Waiting For Andre

ALSO AVAILABLE

BY

STEFFAN PIPER

Fiction:

Greyhound

Fugue State

The Seven Hundred Dollar Raincoat

Poetry:

Electronic Butterflies

Observations of a Dead Man

During the Apocalypse

STEFFAN PIPER

Waiting for Andre

Samuel Farber Publishing

San Francisco, California.

FIRST EDITION, APRIL 2018.

Published in the United States by Samuel Farber Publishing.

The following is a work of fiction. Similarities are purely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781980756217

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

For Courtney

For Andre and Monsieur Sam

Preface

In writing this story , I knew that I would have to write a some kind of preface. In my mind’s eye though, all I could see were the faces of my friends cringing and growling immediately upon the thought of having to read it. ‘Shouldn’t I just open it up to the reader, and let them discover it?’, ‘Is it necessary?’, ‘The reader doesn’t need to know about the background if the story is strong?’, ‘Just use the added information in the body,’ etc. In a flash, I had heard all of the objections and registered them politely. Moments later, I continued on unabated. And so, here we are. 

The real answer as to why is simple, a story like this just doesn’t come around every day. The juxtaposition between Samuel Beckett and Andre Roussimoff is too overwhelming to continue without background. Two cultural icons from two vastly different generations, one of literary grace and respect simultaneously emerging and yet being found anew in the post-World War II era, the other shaped for a more modern age.

Beckett was read and seen by millions of adults, college graduates and theatre-goers worldwide, hounded by scholars over minute details, and then finally awarded the Nobel Prize for literature and ravaged by the fame and exposure which would later ensue. Andre, a more physical icon known as the ‘Eighth Wonder of the World’, made famous for his enormous size and kind heart, who would battle the faux blonde Hulk Hogan for wrestling Heavyweight Champion of the world, twice. He was legendary for fighting groups of unknowns from volunteer audiences and easily winning, to battling it out inside Madison Square Gardens several times a year to sold-out crowds.

The culmination of both men would be to be well loved by all, which is no small achievement.  It was in that period that I lived as a boy, in the mid-nineteen-seventies and early eighties, enthralled and in awe of Andre the Giant, as every child is naturally entranced by giants.

However, it wasn’t until many years later, as an adult, that I would feel the same level of admiration about Samuel Beckett. And it would take longer than expected to see most of his plays, and then read his novels which were regarded as his masterpieces, eclipsing the stage work that had actually made his name throughout Europe and the rest of the world following. But it was also in those years that I had to bear the sadness of both of their passing. Samuel died in 1989 from the ravage of time, and Andre in 1993 of an enlarged heart, not far apart at all for two different men, separated by an almost alternate reality, but both connected by the absurdity of which life is plentiful.

These two men were as foreign to each other as the sky is to the earth, but who met in this world briefly, and with as much ease as the night’s shadow or as the fog at dawn.  Instead of beating the reader senseless with the mountains of facts that I have sifted through from several continents of both, physical and mental information, biographies, maps, documentaries, endless notes, personal accounts, I will tell you just this ... 

They both lived in Ussy sur Marne, France throughout the mid 1950’s and on into their later years. Andre at the time was a boy of thirteen years old and Samuel was a man of fifty-two. They were both neighbors, Andre’s family owned a small farm in the same vicinity as Samuel’s cottage which he had built in Ussy St. Marne, a small village some ways outside of Paris on the banks of the river Marne. Andre’s family at the time did not own a vehicle that could take Andre to school because of his enormous size. He was reportedly, too big for the school bus, a fate that Andre would suffer through his entire life. And so, as the story goes, his family had arranged with a neighbor who owned a truck to give their son a ride. Of course, Beckett had a vehicle and came to the families need without question.

Andre, at thirteen was big for his age, quite big in fact, he was just over six foot and weighed almost 240 lbs and was considered large from birth. It has been said that Beckett played cards in town on many occasions with Andre’s father, Boris Roussimoff. Beckett and Monsieur Roussimoff had known each other since Beckett had decided to settle in Ussy and build the cottage years before. Boris and other local men had done the work of laying the foundation and bricklaying the walls. No doubt, Andre much younger, amongst them.

So, it was almost as if these two people, the boy and the man, had been put together through some type of master plan or divine intervention, and slowly becoming friends in the eye of the hurricane that was their life. 

Andre had a strong well connected love for his parents and his family, especially his father, who was the most important figure in his life throughout. When his father did pass in 1993, Andre flew home from his ranch in North Carolina and attended the funeral, and then as some say, just a few days after, he died in the night from a broken heart. Andre’s love for his father was as deep and true as any son’s devotion should be. Beckett on the other hand, while he was well loved and admired by those that he kept close, he had very little concern or connection for his own family, especially his parents. He had a certain amount of angst and disdain that found its way onto the pages of the stage-play Endgame. In the play they both appeared out of trash cans, off and on, needing to be fed and given a few bits of loose change. He made them into a laughing stock and never apologized or appreciated the choices they made raising him, or rather not raising him. Beckett, as a boy, learned at a very young age how to insulate himself from the outside world, a habit that would follow him into his grave.  

Foremost though, he was always at odds with his father when there was any communication and thus never seemed to develop a working relationship with the man at all.  It is this difference which is what they both truly had in common, and in my mind, was why the universe had pulled them together. Any other rationale, and it makes no sense at all. If you believe that things do happen for a reason, then my tale might hold benefit for you.

Who knows what they really spoke about in their short trips to school, some have rumored that they talked long and hard about cricket, which Andre had loved and Beckett had been a national Champ, and was listed in the Cricket bible, Wisden. Others have stated that they both talked about trucks, traveling, music, mathematics, the Church, and of course, you guessed it – women. In their own time, they both spent many years traveling and craved utter solitude for their own reasons. Reasons which, Beckett was all too familiar and Andre would soon come to realize.

Now, you may have taken it lightly when I said a story like this doesn’t come around every day, I was not exaggerating.  So, all that aside, please forgive me, if for a brief instant in time, I have disturbed or trespassed the garden and this quiet peace of theirs in any way.

All the best, 

Steffan Piper

Los Angeles, California.

May, 2005 – 2017.

Character List

Samuel Beckett.       (The Writer).

Suzanne Beckett.     (Wife).

George Reavey.    (mentioned).  (Agent).

Jack McGowran.    (mentioned).  (Actor).

Henry Miller.      (Writer).

Jack Kerouac.    (mentioned).  (Writer).

Jeannie Wong.      (Restaurant owner).

Jun.       (Beckett’s stagehand).

Huan.       (Beckett’s stagehand).

Francois Laurent.    (mentioned).  (Critic).

Andre Roussimoff.     (The Giant).

Boris Roussimoff.     (Andre's Father).

Marian Roussimoff.     (Andre's Mother).

Michele Roussimoff.     (Andre's younger brother).

Frank Roussimoff.     (Andre's older brother).

Monseigneur Feret.

Sister Josephine.

Father Jean.

Monsieur Sarnac.      (Shepard).

Frau Doebler.      (Store owner).

Young Augustine Savatier.     (Andre’s best friend).

Young Anjelica.      (Andre’s friend).

Monsieur Louis Chauveau.     (Police Officer).

Monsieur Armond DeVille.    (Police Commissioner).

Madame Tournier.     (Tabac owner).

Madame Robette.     (Baker’s Wife).

Andre’s Uncle Louis.   (mentioned).

Samuel Beckett   

Andre 'The Giant' Roussimoff

(shortly after this story)

1.  Paris – 1959

THE RAIN HAD BEEN PELTING down all summer. When it wasn't, being outside felt too humid to live comfortably. The streets and sidewalks were awash in debris, clogging the drains and flooding the low spots, the parks and cascading down staircases turning them into small waterfalls. Montemartre was impassible and appeared as treacherous as the Swiss Fjords. The tourists still made every effort trying to climb upwards with cameras and tripods in hand, even if they were winded and soaking wet and not even making it half way up the old steps. Champs de Mars was a lake and had been blocked off. I had seen a man in a canoe paddling the gardens a few days back and envied him. The papers said the city had never seen this amount of rain, but I was convinced that the weather had followed me from Ireland just to keep nagging me about the situation back home. Wearing my wellies this late into the year was a new habit, but I found myself putting them on now almost instinctively and without question. Was it raining? Of course it was. Outside the world was flooded and turbulent, and inside I wasn't faring much better.

I reeked of sweat, body odor and garlic and hadn’t left the city in months. My brain felt encased by the negative reviews, stale city air, and an unceasing level of noise that was destroying my ability to concentrate and forcing me to succumb to endless headaches on an almost daily basis. I had seen the doctor on several occasions, who, each time treated me like a five-year old child. I was casually diagnosed with either - general malaise, l’grippe, rheumatosis, drinking too much and eating too little or even just overworked nerves. I had little tolerance for doctors and I was an awful patient. When I heard whatever new diagnosis they’d want to try out on me, I'd become unhinged and belittle the staff.

You are all filthy, mechanical animals! This is a waste of my time! I yelled, coming unglued. I couldn't help myself or my anxiety and it would always end the same eventually.

Monsieur Beckett, I have been advised to tell you ... the young lady behind the counter would sputter meekly, trying hard to get a word in.

This isn’t science if you have nothing for me but the bill! I growled. 

Monsieur Beckett ... please. It would be best if you left and found a new physician, sir. Good day. Those words would be the end of the relationship, but never the way I felt. They said I was hypochondriachal. That it was all in my mind.

Good day? I scoffed. I tossed the bill into the air as I blew out on a wave of anger.

I was exhausted, but that was only the beginning. The late nights, the arguments with Suzanne, the unending revisions and translations. The requests by the publishers and the printers. The agents, the managers, the directors, the stage hands, the actors. At any hour there was a constant knock at my door with a new telegram which always awaited some quick response. Always some careless young man in an unkempt uniform. This was the pattern from seven am to nine at night before the telegram office would shut down for the evening. My apartment on Rue Favorite always felt like the inevitable last stop of the night. Only government dispatches were allowed after hours.

The steady stream of invitations and requests would mostly go unanswered and left unresolved. My family had been sending desperate letters almost twice weekly, hoping for me to come home to Ireland and intercede on their behalf to shape the life of my young nephew and halt him from pursuing a career in music. I had unwittingly subscribed to their scheming like an ass, mostly for being passive and agreeing faint-heartedly in an elongated and semi-drunken stupor. Another bad decision. The majority of the telegrams, dispatches and letters, especially the ones from family, I had either disposed of or forgotten about entirely. With another play closing in the wake of unpopularity, the prospects of returning home or getting out from the dull existence my life had become now seemed impossible. The one thing I did know was that I needed out of the city.

I longed for the quiet of the countryside and the isolation of my cottage in Ussy sur Marne. Most of my time there over the years had been pleasant memories and full of quiet rest and recovery. The cottage was always my rehabilitation once I was too far gone. The property looked out on rolling hills, the river Marne, and the village far below. Ussy was the obvious place to haul myself away to, dry myself out, lay off the binge drinking, the running around and insufferable writers that were all still littering Paris now like American soldiers not wanting to return home after the war.

I sat for hours trying to decide on what I was going to pack. I had trunks brought into the apartment at night by a few Chinese workers that did what I asked without question for a thousand francs a month. I needed all the assistance I could get keeping the undesirable masses, the deadbeats, the salesmen and the felons away from my affairs.

After packing what I thought was important, I disguised the trunks under tablecloths as just a few extra pieces of furniture, lest the suspicious eye seek to cast my plans asunder. The main goal was to keep anyone from discovering my departure. I'd send the the trunks ahead by several hours and in the dark veil of night. The first time I packed the trunks, I filled them with books and later realized the absurdity of only taking the clothes I was wearing and a shaving brush I'd shoved in my coat pocket.

The telegrams and the mail kept coming as slowly and surely as slugs across wet pavement. At seven am sharp, I was awoken by wrapping at the door. The knocking was like shotgun blasts against my eardrums. Even sleeping in anymore appeared out of the question. It was the knocking that woke me, and not any of the other distracting noises that invaded my sleep through the course of night. There were always people, drunk and disorderly on the street below, just outside the window. More people yelling in the stairwell, police breaking down the door upstairs, and so on. The knocking was incessant but it forced me to peel myself painfully from my bed. When the knocking had pushed me over the edge and got me moving, crossing my apartment felt like a thick, magnetic ocean and I was trapped in a warm haze of sleep.

Monsieur Beckett, allo ... Knock, knock, knock. Monsieur Beckett, s’il vous plait, telegram!

Monsieur Beckett, J'ai un télég ...

The boy was startled when I hastily yanked open the door. It was only then I realized that I wasn’t wearing my pants. Looking down, I realized my error and was momentarily embarrassed and wrapped myself in yesterday’s papers and Suzanne’s winter-scarf from the coat rack.

Comment allez-vous? Avez-vous bu à nouveau? The boy thought I was drunk.

Good morning again, asshole, I’m doing just fine, thank you, I replied.

Well I need to send a reply, Monsieur Beckett. It was paid for and requested. He wasn’t budging this time and was well aware of my deceptions by now. I had avoided him on many previous occasions. Looking down I noticed he already had one foot in the door so I couldn’t slam it shut. By the time I rubbed my eyes with my free hand, he was standing by the hall table. I realized by this, whoever it was, meant business. I decided I better read it for a change. He handed me the telegram by shoving it in my face.

MR BECKETT STOP

WE MUST SEE YOU IN OUR OFFICES IMMEDIATELY STOP

BRING ALL WORK IN PERSON STOP

NO EXTENSIONS OR MONETARY ADVANCE STOP

PRINTING MATERIAL IN 72 HOURS STOP

RETURN RESPONSE MANDATORY STOP

GEORGE REAVY GROVE PRESS STOP

The young boy blinked at me with the patience of the Buddha. No doubt the commission on a reply was higher than the amount for a simple delivery. He wasn’t moving and had already started picking through the fruit bowl.

Slouch-ass Parisian, I thought.

One moment, I stated.

I balled up the telegram and flung it into the cold, ashy fireplace. I found my robe and had a glass of water from the sideboard in the kitchen. The whole time the telegram boy wouldn’t take his eyes off of me, even though the entirety of his mouth had been engorged around the circumference of the green apple he had acquisitioned. My headache pulsed slowly, like a change of tide and was beginning to cause me problems focusing my gaze. Suzanne had suggested new glasses. Although I was inclined to agree, I had also ignored that advice as well. I found a pen, pulled a few bills from my wallet and wrote the following:

REAVY STOP

GO TO HELL STOP

BECKETT STOP

I handed over the money and the response. Make sure this goes out immediately. You see any problem with that? I motioned to the slip of paper. He glanced it over with a raised eyebrow.

Avec Plaisir. Pas problème, he