak of wet dark hair away from her forehead and looking nervously around the cafe, struck by how quiet and subdued it seemed.

I doubt it, the thin young man said, grinning and plopping the bags down near their table. But we can pretend. I'm usually Franz. What'll you drink?

Oh, an iced tea, I guess, Katya said. Thank you.

How about you, witch?

Well, warlock, I'm usually Diane, and I'd love a beer.

Without further comment Franz strode off to the bar, leaving Katya and Diane to look at each other in slight bewilderment.

Things seem rather informal here, said Katya.

I think Franz is the sort of longhaired lost soul the Institute brochure warned us against, said Diane, smiling.

The two girls had met on the bus from the airport and neither knew much about the other or about the little mountain village they now found themselves in for a year's study in Spain. As they waited for Franz to return, Katya felt vaguely guilty about letting him buy her a drink: he had a remarkably handsome face and incredible eyes, but as Diane had noted, looked suspiciously like the longhaired dopefiend type the students were supposed to avoid. She noticed, however, that Diane seemed undisturbed.

Small and dark, Katya was beautiful. Her young face was framed by swirls of lovely dark hair and a long curl that fell in computerized casualness down her left cheek to rest on the curve of her chest. At nineteen she still tended to stare innocently at men with her large dark eyes in a way that was, to say the least, distracting. Diane, tall and slender with thick frizzy blond hair, was also attractive, but at twenty-one, her eyes tended to knife into men with a cold intelligence that unsettled them in a different way.

When Katya's idle gaze moved off to the edge of the terrace she was stunned. From where they'd gotten off the bus a few minutes before, all she had seen were old stone houses, and behind them, reaching up toward the base of the mountains, row upon row of terraces and gnarled trees--olive trees, Diane had said. The Mediterranean had been only a tiny wash of blue beyond the lowest layer of olives. But from here on the terrace a hundred feet above the road, the mid-afternoon view made her gasp: the world had become blue--sea and sky expanded in front of her in the bright summer sunlight as if part of some triumphant Technicolor film playing solely for the patrons of the cafe.

Whooo, Katya sighed, half in fatigue and half in awe. Nothing prepared me for this.

It's beautiful, Diane agreed, shading her eyes with the Institute brochure she had with her. It reminds me of Londo's print at the Louvre.

Mamma Mar, Baby, that's all it is, said Franz, returning abruptly and placing the drinks on the little round table. Most beautiful sight in the world. In a month you won't know it's there.

But it's magnificent, said Katya.

I'm magnificent too, Franz said, tipping back in his chair and rocking erratically. But girls get tired of me in three weeks. His blue eyes sparred playfully first with Katya, who looked away, and then with Diane, who looked back at him neutrally.

Or less, she said. Franz grinned back at her.

Down below, Katya said, the world seems enclosed by mountains. Here you barely notice them.

They're there, Franz replied with sudden seriousness. If you last here long enough you'll feel them leaning on you.

In the silence that followed, Katya took off her dark glasses and wiped them with a little handkerchief and looked around at the cafe. Near the entrance was a cluster of working men hunched over beers; from the low guttural sounds she could overhear she assumed they were Mallorquins. And among the dozens of young international types she now saw the man she'd noticed earlier eyeing her figure. He was staring at her again with large saucer eyes, a strange bare-chested, moon-faced man with huge, bushy mustaches that flowed out of his nostrils like two dangling horsetails. When he noted her gaze he looked nervously away and began scribbling on a pad in front of him.

What's Maya like? Diane asked abruptly of Franz.

The freak center of the world, he replied cheerfully, tossing his long hair away from his left eye.

Then how did you end up here? Diane asked ironically.

I got tired of freak centers like the Village, London and Amsterdam and decided I wanted to escape to a private place and be creative.

And you came here? Diane asked.

Franz laughed.

I'm discovering that every place people go to be creative is a freak center of the world.

What do you create?

I'm an actor, I make noisies, Franz replied.

What's a noisey? asked Katya.

A noisey is noise, he said. Noises on tape. The sounds of nature bonging away with wind, rain, surf, of actors playing games with their voices, of man with his car horns, cackling motor bikes, farts, belches and giggles—noise—you name it.

How'd you arrive at that artistic medium? Diane asked.

It's cheap, Franz replied.

We have to locate a Professor Toom to recommend a place to stay until the Institute opens, Katya said. Can you help us?

Toom? Franz squinted at her gloomily. Not Gloomy Toomy of the Institute of Creative Cocks and Cunts that's supposed to invade us this fall?

Katya stiffened.

That fuckin' Institute, Franz went on. Gotta shit on it, Babes. We've all been castrated a hundred times by institutes. Bastards in every classroom with shears.

But the Institute hasn't even started yet, said Katya.

He's being metaphorical, said Diane.

They pack you into cans of hours and dish you out like beans at Salvation Army. I've been fried in the best colleges of the West, baked until black and couldn't green a blade of grass or smell ketchup on a bun. I've been hammered regular on the head for twenty-five years 'til I gotta head like a lopsided potato--made me all receiver, killed the sender in me.

As Franz scowled at a fly waddling along the lip of his glass, the moonfaced man was suddenly at their table.

Can I help you, girls? he said and smoothed his drooping mustache with the back of his middle finger. Although he was balding on top he had long sideburns and his hair fell long at the back. He looked at Katya through rimless glasses with a totally earnest expression.

Oh, thank you, Katya said. I'm trying to locate a Professor Bernard Toom. When she smiled and her large brown eyes sparkled, the moonfaced man flushed and looked away.

Oh, sure, he said. I'm Timothy Ling, by the way. Writer. I live in the Boog. He pulled a chair around and sat down opposite Franz, who didn't look up.

In the what? Diane asked.

In the Boog. That's a local word for cavity, low spot. Most people live either in the Boog or on the Pooch--that's the peak, the high ground.

Could you take me to Dr. Toom's house when you go down? Katya asked.

Be glad to. Just got another page or two on the novel. Timothy gestured vaguely toward the notepad he had placed ostentatiously on the table in front of him.

God gives men pricks to fuck, minds to think, eyes to see, and ears to hear, suddenly erupted Franz, and the institutes night and day are trying to make us blind, deaf and dumb eunuchs. He opened his mouth and laughed once. Primarily dumb.

Reminds me of early Henry Miller, said Diane.

Toom's a good man, said Timothy, ignoring Franz. Course he can't write. Ever read that novel of his?

No, I haven't, Katya said. I go to the College of Saint Rose in Albany and the Institute is sponsored by Lowdong College in Ohio. I've never met Dr. Toom.

Well, good man. Can't hold his liquor and something of a snob. You a student, huh? Thought the Institute didn't open for another month or so?

That's true. I came early. My name's Katya Keegan.

I've been sucking poison from the boobs of institutes for twenty years, Franz went on, still staring with glazed eyes at the rim of his glass. Every time I spit, the grass turns gray, rocks crumble. I'm walking death, man, but I'm done. He pushed back his chair and staggered as he stood up. I'm done. I've been addicted to institutes long enough. It may take me a century or two but I'm done. Ladies . . . He made a surprisingly graceful bow to both Katya and Diane and then weaved off toward the inside of the cafe.

After a silence in which Timothy looked sincerely first at Katya and then Diane, he said:

Good man, Franz. Bit crazy maybe . . . What say, Pete?

A tall bearded man had emerged onto the terrace and stood beside their table staring into the darkened doorway of the cafe. Dressed in a dusty black shirt, black levis and sandals, he had thick arms, long hands and a full black beard, covered like his clothes in dust.

I'm looking for my diggers. Aren't they down from the dig yet?

Haven't seen 'em, answered Timothy. Say, Pete, what's up? Lately you guys been staying there almost until dark.

None of your business, Peter said, scowling. If they show up tell them to see me at the museum right away.

Yeah? What's up?

Don't ask questions, said Peter and, as suddenly as he'd come, he wheeled and in three long strides reached the terrace steps and descended out of sight.

Who was that? Katya asked.

Pete Mullaney. Great archaeologist. Great paranoid. Lives in the old Moorish tower he converted into an archaeological museum out along the coast. See? Timothy pulled his chair around close to Katya and, bringing his head so close to hers that his bushy sideburns touched her face, pointed along the coast line where a tiny blot of white stuck up from among the pine trees.

Actually, commented Diane, It's one of the lookout towers built in the fifteenth century to watch for Moorish pirates--they raided the coastal villages.

Yeah, said Timothy.

He lives there? Katya asked.

Him, a couple of goats, some of his diggers.

What's he do? asked Katya, pulling away from Timothy but turning to look him in the eyes.

Pete? Timothy again flushed at Katya's gaze and began caressing his belly with his notepad. Pete's trying to unearth some early civilization--bones and things. He and Piccolo Londo have some crazy theory that Maya here is some sort of cradle of life. You girls write? he added, looking suddenly at Diane.

A little, said Diane, seeming indifferent.

I don't, said Katya. The Institute's for both writing and painting and I paint.

Yeah? You like old Piccolo Londo's work?

Of course. Katya's eyes gleamed. I think he's the greatest painter alive today.

Yeah, good man, old Pic. Amazing how he still turns out the work at sixty.

He looks much younger in his pictures, said Katya, pushing herself away from Timothy. Does he still use women as inspiration for his famous abstracts of the creation?

Oh, yeah, he still uses women. In fact I'll introduce you if you like. He's got a huge finca halfway up the mountain. See the whole world. Have huge bonfires up there. Burn all night. Great yellow eyes in the face of the mountain.

That's not a bad metaphor, Poncho, said Diane.

It sounds marvelous, said Katya.

It is, said Timothy. I may use it in the novel.

I meant Londo's finca, said Katya.

Oh, that. I'll take you up there tomorrow if you like.

I'd think he'd have to lock himself away from visitors, said Diane.

He does. But not artistic visitors like Katya. Not her.

I'll bet, said Diane. Say, I wonder whether this restaurant has genuine Spanish cuisine.

Nothing like that, said Timothy, pulling his chair back to its original position. Just local stuff--fish, olives, squid, octopus, figs. The only real restaurant in town is down on the road. What 'cha like?

I'm famished. Order me anything. How about you, Katya?

Mmmm. Me too.

Timothy rose, stroked his mustache and waddled off to the inside of the cafe.

Well, we seem to have found ourselves a couple of real winners, commented Diane. A hippie wreck and a phony writer.

I guess so, Katya said without expression.

Diane stretched her long arms, yawned, and excused herself to go to the ladies' room, leaving Katya to stare out at the brilliant blue sea. She was suddenly aware of being tired and depressed. Franz was strange and bitter and mixed up but somehow appealing, while Timothy was smooth and gentle and a writer and totally unappealing. She'd thought quite a bit about meeting real writers and artists and hippies and she'd pictured that they'd look as handsome as Franz, but act . . . somehow less . . . nuts.

She became conscious of a single speck of white moving with slow grace along the water spread out before her and realized it must be a giant sailboat reduced to moth size by the height. A rush of joy surged through her like the first rush of a high on finishing a good sketch. By God, it was beautiful. Maybe her art teacher had been right. Maybe here she would at last discover her real talent. Perhaps here she would blossom. Perhaps here all the phony layers of her middle class life could be stripped away and she could stand at last naked before the world: the essential Katya. Whatever that might be.

The bald walrus leave with the blond giraffe? a voice suddenly asked from beside her and she turned to see a pale Franz plop down into a chair.

No, Katya said. Mr. Ling is getting us some food. Diane is . . . in the ladies' room. She looked at him uncertainly, noticing his hand tremble as he picked up his empty glass. Are you all right?

I'm fine, he said. A bit tired from puking out all them institutes. He tried a grin but it looked a little sickly.

Are you drunk?

I was taking some interesting voyages on a number of solubles, but it's all gone now. Ol Tummylingus made me upchuck. There's no down like that down.

Katya flushed.

He seems . . . all right.

Institutes usually do.

Is he an institute?

In Maya he is. Franz was staring off at the horizon where the sun was now dipping behind the ridge of the mountain, dropping a slow, final shadow across the terrace where they sat. Then he began to recite in a new, squeaky voice like that of a four-year-old child:

"When stars threw down their spears

And sprinkled heaven with their tears

Did God smile his work to see?

Did He who made this mess make thee?

On the last line he lowered his eyes to look at Katya, his face not romantic or leering but surprisingly angry.

Katya felt a little frightened. His voice and facial expressions changed so unexpectedly.

Gonna ruin your life here, he said, still in his squeaky child's voice. It was almost funny.

Beg pardon? Katya asked uncertainly.

Nothing, Franz said in his normal deep tone, shaking his head as if to clear it. I like to make noises. The walrus get you a place to stay?

No, I've got to see Dr. Toom.

Oh, yeah.

Where do you live?

Up the mountain at Alain's, Franz answered. Local crash pad.

Hi, said Diane, returning. You've come back.

Mostly.

The bathroom here is straight out of the Middle Ages, said Diane.

Say, I know I'm not in such hot shape and I apologize for the little craziness before, but you girls aren't really going to lock yourselves up in that institute all year, are you?

Who's going to be locked up? Diane asked.

I mean Toom is the last person in the world any living creature would consult about a place to stay.

Stay? Timothy broke in, placing small plates of food in front of the two girls.

Katya needs a place, Diane explained. I'm already booked into the Hotel Gelatte. Katya began poking at the fried crispy things on her plate, not looking at Franz.

Katya can stay with me, Timothy said. Got a big extra room upstairs. Glad to help out. He had gotten himself another drink in a small brandy glass.

Why that's sure thoughtful of you, Diane said, smiling ironically at Katya.

I'd like to see Dr. Toom first, Katya said. He may have some special arrangements for me.

Sure, go ahead. My room's sunny with plants.

Wouldn't I interfere with your novel writing? Katya asked.

'Course not. Can always write. Cafe, beach, parties, boats. . .

You're disciplined, Diane said.

Bed, bathroom, car . . .

Snorkeling? Franz asked sarcastically.

Sure. Why not? A writer is a writer.

A writer is a writer, Franz echoed. I'd never thought of that before. He glittered an exaggerated smile at Timothy. I like writers. I like you. To hell with living at Alain's. Let me come stay with you.

I've got a dog, Timothy said quickly. Only one extra bed. Only room for Katya.

Franz and Diane, both amused, swung their eyes to Katya. She poked at the last bit of food on her plate.

I'd like to see what Dr. Toom has to say, she said.

It's like consulting Lawrence Welk to learn the latest about pop music, Franz said to no one in particular.

CHAPTER 2

After Timothy and Katya had left, Franz stood up and leaned over the railing. The two figures, looking like round blobs from above, wiggled from step to step, gradually becoming smaller as they neared the road at the bottom. As he watched their tiny figures ooze into a chartreuse jeep that had some sort of white splotch on the hood, he hoped that the little blob wouldn't get eaten by the big one. The jeep sputtered and began to move. Would the walrus drive and wipe his mustache and rub his belly all at the same time? And write? He'd almost forgotten that: at this very minute he must be writing: with his toes maybe, or with some pen he'd been born with between his legs.

Hey, Warlock! said Diane from the table behind him. I still exist.

Franz moved slowly back to the table and sat down.

Those are the breaks.

What are the breaks?

You exist.

Thanks.

I mean it's tough for you, Franz explained. I don't mind.

She smiled.

I've learned to live with it too, she said. Especially when I see the existences other people are stuck with.

Hey, Witch, how come you don't go down to see the old Toom?

I'll have to see him soon enough come the fall. I didn't come early to be institutionalized early.

What did you come for, Witch? Franz threw her one of his exaggerated leers.

To write poetry, sonny. And meet a few empty phonies like poncho and a few authentic wrecks like you.

That's not nice, replied Franz. Say at least I'm a beautiful authentic wreck.

No.

Interesting?

No.

Mmmmm, said Franz, looking past her.

A phony authentic wreck, Diane concluded.

But this time Franz didn't seem to be listening. He was staring off gloomily at the side of the mountain behind her. When he spoke, it seemed mostly to himself.

That Tummylingual type: summertime brings him out, sweaty and wetty, his tummy rumbling and eyes dilated, like one big tongue going round to lick up little girls. Like that friendly neighborhood chick that was with you. Gone now. He got her, the big tongue got her. Slurrrp! One swipe and no more. Gulp.

Diane was laughing.

Not bad, Franz, she said. But you mix your metaphors.

Franz looked at her with surprise, then scowled.

No one will ever impress you, Witch. You're too shrewd.

You act as if it's a fault, said Diane.

Franz stood up and hitched up his tattered jeans; they were too big for him.

The line between being shrewd and being dead is a thin one, he said, looking off vaguely. Fact is, I've never seen it.

He wandered away from the table but stopped at the foot of the stone steps that led upward from the back of the terrace.

Hey, I'm sorry, Witch, he said, turning. I've got to get going. Y'all have a good time in Maya, y'heah? And, tossing her a warm smile, he turned to begin his climb up the side of the mountain.

Alain's was only a ten-minute walk, but Franz was in no hurry. If the truth be known, he had no need to go there. He just wanted to be alone to think a bit. Pretty wenches had been arriving in Maya all summer but this was the first time he'd gone out of his way to personally welcome any.

It was that small one with those incredible eyes. When he'd seen her wrestling her heavy bags up those steep stone steps she'd seemed to him like a child; she even let her tongue stick out of one corner of her mouth like a child. And her eyes had a child's bright unselfconscious innocence. And all this with a woman's body that would have to be banned in Boston.

Franz stopped and sat himself on a boulder among a line of lemon trees and squinted unseeing out toward the sea. He couldn't remember when he'd last met a woman that seemed innocent, not since his childhood back on Long Island he guessed. Katya made him feel protective toward her, though the image of wild Franz protecting anyone was enough to bring a sneer to his face. And then to be stoned on that stupid stuff Chet was handing out, and thus letting his periodic paranoia show--that was a downer. Here you want to protect and impress the first angel you've met since the third grade and you end up mumbling incoherently about institutes. Katya was so young she wouldn't know an institute if you hit her over the head with one, which, in fact, Toom would probably do.

Franz felt down, real down. He didn't know if it was the after-effects of the dope or something else, but he knew that in the last month the mountains had really begun to lean on him. It was time to move on. But part of him knew there was no one left to move on to. Whatever his restless wanderings had been seeking he hadn’t found, and his being down was partly from realizing that he wasn't going to find it with more wandering. His father wanted him to come back and finish his Master’s Degree at the State University at Stonybrook, and at times now, even when he was stoned, it seemed the only sensible thing to do. And what a downer that was if an Institute was the only sensible thing to do.

But the thought of Institutes brought an image of Katya to his mind and he knew what the main cause of his depression was. He knew that that beautiful creature he'd seen wrestling her bags up those stairs was doomed. She could no more survive in Maya than a snowflake on a hot griddle. Or a wildflower growing in the path of a stampede of elephants. Or a crystal goblet under a steamroller. And if her only protector was Freaky Franz then she was in big trouble indeed.

He stood up, scowling fiercely. It was time to adopt his usual save-your-own-ass policy: close his eyes and forget her. If he'd had the misfortune to meet an angel the only possible hope was to pretend it was all a dream and forget. Reality wreaked horrible havoc on angels, and a sensitive soul like Franz could only avert his eyes. And try not to be one of the elephants.

As he stared unseeing out at the distant sea, he cleared his throat, raised his head and suddenly emitted a loud Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip.!, a