Nicolai opened his eyes and the general bid him shut them again, he’d not yet done. The next thing Nicolai saw was a tired looking man seated behind a desk. There were two stacks of paper upon the desk, one on the man’s left very large, another on his right very short. The man had an office to himself with a large window behind his chair. The window looked out from a high floor onto another building, very close. The ledge of that building level with the man’s window was piled with six or so inches of snow. A large icicle dangled from its edge. And very little else happened. Nicolai recognized the office as his own and the man as himself many years younger.
The light outside slowly faded and Nicolai worked his way through the tall stack of papers. Some time, long after the sun had set, a phone on the desk rang. Nicolai answered it and listened intently for a minute. He then looked around and visibly slumped, but then immediately straightened. He spoke some words of agreement, or understanding, into the phone and hung up. For a long time after, he sat looking out the window watching little droplets of water plunk off of the icicle. He stood and paced the room as if deciding upon a proper course, and then looking dutifully at the papers on his desk, decided to sit and continue working. He did not turn and watch as the icicle across broke away and fell.
The next image that was presented to him was of the same man (himself) this time much older than before, closer perhaps to his present age, trudging through heavy drifts of snow. Behind him, in front of him, to his left and right, others of a like purpose hurried to a gathering in the center of a snow laden field. Some of them fell through the snow and were buried, and some of those did not resurface. Eventually, however, almost all arrived. Nicolai saw himself circling the group in a vain attempt to get closer to the center. But his attention was drawn away from that, his grounded self, when it became evident that things were about to begin. Silence spread over the ceremony and all involved bowed their heads. Nicolai could see, as the snow drifts eased, that at the gathering’s center was a long oblong box of dark pine and it was to this that all paid their homage. A preacher next to the box guided their grieving as the other external Nicolai still circled and wondered what it was all about.
When the small prayers they’d said were done and the last frozen tear drops bounded down the last dry cheeks, the box was lowered not too gently into the ground, and covered with dirt. A headstone was placed, and before it was hidden by the snow, Nicolai could read the name “Elisabeta” graven upon it. The funeral was over and all dispersed and every evidence of the matter was hidden by the snow even to the mourners’ footprints; and Nicolai watched himself set off for the fields perimeter. Just before the image disappeared completely, Nicolai saw himself appear again far in the distance, walking quickly behind two men barely visible in the white coats they wore.
Nicolai opened his eyes and saw the general standing forlorn before him. He’d placed the last of the reels back into the wheelbarrow and was hunched, hat in hand, at the foot of the bed. He sat then on the edge of the bed and sighed. He looked very, very tired. “I’m tired my friend. Oh so tired. You’ve seen the last of what I’ve to offer, and if you’ll have it, I’d like to take the opportunity to render my resignation, retirement if you will. Hard work it is and me with a time-share wasting away in the Caribbean. With that, it’s been a life.” Nicolai nodded and the general stood and with one final salute (which Nicolai, restrained as he was, could not return) he lifted again his load, and a bit brighter than when he’d entered, he left the room and Nicolai at last to himself.
Except for the young man next to him. His plight evoked even more emotion from Nicolai now, knowing as he did the torture of being bound; and that man was bound by far stronger bonds than Nicolai’s. Even sadder was the opened and empty (almost) box of chocolate cherries at his side. For when, or if, he did recover, he would look over and see that sole well-wisher’s gift, and see it opened, and see it empty, and would think, “I am alone,” and that is the saddest thing of all. Nicolai turned his head away and tried to rest. He did not know what would happen next, but hoped and suspected that whatever it was would come in the morning, and felt that sleep would be the best way to use that time. Besides, he was beginning to feel ill again. Not from all this mess, he thought, but from the drowning. I’ve certainly had a day of it.
Then the man next to him started to dieoh, he’d begun dying a long time ago, but now he really started to die and every machine in the room verified the fact with a unified blaring tone. The young man sat up as a sudden consciousness came to him. He looked out and saw the dark night. He looked at Nicolai. He looked scared. And then he collapsed again onto the bed. And simply lay there (well, simply except for a few intermittent spasms). Thirty seconds passed and nobody came, one minute passed (total, not plus the prior thirty seconds) and the guard posted to watch Nicolai, and now napping, did not wake up. And the man continued to die, forgotten even now. He stopped breathing. Two more minutes passed, irreparable brain damage occurs at six (or five depending on who you talk to). Nicolai began yelling for a nurse, or a doctor, for help. A nurse appeared at his door, she finished fastening the top button of her blouse as she stopped. She saw immediately what had happened and yelled off for a doctor and one stepped immediately into view behind her.
The doctor rushed to the young man’s bedside and instructed the nurse to go for assistance. He first checked all of the machinery and seemed satisfied that it was in working order. The young man stopped convulsing and a yellow-to-brown liquid began spewing from his mouth. The doctor stood on the far side of the bed and neglected to fully draw the curtain, leaving Nicolai with an unappealing view from which he could not draw himself away. The doctor pounded upon his chest. He wiped the last of the gook from the young man’s lips and used a pump to force oxygen into his lungs. The guard slept. The young man did not resume breathing, he was dying. Two minutes had passed since the nurse had gone for help, four total since he had stopped breathing, leaving only one (or two, depending on who you ask) until there was certainly no return.
Help arrived. Two doctors wheeled in a large machine which looked much like the others. They realized after bringing it in, however, that the young man was already attached to one. They pushed it aside. “I’m making the incision,” one of them said, but did not. The others groaned. The one who had spoken (back to Nicolai, who could no longer see much) lifted his arms to shoulder height, palms up, hands pointing out, and queried, “What? Where?” They continued their efforts to no avail. Five minutes (total) passed as well as six and sevenNicolai watched them tick away on his bedside clock. The young man had been still now for some time. The doctors ceased their activity, it was done. Then he suddenly opened his eyes, which shocked Nicolai, but not the others, and his eyeballs frittered frenetically and then stopped. They turned off all of the machines (“Hell of an electric bill,” same comedian, same response) and one announced his time of death: 2:17 AM. His face was covered and the curtain at long last drawn. The last cherry was not filched. When everyone had left, Nicolai glanced over at the guard: he still slept.
It began in his big toe, the exposed one (Lucille or Sheri had never re-socked it), a little twitch. It didn’t take long before the force of it consumed the whole of the leg, and this time it was doubly painful due to the fact that he could not twist and tense his leg according to the exercises he generally used to wear out the muscles and find relief. But it was somehow more bearable, or unnoticeable, or such an integral part of the sudden symphony of sorrow and fear that consumed him, that he did not (notice it? No, he certainly noticed it; mind it, feel it, heed it) mind it as much. All Nicolai knew then was that he did not wish to die. He would let them bind him, imprison him, extradite and export him, flog him, curse him (oh, that they would), mistreat and dislike him; these things he would accept and more (don’t have to like them, just take them) as long as he could live. His past, at least those tiny important pieces of it (puzzle pieces, dancing men, see Life, &c, see Perec, George) which the general cont
rolled, was lost to him, but he had some of it, some postcards of himself stored in idle moments and he would have new memories yet made to occupy him; and as long as he could count one, two, three, though he might go no higher, he wished to live.
When the young man had looked at him, he had more than pain in his eyes, and little of that if any (Nicolai himself remembered the physical thrill he had felt upon approaching death). What struck Nicolai was the envy, his eyes were fierce with it. He had envied Nicolai his bonds, his troubles, in short, his life, and Nicolai saw his soul in that moment yearning so hard to jump the short distance between the beds that his (the young man’s) eyes almost burst with desire and if not for the taught existence of the optic nerve might have made the trip themselves.
Though he had a million times in the past pictured, as he lay down to sleep, a noose yanked about his neck, a long-barreled gun in his mouth, a large heavy block dropping from a great height and perfectly crushing his head, and thought himself serious in those wishful dreams, he now repented the whole of those nasty visions. Shyster had mentioned execution and Nicolai had secretly thought “so let it be done and I’ll trouble you all no more”. You cavalier fool, you’ve wished the worst upon yourself. And I have. He thought again of the gleeful expectation he’d felt when drowning. He was fortunate to have been saved before moving beyond the physical joy into the obvious terror of the whole business. His lungs ached again at the thought and they made him ill. He felt liquid building at the base of his esophagus and remembered the young man’s putrid discharge, which memory fueled his own nausea.
He collected himself (partially) and did not vomit or even cough. He breathed regularly again; energy in his leg exeunt stage left. I am not dying and I will accept what comes, for in a sense do I not deserve it? He thought perchance (i.e. there might have been a chance thatefficient little word) he did. There had been only four important, or at least ever-present, people in his life: his mother, father, Aunt Rifka, and Uncle Rooka. He had treated each of them harshly, generally by ignoring them in their need or altogether.
His mother had needed him terribly after his father’s death, but Nicolai was too concerned with his own affairs to spare her much attention, and the space and quiet of their seemingly near infinite house was complete for her with his constant and unthinking habit of locking himself up in his room after school (not with girls, no, he only wished) with this or that book or rarely, finishing some unwritten overdue paper or just day dreaming about what he might be like when he grew up. Hadn’t even thought of her financial concerns, but apparently Rooka had (unknown at the time to Nicolai, but explained, to his surprise, many years later. Rooka did not voice, but could not hide, his disappointment in Nicolai’s behavior during that time), and they were well taken care of (well enough). They (Rooka and Nicolai’s mother) were not even related, but Rooka saw a responsibility there, and so obvious a one, that Nicolai had not.
Then when she had diedNicolai remembered it so brilliantly now with the general’s helping handhe had paid her a final insult by not even taking the absolute micron of forethought and kindness and time that would have been required to go to her funeral. True, the situation had not been ideal. One of his mother’s friend’s sons had called him to tell him of the misfortune, but he’d had trouble getting through because Nicolai’s phone had been disconnected. He finally found the number at Nicolai’s office, and had reached him there, by that time however his mother had been gone two days and if he had wished to go to the funeral he would have to have gone that night (to the last viewing that is, the burial itself was to be the following morning).
It hadn’t caught Nicolai off guard, her dying, she had been sick for several months and he had seen her deteriorate over those months, and eventually to shield himself from it had stopped visiting altogether, but he knew well she was on her way. That night then, with piles of work in front of him and deadlines ahead, he had made the regretful, even sinful, decision not to go. I will go tomorrow to the funeral and that will be enough, he had thought and worked on late into the night. Comically, almost, he had overslept his last chance the next day. He’d gone anyway, too late, and found everyone gone and only a soft mound of loosely packed earth and a small headstone which declared her a good person and further: “buried by her loving son Nicolai.” He giggled now remembering this, because he finally saw that he had at last been to her funeral and he knew now when and where (not yet how, nor never) and he thought himself better late than never. Thank you, but it still does not erase my original guilt.
His father was a-whole-nother kettle of fish. What respect or duty Nicolai owed him was still unclear, no more perhaps than any child to any father: gratitude for the small pieces of genetic mortar graciously contributed to the mix. Did I give him even that? He didn’t think so. Certainly he wasn’t allowed the years that most have to relate to their fathers, to grow into them, he had died while Nicolai was still quite young, sixteen? seventeen? sixteen. So it would be foolish for him to berate himself over acts before that, the trouble spot for his conscience now was his behavior upon the man’s death.
It was a sudden death and quite ridiculous really, but of the tragically comic variety, one of those truly freak events that adorn the covers of the better (and lesser) tabloids. The story was reported as follows:
March 15, LondonAlexander Vicoff of Essex, an Insurance officer with Lloyds, was taking his lunch in the financial district about 1:00 PM. A Mrs. Buxbery of Tower Hamlets recounts: “So there I’m walking right, and suddenly I hear this whistling, real annoying like, and I look around and think to smash him with me bag. I identify this mad-whistler and am about to give him a piece of it when suddenlyhe’s across the street mind you, in front of the old Barrit Bankthese thugs, real mean looking lot, I can see the hair on their knuckles, yes even across the street, rush out of the bank with guns, they were big ones, the guns, and they abduct him like real violent you know and I dropped me poochstill haven’t found him, tiny poodle, white, answers to name of Gertrude, but he’s a boy and no, I won’t explainthen the coppers came and shot him dead and that’s what I saw, but I won’t testify.”
Apparently, the police believed Mr. Vicoff to be one of the bank robbers. Const. Clint Black: “I seen him with the perpetrators and he seemed the meanest of the bunch. I had my chance and shot him.” Det. Firestone of Scotland Yard replied to some of our questions: “Reports that Const. Black had been drinking at the time are somewhat exaggerated.” Detectives are still investigating whether Mr. Vicoff was involved in the crime. Mr. Vicoff is survived by a wife, Elisabeta, and son, Nicolai. The other perpetrators escaped in a black Chevrolet according to witnesses.
After the accident, Nicolai grieved with his mother. It was a natural, good grieving at first, but then when the time came for the burial, he became suddenly withdrawn or aloof. On the very day of the funeral, Nicolai had a minor chess tournament at school which he flatly refused to miss. His mother not knowing what to do and confused and worried about the course her own life would take did not fight him, but solemnly drove him to the tournament. Nicolai never went to his father’s funeral and he thought sadly now in his bed, I cannot even remember who won the tournament.
In Rifka’s end he of course had played a much more active and somewhat vile role. She was no heavenly creature herself, but once she was, if not exactly saintly then at least full of sweetness. She had always been a vixen, teasing her sister’s husband, but she had dreams, verve, &c. Whatever, fine, she had abandoned the family for America, but she at least came back for his mother’s funeral and after that Nicolai should have corresponded with her, kept the connection alive, performed his familial responsibilities. Then of course, when he had finally made it to her doorstep he hadwell, he’d certainly thought enough of that for one thing. The personal torture of it was still immense.
And of course there was Rooka. He had gotten off to such a wonderful start with him. Visited often, wrote more, but then too something had happened
and yes it was Nicolai’s fault. That visit, that particular and last visit had been no more (nor less) unusual than others, but something had snapped and Nicolai felt a sudden crushing fear, a simple wish to be done with it (what? responsibility, his to Rooka, an aged and troubled uncle) once and (truly) for all. His role in Rooka’s deathwhile not (he believed still strongly) directcould not be denied in an emotional sense. How many letters had Rooka sent himat first inquiring into his well being, later pleading for a clemency, the denial of which he could not fathom. Nicolai had ignored them all and they had eventually stopped and then Rooka was taken away from him, that which he’d for so long denied himself and now desired more than anything else.
Yes, he was guilty of these crimes and perhaps the punishment he was to receive would redeem him, but he doubted it. It was deserved, even if it was to be death which he feared most. He passed three days in and out of consciousness, but ever-consumed with these thoughts. His distress (not despair, he’d beaten that and it would not return) complicated the physical ailments from which he suffered, but time and the gracious (oh so gracious, you know not whom you cure) care of the doctors brought him out of his choler, and two days after he recovered they came and took him away. He was ready to go and was led from the hospital in handcuffs (will my hands never be free again? I’ve got an awful itch). Oh, but you will scratch that itch well, won’t you? You’re asking for it. You’re dying for it. No, you’re dying for it. Oh yeah, I forgot.
Chapter 10
They left in a black Chevy. It was small, square, old, and uncomfortable; in short, a very typical unmarked (might as well not be) police car. Nicolai sat in the back seat alone, a detective drove, and a uniformed officer sat in the passenger seat (the death seat, Nicolai thought and made a joke to that effect which did not go over so well). They headed uptown on First avenue to an unspecified (to Nicolai) location north of the city, some place they would hold on to him until things (extradition, guilt, &c.) were decided. Nicolai sat in the back struggling to find a comfortable positionnearly impossible with the handcuffs cutting into his wrists and back (got a nasty bruise there on the third vertebrae up, “watch the coccyx, watch the coccyx,” just wanted to say that, they did not laugh)and watching the battling traffic which was not so bad after Fifty-ninth street.
I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep Page 23
