CHAPTER THREE

 

Mr Stoyte had spent his morning at the Beverly Pantheon.  Very reluctantly; for he had a horror of cemeteries, even his own.  But the claims of moneymaking were sacred; business was a duty to which all merely personal considerations had to be sacrificed.  And talk of business!  The Beverly Pantheon was the finest real estate proposition in the country.  The land had been bought during the War at five hundred dollars an acre, improved (with roads, Tiny Tajes, Columbariums and statuary) to the tune of about ten thousand an acre, and was now selling, in grave-sites, at the rate of a hundred and sixty thousand an acre - selling so fast that the entire capital outlay had already been amortized, so that everything from now on would be pure jam.  And, of course, as the population of Los Angeles increased, the jam would become correspondingly more copious.  And the population was increasing, at the rate of nearly ten per cent per annum - and, what was more, the main accession consisted of elderly retired people from other States of the Union; the very people who would bring the greatest immediate profit to the Pantheon.  And so, when Charlie Habakkuk sent that urgent call for him to come over and discuss the latest plans of improvement and extensions, Mr Stoyte had found it morally impossible to refuse.  Repressing his antipathies, he had done his duty.  All that morning the two men had sat with their cigars in Charlie's office at the top of the Tower of Resurrection; and Charlie had waved those hands of his, and spouted cigar-smoke from his nostrils, and talked - God, how he had talked!  As though he were one of those men in a red fez trying to make you buy an Oriental carpet - and incidentally, Mr Stoyte reflected morosely, that was what Charlie looked like; only he was better fed than most of those carpet boys, and therefore greasier.

      'Cut the sales talk,' he growled out loud.  'You seem to forget I own the place.'

      Charlie looked at him with an expression of pained surprise.  Sales talk?  But this wasn't sales talk.  This was real, this was earnest.  The Pantheon was his baby; for all practical purposes he had invented the place.  It was he who had thought up the Tiny Taj and the Church of the Bard; he who, on his own initiative, had bought that bargain lot of statues of Genoa; he who had first clearly formulated the policy of injecting sex-appeal into death; he who had resolutely resisted every attempt to introduce into the cemetery any representation of grief or age, any symbol of mortality, and image of the sufferings of Jesus.  He had had to fight for his ideas, he had had to listen to a lot of criticism; but the results had proved him right.  Anyone who complained that there was no Crucifixion in the place could be referred to the published accounts.  And here was Mr Stoyte talking sarcastically about sales talk.  Sales talk, indeed, when the demand for space in the Pantheon was so great that existing accommodation would soon be inadequate.  There would have to be enlargements.  More space, more buildings, more amenities.  Bigger and better; progress; service.

      In the top of the Tower of Resurrection, Charlie Habakkuk unfolded his plans.  The new extension was to have a Poet's Corner, open to any bona fide writer - though he was afraid they'd have to draw the line at the authors of advertising copy, which was a pity, because of lot of them made good money and might be persuaded to pay extra for the prestige of being buried with the moving-picture people.  But that cut both ways - because the scenario writers wouldn't feel that the Poet's Corner was exclusive enough if you let in the advertising boys.  And seeing that the moving-picture fellows made so much more than the others ... well, it stood to reason, Charlie had concluded, it stood to reason.  And, of course, they'd have to have a replica of Westminster Abbey in the Poet's Corner.  Wee Westminster - it would sound kind of cute.  And as they needed a couple of extra mortuary furnaces anyhow, they'd have them installed there in the Dean's Yard.  And they'd put a new automatic record-player in the crypt, so that there'd be more variety in the music.  Not that people didn't appreciate the Perpetual Wurlitzer; they did.  But all the same it got a bit monotonous.  So he'd thought they might have some recordings of a choir singing hymns and things, and perhaps, every now and then, just for a change, some preacher giving an inspirational message, so that you'd be able to sit in the Garden of Contemplation, for example, and listen to the Wurlitzer for a few minutes, and then the choir singing 'Abide with Me,' and then a nice sort of Barrymore voice saying some piece, like the Gettysburg Address, or 'Laugh and the World Laughs with You,' or maybe some nice juicy bit by Mrs Eddy of Ralph Waldo Trine - anything would do so long as it was inspirational enough.  And then there was his idea of the Catacombs.  And, boy, it was the best idea he'd ever had.  Leading Mr Stoyte to the south-eastern window, he had pointed across an intervening valley of tombs and cypresses and the miniature monuments of bogus antiquity, to where the land sloped up again to a serrated ridge on the further side.  There, he had shouted excitedly, there, in that hump in the middle; they'd tunnel down into that.  Hundreds of yards of catacombs.  Lined with reinforced concrete to make them earthquake-proof.  The only class-A catacombs in the world.  And little chapels, like the ones in Rome.  And a lot of phoney-looking murals, looking like they were real old.  You could get them done cheap by one of those W.P.A. art projects.  Not that those guys knew how to paint, of course; but that was quite O.K. seeing that the murals had to look phoney anyhow.  And they wouldn't have anything but candles and little lamps for people to carry around - no electric light at all, except right at the very end of all those winding passages and stairs, where there'd be a great big sort of underground church, with one of those big nude statues that were going up at the San Francisco Fair and that they'd be glad to sell for a thousand bucks or even less when the show was over - one of those modernistic broads with muscles on them - and they'd have her standing right in the middle there, with maybe some fountain spouting all around her and concealed pink lighting in the water so she'd look kind of real.  Why, the tourists would come a thousand miles to see it.  Because there was nothing people liked so much as caves.  Look at those Carlsbad Caverns, for example; and all those caves in Virginia.  And those were just common-or-garden natural caves, without murals or anything.  Whereas these would be catacombs.  Yes, sir; real catacombs, like the things the Christian Martyrs lived in - and, by gum, that was another idea!  Martyrs!  Why wouldn't they have a Chapel of the Martyrs with a nice plaster group of some girls with no clothes on, just going to be eaten by a lion?  People wouldn't stand for the Crucifixion; but they'd get a real thrill out of that.

      Mr Stoyte had listened wearily and with repugnance.  He loathed his Pantheon and everything to do with it.  Loathed it because in spite of statues and Wurlitzer, it spoke to him of nothing but disease and death and corruption and final judgement; because it was here, in the Pantheon, that they would bury him - at the foot of the pedestal of Rodin's 'Le Baiser.'  (An assistant manager had once inadvisedly pointed out the spot to him and been immediately fired; but there was no dismissing the memory of his offence.)  Charlie's enthusiasm for catacombs and Wee Westminsters elicited no answering warmth; only occasional grunts and a final sullen O.K. for everything except the Chapel of the Martyrs.  Not that the Chapel of the Martyrs seemed to Mr Stoyte a bad idea; on the contrary, he was convinced that the public would go crazy over it.  If he rejected it, it was merely on principle - because it would never do to allow Charlie Habakkuk to think he was always right.

      'Get plans and estimates for everything else,' he ordered in a tone so gruff that he might have been delivering a reprimand.  'But no martyrs.  I won't have any martyrs.'

      Almost in tears, Charlie pleaded for just one lion, just one Early Christian Virgin with her hands tied behind her back - because people got such a kick out of anything to do with ropes or handcuffs.  Two or three Virgins would have been much better, of course; but he'd be content with one. 'Just one, Mr Stoyte,' he implored, clasping his eloquent hands.  'Only one.'

      Obstinately deaf to all his entreaties, Mr Stoyte shook his head.  'No martyrs here,' he said.  'That's final.'  And to show that it was final, he threw away the butt of his cigar and got up to go.

      Five minutes later, Charlie Habakkuk was letting off steam to his secretary.  The ingratitude of people!  The stupidity!  He'd a good mind to resign, just to show the old buzzard that they couldn't get on without him.  Not for five minutes.  Who was it that had made the place what it was: the uniquest cemetery in the world?  Absolutely the uniquest.  Who?  (Charlie slapped himself on the chest.)  And who made all the money?  Jo Stoyte.  And what had he done to make the place a success?  Absolutely nothing at all.  It was enough to make you want to be a communist.  And the old devil wasn't grateful or even decently polite.  Pushing you around as though you were a bum off the streets!  Well, there was one comfort: Old Jo hadn't been looking any too good this morning.  One of these days, maybe, they'd have the pleasure of burying him.  Down there in the vestibule of the Columbarium, eight foot underground.  And serve him right!

      It was not only that he didn't look too good; leaning back in the car which was taking him down to Beverly Hills on his way to see Clancy, Mr Stoyte was thinking, as he had thought so often during these last two or three weeks, that he didn't feel too good.  He'd wake up in the morning feeling kind of sluggish and heavy; and his mind didn't seem to be as clear as it was.  Obispo called it suppressed influenza and made him take those pills every night; but they didn't seem to do him any good.  He went on feeling that way just the same.  And, on top of everything else, he was worrying himself sick about Virginia.  The Baby was acting strange, like someone that wasn't really there; so quiet, and not noticing anything, and starting when you spoke to her and asking what you said.  Acting for all the world like one of those advertisements for Sal Hepatica or California Syrup of Figs; and that was what he'd have thought it was, if it hadn't been for the way she went on with that Peter Boone fellow.  Always talking to him at meals; and asking him to come and have a swim; and wanting to take a squint down his microscope - and what sort of a damn did she give for microscopes, he'd like to know?  Throwing herself at him - that was what it had looked like on the surface.  And that kind of syrup-of-figs way of acting (like people at those Quaker Meetings that Prudence used to make him go to before she took up with Christian Science) - that all fitted in.  You'd say she was kind of stuck on the fellow.  But then why should it have happened so suddenly?  Because she'd never shown any signs of being stuck on him before.  Always treated him like you'd treat a great big dog - friendly and all that, but not taking him too seriously; just a pat on the head and then, when he'd wagged his tail, thinking of something else.  No, he couldn't understand it; he just couldn't figure it out.  It looked like she was stuck on him; but then, at the same time, it looked like she just didn't notice if he was a boy or a dog.  Because that was how she was acting even now.  She paid a lot of attention to him - only the way you'd pay attention to a nice big retriever.  And that was what had thrown him out.  If she'd been stuck on Pete in the ordinary way, then he'd have got mad, and raised hell, and thrown the boy out of the house.  But how could you raise hell over a dog?  How could you get mad with a girl for telling a retriever she'd like to have a squint down his microscope?  You couldn't even if you tried; because getting mad didn't make any sense.  All he'd been able to do was just worry, trying to figure  things out and not being able to.  There was only one thing that was clear, and that was that the Baby meant more to him than he had thought, more than he had ever believed it possible that anyone should mean to him.  It had begun by his just wanting her - wanting her because she was warm and smelt good; wanting her because she was young and he was old, because she was so innocent and he was too tired for anything not innocence to excite.  That was how it had begun; but almost immediately something else had happened.  That youth of hers, that innocence and sweetness - they were more than just exciting.  She was so cute and lovely and childish, he almost felt like crying over her, even while he wanted to hold and handle and devour.  She did the strangest things to him - made him feel good, like you felt when you'd tanked up a bit on Scotch, and at the same time made him feel good, like you felt when you were at church, or listening to William Jennings Bryan, or making some poor kid happy by giving him a doll or something.  And Virginia wasn't just anybody's kid, like the ones at the hospital; she was his kid, his very own.  Prudence wasn't able to have children; and at the time he'd been sore about it.  But now he was glad.  Because if he'd had a row of kids, they'd be standing in the way of the Baby.  And Virginia meant more to him than any daughter could mean.  Because even if she were only a daughter, which she wasn't, she was probably a lot nicer than his own flesh-and-blood daughter would have been - seeing that, after all, the Stoytes were all a pretty sour-faced lot and Prudence had been kind of dumb even if she was a good woman, which she certainly was - maybe a bit too good.  Whereas with the Baby everything was just right, just perfect.  He had been happier since he'd known her than he'd ever been in years.  With her around, things had seemed worth doing again.  You didn't have to go through life asking 'Why?'  The reason for everything was there in front of you, wearing that cunning little yachting-cap, maybe, or all dressed up with her emeralds and everything for some party with the moving-picture crowd.

      And now something had happened.  The reason for carrying on was being taken away from him.  The Baby had changed; she was fading away from him; she had gone somewhere else.  Where had she gone?  And why?  Why did she want to leave him?  To leave him all alone.  Absolutely alone, and he was an old man, and the white slab was there in the vestibule of the Columbarium, waiting for him.

      'What's the matter, Baby?' he had asked.  Time and again he had asked, with anguish in his heart, too miserable to be angry, too much afraid of being left alone to care about his dignity, or his rights, about anything except keeping her, at whatever cost: 'What's the matter, Baby?'

      And all she ever did was to look at him as though she were looking at him from some place a million miles away - to look at him like that and say: Nothing; she was feeling fine; she hadn't got anything on her mind; and, no, there wasn't anything he could do for her, because he'd given her everything already, and she was perfectly happy.

      And if he mentioned Pete (kind of casually, so she shouldn't think he suspected anything) she wouldn't even bat an eyelid; just say: Yes, she liked Pete; he was a nice boy, but unsophisticated - and that made her laugh; and she liked laughing.

      'But, Baby, you're different,' he would say; and it was difficult for him to keep his voice from breaking, he was so unhappy.  'You don't act like you used to, Baby.'

      And all she'd answer was, that that was funny because she felt just the same.

      'You don't feel the same about me,' he would say.

      And she'd say she did.  And he'd say no.  And she'd say it wasn't true.  Because what reasons did he have for saying she felt different about him?  And of course she was quite right; there weren't any reasons you could lay your finger on.  He couldn't honestly say she acted less affectionate, or didn't want to let him kiss her, or anything like that.  She was different because of something you couldn't put a name to.  Something in the way she looked and moved and sat around.  He couldn't describe it except by saying it was like she wasn't really there where you thought you were looking at her, but some place else; some place where you couldn't touch her, or talk to her, or even really see her.  That was how it was.  But whenever he had tried to explain it to her, she had just laughed at him and said he must be having some of those feminine intuitions you read about in stories - only his feminine intuitions were all wrong.

      And so there he'd be, back where he started from, trying to figure it out and not being able to, and worrying himself sick.  Yes, worrying himself sick.  Because when he'd got over feeling sluggish and heavy, like he always did in the mornings now, he felt so worried about the Baby that he'd start bawling at the servants and being rude to that god-damned Englishman and getting mad with Obispo.  And the next thing that happened was that he couldn't digest his meals.  He was getting heartburn and sour stomach; and one day he had such a pain that he'd thought it was appendicitis.  But Obispo had said it was just gas; because of his suppressed influenza.  And then he'd got mad and told the fellow he must be a lousy doctor if he couldn't cure a little thing like that.  Which must have put the fear of God into Obispo, because he said, 'Just give me two or three days more.  That's all I need to complete the treatment.'  And he'd said that suppressed influenza was a funny thing; didn't seem to be anything, but poisoned the whole system, so you couldn't think straight any more; and you'd get to imagining things that weren't really there, and worrying about them.

      Which might be true in a general way; but in this case he just knew it wasn't all imagination.  The Baby was different; he had a reason for being worried.

      Sunk in his mood of perplexed and agitated gloom, Mr Stoyte was carried down the windings of the mountain road, through the bowery oasis of Beverly Hills, and eastward (for Clancy lived in Hollywood) along Santa Monica Boulevard.  Over the telephone, that morning, Clancy had put on one of his melodramatic conspirator acts.  From the rigmarole of hints and dark allusions and altered names, Mr Stoyte had gathered that the news was good.  Clancy and his boys had evidently succeeded in buying up most of the best land in the San Felipe Valley.  At another time, Mr Stoyte would have exulted in his triumph; today, even the prospect of making a million of two of easy money gave him no sort of pleasure.  In the world he had been reduced to inhabiting, millions were irrelevant.  For what could millions do to allay his miseries?  The miseries of an old, tired, empty man; of a man who had no end in life but himself, no philosophy, no knowledge but of his own interests, no appreciations, not even any friends - only a daughter-mistress, a concubine-child, frantically desired, cherished to the point of idolatry.  And now this being, on whom he had relied to give significance to his life, had begun to fail him.  He had come to doubt her fidelity - but to doubt without tangible reasons, to doubt in such a way that none of the ordinary satisfying reactions, of rage, of violence, of recrimination, was appropriate.  The sense was going out of his life and he could do nothing; for he was in a situation with which he did not know how to deal, hopelessly bewildered.  And always, in the background of his mind, there floated an image of that circular marble room, with Rodin's image of desire at the centre, and that white slab in the pavement at its base - the slab that would some day have his name engraved upon it: Joseph Panton Stoyte, and the dates of his birth and death.  And along with that inscription went another, in orange letters on a coal-black ground: 'It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God.'  And meanwhile here was Clancy, conspiratorially announcing victory.  Good news!  Good news!  A year or two from now he would be richer by another million.  But the millions were in one world and the old, unhappy, frightened man was in another, and there was no communication between the two.