“The tree is alive,” the old man said.
“That tree is not alive. It’s not a person. It’s only a dead piece of wood. O, why am I trying to tell you. Why didn’t I stay at Cambridge?”
Flinch Savvage rose and headed back towards the Forest Ranger’s office. He entered.
“Well?” the captain asked.
“I can’t do anything. It’s going to be very hard to persuade them to abandon their traditions. There’s nothing I can do.”
“I knew we were wasting time. Let’s move, men.” The captain and his men went out into the cold. They headed for the spruce tree and the old tradition-bearer.
8
Vixen was lying next to Flinch Savvage, staring at the ceiling, sobbing. The polar-bear rug was soft under their skin. They’d just taken a bath in Vixen’s black marbled sunken tub. Two glasses of red wine sat next to them.
“I’m just supposed to lie there and just let you hump up and down on me, is that what you want me to do?”
“I’m sorry, Vixen, but I can’t seem to find it. It’s as if your finger is being swallowed by an artichoke or something.”
“You’re just like all the rest of them. Nobody exists but you.”
“I wasn’t up to it. I had a bad day today.”
“When I brought you home from the ski lodge, you were so considerate, so attracted to me. I guess you’ve gotten used to me.”
He raised up on his elbows, reached over, and sipped from a glass of red wine.
She faced him. Ran her hand across his back. “What’s wrong, Flinch?”
“Something happened today. Trouble. They tried to pull the old chief away from the tree. Old guy. Harmless fellow. But they went out there with shotguns after I failed to persuade him to move.”
“O, I’m sorry, Flinch.”
“He just looked at me. He said that the tree was alive. The chief reminded me of my grandfather, whose face was so full of lines it was hard to read. And those Gussucks in there, smirking, just itching for some trouble. Everywhere you Americans go, you bring death. The rivers die, the animals flee from you as they would from a fire. They know. American angels of death. Can you blame these people? Can you blame them for wanting to return to their original customs?”
“Flinch, I’ve had a hectic day. I’m not in the mood for politics tonight. I have a lot of planning to do. The company is preparing to move to the North Pole. Oswald Zumwalt is constructing a domed city there. Christmas Land. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. It’s been on television every night.”
“I don’t watch television, unless maybe the ballet or something cultural like that is on. Besides, what about us? I can’t leave here unless Washington tells me.”
“I don’t know about us, Flinch. If Big North moves, that means I have to move. An article appeared in the Wall Street Journal that mentioned speculation that I might be given a vice-presidency. I can’t pass up an opportunity like that. I have to look out for myself. All of my life I’ve depended upon men. That hasn’t worked out.”
“Company woman.”
“Flinch,” she said, putting on a blue kimono on which was sewn a white dragon, “if you’re going to be rude, you can leave. You’ve been up here in Alaska too long. Too much missionary school. I do what I want with my life, and I’m not going to have a man offend me with his silly value judgments.” A figure appeared in the doorway. Flinch covered himself with a terrycloth robe. It was one of the little servants that the company used to aid Santa Claus. Word had it that Santa and his helpers were quite fond of each other, sometimes hitting all the bars in town during the off-season. Next to their chores with Santa, they had to work a shift at the chocolate vats, stirring boiling chocolate, and once in a while one of the little men toppled into the chocolate. Nobody missed them. Their working conditions were terrible. Now that Santa had gone to New York, his favorite helper Blitz had been assigned to help Vixen with her big apartment. He mixed drinks, answered the door, and talked on the telephone. He was a badly mangled fellow who suffered from hormone growth deficiency and didn’t quite have all of his chromosomes. He wore an elf’s cap and baggy pants, with a rope tied about the waist. He owned a small white beard. He had overcome his defects. He could even drive a car.
Vixen looked up. “Blitz, what do you want?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but your car is back from the garage.”
“Just as well. Would you like to go to the ski lodge for a drink, Flinch?”
“Suits me fine,” said Flinch. At that, Blitz turned his back and left the room. He didn’t want to be caught rudely smirking.
Flinch put on his briefs, pants, socks, and shirt in silence. He put on a heavy coat. Vixen got into a long lynx coat, over her sweater and pants. Outside, Blitz helped Vixen into the back seat of the wolf-fur-seated Lincoln. Blitz looked Flinch up and down as he held the front door for him.
9
It was cold and frosty. They were dining in a restaurant which was lit up like an interrogation room.
Joe Baby was dressed, flamboyantly. He was wearing snake-skinned red cowboy boots, a mink coat, and a mink-brimmed hat. His partner, Big Meat, was got up the same way. He was Joe Baby’s shadow. They lived together. They sat across from a short man who weighed three hundred pounds. He’d just polished off some white “country fresh” eggs, five slices of Virginia ham, nine pieces of whole wheat toast, and three cups of orange juice, and he was waiting for a New York steak. Joe Baby was coughing. He pulled out a white handkerchief and sneezed some phlegm into it. Big Meat took out his pills and counted three for Joe Baby, who gulped them down.
“Don’t you ever stop eating?” Joe Baby asked Snow Man.
Joe Baby touched the rim of his glasses.
“Thin people are the ones who die in an emergency,” the Snow Man said. “They don’t have any reserve,” he said, after chewing on some ham. “Suppose a famine occurs. I have enough energy to see me through. You guys wouldn’t last a week.” Snow Man had arctic blue eyes. Under his overcoat he wore a conservative suit and striped bow tie.
“Hey, man. I don’t think that be too cool. Joe Baby just got out of the hospital.”
“Don’t tangle with him, Meat. He’ll blow your brains out and think nothing of it. That is if he can’t bump you against the ceiling like a pancake. I saw him sit on a dude. It was like a steamroller rolling over on somebody.” Joe Baby began to cough in such spasms that patrons at other tables turned around and stared.
“Do we deal or not,” Snow Man said.
“Too steep.”
“Ten thou is not steep, my friend,” the Snow Man said, staring blankly at Joe Baby, who was sitting across from him. “You’re asking me to drop a Bishop.”
“Give him the money, Meat.” The black man sitting next to Joe Baby had enough grease in his hair to fry a catfish. Some of the grease spotted the collar of his camel-haired coat and his white silk scarf. He took out a white box tied with a red ribbon and slid it towards the Snow Man.
“I’ll bring you his head in a box,” Snow Man said. “Gift wrapped.”
“You’d better,” Joe Baby said. Big Meat smiled. He took out his comb and styled his hair. The two left Snow Man in the restaurant. Outside, they climbed into an old black Cadillac Seville limousine and drove off.
Snow Man looked down at the newspaper as he took in mouthful after mouthful. There had been huge headlines for weeks. The Soviet Union was putting down rebellions in