"Nothing will Come of Nothing" (Chapter one thru three; a light drama, short novelette)

1964-71

Chapter I
Tony’s Background


Tony Garcia was once a karate expert, champion in San Francisco. To be frank, I wasn’t really all that impressed by the so called designation given him on behalf of the Gojo kai, Karate Dojo, but it meant a lot to Tony. I doubt he cared for karate all that much, yet painfully he learned it, and skillfully to offset any emotions concerned with inferiority he might inhibit, he was a shy kind of person, he had felt on being treated as a Mexican at Berkley University. By and large, there was a certain comfort in knowing as a second degree black belt, he could kick the daylights out of most anyone at the university, should they get too superior with him over his cultural roots, although a nice kind of lad, good natured, he never fought except at exhibitions, or at the dojo, and with other karate experts. He was a top pupil of one of the greatest masters of karate from Japan. He wasn’t really very fast, but his style and techniques, and force, made him a deadly opponent. All in all, this gave Garcia some kind of satisfaction, of some odd sort. When I knew him, for I was studying karate at the same dojo as he, while with the rest of the karate black belts in San Francisco, he seemed to fade into the woodwork; no one in particular could point him out by name. And during expositions, when I would be taking pictures of the sparing, he’d get mad if he saw one of himself receiving a kick or punch from his opponent. And he held a suspicion that perhaps I had it in for him, and liked the other guy more because he was white, and his face would show it, as if an elephant had sat on it, but I’d simply say, “The Camera speaks for itself.”
Tony Garcia was a member of high society, through his father being one of he richest Mexican families in San Francisco, and through his mother being from one of the oldest. He attended a prep school prior to going to Berkley. And played some baseball, basketball and football, and no one seemed to inflict any kind of race consciousness on him. That is to say, no one ever made him feel like a wetback, or Mexican that didn’t belong where he was. Upon graduation from college, he married, Colleen Macaulay, a blond haired Caucasian, he was married fifteen months, and had two children, a girl and a boy. Spent most of the $150,000-dollars his family gave him, with it taking a trip for 90-days around the world. Thereafter, he fell into a depression, with only $20,000-dollars left, the rest of the estate being in his mother’s hands, after his father had died, the previous year. Now his marriage became rather repellent, a life of domestic discontent, with a wife that wanted a rich husband, and so Tony at twenty-four years old, and his wife at twenty-two, were separated when Colleen found herself a new prosperous lover in Paris, a pianist twice her age. In any case he had been thinking of leaving her out of boredom, but he felt, pity for her, had he left her, and had he left, he would have underprivileged her of himself and his means, and so she simply beat him too the punch. For the most part, it was probably a most healthful departure needed by both individuals.
The divorce took place quickly after their separation, and Tony went to the East Coast, New York City, and mingled among the literary people of the city, and the artists thereof, with his $20,000-dollars left, and a $200 a month income his mother decided to give him, as a bonus to leave her alone. He found a job at a newspaper, and became a regular for the weekly cultural section of the paper, an assistant editor and then the sole editor, and with the new found prestige of editing, and seeing his name in print, he started writing his own novel. But the novel had to be written chapter by chapter on his own time, he could not afford to do it full time, as he would have liked to. Plus, much of his free time was spent courting the lady who wished to bring the paper up, her father owning quite a lot of stock in the newspaper, and she was very demanding to say the least: with his free time, his work time, and his writing time. Once this woman saw the impending downfall of the paper appearing, she grabbed $20,000-dollars from the paper, and Tony, and off they went to Germany, and spent a year in Frankfurt, and some time in Munich, and Heidelberg, where she had attended the university, for four years. Then to Paris, all this time, she supported Tony in his writing of his novel. At this time and juncture, Tony had three or four friends, me, Chick Evens, his girlfriend, Katharine Cooley, Hans Gunderson, from Darmstadt, Germany, who was now a part time professor at the University of Heidelberg, and was now in Paris, and Bernadette Vanderbilt, whom took a liking to Chick Evens, and whom Tony took a liking to her.
During the following summer months in 1970, Ms Cooley’s attitude appeared to be changing toward Tony, perhaps because his was changing and taking a more interest in Bernadette, she wanted him to marry her; at this time, Tony’s mother, up his allowance to $500 a month, making things more available for him.
He was moderately happy, but I suppose he preferred San Francisco or New York City to Paris, both familiar to him, but Katharine wanted Europe, if not Paris or Berlin, to be his place to discover his writing style, and complete his first novel. And when he finished the novel that summer it was rather good, but it was poorly received by the public, he was an unknown name, it was called “With and Without.”
Thereafter, he simply went to visit me, often at the bookstore “Shakespeare And Company,” to see how I was doing on my book, and to see if Bernadette Vanderbilt was there, and Hans Gunderson was staying at their apartment for a while Ms Cooley’s friend, and Ezra Daniel, a poet from St. Paul, Minnesota, my home town, who attended the University of Minnesota with me, he was working on a book of verse, living with me at the time, on the West Bank, in a small apartment, near Notre Dame Cathedral. This was when Bernadette, Ezra and I decided to go to the Oktoberfest together, in Munich, and Tony wanted to come along, but not with Katharine Cooley. And so there were four of us. This was when Tony started playing bridge instead of reading at the bookstore with Bernadette, and started working out at the local gym, as if trying to impress and get to know Bernadette better.
I became aware of Tony’s attitude towards Katharine one evening when he and Katharine and Bernadette and I were eating and drinking at the Lipp’s, Café. We had our dinner, coffee and wine, Tony mentioned to her he was going with us to the Oktoberfest, and Hans Gunderson could keep her company when he was gone. He told her he needed to get away from everything familiar, and just be with friends. She suggested he go to Heidelberg, or Augsburg, with Hans, he was going to do some discussion groups, and seminaries, and he could help, even get paid for his work, and that way all three of them could be together.
“I don’t know anybody in any of those places,” he said.
And I was going to tell Katharine she could come along, but Bernadette kicked me under the table, on purpose, before it came out of my mouth, she whispered, “I know what you’re going to say, but don’t she’s been with him a while know she knows everything about him, she’s a fine girl, let her go with Hans alone, maybe they’ll fall in love, and he appreciates her, maybe this separation will be more useful than he plans.”
I was kicked the second time by Bernadette, to insure I understood what I was suppose to do—be quite, and mind my own business.
“Hell,” I said, “why not go to Heidelberg for the illumination, it’s a great event and has festive activities, you and Hans can go,” I told Katharine.
Tony looked relieved. But Bernadette kicked me again. Then I said, “I think we got to go,” to both Tony and Katharine.
“Yes,” said Katharine.
“Oh, well,” I remarked, “let’s go Bernadette.”
“We’ll be okay,” said Tony, “go on now.”
“I’m not sure,” said Katharine thinking about my suggestion, “but we will be fine though,” she added.
“We’ll see you tomorrow at the bookstore,” I remarked in passing.
“Goodbye, good night, Chick,” said Tony, and started to finish his wine, looking at Bernadette as she touched up her face in a mirror, unnoticing Tony’s interest.


Chapter II
To Europe and the
Novel


That summer Tony Garcia went for a weekend to Augsburg, with Katherine and Hans, and Bernadette, with his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly first-rate publisher, with the help of Arthur Burg, a rich Polish-German Jew, living in Augsburg, and a friend to Hans Gunderson. It had previously been published by a Paris publisher, with a first edition of only 1200 copies, which only sold three hundred to date, it would be now translated into German, as well as French, still the American edition had not seen the light of day though. After the publication, and contract, his attitude on the way back to Paris, made it unlivable for the other three, and he was flirting with Bernadette, and a few women at the publishing firm. He was now more enthusiastic about remaining in Europe however; the first German edition would be 5000-copies. Arthur Burg, as well as his associates at the publishing firm, commended his novel decidedly, and his outlook had shifted to a new zenith. And now he was falling in love, head over heals with Bernadette, and Bernadette, who had an eye for Chick Evens, was simply being kind to Tony, she had no real interest in him, but she did catch Mr. Burg’s eye, whom was in cloth designing filed, the world of fashion, likened to Lilly Ann, in San Francisco, and the publishing business, his income for the year of 1967, was 53-million dollars. As far as Tony went, it would have seemed to an on looker, he had never been in love in his entire life.
For the most part, Tony had married out of desperation of having someone available for him, and I would guess, Katherine was his rebound, and now he was starting to realize he was an eye-catching number to women. This changed his personality in the following months, and was not all that pleasant to have around, for his book was doing well, going into a second printing of 12,100-copies, and even a publisher from New York was taking interest in his English manuscript, and there seemed to have been some connections between New York, Paris and Germany on the matter, and several thousand dollars in contracts in the making.
Then there was another thing that took place. Tony started reading Frederic Manning’s “Scenes and Portraits,” (1930 edition), it sounds as if it should have been, no big deal, but one must have an open mind, and some wisdom to go along with this reading, and he read it, and reread it, it is a very ominous and indulging book, from the mystic writings of “The King of Uruk,” and those of “At the House of Euripides,” to scenes dealing with “Paradise of the Disillusioned,” if read too early in life, it can be, as I mentioned before, more menacing than reassuring. It recounts impressive, fables, if not truths hidden between the lines, truths, philosophical substance, other writes have missed, in the ardent adventures, and struggles of humanities existence.
For a man to take this serious at twenty-five, as a handbook to life, can be most weighty if not grave, it would have seemed to me, there were more practical books for him to read, more that he was equipped for and he created some uncertainties because of his impressions, for on the study of the whole book, he felt it was pretty sound. No one quite understood how this book influenced him, but it did.
“Hello Tony,” I said. “Did you stop by to cheer me up, Chick?”
“How about you and me going to Tibet, and get some Chinese wisdom and write some spiritual idioms?”
“No,” I commented.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I’ve never had any interest in going to Tibet, or writing sacred things, or freezing in the high mountains, I got enough of that growing up in Minnesota.”
“Those monks in Asia got a lot of wisdom, you know.”
“They look awfully boring to me.”
I had only stopped over to see how he and Katherine was doing, I had several more pages to type at the bookstore, for one of my chapters in my book, and I needed to get going.
“Do you know any wise sayings?” he asked.
“Out of sight, out of mind…” I said, and he gave me a crucial smile.
“No, that’s why I want to go, make up some original ones, get inspiration.”
“Why me, you got Hans and Katharine?”
“No; listen, Chick, if I paid your way, and my way, and all the food and lodging, would you go with me?”
“No,” I said, “I like Europe, Germany in particular, and Paris for writing at the moment, and want to got to the Octoberfest in a six weeks.”
“All my living days, I’ve wanted to go on such a trip, see Lhasa, and the Potala Palace, the center of Tibetan life, where the Dalai Lama fled the country some ten-years ago.”
“Don’t be silly,” I remarked. “You now can go anyplace you want, you got plenty of money, and you don’t need a chaperone, or bodyguard.”
“I know, but if you agree to go, I’ll get started then, and somehow I just can’t get moving.”
“It’s called depression, get out of this apartment and do something.”
“Since my book now is in three languages, and New York picked it up, my life is going so fast I can’t keep up with it.”
“It’s just a life, nothing dangerous in it for you or me, no sense in making it more difficult: boxers and fighters, and matadors, and bulls and cocks that kill one another in cockfights, and soldiers that fight in wars, they got to live to the height to the hilt, they got to worry, not us, we just pace back and forth, get fed write this and that, just constantly entertain ourselves; I’m not interested in being a monk, or writing what monks write.”
“No, I don’t think I’d like war or bullfighting, or boxing as a profession, or even karate as a teacher, it doesn’t interest me.”
“Perhaps it is because you’ve only read books on the subjects, if you got involved with them!”
“I still want to go to Tibet.”
He had a determined mind, for a Mexican.
“As Shakespeare wrote in King Lear, ‘Nothing will come of nothing…’”
I had discovered that was the best way to get rid of my presence, with my friend, he had been drinking, and once drinking he talked, and talked and talked until he fall to sleep, and got blue in the face in the process. And there were a lot of liquor bottles around his end table, and where he sat.
“Chick;” said Tony, “I’m twenty-five, and I’ve lived one tired of my life, I got to figure out what I’m going to do with the other two thirds, do you ever think like that?”
“No, I just make a plan, and follow it though, and make a new plan and follow that one through, and don’t worry about the other two-thirds, because today is today, and that is all I have, I live in the present, in the moment.”
“Well, I still want to go to Tibet.”
“Listen up, Tony, most cities all look the same, most all the people in the cities have self-interest as their number one God, I’m serious, you get tired of going from city to city looking for something that is different, moving from one place to another. There’s nothing to that. Usually if you find one good spot, and you stay there, you can reach out all over the world from that one spot, and do and see everything you want, and get ahead, but moving everything you got from here to there, all the time, you never will. So I like visiting Paris, and Germany, and waiting for the Octoberfest, and then back home I go.”
“But you haven’t been to Tibet yet, have you?”
“No, and if I went there with you tomorrow, the way I feel today, and missed the Octoberfest, I’d hate it. This is a good town to be in, in the summer, and Germany in the fall.”
“I’m sick of Europe; I’m sick of Paris, and the Quarter. Nothing happening to me here, I’m even tired of the night lights.”
“Well,” I remarked, “I got to get down to the bookstore and borrow their typewriter, and get those several pages out.”
“You don’t really have to go, you just want to get away from me, I can tell. Do you care if I go down to the bookstore with you and you and I just chum about?”
“I think you’re hoping, Bernadette, is there, correct?”
“Do you mind?”
“No, come along.”
We walked down to the bookstore, and I typed my pages as he read some more out of the book “Scenes and Portraits” and glanced at the newspaper. I went upstairs into a back room, there was Bernadette, sleeping on a cot. She was asleep with her arms covering her head. I didn’t want to wake her, but I knew Tony would should he see her.
“Bernadette,” I said, and shook her by the arm and shoulder slightly. She looked up, smiled, and blinked several times as trying to clear her vision.
“I was dreaming of you and me,” she said.
“Gosh, what was I doing, or what were you doing?”
“I’m sure you’d like it to be some imaginary thing, but it is none of your business, it is my dream, we were just hugging, nothing more, so keep your mind where it belongs.”
“Talking, or dreaming?” She laughed, said, “I wish you didn’t have Multiple Sclerosis, you always need so much sleep, and get so tired so easily.”
I could imagine her dream; she was kind of disappointed in my physical ailments. We went down the steps to meet with Tony, lest he spot us talking and take offense, with his over sensitivity of his Mexican heritage.



Chapter III
Café de Fore
and Les Deux Magots

It was a warm summer night and I sat at an outside table on the covered entrance of the Café de Fore, Tony had just left, and Bernadette was watching me get drunk and the electric lights on under the terrace that read in neon lights, “Café de Flore,” switched on, there was a stop sign and traffic lights I was watching in front of our table, and a crowd of people walking by taxis pulling up and pulling out and dropping off folks for evening dinner, on two sides of the cafe. I watched a few nice looking women walk by, and then lost sight of them, and Bernadette, commented, “Men don’t think of sex in the same way women do, do them?”
“Well, what would you think?” I remarked.
“Pardon,” she said, “what’s the matter?” she asked, “you thinking about those women that just walked by?”
“Sure. Aren’t you?”
“Don’t you know? You never know in this town what men and women are thinking.”
“Men think of sex as being pumpkin soup, women think of it as, shopping for the recipe,” I stated.
“Would you like to go somewhere else?” asked Bernadette.
“No.”
“Why?”
“There isn’t anywhere to go.”
“My apartment, or to the Eiffel Tower at the lower restaurant, I know the manager there, we don’t need a reservation.”
“The coffee here has a great boost but it only lasts for a short time, but the wine is teriffic, what kind is it?” She grinned and made a point of not laughing, because I didn’t know what I was drinking, although I paid for it and it was expensive.
“Chateauneuf du Pape Cuvee de la Reine des Bois, Domaine de la Mordoree,” said Bernadette.
I stopped a taxi it pulled up to the curb, and we both settled into the backseat of the car, and we were driven down to her apartment on Saint Germain Boulevard. I looked at the clock in the car it was 11:00 p.m., we turned off Saint Germain, and was left off on the side street of the hotel. Inside her hotel, she cuddled against me, and she said she had look up at me after a few minutes, and I had fallen to sleep. And she put a light blanket over me for the evening as I fell to sleep on the couch, and she in her bedroom.

“What happened to me last night?” I asked her in the morning.
“Never mind,” she said, a bit disturbed.
“Are you up set?” I asked.
“Yes, a little but I can’t blame you, your sick and I feel sick and the whole world is sick.”
She came out of the kitchen into the light that came through the windows behind the sofa, the Seine was a block away in the background, you could see it from the window, as well as Notre Dame Cathedral.
“You don’t need to drink much do you and you go out like a light bulb!”
“Yes, that’s so true. And my gout, I got the gout also.”
“It doesn’t matter all that much to me, to women such things are not all that important.”
“You’re British, right?”
“I’ve know you for six weeks, and you don’t know yet?”
“Well, I know you come from a well to do family, and you have some relatives in Minnesota, and in San Francisco, but where in England?”
“Shipton,” she stated.
“American-British, Right?
“Something on that order.”
“Good, I don’t detest either one.”
“I met an Arthur Burg, in Augsburg, Germany; he took a liking to me.”
“How do you know?”
“A girl knows these things.”
“Would you like to go for breakfast?” I asked. I really didn’t want to eat, I wanted to go to my place and sleep, but knew she did, and it would be nice to keep her company, she never liked eating alone. So we went and had breakfast at Les Deux Magots, we had boiled eggs, coffee, orange justice, and pastries.
“It isn’t bad here,” she said, “it’s fashionable.”
“Better than on the other side of the river.”
“But I like the German food also,” she commented, “let’s order another bottle of wine,” she said, “I’ll pay for it this time if you don’t mind?”
We drank another bottle of wine, and Bernadette made a joke, “Why did the bacon laugh?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Because the egg cracked a joke.”
“Where did you find that joke?” I asked Bernadette.
“My nephews… how about this one, “Where do ghosts make their beer?”
“Just say it!”
“At the boo—ery!”
“I can’t believe this, how many nephews you got?”
“It’s a shame you got MS. We get on well, how does it affect you anyhow?”
“Hard to get an erection… !”
“Yes, I figured as much. You are blunt aren’t you?”
“I don’t know how I got it, I just got it.”
“Oh, those dirty diseases.”
We would have continued on with the subject of illnesses, but she had already agreed it was a damn shame, and I didn’t say anything more on the subject, a calamity is just that, a calamity, and better to be avoided after you know enough about what it is, and how it is, no sense in belabouring it.
“Everyone’s meeting tonight at the Moulin Rouge; you know it’s been around since the 1880s. You got to be there.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Tony, and Hans, and me and Katharine, and I think your buddy Ezra will be there.”
“How about your buddy, Arthur?”
“I wish he was, but he’s in Augsburg, says he might meet us at the Oktoberfest though. You must come dear.”
“Of course, I’ll come,” I said.
“And bring Ezra!”
“Thanks, we’ll be there,” and I got up and left, went back to my small apartment by where Bernadette’s hotel was and laid down on the bed, I needed to write more, but the wine was getting to me, and my foot was sore, the gout was starting to plumage my system. It all was too much for me, the night before, and this morning, the wine and the late hours.