Chapter 4
1509 Words
Harpo felt tugged along, like he was attached to a string and someone at the other end was pulling. He felt like one of those wooden ducks with wheels that tenement families gave their kids instead of pets, and, right now, the string was leading him on a tour of the waterfront.
He slowed, to test it out, and there it was again. So off he went.
His life wasn’t working. That was the lesson learned, the great discovery. He was very different from his dad, and his father had been by far the better man. But he couldn’t think that much about it right now because he was feeling pulled into the woods.
He hurried along the path, up a gentle incline full of weeds and spots of light like pennies that were less bright now than when he’d started out. It must be getting late. He must be getting hungry. Harpo slowed as he passed the lodge’s canoe shed, then tripped over a broken oar, propelled forward again. No water sports. He tried to stop at the equipment shed, but found himself stumbling forward faster instead. No fishing either. That one was okay. He hadn’t had the stomach for fishing since that trip to Montauk anyway. Now he could hear the bustling of the people who’d been packed in the lodge last night like saltine crackers in a great tin can. He’d bet they were whooping it up on the waterfront now, with their deck chairs and bathing suits and the little martinis with snaking orange peels. His brothers were probably out there. They might be missing him. He kept moving.
Finally, in a clearing, Harpo stopped and felt no desire to move forward. The rope was slack. So he sat down on a fallen tree. He didn’t know what to do next. He needed to change his life. That was clear. But how did you do that? He slapped his pockets, felt for the notepad and pen. There were concrete things he could be doing. He could write to Susan. He’d brought paper after all. He could pretend he was practising his letters, everyone laughed at that line. He could combine the two. Right now L was his favourite letter, L for love, but no, that wasn’t enough to justify all that postage. Besides, he’d have to write more than one letter to fix the mess he’d made. Susan was sore. He just hoped she wasn’t moving on. Or he could try to write another script instead. Maybe the Marx Brothers weren’t as finished as everyone said.
Harpo sighed. His father would have known what to do.
At least he’d finally made it to the lodge that everyone talked about. He was here because this was where he belonged. He was here because he couldn’t go anywhere else. He was a Jew. The other resorts wouldn’t take him. He was really here because there were beautiful women around. One more wild weekend. One final blowout. One last three-day-long party and he’d consider settling down, finally, just like Frenchie had wanted. And in the meantime he wouldn’t have to feel all alone. He’d just have to get himself ready. He’d just have to work himself up to it, if he wanted to go on a proper bender with his brothers.
So he sat back. He could see the lake a little bit, or was that the river, and a sunset, a streak of wicked orange spread over a purple sky, a layer of marmalade over raspberry jam.
He waited for the old magic, the predatory pull. Nothing happened.
When an old man walked out of the forest, Harpo wasn’t surprised. He scooted over on his log to give the man room, ready for the company.
“How do you feel?” said the old man as he settled himself beside Harpo.
“Pardon me?”
“What I mean to ask is, how are you holding up?”
“What?” This man couldn’t know about Frenchie. It had hit the papers of course, but the papers had all reported that Harpo Marx’s father had just died and Harpo looked nothing like the Harpo Marx from the pictures. He hadn’t packed the raincoat and fright wig, and without those, he was just a scrawny Jewish man.
“It’s okay,” said the old man. “You don’t have to tell me yet.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t mind.” The old man stared. Harpo got lost in his expression. His hair was white and grey and everywhere, and there was something familiar about him, about that face like an old pillow.
“Do I know you?” said Harpo.
“That depends. You’ll have to tell me who you are and then I can say if I know you.”
“Who am I?” Harpo thought about his name in Cyrillic, how it looked like it spelled something completely different. “I’m Exapno Mapcase,” he said.
“Nope.”
“Exapno Mapcase, secret agent.”
“I don’t think so.”
He could have been from the tenements of New York, this man. He looked like Uncle Harold a little bit, or Henry, Aunt Hattie’s boyfriend, or that other guy who lived in the Bronx. He was taller, and he didn’t have that slightly sour smell, but even so. Harpo loved him immediately.
“What’s your name, really?” asked the old man.
“Pinky,” said Harpo, for his character in Duck Soup. “No, Harpo MacMarx.”
“That’s closer,” the old man said. And then he smiled, and Harpo smiled right along with him. There was something about that face, all those wrinkles around eyes blue and bright like a little kid’s. “Try again.”
“I like you,” said Harpo.
“Fine. If that’s the best I can get. I see now why you don’t talk much.”
“Are you staying here too?”
“I’m not staying here.” The old man hopped off the log. “I’m going for a walk. You’re coming with me. Neither of us is staying here. Why would we when I know a better place to go?”
Harpo couldn’t think of an answer, so he slid down too, then followed.
They left the path, then pushed their way into the dark part of the woods, in which direction Harpo couldn’t say. He’d guess north, by the way the moss was growing on the trees, or did moss grow facing south, or was that even moss? He kept walking behind the magnetic old man, although he heard a funny kind of rushing sound now.
“Do you hear that?” Harpo stumbled to catch up. “Should we turn back?”
The old man didn’t even slow, even though the sounds were getting louder. Harpo pictured wild animals, or maybe marching men, goose-steppers out of rhythm.
Finally, they came to a cascade, and the sound resolved itself into a rush of water, a tiny little waterfall with a roar like Niagara Falls. Imagine that.
Harpo scrambled up the little incline after the old man, who was standing at the top now, staring down. “Can I ask you a question?” he said, reaching the top, no, the summit. “I need advice.”
“How well do you know the Kogans?” asked the old man.
“Who?”
The old man fixed him with those deep blue eyes. “The people in the Jewish lodge.”
“Oh. Of course. I met Sam when I checked in.”
“Did you see his wife, Ayala?”
“I saw a picture of her on the desk, and he introduced me to that. He said the real lady probably wouldn’t come downstairs much. She’s beautiful though. She could be in the pictures.”
“That much I know for myself. I have eyes. They have windows. I know what she looks like.”
“The rumour is that she doesn’t come down from the attic much,” said Harpo. “She’s been a bit atticky for a while, that’s what I heard.”
“They have daughters too,” said the old man.
“Little ones?” Harpo hadn’t seen any little kids. “Do you know them, the Kogans?”
“I like the look of them. I like the way they look as a family.”
“Oh,” said Harpo. “I like families too. I’m from a big one. Four brothers, two parents.”
“Lots of cousins?”
“You could fill up New Jersey.”
“I had three brothers and five sisters,” said the old man, “but only one daughter.” Then he patted Harpo on the back. “I like the look of you too. How are you feeling today? You never said.”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” said the man, “and you might as well call me William.”
- Writer
