"How many fights have you had?"
"In my life?" I thought hard again. "Only one, Sammy," I remembered, and this time I laughed. "With you. Remember that time you tried to teach me how to box?"
BOOK
EIGHT
22
Rhine Journey: Melissa
Like the hero Siegfried in Gotterdammerung, he supposed, Yossarian himself began what he was later to look back on as his own Rhine Journey with a rapid clutch of daylight lovemaking: Siegfried at dawn in his mountain aerie, Yossarian around noon in his M & M office in Rockefeller Center. But he ended his pleasurably in the hospital four weeks later with another clean bill of health after his aura and hallucinatory TIA attack, and with five hundred thousand dollars and the sale of a shoe.
Siegfried had Brunnhilde, now mortal, and the rocky haunt they shared.
Yossarian had his nurse, Melissa MacIntosh, most human also, and a desktop, the carpeted floor, the leather armchair, and the broader windowsill of olden times in his office in the newly renamed M & M Building, formerly the old Time-Life Building, with a pane of glass looking down on the rink of ice on which Sammy and Glenda had gone skating more times than Sammy could remember now, and who subsequently had become man and wife, until death did them part.
Yossarian, nodding as he groped, did indeed agree that the door to the office was not locked, when he knew that it was, and that somebody might indeed walk in on them while they were thus lustfully teamed, when he knew that no one would or could. He was titillated by her apprehension; her tremors, doubts, and indecisions electrified him fiendishly with mounting passion and affection. Melissa was flustered in her ladylike terror of being come upon uncovered in those disarraying exertions of vigorous sexual informalities and, blushing, wished him, for a change, to finish fast; but she laughed when he did and disclosed the ruse as she was checking his baggage for his medicines and preparing to ride with him to the airport before his flight to Kenosha at the start of his journey. Along with basic toilet articles, he wanted Valium for insomnia, Tylenol or Advil for back pain, Maalox for his hiatus hernia. Much to his wonder, there were direct jumbo-jet flights now to Kenosha, Wisconsin.
The phone rang as he zipped closed his carry-on bag.
"Gaffney, what do you want?"
"Aren't you going to congratulate me?" Gaffney spoke merrily, ignoring Yossarian's evident tone of rancor.
"Have you been listening in again?" asked Yossarian, looking furtively at Melissa.
"To what?" asked Gaffney.
"Why'd you call?"
"You just won't give me credit, will you, John?"
"For what? I got a bill from you finally. You didn't charge much."
"I haven't done much. Besides, I'm grateful for your music. You don't know happy I am to play back the tapes we record. I love the Bruckner symphonies at this darkening time of year, and the Boris Godunov."
"Would you like the Ring?"
"Mainly the Siegfried. I don't hear that one often."
"I'll let you know when I schedule the Siegfried," said Yossarian, acidly.
"Yo-Yo, I'll be so obliged. But that's not what I'm talking about."
"Mr. Gaffney, said Yossarian, and paused to allow his point to sink in. "What are you talking about?"
"We're back to Mr. Gaffney, are we, John?"
"We never passed John, Jerry. What do you want?"
"Praise," answered Gaffney. "Everybody likes to be appreciated when he's done something well. Even Senor Gaffney."
"Praise for what, Senor Gaffney?"
Gaffney laughed. Melissa, reposing upon the arm of the leather sofa, was rasping away at her fingernails with an emery board. Yossarian gave her a menacing scowl.
"For my gifts," Gaffney was saying. "I predicted you'd be going to Wisconsin to see Mrs. Tappman. Didn't I say you'd be changing in Chicago, for your trip to Washington to Milo and Wintergreen? You didn't ask me how I knew."