* * *
But the aggravation was being replaced now by something else, because the chauffeur was asking him to respond. In effect, for him to be someone. Why couldn’t he remember? Perhaps he should go straight to the doctor. Thank god for the chauffeur, after all. He, the chauffeur, knew who LC was. Indeed, on the leather envelope at his side (which his left hand nervously covered) were the initials in slight, elegant gold. LC. And the chauffeur knew what these initials stood for. He knew who he, LC, was. He even had some knowledge of his schedule, where he, LC, was supposed to be going. “Follow the schedule. That’s it.” This was soft, but it rose as he repeated, “Yes, by all means, follow the schedule.”
The car slid smoothly away from the curb. The chauffeur wheeled it slowly up Madison Avenue without comment. At LC’s fingertips were control buttons. He pushed one on the far right, and quiet music rolled into the back. It was made by a violinist and … what was that … a saxophonist, it seemed. He did not know who it was. Drums and bass came in seamlessly as the sounds throbbed through the car in gentle harmonies. It pulled at him very softly. He rather liked it, but had no idea whose music it was.
As the car rolled up Madison, LC pulled at the leather envelope and picked it up. It was obvious that it belonged to him the way the rest of these things (or the rest of this situation) did. But he’d been too caught in wonder, blank wonder, and an aggravation that perhaps had now turned the corner toward something more stark. As the car took a right turn, he finally drew the envelope up fully into his hands and opened it. There was only a single sheet of paper and a typed schedule on it. At the top of the paper in gold lettering, Close Securities- LC. Directly beneath this title, the heading, Schedule: Sept. 1. The schedule, his, read:
12pm Bank—Mr. R.
2pm Office—Briefing
4pm Les Arouilles(?)
6pm Home
11pm Depart Watercrest Port for B.
The schedule was initialed A.L., with a cc: to J.W. & R.M. The question mark caught his eye. Why was it there? He looked up at the chauffeur, who was moving his head very slightly to the music and looking straight ahead. The music was playing sweetly, but there was no other sound, not even the car or the traffic.
In a few minutes, the handsome Bentley had circled to Park Avenue just above 70th Street, pulling to a stop in front of a very narrow and new looking building that seemed like it was made of metal. The building was not as tall as the other buildings on both sides, and though it was only slightly shorter, its metallic look made it stand apart. It was not aluminum but seemed like highly polished steel, with no bolts in sight. What was even more striking about this piece of metal sculpture that seemed to be a building was that there were no windows. And just as the building itself seemed narrow in comparison with the buildings on both sides, the entrance also seemed very narrow.
There was an understated sign cut into the metal which read, Close Securities. The chauffeur exited without looking back at LC, and was quickly pulling open the rear door for him to exit. What was going on? LC was moving to get out, and he was out, but a larger flood of thoughts washed behind his eyes. I don’t know who I am. I don’t even know that. But it all seems arranged and orderly. A schedule. He had the leather envelope in his hand. It may be that all of this would soon be clarified … That seemed stupid. He wanted to turn and ask the chauffeur, but he was moving toward the wooden door of the metal building. He was already pushing it, holding it open for LC to enter. LC tried to move as if he was in control, but he was being swept along. He knew nothing except what the chauffeur said, what the check read, and the credit cards, the money, the schedule. He glanced at the street signs as he passed into the building, and it occurred to him that he did not even recognize the streets. East 70th and Park. The newspapers had said New York. He recognized New York as a word, a geographic location, but he had never been there. He had no knowledge of New York. He had no knowledge of anything.
They had now passed into a lobby, which, unlikely as it might seem, was paneled completely in wood. There were thick rugs somewhat darker than the wood on the lobby floors. On the walls, large abstract paintings matched the wood and the rugs. On one wall, a small tasteful sign: Close Securities. And against another wall just before a bank of elevators, a middle-aged man in a gray suit stood up quickly as LC and the chauffeur entered, nodding respectfully.
The chauffeur led the way past the group of elevators to a narrow wooden door at the back of the lobby. They stepped through it and there was a smaller elevator. The chauffeur pushed the button and the door of this elevator slid open. There were two leather jump-seats at the back of the elevator, which apparently could be pulled into place if a rider wanted to sit. But LC could make no independent moves, though when the chauffeur moved to pull down one of the seats, LC made a move with his head that seemed to say that he did not want to sit. But otherwise, the chauffeur said nothing.
The building was twenty stories high and the elevator shot swiftly up, with the lights on the board near its roof blinking as they passed each floor. In a few seconds, the elevator stopped smoothly and the door slid open. The chauffeur stepped out of the elevator, leading the way. They had entered a large room. It was an office, but was outfitted not for any heavy work, but rather to house a presence—a person whose tastes were somewhat intellectual and artistic, and very wealthy.
The taste ran to antique books, wood, Persian and Chinese rugs, and hard-edged abstractions on the wall. There was a highly polished bar and high fidelity components. And for the first time, there was a window. The chauffeur touched a switch and one panel in a wall slid back to reveal a glass-enclosed balcony, somewhat like a hot house with various kinds of flora.
“You want the roof opened, sir?” the chauffeur asked softly.
LC could only nod, and in a moment the glass panels slid away and a cool breeze from the open city swept in. LC moved to the edge of the terrace and looked down at the swirling streets below, across the avenue toward the East River and Queens. The trees on the roof swayed and the air was clear. Behind LC, the chauffeur moved and stepped close to him, holding a drink which he then handed to LC, as if he was expected to.
“You have fifteen minutes, sir. You want me to ring for Miss London?”
What would LC say? He thought. And what would he say to a secretary? Maybe she would open up some path to what was happening. It was probably amnesia or something. He did not even know his name. But the idea of a name had not meant anything to him until this moment. Apparently, he was LC and he had some position of responsibility and authority at Close Securities. He could ascertain these things, but they seemed abstract. They were words, in his head, of some meaning. But they signified nothing specific or ultimately clarifying to him.
He had accepted the chauffeur’s offer. This tall, dark-skinned black man in the elegant clothes. The chauffeur, LC noted, was dressed as tastefully as he, but how he got in the clothes he had on was blank as well. He appreciated the things he saw and had on and seemed to have, but still there was a distance between him and all of it, because he understood nothing.
The chauffeur went to the desk and pressed a button. “Miss London.” Turning toward LC, he said, “If there is nothing else, sir, I’ll be in the outer office at 3:30.”
LC nodded, trying to be more positive. But still he said nothing. He wondered if that bothered the chauffeur, but apparently it did not. The chauffeur made a deferential gesture with his head and as he was leaving, a tall middle-aged woman with tinted wire-rim glasses and gray suit with light gray scarf knotted like a tie came into the room. She wore black Cuban heels and carried a leather folder and gold pen. She was smiling as an efficient person smiles to let her boss know that she has completed all assigned tasks and is ready for anything.
“Sir,” she said simply, “I hope you are well.”
LC nodded, at a loss as how to respond. The woman—her name was London, the chauffeur had said—stopped to open her folder and began speaking like the efficient person
she seemed. It was a low, steady, airy voice, like one that could be heard over loudspeakers in airports or department stores. “Everything is prepared for the meeting, sir. I have the agenda. Nothing special, just the preparation for your trip tonight.”
She handed a paper from the folder to LC. It listed four names, and under them in brief sentences the apparent responsibilities they had while LC was on his trip.
“Mr. Wallace, Mr. Edrick, Mr. Costen, and Mr. Wray are all waiting in the conference room. They each have a brief response to the assignments they’ve been given in your absence, but there seems to be no real hitch. It should go smoothly. Mr. Williams is about to go into the conference room. He’ll arrive at Watercrest at 10 p.m. to accompany you. Mr. Scales is finishing up the last tasks he has in that regard, and of course will be waiting in the outer office when the meeting is finished.”
The sheet read:
Wallace: Communications between LC and staff and any board members. Project B maintenance.
Edrick: Project B maintenance and development.
Costen: Project C projections and design.
Wray: Normal comptroller functions—special attention to target investment area.
There was a space under this list, then:
Williams: Overview of B trip goals.
“The rest of the papers and charts are here,” Miss London said, holding up the folder to LC. He automatically took it from her. He had said nothing at all. He wondered how he looked. “I will see if Mr. Williams has come in and all is ready.” She stepped away from LC and slid another panel back in the wall. On the other side, five men sat at a long table in a high-ceilinged room with what appeared to be a slit running around the entire top part of the wall that admitted light. “They are all ready, sir.” Miss London gestured and LC, knowing no other course, moved toward them through the door.
The five men—one closest to him (this must be Williams) and the other four ranged around at the far end of the table— all stood and acknowledged LC’s entrance. They spoke deferentially and seemed to smile as one, not with happiness but out of mutual knowledge and perhaps security. Miss London followed LC into the room and took a seat by the wall with steno pad in hand, also smiling.
LC was at a loss. Anyone could, perhaps, say the things that would start such a meeting, with the proper background. LC simply placed the folder Miss London had given him on the table, opened it, and looked at the gentlemen closest to him. (All these men seemed in their late forties or fifties, except one who sat directly opposite LC, and the one closest to him LC took for Williams. These two were older. LC was actually around the same age as the three other men, somewhat younger than Williams and the man who sat opposite.)
As LC opened the folder, the man who seemed like Williams took up the calling out of items on the agenda, and each man in turn discussed what was outlined. All of the men in the room looked similar. They were dressed in dark suits (with some diversity according to taste or whatever—however, not much) and none of them looked at all “ethnic.”
LC was fascinated at the reporting that went on. Williams made a few corrections, additions, extensions, but for the most part all was straightforward. Of course, LC had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about. He must have had some training in … something. He must have some background. But he did not know it. He did not know anything but the surfaces of things. Words without substance, with invisible contexts.
But then why sit and go through with all of this? He could understand to a certain extent some things as they unfolded in front of him. Close Securities was an investment firm, he gathered. These men were high officers in that firm, reporting to LC, who was going on a trip. The place “B,” which was LC’s destination, he could not even ascertain from the reporting. But from Williams, who seemed to be his closest assistant, “B” was not too far away. The firm’s Learjet would take them there. It was a combination of business and relaxation. A deal was to be cooked up with a bank and local investors in “B,” and Williams would do most of the work with LC there to provide the image of Close Securities’ highest commitment to the project, but at the same time he would be mostly relaxing. Or so it seemed.
Why did LC let it go on? He was fixed in the chair staring at one, then the other, fascinated by a life in which he was a central, even controlling figure, but of which he knew nothing. He had said nothing at the table. He had said nothing at the meeting. He nodded at a couple of witticisms but doubted whether he had smiled. He remembered the face in the glass did not smile, and that seemed strange, amazing. It alerted him that something was out of whack. Yet the talk went on, the business, the slight humor, the deference. Was it simply his face and body that commanded this obvious life of power and luxury? Nothing moved through his mind but blankness and questions about blankness. He knew what these people said, but only a trifle of it. And that was his entire fix on reality. The talking and smiling went on. Was he always going to be like this? Perhaps if he stopped them now and told them the truth, he could be cured. For the first time, he acknowledged that he must be ill, or else all these other people were. But they know who they are. They are performing their tasks efficiently and happily. I am in darkness, with no road in or out, he thought. This could not go on. The game had gone far enough. So he began to talk.
“I cannot remember my name or who I am. Everything is blank and dark, with no way in or out. I found myself in front of a shop window and didn’t even recognize who I was. My face in the glass startled me. I would have wandered away, except the chauffeur picked me up and brought me here. I have no knowledge at all of what you are talking about or what my role here is. I have no information or memory. It is all blank.”
At this, LC threw up his hands in a gesture of futility and waited. But everyone in the room was laughing. As he stood and made a broader gesture of futility, they all stood and laughed even harder and pounded each other on the back. Even Miss London stood and laughed, though with a certain deference. Williams took LC’s hand, shaking it to show how effective his statement had been. They all stood laughing and addressing each other at LC’s statement. And then they started to move out of the room, still delighted with it all.
Second Ending
After the others had left, Miss London moved the door so that LC could go back into his office. She quickly made him a drink and just as quickly opened the door to her office. The chauffeur, Scales, stood up as she entered. LC did not know what the drink was. It was brownish. He tried to look at the bottle she had poured from. It was Scotch, into which she had put water and ice. But LC knew nothing of drinking.
Scales stepped forward and LC acknowledged his presence by downing the drink. It was warming and calming. The events of the boardroom had sent his head spinning a bit. He had not known how to react so he said nothing, merely looking from one to the other of his laughing apparent-colleagues. His dilemma was humorous to them. It might be humorous to LC as well, if he could carry it correctly, he reasoned. But still, he had grown more and more uncomfortable, not knowing anything. And when he’d said this, it sounded ridiculous. Perhaps if he had used the word “amnesia,” they would have taken him more seriously. That’s why such words exist—to make experiences seem more readily disposable.
Scales carried an attaché case in his hand with LC’s initials on it. “Mr. Scales has all the documents, sir.” Miss London extended her hand. “Have a good trip. We will take care of everything.”
LC could only nod and pump her hand, as if acknowledging what it meant. He had said literally nothing but the truth, and it had contributed some light humor to the events, nothing else. At no time had he said anything to hide anything. It is like a story I read, he thought. Yes, a story. And that thought fascinated him, because for the first time there was some vague shadow of a past or an identity. Some story I read, he thought. What story? Where? And who read it?
As Scales and LC descended in the private elevator once more, LC figured there was a way he could get more information befo
re opening up again. This time he would say “amnesia,” and they would take him seriously.
“What goes on in here?” LC asked Scales.
“Where, sir?”
“In this building we’re in. In these offices on all these floors.”
Scales looked momentarily puzzled. He replied, “You want to stop on a certain floor, sir? Would you want to walk through a floor of offices before you go? You want me to contact Miss London?”
“No. I want to stop now on any floor—just to look. I want to know that, at least. I want to see.”
“Yes, sir.” Scales pushed a button on the control panel. The elevator stopped smoothly and the door slid open soundlessly. Scales held his hand against the door so that it might not close inadvertently. They stepped out into a long paneled corridor which seemed doorless, yet at certain points there were narrow glass slits which apparently enabled one to look though to the other side of the walls.
“What is this?” LC wanted to know.
“Uh, this is the third floor, sir. There are production rooms here, of course.”
“Production?” LC wanted to know more and see. “Let’s go in one.”
“Of course.” Scales moved smartly but not too quickly up the hall. He pressed a button and a panel slid open in the wall, so that they could enter. Another step and LC would be at the opening, but he glanced through one of the slits as he moved toward it. There were many people moving back and forth, seeming to pick up … something. But he had already gotten to the opening and Scales stood at one side to let him enter. At the door, a middle-aged man with thick glasses immediately jumped to his feet from a desk place, in such a way as to command the entire large room that lay beyond the door.
LC had expected an office or series of offices. Instead, there was one huge room, though the walls were curved in odd ways so that he could not see all of the room at once. On the desk of the man that had stood up with great deference were a series of monitors that enabled him to see throughout this room and what seemed like other large rooms on the other side of this one.
Tales of the Out & the Gone Page 9
