The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 9

walked out of the cinema, especially during motion pictures that Israel characterized as exploiting the trivialities of romance. I recall once, while Peregrine was reading aloud to me one of the nineteenth century’s most accomplished sentimentalists, perhaps Thackeray, perhaps James, that Peregrine dropped the book and fell down in front of me, as if in great pain, but without a sound. He lay there, tears streaming down his face, soaking his beard. It was the worst spell he ever had in front of me. It scared me badly. I ran for Israel in the kitchen; and he coaxed Peregrine upright again, then took him for a walk along the canals. I was not invited along, watched them from the window: spindly Israel supporting burly Peregrine as a nurse might assist an invalid. Israel told me later, “Forget it, kid.”

I did not, nor should I have. Peregrine did seem to improve over the years, as if he had made peace with his condition. That was no truce. That was a devastation. He quit trying, a man who came to prefer the malady to health. He forgot humor, self-respect, hope, a better day, the gift that was his life. He only wanted to remember, and to torment himself with his memory of, that long-lost American woman named Charity Bentham.

Though it was over forty years ago, and half a world away from me now, that woman’s name still stirs and saddens me. Charity Bentham. If this is credible, she was my father’s heart. For me, she is the crossroad where my own story parts from Peregrine’s. It is of Charity Bentham, and of her violent entrance into my life, that I now must speak at length.

The Nobel Prize Ball

IT WAS the eve of my seventeenth birthday, as burning cold and still as the Norse creation, when my life, as well as the lives of all those I held dear, changed irreparably and forever. It was also the night that it was revealed clearly to me for the first time that my family was accursed with exile, and that for such people, outlawed and outlanded, there can be no going back, there can too readily be bitterness and more defeat.

I assumed that Peregrine, Israel, and I were lucky to have obtained temporary jobs as servants’ servants for the Nobel Prize Ball to be held that evening in the King’s castle. Twenty-five hundred very important celebrants were expected in the Great Hall by 10:00 p.m. Ours was heavy and dirty work. I thought Peregrine’s mask of dread was due to our labor. In truth, his mind was his face, as the Norse said. No one had told me Charity Bentham was to be there. I thought, in my childish way, that Peregrine could have been more festive; but it was not like me to resent Father’s moods, since he changed them as often as his caps. I was happy. Earle, home again at midseason with his bad back, had promised me a surprise birthday present. More, Israel compensated for Peregrine’s surliness by outdoing himself with anecdotes about “the good old counterculture days” when “clowns were kings,” and with jokes about the King’s new castle then still under construction on the exact site of the burned-down Royal Palace. Israel mocked it as “quick-dry Baroque.”

Our gang-boss kept us busy hauling furniture and carpets up from the storerooms to the Great Hall, so there was no time to coddle Peregrine. We had been hired for our brawn. Israel, who knew what deeply hurt Peregrine, was preoccupied with the extra weight he had put on his belly over the years. We did bear up better than most. We really needed the money.

By the time we stopped to change into our livery for the ball, we were giddy with aches and sweat. Israel and I shared a bottle of Norse brew and examined our foolish party clothes, black frocks and waistcoats with shabby white linen and silly ties. Israel and I looked sober in comparison to Peregrine. Father’s pants were inches too short, and with his full red beard, his shoulder-length hair, and his fixed scowl, he appeared ridiculous. I started to tease Peregrine. Israel shushed me.

One of the King’s retainers, a fat man named Rinse, did taunt Peregrine as we filed into the service assembly room. Peregrine reacted out of proportion to the offense. He turned dark, shook, muttered. He grabbed his stomach the way he did when overwhelmed by temper. Rinse backed away. Peregrine seemed a man in an insane rage. Israel reached to calm him. Peregrine tossed him off with one backhanded sweep, as if he did not know him, as if he did not know what he had become in his fury. I saw murder in my father’s eyes. It made no sense to me. I moved to offer love. Israel pulled me away. We stood apart from Peregrine, who, alone in the midst of several squat oafs from Stockholm’s simpleton population, seemed to talk to himself. I watched him yank a blue booklet from his frock, roll it into a tube, tap it against his breast.

I could not ask Israel for an explanation, because the Nobel people burst in to line us up and read instructions for the evening. They were officious and overbearing. Israel smirked at them and got a withering stare from a small, unattractive overseer, Mrs. Bad-Dober, who persecuted us the rest of the night. Since we were separated from Peregrine, Father was assigned to the cloak room in the entry hall, while Israel and I were sent to the Great Hall. We were to heft trays of food and drink from the dumbwaiters to the King’s retainers, who were the only ones meant to circulate among the guests.

Later though, at the edge of the Great Hall, our gang got a rest break because the dumbwaiter lines fouled. The ball was in symphonious progress, and we crowded into an alcove to listen. I was tired and content, and