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90% incommunicado.
That picture on the left -- it's the stairway leading up to my room, my Spartan room here in the guest house of the Holy Cross Monastery, high on the banks of the mighty Hudson. I'm dozing around now, and I have the FM jazz down low, which insinuates itself into my dreams. And if Brother Leon doesn't like this music, then he can take his problem to the United Nations. He's a chump. I answer to Brother Alphonse and Brother Alphonse only. He runs this place, and we get along fine.
THREE WEEKS LATER
It's one of those mornings in March. Steaming coffee with cream. I got the cashmere topcoat on and all the windows open and I'm leaning out the largest one, smoking and looking down over the mighty Hudson and then turning and looking into the forest to the east. Soft cold rain early this morning. Some light fog on the river. And now, as the sun breaks through in long bars and then clears all, I feel the almost-warm breezes carrying the fugitive tastes of early spring.
And on cue, Billie Holiday appears down low on this FM jazz station singing, "A cigarette that bears lipstick traces, an airline ticket to romantic places . . . the winds of March that make my heart a dancer . . . a fairground's painted swings." 1936. Sonny White on piano, Jonah Jones on trumpet, Johnny Hodges on alto sax, Cozy Cole on drums.
THE DAY AFTER ST. PATRICK'S DAY
Yesterday, a kite, the real thing, up high over the river, a dive-bombing fork-tailed kite fresh in from South America, circling, hovering, shooting staight down from great heights, then rocketing straight up again. Over and over again for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour -- a bird more graceful and striking than an F-16 or a Harrier jump-jet.
And today, record highs.
MARCH 20
Sun, real sun, coming back -- a day here, a day there, a morning here, an afternoon there. And at 8:46 tonight it crosses the celestial equator from south to north, creating night and day of equal length all over the globe. All over the world. Night and day. I'm going to observe this occurrence tonight.
THAT NIGHT
More Billie Holiday -- "Easy To Love." Billie Holiday backed up by Mouse Randolph on trumpet, Ben Webster on tenor sax, and Gene Krupa on drums. Early Billie Holiday. Cole Porter. October 21, 1936. New York.
It's Saturday night in America. The alto sax of Charlie Parker, 40's Charlie Parker, 52nd St. Birdland Charlie Parker.
And Brother Leon's going wild. He and some other Brother were pounding on my door after "I Love Paris" and also after "The Gypsy." And here they are again at my door.
I'm dancing and don't have time for these Brothers. If I opened that door I'd have to dance to the left, dance to the right, maybe pop them both. And this woman would have to hide in the closet, too.
They're dopes. They can tell it to Brother Alphonse, and Brother Alphonse is a music man. Everybody around here except these two orchids knows it.
Clear sky all day. Bright. Sunny. Low 60's.
PALM SUNDAY MORNING
Woke to a light rain, to a wet and raw morning. Stretched around in bed for half an hour, kissed the visiting woman awake, then steamed up in the shower for another half hour. Coffee Turk-style. Through the big window I see the river faint in the heavy fog.
MARCH 31
75 degrees. Sunshine. I say this winter is history, and if you don't like this idea you can tell your ugly mama about it.
Full moon tonight. Blue moon.
I'm deep in the mountains now, near two small waterfalls, far from the monastery, high over the mighty Hudson. For the past two days I've been living here in this tent, the tent of luxury, the Tent Deluxe, because on Sunday evening Brother Spain returned from a one-week spiritual quest far into the wilderness saying he'd seen a mountain lion right here, drinking. He was saying no doubt.
"That long tail," he kept saying. "That long tail."
I believe it's a possibility, so I'm out here in this canvas tent. Goose-down sleeping bag and the true cot and oil lanterns. I will see this mountain lion. Maybe I'll have to fight this mountain lion. Or maybe this mountain lion and I will communicate by movement and gesture, and then for a few days maybe we will pace through the trees and cross the streams together.
Got to keep looking over my shoulder as I walk around. They come at you from behind, you hear nothing, and suddenly, in a flash, there's a full-speed mountain lion striking your back and shoulder with great force and going for your throat. Some people go into shock the moment they realize what has happened, and they're the ones who die.
And I got this overnight letter forty-five minutes ago. Rousseau had scrawled URGENT on it, so Brother Alphonse took two days to track me down and deliver it himself. He was looking over his shoulder the whole time he was here.
This letter turns out to be a leaping mountain lion. In short, a dozen fired-up Chaldeans took over my place. Jefferson's in the hospital with a fractured skull and Doctor YaYa is beginning his recovery from three knife wounds. Both of them eventually went down to tranquilizer darts fired from a safe distance. The Last Neanderthal performed legendary feats of heroism and ended up killing three of these Chaldeans. He was the only one arrested, and they have him in some special cell. Rousseau put my lawyer on it as soon as he got the story. Wanda's husband took a fatal bullet. He's dead.
Rousseau wasn't there. He was off somewhere with Lee, who's back in town. And Bobby wasn't there either.
The surviving Chaldeans took over, and this Ay-rab named Hassan Salah is their Bahooz Baklava Khalif. They'd greased the cops and city hall in advance. They got oil money.
The Chaldeans of the Old Testament are from the western plains of the Tigris-Euphrates Valley, and their sinful capital was Babylon. They were the punishers of the Israelites after the chosen people forsook the Lord.
Kings of Israel would consult with the Chaldeans: "And in the second reign of Nebuchadnezzar, Nebuchadnezzar dreamed dreams, wherewith his spirit was troubled, and his sleep brake from him. Then the King commanded to call the magicians, and the astrologers, and the sorcerers, and the Chaldeans, for to shew the king his dreams." DANIEL 2, 1-2.
These Chaldeans pulled up fast in front of my lounge, double parked in a perfectly straight line, this motorcade of Ay-rabs -- six of them in three silver Corvettes, followed by a Ryder van with a driver and five more Chaldeans in the back, in the back with their great big idol with a golden head. So there was a total of twelve Chaldeans. And there are nine left.
Cab Calloway, The King of Jive, and the Darktown Strutters were on stage in the Root Man's jungle when it happened. The crowd had spilled out to fill my place and the big translucent blue door was wide open. It was shoulder to shoulder Zootsville when the Magnificent Dozen of Asia Minor eased through the front door.
Maybe I'm gonna put these Chaldeans on the midnight train to Georgia.
So I'm driving down to the City for a funeral, and after that get Rousseau up here. Bring Lee. Bring Jefferson and YaYa if they're up to it. And Bobby. And Wanda. We'll take a few days and confer.
20 MINUTES LATER
This means that the mountain lion's got about fifteen hours to show up, to let its presence be known. That's fifteen hours, cat. I'm gonna make some coffee at dawn, then break camp and breeze through the miles of heavy, ancient forest, and down to the monastery. Take a shower, get dressed, pack one small bag, and head for town. Windows down and wind blowing in.
I'm going to a funeral, and while I'm in town I'm gonna look around, get the lay of the land, put on a disguise and slip into my place. My place with the temporary golden calf over the door. I'm gonna look at what the oil money brought in, and then, later, these Ay-rabs are gonna taste some American fist. They're gonna get the grease sandwich and a greased shot back across the Atlantic to Rughead Central.
FOUR DAYS LATER, EASTER SUNDAY, 9:00 P.M.
Just got in. I'm back here in my Spartan room at the monastery, high on the banks of the mighty Hudson. I'm gonna steam up for half an hour, get the heavy-duty terrycloth robe on, and read this mountain lion book I picked up.
Here's the report: After the funeral, Wanda wanted me to stay with her -- at their house over in Jersey City -- but I said no. So we checked into the Wyndham, which is on 58th, an easy walk to my lounge, an easy walk to Birdland Street. It was just like old times, except that she's a widow now.
Last night we played around with my disguise for an hour, drank a bottle of champagne, smoked a reefer, and then around midnight I drifted on down the street. On the way in, I glanced up at the big idol, glowing like butter in the soft light, solid gold. Above it, "Chaldea" is spelled out in ugly yellow neon script.
I'm looking just like Clark Gable in Gone With The Wind. I'm a smilin' man. Rhett Butler is a smilin' man.
I smile at the Chaldean at the door, I smile at people in the crowd, nod, shake a couple hands, do some mountain lion moves to the delight of the onlookers, and work my way slowly across the room.
These two women in black dresses turn from the suits they're talking to and light up. "Why, it's Rhett Butler . . . " they say in their version of a southern accent.
I smile at the three Chaldeans working the bar. I get a Scotch and look around, smiling. I'm the Clark Gable of this joint, and if you don't like this idea then you can tell your Mullah about it.
Nothing's any different, except half the faces. The crowd's about double. Blondie is singing "Call Me."
FIVE DAYS LATER
More of that report some other time.
Chilly and wet tonight here in the Hudson Valley; windy, 42 degrees, so I have three windows cracked and the thermostat at 67. It's just right in here with a flannel shirt. Ten minutes ago I got back from a cruise in the rain -- down to a place on the river. I met Rousseau and Lee there and we had a couple of drinks.
And now the purple dusk of twilight time, sung by Billie Ward and His Dominos.
I got them in a room with a view as good as mine. Jefferson might come up tomorrow with Bobby Three-Heads, and I think Doctor YaYa's gonna stay in the city and convalesce with one of his black magic women. The Neanderthal's out of the special slam, but he's off somewhere. Nobody knows where. Stephane Grappelli is playing the violin.
SATURDAY, APRIL 10
Mainly bright, sunny, chilly, and crisp this morning. Up to 60 this afternoon. And now, as the blue gloaming begins to fill the Hudson Valley, we've gathered here at Luciano's Seafood. Rousseau, Lee, Jefferson, Bobby, Wanda, and I. Jefferson's a fractured-skull zombie on pain-killers, but he's here.
No business tonight. No business allowed. Monkey business only. And monkey business tomorrow too.
Luciano has a bank of big double-hung windows looking out over the water, and there's a southern-style porch out there with faded-white rockers and tables. Portofino lanterns. A dock with green lights. The boats go by on the river.
Here inside, it's mainly booths, with a few tables. Lamp light. The jukebox has a little of everything -- Aaron Neville, Tom Jones, The Blackeyed Peas, Ricky Lee Jones, the Supremes, Glenn Miller, Toni Braxton, Vic Damone, Chaka Khan Chaka Khan, Dean Martin, Bob Marley and the Wailers, Jay-Z, Jimmy Buffett, The Cranberries, the B-52s, Cab Calloway, Peggy Lee, Don Cornell singing "Inamorata," Bonnie Raitt, Morphine, Prince, Martha and the Vandellas, Jerry Vale, Vegas Elvis, and even some country, including "Pop A Top Again," sung by both Jim Ed Brown and Alan Jackson. Lee dances around, inspired, every time either "Pop A Top" comes on.
Luciano's been running this place since 1946, since he got back from The War in Europe. He's a veteran and he's got his memorabilia around. He's got a black-and-white 10 x 12 of him and his wife on the wall. They're in a crowd, in a wartime soldier ballroom. He's in uniform, she's in one of those dresses, and they're dancing fast -- big smiles, leaning back, one arm and hand extended, fingers touching.
So we're having a good time here at Lou's. Luciano himself keeps coming back to our big booth to talk and jive around.
At one point, while Lee and Wanda are talking about either hair or art, and while I'm lighting a cigarette, Rousseau catches my eye and nods toward the porch. So we get our jackets, get some shots and a pitcher of icewater from the bar, and ease out there. We're leaning against the bannister and looking out over the water. It's deep, wide water here. You can feel the power and depth.
"What's going on, Dutto?" I ask him.
After the first burner he tells me that there's seven more Ay-rabs now, a total of 16. It's an all-Chaldean staff, even the cooks. They got all the local officials well-greased, and he thinks they're using it as a laundry for some soiled cash.
Listen, I don't have anything against their cause, but they picked the wrong place to muscle in. These chumps are gonna take a big-league hit, and none will survive. They will take the jihad rocket straight to Paradise -- where they can tell the story for the rest of their lives, or they can suck bacon in hell. I don't care which way it goes.
My lounge, a laundry for some Ay-rab named Hassan Habib Salah.
I can hear the music from inside, and I look at our booth through the windows. Luciano took my seat and they're all laughing.
SUNDAY NIGHT
Everybody except Lee slept in this morning. She got up early and did some reading in her room. We had a long breakfast about noon in Brother Alphonse's sunroom, which he has opened to my guests as their personal and private lounge. Lots of stained glass. The Brother is a gracious man.
Sometimes the sun broke through and held, warming us and filling the room with light of all colors. We'd go outside and walk around with the Bloody Marys and feel the warmth and the chill come on all at once.
FRIDAY THE 16TH
Everybody's gone back to the city except Rumba Drums and Wanda. It was a memorable week here at the Holy Cross Monastery, high on the banks of the mighty Hudson.
Sometime this evening or maybe tomorrow morning, the three of us will head up into the forest and pitch the tent deluxe, far away from all these creature comforts. They've developed an interest in this mountain lion, and they have curiosity about what I'll do when it appears.
So a plan emerged during this week of conferring. In fact, we had the plan in place after about five minutes. A simple plan. And after we got the plan locked, it was all monkey business. Five days of monkey business here at the Monastery and down at Luciano's.
The plan is, we're gonna wait a month until The Root Man and Jefferson are back to 100%. Then, Wanda and Lee and Rumba Drums are gonna slip in and lull these Chaldeans. These Ay-rabs see themselves as corsairs and charmers. It's gone to their heads. They're vain and vulnerable.
So these sixteen Chaldeans are gonna get lulled, and after that they're gonna get hit -- by me, Rousseau, YaYa, Jefferson, the Neanderthal, the Darktown Strutters, and Bobby Three-Heads. We're gonna get them from all angles, while they're lulled. Lulled by these three American broads.
We're gonna show them some corsair.
In the meantime, it's gonna be tent life in the spring for me and Wanda and Rumba Drums.
SUNDAY MORNING
So I woke up about 8:00 in the tent, with the sleep-sounds of Wanda and Rumba Drums in the air. Through the mosquito net I could see some fog in the trees.
I awoke from this dream that I was a referee in one of these pro wrestling federations. Big arena crowds. TV cameras. Lights. I was this referee who saw every violation of the rules. My back was never turned at a critical moment. I was never distracted by the crowd or by some wrestler's handlers or by his tag-team partner or by his woman.
I saw every folding chair being picked up, and I enforced the rules of pro wrestling. If some wrestler gave me lip, I gave him the death-drop or knocked him out -- right there, no debate.
I was the only featured referee in all the federation, and I made an entrance grander than any wrestler. First, the opening bars of James Brown's "Night Train" fill the arena. The lights go down. The spotlights begin searching the crowd, then focus on the mouth of the tunnel. I appear in my black and white striped shirt, doing the dance they now call "The Right Thing," and the crowd goes wild.
Before that, I'd been dreaming about the Asian Joy-Woman whose face was slowly getting closer and closer to her joy.
When they bring the cameras in close, I bust into the back-skate and sing it -- "The right thing. You got to do the right thing."
Some sun now, and some clouds. It's cool here in the forest, high over the mighty Hudson, and I can smell and hear the medium-sized waterfall a quarter-mile away. On the way to this spot, I crossed some lost mountain railroad tracks I was surprised to find up here.
I'm frying thick-sliced bacon and thinking about the King of Jive. He asked me if I'd let him in on it. He says he wants to take revenge for their defeat that night, and he wants to restore his credibility. It's personal with him, not business, and he's got no other motives. That's what he says. I said no agreements beyond the battle, he said "We gonna kick the gong around," and that was it. We had a deal.
Rumba Drums comes out of the tent in one of my flannel shirts and a pair of sweatpants. Her black hair is a thick mess of beauty, and she's wearing these sunglasses.
"It's the bacon," she says. "Do we have eggs?"
"We have eggs," I tell her. "Extra large."
She's sleepy and smiling and wants to know if I've seen any mountain lions.
"I'm expecting mountain lions any second now," I say. "I think I heard more than one, about thirty seconds ago. They can smell bacon from a distance of five miles."
"I'm sure that's true," she says.
"It is," I tell her. "This is the way to arouse the curiosity of a mountain lion. I'm an expert in the lore of this cat . . . Felis Concolor."
"I believe everything you say," she says.
"They're the greatest leapers of all cats on Earth," I tell her. "They fly in the air -- forty feet from a run, and from a crouch they can spring twenty feet straight up a cliff face."
THURSDAY, APRIL 22
A gray day, but things are developing. This morning, after some pancakes and coffee at the tent, and after I'd headed off over the rocks and worked my way deeper into the forest, I found tracks.
There they were, beside this stream. Less than three miles from the tent.
So I crossed the stream, picked up the trail, and began closing the gap. All afternoon these tracks got fresher and fresher, here on the eastern edge of the Catskills, deep in the forest, high over the banks of the mighty Hudson.
And now, as darkness falls in the forest and a thick crescent moon emerges, these tracks are maybe fifteen minutes old. No other animal could have made them -- the triangular heel pad, the asymmetry -- and they're four inches wide, which means that this mountain lion, including the tail, is about nine feet long. Say 190 pounds.
I climb up into a large oak tree, make a branch-bed about 21 feet off the ground, and listen for the mountain lion which I sense is watching me now with its night eyes.
THE NEXT MORNING
As soon as I come down, I put on a Halloween mask and turn it around to the back of my head. A wolf face. The mountain lion thinks that a huge wolf, larger than any he's ever seen, is measuring him and looking him over, so he doesn't make the charge and leap. He's out there pacing silently and getting the feel for what he's got here.
About ten minutes ago, I heard some news on this compact, wide-band, AM/FM, short-wave radio I carry -- "Oldest Human Ancestor May Have Been Discovered." In Ethiopia's Afar Desert. They're calling it Australopithecus Garhi, which means "surprise" in one of the Ethiopian dialects. A. Garhi stood about five feet tall -- large teeth, protruding jaw, and was a hunter with tools. This one is unique because he had long legs AND ape arms -- both. He was a cruiser of the plains and woodlands. A running man. A long-armed cruiser. They've never seen anything like this, and they're talking missing link.
I've been hearing about discoveries every time I turn on the radio. During this past week I heard about the discovery of another new solar system here in the Milky Way, around a star called Upsilon Andromedae. Three planets orbit it, one with surface temperatures about the same as boiling water. The smallest one is at least 225 times the size of Earth.
There are many solar systems here in our Milky Way, and I pause now to consider my place in the grand scheme of things.
And the word on Neanderthals is that they didn't really go extinct, but instead, through inter-breeding, became part of us, Cro-Magnons. According to what I heard on the radio, Cro-Magnon men weren't attracted to Neanderthal women because they were ugly; it was the Cro-Magnon women bending over for Neanderthal men in secret places.
And there's hot evidence of Ancient Americans, Stone-Age Americans who looked like Europeans and who were here long before the Indians -- Spirit Caveman, for example. Maybe they rode sealskin kayaks along the ice line from England to Nova Scotia and got here this way. There's a dig in Avella, Pennsylvania where they think they've found them from 17,000 years ago.
SUNDAY, MAY 2
All you have to do is be able to think like the animal you're with. It can be a natural attunement, which I have, or you can learn it by watching wild animal shows on TV.
You have to play by their rules. If a bear comes at you, for example, you might survive by playing dead -- rolling up with your arms over your head and not moving. But if you do this with a mountain lion, it will take an interest in you. It's more curious than a bear, and it will get the answers it needs. So if it gets down to it, you have to fight the mountain lion. You have to get in character and go for the jaw. Try to knock it out. Some mountain lions will back off and shoot away if you do this.
But if you want to keep it from coming to this, you have to do some things. You can wear a mask on the back of your head so he thinks you're looking at him. This usually works. But if a big cat is approaching you in the low hunting-stalk posture, you must stand up, get big, and raise your staff over your head. Then you begin approaching the mountain lion, steadily and with seriousness of intention, and you smack the ground with the staff and shout every six steps. The cat has to be shown that you're serious. When you get close enough, it will begin to back up and then it will run.
I saw an African cattle-herder do this to six or seven low-walking lions on TV. One lean African cattle-herder.
That's what happened on my first encounter with this mountain lion. Same thing as the cattle-herder. The cat backed up and then ran -- but about an hour later it came back and paced through the trees in a semi-circle, from maybe thirty yards out. This time I just stood up. I didn't move toward it, but I did watch its eyes. For a few moments while this was going on, I thought I smelled sun-dried sheets and chlorine bleach.
TWO WEEKS LATER
Big rainstorm, and now the bright sun is out.
We're flying off in that plane over there on the edge of the tarmac, the one with the two turbo-props, the one with Rumba Drums standing by the wing, waiting, smoking a cigarette and thinking about something. We're flying out of this little airport in Rhinebeck on Aero Caribe.
We shopped around. We looked at lots of planes and talked to three or four pilots before deciding that we didn't want a jet for this flight. We wanted a slow plane. We wanted a slow plane to cruise in, a seaplane.
