by David Treuer
The workers shuffle their papers and the sound rises in the air like the wingbeats of a flock of birds and for a delicious moment Dr Apelles knows that if he were to raise his hand they would, ever so subtly and ever so temporarily, change their course. And another possibility seems clear: if, as the workers make their noise, as they create this beautiful accord, as they enact their common purpose, if Dr Apelles were to raise his hand, in a manner of speaking, all of RECAP would fly, as it were, to some other place. But the RECAP workers are not birds, people are not birds. They do not share a common purpose, or if they do, it is not one of their choosing, and it makes up only one part of their day. The workers will, as they make their noise, soon greet their other lives each to each. And there is beauty in that, there is. Because they rise, and the noise is on the air, and for that brief moment at that far reach of the day and for once, as they rise and prepare and mill and Dr Apelles is among them, it is a certain fact that not together, certainly not together, they could—and this makes them better than birds—go in as many different directions as you can think of; they are obliged only to follow their desires and their habits. Campaspe, like everyone else, like him, has certain longings. The most simple of which is the longing to know. If, when earlier, when walking across the small park in which they have jazz concerts in the summer, Dr Apelles had been able to guess which way the birds would fly he would have won a valuable thing—he would have a knowledge, he would possess it. And perhaps that’s all Campaspe really wants—she wants to possess him and the only way to possess Dr Apelles is to read his work because he won’t speak about himself. There is logic in this: he won’t speak about himself so perhaps he is writing about himself, perhaps he shows himself there. By reading him she can guess the angle of his flight. Of course she wants to read it and of course she can’t ask him. So she wants to read the translation. Such a desire is not so bad after all. It is no wonder that some of the ancient oracles were told by reading the movement of birds. But the simple flight of birds, the innocent rustle of paper, does not occur in RECAP today. It is quiet—no one makes a sound, no one moves. The hunt is on for the missing newspaper page. In the background the atmosphere chamber breathes, slowly, in and out. That is all.
Since the page had gone missing from Campaspe’s newspaper, her station was the first one that would be checked.
Ms Manger, flanked by the head of the O.C. and Mrs Millefeuille and followed by Mr Florsheim and Mr Bass, strode importantly down the main hallway between the loading docks and the sorting stations and came to a stop in front of Campaspe’s station.
“Do you have any foreign reading materials at your station?” she asked, as outlined in the section of the RECAP guidebook pertaining to “invasions,” as the Designer had decided to call instances of missing or mis-introduced text.
“No, I don’t,” said Campaspe in all honesty.
“Do you have in your possession a page of newsprint taken from the Reading Room?” was the next question. Ms Manger seemed, at some level, to be enjoying herself.
Again, Campaspe was able to say,
“No. I don’t.”
And finally:
“Do you have any knowledge of how pages were removed from the Reading Room or any knowledge of where they might be now?”
Ms Manger, far from doing disagreeable duty, basked in her authority. Compaspe’s discomfort was a balm to Ms Manger.
“No. I don’t.”
This time Campaspe was lying. And Ms Manger knew it.
The elevator moves faster now. At times like these, hope hangs lightly on the workstations and architecture of the office and it is easily swept up into the rustling paper but lifted higher, making of the afternoon air—golden, trembling in the high windows along the west wall—an atmosphere of possibility in which, along with hope all the responsibilities and plans, engagements and chores are mixed, and it feels as though absolutely anything can happen. Now is such a moment. And at such moments hope can become something real.
At moments like these we look about us—up at the ceiling or down at our feet or at the people to our left and right—as though to catch sight of life’s potential in the manner of art viewers laboring in vain to find the artist’s signature hidden in a vast painting. At moments like this we want to know who the author is that made this mystery.
The sense of hope, of possibility, not particular to RECAP, but perhaps enhanced by all the stories passing under the fingers of the workers, is what makes Dr Apelles look at Campaspe the way he does. RECAP is a reminder that there are more stories out there than anyone wants to hear and most of them exist uncherished. If only they could be sure one set of eyes would linger over them lovingly just once, for just a little while, then the eternity of RECAP would be bearable.
Having no choice, Ms Manger, with the help of the head of the O.C., Mrs Millefeuille, and Mr Florsheim and Mr Bass—along with a team of searchers culled from every department of RECAP who served one-year terms on what was referred to as “The Search Committee”—began searching RECAP, section by section, area by area, for the missing newspaper.
They began at Campaspe’s station, and, finding nothing, began at the front of RECAP. All the workers, at least those within Campaspe’s line of sight, looked at her and wondered; their suspicions grew as the day refused to end. They were all stuck there until the search was over.
And what did they find?
Nothing.
Not the newsprint, of course, that was working its way through Campaspe’s belly. And not the translation either, which is what Campaspe had hoped they’d find.
It remained missing.
The search was concluded.
And incident report was written and filed.
RECAP closed.
And everyone left. All save one.
Dr Apelles is surprised to find himself among the hopeful. Hope is merely the attempt to introduce to the future some past happiness, an attempt to change the ending—with different characters and new surroundings—of some sad little episode of the past. And the terrible prospect and most difficult task is to create, from scratch, some unforeseen, some future happiness that has no hold in the soil of our years.
Campaspe takes the train, and the ride sends her, inexorably, closer to Apelles. She is certain that their love has died. She does not know where the translation has gone.
When the alarm first sounded, she did not see Jesus grab a book from his cart and set it on his workstation. She did not see him cram the translation—which he had hidden under his baggy jersey—section by section, into the large leather-bound book on his work surface. He didn’t look at the title of the volume. He had no idea what it was about, but it looked Greek, judging from the illustrations that flipped by. It was a myth of some sort—a romance, Daphnis and Chloe was embossed on the cover for someone to see (but no one did). Jesus looked at Campaspe. The alarm was still ringing in their ears. But she did not notice him. He took all the original pages of the translation and crammed them in. Here. And there. And then he took the book, with the translation stuffed inside, sized it, boxed it, labeled it—all in a mad rush—and placed it on the last cart that would leave his station for the day.
Now the elevator feels as though it is picking up speed. A great weight has been lifted. The ride cannot last forever. Soon. Someday, he will arrive at his apartment. He will turn the key and the door will open and he will close it behind him. He will be stored there in his apartment, with his things that are no longer his things, with his translations that are no longer his translations, and with his thubadub heart, still beating away beneath his ribs; a heart that is no longer just his. He will be stored there, waiting to be recalled. For the moment, though, he is still in the elevator. Campaspe is miles away.
Campaspe is drawing closer. The train cannot go on forever. She has no idea where the translation has gone. She had not seen how Jesus concluded his work so quickly, with time
to spare, before he was expected to stand to the side of his station like the others. Campaspe had not seen any of this.
But someone else had. Someone else, later, after RECAP had closed, could watch at her leisure, all that had happened, as captured on the cameras. Someone is always reading somewhere.
Dr Apelles smiles for the first time that day. He feels free of all earthly weight. All his habits and thoughts and styles, the ponderous words that were so heavy in his mind, have dropped away. He can see them. They are spent and cracked and tumble away in space behind him. The rules are different here. He is really moving now. Campaspe must be so worried. The translation was there a second ago. And now it is gone. She hadn’t even gotten to the end and did not know that it wasn’t finished, that the ending wasn’t written yet. It is not such a bad thing that she took it. All she wanted was to possess Dr Apelles and that wasn’t such a bad thing. Being possessed wasn’t such a bad thing.
He can see her with his eyes closed. She doesn’t know where to look, where to search. She searches her mind, but cannot find it there.
The feeling of betrayal that Dr Apelles felt when he stepped into the elevator has evaporated. In its place he feels hope. He finally has what he has never had.
He is being lifted high above the ground in the elevator even if he cannot see it, even if he can barely feel the speed at which he travels.
Yes. Campaspe took the manuscript, and even though she took it without his permission, it was not a betrayal.
She only wanted to know him better and in doing so she wanted to possess him, to be able to guess where his flight would take him.
Being known is agony. Being alone is even worse. There is such potential to fall. And the distance is so far. The earth small below us. The distance is so great.
Campaspe swipes her card and leaves the train platform.
Dr Apelles’ elevator arrives at his floor.
Campaspe hurries down the platform and runs up the steps. Campaspe hails a cab and gives Apelles’ address.
Dr Apelles opens the door to his apartment. Dr Apelles stands inside the door to his apartment. He can smell Campaspe’s scent in the air. Dr Apelles sets down his briefcase by the door and hangs up his coat. Dr Apelles makes a grilled cheese sandwich.
Campaspe is left at the curb. She says a quick hello to the doorman and hops in the elevator.
She presses the button for the fourteenth floor. The elevator does not move fast enough.
Dr Apelles eats his grilled cheese and drinks a beer and tries to read, but reading is not what he wants to do because he cannot see Campaspe in what he is reading.
Will the elevator never arrive?
Dr Apelles puts down the journal he has been reading. He knows that Campaspe must be thinking of him.
Campaspe cannot imagine how Dr Apelles is feeling.
Dr Apelles can imagine how Campaspe is feeling.
It is agonizing.
Dr Apelles stands at the window. He speaks.
The elevator finally arrives. She knocks and then enters Dr Apelles’ apartment.
Dr Apelles does not turn away from the window. Before she can speak he says something. And then turns to face her.
Campaspe says I took your translation and now I can’t find it.
Dr Apelles says I know.
It’s missing she says.
I know he says.
Someone must have taken it.
I know, he says, it is gone.
How will it end
It just did
~ Book V ~
1. The summer drew to a close. It was fall once again. The village was preparing for the arrival of the Agent, and with him, a whole delegation of Chiefs from neighboring and far-off bands. There was talk that this meeting was an important one. Treaties and agreements would be made. The violence of the preceding winter would, it was hoped, be laid to rest. Also, it was ricing time, and since it had been a very dry summer, the rice beds were thick with rice stalks that bent low over the water where they had not been braided together into stacks as protection against sudden winds and marauding blackbirds. The whole village was buzzing with activity. People rushed around trying to bring in the rice before the delegation arrived. Others, at the urging of the Chiefs, cleaned up the village. Yards were raked clean and all the wood shavings, bits of bark, scraps of cloth, broken implements, along with drying racks and the like, were burnt. Bones, fish skins, and entrails were collected and dumped out in the woods. A few of the boys had been commissioned to hunt and kill the surplus of dogs that lent the village a wild and savage aspect. Women went out in groups to peel elm bark and pull wiigoob and with these things they patched the lodges so that they all looked new. No one was more concerned with making a good impression on the visiting officials—the owners, if not of the land, then of his destiny—than Bimaadiz.
He helped with the gardens, ordering the rows, pulling weeds, helped with the lodges and cabins, with banking all the canoes in rows, and with painting the gravehouses.
2. But the pride of the village, and where the negotiations and the wedding would take place, was the central garden. It was down near the shore and commanded a fine view of the lake and of the islands sprinkled out against the horizon. It was a pleasant place, with waves lapping the sandy beach and the cabins and lodges of the village growing up against the forest behind. It was open for all to see, and since it was in the center of the village there was no need for a palisade or wall to keep out hungry animals—deer searching for greens and rabbits and woodchucks eating away the roots. It was filled with a bounty of good growing things; rows of corn soldiered up together armed with ripe ears of corn ready for picking. Squash meandered along the ground, always trying to spread, to run away and hide in other parts of the garden, but were tethered and stopped short by the very vines that gave them life. Peas climbed and gossiped from their trellises, while in the ground turnips, potatoes, leeks, and onions grumbled but kept their secrets. Everyone in the village had a hand in working the garden that was the wonder of all who visited it. But since Bimaadiz was to be married there in a short time, days now, he was given the responsibility of making it as fine as he could.
He hoed the grass back from the perimeter to make the edge uniform, and he cut away the dead ears of corn and blighted leaves so the corn looked clean and sturdy. The ripe fruits he collected so they would not be overripe by the time of the festivities. There was an enormous oak with great spreading branches under which the delegates and Chiefs would sit, and Bimaadiz cleared the ground underneath of dead sticks and twigs, and piled them to the side in case a fire was needed in the evenings. It looked perfect. Bimaadiz was convinced that no garden on earth could rival it in beauty or abundance. His father and mother visited him just as he was finishing and they agreed. He had done a fine job and the Agent and the Priest could not possibly object to his marriage. Who could object to anything in a place so perfect and beautiful?
Bimaadiz went to bed, confident that the next day—the day on which the Deputy Agent and his assistant were to arrive in advance of the rest of the delegates—would be the beginning of the most perfect joy that would be the rest of his life. But trouble, unforeseen by Bimaadiz, was underfoot. Among Eta’s suitors was a young man the same age as Bimaadiz named Wezaanagishens. He was as handsome as he was lazy and a coward as well. He was struck by Eta’s beauty though he never had a chance of marrying her. Everyone knew him to be a liar and a cheat though he was strong and reckless—good maybe for capturing the enemy but not good for much else. After his proposal was rejected he swore he would take revenge on whoever was going to marry Eta. Since he was denied his own happiness, he would work to deny it to Eta’s future husband. Wezaanagishens didn’t dare confront Bimaadiz or ambush him so he did what cowards do: he destroyed the good work of others.
That night, after Bimaadiz had gone to sleep dreaming of the good thin
gs to come, Wezaanagishens stole down to the garden and wrecked it. He pulled up the corn and trampled it, and he broke open the squash where they lay defenseless in their furrows. He tore down the trellises, and when he was satisfied, he skunked back to his bed, as happy as could be with the night’s work.
3. When Bimaadiz rose and went down to the garden he was greeted with a vision of destruction. He cried out and sank to his knees when he saw what had happened to his garden (for that’s how Bimaadiz had come to feel about it). Jiigibiig and Zhookaagiizhigookwe came running, and they were as dismayed as he was.
No one will believe that animals did this, and what villagers would do it? Bimaadiz was convinced that he would be blamed and that now he would never be allowed to marry Eta. His parents were afraid he would kill himself and were equally sure that the trust placed in their family would dissolve into doubt and suspicion, so they were almost as sad as Bimaadiz was.
Just then the Deputy Agent and his assistant arrived on horseback. The Deputy Agent, whose name was Schiller, was a young man, no older than thirty. He was well educated, hardworking, and fun loving. He liked all those around him to be happy because his own enjoyment of life suffered when those close to him, even those he didn’t know, were sad. He surveyed the garden and asked what had happened.
Jiigibiig and Zhookaagiizhigookwe begged his forgiveness.
“It isn’t our fault. We’re victims here. Some evildoer ruined our work and that of our son,” pleaded Zhookaagiizhigookwe. “The trust placed in our family has been compromised and it threatens the success of our son’s marriage.”
