American Genius

by Lynne Tillman

  The Count hadn’t disappeared, he’d fled and found residence in a woodland setting, and, since it was daytime, he would be asleep in a cave or under shrubbery, ferns, and his own blankets or in a sleeping bag. The Count’s unexplained departure left unresolved more than is usual, usually almost everything is left unresolved, but thinking the Count was asleep nearby placated and also aroused my imagination, though imagination is hampered by its imaginer’s limits. The Count’s seizure or paroxysm may have been fantastic, crotchety, a delirium, or poetic inspiration—furor poeticus—and, if so, it might approach genius, according to Kant; however, superstition may be compared, he says, with insanity. Kant’s Classification of Mental Disorders was on a library shelf and now lies under my bed, unless the housekeepers have moved it, and I don’t subscribe to all his categories, superstition, for one thing, can’t be insanity, since too many people are; I won’t walk under ladders, open an umbrella indoors, or toss a hat on a bed, all of which I heard about and with no reason adopted for myself, so perhaps this is insane, or maybe “normal” comprises a wider range than he thought, since to him “brooding over a spouse’s death is utter madness.” My mother has brooded over my father’s death for many years, with cessations, but grief thrives in her days and nights, and she is not mad, but lonely without her husband and suffering from brain damage, whose cause is organic and unknown, like most of the workings of the brain, while I also brood over dead friends, and I’m not insane, or, if I am, according to Kant’s precepts, it doesn’t matter to me.

  Across from the near-dead campfire, I sat upon on a large, flat gray boulder, or natural chair, shaped like an ellipse, at whose center was an indentation appropriate for a human bottom. I gazed into the vast woods, the rotund fir trees, other trees whose branches looked forlorn though some buds and new leaves were evident, while I listened for the woods’ sneaky inhabitants, and also looked out for hungry wolves in packs and prowling black bears, since even mountain lions are known in these parts. The brisk wind rustled and shook the trees and solid chunks of old snow randomly, black and brown birds shrieked into the sky, then settled elsewhere, chipmunks scampered from one hiding place to another, the forest’s floor was alive but ninety-five percent was invisible to me, and soon the fire’s embers were dead. It must have been around noon, the sun was directly above, its rays filtered and thwarted by the tall trees, but in my fleece-lined hiking jacket, with its stiff collar that sometimes irritated my skin and my battleship-gray cashmere scarf wrapped about my head and neck, where most warmth leaves the body, I wasn’t cold. My thick-soled, ankle-high, waterproof hiking boots, lined with flannel and sheep’s wool, are functional, occasionally itchy and even too hot, but not on this hike. The Count sleeps all day, so it was senseless to wait for him, and he’d fled to the vast woods, because he didn’t want to see people, which I respected, since often I don’t want to see people, like at breakfast, so then I lie in bed, though seeing the Count now would be different. I ate the lackluster turkey sandwich and listened to the silence, the wind, the birds whose names I didn’t know, and saved the shiny Macoun apple for later.

  The woods stretched ahead, like the universe, with no time and no horizon line to sever sky from earth, only irregular treetops that pointed to the atmosphere, which turned lighter and lighter, until there was no color, or white, an absence, or just endlessness. I walked to my own rhythm with an old ditty circling in mind: White is zero, black ten, all the colors, red five, orange four, and pale blue three, paler blue two. Number one? Off-white, a creamy white, there are many whites, or absences, many shades of black, when the entire spectrum is present, so that two whites look strange against each other, two blacks, also. White is zero, black is ten, pink three, yellow three also, and shocking pink slides into number four territory, ordinarily claimed by orange and some shades of green, though green is usually a six, lime green may be five. Real red like my mother’s lipstick is five. Pink is three, orange four, and I repeated numbers and colors as I walked farther into the woods with no fear or sense of mission and time. Occasionally, I hoped something, even I, might give the walk substance and shape, the way a designer constructs a chair to communicate an idea, like a chair by the Eameses, though a designed object also refers to its maker, marks its author, but if I were a Transcendentalist, any walk, a walk itself, in nature might have meaning. I didn’t feel this, I was a solitary walker on a path whose direction I followed because it was there, and I wasn’t prepared to machete under- and overgrowth, chop down fir trees and shrubs, which is probably illegal in this region and will bring trouble, to forge a new trail, so I was aimlessly treading a well-worn path in the woods, a picture of anonymity or an unrecognizable object, and, if photographed from high above, just a splotch or blot on the forest floor, if that. Discovering the Count in hiding near the community could give me purpose, depending upon what I make of it, what interpretation I pursue or how I bring the news to the community, particularly Contesa, if I do tell her, but I’ll mark it, as I do him, so this walk differs from others. If his comedy and tragedy genuinely engages mine, though lately I want to sunder relationships and take things apart, then leave them in desuetude, a true connection has asserted itself Aqua can be four and sometimes three, a light shade of brown is seven, darker eight, and a brown-black will be nine, while navy blue is always nine, royal blue eight, and if I’d gone into my father’s business, I’d have concentrated on the spectrum of colors and sinuous threads, I’d have spent hours handling cloth and smelling it, counting warps and weaves, as I designed and manufactured textiles, since people need clothes, the way they need food and shelter, though what kinds, what styles, and consumed for what intentions, aren’t simple, so people budget, steal, or spend inordinate amounts of time and money, expending furies of anxiety and plenty of hope on their selections, though everything is temporary and inconclusive. Clearly, the Count must have run from the séance into the woods, after gathering his necessities, right after the paranormal event, which I’d mostly forgotten, but now it assumed a funny but confusing face—Moira’s. I beheld that odd inquisitive woman, destiny, and heard her vivacious, rolling voice: “We all wish to speak to the dead. It’s a universal wish.” I cringed or started, and looked everywhere around me, but Moira wasn’t there. Often I see faces, the dead and living who aren’t present, I conjure them, but this is normal, since normal vision fuses incoming sensation with internally generated sensation, when the brain fills in what it’s used to seeing or expects to see, which encouraged a vision scientist to conclude, “In a sense, we are all hallucinating all the time,” and this explains the haplessness of police lineups and eyewitness accounts, their innate tendency to inaccuracy, but Leslie Van Houten’s complicity was never in doubt, just the measure of her guilt. I’ve never before had an auditory hallucination, if hearing Moira’s voice was one, though it seemed to come from outside me, raising several kinds of doubt, but I hadn’t willed it, unless I had, since it’s hard discerning a thought from a desire. I might have been thinking aloud, I must have been. It was about 2 or 3 p.m., the sun hung closer to the west, still bright. Wishing on a star is a childish impulse, but I gave in to that wish and, reluctantly, might again, because of a slim hope unknowable forces might help me, there’s nothing lost in doing it, except the future of hope’s credibility; still, my impulses and desires have left ruinous monuments in their wake. Attending the séance qualified as an impulse, and, even if the séance was unsettling at the time, it was an experience I must have wanted, though I’d never wished for it, didn’t ratify it, and, anyway, haven’t thought much about it, because there’s no place to store it, since a mental apparatus I don’t choose—about most things I have no choice—decides its fate, along with ocher stark, improbable events I can’t categorize and remember. Before the séance started, I recalled the tarot card reader’s prophesy, which I discount and yet can’t forget, hope against hope, to overcome an obstacle or encounter a person who will change my life. Now “Everyone wishes to speak to the dead” had l
odged itself, and so, the odd inquisitive Moira, whom I didn’t like, resided in me.

  Things seem plain, and they aren’t, but there’s no going back, everything’s in motion, matter doesn’t die, and some human matters, especially, persist, because they’re irresolvable and irremediable, people accumulate consequences. I kept walking, staring at the sky as it imperceptibly changed color, then down at the trail and the snow beneath my feet, while listening for the songs of birds, their elaborated calls, which I didn’t understand, and often halted in my tracks to watch them, whose identity I didn’t know, except for finches, mourning doves, crows, seagulls, and sparrows. For about ten minutes, a strong wind blew the trees and shook old snow, so that it fell and lightly dusted my coat, scarf, hair, and trail, but it stopped quickly, and I didn’t feel worried or cold; instead, while the light snow swirled, I imagined that the crystal ball my dead friend bought me as a joke souvenir accompanied me, a good-luck piece, and even owned the power to transform the woods into venerable, ugly, and beautiful Vienna, whose early 20th-century architecture and design I revered, so the tallest trees became monuments or memorials. The snow must be telling us something, he kept repeating, impishly, and he may have been right, it uncannily foreshadowed the unidentifiable future, since snow blankets on a mountain hid insidious crevices through which he probably fell and disappeared. In my room, I can easily lift the crystal ball, turn it upside down, shake it with vigor, and the fake snowflakes occlude its scene, nothing else happens, but now the city of Vienna vanished, and I chided myself for wishing, since it was only the woods, vast, natural, weird, and when a fine lace crested on my hair, scarf, and shoulders and touched my face, I wondered if it was moisturizing or drying it and also remembered other snowfalls, which smelled the same as this one did now. I took several breaths, sucked in the fresh mixture of spring and winter air, and filled my healthy lungs. I was so alive, but it’s strange to be alive, it is very strange to live. There’s imagination and knowledge, I’m free to wander toward no end or for no discernible reason, but also I often duel with purpose and rarely beat it. The light snowfall ended quickly.

  I stood in place, suspended by a thought or a desire, I couldn’t tell, when I heard rustling and noises I was sure weren’t mine, and again, I looked around, everywhere, maybe Moira had followed me, since she’d popped up before, unexpectedly, and now hovered in mind, but I didn’t see her. I heard louder noises, closer, and hoped it wasn’t a bear, but if it was I wouldn’t move, and if it approached and was about to attack, I might bravely strike it hard on the middle of its chest, because bears have poor balance and fall backward if struck hard at the center of their chest, and, when that happened, I’d run fast, I’m a fast runner. A small bird screamed excitedly and three nearby flapped into the air, agitated by noisy company, when, to my surprise, through a gnarly thicket, the Count and Contesa emerged, shaking leaves and snow off them. So, Contesa knew all along where the Count was—or maybe he was staying with her—which was the reason she hadn’t been noticeably upset after his disappearance, instead she appeared supremely introspective and somewhat removed. I had questions for the two, especially the Count—was it his fire? was it a seizure? were they looking for me?—but I decided not to ask, just to listen closely, they might have something to tell me.

  —I hope we didn’t give you a bad start, the Count said.

  —Happy to see us, right, Helen?

  I was, especially now that it was growing colder and darker, it’s always darker in the middle of the woods, not yet dusk, and it was harder to see, but anyway we walked farther into the woods or farther from the main house, miles by now, I figured, sometimes the Count veering one way, Contesa another, he to the east or, in my vernacular, left, she west or right, where the sun was setting. After they compromised on a direction, I followed contentedly, having no idea where we were headed, though the Count assured me they knew, and also I didn’t mind, like a passenger along for a joyride. I even hoped the hike would never end and that I’d remain in the dark, because I like surprises, and, if I knew the destination, I might be disappointed, also I liked to imagine there was no destination, nothing teleological or driven, but all things come to an end, like breakfast or dinner or an evening’s entertainment, when I can return to my room, take off my clothes, placate my skin with rich emollients, and read into the night, then when the house is still, reading is like listening, and I like to listen. If I listen well, I might gather why the Count and Contesa scrupled to find me, trace my steps in the woods, since they must have been looking for me for a reason, although they might not have and just came upon me, but I didn’t want to know, when usually I do.

  Out of nowhere, at least to me, as we march along, while I’m walking behind Contesa, she calls to the Count, “One thing ends, another begins.”

  —The Roman Empire, the Count retorts.

  —The British Empire.

  —Or, World War One.

  —You’re a cynic, Gardner.

  —A skeptic. When you die, you die. You’re never yourself again, Violet.

  —I’ll be something else, she said.

  I dug inside my pocket for the apple I’d saved, then inquired of them if they were hungry, but they’d eaten not long ago. The red-and-green Macoun was crisp and tart, the way I like, not mealy and slimy, its skin crunchy, and my appetite abated, as the sky darkened, though the sun, while it dropped, left behind radiant streaks of pink, orange, and blue, two number threes, because of their pale hue, one four, and soon the Count decided he’d make a fire and we’d rest for a while. I had begun to worry about hiking when the sun had set, but the Count was not only a good fire builder, he could survive in the woods, which soothed my doubt, though I also wished it would never end. Contesa’s capacious mohair shawl served as a blanket, and she and I sat upon it, while the Count expertly built his fire, and I, filled with questions but wanting to listen, checked my tongue. Contesa offered up a remark about the beguiling sky, while the Count hunted for tinder and logs and I reminded myself that Contesa and I both disliked small talk. She was intense, a Kafka of the spirits, who might now be communing with Felice or other numina, though if it were so, I’d be uncomfortable. I’d never been alone with just the Count and Contesa, the pair had a history, wholly outside my experience, and with it an apparent rightness or ease in being. When I looked toward the fire, even it seemed new, and I was surfeited with nameless expectation, I guess that’s what it was, about what might occur among us or between them, since being with them provoked me, and though our temporary arrangement was a comely shape or configuration, which I liked, something out of order might develop and instigate a calamitous denouement. We three might suddenly be enmeshed in intrigue or poised upon an invisible but unfathomable foundation, sink into menace, a daunting sub-layer that could undo our symmetry, since people are flawed and arbitrary, and, unlike a worthy design whose decisions aren’t arbitrary, when a subtle mistake might even augment an object, people’s flaws rarely enhance them, though people learn to love, usually temporarily, their friends’ and lovers’ mistakes. I determined to stare into the fire, not think into a future I might never know, and kindle reverie, but stick figures emanated from the wisps of flames, the way they usually do, my skin dried and itched, my face burned, and, restless, I shifted about on Contesa’s shawl.