by Paul Auster
He gave up reading books after dinner and spent those hours with Pozzi instead. The evening was a dangerous time, and it didn’t help matters to let the kid sit there brooding alone in the kitchen, working himself into a frenzy of murderous thoughts. Nashe tried to be subtle about it, but from then on he put himself at Pozzi’s disposal. If the kid felt like playing cards, he would play cards with him; if the kid felt like having a few drinks, he would open a bottle and match him glass for glass. As long as they were talking to each other, it didn’t matter how they filled the time. Every now and then, Nashe would tell stories about the year he had spent on the road, or else he would talk about some of the big fires he had fought in Boston, dwelling on the most ghastly details for Pozzi’s benefit, thinking it might get the kid’s mind off his own troubles if he heard about what other people had gone through. For a short time at least, Nashe’s strategy seemed to work. The kid became noticeably calmer, and the vicious talk about confronting Flower and Stone suddenly stopped, but it wasn’t long before new obsessions rose up to replace the old ones. Nashe could handle most of them without much difficulty—girls, for example, and Pozzi’s growing preoccupation with getting laid—but others were not so easy to dismiss. It wasn’t as though the kid were threatening anyone, but every once in a while, right in the middle of a conversation, he would come out with such schizy, crackpot stuff, it would scare Nashe just to hear it.
“It was going along just the way I’d planned it,” Pozzi said to him one night. “You remember that, Jim, don’t you? Real smooth it was, as good as you could possibly want it. I’d just about tripled our stake, and there I was, getting ready to zero in for the kill. Those shits were finished. It was just a matter of time before they went belly-up, I could feel it in my bones. That’s the feeling I always wait for. It’s like a switch turns on inside me, and my whole body starts to hum. Whenever I get that feeling, it means I’m home free, I can coast all the way to the end. Do you follow what I’m saying, Jim? Until that night, I’d never been wrong about it, not once.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Nashe said, still not sure what the kid was driving at.
“Maybe. But it’s hard to believe that’s what happened to us. Once your luck starts to roll, there’s not a damn thing that can stop it. It’s like the whole world suddenly falls into place. You’re kind of outside your body, and for the rest of the night you sit there watching yourself perform miracles. It doesn’t really have anything to do with you anymore. It’s out of your control, and as long as you don’t think about it too much, you can’t make a mistake.”
“It looked good for a while, Jack, I’ll admit that. But then it started to turn around. Those are the breaks, and there’s nothing to be done about it. It’s like a batter who goes four for four, and then the game goes into the bottom of the ninth, and the next time up he strikes out with the bases loaded. His team loses, and maybe you can say he’s responsible for the loss. But that doesn’t mean he had a bad night.”
“No, you’re not listening to me. I’m telling you there’s no way I can strike out in that situation. The ball looks as big as a fucking watermelon to me by then. I just step into the batter’s box, wait for my pitch, and then swat it up the gap for the game-winning hit.”
“All right, you hit a line drive into the gap. But the center fielder is after it like a shot, and just when the ball is about to go past him, he leaps up and snags it in the webbing of his glove. It’s an impossible catch, one of the great catches of all time. But it’s still an out, isn’t it, and there’s no way you can fault the batter for not doing his best. That’s all I’m trying to tell you, Jack. You did your best, and we lost. Worse things have happened in the history of the world. It’s not something to worry about anymore.”
“Yeah, but you still don’t understand what I’m talking about. I’m just not getting through to you.”
“It sounds fairly simple to me. For most of the night, it looked like we were going to win. But then something went wrong, and we didn’t.”
“Exactly. Something went wrong. And what do you think it was?”
“I don’t know, kid. You tell me.”
“It was you. You broke the rhythm, and after that everything went haywire.”
“As I remember it, you were the one playing cards. The only thing I did was sit there and watch.”
“But you were a part of it. Hour after hour, you sat there right behind me, breathing down my neck. At first it was a little distracting to have you so close, but then I got used to it, and after a while I knew you were there for a reason. You were breathing life into me, pal, and every time I felt your breath, good luck came pouring into my bones. It was all so perfect. We had everything balanced, all the wheels were turning, and it was beautiful, man, really beautiful. And then you had to get up and leave.”
“A call of nature. You didn’t expect me to piss in my pants, did you?”
“Sure, fine, go to the bathroom. I don’t have any problem with that. But how long does it take? Three minutes? Five minutes? Sure, go ahead and take a leak. But Christ, Jim, you were gone for a whole fucking hour!”
“I was worn out. I had to lie down and take a nap.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t take any nap, did you? You went upstairs and started prowling around that dumb-ass City of the World. Why the hell did you have to do a crazy thing like that? I’m sitting downstairs waiting for you to come back, and little by little I start to lose my concentration. Where is he? I keep saying to myself, what the hell happened to him? It’s getting worse now, and I’m not winning as many hands as I was before. And then, just at the moment when things get really bad, it pops into your head to steal a chunk of the model. I can’t believe what a mistake that was. No class, Jim, an amateurish stunt. It’s like committing a sin to do a thing like that, it’s like violating a fundamental law. We had everything in harmony. We’d come to the point where everything was turning into music for us, and then you have to go upstairs and smash all the instruments. You tampered with the universe, my friend, and once a man does that, he’s got to pay the price. I’m just sorry I have to pay it with you.”
“You’re starting to sound like Flower, Jack. The guy wins the lottery, and all of a sudden he thinks he was chosen by God.”
“I’m not talking about God. God has nothing to do with it.”
“It’s just another word for the same thing. You want to believe in some hidden purpose. You’re trying to persuade yourself there’s a reason for what happens in the world. I don’t care what you call it—God or luck or harmony—it all comes down to the same bullshit. It’s a way of avoiding the facts, of refusing to look at how things really work.”
“You think you’re smart, Nashe, but you don’t know a goddamn thing.”
“That’s right, I don’t. And neither do you, Jack. We’re just a pair of know-nothings, you and I, a couple of dunces who got in over our heads. Now we’re trying to square the account. If we don’t mess up, we’ll be out of here in twenty-seven days. I’m not saying it’s fun, but maybe we’ll learn something before it’s over.”
“You shouldn’t have done it, Jim. That’s all I’m trying to tell you. Once you stole those little men, things went out of whack.”
Nashe let out a sigh of exasperation, stood up from his chair, and pulled the model of Flower and Stone from his pocket. Then he walked over to where Pozzi was sitting and held the figures in front of his eyes. “Take a good look,” he said, “and tell me what you see.”
“Christ,” Pozzi said. “What do you want to be playing games for?”
“Just look,” Nashe said sharply. “Come on, Jack, tell me what I’m holding in my hand.”
Pozzi stared up at Nashe with a wounded expression in his eyes, then reluctantly obeyed him. “Flower and Stone,” he said.
“Flower and Stone? I thought Flower and Stone were bigger than this. I mean, look at them, Jack, these two guys aren’t more than an inch and a half tall.”
“Okay, s
o they’re not really Flower and Stone. It’s what you call a replica.”
“It’s a piece of wood, isn’t it? A stupid little piece of wood. Isn’t that right, Jack?”
“If you say so.”
“And yet you believe this little scrap of wood is stronger than we are, don’t you? You think it’s so strong, in fact, that it made us lose all our money.”
“That’s not what I said. I just meant you shouldn’t have pinched it. Some other time, maybe, but not when we were playing poker.”
“But here it is. And every time you look at it, you get a little scared, don’t you? It’s like they’re casting an evil spell over you.”
“Sort of.”
“What do you want me to do with them? Should I give them back? Would that make you feel better?”
“It’s too late now. The damage has already been done.”
“There’s a remedy for everything, kid. A good Catholic boy like you should know that. With the proper medicine, any illness can be cured.”
“You’ve lost me now. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Just watch. In a few minutes, all your troubles will be over.”
Without saying another word, Nashe went into the kitchen and retrieved a baking tin, a book of matches, and a newspaper. When he returned to the living room, he put the baking tin on the floor, positioning it just a few inches in front of Pozzi’s feet. Then he crouched down and placed the figures of Flower and Stone in the center of the tin. He tore out a sheet of newspaper, tore that sheet into several strips, and wadded each strip into a little ball. Then, very delicately, he put the balls around the wooden statue in the tin. He paused for a moment at that point to look into Pozzi’s eyes, and when the kid didn’t say anything, he went ahead and lit a match. One by one, he touched the flame to the paper wads, and by the time they were fully ignited, the fire had caught hold of the wooden figures, producing a bright surge of crackling heat as the colors burned and melted away. The wood below was soft and porous, and it could not resist the onslaught. Flower and Stone turned black, shrinking as the fire ate into their bodies, and less than a minute later, the two little men were gone.
Nashe pointed to the ashes at the bottom of the tin and said, “You see? There’s nothing to it. Once you know the magic formula, no obstacle is too great.”
The kid finally pulled his eyes away from the floor and looked at Nashe. “You’re out of your mind,” he said. “I hope you realize that.”
“If I am, then that makes two of us, my friend. At least you won’t have to suffer alone anymore. That’s something to be thankful for, isn’t it? I’m with you every step of the way, Jack. Every damned step, right to the end of the road.”
By the middle of the fourth week, the weather started to turn. The warm, humid skies gave way to the chill of early fall, and on most mornings now they went off to work wearing sweaters. The bugs had disappeared, the battalions of gnats and mosquitoes that had plagued them for so long, and with the leaves beginning to change color in the woods, dying into a profusion of yellows and oranges and reds, it was hard not to feel a little better about things. The rain could be nasty at times, it was true, but even rain seemed preferable to the rigors of the heat, and they did not let it stop them from going on with their work. They were provided with rubber ponchos and baseball caps, and those served reasonably well to protect them from the downpours. The essential thing was to push on, to put in their ten hours every day and wrap up their business on schedule. Since the beginning, they had not taken any time off, and they weren’t about to let a little rain intimidate them now. On this point, curiously enough, Pozzi was the more determined of the two. But that was because he was more eager than Nashe to finish, and even on the stormiest, most gloomy days, he trudged off to work without protesting. In some sense, the more violent the weather, the happier he was—for Murks had to be out there with them, and nothing pleased Pozzi more than the sight of the grim, bowlegged foreman decked out in his yellow raingear, standing under a black umbrella for all those hours as his boots sank deeper and deeper into the mud. He loved to see the old guy suffer like that. It was a form of consolation, somehow, a small payback for all the suffering he had gone through himself.
The rain caused problems, however. One day in the last week of September it came down so hard that nearly a third of the trench was destroyed. They had put in approximately seven hundred stones by then, and they were figuring to complete the bottom row in another ten or twelve days. But a huge storm blew up overnight, pummeling the meadow with ferocious, windswept rain, and when they went out the next morning to begin work, they discovered that the exposed portion of the trench had filled up with several inches of water. Not only would it be impossible to put in any more stones until the dirt dried, but all the exacting, meticulous labor of leveling the bottom of the trench had been ruined. The foundation for the wall had turned into an oozing mess of rivulets and mud. They spent the next three days carting stones in the afternoon as well as the morning, filling in the time as best they could, and then, when the water finally evaporated, they abandoned the stones for a couple of days and set about rebuilding the bottom of the trench. It was at this juncture that things finally exploded between Pozzi and Murks. Calvin was suddenly involved in the work again, and instead of standing off to the side and watching them from a safe distance (as he was wont to do), he now spent his days hovering around them, fussing and nagging with constant little comments and instructions to make sure the repairs were done correctly. Pozzi bore up to it on the first morning, but when the interference continued through the afternoon, Nashe could see that it was starting to get under his skin. Another three or four hours went by, and then the kid finally lost his temper.
“All right, big mouth,” he said, throwing down his shovel and glaring at Murks in disgust, “if you’re such an expert at all this, then why the fuck don’t you do it yourself!”
Murks paused for a moment, apparently caught off guard. “Because it’s not my job,” he finally said, speaking in a very low voice. “You boys are supposed to do the work. I’m just here to see you don’t screw up.”
“Yeah?” the kid came back at him. “And what makes you so high and mighty, Mr. Potato Head? How come you get to stand there with your goddamn hands in your pockets while we’re busting our dicks in this dungheap? Huh? Come on, Mr. Bumpkin, out with it. Give me one good reason.”
“That’s simple,” Murks said, unable to suppress the smile that was forming on his lips. “Because you play cards and I don’t.”
It was the smile that did it, Nashe felt. A look of deep and genuine contempt flashed across Murks’s face, and a moment later Pozzi was charging toward him with clenched fists. At least one blow landed cleanly, for by the time Nashe managed to pull the kid away, blood was dribbling from a corner of Calvin’s mouth. Pozzi, still seething with unspent rage, bucked wildly in Nashe’s arms for close to a minute after that, but Nashe held on for all he was worth, and eventually the kid settled down. Meanwhile, Murks had backed off a few feet and was dabbing the cut with a handkerchief. “It don’t matter,” he finally said. “The little squirt can’t handle the pressure, that’s all. Some guys got what it takes, others don’t. The only thing I’m going to say is this: Just don’t let it happen again. Next time I won’t be so nice about it.” He looked down at the watch on his wrist and said, “I think we’ll knock off early today. It’s getting on close to five now, and there’s no sense in starting up again with tempers so hot.” Then, giving them his customary little wave, he walked off across the meadow and vanished into the woods.
Nashe could not help admiring Murks for his composure. Most men would have struck back after an assault like that, but Calvin hadn’t even raised his hands to defend himself. There was a certain arrogance to it, perhaps—as if he were telling Pozzi that he couldn’t hurt him, no matter how hard he tried—but the fact was that the incident had been defused with astonishing quickness. Considering what could have happe
ned, it was a miracle that no greater damage had been done. Even Pozzi seemed aware of that, and while he scrupulously avoided talking about the subject that night, Nashe could tell that he was embarrassed, glad that he had been stopped before it was too late.
There was no reason to think there would be any repercussions. But the next morning at seven o’clock, Murks showed up at the trailer carrying a gun. It was a thirty-eight policeman’s revolver, and it was strapped into a leather holster than hung from a cartridge belt around Murks’s waist. Nashe noticed that six bullets were missing from the belt—almost certain proof that the weapon was loaded. It was bad enough that things had come to such a pass, he thought, but what made it even worse was that Calvin acted as though nothing had happened. He did not mention the gun, and that silence was finally more troubling to Nashe than the gun itself. It meant that Murks felt he had a right to carry it—and that he had felt that right from the very beginning. Freedom, therefore, had never been an issue. Contracts, handshakes, goodwill—none of that had meant a thing. All along, Nashe and Pozzi had been working under the threat of violence, and it was only because they had chosen to cooperate with Murks that he had left them alone. Bitching and grumbling were apparently allowed, but once their discontent moved beyond the realm of words, he was more than ready to take drastic, intimidating measures against them. And given the way things had been set up, there was no question that he was acting on orders from Flower and Stone.
Still, it didn’t seem likely that Murks was planning to use the gun. Its function was symbolic, and just having it there in front of them was enough to make the point. As long as they didn’t provoke him, Calvin wouldn’t do much more than strut around with the weapon on his hip, doing some half-assed impersonation of a town marshal. When it came right down to it, Nashe felt, the only real danger was Pozzi. The kid’s behavior had become so erratic, it was hard to know if he would do something foolish or not. As it turned out, he never did, and eventually Nashe was forced to admit that he had underestimated him. Pozzi had been expecting trouble all along, and when he saw the gun that morning, it did not surprise him so much as confirm his deepest suspicions. Nashe was the one who was surprised, Nashe was the one who had tricked himself into a false reading of the facts, but Pozzi had always known what they were up against. He had known it since the first day in the meadow, and the implications of that knowledge had scared him half to death. Now that everything was finally out in the open, he almost looked relieved. The gun did not change the situation for him, after all. It merely proved that he had been right.
