Tod’s hope that he could end his trouble by paying a small fee didn’t last long. When he got Claude to ask Mrs. Jenning about Faye, that lady said she had never heard of the girl. Claude then asked her to inquire through Mary Dove. A few days later she phoned him to say there was nothing doing. The girl wasn’t available.
Tod wasn’t really disappointed. He didn’t want Faye that way, not at least while he still had a chance some other way. Lately, he had begun to think he had a good one. Harry1, her father, was sick and that gave him an excuse for hanging around their apartment. He ran errands and kept the old man company. To repay his kindness, she permitted him the intimacies2 of a family friend. He hoped to deepen her gratitude3 and make it serious.
Apart from this purpose, he was interested in Harry and enjoyed visiting him. The old man was a clown and Tod had all the painter’s usual love of clowns. But what was more important, he felt that his clownship was a clue to the people who stared (a painter’s clue, that is — a clue in the form of a symbol), just as Faye’s dreams were another.
He sat near Harry’s bed and listened to his stories by the hour. Forty years in vaudeville4 and burlesque5 had provided him with an infinite number of them. As he put it, his life had consisted of a lightning series of “nip-ups,” “high-gruesomes,” “flying-Ws” and “hundred-and-eights” done to escape a barrage6 of “exploding stoves.” An “exploding stove” was any catastrophe7, natural or human, from a flood in Medicine Hat, Wyoming, to an angry policeman in Moose Factory, Ontario.
When Harry had first begun his stage career, he had probably restricted his clowning to the boards, but now he clowned continuously. It was his sole method of defense8. Most people, he had discovered, won’t go out of their way to punish a clown.
He used a set of elegant gestures to accent the comedy of his bent9, hopeless figure and wore a special costume, dressing10 like a banker, a cheap, unconvincing, imitation banker. The costume consisted of a greasy11 derby with an unusually high crown, a wing collar and polka dot four-in-hand, a shiny double-breasted jacket and gray-striped trousers. His outfit12 fooled no one, but then he didn’t intend it to fool anyone. His slyness was of a different sort.
On the stage he was a complete failure and knew it. Yet he claimed to have once come very close to success. To prove how close, he made Tod read an old clipping from the theatrical13 section of the Sunday Times.
“BEDRAGGLED HARLEQUIN,” it was headed.
“The commedia del arte is not dead, but lives on in Brooklyn, or was living there last week on the stage of the Oglethorpe Theatre in the person of one Harry Greener. Mr. Greener is of a troupe14 called ‘The Flying Lings,’ who, by the time this reaches you, have probably moved on to Mystic, Connecticut, or some other place more fitting than the borough15 of large families. If you have the time and really love the theatre, by all means seek out the Lings wherever they may be.
“Mr. Greener, the bedraggled Harlequin of our caption16, is not bedraggled but clean, neat and sweet when he first comes on. By the time the Lings, four muscular Orientals, finish with him, however, he is plenty bedraggled. He is tattered17 and bloody18, but still sweet.
“When Mr. Greener enters the trumpets19 are properly silent. Mama Ling is spinning a plate on the end of a stick held in her mouth, Papa Ling is doing cartwheels, Sister Ling is juggling20 fans and Sonny Ling is hanging from the proscenium arch by his pigtail. As he inspects his strenuous21 colleagues, Mr. Greener tries to hide his confusion under some much too obvious worldliness. He ventures to tickle22 Sister and receives a powerful kick in the belly23 in return for this innocent attention. Having been kicked, he is on familiar ground and begins to tell a dull joke. Father Ling sneaks24 up behind him and tosses him to Brother, who looks the other way. Mr. Greener lands on the back of his neck. He shows his mettle25 by finishing his dull story from a recumbent position. When he stands up, the audience, which failed to laugh at his joke, laughs at his limp, so he continues lame26 for the rest of the act.
“Mr. Greener begins another story, even longer and duller than his first. Just before he arrives at the gag line, the orchestra blares loudly and drowns him out. He is very patient and very brave. He begins again, but the orchestra will not let him finish. The pain that almost, not quite, thank God, crumples27 his stiff little figure would be unbearable28 if it were not obviously make-believe. It is gloriously funny.
“The finale is superb. While the Ling Family flies through the air, Mr. Greener, held to the ground by his sense of reality and his knowledge of gravitation, tries hard to make the audience think that he is neither surprised nor worried by the rocketing Orientals. It’s familiar stuff, his hands signal, but his face denies this. As time goes on and no one is hurt, he regains29 his assurance. The acrobats30 ignore him, so he ignores the acrobats. His is the final victory; the applause is for him.
“My first thought was that some producer should put Mr. Greener into a big revue against a background of beautiful girls and glittering curtains. But my second was that this would be a mistake. I am afraid that Mr. Greener, like certain humble31 field plants which die when transferred to richer soil, had better be left to bloom in vaudeville against a background of ventriloquists and lady bicycle riders.”
Harry had more than a dozen copies of this article, several on rag paper. After trying to get a job by inserting a small advertisement in Variety (” . . . ‘some producer should put Mr. Greener into a big revue . . . ’ The Times”), he had come to Hollywood, thinking to earn a living playing comedy bits in films. There proved to be little demand for his talents, however. As he himself put it, he “stank from hunger.” To supplement his meager32 income from the studios, he peddled33 silver polish which he made in the bathroom of the apartment out of chalk, soap and yellow axle grease. When Faye wasn’t at Central Casting, she took him around on his peddling34 trips in her Model T Ford35. It was on their last expedition together that he had fallen sick.
It was on this trip that Faye acquired a new suitor by the name of Homer Simpson. About a week after Harry had taken to his bed, Tod met Homer for the first time. He was keeping the old man company when their conversation was interrupted by a light knock on the apartment door. Tod answered it and found a man standing36 in the hall with flowers for Faye and a bottle of port wine for her father.
Tod examined him eagerly. He didn’t mean to be rude but at first glance this man seemed an exact model for the kind of person who comes to California to die, perfect in every detail down to fever eyes and unruly hands.
“My name is Homer Simpson,” the man gasped37, then shifted uneasily and patted his perfectly38 dry forehead with a folded handkerchief.
“Won’t you come in?” Tod asked.
He shook his head heavily and thrust the wine and flowers at Tod. Before Tod could say anything, he had lumbered39 off.
Tod saw that he was mistaken. Homer Simpson was only physically40 the type. The men he meant were not shy.
He took the gifts in to Harry, who didn’t seem at all surprised. He said Homer was one of his grateful customers.
“That Miracle Polish of mine sure does fetch ’em.”
Later, when Faye came home and heard the story, she was very much amused. They both told Tod how they had happened to meet Homer, interrupting themselves and each other every few seconds to laugh.
The next thing Tod saw Homer staring at the apartment house from the shadow of a date palm on the opposite side of the street. He watched him for a few minutes, then called out a friendly greeting. Without replying, Homer ran away. On the next day and the one after, Tod again saw him lurking41 near the palm tree. He finally caught him by approaching the tree silently from the rear.
“Hello, Mr. Simpson,” Tod said softly. “The Creeners were very grateful for your gift.”
This time Simpson didn’t move, perhaps because Tod had him backed against the tree.
“That’s fine,” he blurted42 out. “I was passing . . . I live up the street.”
Tod managed to keep their conversation going for several minutes before he escaped again.
The next time Tod was able to approach him without the stalk. From then on, he responded very quickly to his advances. Sympathy, even of the most obvious sort, made him articulate, almost garrulous43.
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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barrage
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| n.火力网，弹幕 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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crumples
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的第三人称单数 )； 变皱 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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regains
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| 复得( regain的第三人称单数 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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peddled
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| （沿街）叫卖( peddle的过去式和过去分词 )； 兜售； 宣传； 散播 | |
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peddling
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| 忙于琐事的，无关紧要的 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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