I complained that he rarely gave me a decent lead. Most of the time he was handing me children or imbeciles to call on. He pretended it didn’t matter much what the intelligence or station in life of the prospect might be—the important thing, the only thing, was to get inside the house and stick. If it was a child who had fallen for the ad, then I was to talk to the parents, convince them that it was for the child’s good. If it was at nit-wit who had written in for information, so much the better—a moron had no resistance. And so on. He had an answer for everything, that guy. His idea of a good salesman was one who could sell books to inanimate objects. I began to loathe him with all my heart.
Anyway, the whole damned business was nothing more than an excuse to keep active, a means of bolstering the pretense that I was struggling to make a living. Why I bothered to pretend I don’t know, unless it was guilt which prompted me. Mona was earning more than enough to keep the two of us. In addition she was constantly bringing home gifts, either of money or of objects which could be converted into cash. The same old game. People couldn’t resist thrusting things on her. They were all admirers, of course. She preferred to call them admirers rather than lovers. I wondered very often what it was they admired in her, particularly since she handed out nothing but rebuffs. To listen to her carry on about these dopes and saps you would think that she never even smiled at them. Often she kept me awake nights telling me about this new swarm of hangers-on.
An odd lot, I must say. Always a millionaire or two among them, always a pugilist or wrestler, always a nut, usually of dubious sex. What these queer ones saw in her, or hoped to get out of her, I could never fathom. There were to be plenty of them, as time went on. Right now it was Claude. (Although, to be truthful, she never referred to Claude as an admirer.) Anyway, Claude. Claude what? Just Claude. When I inquired what this Claude did for a living she became almost hysterical. He was only a boy! Not a day over sixteen. Of course he looked much older. I must meet him some day. She was certain I would adore him.
I tried to register indifference, but she paid no heed. Claude was unique, she insisted. He had roamed all over the world—on nothing. You should hear him talk, she babbled on. You’ll open your eyes. He’s wiser than most men of forty. He’s almost a Christ … I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing. I had (to laugh in her face.
All right, laugh! But wait till you meet him, you’ll sing a different tune.
It was from Claude, I learned, that she had received the beautiful Navajo rings, bracelets and other adornments. Claude had spent a whole summer with the Navajos. He had even learned to talk their language. Had he wished it, she said, he could have lived the rest of his life with the Navajos.
I wanted to know where he came from originally, this Claude. She didn’t know for sure herself. From the Bronx, she thought. (Which only made him all the more unique.)
Then he’s Jewish? I said.
Again she wasn’t sure. One couldn’t tell a thing about him from his looks. He didn’t look anything. (A strange way to put it, I thought.) He might pass for an Indian—or for a pure Aryan. He was like the chameleon—depended when and where you met him, the mood he was in, the people surrounding him, and so on.
He was probably born in Russia, I said, taking a wide swing.
To my surprise she said: He speaks Russian fluently, if that means anything. But then he speaks other languages too—Arabic, Turkish, Armenian, German, Portuguese, Hungarian…
Not Hungarian! I cried. Russian, O. K. Armenian, O. K. Turkish ditto, though that’s a bit hard to swallow. But when you say Hungarian, I balk. No, by crickey, I’ll have to hear him talk Hungarian before I believe that one.
All right, she said, come down some night and see for yourself. Anyway, how could you tell—you don’t know Hungarian.
Righto! But I know this much—anyone who can talk Hungarian is a wizard. It’s the toughest language in the world—except for the Hungarians, of course. Your Claude may be a bright boy, but don’t tell me he speaks Hungarian! No, you don’t ram that one down my throat.
My words hadn’t made a dent in her, obviously, because the next thing out of her mouth was—I forgot to tell you that he also knows Sanskrit, Hebrew, and…
Listen, I exclaimed, he’s not almost a Christ, he is the Christ. Nobody but Christ Almighty could master all those tongues at his age. It’s a wonder to me he hasn’t invented the universal tongue. I’ll be down there mighty soon, don’t fret. I want to see this phenomenon with my own eyes. I want him to talk six languages at once. Nothing less will impress me.
She looked at me as if to say—You poor doubting Thomas!
The steadiness of her smile finally nettled me. I said: Why do you smile like that?
She hesitated a full minute. Because, Val … because I was wondering what you’d say if I were to tell you that he also had the power to heal.
For some queer reason this sounded more plausible and consonant with his character than anything she had told me about him. But I had to maintain my attitude of doubt and mockery.
How do you know this? I said. Have you seen him heal anyone?
She refused to answer the question squarely. She insisted, however, that she could vouch for the truth of her statement.
To taunt her I said: What did he cure—a sick headache?
Again she took her time in responding. Then, rather solemnly, almost too solemnly, she replied: He’s cured cancer, if that means anything.
This made me furious. For Christ’s sake, I yelled, don’t stand there and tell me a thing like that! are you a gullible idiot? You might just as well tell me he’s raised the dead.
The flicker of a smile passed over her countenance. In a voice no longer solemn, but grave, she said: Well, Val, believe it or not, he’s done that too. Among the Navajos. That’s why they love him so…
O.K. girlie, that’s enough for tonight. Let’s change the subject. If you tell me any more I’ll think you’ve got a screw loose.
Her next words took me completely by surprise. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Claude says he has a rendezvous with you. He knows all about you … knows you inside out, in fact. And don’t go thinking I told him, because I didn’t! Do you want to hear more? She went right on. You have a tremendous career ahead of you: you’ll be a world figure one day. According to Claude, you’re playing blind man’s bluff now. You’re spiritually blind, as well as dumb and deaf…
Claude said that? I was thoroughly sober now. All right, tell him I’ll keep the rendezvous. Tomorrow night, how’s that? But not at that damned joint of yours!
She was overjoyed by my complete surrender. Leave it to me, she said, I’ll choose a quiet spot where the two of you can be alone.
Of course I couldn’t resist inquiring how much he had told her about me. You’ll learn all that tomorrow, she kept repeating. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.
I fell asleep with difficulty. Claude kept reappearing, like a vision, each time in a different aspect. Though he always had the figure of a boy, his voice sounded like the voice of the ancient one. No matter what language he spoke I was able to follow him. I wasn’t the least amazed, curiously enough, to hear myself talking Hungarian. Nor was I amazed to find myself riding a horse, riding bareback with bare feet. Often we carried on our discussions in foreign lands, in remote places such as Judea, the Nubian desert, Turkestan, Sumatra, Patagonia. We made use of no vehicles; we were always there where our thoughts roamed, without effort, without the use of the will. Aside from certain sexual dreams I don’t believe I had ever had such a pleasant dream. It was more than pleasant—it was instructive in the highest sense. This Claude was more like an alter ego, even though at times he did strikingly resemble the Christ. He brought me great peace. He gave me direction. More than that—he gave me reason for being. I was at last something in my own right and no need to prove it to anyone. I was securely in the world yet not a victim. I was participating in a wholly new way, as only a man can who is free from conflict. Strangely, the world had grown much smaller than I thought it to be. More intimate, more understandable. It was no longer something against which I was
