Twenty-fourth segment
Incredible, but true – they actually think... they actually think I murdered Moses Sorenberg! Now what? Must I hire a lawyer and watch my life's savings, not to mention such time as I have left on Earth, drain away in an all-consuming effort to prove what should be perfectly self-evident to any semi-reasonable human being, that I am not a murderer, have never, ever, so much as dreamed of murdering anyone, have never so much as laid hands on anyone, wouldn't know how to go about murdering or even hurting anyone even if the notion did take hold of me to do it?
"You're free to go," said the officer as he dismissed me – a kid, young enough to be my grandson.
"Listen," I said, "tell me straight out: am I a suspect or not? I want a simple yes or no."
"For the present you are not a suspect."
"What do you mean, 'for the present'?"
"'For the present' means 'for the present'. I'm sure you speak English as well as I do."
"Am I free to travel? I was just about to leave on a... on a journey."
"You are free to travel. Only please recall that you have signed an undertaking not to change residence or leave the province without notice."
"Then I'm a prisoner!"
"No, sir, you are not a prisoner. You are a witness. A witness in a murder case. Until the matter is disposed of, the law does require that some minor restrictions be placed on your movements. I'm sorry."
"Supposing I hadn't signed the undertaking. What would you have done with me?"
"It's not a question of what I would have done with you, sir. It's what the law would have done with you. Excuse me." The phone was ringing, and he answered it, at which I terminated the interview by turning around and striding out of the police station. Thus did I assert my freedom – but of course, I had been dismissed. How childish of me.
What now, what now? What time is it? It's not dark yet, hardly even twilight, which means it must be before nine. The questioning seemed to go on for hours, but that must have been an erroneous impression on my part, and maybe in my own mind I exaggerated the harshness of it too, being unaccustomed to such procedures. Still, where do I stand, exactly? Not a suspect "for the present." Meaning liable to become one in future. Not permitted to leave the province "without notice." Meaning that if, for example, the whim should suddenly seize me to drive to Hawkesbury tonight – as, gazing out the window in what was my parents' bedroom at the BMW in the driveway, seeming to gather the thickening darkness into itself like a mantle, in fact it does – I could not act on it, unless I make a point of telephoning the police first and letting them know, a condition chafing enough to stifle any purely capricious impulse. But... supposing I go anyway? Yes, yes! Should I? Yes! Let's go! That would be an assertion of freedom! An assertion that never would have been open to me had I not blundered, or stumbled, or been driven by fate, into suspect-hood.
Pardon me. Witness-hood. I am not, properly speaking, a suspect. I merely suspect I am suspected. Nor am I, properly speaking, a prisoner, though I feel like one. Well, this prisoner, no very daring specimen of humanity God knows, is going to stage his escape. He is going to bust out of here. He will not look back. He will not –
The telephone. Will he answer the telephone, this not very daring specimen of humanity? One ring, two rings...
I only remember two rings, though there must have been more. Never mind. It doesn't matter. I am still in the province, still in compliance, though heading rapidly out of both, on the westbound Trans-Canada Highway, longest highway (I think) in the world, five thousand-odd kilometers, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, neither of which oceans I have ever seen... well, since you saw them, the Atlantic as a child in Nova Scotia with your mom and dad, the Pacific as the author of the Red Notebook, whose inheritance I shall shortly claim. Here's Rigaud. Another few kilometers... I glance at the speedometer and see with surprise I'm doing 130 kmh. Won't be long, at this rate. Sure enough: "Ontario Welcomes You." Not strictly true. Ontario does not welcome me. Ontario turns me into a fugitive, an outlaw. Me, Steve Marcus! What a joke! Hawkesbury, 40 km. HHhhd Slow down. All I'd need now is to get stopped for speeding. What would happen? I'm no lawyer, but... nothing good, anyhow. How's my gas supply? Fine – tank half full. What time is it? Ten seventeen. Am I hungry? No. Why is there no music? I can flick a switch and set my soul afloat in the sweetest sounds the universe has ever produced, and yet until this instant the idea of doing so did not so much as enter my head. And now that it has, somehow I prefer to proceed in silence. Why is that? Caution? Like a thief walking on tiptoe in a house he has broken into?
Who would have been calling, just before I left the house? I might have known the question would start tormenting me at one point; I should have answered. The police, checking up on me? The professor, from the other world? Hilda? Her sister? What was the sister's name? I forget. More likely, of course, it was Helen Dahl, or a wrong number - but the imagination, unchecked by certain knowledge, has no use for likelihood, no interest in it; it navigates by different standards of truth.
***
Isaiah is on the porch as I drive up. He's in his rocking chair, rocking gently, lost in meditation – alive after all. I park, switch off the engine. If Isaiah is surprised to see me he does not show it. "Hey," he says, nodding slightly in the direction of the other rocker. I sit down in it. "How are you?" I say.
"Fine, fine."
"Shall I tell you something funny? When I was last here, I woke up to find you asleep on the sofa, and I thought... well, I thought you were dead. I fled in panic."
"Thought I was dead?"
"It sounds crazy, I know. But really, you are an amazingly deep sleeper. I saw no sign of breathing. I took your pulse, and felt nothing. Of course, I don't really know how to measure a pulse. I must have been feeling the wrong place."
He says nothing to this, and a thing I suppose I'll have to call silence seems to join our company. When I say "silence" I mean more than the mere absence of sound. I mean... well, I don't really know how to say it. A presence in its own right; a calm, reassuring presence. I close my eyes, and now the only indication of life in me is the thoughts in my head, and they, though profuse, are random and disordered, and have no real impact. The police, the professor, the Red Notebook, the Northland Hotel, the Rhyme and Reason... Rhyme and Reason, that's where I am now; funny, I'd never known the name of the place until that waitress in... where was it?... mentioned it.
So Isaiah is alive. "Listen," I say.
"Mm?"
"Do you believe in eternal life?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"Dostoevsky... have you ever read Dostoevsky? He taught that man is free, and that the ultimate expression of his freedom is belief, in the face of whatever evidence our earthly senses and our earthly reason marshal to the contrary – and there is plenty of it, that contrary evidence, plenty of it – in eternal life. To him, all morality, our very human-ness, depended on that. To fail to believe, or to refuse to believe, in eternal life is to condemn man to life at the level of the animals, the beasts – to bestiality, in short."
I pause, savoring my own words as though they come from somewhere outside of me – as in a sense they seem to – and Isaiah interjects mildly, "I've never read Dostoevsky."
"I lately met a man, a professor, a philosopher, a disciple of Dostoevsky... and of various other masters... a master himself, it may be... I met him; we became friends; he saluted me as his long-lost brother; we were just getting to know each other when... he died. Murdered."
"Is this Professor Sorenson you're talking about?"
"Sorenberg. Sorenberg. Ah – you know about it."
"It was on the news. Moses Sorenson."
"Sorenberg. Listen. I am... well, never mind. So he's really dead, then."
"What do you mean, 'really dead'?"
"I mean, since you heard it on the news, there's no doubt about it."
"What doubt would there be?"
"Well... when I left here last time, there was no doubt in my mind that you were dead, and yet here you are."
"Resurrected."
"Certainty, in other words, is misleading."
"Certainly."
"Ha ha. So maybe, for all our certainty, the professor is as alive as you are. But of course you had never appeared on the news as dead. How do they say he was murdered, by the way? Funny, it never occurred to me to wonder, even while I was at the police station."
"You were at the police station?"
"Oh yes. I am a suspect... well, no. A witness. I am a witness. A suspect in embryo, for all I know. I have no right even to be here. I signed an undertaking, you see, not to leave the province without notice. The province of Quebec, I mean."
"Are you serious? You could get yourself into real trouble."
"How was he murdered?"
"Stabbed."
"Stabbed. I ask you – can you imagine me stabbing anyone?"
He says nothing, and once again I close my eyes, savoring the silence.
"Is this really a youth hostel?" I ask after I don't know how much time. "It's so quiet, and... well, this is my third visit, and I've never seen a customer."
"You always come late, when everyone's asleep."
"How many people are here?"
"Five, not counting you and me."
"No kidding."
"Listen. If you're interested..."
"Interested in what?"
"In... a little fun?"
"What kind of fun? What are you – "
"I know, I know what you're thinking! 'He's turning pimp in his old age.' But there's nothing in it for me. The girl said it's what she does, it's how she works her way across."
"Across what?"
"Across Canada. She's a kind of nun actually..."
"Isaiah, what on earth..."
"A kind of nun. If she were a man, she said, she'd be a beggar-monk. What she does is just another form of begging. That's the way she put it to me. Another form of begging."
"And you... you go along with this?"
"Go along with it? I'm not her father. It's not for me to 'go along' with it or not go along with it. I'm just passing the word on, as she asked me to."
"Listen."
"Well?"
"I think... Is she awake?"
"She said to wake her, 'if anything comes up.'"
"I see." I don't, of course. "'A kind of nun,' you say. Catholic?"
"Buddhist, if I'm not mistaken."
"I can't believe you... that you..."
"Well, forget I mentioned it, if it takes you that way."
"Wake her."
"What?"
"Wake her. I want to talk to her."
"You want me to wake her for a talk? I don't think – "
"I'll pay her whatever she charges. Wake her."
"Are you sure? Listen. Maybe you should go back. I mean it. The law's not something to mess around with."
"Wake her."
"All right." Slowly, as though it were costing him a good deal of effort and even some pain, he raises himself out of his chair. The wooden flooring of the porch creaks under his shuffling feet. The screen door opens and closes with a gentle thud. Strange – there are no bugs. It suddenly occurs to me. True, the porch light is off, but still, one would expect... the thought trails off; I don't know what one would expect. Ah, the garden across the street, bathed in the light of the street lamp as before. The tulips were in bloom then; now, other flowers are, whose names I do not know. My mother would know. My mother. I'd promised myself I would visit her – I owe her that much – but somehow...
The screen door squeaks – I hear it but don't turn around; it seems to have nothing to do with me. "Hello," says a girl's voice – a very young girl, I would judge, almost a child. She sits down in Isaiah's rocker – Isaiah has not come out with her. Why did I ask him to wake her? I even insisted on it. What did I have in mind? I no longer know. If only she would go away and leave me to myself. What on earth was I thinking? This silence, this darkness – if only one could sit here long enough, in solitude, one would understand things... Strange – the girl is not speaking, not asking why I summoned her, or suggesting we get down to business, or showing the faintest sign of impatience – of course, I can't see her face... Can it be she is content to just sit here with me and rock in silence? It's no use, though. The silence is gone. Her presence has driven it off; the fact that she's not speaking is beside the point.
"Isaiah tells me you're a... nun?" I say.
"Not really. In my own mind, yes... a kind of nun."
"What kind?"
"I have no home, no money, no possessions. I live by begging. If people give me something, I eat. If they don't, I don't. Being hungry doesn't bother me."
"Why beg, then?"
"Why breathe?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why breathe? If you're alive, you breathe. If you're alive, and you don't work, you beg."
"Why not work?"
"I have no education, no skills."
"No education? You hardly sound... Of course, on such short acquaintance I have no right to judge... but you don't sound... uneducated."
"Well, I'm not illiterate, if that's what you mean. I went to school, got very good marks, could easily have gone on to college, but didn't."
"Why?"
"Whatever I say, you ask, 'Why?' If I said I did go to college, I suppose your question would be the same: 'Why?' Doesn't that prove that the question is futile?"
"Maybe it does. Maybe it does. Will you be offended if I inquire how old you are?"
"No. I'm not offended by anything. I'm nineteen."
"Nineteen! You're a child!"
"A child to some. Not to those who know me better."
"Really! And what are you to those who know you better?"
"A nun."
Is she laughing? What does she look like? How I would love to see her face!
"Would you sleep with me, if I asked you to?"
"Of course."
"Why 'of course'?"
"'Why' again."
"It does have a way of cropping up, doesn't it? But... well, the fact is – I daresay you can tell from my voice – I'm old enough to be your grandfather. I must be loathsome to you."
"Not at all."
"It's kind of you to say so. But how can you be sure? You haven't even seen my face."
"Your voice is gentle. Nothing gentle is loathsome."
"Listen. I am sixty-two years old and have never slept with a woman. Do you understand? I am impotent."
"Impotent?"
"So you see, what you call gentleness is really..."
"No man has ever been impotent with me."
"No? Is that a... a challenge? An invitation? How am I to take it?"
"As a statement of fact. No man has ever been impotent with me."
"And how many men... forgive me..."
"There's nothing to forgive. I'm not very good with numbers. I said I got very good marks. Math was the exception. Counting doesn't come naturally to me."
To this I say nothing. I close my eyes. I'm thinking: Suppose I get up out of my chair without another word, go down the porch steps, get into my car, start the engine, and drive away. Otherwise, morning will come, I will see her face, probably learn her name and how she came to leave home... I'm sure her face is lovely, and the story of her life is bound to be interesting, but... I don't want to see, don't want to know. I want to take her home with me – or away with me – precisely as she is to me now, at this instant: a soft disembodied voice in the darkness, mysterious, inscrutable. If I get up will she try to stop me? She won't, I know – I know without being sure how I know.
"Tell me," I hear myself say, somewhat to my own surprise, "have you no plans for the future? Will you go on living as you do now... forever?"
"Plans? No. I have no plans. As to your second question, I'm not sure in what sense you mean it."
"Well, I mean..." I suddenly recall the young police officer's sarcastic remark: "I'm sure you speak English as well as I do." What had that been in response to? I don't remember offhand. I should have retorted, "I have no doubt I speak it rather better than you." "In the purely conventional sense. Most young people have an aim in life, a goal. Me, when I was your age, my goal was to be a writer."
"And did you become one?"
"No, no. I became... I went into business instead. But I am no longer in business, having lately retired, and, do you know, I might yet write something. I might. I'm not dead yet."
This thought never so much as entered my head before, and my unexpected utterance is accompanied by a vague thrill of excitement.
"You must be sleepy," I say. "I had no right to wake you. I'm sorry."
"I'm not sleepy."
"Are your parents living?"
"Yes."
"Where are they? Do you have any... any contact with them?"
"They are in Vancouver."
"Vancouver! Oh, I see. You're traveling west to east. When you said – or Isaiah said – 'across Canada,' I assumed it meant east to west. We easterners do tend to assume that. Would you like to come home with me?"
Honestly, it's as if some alien power has taken control of my tongue.
"Yes."
"Yes? You say yes? Just like that?" When she offers no answer I add, "You don't even know where 'home' is for me."
"Is that your car?"
There's no ambiguity as to which car she means; it's the only one in plain view. "Yes. It's a BMW. Do you like music?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"All kinds."
"Do you know Beethoven's Sixth Symphony?"
"Yes."
"Call Isaiah."
Without a word she gets up and goes into the house. She returns with him a moment later.
"Isaiah," I say, "I am taking this young lady home with me."
"Yes?"
"Don't get any funny ideas. I am going to adopt her as my daughter. But before we go home" – I turn now to the girl – "I have some business to attend to in North Bay. We will go there first. Is that all right?"
"It's fine."
"You're not leaving now?" says Isaiah.
"Why?"
"Get some sleep first. Leave in the morning."
"I'm not tired. You?" I ask the girl.
"No."
"Let's go then. Get your things."
"I have no things."
Twenty-fifth segmentMy head aches dreadfully. Why? Where am I? "Excuse me." Who is this woman – a waitress? My God – what can have happened? "Would you mind telling me where... where we are? I know it sounds strange."
As she approaches, her face suffused with tender concern, I see how old she is. One would hardly suspect it from a distance, but... "old" is not the word. She's ancient. Would this be a graveyard then, and she one of the walking dead?
"Wait just a moment," she says. Oddly enough, her voice is not old at all. "I'll bring the doctor."
"The doctor! What..."
"Sh. Lie down, be quiet." She lays a cool head on my forehead. I close my eyes, and open them to find her gone. There is a faint sound, as of leaves rustling in the wind. I'm in a forest, then. Good. I close my eyes again.
"How are you feeling?"
Was I asleep? I'm not sure. This must be the doctor – young, handsome man, dressed all in white.
"My head aches."
"I'll give you something for that."
"Where am I?"
"Pembroke, Ontario. Not a very exciting place, I'm afraid."
"What happened to me?"
"The information I have is that you were found wandering lost and disoriented on the outskirts of town. Somebody called the police. The police brought you here."
"Lost and disoriented? Why should I be... lost and disoriented?"
"I'm not sure. I was hoping you would tell me."
"And why does my head ache so badly?"
"Why indeed. Not for any obvious physical reason. Sometimes waking up from a bout of amnesia can do that to you. The shock of the return to normality. Normality is more shocking than we normal people appreciate."
"Amnesia? I had amnesia?"
"You know who you are?"
"Yes! I am Steven Marcus, former president of P. Marcus and Son, now retired."
"But as to how you happen to be in Pembroke..."
"I stopped in Hawkesbury, en route to North Bay..."
"You had business in North Bay?"
"Yes. Yes, I had business in North Bay. The Red Notebook. I was going to the Northland Hotel to pick up the Red Notebook, which I'd lost there on a previous visit."
"Go on."
"Go on with what?"
"Well, tell me what you remember."
"What's that snoring?"
"It's two o'clock in the morning, and your neighbors are sleeping."
"My neighbors?"
"Your roommates, I should say. You were making quite a racket yourself, by the way."
"Racket?"
"With your snoring. Go on. You were on your way from Hawkesbury to North Bay."
"I met a girl in Hawkesbury, a young woman... at a youth hostel called the Rhyme and Reason."
"Catchy name."
"Do you know it?"
"No."
"I first stayed there in 1972, when I traveled... hitchhiked... across Canada. It wasn't called the Rhyme and Reason then... I was going to adopt her as my daughter and take her to live with me. We left..."
"Yes?"
"I remember... We stopped in Ottawa for coffee. It was very late. It must have been... you say two o'clock in the morning... it must have been about that, about two o'clock in the morning... all-night coffee shop on the highway, with lights, music – my God, those lights! Brighter than the noon sun; and the music – it was so loud! Maybe that's why my head aches. Yes? And yet no one was there, no one except us and the waitress – beautiful young woman, beautiful... I remember thinking, Whose daughter is she? No daughter of mine would work alone at night in a place like this..."
"Do you have a daughter?"
"Me? No... oh no. I have no children. No family of any kind, except a mother, who doesn't know who she is, or who I am, or who or what anybody or anything is... doesn't know, doesn't care... and yet she's still alive..."
"Do you remember leaving the coffee shop?"
"Leaving the coffee shop... Yes... I needed to use the washroom. I asked the waitress where it was – I had to shout to get her to hear me over the music, and I remember how uncomfortable I felt. One would prefer to go to the toilet without shouting about it."
"And then?"
"My head aches very badly, doctor. I wonder if you could give me that medicine you mentioned... I think you mentioned giving me some medicine?"
"Yes, all right. Sit tight, I'll be right back."
He's gone. In his absence I seem to feel myself falling, as though he had been supporting me and had released me. It's not an unpleasant feeling, just strange. There's the snoring again. Irritating sound! I'm still falling – how come I don't fall past the noise into a realm of quiet? Maybe I will, eventually. Amnesia... did I really have amnesia? For how long? I left Hawkesbury on June 2. Surely we're talking, at most, a day or two? On the other hand, maybe it's months, years. Such things have happened. I once read a story in the Gazette –
"Here you are. This should – "
"Doctor, what date is it?"
"June 6. Why?"
"The last date I remember is June 2. Which means... what? I was wandering around for four days?"
"Two. You've been here two days."
"I've been here two days? Asleep?"
"For the most part."
"Where... where's the girl? 'The girl' – I don't even know her name."
"I don't know."
"Don't know! You say the police brought me here?"
"Yes."
"And they didn't... I was alone when they found me?"
"Yes, as far as I know. I wasn't here then, but – "
"Where's my car?"
"Your car?"
"Yes, my BMW. I... my BMW."
"I'm sorry, I have no information – "
"Call the police! My car, I have to find my car!"
"All right, we'll call the police, please don't excite yourself; here, take this – "
"Wait. Listen. You don't understand. I'm here... shit... I'm not supposed to be here. I'm a witness, you see, in a murder case. I signed an undertaking not to leave the province... the province of Quebec. I'm here in violation of that undertaking. If we call the police..."
"A witness in a murder case?"
"The murder of Professor Moses Sorenberg. You must have heard of it."
"No."
"But the whole country... the whole country's talking about it!"
"Really? Well, as it happens, I just got back from India the day before yesterday. I was there for a month. I haven't had time to catch up on the local news yet."
"India?"
"Yes. Listen. Take this, it'll put you to sleep, and – "
"Never mind. Call the police immediately, please. If they arrest me, they arrest me! But the car... the car must be found!"
"Yes, but what I'm thinking is this: a good sleep might well restore your memory of where you left it. Then there'll be no need to call the police at all."
"But I've been asleep for two days!"
"It wasn't enough, obviously."
I allow myself to be persuaded. He might be right. And if he's not... A new thought has come to me: If they arrest me I can plead amnesia as my excuse.
***
"Ah, you're awake!" It's the doctor---immediately recognizable, there's no doubt who he is, but not nearly as young or as handsome as I remember him. On the contrary, I might almost describe him as ugly---his acne must have been severe as a teenager, to leave such pits. And his black curly hair is threaded here and there with gray, something I hadn't noticed in the dark but now, with sunlight streaming in the room, it is unmistakable. Nor had I noticed his long, pointed nose... Well, none of this matters... He was on his way somewhere, but, seeing me awake, arrests his motion in mid-stride and comes over to my bed. "How do you feel?"
"Good. What time is it? How long was I asleep?"
"Couple of decades. Ha ha! Just joking. Are you hungry?"
"No."
"Sit tight a minute. I have to... I'll be right back."
I close my eyes, not so much from weariness or sleepiness but against the brightness of the sun, which seems to penetrate even my eyelids, producing behind them a blazing red. Why is the sun so bright? More to the point: what was that dream I just had? A strange, endless dream, rich in meaningless detail, which now, awake, I can't seem to grasp. It's as if... as if everything, everything there is in the universe, had been presented to me, revealed to me: "Here, take a look!" Was I in the dream? I don't think I was – not me, not anyone – or anything either – any recognizable thing... No, it was all colors, sounds, smells, disembodied... blinding colors, deafening sounds, choking smells...
"Steven." The doctor is beside me, seated on a stool I hadn't known was there. "You feel okay? Feel like talking?"
"I feel like – "
"Yes?"
I was going to say that I feel like being on my way, and broke off because, on second thought, I'm not sure I do. It's possible I am not altogether well, and if that's true... if that's true...
"What do you feel like?"
"Like going to sleep for a thousand years, and waking up in a totally, totally unfamiliar world, with enough youthful energy to confront my predicament. That's what I feel like doing."
"Yes, I see your point. That would be both interesting and amusing. A totally unfamiliar world... And would you awaken with a memory of this world, if you had the power to arrange things to your satisfaction, or would your mind be a total blank?"
"A total blank. Or... no... no, let it be with a memory of this world, so that not only would everything I saw be unfamiliar, it would also be weird, outlandish."
"As if things weren't weird and outlandish enough right here on good old planet Earth!"
"You're right, I suppose."
"I laugh when I hear people say there must be a God because look! they say; how else explain the orderliness of the universe! Orderliness! What orderliness! It's sheer absurdity! Babies born of frenzied copulation grow up, make more babies, die... That's not order, my friend, that's chaos. Do you believe in God, by the way?"
"Do I believe in God... Do you know, I'm sixty-two years old – "
"Sixty-three."
"Pardon?"
"Forgive me for interrupting you. Your birthday was June 9."
"Was?"
"Yes, it's June 11."
"What? You don't mean to say I've been asleep for – "
"Six whole days. Yes, I do mean to say that."
"That's incredible."
"Well, it pales beside the thousand years you were talking about."
"Yes, I suppose it does."
"But go on. You're sixty-three years old and...?"
"And... what was I... oh yes! Sixty-two... sixty-three years old, and... do I believe in God, you ask. The truth is, I simply don't know!"
"Don't know if there is a God, or don't know if you believe in Him?"
"Don't know... either. Don't know anything. Sixty-three years old... But wait a minute. How do you come to know my birthday?"
"Ah. Well... brace yourself. I hadn't meant to break this to you just yet, but... well, you seem well enough to bear up under a little bad news. Your car... silver-gray BMW, with Quebec plates?"
"Yes..."
"It was found. In rather bad shape, I'm afraid. Scrunched up against a tree. Your wallet was on the front passenger seat, containing no money or credit cards, just your driver's license."
"Scrunched up against a tree?"
"Yes."
"But..."
"We found in your blood traces of pentobarbital, which is a fairly powerful sedative."
"Pento...?"
"Pentobarbital. The police will be in later to talk to you, but the theory at this point, as best I understand it, is that that girl you mentioned drugged your coffee in Ottawa – "
"No!"
"No? You remember something different?"
"I... no, but... is it possible?"
"As to that... what isn't possible, in this chaos?"
Twenty-sixth segment
Where am I? In a place called Thick Black Night, that's all I can say for sure. Have I been asleep? No, no, I was at the Fife, the Fife and Drum, with Moses, Hilda, and... what's her name? Hilda's sister. We were drinking beer, and Moses, the professor, was holding forth, eloquently, brilliantly, and I remember thinking: Hilda says he's a second-rate philosopher; I don't know who does the rating, but, granted my incompetence to judge, he sounds like the genuine article to me; even Hilda's sister, supposedly so much his superior, is sitting there hanging on to his every word...
"What do you think, Steve?" he says, suddenly turning to me. "Am I right?" But he's off again before I can answer, before I've even grasped that a question has been addressed to me. "I mean, look at it this way: imagine Galileo, or Isaac Newton, transported back in time and landing in the midst of some ultra-primitive society circa 30,000 BC or whatever, when people are hunting mammoths with spears and placating their gods as best they can and painting beautiful pictures on the walls of their caves – and Galileo says to them, 'Gentlemen, you've got it all wrong, you don't understand, the universe is governed by mathematical laws, the earth revolves round the sun, here look, I've brought my telescope with me, I'll show you, I'll prove it to you...'"
A loud snore brings me back to myself. So – I'm still in the hospital, and was asleep and dreaming after all. Good God, what is to become of me? How long was I asleep this time? Days, again? Is it July? Is summer over? Come to think of it, I feel strangely chilly. Maybe it really is autumn. Maybe a thousand years have passed, and I am to have my wish. At least one thing hasn't changed: human beings still snore. You'd think they'd've evolved beyond that, in a thousand years...
The BMW – "scrunched up against a tree." Those were the doctor's words. Was that part of the dream? It seems no more real – or no less – than anything else. My God. I must... get out of this place, get back to Quebec, or risk being caught in violation... In violation of what? I close my eyes, and am surprised to see the darkness thin. Is this some sort of optical illusion? I open my eyes, and the darkness is impenetrable. Close them, and... yes, it's unmistakable. Behind my closed eyelids is an uncanny brightness that disappears when I open them.
I hear footsteps. Someone is moving about. Opening my eyes, I see the outline of a white figure. The doctor? No. A woman. She is quite close to me now; I could reach out and touch her. Does she know I'm here? If I close my eyes I could fool her into thinking I'm not. Maybe it's the woman who greeted me on my arrival. "Excuse me..."
Her gasp is almost a scream. Stupid of me, to speak out while invisible. I am about to apologize, but she recovers herself almost immediately. "You startled me," she says with a sheepish little laugh. "First time on the graveyard shift. It's got me a bit spooked. They warned me about it. I didn't believe them. Now I know."
"Know what?" I'm not sure what she's talking about, but her voice is lovely.
"That ghosts are real." She laughs. "I'm joking. Is there anything I can get you?"
"Listen. Do you know... who I am? Are you familiar with my circumstances, my... my condition?"
"Mr. Holliday?"
"Holliday? No, my name's Marcus."
"Oh! I'm sorry. Mr. Marcus? No, I was told nothing particular about you."
"But you were told something particular about Mr. Holliday?"
"Mr. Holliday, I've been told, has been known to... really, I shouldn't be telling tales out of school... been known to expose himself to the nurses."
"Expose himself!"
"Yes. He's not well, you see. Not himself."
"I see. I take it, since you haven't been warned about me, that I am myself."
She laughs again. "I guess you must be."
"I guess so, eh? Ha ha! You're British, aren't you?"
"British! No..."
"Really. I thought I detected a British accent. Shows how much I know."
"Maybe it does. I spent a year in London. Maybe the accent rubbed off on me."
"Yes, that does happen."
"Don't you feel sleepy?"
"On the contrary, I've never felt more wide awake in my life. I've been asleep for a thousand years!"
"Oh, I hardly think – "
"That's what it feels like. What time is it, anyway?"
"Time?" I suppose she glances at her wristwatch; I can't really make out her movements in the dark. "Four fifteen."
"Four fifteen on the morning of..."
"The eleventh. No, sorry, the twelfth."
"Of June."
"Yes, of course."
"Of course. Well..." Suddenly I crave solitude, crave it with an intensity that surprises me. I have always, all my life, been inclined to solitude, never felt at ease in company, but I don't remember ever craving solitude quite to the extent, with quite the urgency, that I do now. It is as if this woman, this harmless, friendly young woman, is, without knowing it, breathing my air, and if she doesn't get out of the way soon... why, I'll... I'll choke to death.
Perhaps she senses something of this. "I'll be on my way, then," she says, in her bright, cheerful, lovely voice – a voice that can only belong to someone who has yet to awaken to the possibility that anything can be amiss in the world. "If there's anything you need, just – "
"Nothing, nothing," I gasp.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. What was that that came over me? Why - I could have killed her! Literally – I could have made a spring for her throat and literally... squeezed the life out of her!
I'll be all right in a minute; just let me lie quietly here in the dark... The snoring has stopped, all is still. Rain... is that rain? Yes, yes, a gentle rain is falling. This bed... I don't suppose it can be more than a cot, hospitals being what they are, and yet it is wonderfully comfortable. I draw the blanket – no, it's not a blanket but a kind of quilt – I draw it up past my chin and seem to disappear into it. Perhaps I've died and gone to heaven.
The stage seems set for sleep, but sleep does not come. Surely I've slept enough! My headache is gone. Am I ill? Why am I in a hospital? Am I free to leave? Why wouldn't I be? What's to stop me from getting out of bed, going to the front desk (assuming I can find it!), and saying to whoever's on duty there, "Thank you very much for everything, I'm better now, I'm leaving, what do I owe you?"
Nothing. I'm a free man in a free country, and there's nothing to stop me from doing anything I want, so long, of course, as it's within the law. That doctor – what's his name? – said something about the police coming to see me... What would the police want with me? I've never had anything to do with the police, never broken the law, never had so much as a parking ticket...
My God, what is that awful noise! Was I asleep again? I must have been; it's not dark anymore, though not quite light either. Why do I sleep so much? What have they been giving me? And that noise that woke me – a shattering thud, like... like a meteor or something striking the earth, but what I see in my mind's eye as I return to full wakefulness is not the earth in fragments but the BMW, "scrunched up against a tree." Yes, of course – that's what the police want to see me about! Where is somebody? Is there nobody in charge? Everybody still seems asleep – my God, they must be drugged out of their minds! "Doctor! Doctor! Hello! Doctor!"
Someone is running towards me; I hear footsteps. The doctor? That young woman? The latter. "What?" she cries. "What is it?"
"Where's the doctor?"
"What's wrong?"
"I must see the doctor. I have to... my car, my BMW. I have... why am I here? Why was I brought here?"
"Mr. Marcus, please, calm yourself. You were brought here because you need rest, you were in a state – "
"What state was I in?"
"Well, a state of amnesia, for one thing. You didn't know who you were!"
"I know now. I insist on... I take it I'm free to go? I'm not here under compulsion or anything?"
"Compulsion! Of course not! Still, patients generally have the sense to wait until a doctor releases them."
"Call the doctor then. Quickly."
"He'll be here soon. At nine sharp."
"What time is it now?"
"Six-thirty."
"You mean to tell me there's no doctor on duty? What if something happens, an emergency – "
"Of course there's a doctor on duty, but the doctor who attended you, Dr. Black, starts at nine. I strongly advise that you wait for him."
"Listen. Do you know anything about my car, my BMW, the police?"
"No, I don't."
"Do you know what it's like... do you have any idea..."
"Any idea what? Mr. Marcus... what is it? Are you in pain? Shall I fetch Dr. Goldsmith?"
"No. Please. Wait just a moment. Won't you... won't you stay with me, for just a few minutes? I'm sorry..."
"Certainly I'll stay with you, if you want me to."
"Yes, I do want you to, but you must be busy."
"Not with anything that can't wait."
She seats herself on the stool beside the bed, and says, "What's this about your BMW?"
"My BMW... I don't know, there seems to have been an accident. Oh, God. Suffering. Dostoevsky said... Have you read Dostoevsky? To get the true flavor... no, not 'flavor'... the true impact, the full impact... To get the full impact, you really must read him in Russian; Russian and English are so different; English can approximate his tones, his shadings, but not quite... hm... it's hard to explain... Suffering. Suffering, said Dostoevsky, is the vehicle in which... the road by which man ascends to God, or... not ascends, so much as... so much as... Forgive me, this rambling, I'm not quite... as Hamlet said, 'I'm not in my perfect mind.' Was that Hamlet? Or... no, it wasn't... it was Lear. King Lear. Of course. As for me, I have no daughters. No sons either. No one. But what I mean to say is, in all my sixty-two years – sixty-three; in all my sixty-three years, I have never, ever, suffered. I have never been ill, never lost love (though never won it either), never failed at anything (not that I have any successes to boast of!), never been disappointed in my children, never had anyone close to me die – except my father, but by the time he died I was old enough not to need him and too young to... well, to suffer much over the death of someone I no longer needed. I was all set up in business by then – his business, now mine... And as for my mother, she's alive to this day, and to tell you the truth I don't think she'll ever die... You're getting impatient; I don't blame you, none of this means anything to you, why should it? - but before you go this one thing I must say: that now, now,I am suffering, suffering unbearably, and do you know what it is, what it is that's causing... It's the thought... no, the picture, the vision, for I see it – of my BMW, 'scrunched up against a tree.' Don't listen to me; this isn't me talking, it's the drugs they've been giving me. Yes, now, at last, I know what suffering is, and it's... it's horrible..."
"I'll get the doctor..."
"No. Sit. I understand now. Why is there suffering in the world? I'll tell you why: to make us realize, to teach us, that we cannot, cannot possibly, rely on our own strength, our own reason... that our strength and reason are inadequate, that we must – we must – turn to God – not because God is our heavenly father who loves us and cherishes us and all that - or even exists, for that matter... but because... there is simply no other way! No other way to live! Life is too much for us, our capacities are limited and... You're too young to understand, you have years and years ahead of you, but one day you will understand. Now, go. You seem like an intelligent young woman. Use your judgment. If you think I need a doctor, bring him. If not, leave me alone, let me get dressed and be on my way. I have business to attend to."
"I certainly will bring the doctor. You are in no condition to leave, you need rest – "
"Rest! I've done nothing but rest for the past... how long has it been? I've slept through whole days! Believe me, I'm as rested as I'll ever be, as rested... any more rested and I'll be dead! Good God! What have they been giving me? What have they been drugging me with?"
"Mr. Marcus, you're raving. Now listen to me. Will you listen? May one talk sensibly to you?"
"Your voice... do you know how lovely your voice is? Yes, I'll listen, and I know whatever you say will be sensible. Speak."
"All right then. Dr. Black is one of the world's leading neurologists. Did you know that? He isn't in this part of the country very often, and you're very lucky, very lucky indeed, to have ended up under his care. It might very easily not have happened. He's familiar with your case. He knows what you need, he knows what to do. He'll be here in less than two hours. He's never late. Punctuality is maybe the least of the qualities he's known for, but anyway, he is known for it. So what I advise is this: stay here and wait for him, and put yourself in his hands."
"What's this? What's going on? What's all the fuss about?"
"Dr. Black!"
"And who were you expecting? Lawyer White?"
"I was expecting nobody at this hour. You're early."
"Yes, I thought I'd... I was restless, you see, and I asked myself: What can this restlessness mean? Is there a crisis? Maybe I'm needed?"
"Mr. Marcus was talking about Dostoevsky and the ascent to God through suffering."
"Ah! You see, I was right. Mr. Marcus, let me tell you something. I have been in the medical profession for going on thirty years, and I have seen suffering at very close quarters, very close quarters, and my impression, for what little it's worth, is that, as a vehicle of ascent to God, it's vastly overrated. Or maybe it's God that's overrated. Anyway, my job is to keep suffering at bay, and God, though I won't say he helps exactly, doesn't actively hinder me either. What happened – he came to you in a dream and now you've 'got religion,' as they say? Been 'born again'?"
"No, I haven't been born again. But I do feel better, and, as I was saying to this young lady here, I think it's time I checked out and went about my business."
"I see. Well, if that's what you think, I have no objection."
"No?" His ready acquiescence surprises me – more than that, it upsets me. I am suddenly confused. My sense of purpose falters. Almost immediately it occurs to me that he knew that would happen – he's playing me like a master musician plays his instrument; he 's a much, much wiser man than I am; I'm like a fish caught in a net, whose struggles only get it more tightly enmeshed.
"You can go now, Cinderella."
"Yes, doctor."
The doctor seats himself on the stool the nurse vacated.
"What time is it?" I ask. It's broad daylight now, with sunlight streaming into the room in seemingly outrageous quantities through a window to my left that's no larger than a ship's porthole – not that I've ever seen a ship's porthole, never having been on a ship. And yet it was raining just a few hours ago – or was it days? For the first time I get a good look at the room I'm in. Everything in it seems white, gleaming white – I see no other color anywhere, except Dr. Black's curly black hair. Even his face is white – it's pallor seems almost unhealthy. There are numerous other beds, I'm not sure how many, with bodies on them that may as well be corpses, for all the activity they show... no, I'm wrong; there's somebody in the far corner – man? woman? I can't tell – propped up to a sitting position, apparently eating. I hear the sound of footsteps, not loud but somehow suggestive of a good many people walking about, a good deal of activity... but nothing at all I see is in motion. We must be in a curtained enclosure or something, with all the movement going on on the other side of the curtain. All these impressions are quite clear, and yet I am aware even as I take them in that they don't altogether make sense. "What is this place?"
"This place? The neurology ward of the Melville Memorial Hospital. I'm not based here, I spend most of my time in India, but this is my home town and... well, who knows, I may even end up settling here one of these fine days. But that's neither here nor there. How's your memory? Have you been able to fill in the blanks?"
"Well... yes and no. I have no memory of being brought here, for instance. And... the accident... the girl... nothing. But the strange thing is..."
"Yes?"
"The strange thing is not the one or two details I can't remember, but that everything I see, everything I hear, even the things I hear myself say... none of it seems quite... rational, somehow. And yet at the same time I feel perfectly well, perfectly healthy, perfectly normal." Something suddenly strikes me. "Did you call the nurse Cinderella?"
"Yes, it's a little nickname I have for her. Her name's Cindy, you see."
"Ah."
"Cindy for Cynthia, of course, but... Anyway. You were saying. You feel perfectly well, your perceptions seem perfectly in order, and yet they don't quite add up. Do I understand you correctly?"
"Yes."
"Tell me – what brought on this sudden talk of Dostoevsky?"
"Ah." I feel my face go flaming red. "He's a... well, a youthful enthusiasm of mine. By which I mean, an enthusiasm of my youth. I was quite taken with him at one time in my life. I even learned Russian in order to read him in the original. Sometimes, it comes back to me..."
"What comes back to you?"
"Well, that youthful enthusiasm. I haven't read Dostoevsky in years, decades, but... well, suffering. My life has been curiously devoid of suffering. My life has been curiously devoid of life, you might even say. Only very recently, it seems, have I had the faintest inkling of what love means, and what is it I love? A car. My BMW. And when I think of it, as you say, 'scrunched up against a tree'... for the first time in my life I seem to know what real suffering is, what... what pain it is to be alive in this world... and at the same time... at the same time... I know how utterly, utterly ridiculous that is, that the suffering of real people, of real men and women... How bad is the damage? Is it beyond repair?"
"I don't know. I didn't see it myself. The police said it was in pretty bad shape, but I didn't think to press them for details. They'll be in to see you later today."
"Was I driving? Or was it that... that girl, that nun?"
"Nun?"
"Yes. She said she was 'a kind of nun.' A prostitute is what she was, really. Not that she denied that, or concealed it. And not that I had anything to do with her as a prostitute –don't get the wrong idea."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"I'm not sure I do either. Correction: I'm sure I don't. You're a doctor; I can speak openly to you. I am impotent. I have always... I have never had a sexual relationship in my life."
"Impotent! And what caused you to be impotent? Surely you could have done something about that? Did you consult a doctor?"
"No. I never... I don't know, I... To tell you the truth, it never bothered me all that much. Is that odd?"
"It's not for me to say what's odd and what isn't."
"It never bothered me all that much. In a way, it suited me."
"I see. Well, if it suits you it's not a disability, is it? I once knew a deaf man who swore he was better off that way. Silence is priceless, he said; infinitely more precious than any sound he ever heard while he had his hearing. Who am I to contradict him? This girl, now. Didn't you say you were going to adopt her as your daughter?"
"Yes, I did have something of the sort in mind. You see what an innocent I am. I heard her voice – for I hardly saw her face; it was dark – I heard her voice, and it was the voice of an angel, and... well, I believe in angels, you see. I don't know if I believe in God, but in angels I believe. You're a neurologist, I think er... Cinderella... said. I'm not sure what a neurologist is, exactly. But if your study is the human mind – "
"It's more the chemistry of the human brain."
"Are there chemical formulas for thoughts, feelings, states of mind?"
"Not in quite the same sense that there are chemical formulas for plastics and proteins and the like, but certainly there is a connection between our brain chemistry and what you call our states of mind. But if you're asking me is there a chemical formula for believing in angels? – probably not."
"Hm."
Twenty-seventh segment
Security at the airport is tight – well, we must expect that in times like these, and curb our impatience. A security guard runs a machine of some kind over my body. It crackles like radio static, or like a... what's it called?... I saw it in a movie once, that device for detecting radiation... The guard is a child, with a glowing red face – a child, and yet it is the suspicions of this child, aroused by the crackling machine he wields, that is holding me up here, and it is the frown of this child that is making me feel absurdly, painfully self-conscious. What have I done to earn his disapproval? "Would you mind, sir, emptying your pockets?" No, I would not mind. There's little to empty. My wallet, my wristwatch – my wristwatch! how did it get into my pocket? – and a little plastic bottle of eye drops; lately my eyes have been very dry. The child runs the device over me again. There's no static this time. "Thank you, sir," he says, handing me back my possessions. Meanwhile my knapsack – for I am traveling with a knapsack, not a suitcase – has been through the surveillance mechanism without setting off any alarms, and this too is passed to me. I sling the knapsack onto my back, slip the wristwatch onto my wrist, and emerge into a vast lobby, thronged with travelers. How many would there be, I wonder? Enough to people a good-sized city. Which way do I go? "Over here!" someone calls out. I start, crane my neck to see where the summons is coming from, see (or think I see) a man frantically waving a fleshy arm... but of course it has nothing to do with me. What's my gate number? It must be written on my ticket. When's the last time I traveled anywhere by plane? Am I making a mistake? Really – shouldn't I have bought myself another car? Another BMW? Yes, definitely I should have. I vacillated and vacillated; couldn't make up my mind; it was Helen, Helen Dahl, who talked me into going by plane. I think she was wary of me driving; she thinks I am... well, she doesn't say it in so many words, not to me, anyway, but I think the expression she would use in discussing my case with a third party is – ahem! – "not quite well." A very ladylike way of putting it! What she says to me is, "You've been through a lot" – which, I suppose, in my own small way I have. Still, the notion of me being so debilitated that I can't drive is ridiculous. Ridiculous – and yet I allowed myself to be persuaded! Well, that's my weakness of character for you. Is it too late to change my mind? What if I elbowed my way through this throng, back to the security area, and said to the child there, "Listen, I've changed my mind, I'm not going, let me out, I want to go home..."? Would he have to check me again with his machine before allowing me to pass? Would he even know what to do? No, he'd probably have to call his superior or something; there'd be a big consultation, the lineup meanwhile growing longer and longer... Well, but that's too bad. I'm a free man, aren't I? I'm not in anyone's custody, am I? If I don't want to fly I won't fly! They may not give me a refund on the ticket – that's up to them; but so long as I'm willing to bear the loss, the rest is up to me – isn't it? Yes, I've decided. I'm going back. I'll go home, have a bite of lunch, and then go shopping for a new BMW. The showroom is right downtown. I remember. The salesman I dealt with last time was a portly man with a short black beard and a slight foreign accent I never did succeed in placing. I wanted to ask him but was shy. Would he still be there? Would he remember me? Probably not – almost certainly not, given my own beard – not a short one either, but a beard that (says Helen) makes me look like a rabbi. Some rabbi! Never mind. Yes, that's what I'll do. Damn, this crowd! What –
"Steve! It's you!"
"What..."
"Don't you remember me? Hilda Thorn. My, what a long beard you've grown! Where are you going?"
"Where? San Francisco..."
"San Francisco! That's where I'm going! Flight 763?"
"Yes. That is... I think so..."
"You're like me, I guess. Flying throws me into an absolute panic, I simply must get to the airport two hours early. I'm on pins and needles the whole way - then I arrive and I curse myself for giving myself all that unnecessary time to kill. It's idiotic! Well, well, this is a happy coincidence! Let's see if we can find a coffee shop or something, I'm dying for a cup of coffee!"
She clears a path through the crowd, drawing me along in her wake. The announcements echoing through the public address system succeed each other without pause, first in French, then in English – this flight boarding, that flight delayed, would Passenger So-and-so please come to the information counter... Somewhere a baby is crying – not just whimpering but howling – my God! What could be wrong with it? Is someone torturing it? Has it had a vision of the end of the world? This must be a coffee shop. Hilda leads me to a table for two and, before I can get properly oriented, says, "Wait here, I must go to the ladies' room."
I pull back the wooden chair and sit down, only then remembering the knapsack on my back. Before I have wriggled quite free of it a waitress comes with a glass of water and a menu. "Hi, how are you today?" she says brightly.
"I'm not alone," I say – realizing, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, how idiotic that sounds. But the waitress broadens her smile as if those words and no other were precisely the ones she wanted to hear. "Two?" she inquires.
"Yes."
"I'll be right back."
I sip my water and take in my surroundings. A nice room, dimly lit, quiet, not crowded. Music, soft music – what is that song? It's familiar. Love is Blue? Tiny Bubbles? Anyway. The waitress and Hilda return at about the same time, and from the way they exchange smiles I have an idea they might know each other. "Just coffee for me," says Hilda, then turns a questioning look towards me. "Same," I murmur.
"So!" says Hilda. "What brings you to San Francisco?"
"Well..." I'm not sure what to say. "I've never been there..."
"No? Oh, it's beautiful. I went there on my honeymoon. Market Street, Fisherman's Wharf.... Don't know if I'll get to do much sightseeing this time around, though. Academic conference. I'm reading a paper."
"Hm."
"Yes, my theme is slavery, ancient and modern. People think slavery ended with the American Civil War. It didn't. It flourishes to this day, and the suffering – oh! T hank you." As the waitress sets down our coffee, I am almost moved to ask her if she ever worked in a place called Alfred, so closely does she resemble the pretty young waitress who served me there. I might have, too – putting down her failure to register so much as a glimmer of recognition of me to my beard, which no doubt has altered me out of all recognition – but Hilda is speaking again, of white slavery, human trafficking... "Moses," she says, "always maintained that a science of society was an oxymoron, you can't study man and his society scientifically – but there was so much, so much he didn't know! He had a very sharp, very acute intelligence; I don't deny it; but he saw only what he saw; he had no inkling of how much, how very much, he failed to see. Maybe it's true of all of us. We're all blind and don't know it. Poor Moses."
"Poor? Why?"
"Why!"
I have said something outrageous; I can see that by the way she looks at me. "I'm sorry..."
"No, no!" She is flustered, anxious to reassure me. "I meant, you know – "
"I wonder where he is now."
"Where he is?"
"Yes. I wonder..."
"You're asking where the dead go when they die?"
"Hm. Yes. Maybe I am asking that. In a way. Where do the dead go when they die?"
"My dear man! You ask as if you expect me to know the answer!"
"He knows the answer."
"He? You mean Moses? Yes, I guess he does, if consciousness remains after death. But since it is not given to the living to know, it's probably best for the living to direct their thoughts elsewhere – towards life. Don't you think?"
"I don't know. I remember the professor saying to me, 'Philosophy is learning to die.' He used to think about it, and he talked... beautifully, beautifully. He said... hm... how did he put it? Eons will go by, mankind will penetrate other universes.... I can't remember exactly how he put it. It was on the phone. Our last conversation. We hung up, and I left to go to his place. He said, 'Come on over, we'll penetrate other universes.' Those were his last words to me. His last words, almost, to anyone."
"His last philosophical words, maybe. His very last words were – I have them from Olive – his very last words before she saw to it that he spoke no more, were, 'I'm sorry.'"
"He spoke of other universes, with no inkling, not the faintest suspicion, that he was living his last minutes on earth."
"Yes, it's a haunting, frightening thought. It might be true of any of us."
"Our plane might crash."
"Oh, please! Don't say that!"
I cannot repress a smile. "So even scientists are suspicious."
"Yes!"
We both laugh.
"More coffee?" This from the cheerful young waitress, passing by with the coffee pot. We are silent as she refills our cups.
"So what do you plan to do in San Francisco?" Hilda asks. "Do you know anyone there?"
"Yes, I have... well, I guess you could say she's an old friend. We haven't met since we were nineteen."
"Oh!"
"And I have the professor's book with me."
"Really! The posthumous one? Appearance and Reality?"
"Yes. Appearance and Reality, and... The Red Notebook."
"The Red Notebook?"
Smiling, I reach for my knapsack on the floor, grope inside it for the Red Notebook, and pass it to her. She opens it, squints at the cramped, immature handwriting, and asks, "What's this?"
"The Red Notebook. When I was young I was going to be a writer, but as it happened this is the only thing I ever wrote. It records – fittingly, I suppose – the only trip I ever took. It's a travel diary. It was on this trip I met Debi, the girl – the woman – the old lady – I'm going to meet in San Francisco."
"May I?"
"Of course. Wait, let me..." I take the Notebook from her, and soon find what I'm looking for. "Here," I say, showing her the place. 'Wandered around...'"
"'Wandered around there for a...' What? I can't read your handwriting! Couple! 'Wandered around for a couple of hours, then to the pub in... Kit... Kitsilano. Harvey knew the people who work there, so there wouldn't be a problem with Debi being two months under age.' Oh, how adorable! 'As it turned out, the regular guys weren't there and the...' What's this?" she asks, showing me.
"Bastard."
"'...the bastard who was there refused to serve us. We walked out in a huff, cursing and hatching drunken plots about all of us coming back on Debi's nineteenth birthday and tearing the joint apart. Settled for a root beer milkshake at...' what? Oh - A & W. A & W! Doesn't that take us back! But how could you have been hatching drunken plots if they refused to serve you?"
Strange – this had never struck me before. Hilda bursts out laughing. The expression on my face must be very comical.
"I guess you were drunk on life," she says.
"Yes, I guess that's it."