Only Fools Go to America

VOLUME 161

NUMBER 3

MARCH 1938

BY DAVID CORNEL DEJONG

THAT was the year I learned to know my grandmother, and also learned that only fools go to America. I was nine then, and all that spring I had been sick.

Besides my being sick, the spring was mainly notable for four things: the storks did n’t come back, an American in bearskin coat and yellow shoes arrived, my grandmother opened up a saloon, and the same grandmother gave me a huge, beautiful accordion. However, she played the accordion herself and only let me have it Saturday evenings; Sundays, too, of course, but on Sundays one did n’t play accordions — one went to church and was solemn.

I was sick so long. When by May the storks had n’t yet arrived some fisherwomen told my mother it was n’t pneumonia at all I suffered from; it was a visitation of the evil one. I was bewitched. The failure of the storks to return augured nothing but evil. Mother explained to them, so that I could hear it, that the storks had been drowned in the Mediterranean by a terrific storm during their spring migration. But the fisherwomen bobbed their heads grimly, unbelieving, and studied me pityingly. Certainly it was a memorable year; later four fishermen were drowned, a small whale drifted to the dike, and the school board decided to drop the teaching of English in our day school because the English fishing fleet had come within a mile of our Dutch coast and hauled away all the herring.

In my mind, however, the matters of greatest importance were the storks, the American, the accordion, and Grandmother’s saloon. All those combined to make that one afternoon in late June unforgettable. It was warm, the sea winds were balmy, and the sheep on the dike — delivered of their lambs again — lay still; the fishing fleet was out and all the land workers were in the fields. Mother had decided I might go out that afternoon, if I stayed in the sun. ‘But don’t get your feet wet, and don’t catch crabs, and don’t try running after weasels between the basalt blocks of the dike,’ she warned.

‘May n’t I visit Grandmother in her saloon?’ I pleaded.

She frowned and said, ‘It’s a sin — an old woman of her station having a saloon! No, you may n’t.’

‘Maybe she’ll let me have my accordion. I’ll play it on the dike, in the sun,’ I persisted warily.

Copyright 1938, by The Atlantic Monthly Company, Boston, Mass. All rights reserved.

‘Like as not she’s playing it herself, there in that drinking place,’ she said severely. ‘Your accordion!’ she snorted. ‘Saturday nights when you’re ready for bed, that’s when it’s yours.’

I understood Mother’s attitude toward Grandmother, of course. I took it for granted. It was part of the long feud between them, simply because Father had married below his station. Grandmother and her four unmarried daughters had never forgiven and forgotten. I knew I had to be patient, and being sick helped. ‘But, Mother, she’ll let me have it this afternoon — the first time I’m out.’

She shook her head wearily. ‘I doubt it. But — ’ She looked behind my ears. ‘Before you go out, go and wash yourself, so those four shan’t find anything— ’ She stopped abruptly. I knew that Father did n’t like to have her talk about his sisters when my brothers and I were within earshot. ‘Go and wash yourself well. I’m going to the kitchen to see what Trijntje is doing. When you’re done, call me.’

Perhaps it was worth it. But I’d have to dress up, too, because I’d have to come down the front stoop bright, clean, and shiny. And as soon as the door of our house opened, the curtains of the three huge windows in the old house across the street would be pushed gently aside, and the four pale faces of the aunts would peer out, and Mother would nod brightly at them — though sometimes she muttered words which did n’t at all fit her smiles — and I would cross the street, march through the wicket, walk between the tulip beds, and wait in front of Grandmother’s door till one of my aunts opened it. Then all four aunts in the large front room would inspect me, straighten my tie, pull up my stockings, brush my hair, tell me I should n’t drawl, I should n’t droop my shoulders, I should n’t walk with my hands in my pockets. . . . ‘And thank goodness, your mother did n’t make you wear wooden shoes.’

I was a little afraid of them, but I liked them, too. They were pale and beautiful, and wore Parisian clothes. Also, a neighbor had said to Mother, ‘They are more to be pitied than scorned — because they’ll never marry below their station, and there are no men for them in town.’ They smelled lovely, they were stately, they acted wonderfully subdued; they were pale and immensely genteel.

II

Washing myself, I remembered last March, before I had taken sick, before we knew that the storks were n’t coming back. It was on a Sunday, and because I was all dressed up, even to leather shoes, Father allowed me to visit Grandmother. None of my brothers ever did; they were afraid of her. But because I had skinned my knuckles the previous day, playing marbles, I decided it was better not to face my aunts.

I had to run around the side of Grandmother’s long house, around the boatbuilding shop and the piles of pungent lumber, to the back door, which faced the quay of the canal. I opened the door without calling ‘Folk,’ because I knew where to find Grandmother. Along the long green-tiled back passage I trod as softly as my shoes allowed me, so that my aunts would n’t hear. Then, opening the last door quietly, I peered in and saw Grandmother sitting in her highbacked chair, the gray cat imperturbable at her side. Equally imperturbable, Grandmother said to me, ‘Well, Rim, can’t you say “Good day” to your grandmother? ’

‘Good day, Grandmother,’ I said, waiting dutifully.

‘Sit down there.’ She pointed to the chair beside the geraniums.

I obeyed. I saw that she had removed the golden helmet she had worn to church that morning. She’d even removed all the caps, including the skullcap, and she sat there somewhat grotesque in her short-cropped gray hair. I gazed, and she said dryly, ‘Don’t look so funny. I’ll cover it up.’ Taking a white cap from the knob of her chair, she put it on. ‘There, is that better?’

I nodded, and waited. Her bright black eyes twinkled. ‘You’re a funny boy, Rim,’ she said.

All was well. I relaxed. One never knew what mood she’d be in. That was the reason people were afraid of her, even Father. And my name was n’t Rim, of course. She called me Rim because that had been her father’s name, and she said I was of her blood, and I ought to have been named Rim. Not my younger brother, whom she did n’t like. So she called me Rim, stubbornly, except when I displeased her. Then she called me by my own name and made it sound extremely nasty.

I saw she was thinking, and waited for her to speak again. I studied the pictured tiles above the fireplace, then the window in the door beside Grandmother’s chair. Through it she watched the workshop, to supervise the men who worked there — every day, since Grandfather had died, and in spite of Father.

From sheer habit she sat there Sundays too, when the shop was closed. ‘It’s a sin,’ Mother said. But there she sat. She never sewed or knitted, like other women. Unexpectedly she said, ‘Well, Rimke, so you’ve come to sit with Grandmother awhile.’

‘Yes, Beppe,’ I said.

Also unlike other women she sat there without her tea. Except for its red cloth the little square table was bare. ‘With four daughters running the house, what’s the use of my making a fuss?’ she’d explain often. She hated housework. But all this time she was watching me steadily, so steadily that I had to look at the tiles again. ‘Rim,’ she demanded, ‘do you think I’m an old woman and done for?’

I was taken by surprise and hesitated. ‘I don’t think you’re done for,’ I said diplomatically.

‘But I’m old — isn’t that right?’ She chuckled — five dry little coughs, the way she always chuckled. ‘You’re a bright boy, Rim. You’re my own blood. Now, look: what would you say if I opened up a saloon?’

I did n’t dare gasp. Women did n’t run saloons; old women did n’t, especially not dignified old women like Grandmother — the best family in town. But if she wanted to do it, no one could stop her anyway. ‘It’d be nice, Grandmother,’ I said quietly.

She chuckled again. ‘No, it won’t be nice, but . . . Well, I don’t see why I should sit here twiddling my thumbs. I’m not done for, and the four girls . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished, and chuckled.

Then I recalled that I had heard Father talking to Mother about Grandmother wanting a saloon. At the time it had n’t been anything real and Mother had exclaimed, ‘But that’s a sin!’ That in my opinion had settled it. Evidently it had n’t. Troubled, I asked, ‘But isn’t that a sin, Grandmother?’

‘It’s no sin to make money, to find use for idle hands, to give fools what they’d get elsewhere, is it, Rim?’ she asked sharply.

‘No, Beppe,’ I said.

Then we sat in silence again. I was thinking that it was Sunday and Grandmother oughtn’t to be thinking about saloons — only about sacred things. I looked at her and saw that her face was severe, and her thin lips were slightly pursed, and her black eyes stood fixed. She was thinking.

‘Rim,’ she said abruptly, ‘I’m going to give you an accordion. A big one. You’d like that, would n’t you?’

In my complete surprise I answered, ‘Yes, Grandmother.’

‘Fine, boy,’ she nodded approvingly. ‘I’ll teach you to play it.’

‘Yes, Beppe,’ I said, still amazed. I had never thought of having an accordion. ‘Thank you, Grandmother.’

‘You’re a boy of my own flesh,’ she said brusquely. Suddenly she unclasped the huge leather purse she always carried tied around her waist, dug her hand into it, and extracted a silver gulden. ‘Do you want it?’ she asked.

I shook my head. It was too much. I could n’t conceive of accepting it.

‘ You don’t? ’ She laughed and dropped it back in the purse. ‘You’re a wise boy. I would have given it to you. But you ’re wise, Rim. Never accept more than what you can use. You know the value of money. Now run along and let Grandmother think.’

I had run down the long cool back passage, over the quay, up the dike, to stand in the March winds, wondering why I had n’t accepted that gulden.

III

I was through washing; my ears tingled, my face glowed. I waited for Mother to inspect me. In the mirror I saw that I was clean but pale. I had been sick so long, and in the meanwhile Grandmother had opened her saloon — one room for men, tended by a barmaid, another part for women, which she ran herself. And in May the storks had n’t yet returned, but the American had come — even before Grandmother had bought the accordion, which she played herself and let me have only on Saturday nights. Somehow I sensed that she had wanted it for herself all the time — that this was perhaps the only sanctioned way she could have got it. When I was still too weak to be up, she’d come and sit beside my bed and play the tunes she had learned. She promised to teach me all of them. But she never mentioned the saloon. And Mother said she’d better not, and Father looked severe when Mother mentioned it, and I heard that my four aunts acted even more remote and disdainful.

And then the American in his bearskin coat and yellow shoes arrived in town, and everybody talked about him, and my uncle told Father that they ought to put the American in a wheelbarrow and push him into the canal. I could n’t learn why. He was n’t a real American, actually, because he had been in America only five years, and his old father lived on a canalboat just out of town. But my brothers said the American told wonderful stories.

I sat waiting for Mother to inspect me, thinking of the American now. I had seen him pass our windows, wearing his huge coat even now in June, when it was warm. But my brothers said I ought to hear him talk about Chicago, where the buildings were so high they had snow on them even in summer, and about cars (to us cars were simply dogcarts or pushcarts) that traveled on high tracks for miles and miles over roof tops for only a nickel. I pictured myself scooting over roof tops, alone in a little cart. But the American ... he sat every afternoon on the dike steps telling stories. Maybe I’d speak to him this afternoon.

At last Mother came and approved of me. She made me put on the tight English breeches, long black stockings, leather shoes, a blue blouse, and a stiff Eton collar. She tied my tie over and over again. ‘But you’re so pale,’ she said, inspecting me again. ‘As pale as they are themselves. Maybe it’ll please them.’

‘Maybe I’ll see the American on the dike,’ I said.

‘Don’t you go to the dike in those clothes,’ she said angrily. ‘After you’ve seen your aunts and grandmother come back and change your clothes. Put on your wooden shoes. I ’ll let you out the back way.’ Then she added: ‘And I don’t want you to talk to that American. At least not till the other children are out of school.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ I answered.

Then she peered through the curtains at Grandmother’s house. She gasped, ‘Well, if I’d known that! ’ I saw what she meant. Lined along the white picket fence stood the four bicycles of my aunts. They were going cycling, in their own stately way, very likely to show off some new Parisian riding costume. ‘If I’d known that,’ Mother repeated, ‘I would n’t have bothered dressing you all up. Now you run over there before they leave, or I’ve done it all for nothing.’

It would have been more fun to stay there and watch them emerge from the other house in their new clothes, stand poised on their grass plot awhile as if they were on a stage, pivot this way and that for anyone to see, and then mount their bicycles in their corseted, benign way. ‘ You’d better hurry,’ Mother said.

But even Mother was anxious to see those new costumes. In spite of her protests she was always at the window when my four aunts came out in their new clothes, copied from French fashion books and sewed by themselves. There were none like them in town. And Mother and the neighbors, too, always seemed to sense when they’d emerge in something new. My aunts, of course, pretended they did n’t know they were being watched.

Only two weeks ago they had shown themselves in their new summer dresses. They had stood on the grass, peering in fashion-plate style at the peonies. Then, unexpectedly, the American had come along. They had acted as if they were unaware of him, posing in frozen attitudes over the peonies. He had stopped dead still, his mouth agape above the enormous fur collar. Mother had thrown herself on a chair, shrieking with laughter.

I crossed the street. This time I had to cry ‘Folk!’ in front of Grandmother’s door before two of my aunts came to open it. They were gorgeous: large hats, flowing veils. They walked in auras of scents. They drifted around, preening, inspecting each other. They had hardly time for me, but mechanically their fingers adjusted my tie three times, brushed my hair, and they exclaimed over me in preoccupied voices until I asked, ‘Where is Grandmother?’

My eldest aunt said curtly, ‘She’s not at home.’ The others nodded.

I knew that Grandmother was in the saloon at the back of the long rambling house. I knew, too, that my aunts never mentioned that saloon, ignored it.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘You must n’t say “oh,”’ my second aunt said. ‘And you must n’t put your hands in your pockets.’

I decided to find my grandmother. They were so busy with themselves they did n’t even notice my leaving, Down the long silent hall, with all its burnished doors, I walked in delicate scents. Not till I came to the back room where Grandmother always sat watching the workshop did those scents mix with those of rope, apples, tar, cheese, pine — pungent smells that grew stronger the closer I came to the workshop.

I entered the long workshop and saw that it was swept clean. It was summer, and the men were outdoors building, of course. One partly completed dory was perched atop three wooden horses, and in a corner on a pile of new wood shavings the old caretaker lay napping. Grandmother’s barmaid slept there too during slack hours, my brothers had told me. The workshop was bright and silent. The caretaker snored gently.

Across a little flagstone court, flush with the quay, was the saloon, in the remodeled supply house. After I had pushed the door open I stood still with awe, and looked at the bright bar, at bottles upon bottles, and sniffed tart and thick odors. I stared at the old fisherman in one corner and then at the big barmaid who stood watching me. I saw a smile spread over her face. ‘Oh, I guess I know you!’ she cried, leaning her elbows on the bar, wagging her head. ‘My, my, my, you do look like something cut out of paper.’

I blushed and was silent.

‘Your grandmother is in the woman’s part.’ She indicated a corner door. ‘You are a pretty boy, but my, you must have been sick.’

‘Yes,’ I said, hurrying through the corner door.

There I stopped again, gazing in amazement at Grandmother, who stood there in full costume, wearing her Frisian gold helmet and all the lace caps, the Frisian dress, all her cornelian jewelry and gold chains. And she stood there wagging her head at me, tapping the big leather purse at her side. ‘Och, Rimke,’ she exclaimed, ‘you’re up, and come to see Grandmother in her saloon! But how pale you are!’

‘Good afternoon, Grandmother,’ I said, uneasy in this new setting.

There was no one there besides her. Here too were bright bottles, little tables, a very small bar. But there were curtains at the window and geraniums in red painted pots, and the gray cat between them. Grandmother asked: ‘Rim, what do you think of my saloon? You know, you and I planned it together,’ she chuckled, patting my cheek.

‘Beautiful,’ I said.

‘But no place for you, Rim. Only fools come here. You ’ll never become a drunkard, will you, Rim?’

‘Oh no,’ I said dutifully.

‘That’s right. You’re my own blood.’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘This is no place for you, Rim. But if you feel like visiting your grandmother here, you come through that door, see?’ She pointed at another door that opened into the workshop. ‘See, that’s the way the ladies come. The fools!’ she snorted. ‘All those nice ladies who hide their bottles under their skirts, and sit here, making believe they came to talk to me. They come through the shop, Rim, because they want to make believe they’re not coming here at all.’

She led me to the window, which faced a side street. I could see the church roof and the empty wagon wheel on top of it, with only a few twigs left of last year’s stork nest. ‘They did n’t come back. They were drowned in the Mediterranean, were n’t they?’ I said.

She bobbed her head and inspected me. ‘But, boy, how pale you are! You ought to be in the sun. But why are you wearing those tight things? You need air.’

‘I have to run back and change when my aunts are gone,’ I explained, then thought perhaps I should n’t have said that.

She chuckled. ‘Oh, that’s it! But you — go to the dike, in some roomy clothes you can grow in, and sit in the sun,’ she commanded.

It was better not to tell her that Mother had already suggested that, but to let her think it was her own idea. ‘Yes, Grandmother.’

‘Have they started yet?’ she asked.

I knew she meant my aunts. ‘Almost,’ I said.

‘It’ll do them good. They need some air and sunshine.’

‘Yes,’ I answered doubtfully, remembering the large hats and the veils.

Suddenly I spied the accordion on a shelf. ‘ Grandmother, may I have my accordion and play it in the sun?’

She shook her head. ‘No, Rim. Grandmother is going to practise on it. Saturday you get it.’ Then she added: ‘But look, I’ll play it for you.’ She reached for the accordion. ‘And you sing. That one about the boy who goes to sea and makes five guldens and thinks he can buy the queen’s palace.’

She started playing, leaning against the bar. But the fringes and ruffs on her lace caps bothered her. Impatiently she pulled them off, even the filigree cap, and stood in the smooth glittering gold helmet, chuckling. She played, I sang. The barmaid came and stood in the doorway and sang too. But when the old fisherman also came, she pushed him back. We sang the song seven times, and each time it was better. Even Grandmother sang in the end. When she stopped she said, ‘It’s a fine instrument you have, Rimke,’ closing the accordion and patting it.

‘Ah, wonderful,’ the barmaid said.

At that moment shadows skimmed across the window. I looked and saw my aunts pass on their bicycles, never looking aside at the bar window. Grandmother watched them also. ‘ They ’re not going to get any sun in those fancy bonnets,’ she protested. She turned to me: ‘Well, you’re going to get some anyway. Run home and tell your mother that I said you can’t go on the dike in those silly English panties. Tell her I said you need room and sun. Put on your wooden shoes.’

The accordion stood on the bar and Grandmother returned to it, and started unclasping it. There was no use asking her. I ran home.

IV

When I came out of the house again, on wooden shoes, in wide corduroy breeches and velvet jacket, too warm for this warm day, I decided to go to the dike at once, and sit there in the sun. Perhaps Grandmother would let me have the accordion if she saw me sitting there alone.

The quay was silent, the canal lay without a ripple. The town was empty. Two old women sat silently knitting near the inn, watching two sleeping babies. The sun stood high, pigeons swayed high, but the sheep on the dike were half asleep and chewed lackadaisically, staring with patient gray eyes toward the sea. There was a long stretch of beach over which crabs wandered and shore birds waddled.

I sat on the dike in the warm sun, between the scattered sheep. The roofs were red and peaceful, no chimney smoked, but on the roof tops the stork nests were empty wagon wheels. It meant evil, the old folks said. Beneath me, steeped in sun, I could see the barroom, and sometimes Grandmother’s golden helmet glittering momentarily in the sun. Because I watched the saloon so closely I never noticed that the American had come from the sea side of the dike toward me. Not till four sheep scudded away did I see him.

He smiled at me and I saw his several gold teeth. I looked at his fur coat, unbuttoned now, showing a wrinkled blue serge suit. I saw the yellow shoes, and I did n’t like his voice when he said, ‘Well, well, little boy, who are you? Why are n’t you in school?’

‘I am sick,’ I explained primly, and added: ‘And that’s my grandmother’s saloon.’

‘Oh, it is, is it?’ he said. I realized that he did n’t talk as I thought an American should talk. He talked like all the villagers.

I nodded, my eyes on his coat. ‘Is n’t that coat terribly hot?’

‘It’s terribly cold in America,’ he said perfunctorily. ‘So your grandma has a saloon,’ he added, bending toward me, flashing his gold teeth. ‘Look, little boy, you can do something for me. Look, if you go to your grandma’s saloon and get me a bottle marked jenever, — a full one, mind you, — I’ll do something for you.’

‘I can’t do that. I —’

‘Oh yes, you can,’ he said. ‘Oh yes. You just go in there and when your grandma is n’t looking you put it under your jacket and come back here.’ He tugged at my jacket.

‘I can’t,’ I pleaded, trying to rise from the grass because his yellow shoes were prodding me. I wanted to call for help, but he and his wide coat were between me and the saloon. Then, because his shoes kept digging into me, I backed down the sea side of the dike.

‘Why can’t you?’ he demanded. ‘In America when a man tells a boy to do something, he does it. Or he . . . ’ He twisted his hand. ‘You know what, don’t you? And look, I’ll give you this.’ He showed me a coin.

‘No!’ I cried, almost mute with fear, for he was slowly following me down the dike.

But at that very moment I became aware of the glittering gold helmet rising over the slope of the dike. I saw my grandmother, her angry face, her cornelians sparkling, her one arm clutching the folded accordion to her side, the other gesticulating. The American turned and saw her and started to edge away.

‘Don’t you dare move a step!’ my grandmother cried at him. She came closer, swinging the accordion now. ‘I saw you. I saw you threatening the poor boy,’ she said, while he backed away from her. ‘Stand still,’ she commanded, ‘you rat!’ I realized then why men were afraid of her.

‘What did he want, Rim?’ she demanded.

‘He wanted me to get a bottle from your saloon,’ I cried.

‘Oh, he did, did he? So that’s the game, you—’ She stopped. ‘Now I’ll tell you a few things!’ But suddenly she looked at me. ‘Here, Rim,’ she shouted, ‘go on top of the dike and play that!’ She thrust the accordion into my hands. ‘Play it, because I don’t want you to hear what I’m going to tell this rat, and I can’t lower my voice.’

Frightened, I ran to the top of the dike and unclasped the accordion. I could think of nothing to play but the ‘Friesch Volkslied.’ I started playing it, wildly, full of mistakes, the heavy accordion pinching my jacket, my hands clumsy. At the barroom door I saw the barmaid restraining the old fisherman. But on the other slope of the dike my small grandmother in all her finery was gesticulating, telling the American things. He was still backing away from her. I could n’t hear what she said. I played on, madly; started over again when I was done.

At last the American was running along the foot of the dike, over the basalt stones. And Grandmother was returning, slapping her hands together. I stopped playing. For a moment she stood glowering. ‘You were n’t afraid of him, were you?’ she demanded. ‘But no, you were n’t. You’re sick, poor boy. No flesh and blood of mine is ever afraid.’

Suddenly she laughed, watching my face, seeing me hug the wide-open accordion. ‘What were you playing? I forgot to listen, but it was good.’

I told her. ‘Oh, it was fine,’ she said proudly. ‘You’re a brave boy and you can play. Play it again,’ she commanded.

I sat down on the land side of the dike and started playing. She was watching me, forgetting it was undignified to stand there in her bare gold helmet without ruffs and laces, tapping her foot to my playing. I played much better. ‘ You ’re a brave boy,’ she said. ‘Now let me try it.’

She played, and I saw the barmaid laughing from the saloon door. The two old women near the inn were staring, but Grandmother was unaware of them. Over the accordion she watched the American run. Suddenly she turned and stopped playing. ‘I see business coming,’ she said, indicating two women walking along the quay, dignified, to all intents going anywhere but to the bar. ‘Yes, Rim, it’s business. Now you sit in the sun and get warm.’ She hustled down the dike steps, folding the accordion shut.

I sat in the sun. I watched the two women enter the boat-shop door. It was warm and lovely. Slowly the sheep were rising and starting to nibble. The canals were blue bars in green, and little white clouds were in them. I had almost forgotten the American. Then, from the far-distant humming and the silver flickering of very far away gulls, I knew that the tide was coming in. Sometimes I could actually hear the gulls. I had n’t seen the tide come in for so long. Suddenly I decided to go down on the beach and build a sand and clay town and watch the tide flood it. I might get wet feet — and I might even try to catch some crabs.

I labored lovingly, wholly preoccupied. The humming of the tide grew louder, the gull cries came clearly now. Already the hurried little winds came rushing ahead of the tide. My town grew; I built the walls higher, stronger. It was perched between an eddy and a black soggy square in the gray clay. I knew those black squares were places where the fishermen had dug deep for seaworms. It was dangerous to walk on them, for I’d sink over my head in the black slush. But I knew it was a fine place near which to build my town, for the water would come out of the eddy and out of the black hole, like armies from two sides. The tide rumbled.

V

I had not heard him come, I had seen no shadow. Suddenly there was the yellow shoe standing on the wall of my town, crushing it, then the other shoe kicking the town apart. I did n’t cry; I only rose. It was n’t fear yet that I felt; it was anger and helplessness. When he took hold of my ear and twisted it and said, ‘Do you know what they do to squealers in America?’ I shrieked with pain. And when he put his fingers around my neck and said, ‘And this,’ I struck at his gold teeth and broke away from him.

I backed away toward the eddy, seeing only the awful yellow shoes following. It was n’t fear yet. Desperately I glanced up toward the top of the dike. I saw my grandmother standing there, the sun sharp on her gold helmet, her arms at her sides, watching.

Then it did n’t become fear. It was n’t courage, either. It seemed only that those silly shoes were never meant to be there where the clay was wet and soft. When I backed around the corner of the black square where the clay was even wetter and softer, I did n’t think I’d led him there intentionally. But the yellow shoes sank away, and he fell, while the blue-black clay oozed and bubbled and his huge fur coat flopped over him.

I ran up the dike, unevenly over the basalt blocks, then stumbling among scurrying sheep. I threw myself against my grandmother, and not till then did I realize she was laughing. She pressed my head against her. ‘You’re not afraid, are you, Rim?’ she laughed.

Then I looked down and saw the American in the deep clay, threshing, sinking deeper. Farther back the tide rumbled. But Grandmother laughed. ‘ He’s going down! ’ I cried.

‘Hush, boy,’ she said. ‘You’re brave. You’re my kin.’

I stood there petrified, watching the man struggle in the black mud. Suddenly Grandmother took my hand and led me over the top of the dike. ‘Come with me. Let’s forget him,’ she said. ‘And I can’t leave those women alone in my bar.’ She pulled me firmly along.

‘But the American!’ I cried.

‘Hush, don’t mention him,’ she said. ‘Don’t mention him again.’

I followed her into the saloon, where the two women sat sipping. They giggled when they saw me. I was uneasy. We could n’t leave that man there. The tide was coming. ‘He’ll drown!’ I cried.

‘Don’t mention him again,’ Grandmother said.

The women giggled and wanted me to sip from their glasses. ‘Don’t be fools,’ Grandmother scolded them.

I sat watching them. I looked at Grandmother in amazement — her calm, her unconcern. Her face was n’t even stern. I felt I had to talk. Through the window I saw the forsaken wagon wheel on the church. ‘Grandmother, why did n’t the storks come back?’

‘They were drowned,’ she said briefly.

‘Grandmother, did the American come because the storks did n’t come back? Does that mean evil?’

‘I should n’t be a bit surprised,’ she chuckled.

One of the women opened her eau-decologne box and wanted to sponge my forehead. ‘No, Tjet,’ Grandmother commanded.

I could no longer be still. ‘The tide! Let’s go and look.’

‘Not yet,’ she answered.

‘When, Grandmother?’

‘We’ll give him plenty of time to choke, or plenty of time to crawl out and get away,’ she said loftily. Then she thrust the accordion into my hands. ‘Play for the ladies,’ she said.

I played. It made me feel better. The women tapped their feet and then danced. Their steps did n’t fit my music, but it did n’t matter. It made the music go faster. But Grandmother stood aside, aloof and very dignified. ‘That’s enough,’ she said presently. ‘You’ve had enough,’ she said to the women.

They tittered and went out, through the workshop. ‘The fools!’ Grandmother said.

‘Let’s look now,’ I pleaded.

She took my hand. ‘We’ll carry the accordion with us,’ she said.

I could n’t understand how she could think of the accordion. I could hardly get there fast enough, but she was slow and dignified. ‘Rats never drown,’ she said.

‘Why is he a rat, Grandmother?’

‘There are some things too dirty to put in your mouth, Rim.’

We were on top of the dike. We looked down; there was no one there. The black hole lay silent, seeped level again. The tide had n’t. yet reached it. I clutched her hand. ‘He’s gone!’ I wailed.

‘Come with me,’ she said. We descended the dike. I smelled the fetid black clay the American had stirred up. She pointed at the muddy tracks up the basalt stones away from the hole. ‘Do you see, Rim?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, suddenly very happy. I looked at her. I loved her.

‘You’re my flesh and blood,’ she said. ‘Now, can you play?’

‘Yes,’ I said firmly. I played while we mounted the dike again. ‘Fine,’ she said. The sheep scattered before us. We reached the top of the dike. Below us lay the silent town. ‘That’s wonderful,’ Grandmother said. ‘Now I’ll try it.’ But before she started she said, ‘You see, Rim, you must never be afraid. You’re a fine boy.’

Then she played — marvelous music, I thought, fast and happy. It was n’t dignified, of course, her playing on top of the dike, in her golden helmet without the lace caps. Father would n’t approve; I should n’t tell Mother, and my aunts.

I stared. Over one of the yellow ribbons of roads that wound between the fields approached a group of cyclers — four women, straight, colorful, dignified. I tugged at Grandmother’s wrist. ‘Look!’ I cried. ‘My aunts! ’

She stopped. ‘ Oh me, oh me, oh me! ’ she cried. ‘Me playing the accordion on top of the dike! Oh me!’

‘And you have n’t your lace caps on! ’ I cried.

‘Come, Rim! Come, we’ve got to hurry.’ We ran down the dike steps, over the quay, through the men’s bar, into the women’s. There, chuckling, she quickly put on her lace caps over the helmet. I felt good, conspiring with her against my aunts — this woman whom everybody feared; it was strange, it was good.

‘But, Grandmother, you said not to be afraid,’ I said.

‘Hush, Rim,’ she laughed. ‘Old people are fools.’ She walked to the window holding my wrist, and we waited there till my very dignified aunts passed, never looking aside. ‘There,’ Grandmother said.

She took the accordion and started to play. Her black eyes twinkled. I listened; I loved her. After she had finished the first piece she said, ‘Rim, when you want to live well, you’ve got to do all sorts of things people don’t approve of.’

She played again. In the doorway the maid tapped her feet. When that piece was done, Grandmother said to me, ‘And look, Rim, don’t ever go to America. Only fools go there.’

But I saw that her eyes were moist. ‘I’ll never go!’ I cried.

She bobbed her head. ‘You tell your father that,’ she said.

Then she played again, her ribbons and ruffs bobbing, her eyes no longer moist. She smiled at me. The afternoon light sparkled on her cornelians.

VI

But three years later I did go to America. And the last night she played the accordion. It was going to be hers now, completely. Of course I had only had it Saturdays, and she played much better than I. I was twelve then, and I liked her even more, and understood her somewhat better. I knew then that some very brave old people were afraid of some very small things — like being caught by others playing an accordion on the dike, and not wearing the lace caps over the helmet. But what was more, I knew that in regard to soft things like music and love they had to pretend they were feeling and doing something else. That’s why she had bought the accordion for me, but played it herself. That was why she said only fools go to America, because she did n’t want me to go.

But just before we left she said to me, ‘But, Rim, only bigger fools come back once they get there. Only cowards.’ And I was glad she did n’t cry, but started to play the accordion.

And the American? It does n’t matter. One day he disappeared. And the year we left the storks were back — new storks. And Grandmother’s saloon was flourishing, and my aunts still pretended it did n’t exist, even though it brought in more money for more new clothes. But Mother said, when she saw me watching Grandmother, ‘Maybe it’s just as well you’re going to America.’