Just finished the next episode of my fake novel BRYAN THE TYGER. At this point, I have no aim other than to keep adding pages to this loose, baggy monster.
P.S.
In other news: my Public Private Diary is fully printed; also I made a list of my latest novels that have been printed but not included in any collection.
Chapter Forty-Eight
We roam about this grassy region for eons, just breathing and
thinking. The sky is blue, and there are some fluffy white clouds to admire:
“Look at the texture of that one,” I say, gesturing to a swath
of the firmament; “it’s like a melted marshmallow.”
“Ah, yes,” Myala replies. “Also that one, way over there,
reminds me of ice cream!”
We continue wandering along the cool grass in the sunshine. Eventually
we see what looks like a tribe of human beings in the distance. We run to get closer;
then we stop on a hilltop, and I address them:
“Give ear, O ye people, and hear the words of my mouth,” I shout.
(All the folks begin to tremble.) “Fear not: I am Bryan the Tyger, and this is Myala
the Black Panther. We are not here to hurt you; in fact, you might recall that we’re
the saviors who rescued your kind, during Earth’s lava-phase, before the Orangutans
arose and established their tedious Fiefdom. Neither Myala nor I can tell how many
centuries have transpired since those events (time flies when you’re divine), so
I’m never sure, when I encounter any of you Humans, whether you belong to the generation
that met us first-hand, or if it’s more likely that you’re the offspring of that
generation, in which case you might have only heard of us thru the rumors that get
passed down from age to age.”
Once this assembly of people sees that we’re friendly, they relax
and grow talkative. It turns out that they are actually the great-grandchildren
of the generation that Myala and I saved:
“We are the Dutch who established the colony of New Netherland,”
they claim.
“Hmm,” I say, “that’s interesting.”
Then Myala and I roam away from this
community, following our instinct to continue exploring the landscape. Soon we
meet a group of folk who are being persecuted:
“What’s going on here?” I roar, feeling angry at the sight of
humans abusing humans.
Among these new assemblages, the ill-treated people introduce
themselves as “Quakers” (their aggressors decline to speak to us, so I’ll refer
to them simply as the “Persecutors”). They apparently all share common beliefs (of
course, by “they” I mean the Quakers exclusively, not the Persecutors). Finding
these Quakers friendly, Myala and I join their religion. Then we stop their abuse
by directly mauling the Persecutors.
“Oh, wow . . . thank ye,” the Quakers are awestruck at our bloodthirsty
might.
“Twas our pleasure,” winks Myala.
Then we jungle beasts spend enough seasons here to learn what
parenting and childhood is like among these people.
§
But now some Orangutans show up and try to recruit us into their
military. We politely decline, explaining that we have other fish to fry. So they
leave; but then they shortly return with a Brand New Law: and they now present us
with this New Law’s pompous text:
So I hold the Law in my paw and read it aloud. — It turns out
that enlistment in the armed forces has now been made compulsory, even for cats!
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I growl.
“Nope,” sez the Big Boss Orangutan.
So I try to think for a moment. Then I turn to Myala and whisper:
“Do you have any ideas about how we might get out of this predicament?”
Myala addresses the Big Boss Orangutan, saying: “We beasts of
the jungle are willing to refrain from mauling you, if you take us to your leader.”
So the whole lot of us head out to the desert and meet the Western
Rancher who is the Father of the Big Boss Orangutan. He introduces himself as a
Democratic-Republican Adulterer.
“Do you like jazz music?” I say to the Great Ape Father of the
Big Boss.
“Oh, Dad loves jazz!” sez the Big Boss Orangutan.
I now turn and grill the Son of this Great Ape: “Why do you answer
for your progenitor? Can’t he speak? What’s wrong with his larynx? Or is he actually
dead, and you’re just using plywood and mirrors to prop up his cadaver?” Then I
turn to the Great Ape himself and say: “Cat got your tongue?”
After an awkward pause, “My prime interests are improvisational
jazz, oil-painting, and prizefighting,” the Father of the Big Boss Orangutan sez
in a suspiciously robotic voice. “I also harbor a deep feeling for the theater.”
Myala smirks. “I bet he also admires Emerson.”
“I also admire the essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson,” sez the Great
Ape whose Son is the Big Boss Orangutan Military Recruiter.
I huff; then I turn and address the Ape’s Son: “OK. I see what
you’re doing here. Now, this is my proposition . . . Are you listening?”
“Yes, I’m—” the Son begins in a robotic monotone; then he clears
his throat and speaks in his regular voice: “Yes, I’m listening.”
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s play a game. Here are the rules. Myala
and I will take your Father out on a date. We’ll show him a good time and paint
the town red. Now here’s the bottom line . . .”
“Go on,” sez the Big Boss Orangutan, Son of the Chief, obviously
now intensely interested.
“If we,” I gesture to myself and Myala, “manage to amaze your
Father so profoundly during our enchanted evening with him that, when we return,
he meets your inquiry of ‘What’s next, pops?’ with the answer ‘Burn these
cool cats’ draft cards,’ then you shall agree to follow his orders (remember:
he IS your commander) and let us off the hook, plus repeal this New Law
requiring feline military service; whereas, on the other hand, if Myala and I screw
up and FAIL to please your old man — for instance, if he does not like one of the
songs that the band is playing at the jazz club that we take him to — then we jungle
beasts will join your human army.”
“It’s a deal!” shouts the Big Boss Orangutan Military Recruiter,
Son of the Great Ape Chief; and we shake hands vigorously, or rather he squeezes
my paw and jerks it up and down.
So we use brute force to scoot the Great Ape Father of the Big
Boss Orangutan into our Flaming Chariot, after retrieving it from its storage place
in the garage of our castle on the peninsula in the German Alps. (While we’re at
home, we also step inside for a moment and top off the water dishes of our castle-mates
Nous and Zephyros, and fill their food bowls with kitty chow.) Then, before we head
off into the nightlife, I turn to the Big Boss Orangutan Son of the Chief Commander
and roar:
“Hey, Army-Boss, I have one last question before we begin.”
The Big Boss raises his brow and sez: “Yes?”
“Does your Father have a name?” I tilt my head in the direction
of the old Chief Orangutan’s bulk that is currently slouching in the box seat of
our chariot.
“Oh, of course,” the Big Boss glances to the side for a moment
to ponder. Then he replies: “His name is Amerigo.”
§
So we haul Amerigo from place to place in the city. We begin
at a club whose band is playing improvisational jazz — Chief Amerigo evidently digs
the tunes. Then we stop off at our regular convent, where we watch some oil-painting
and prizefighting.
At dinnertime, we eat fish.
Then we buy tickets for a theatrical engagement: a play by Anton
Chekhov that was first adapted for film but then re-adapted back to the stage. Vanya
on 42nd Street is a 1994 movie directed by Louis Malle, written by Andre Gregory,
and starring Wallace Shawn and Julianne Moore. The performance that we attend on
this occasion is identical in every way to the one depicted in the motion picture:
How they accomplish this is a mystery.
Then, after the above entertainment, we read from Emerson together,
skipping and dipping around in his volumes of essays (we peruse the 1st and 2nd
series, plus The Conduct of Life); and old Amerigo appears to enjoy this
— his eyelids even seem to unclose a little, during the recital.
Lastly we walk outside and spend the rest of our time together
hiding under a large pile of sticks without any food or water. We do this just to
learn what it would feel like if we were being hunted by enemies after having escaped
from the dungeon where they’d imprisoned us. — Each of us also fastens several silken
kerchiefs around our mouth before engaging in this exercise, because we are additionally
pretending that all three of us are suffering from some sort of lung disease, and
we’re afraid that our nonstop coughing will give us away.
§
When the night is over, we bring the Great Mobster who is the
Commander-in-Chief AMERIGO back to his only Son, the Orangutan Leader of the Free
World’s Violentest Force.
“He appears to have been interested in everything we did tonight,”
I say to our acquaintance, the Big Boss Orangutan Son-of-the-Chief (who, by the
way, is still salivating at the thought of luring us into his Army), when we felines
bound thru the doors of our arranged meeting-place.
“No! That wasn’t the agreement,” shouts the Big Boss, Son of
Mobster Don Amerigo. “I don’t care one iota what you thought of your date
with my Dad — you told me that I myself would get to ask the old man to relay
his own opinion about the way that this evening panned out — I can
cite the words of our covenant directly, and I quote: ‘. . . if
our Heavenly Father Amerigo answers that he did not thoroughly enjoy his
time on Earth, conquering and colonizing as an imperial power, then it shall follow
that you two soul-mates, whose legal names are Bryan the Tyger and Myala the Black
Panther, must apply to join my mob’s Unregulated Militia and thus become cannon
fodder for the UFO (United Fiefdoms of Orangutanland)’.”
I wait a lengthy beat; then reply: “That’s fine; we still agree
to those fair terms.”
The Boss seems taken aback by my cheerful acceptance. But forthwith
he regains his composure and then turns formally to his Mobster Father and asks:
“Well . . . What’s next, pops?”
There is a pregnant silence. Then an electronic voice emits from
the monaural speaker that is occupying the Chief Commander’s breast-pocket:
“Let these felines off the hook, George. For I am in Sheol at
present, where all former enemies have made amends with each other and are good
friends now. Everybody here knows that all the stuff we did on Earth was strictly
disastrous. Give it up; warfare is passé. — Just meet everyone’s needs, and then
go chase skirts.”
So Myala and I win the contest; yet we forbear to rub it in,
because we prefer to remain comrades with this Big Boss Orangutan Son of Commander
Amerigo. George waves goodbye to us with tear-filled eyes and exclaims while we
trot toward the horizon:
“Thanks for fixing my relationship with Father!”
§
The last thing that we do in this chapter is meet a novelist
who is in love with a golden-age movie star. Thus the problem is that, although
this star can be seen gracing the films that she performed in, she no longer interacts
with anyone alive, for she stormed The Heaven
and usurped its throne by way of a secret coup in the early ’90s. (Yes, I’m talking
about Marlene Dietrich.) So, we help our infatuated novelist win the love of his
fancy, even tho it is impossible. (I repeat, this is just an extra good deed that
we accomplish before submitting the present installment of text to the printer.)
No comments:
Post a Comment