THE WIND IS HOWLING, AND IT’S GETTING DARK. SHOULDN’T WE get out of here?”
The wind was frolicking among the yellow leaves of the old birch trees, and a shower of thick drops fell upon us from the leaves. One of our party slipped on the soil and steadied himself on a headstone.
“ ‘Bernard Herrmann,’ ” he read. “You know who that is, right? A great composer. He did the music to Citizen Kane, you know. Citizen Kane. And then all the finest Hitchcocks: Psycho, Vertigo, The Man Who Knew Too Much. You know that movie The Day the Earth Stood Still? It was his, one of the first soundtracks to use electronic effects. I can’t believe he’s here in the ground. You’d think he had no reason to die. But fate got him. He wasn’t even that old. Look at the dates on the stone: he was in his mid-sixties. He had just finished work on Taxi Driver and he died in his sleep. His heart just stopped. Now he’s here, under this stone, a man whose life was filled with every imaginable kind of sound—joyous, terrifying, romantic—and he’s sentenced to eternal silence. Wait. Someone’s coming.”
A man in a shabby overcoat and apple cap, with a shaven, bluish-crimson countenance, overtook us. He had a bottle under his arm and a magazine was sticking out of his pocket.
“Where is the grave of Andy Kaufman, the comedian?” he asked us in a husky voice.
We conducted him toward the grave of Andy Kaufman, the comedian, who had died years before.
“You are a fan, I suppose?” we asked him.
“No, a comedian, too. Artie Lange,” he said, extending his hand. “Though I can see why you’d mistake me for a fan. These days it’s hard to tell the difference between comedians and normal people. But hey, I don’t mind if the normal people don’t.”
It was with difficulty that we found the comedian’s grave. It had sunken a bit, had a tree overhanging its right half, and was chipped at the top left corner. The Hebrew inscription across the top, covered with green moss blackened by the frost, had an air of aged dejection and looked, as it were, ailing.
“ ‘. . . beloved son, brother, and grandson . . .’ ” we read.
At the bottom, the words we love you very much were still clearly visible.
“Back in the mid-eighties, a bunch of comedians and actors were going to build some kind of monument for him in Los Angeles, but they snorted up the money. . . .” sighed Artie Lange, bowing down to the ground and touching the wet earth with his knees and his cap.
“How do you mean, snorted it?”
“Simple. They collected the money, published a paragraph about it in the newspaper, and spent it on nose candy. I don’t say it to blame them. Who am I to judge? They may have thought they did right by him. I wasn’t there. I wish them well. I hope his memory lives forever.”
“Eternal memory is nothing but sadness. We get remembered for a time, but eternal memory—what next!”
“You are right there. Andy was well-known; there were dozens of baskets sent to his parents, if not hundreds, when he died. He is already mostly forgotten. To some, I mean: those who loved him have let his memory fade so it is no longer painful, but those to whom he did harm remember him. I, for instance, shall never, never forget him, for I got nothing but harm from him. I have no love for the man.”
“What harm did he do you?”
“Great harm,” sighed Artie Lange, and an expression of bitter resentment overspread his face. “To me he was a villain and a scoundrel. It was through looking at him and listening to him that I became a comedian. By his comedy he lured me from the parental home, he enticed me with the excitements of the comedian’s life, promised me all sorts of things—and brought tears and sorrow. . . .
“A comedian’s lot is a bitter one! I have lost my youth, my hope, my sobriety. You know how they say that man is made in God’s image? Well, in that case, I feel sorry for the guy, no matter how all-powerful he is. And money? I have made a little here and there, but I’ve lost as much. Look at these shoes. This coat is patched. My face looks like it’s been gnawed by dogs. But don’t judge a book by its cover. That can’t even compare to the damage he did on the inside. My mind is full of freethinking and nonsense. He robbed me of any faith except the faith in comedy. It would have been something if I had been able to change the world, but I am ruined for nothing.
“Damn, it’s cold. Want some whiskey? Here. There’s enough to go around. Let’s drink to Andy’s soul, or however much of it is left. Though I don’t like him and though he’s dead, he was the only one I had in the world, the only one. This is the last time I shall visit him. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll last, so here I have come to say good-bye. One must forgive one’s enemies.”
We left Artie Lange to converse with Andy Kaufman and went on. It began drizzling a fine cold rain.
At the turning into the principal avenue strewn with gravel, we met a funeral procession. The bearers, wearing black suits and muddy high boots with leaves sticking on them, carried the brown coffin. It was getting dark and they hastened, stumbling, and shaking their burden.
“We’ve only been walking here for a couple of hours and that is the third new arrival we’ve seen. Shall we go home, friends?”