The War Against the Assholes

by Sam Munson

  Not new. An old element of visual clutter. I’d never paid any attention to it. That day I examined it. I had to squint. But when I saw it, I saw it. An open eye. The symbol from Mr. Stone’s tunnel doors. The symbol Alabama had decorated my arm with. The symbol, I supposed, of our war. Such as it was. “Hob’s an asshole,” I said, “an asshole in the hands of other assholes.” I cracked myself up. Osmondo murmured again, to his father. La puerta. I knew what to do. I hooked the bathroom door latch. I unhooked it. If my idea worked, I didn’t want anyone to be prevented from taking a piss. I slipped the silver key Hob had given me the day after the salto into the lock on this yellow-marked door.

  Melior Audere: it’s better to dare. The silver key fit. To my surprise, I would say. Except I was not surprised. I knew it would work. A small shock traveled up my arm. I turned the key. I turned the handle. Warm, sweet-smelling air blew into the bathroom. Grass and citrus. I pushed open the door. Orange light greeted me. More of the same scent. Richer and purer. I stepped over the toilet brush in its white holder. I stepped across the threshold. Into a short corridor lined with bookshelves. It ended in a long, low-ceilinged room. Leather armchairs. A hexagonal black table. I’d guessed right. I looked behind me. The door was closing on the brown-tiled bathroom at Hello Garden. You never know about people. Osmondo the silent. Rats chittered. Wittgenstein scampered up to my white tennis shoe and lifted his front paws. At least I thought it was him.

  17

  Let me put it like so,” said Charthouse. “This is an absolute fucking catastrophe.” He’d never said fucking before in my presence. He lifted the badger-head cane. He tapped his chin with it. That made me nervous. “I would say that catastrophe is putting it mildly, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. I had spilled it all. The party. Quinn and the mirror. The owl theft. Mr. Stone balanced his silver-­gray hat in his hands. That frightened me more than Charthouse’s business with the cane. Charthouse kept quiet as I explained everything. I assumed he’d be furious. He sat, not speaking. Getting more silent. If that makes sense. Then he started in with the cane business. Bad enough. But when a figure like Mr. Stone begins fingering his hat, you can’t help assuming the trouble you’re in is serious. A rule of life. Charthouse had gotten a haircut over the holidays: trimmed almost down to the scalp. His beard gone, too. He looked younger, despite the streaks of gray. “I admit,” I said, “I’m culpable.” “Culpability, that’s just narcissism by another name,” said Charthouse. “He came in with a woman,” said Mr. Stone. I explained again: the woman had appeared before Potash arrived; they did not come in together. Tall, white skin, white hair, a scar on her throat. Wearing a business suit and heels. A pet raven. I left out the part about wanting to fuck her. Didn’t seem right to repeat. “And did you recognize her,” Charthouse asked. “No,” I said. “You can do better than that, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “I didn’t, okay,” I said. No reason for me to be protesting. “Come on, Mike, let’s commune with the ancients before we make any rash decisions,” said Charthouse. His breath smelled like spearmint gum. Mr. Stone was scanning his bookshelves as he talked to me. “Here we are,” he said. He held a book at my eye level, in one palm. It had an iron-looking latch. “Is this mug shots,” I said. “Not exactly,” said Charthouse.

  Smell of old paper. No title on the cover. A metal emblem inset: the open eye. The book was written in German. It took me a long time to realize that, because the writing was spiky and hard to decipher. Even then I could only tell from the umlauts. Long, blearing passages of text. Diagrams: I saw a tree, rooted in the earth and reaching to the sky. Concentric spheres. A symbol that looked, to me, like a stick figure with horns and a unibrow jumping up in the air, its arms spread. There were actual illustrations. Images. A long-haired young man standing in an empty amphitheater. His left hand resting on a globe and a rose clutched in his right. A donkey and a lion yoked to a cart, in which rode what appeared to be the sun, wreathed in fire. “What is this,” I asked. “It’s a book by Erchaana of Dachaaua,” said Charthouse, “which clearly makes no difference to you. Keep flipping.” I did. I saw a woman, tall and slender, naked, with long colorless hair covering her nipples. At her feet a raven. A skeleton astride a mountain, lifting up a sword. I turned back to the naked woman. “Yes,” I said, “it’s her.” “Well, that’s just marvelous,” said Charthouse, “I leave you alone for a week and it’s the end of the world.” “The crows work for her,” I said. “You are a master of the astutely irrelevant,” said Mr. Stone. “I dreamed about her, I think,” I said, before I even realized it was true. I could not recall anything other than fragments: a stone basin, stars, a throat. “I’ll wager you did,” said Charthouse, “she feels at home in the dreams of young men. Me? No longer troubled.” “Nor am I,” said Mr. Stone.

  Messaline. That was the name—once I’d deciphered the thorny script of the title plate—under the naked woman’s feet. “And you hit her,” said Charthouse, “as in your fist made contact.” I nodded. The ancillary pain of her blow had faded. Where she’d landed the punch still ached every time I breathed. “She must be slipping, in her dotage,” said Mr. Stone. “You have hidden talents,” said Charthouse, “not to mention the fact that you’re walking around. Lift up your shirt.” I did. “Holy mother of god,” he said. “What,” I said. I assumed he’d be deliver­ing a death announcement. “It’s just a bruise,” said Charthouse, “you got off easy.” “So she’s a sorceress, or whatever,” I said. “We’ve seen indications that she was present in the city,” said Mr. Stone. “She was one of von Sebottendorf’s consorts. Although it would perhaps be more accurate to describe him as one of her many consorts.” “The crows,” I said. “It’s better,” said Charthouse, “not to talk about them. There’s a large crow community in the tristate area. They’re diligent.” Charthouse was pacing and hammering his palm with the cane. Mr. Stone sat in his chair, spinning his hat on a finger. I looked at the image of Messaline again. “Aren’t you guys going to do anything,” I said. Wittgenstein and his brothers and sisters took note. My voice echoed: Mr. Stone’s house had strong acoustics.

  “ ‘You guys,’ ” said Charthouse, “misses the facts of the case. There’s no you guys here. There’s only us.” “Well, then maybe we should hit back,” I said. “How would that go,” said Charthouse, “you don’t know where he is. You don’t know what he took. I assume he’s hidden it somewhere. They want us to hunt it up for them, I’d say. But there’s a real knowledge deficit here, no, Mr. Stone?” Mr. Stone stopped spinning his hat. “ ‘A knowledge deficit,’ ” said Mr. Stone, “does not begin to capture the situation.” This is what I mean. You find the secret key. You stumble on the secret door. And no revelation awaits you. Mr. Stone’s hat spun on his finger and rats leaped over Charthouse’s shoes. For the first time I wished I’d let Hob sell me out. Just to be done with this. Then my head wouldn’t hurt all the time, my lungs and muscles wouldn’t burn. “Sheer sentimentality,” said Mr. Stone. “Look, I understand you’re a wizard or whatever,” I said, “but could you not do that. I can’t do it to you.” “Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “you go right now to Mountjoy and sign their contract. You have to, before they admit you, you know. In blood. With an iron pen. You would have an excellent chance of admission. Their standards are, despite their pretenses, low. They seek the obedient, nothing more. They themselves are obedient. Like all cowards they dress up their cowardice as bravery. I can alter your face,” said Mr. Stone, “if you are so inclined.” “Fuck you,” I said. “That is the spirit, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone, “we all are in pain. And I am considerably older than you. So please do not complain until you better know what it is of which you speak.” His accent increased. Just for his last exhortation. Accent shifts happened to my grandmother and father too, when they got excited. Except they sounded like they were from Canarsie. Mr. Stone sounded like a movie Nazi. “I told you that anyone can whistle. That everyone does. That this does not mean we are all Mozarts. You understood.” I nodded. “Hob Callah
an could be described as Mozart. A talent of such depth and breadth,” he said. Stopped. “In fact, to describe his abilities would only demean them. Language being, as you will discover if you attain your maturity, eternally insufficient. He is a potential champion of this cause, in which we serve as mere soldiers. You understand, I trust, our concern. So, Mr. Wood, let me ask once more: are you an asshole?” said Mr. Stone.

  I almost said yes. Charthouse was watching. Wittgenstein was watching. “I am not an asshole,” I said. “Then you must decide whether you’re in or you’re out,” said Mr. Stone, “equivocation, my boy, will not do.” Wittgenstein quirked his whiskers and his pink nose. I thought of the white woman. Of Potash. Of Hob. Of my mother and father, inexplicably. I didn’t know what they wanted. I didn’t know what would be asked of me. Only that it would be. That, when you’re a child, is sufficient. “I’m in,” I said. “We don’t work with contracts, you understand,” said Charthouse. I nodded. “You are a man of your word, Mr. Wood, I can see that. A rare thing in this unpredictable life,” said Mr. Stone.

  Image of the lithe, naked woman. Or girl. It was her. A raven at her feet, a fountain next to her. Above her head the crescent moon. Messaline, die Verräterin. “She was a witch,” said Mr. Stone. “That’s an archaic term,” I said. Mr. Stone shook his head. “It is a term of perverse respect. It means merely a user of the art who refuses the yoke they offer. I cannot blame her for accepting it. Most of her colleagues died, if this text is accurate, at the Massacre of Amiens in 1172.” “They never taught us that,” I said, “in world history. No massacre.” “It has nothing to do with the teaching of history,” said Mr. Stone, “it is a fact.” “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” said Charthouse, “unless you give her a job. And you really hit her,” he said. “She works at Mountjoy House,” I said. “We believe so,” said Mr. Stone. “Head of enforcement, is our best guess,” said Charthouse, “as to what her business card says.” This made sense. “And she’s immortal,” I said. “All men are mortal, and Socrates is a man, therefore Socrates is mortal,” said Charthouse. “She seems to have grasped the essentials of longevity, however,” said Mr. Stone. “What does verraterin mean,” I said. “Verräterin,” said Mr. Stone. His Nazi accent alive again. “It means ‘traitress.’ ”

  A silverfish crawled peacefully over the naked woman’s long body. I watched its pointless progress. Mr. Stone reset the fold in his silver-gray hat. He could have been any quiet and irascible old man of the Upper West Side. Except we were in what could only be called his lair. “And the wands,” I said. “They make the pain stop. If you use them. I’m right, aren’t I,” I said, “instead of just doing it.” “Insofar as pain on this earth has an end point,” said Mr. Stone, “then yes. Congratulations.” “And it’s just a philosophical difference,” I said. “All differences are philo­sophical, Mr. Wood,” said Mr. Stone. “They will absolutely kill you though if you lift your head up too much,” said Charthouse, “and that’s not metaphysics. It’s just a tyranny-of-the-majority thing.”

  He had a point. That is how the human race functions. The strong crush the weak. No matter what people say. “Can’t we just murder him from a distance,” I said. “I cannot,” said Mr. Stone, “can you? Would you care to attempt this feat? You will find that you have no idea where to begin. It is not an improvisation with a mirror. Say we succeeded. What good would it do Hob?” I didn’t argue. He was of course correct. “And Potash said nothing more than that: you have something of mine,” said Mr. Stone. I nodded. “So why does she have a scar across her throat,” I said. “It is one of their punishments, or it used to be,” said Mr. Stone, “for violating their law. Silencing. Some it renders power­less. If they have become dependent on incantations. It comes with the first offense. There are other more serious penalties.” “She didn’t seem powerless,” I said. “Some cases,” said Charthouse, “and you see what I mean about the tyranny of the majority. I bet they had her in bracelets, too.” Cold, tumorous metal: that I remembered. Her tongue in my mouth: that I remembered. Wittgenstein was running around in lunatic circles. His siblings watched in suspicion.

  “Mr. Wood, why do you care what happens to Hob,” said Mr. Stone. I did not speak immediately. I knew the wrong answer would be fatal here. Not only to me. To the whole endeavor. Or maybe this was just another test. I was sick of tests. Of guessing. “Professional courtesy,” I said. It was a phrase my father used to describe the obligation binding him to other lawyers. Even those who outpaced him in his craft, who were always running ahead. Charthouse started guffawing. “I appreciate that answer more than you know,” said Mr. Stone. “Professional courtesy,” repeated Charthouse. He took down a decanter and three glasses from a high cabinet. The decanter tall and graceful. Filled with liquor. In which swam a single delicate aqua­marine eel. “And what about those,” I said as he poured. “Do you actually want to know,” he said. “Not really,” I said. “Few do,” said Mr. Stone. “Happy new year,” said Charthouse. “You’re late,” I said. “Spirit of the season,” said Charthouse.

  18

  No matter what philosophers argue, you can’t take the long view. Not in your own case. You can’t say that nothing matters because we all die anyway. You can, however, draw a knife. A black-handled one. From the breast pocket of your black suit. If you were Vincent Callahan, this might have been your course of action.

  And I watched. Could do nothing else. He flicked the knife open: the blade short and curved. A trickle of water, constant and fluting, ran down the wall. A vivid green moss grew on the bricks in its path. With the opened blade he scraped a long strip of the moss into his cupped hand and crumbled it. The fragments floated slowly down, glimmering, and came to rest on a large pile of other fragments: pipe tobacco, rose petal, eyebright. He stirred the crumbled moss into the mixture with a finger. His knife still open. He wasn’t looking at me. “You know,” he said, “if you’d told me.” Left it at that. Tapped the blade against my chest. I didn’t flinch. We breathed in the smells of his herbarium. A small room behind one of the many doors in Karasarkissian’s basement. I’d never spent so much time in basements. I hoped it would not adversely affect my health. They say you need sunshine. Then again I still spend a lot of time underground. I’m healthy as an ox. “This is at least thirty-three and a third percent your fault,” said Vincent. I didn’t deny it. “Speak,” said Vincent. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Fuck you and fuck your apologies,” said Vincent. He was shaking, mildly. A sign he might hit me. I would have to overact if he did. To spare his feelings. He had thin arms and thin shoulders. So did his brother.

  He left me there. Alabama was waiting in the main room. He didn’t say anything to her. He sat on the green couch and covered his face for a minute. Two minutes. A scene in a domestic drama. Inflated and real at once. Odd the turns your life takes, in your youth. “I have no idea what I’m going to tell my parents,” he said, “and I don’t want to lie. But I can’t.” He stopped speaking. “Charthouse will do it,” said Alabama. Vincent nodded. “Nothing else for it,” said Vincent. “So what did you take,” he said. “I took the owl, and Hob took the wand,” I said, “but that’s not what he was talking about.” “What was he talking about, then,” said Vincent. “I do not know,” I said. “Well, that’s just delightful,” said Vincent. He closed his eyes. He locked his hands. Irmgard’s concrete bucket rattled against the floor. Cords stood out in Vincent’s neck. Irmgard’s wings, with audible, pinpoint percussions, opened. “Okay,” said Alabama. I went to examine. The owl snapped her beak at me. Spun her head. I pressed a finger against her breast. Not warm. She took off. “At least she won’t shit everywhere,” I said. “Owl, speak,” said Vincent, “tell us the secret wisdom we lack, o great and mighty owl.” Irmgard clacked her beak. Vincent’s eyes lustered. Tears. His chin shook. Irmgard floated in a slow circle. “Does she need mice,” I said. “Why do you assume it’s a she,” said Alabama. “Her name’s Irmgard,” I said. “That is a fallacy,” sa
id Alabama. “What else did Quinn say,” said Vincent. “What did he say,” I said, “let’s see. He talked a lot about his destiny.” “He called us insects,” said Alabama. Irmgard swooped down when Alabama said insects. “Great, sentience,” said Vincent. “He said he would kill us. That his family was important,” I said, “that the map is not the territory.”

  “Thanks, genius,” said Vincent, “that’s a really useful contribution.” He was already climbing the ladder. “One of you grab that owl,” he said. Irmgard was perched on the green couch. I snagged her. She hooted and struggled. “What do we do with her,” I said. “What do you think,” said Vincent. “Hold her by her talons, maybe,” said Alabama. This worked. Though I had to climb the ladder one-handed. A clear night. We could see it through the plate glass, beyond the black inverses of the word KARASARKISSIAN’S. “I’ve been coming here for six years and I still have no idea who the guy is,” said Vincent. Irmgard was fluttering and thrashing. Not too hard. Then again, she wasn’t too alive. The air cold. The sky full of stars. Unusual for New York. We walked. It wasn’t that late. Pedestrians saw us. No one really cared. It’s a forgiving city. Despite what people say. “Could you do that to a person,” I said. “Could I do this to a person,” said Vincent, “do you think I’d be hanging out underground with jack-offs like you if I could do this to a person.” Irmgard snapped her beak on empty air.

  One bum in Stuyvesant Square. Bundled up to his eyes. We walked along the curving path. Empty benches, yellow windows, and stars. When we reached the rough middle, where the paths open up, Vincent told me to get ready. Irmgard was struggling harder now. A memory of night-flying in her dead, hollowed body. Life’s tenacious. You can’t escape what you’ve done. “Do I just throw her,” I said. “Try,” said Alabama. I did. Irmgard took wing and hooted. A hollow hoot. The kind you’d expect from a stuffed owl. The bum said, in a modulated appraiser’s voice, “That’s a hell of an owl.” She was winging away. Their wings don’t make noise. I’d forgotten that fact. We stood there in the park, watching her flight. Listening to the bum chuckle and huff. Alabama’s arm grazed mine. We both jerked back. “I am so tired,” said Vincent. He walked away without saying anything else. His tie gleamed in the lamplight. “Two kids in love,” said the bum, “damn right.”