Coach v. College President

If the Coach had any hope of finding a partner with whom to ally and, together, intimidate Pepple, his hope is dashed at the sight of the College President. She floats onto the field wearing a powder blue pant suit, chin high. She places him immediately.

Don't tell me, she says. Men's esoteric bat-and-ball coach.

This is true.

Esoteric bat-and-ball sports the Coach coaches, alphabetically: Brännboll, Blind Cricket, Catchy Shubby, Gilli-Danda, Kilikiti, Lapta, Oina, Old Cat, Pesäpallo, Rounders.

You also gave that gave that charmingly anachronistic lecture on the causal link between the spread of cricket and the defeat of tribal barbarism.

Also true.

Yet whereas the faculty, all gathered for supper and an evening of light talks on sport, had taken the Coach's lecture as a witty, straight-faced parody, it was delivered by the Coach with all sincerity. It was, he believed, the crowning work of his life, a work which he secretly believed might lead to a minor teaching position. For it to have ended with cheers and bellowing laughter was, suffice it so say, a bit of a let down.

He tells her about the hotel. The shot. The death. He tells all, stopping short of his plan to confront the caretaker. She listens. When done, she nods.

And the hotel - it's nearby? she asks. He points to the west. They look, but the view's blocked by the line of poplars along the dirt road that runs the west border.

If everything you say is true - and there's no reason for me to doubt your witness to the overtly symbolic death of a clown by a shabby groundskeeper - I'd first suggest we confront the groundskeeper in question, armed.

What joy! The Coach rushes to tell her that this was his plan, too - yet felt odd mentioning it, somehow. But now --

Well, she qualifies, just because I proposed the solution doesn't mean we should act on it. The first instinct's always the most irrational. However necessary, as they often lead to the second. The second usually being much more rational, and in the end better for all parties involved. Even more so the third. What we need now, she concludes, is to dialogue.

They dialogue for several hours.

In the end the College President resolves to draft a letter of inquiry to the National Hotel Board. The Coach, for reasons he can't explain, agrees that this is the best solution.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Coach v. Cobbler

With time to collect his thoughts and play back the events that led to the death of the Clown, the Coach grows more baffled. He doesn't sleep that night, but thinks back to the garden, the puff of white gardenia, the long and difficult task of dragging the Clown's body back to the grounds, and - most baffling of all - the caretaker's unexpected celebrity among the hotel's female guests.

It strikes the Coach suddenly - very early in the morning - that the Clown's death was unnecessary. That there was never an attempt to bring the him back to the dueling ground by reason, or force. There only a shot, a puff of white gardenia, and instant death.

There are unspoken rules to any duel, obviously, but what severe punishment!

And it wasn't as if the Clown had lied, either; he had been expected. The Coach stood over Pepple as he methodically searched every pocket of the Clown's white linen suit. He saw him take a fine ivory envelope from an inside pocket, open the envelope, and expose a simple, handwritten invitation. The letterhead wasn't in print; instead it showed a detailed engraving of the hotel's unmistakable facade. The text of the invitation - done in twisting and self-meeting calligraphic script - was too stylized to read quickly; Pepple returned it to its envelope almost immediately, then tucked it into the torn front pocket of his plaid shirt.

The Coach wishes he'd spoken then. He hadn't, not knowing what to say to a man who, an hour before, had shot a clown dead. He thinks he may now. He thinks on this until daybreak. Twice he makes to the hideous shack to the north. Twice he returns to the oak. Soon it's midmorning. Soon the Cobbler arrives.

The Cobbler's a pudgy little man. He wears a corduroy frock-coat, and over his lip a push broom mustache. A life of service has touched his voice with constant tremor, his gestures with obsequious delicacy. He arrives and introduces himself.

The Coach had expected someone more intimidating. What did he expect to do, he asks himself, looking over at the hideous shack. That another man and I might confront the caretaker? Demand an explanation?

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Clown v. Coach

Immediately after the duel, the Clown tosses aside his huge bouquet of flowers. He runs for the creek to the west. There he kneels down and checks his reflection to see whether he's dead. He kneels there, looking at his reflection, for over an hour. After confirming that he is, in fact, not dead, the Clown falls asleep.

He wakes late the next morning and, after stripping naked and bathing in the frigid water, sets out west.

The Coach arrives just as the Clown is leaving. In passing, the Clown offers a vacant, simple smile. The Coach stops and follows. He asks the Clown whether he's come to the right place, showing him the invitation to the duel. The Clown takes the telegraph and regards it uncomprehendingly, flipping it over and over. All questions asked of the Clown come to nothing or nonsense - except the last. The Coach asks whether the Clown is a duelist.

Oh yes! says the Clown, but I think I've grown tired of it and so I'm moving up and onward.

Up and onward where? asks the Coach - still following the Clown, now hiking rocky former pastureland, making for a small river, and beyond the river, a hill.

I have an invitation at the hotel, the Clown replies happily. He bounds ahead, leaving the Coach stranded, without a partner to duel.

Yet not minutes after the Coach loses sight of the Clown - just after he nimbly crosses a long narrow trunk over the mountain river and strolls into the scrub against the valley climb - after a few minutes of bewildered rest, the Coach hears footsteps. From behind a bush appears Pepple, carrying a ancient, well-polished rifle with telescopic sight. He regards the Coach, nods, and moves past. The Coach watches, and follows. They two men cross the fallen trunk across the river (the Coach nearly falling into the water), and begin hiking up the hill. The foliage harsh, the earth craggy. Yet Pepple moves quickly, and the Coach behind him. Finally they reach a point where the trees - all pines mostly - are dense, and a manicured path appears. They take the path upward through the pines. The path twists. Pepple walks faster and the Coach nearly jogs (he's a shorter man, thick and a bit out of shape) just to keep up.

Finally, the pines open. The two men find themselves at the bottom of an elaborate, terraced garden. Topiary animals (dogs, elephants, horses, lions) and topiary creatures (mythical, legendary, fictional, historic) line a highly refined, arabesque pattern of pathways, up tiled stairs, around gentle fountains, under flowering trees, all leading inexorably higher - to the tremendous, white columned, neoclassical hotel looming above.

At first the garden seems empty until the Clown steps from behind a potted gardenia bush, his arms full of flowers. If he sees Pepple and the Coach he doesn't register them. He continues picking, making his way up toward the hotel. From high, the Coach spots a few guests - all dressed in black tie - looking down intently upon the Clown, but silently.

Pepple takes a stance and raises the rifle, steadying his arm against a nearby pine. He aims at the Clown. Takes a deep breath. As the Clown raises his hand to wave at the hotel guests, Pepple squeezes the trigger. The Clown crumples, gardenias bursting in a shower of ivory. The Coach gasps, his knees buckle. The guests look with curious delight, searching for whence the shot was fired. A pretty young woman in a spring dress spots Pepple. She quietly gets the attention of others and points. They watch as Pepple walks into the garden, followed by the horrified Coach, to carry off the body of the Clown.

The Coach, seeing the women above look at Pepple - filthy, lanky, bearded Pepple - with adoration, the men with solemnity, is thrown into tremendous confusion. As the guests whisper approvingly (he hears the whispers as he works to help Pepple drag off the corpse, even from so far away) it's all unintelligible, and they leave.

They carry the Clown's heavy body down the valley, across the river, across the road, and to the grave. Pepple buries the body as the Coach, resting against the oak, watches Pepple.