z Winning In The Final Minute 3

 

 

  

 

Winning In The Final Minute

 

"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 café. 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 café 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 café 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 café 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 grey-bearded 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 cafe 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.