Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  “Meaning?” asks X with a straight face.

  “Meaning we’ve been waiting for you. Meaning she’s been waiting for you inside. Meaning . . . it was I who decoyed Brikke to Marlo, an innocent with a hyperactive imagination, as he had been preparing to capture Eron and use him as bait for the muse. It was not the right time. Brikke needed to be distracted.”

  “That’s it?” X asks, unimpressed. “That was your plan?”

  “The hubris. I was once the head of a college Lit Department.”

  “You told me. What does that have to do with—”

  “From your research, I picked up the books myself. Beowulf, Lord of the Rings . . . through the works of Shelley, Stevenson, Poe, Lovecraft, Baum.”

  X seethes. “But I’ve only publicly introduced the First Measures of my equation so far, how did you—”

  “We are supposed to be on the same side, aren’t we? But you had your—what? —Asperger’s and other quirks to deal with?”

  Realization hits hard. “You have my original work.”

  “You didn’t think for a minute you were the only person entitled to research this matter privately, did you?”

  “And if I told you I did?”

  “ENIGMA says nothing about any rules.” X takes it in. “Complementing your findings, of course, the harm of additional research would be what, exactly?”

  “You stole from me.”

  “The pot calling the kettle black, no pun intended . . . aside? No. Technically that would be Esme. I spied on you and hired her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are only one . . . child. Someone like Selu Hobbins, now he, he takes the much less direct approach to the same message.” The insult is intentional, transparently delivered to throw X off his mark. “By the release of your third or fourth letter, Searle informed you of a growing contingent of converts. The name ENIGMA was my idea, by the way; I felt it respectful at the time for obvious reasons, X—and yet you continued to keep us at arm’s length, including him, and you wonder why he left.” X can barely tolerate what he hears. “You’ve ignored us,” Jerry continues, “despite your bullshit protests that nobody listens to you. In fact, you remind me of my whiny eight-year-old grandson.”

  “One, Alan Turing got nothing on you. Two, your grandson must be a smart kid.”

  Jerry smirks. “ENIGMA no longer believes you’re capable of leading the charge. At least Malcolm Little engaged his followers.”

  X is about to say something else, but changes course. “My research is gathered from many sources; you have no idea. One single error in judgement, and—”

  “You’re right. You’ve lost your clarity.”

  “Then we really are back where we started, and you wonder why people don’t take you seriously. You write fairy tales. We can’t risk that.”

  “And if I told you I did?” X repeats, tolerating neither the disrespect nor the deflection. “Think for a minute that I was the only person entitled.”

  “Then Sherlock Holmes has nothing to worry about, and Ara has a fool for a shrink.”

  Every visible muscle of X’s neck and face tenses. Jerry judges the timing, and turns off the computer. “You’re aware there’s a price on your head?”

  “Was, last I checked.”

  “I hear times are changing. My family will never have to worry about money again.”

  “You won’t turn me in. Not yet. You see this?” He points to his face. “When you see me tense like this? I’m ready to jump—you—not give in because you figured me out.” Layla lifts the phone; Jerry sees her and waves her off. “Go ahead,” X says to her. “You can call security, but one thing. Your boss hasn’t determined where I stand and if I can still be of use.” He turns again to Jerry. “Your logic will kill you, you know. Ara and Eron, Adam and Eve . . . not a hell of a lot of difference there.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jerry asks.

  “How much time do you think you have?” X is smug with the awareness that, for now, he’ll successfully challenge Jerry’s greatest insecurity. “Oh, and Adam and Eve is the beginning, right? So everything would be fine then if the muse leads us back to those more innocent times, right?” Despite Jerry’s implied threats, X had him figured early—the store owner is horrified of dying. One more thing. As for Marlo, who you just referenced? Clever. Check your grimoires. Look up the demon Beleth. No allegiance to mortal or god and leads armies of demons just like him. Or her. Because, as we know, this particular demon took the human form of a small frail child. Nothing is as it appears.”

  Jerry is incensed. He gives in. “Come with me,” he says. “Who you came to see is just across the way. No further questions.”

  X is the most nervous he’s ever been.

  ~~~

  X sits. Sidra has been waiting. It’s you, he thinks. Finally, face to—

  “So you’re the kid who’s been watching me from my home window.”

  “How did you—”

  “Don’t ever underestimate me,” Sidra says. “Waiting for me long?” She adjusts her white robe as she sits.

  “Satin? They treat you well here?” X says.

  “Well enough.” X is self-conscious. He bites his lip awaiting more of an answer. “Jerry wouldn’t have let you in if he didn’t check you first. You really are a kid.”

  “I’m older than you think.”

  “You’re still a kid.”

  “And you’re still the first stripper to graduate Searle’s class.” Sidra stares at him, angrily awaiting his next words. “I know you too were once with Searle. I also know you’re leaving for Egypt in less than forty-eight hours, and you wanted one more paycheck of your own.”

  “Whatever.” She studies the boy as he drops his eyes and stares, as if hypnotized, at her cleavage. She relaxes her wrap, exposing that much more. “See anything you like?” X is embarrassed, but does not let on. “I doubt you’re the first virgin who’s ever visited me here.”

  “Who said—” X starts, defensively.

  She re-wraps her robe, tightly tying the strap. “What do you want, X?” Sidra’s visitor shifts in his seat and carefully slinks forward, clasping his hands as he places his elbows on the table. He nearly knocks over his glass of water in the process. “Watch it there.”

  “Relax,” he sternly replies. X’s sudden swing of mood surprises Sidra. “Almost doesn’t count.”

  Sidra decides she doesn’t want to engage this line any further. “What can I do for you?”

  “We even now?”

  “We even,” she mocks, forcing a smile.

  X nervously runs his hand through his hair. He finds his moment. “I need your . . .” His voice trails off.

  “You need my?”

  “I need your help.”

  That was unexpected. “Well,” she says, “ain’t that the shit.”

  “Ain’t it, though. Why did you think I was here?”

  She addresses the prior question: “What is it that you want me to help you with?”

  “I need . . .” He swallows emotion and rests his mouth on his fist, a gesture that intrigues Sidra. “Professor Searle is the only father I’ve ever had. I need you to get him and me back together.”

  Sidra feels for him—another surprise—and shakes her head. “Give me five minutes,” she says. “I’m going to change, and you can walk me to my car.”

  ~~~

  Clouds paint the night sky, though rain does not yet fall. The air is pleasant enough, and the two walk slowly side by side.

  “Did you know,” X asks, “that Stephen Hawking was born three hundred years to the day following the death of Galileo?”

  “I would assume this is the type of stuff that obsesses you,” Sidra says. “Care to repeat—”

  “You heard me fine,” X says. “Did you know Galileo nearly lost his life over his beliefs and his work?”

  “You really do know how to talk to a girl, huh?”

  The remark is not easily shaken. “I’m saying something wron
g?” X asks. “These are the types of honest conversations I used to have with Searle. These are the conversations I only have with myself now. And you wonder why I turned out this way—”

  “You’re only proving to me you just may be that guy everybody thinks you are.” X considers the comment. “Professor Searle isn’t here to hold your hand, and that’s your excuse? Conspiracy theories don’t usually go over so well, X, beyond high school dropouts and the GOP—”

  “So you were ready to give me a chance before I opened my big mouth?”

  “I didn’t say that either.” She’s fascinated by him, but holds her guard. “Maybe . . .”

  “Asking, just asking,” he says.

  They walk, quietly for the next block, each pondering what to say to the other. Sidra breaks the silence.

  “Tell me what else goes on in that head of yours. Tell me what else you think about without someone like Searle to bounce off of.”

  “How about this. If Jesus really does exist or has ever existed, and there really is life on other planets, would he be their god too?”

  “What else?”

  “Never mind.” Again, without warning he turns defensive. “You making fun of me?” She stops. He does as well and faces her. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Never mind your troubled brain,” Sidra says, “it’s your emotional issues you need to handle if anyone will take you seriously. That’s actually my car over there.”

  “You don’t know my pain.”

  “Nigga, please. Why would I read your shit, you can’t be more original than that?”

  “You do read me. I thought so.”

  He got her. “But yet again . . .”

  A brief stare down ensues, and they both spontaneously smile. He breaks first. “Okay, you win,” he says. “But what do I need to say to you to win you over? So you can trust me and bring me to Professor Searle?”

  “Look,” Sidra says, “let’s go another block or so and circle back. Fair? We’ll start over.”

  “Fair.” They walk on.

  “I do know where Searle is,” Sidra admits.

  “I figured as much. Why did I have to beg to get this far?”

  “So,” she jumps, “I have something for you.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Did you know The Baltimore Ravens is still the only football team to be named after great literature?”

  “We’re not in Baltimore,” X responds. “If you want to impress me, seriously, you got to do so much better.”

  “I didn’t know I was trying to impress you.” Despite the back-and-forth, Sidra is intrigued. “You want coffee?”

  “I never tried it.”

  His statement punctuates his age. Sidra almost forgot. “There’s a place down the street, but I’m warning you. I get bored, I’m walking back to the car myself.”

  ~~~

  Thirty minutes later, X and Sidra sit in an empty diner.

  “Hemingway was right,” X says, as he ravages a slice of cherry pie.

  “About what?”

  “He said, ‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.’ ” Sidra laughs. The boy is borderline offended. “Now you’re laughing at Hemingway?”

  “Big deal.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. A pithy quote, a soundbite, sure to last generations upon generations.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry to shit on what’s obviously one of your favorite quotes, but it is a writer’s job to hone a carefully cultivated image, don’t you think?”

  X is at a loss. He leans back in his seat, studying her, his gaze unwavering. “Seriously, get over yourself.”

  Sidra looks at her watch. “I got about five more minutes, hon. What else you got?”

  “Hon? Is that progress?” She doesn’t answer. “Are you a Tolkien fan?”

  “No. Too dense, but what’d you want to ask me?”

  “Where were all the women?”

  “Sorry. Don’t care, really.”

  “Lewis Carroll?”

  “Love him,” she says. “Didn’t care much for the Tim Burton film, though. Depp was just too strange for me.”

  “I’m partial to Lewis Carroll mysel—”

  “X, where is this headed?”

  He finishes his pie. “Where do you want it to—”

  “Four minutes.”

  He sighs. “Carroll’s . . . genius in looking at math helped inform my equation. It’s all about what you don’t see. For instance, isn’t it too bad that all that other material died in the Library of Alexandria series of fires? Or Herculaneum . . . Pompeii. Before photography there was only drawing, you know. Think about it. How much of the record is gone?”

  “So this is your obsession?”

  “Which brings us to digital photography,” he resumes, “which is so easily manipulated. We can no longer have or record real history, as images can be changed with the push of a button.”

  “So?”

  “No different than photography being yours.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I told you, I need for you to tell me where I can find Professor Searle. Without him there really is no hope.”

  She has no doubt of his sincerity. “I don’t know . . . if I’d be hurting him or doing the rest of us a public service. Where do you stay, by the way?” X is suddenly hopeful. “Don’t go there,” she warns.

  He sighs, dispirited. “I stay wherever.”

  “Profound,” she replies. “You’re still on the clock,” she adds, “and I’m going to need my sleep.” She sips the rest of her coffee and wipes her mouth. “I have a day tomorrow, boy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she answers. “Look, I know too many homeless to know you’re not homeless. So my first conclusion is you spend the bulk of your time wherever for a reason.”

  “Let me tell you—”

  “I wasn’t finished.”

  “Don’t . . .” Sidra holds back. “Please,” X says. “Hear me.” She upturns and opens her hand; the floor is his. “You said you read my work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tolkien first wrote those symbols in the sand in a taboo forest, but he wasn’t the first. My work led to a portal beyond the rabbit hole, which led me to you, and—”

  “And what?”

  “A counter-equation. An antidote, if you will. Every disease has a cure. We just need to find it.”

  “What is it that you’re not telling me?” She dreads X’s response, but believes the question needed to be asked.

  “Sidra, my gut tells me the answers have been hidden on purpose. Forget your games. You’re still a former student of Searle’s, and I know he must have said something to you. I’m not an idiot.”

  She lifts her cup and sips, then gently places it back into the saucer. “By who? Hidden by who?”

  “Whom. I tried to paint once to figure that out. I’m not any good, but what I noticed is that I discovered more as I wrote more, stream-of-consciousness and things like that. So I left the painting to—”

  “Matthius Alexi.” Again, her lack of impulse control. This slip was caught; now she has little choice but to proceed lest he think she knows more than she’s letting on. “Aside from what you’ve presented so far in your writing, what do you know of him, really?”

  “Do you remember the incident on the train from months ago?”

  “Where the cops thought they captured you?”

  “And now you can cap the bullshit.” She’s exposed, and she has little choice but to allow him to speak. “You or someone close to you seems to have spread the word. Your boss knew too—”

  “Searle told me you were being clever and let someone else take the fall.”

  “Is that the first time you were honest with me in this whole conversa-tion?”

  “No.”

  He doesn’t believe her nor does he care. “We—all
of us——are two people,” he resumes. “Who we are, and who we want to be. A reality and an ideal. I’ve discovered where we’re headed. I believe I’ve found a path that leads us out of this mess, but I need help.” X tosses a small paper-clipped stack of index cards onto the table, the cards once handed to him by a stranger on a train.

  Sidra peeks but moves them away with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to get involved.”

  “You already are.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Yeah, likely. Can you relate?”

  “You ever dream, X?”

  “Constantly. When I sleep,” he deadpans.

  “Other than what you’ve written so far, do you ever have recurring dr—”

  “Yes. I used to speak to Searle about one in particular.”

  “Have you written it down?”

  “I tried to paint some of it.”

  “Have you written it down?”

  “No.”

  “Write a story, then.”

  “What?” X walks, keeping his literary aspirations to himself. How could she possibly know? he thinks.

  “You heard me. Or a book.”

  “Why?” he asks, feeling suddenly manipulated. “I don’t recall telling you or anyone about my desire to write.”

  “You’ve said in your letters that the most influential writers resonated because they got in touch with their primality.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Stop being so literal. Time for you to do the same. Write the dream. Then maybe you can find the rest of the answers—the way out—that you’re looking for.”

  “Would you want to see it?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “You won’t give me your home address, I would guess, so if I know and show up unexpectedly you’d call the cops?”

  “Probably.”

  “Mail too?”

  “Mail too.”

  “How—”

  “When I don’t go home, I sometimes stay at the tunnel under the Knapp Street pass.” Her facial muscles tense, and he notices. “Are we even-keel now?”

  “Yeah, I know.”