“No no no no no,” he objected.
“What’s wrong?” He had become very pale.
“Nothing. Just a terrible fear of heights, you know. Let’s move on elsewhere.” She agreed and they did. He was all right again in a few moments, but the surprise of it all had heightened his natural wariness and he turned to her. “I saw you on the train the other day. Who was it you met?”
“Oh, that was Jack, Jack Shyster. We were going to a deposition.”
“I don’t suppose you know anything that would help with my situation?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“Have you ever met Contrari?”
“I’ve only been working there for a couple of months, no.” She took his hand and held it and he felt silly for having berated her with questions. My, he thought, this is rather pleasant. She stopped suddenly, still holding the one hand and immediately grabbing the other. “Nicolai,” she said and kissed him hard on the mouth, “I’m being followed. Don’t look. Shhh. Let’s just, just keep going, OK?” They did, and fast.
“Who is following you?” He asked.
“I’m not sure, Jack has been working on something dangerous. I think it might have to do with that.” She got ahead of him, letting go of his hand.
He had to yell to reach her, “Dangerous? What’s it got to do with you?”
She yelled back as her pace quickened still, “What?” As she ran she kept glancing back at their pursuer; Nicolai did too, but saw nothing.
“What’s it all about?” he yelled.
“About? I don’t know. Murder maybe, or rape.”
“What?” She was running as fast as possible now and outpacing Nicolai by ten or so feet.
“Murder or maybe rape!”
“What?”
“Rape! Rape!” The exhaustion and stress of running got to her and she collapsed. Nicolai caught up with her and supported her in his arms as she fell. All was silent except for the echoing of her last words, her last unfortunate words, the implication of which Nicolai did not realize untilin the process of reviving herhe felt strong arms at his collar.
“She’s all right,” he said to the people gathering, “in a minute she’ll be all right.” He heard one of them say something about the police. “No, really, she just fainted.” The man at his collar pulled him up by it and socked him in the eye. He understood now, they didn’t. He pointed this out to them; “No, you don’t understand. I’m with her. We were having a conversation about...I’m trying to help her.” The man who hit him had closed ears to these entreaties and was approaching him slowly. God damn vigilantes.
Nicolai began to run. The other was fast in his pursuit, but tripped and lost ground to the scurrying Nicolai, who took advantage of a thick patch of trees to further his lead. He was trying to head in as eastwardly a direction as he could, praying for the safety of the train. He ran then and ducked and sidestepped and jumped and in all looked not unlike some of the other adventurous joggers trekking through the woods. He looked behind him to check the status of the confused vigilante who was chasing him, who, Nicolai could see, had opted not to enter the woods, but was standing just outside of it instructing some police officers as to the direction Nicolai had headed and they in turn were circumnavigating the thicket, preparing to capture him on the other side. He made a quick change in direction and after a while emerged almost exactly where he had entered. Ha, you saps, he thought, caught you with your pants down. He heard a whistle; they had spotted him. He ran again and following a pathnearly out of breath, but with the buildings and salvation of the east side within sightaround a corner, he found himself in the presence of someone he knew.
“Son,” the man asked, “Are you a Christian man?”
“Help,” Nicolai begged, “He-help me?”
And the gospel of Chong was, “Help? Yes here, quickly.” He stepped down from his soapbox (an act more difficult than before due to a bulky bandage on his right foot) and pushed it aside, revealing a tunnel. Nicolai did not hesitate, and squeezed into the hole which was immediately covered again.
Above, he could hear the man continue as before. He listened for a moment and when the timpani music began, resumed his journey downwards. It was a long climb and without any sort of ladder or stairs, instead Nicolai had to support himself by pushing against both sides of the tunnel and it was small enough to make this a simple, if cumbersome, project. The tunnel itself descended approximately fifty feet below the surface where it opened into a small chamber. Nicolai soon reached this aperture and losing hold, fell the five feet which separated it from the floor. Well, he thought, at the least I am not going to prison; I am, however, buried alive. Fair trade, wouldn’t you say? He got up from the ground and stoodouchbumping his head, and looked around aided by a light bulb which hung from the ceiling. There wasn’t much to look at. It was a square room, having equal length walls on all sides. A bulb hung as described in the center and the hole from which he’d dropped loomed above him in the corner, a doorwhich he’d found securely lockedtook up a portion of one wall and a small table with two chairs adorned another. He sat with nothing to do but wait and wonder: Had his life always been so difficult? As to miserable, that it had been on and off, just as anybody else’s has. He had had no debilitating illnesses, did not suffer from allergies or migraines, and functioned sexually as wellif not as oftenas could be expected. Regarding difficulty or complexity however, he did not think so. University had not presented any major frustrations, having realized early on that he was not terribly deft at academics, and accepting that disposition. Work had come easy after, and while perhaps a bit droll did not present any major challenge. Of ambition, he had none excepting for the life of leisure Rooka’s death seemed to promise; and loves, loves had been infrequent, but he did not pursue them often, and those he did, not being of the highest pedigree, offered little resistance and until late, those he most desired he did not pursue and there was no difficulty in denying himself the humiliation which was the inevitable conclusion of such pastimes. In all, his daily denizen of tasks presentedwith the exception of dealings with banks, credit agencies, realtors, and the like, the existence of which cause no end of difficulties for all human kindlittle or no difficulties. Why then had the promiseand that by a strange Italian, the promises of which should always be questioned; he recalled that he had still not actually seen the willof Rooka’s fortune affected his basic life structure so much, loosing desire (for women), passion (for leisure), and ambition (for the elusive good things in life)? The worst effect of all, however, was the almost constant, winding, whining philosophizing that these new circumstances brought to his brain. And poetry! What on earth possessed him to write poetry? Nice rhyme too, “verve” and “optic-nerve”. Oh but how he’d tortured over it. Not this word, no, that. How many syllables was that? Need two more here, need to lose one there, but can’t really do without that word. He laughed at himself. “Oh Christ! Well, it doesn’t matter now I guess. The situation in quite grave.” He laughed a lot at this last quip.
Suddenly, the man who had helped him fell through the hole and was in the room. He, unlike Nicolai, could stand there perfectly well. Nicolai, surprised by his arrival, stood quickly and hit his head again. Recovering, he said, “Thank God you’ve come. Thought I was done for.”
The man said, “Yes, thank God. Thank him a thousand times.” He then hushed Nicolai who was about to speak more and produced a little card which he inserted into a slot in the door, which in its turn, opened, first returning the card. Nicolai followed him through it and closed the door behind him, per the man’s request. They progressed then through a myriad of tunnels, some heading down to what seemed like it must have been the center of the Earth, others heading up at steep angles. They would turn left now, then left again, then right. These tunnels were surprisingly dry and clean and for that matter terribly well lit, unfortunately however they were just too short for Nicolaithe other man had no problemand after what see
med like hours of walking, climbing, and falling (this last mostly for Nicolai, though the other did trip now and then on some of the inclines, owing to his bandaged foot) Nicolai’s back was beginning to give. In the best fiction, the man would at that point have said, “We sit and rest now, and eat some.” Nicolai, however, did not hear this declaration until almost another hour of walking had passed.
At that point, they had reached another small chamber, the first of its kind they had come to since the original in which Nicolai started (and thought he’d ended), although they had passed many selfsame doors along the way (to Nicolai’s modest count 76, in 75 tunnels, though he thought his count must be off, being sure he had not ever seen two doors in a single tunnel). In any case, the chamber they were now in was exactly the same as that in which they’d originated, without the smallest variation in design, size, or orientation. They sat at the small table and the man unpacked a lunch (though it’s most likely supper time by now, Nicolai thought) consisting of some rice (cold), some chicken or beef or pork (by color and texture in this case indistinguishable), and some crepes. He divided them between the two and they ate in silence, as they had walked in silence, the man shushing Nicolai every time he tried to speak.
When they had done, the man cleared up the mess even to the few pieces of rice which had fallen on the floor. Nicolai expected them to move on again, but they did not. Instead, the man stared at him with angry eyes and said, “You saw Rasputin and did not warn me! That no good!”
Nicolai was flabbergasted (and guilty, of course, but he played it right), “Rasputin? I don’t understand.”
“You understand plenty. You saw him give me hotfoot. Ow! That no good. Then you think to ask for help?”
“No, no. I don’t know from Rasputin. Look, uh, look...what is your name again?”
“Chong.”
Lucky guess. “Anyway, look Chong, this is the man I saw.” He showed him the card which the little devil had dropped and Chong looked at it.
“Yes, yes. That Rasputin. Ken Rasputin. Standard and Poor. Pain in my ass!”
Nicolai took the card back and read it again. “No, no. You see that’s Robinson, not Rasputin.”
“Robinson?” He looked again at the card. “Oh no, you are right. Not Rasputin. Hmmm. Where is Rasputin?”
“I don’t know,” Nicolai said, “last I heard he was dead.”
“Rasputin dead? Oh,” he laughed here, “lucky day!” And the situation was defused. “Come on, lets go now. Now you will be safe. We will all be safe. Ha ha!” To say he was jubilant would be saying little. They traveled again, same as before, excepting that Chong was much more willing to converse; and Nicolai found him very easy to talk to. In due course, he explained his situation, describing the will, the money he expected (but had not received), Rifka’s attempt to claim his portion of the will (which in truth he exaggerated)leaving, prudently, out her death at his hands (and other extremities)and his despair (a more appropriate moment for the word) at the present state of affairs; not leaving out his financial situation.
In return he did not learn a smattering about Chong, who responded kindly to Nicolai’s questions, but revealed absolutely nothing about himself. In seeming substitution though, he offered up something better. “If you need job. I can get you one.”
“Job? I’d love to work, but I thought I had explained that I do not have working papers of any sort and am in fact living off a limited visa.”
“Don’t worry. Does not matter. I will tell you though, job is hard work. Very hard.”
“Well I’m no stranger to hard work.” In truth, he was, but did not say so.
“Okie Dokie. Good job I will get for you! You start today. Come on.” He quickened the pace and Nicolai was unsure of what he’d gotten himself into.
They walked a bit more, mostly on an incline, without making any turns and arrived again in one of the small rooms. This room, however, had the addition of another door, a silvery steel door with a modern look. Chong inserted his passcard into a slot in the wall and the door slid open revealing of all things an elevator. Inside there were three buttons labeled, ‘B’, ‘1’, and ‘2’, Chong hit the second one, the doors closed in response, and the elevator brought them up to ground level.
Chong darted out of the elevator first, still very excited at his believed oppressor’s demise, and then disappeared around a corner. Nicolai found himself now in a small room, actually, he thought, it’s quite a large room, appearing small because of the clutter of little machines. Each machine, sewing machines he now realized, was operated by a woman, sometimes aided by a little child. He noticed that one of the machines was not occupied. Oh no, have I ended up in some Chinese sweatshop? I think perhaps I should decline this certainly generous offer. Chong returned, “OK, all set up. You work in sweet shop.” Candy store? That doesn’t sound too taxing, and so he agreed, Chong however sat him down in front of the vacant sewing machine.
“Wait a minute, you said I was to work in the sweet shop.”
“That’s right. We are in sweet shop. Don’t worry. Work is hard, but good money. Trust me, God says if woman can do it, then so shall man. Amen.” All the women responded with an amen, too. One tagged on a hallelujah, but her accent corrupted it beyond recognition. “Have Phyllis,” he indicated the woman sitting next to him, “show you how to use machines. She speaks good English.” And in fact she did, with only a very slight accent.
She began to show him the operation of the machine and it was quite simple actually to use. Load the thread here, a little loop, insert fabric here, and then push the foot pedal, repeat. His task was to sew a little label onto some shirts. The label read, “Made in the USA” which it was, though not in the spirit the words seemed to imply, to Nicolai anyhow. While she was explaining this to him, he described the method in which he had arrived (leaving out the police chase) and asked her if she knew more about the tunnels. “Oh yes,” she said, “My great grandfather came to America in those tunnels. They are called The Tunnels of Liberty, though a more accurate translation would be The Glorious Tunnels of Essential Liberty, but that is too much of a mouthful.”
“Do you mean to say that those tunnels go straight through the Earth to China?”
“No, they do not. The center of the Earth is very hot, impassable. They go around, but do end up in China; and not only there, but everywhere. There are even, they say though I do not know of this, whole cities underground where people live. That sounds silly to me, but you have seen for yourself that the tunnels do exist.”
“Who built them?” he asked, incredulous now.
“Nobody knows, or if they do they do not tell me.”
“Who maintains them? Somebody must change all those light bulbs, oil the doors, press those identification cards.”
“These are things I don’t know. You can ask Chong, maybe he knows.” He had asked Chong, but Chong wouldn’t tell him. Their conversation ended and Nicolai got to work. Soon after, Chong, dressed in a ceremonial looking blue and red robe, began walking the room giving a small cookie (Is that an Oreo?) and a sip of Orangina to each of the women. Nicolai looked at Phyllis again. She was probably an attractive woman in her day, but now looked worn and old. Her hands were callused, her hair showing gray, and her back was terribly malformed. Something survived from her youth though, something in her eyes. He asked her, leaning in, how old she was. “Twenty five.”
The rest of the day or night, he wasn’t sure, because again there was no window present to betray the sun’s location, passed very slowly and there was no clear indication of when it was over, but at a certain point, he noticed that most of the women had gone and decided himself to quit (for the day). Chong was no longer around, but a woman who he’d learned actually owned the place was still there, and it was to her that he announced his exit.
“OK,” she said, “I pay you now.” She went over to his station and counted the number of pieces that he’d finished. “Twenty pieces, very little, but not bad for first day.
Five cents per piece equal one dollar.” She gave it to him.
One dollar? “One dollar? You’ve got to be insane. Surely there’s an error, because, you see, I’ve been sitting over there working for God knows how many, at least five or six, hours.”
“No mistake. Not by time, by piece. You do twenty. That’s one dollar. Maybe you get more tomorrow.”
“There will be no tomorrow!”
She insisted that there would be a tomorrow and that that fact had nothing to do with his apparent intention of not coming to work on that tomorrow; its existence, she claimed, could not be denied. She continued with an afterthought: he, however, did have an option of not participating in tomorrow, an act which could be accomplished by death only, but that if he so opted, it did not affect the existence of it, only his presence in it. She offered this last point as open to debate, with strong opinions on both sides; so with this gem of Chinese wisdom, she succeeded in robbing Nicolai of his triumphant moment. Nicolai, silently, left.
The streets were very quiet, very dark, and very empty. A profound odor of fish hung in the air. Along the side of the street were the broken crates and crumpled papers which delineate the corpse of an out-of-doors market, a phoenix-corpse only, which would rise again with the morning sun. Amongst the debris lay several ominous looking carcasses, unsaleable fish, left and ravished by cats. Nicolai watched a large black bird rummaging in the mess. It approached one of the feline-free fish, a large halibut with gleaming red eyes, and with its beak plucked out an eye, and without crushing it held it in its beak, perhaps licking its salty brine with its tongue, and then flew off.
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 15
