z Winning In The Final Minute 3

 Winning In The Final
Minute3.  "Simone says," said
Sartre.    "Stuff what Simone says," said
Camus and he slammed his hand down on the tabletop making the tiny cups
and empty brandy pots
dance.   
Ever since his conversion to Christianity Sartre had been
getting on Camus' nerves more and more. It just wasn't logical.
Although Sartre insisted that it
was.   
"And what are you looking at?" said
Camus.   
Camus' words were directed at a lone black man in the
corner of caf?. At Camus' outburst he had looked up from the pages he
was working on. Now he picked them up and sauntered over. There was a
haunted hungry look in his
eyes.   
"I wonder?" started the black
man.   
"I haven't got any money," said Camus. "Get a job. Do
something."   
"But?"    "Get lost I said," said
Camus.   
The black man looked as if he was about to say something
else. He didn't. He
left.   
In his chair Sartre was chuckling silently to
himself.    "What?" said Camus. "What is
it?"    
"That was James Baldwin," said
Sartre.    The name on its own meant nothing to
Camus.   
"Wrote Giovanni's
Room."   
"Ah," said Camus. Now he understood.
   
The previous week Camus had written an article on
homosexuality. In it he had quoted liberally from Giovanni's room. The
novel was quite the thing in Paris drawing rooms at the moment.
   
Camus was sure of one thing; action was all but it had to
be tempered with some form of morality. He had learnt that lesson when
the Nazis had invaded France.
   
The tone of Camus' article was clear.
   
He hated
poofs. * James Baldwin stood outside the caf?
looking in. It had started to rain and he didn't have a coat. Didn't
own one. Richard Wright had promised him it would be easier in Europe.
He was wrong. The previous week a group of school children had skipped
behind him in the street chanting, 'Nigger.
Nigger.'    Inside the caf? Sartre's mouth
opened on his shrunken head and Camus pulled a Gitane from out of a
pack. He lit a match, the match flame sparked bright for a second,
lingered, then was extinguished. Just like that.
   
The pair of them. Always. Just like that. Never doing
anything.    Baldwin knew which was Camus'
car. Those of a Viennese slant would have said that the car said
something about Camus' penis. Or lack of it. Baldwin smirked to
himself. He didn't want to think of Camus' penis. That was
distasteful.    The rain had emptied the
streets. The Winter had chased away the long days of
Summer.    Baldwin had an idea. It was
hate fired by hate.     He knew all about that. And
besides. Camus had said do
something.  * Camus stumbled out of the caf? and got in
his car. He loathed Sartre but he knew how to drink. He slid in behind
the wheel and took a deep breath. He loved the smell of leather. It
reminded him of his home. Algeria. There everything was
leather.     When he was a young man
playing in goal for the Algerian team he had told the
others.    "I am going to be something.
Just you watch. I am going to be
something."    He had stood erect and almost
banged his chest with his fists. At the time he had been fanatical
about Nietzsche.     How times
change.    He started the
car. * Back at the hotel the three new Americans
were all drunk. Baldwin didn't care for Burroughs or Ginsberg but
Orlovsky was alright. And he was hung. He accepted the invitation to
their room.    Burroughs poured him some clear
liquid into a dirty glass and Ginsberg started pissing into the sink.
He was always doing things like this. Usually while quoting Leaves of
Grass. He was full of
himself.    Two hours later when Burroughs pulled
a gun out of one pocket and what he laughingly called a shot glass from
another Baldwin asked Orlovsky is he wanted to come to his
room. * There was something about speed that
Camus loved. If asked he would have said it was its fastness. He loved
this verbal trickiness.    He changed gears and took a
bend.   
He thought over what Simone had said. 'A victory achieved
in the last minute is not a victory. It is merely an
antidote.'    'An antidote', what did that
mean? There was no doubt that Simone was beautiful but Camus was glad
that Sartre was lumbered with her rather than
him.   
Besides in his encounters with Simone there had rarely
been any talking. Camus smiled at the memory and pressed his foot on
the accelerator. * Baldwin was in bed with Orlovsky. Baldwin
loved Orlovsky's body. It was white like marble and defined from
hunger. After they fucked Baldwin leaned over to retrieve his
cigarettes from his trouser pocket. As he did so a pair of pliers fell
to the floor.    "What's that?" said Orlovsky,
sitting up.    "Nothing," said Baldwin. Then
he ventured. "How far do you think you can go to get what you
want?"   
Orlovsky shook his head and lit a cigarette. "I don't
understand."    "I mean," said Baldwin. "If
people are dying because of what people
write."    "Writing is only
words."    "That's exactly what I mean,"
said Baldwin. "Writing is only words. Today somebody told me I should
do something so I did."    "What did you do?" said
Orlovsky. He caught the serious tone in Baldwin's voice. He sat up,
covers falling away from
him.   
"Look at me!" screamed a voice from the doorway. It was
Ginsberg. He was naked and he had his cock between his legs and his
legs closed so only his bush of pubic hair was
visible.    "I'm a lady," screamed
Ginsberg. "Oh flock of seagulls. Oh breath of air. Oh lonely
greybearded old lubber of
dawn."   
"Nothing," said Baldwin. "It doesn't
matter."    And he lay back on the
bed. * Camus rounded another corner then
another. He was out of Paris and in the
mountains.    "An antidote," he said out
loud. "An antidote. Whatever did she
mean?"   
And then for a reason he couldn't put his finger on the
face of the black man from the caf? appeared in his
mind.   
"If I had an antidote for that sickness I would use it.
Yes I would."    The road here in the mountains
twisted left and then right. As Camus turned a particularly sharp bend
a donkey appeared in the road.
   
At the same time he slammed on his breaks and closed his
eyes. The donkey hawed and the breaks
failed.    The car went sailing over the
side of the mountain and down onto the rocks below.
 * "What is it James?" said
Orlovsky.    "It's nothing," said Baldwin.
"It's nothing. Don't worry your pretty little
head."   
And he kissed Orlovsky tenderly on the
lips.   
Not everyone is the
same.