The Bewildered

by Peter Rock

  “The lights,” he said. “What? Hey!”

  “I don’t want to draw attention,” she said. “There’s probably a night watchman somewhere. Besides, your eyes won’t help you here.”

  They settled. She could feel him, close in the darkness, but they were not touching. She could hear his breathing, and she could hear her own. The air around them hissed and sparked. Time passed; did it pass?

  She did not hear the footsteps. She did not hear the key in the door, not even the hinges as they swung open. Suddenly the light spilled in, the frame of the door and the silhouette inside it—a person, a man, his long arm slapping the wall, searching for the light switch.

  For a moment, none of them could see, startled by the brightness. Natalie realized that her shirt was unbuttoned, her bare stomach pressed to the ball of wire. Her wig was next to her on the floor; she put it back on, and buttoned herself, and realized that Leon was stretched out flat—one ball of wire behind his neck, one under his back, one beneath his legs. He wore one shoe; his T-shirt was tangled around his neck.

  “Holy crow,” she said.

  “Whoa, whoa—wait!” The man at the door took a step back, retreating into the hallway.

  Now she was able to see him: he was very tall, gaunt, his hair slicked back, his head almost reaching the top of the door frame. He wore dark, creased slacks, a white dress shirt, his mouth set in a straight, serious line. He pulled something, a piece of paper, from his pocket and squinted, reading it. His black beard was precise, pointing down at the floor where his narrow black shoes were just as sharp, pointing at her like two daggers. He stepped forward again, into the room, looking them over.

  “No one’s supposed to be here,” he said. “That is very clear in the document.”

  She certainly had not seen him before, and yet he seemed familiar. His voice was a shifting tenor, and clipped, slightly Spanish, the words strange and secondhand. He set his eyes on her.

  “Listen,” she said, “I know what we agreed, on the phone. I realize I’ve overstepped, here.”

  “You and I,” he said. “The two of us have not communicated by telephone.”

  “You’re not the one who calls?” she said, but already she knew that this voice was different, that this man was not acting or putting her on. He seemed too odd, somehow, to suspect of duplicity.

  “I am Victor,” he said. “Victor Machado. I just work for him.”

  “For whom?” she said. “I’m Natalie.”

  “Well,” the man said, “I don’t know his name, of course.”

  “What does he look like?”

  Victor looked away; he squinted again at the piece of paper in his hand.

  “I’m Leon,” Leon said. He was sitting, now, trying to tie his shoe.

  “What’s he doing with the wire?” Natalie said. “And is that pile there just scrap?”

  “Maybe,” Victor said. “I do not do that part, I don’t think. No.” He stepped closer to her, then paused halfway. His hand came up, as if everything should pause, as if it were impossible for them to go anywhere. Turning, he disappeared into the hallway and returned pushing a large, yellow wheelbarrow made of metal.

  “Enough questions!” he said. “Whatever you were doing, it is now time to cease, so that I am able to do this thing that I’ve been told to do.” He set the wheelbarrow down, between her and Leon. “It is the wire on the left,” he said, “that I’m to take. This I have been told. Excuse me.”

  “We’re not hurting anything,” Natalie said.

  “We’re the ones who brought it here,” Leon said.

  Victor ignored them. As he touched the first ball of wire, however, Natalie saw his eyes flicker, his lips tighten and curl—and she knew that he knew, also, that he was the same, or shared some kind of similarity. He saw her watching his expression and turned his face away. He did not slow. He piled the balls of wire in a pyramid, fitting them all in the wheelbarrow; slowly, he pivoted the heavy load on the black rubber wheel and began pushing it from the room.

  Natalie was on her feet, Leon next to her. They followed Victor and the wire out through the door and down the hallway, onto the loading dock.

  “Please,” Natalie said. “Don’t say that I—that we were here. We didn’t change anything.”

  Victor backed up a white Chrysler K-car to the loading dock. A sticker marked its bumper: RENT-A-WRECK. He began to load the wire into the open trunk, the suspension sagging under the weight. The trunk was too full to close, so he wired it down. Last, he wedged the wheelbarrow into the back seat, kicking it with his pointed shoes, forcing it to fit.

  “There’s no reason to say anything,” Natalie said. “No reason to tell.”

  Victor looked up to the loading dock where she stood with Leon, his expression incredulous. “You think I could?” he said. “That I could just tell him? I am a listener—I listen. He tells me things. It is not my place to tell him. That is a preposterous notion.”

  Victor climbed into the car, started the engine, and slowly pulled away. Natalie and Leon stood watching him go; the car’s red taillights winked once, at the intersection, and then it turned a corner, out of sight. A few stars shone down, the moon lost in clouds, the night going cool. Reaching out, Natalie touched Leon at the back of his cool, sweaty neck, and pulled him closer. She straightened a thin strand of wire, a piece that she’d worked loose; she twisted the ends together, a necklace for him.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, whispering still. “There will be more.”

  11.

  “BLINDFOLDING YOU,” Heather said. “That would be interesting, something to try.”

  She was sitting across from Steven, sorting through papers on her desk, reading them with her fingers. The Portland offices of The Seeing Eye were made up of three desks in this one windowless room. Carefully arranged papers covered the desks and tables, but the only writing on them was Steven’s. Mostly the writing was Braille, the raised nubs hinting at messages he could not understand, sentiments mysterious and tantalizing.

  “Sounds promising,” he said.

  “Or maybe the blindfold wouldn’t be such a great idea,” she said. “Since you might really want to watch me, to see me not seeing you.”

  The first time, the only time they’d been together, outside of work—on the houseboat—Heather had hesitated to even kiss him good night. Here at the office, with the constant possibility of interruption, people coming and going, she was freer with her flirtation and innuendoes.

  “You never told me how your date went,” she said.

  “What?” he said.

  “With your friend from San Jose.”

  “Natalie?” he said. “I wouldn’t call it a date. It was all right. I doubt I’ll see her again, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you trying to provoke me?” he said.

  “Maybe. I’d just like to know why you wouldn’t see her again.”

  “I’d rather spend more time with you.”

  “First,” Heather said, “tell me what happened.”

  Steven sighed, exasperated. “She wasn’t really how I remembered her,” he said, “and she didn’t really want to be reminded of her life before, or anything about that, so I think seeing me made her uncomfortable.”

  Heather pulled her thick, dark hair into a loose ponytail, then stood and crossed the room; her body had its own memory—she swiveled her hips sideways in her yellow skirt, turning the corner of her desk. She brushed against Steven, reached out to touch his arm, gauging the distance, but did not sustain the contact.

  “So I’m your only girl now?” she said.

  “Exactly,” he said, trying to get her to be serious. “When are we getting together again?”

  “I need to practice with Ross,” she said.

  At the sound of his name, the dog stood up from where he’d been sleeping, beneath the table. He panted, his thick pink tongue hanging out. His tail slapped the wall with a dull sound that was the perfect equivalent of his express
ion. Heather clipped the leash to his collar and the two of them went through the door, leaving Steven behind. He looked at the white walls, bare except for one plaque—THE DOG DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU, YOU BELONG TO THE DOG—and a piece of paper he’d taped up, a quotation from Helen Keller: “I have touched several lions in the flesh, and felt them roar royally, like a cataract over rocks.”

  Alone, he sifted through the papers on his desk, but had a hard time concentrating on the fund-raising mailing he was doing; his thoughts turned from Heather to Natalie, back and forth. More than a week had passed since he’d visited Natalie in the trailer. It had taken him by surprise; how could it not have? Her circumstances alone—the trailer, the rusted pickup truck—had destabilized him, and then there were the wigs, and the name she wanted to be called, all her poses and demands.

  Standing, he walked around the room, swinging his arms, trying to shift his thoughts through physical movement. He went on, through the door, into the hallway. Out back, there were two chain-link kennels, empty now. Mostly the work here concerned coordinating the people who raised the puppies for the first eighteen months, before their formal training began. Also, The Seeing Eye helped the blind who already had dogs in the city. Steven answered questions on the phone, and helped write grants, and paid bills.

  He hit the elevator button, then decided not to wait and climbed the stairs, two at a time. On the second floor, he walked down the hallway, past the dentist’s office. He stopped at the far end of the hall, where a window overlooked the street.

  Heather was below, crossing toward him, being led by Ross. The two of them were jaywalking, practicing “intelligent disobedience,” where the dog was instructed to go forward, yet disobeyed the command because he sensed danger. It was the hardest thing to learn—to disobey one’s master, for the master’s own good—but Ross was getting the hang of it. Heather was still alive, after all, now stepping onto the curb in her black sandals, eyes hidden behind her dark glasses. She spun Ross around, to cross again; the dog’s red vest clashed with her yellow skirt.

  Cars sped by, their colors blurring. A bus lumbered past, an advertisement for the zoo on its side. Ross stood still, not letting Heather cross. A pedestrian, a young man, paused on the sidewalk behind her, concerned; rather than asking if she needed help, though, he walked away, after a moment, careful not to appear condescending. Steven knew that feeling.

  Leaning in, he touched the glass with his fingertips; the blind could tell windows from mirrors by vibration. Could he? He opened his eyes: the street cleared, and Ross took Heather across again. At the far side, they spun around. Heather’s face was upturned, bright in the sun, and she was smiling slightly, as if she were aware that Steven was watching her.

  12.

  KAYLA PULLED OUT A SCRAP of magazine from where it was tangled, deep under the vines. Her expression turned from hopeful to dismissive.

  “Just an advertisement,” she said. “Fred Meyer.” Balling up the paper, she threw it deeper into the blackberry bushes.

  It was Saturday, hot, the middle of the afternoon. Chris and Kayla sat together, hidden in the vines; they’d already eaten all the berries—gritty, not quite ripe—within reach, and they were sitting on their skateboards, shields against the thorns. Fifty yards from the river, they faced the houseboats docked there. Waiting. Chris watched Kayla as she stuck her fingertip with a thorn. Dark red blood welled up, and she smeared it away against the skin of her leg. They both wore cutoff shorts; her calves were smooth, shaven, while dark hairs grew on his. He picked up the binoculars and checked the boat in the harbor.

  “What if he’s not even in there?” he said.

  “Let’s wait a little longer.”

  “Should we try to talk to him, if he comes out?”

  “I don’t know that, yet,” Kayla said. “We probably shouldn’t even let him see us, or notice us, for now. “Sorekara kare wo koroshu.” She laughed.

  “No te puedo entender cuando hablas japonés,” he said.

  Kayla took out her notebook and began writing in it. She looked out toward the river, then wrote some more. Chris could not tell if she was wearing makeup, thin black lines around her eyes; it looked like it, but he decided not to ask. He scratched his head—his hair was growing back now, and that made him think of Leon. Leon had not shown at the meeting place, and they had not waited for him. The three had strict rules about being on time.

  He checked through the binoculars again. The Waterlelie was made of dark wood; brass circled the windows, all the fittings. A canoe was lashed to one side, a barbecue grill on deck. As Chris watched, a door opened in the cabin, and Steven stepped out, wearing jeans but no shirt. He stretched his arms out in front of him, as if he’d awakened from a nap.

  “There he is,” Chris said.

  “Is he looking at us?”

  “No; he’s just looking up the dock, like someone might be coming.”

  “No one’s coming, though.”

  Steven walked back and forth on the deck, checking the ropes and knots, staring down into the dark water of the harbor.

  “What’d he just pick up?” Kayla said. “What’s he holding? A rabbit?”

  “A cat, I think.”

  “A cat! That’s just like him. Let me see.” Kayla took the binoculars and leaned forward a little, to get that much closer. “He’s so repugnant,” she said. “He’s everything that’s wrong. I can’t see how Natalie can even stand to talk to him, let alone—” She shivered rather than completing the sentence.

  Below, Steven went back into the cabin, and they could no longer see him. Out on the river, beyond the houseboats, a scull jerked past, eight girls from Lewis and Clark or Portland State rowing in unison as a girl in back shouted through a bullhorn.

  “Hot,” Kayla said, setting the binoculars down, shading her eyes with her other hand.

  “Why are we even watching him?” Chris said. “Because of Natalie?”

  “No,” Kayla said. “Natalie—she’s good for money, as long as it lasts, but we’ve seen how she is. She’s not going to teach us anything new; she’s turning out to be just another adult.”

  “So, why?”

  “Leon,” she said. “Because you saw how Leon is about Natalie, and Natalie’s into this sailor, and so you know we just have to find out what we can, follow it through.”

  Chris reached out and touched Kayla’s leg. He ran his hand down its smoothness and clasped her ankle.

  “That’s my ankle,” Kayla said.

  “I know,” he said, letting go.

  “Let’s not get started again.” She turned her head to look at him, her expression calm and tired.

  “Right,” Chris said. His back ached; he wanted to lean over, but there were thorns in every direction. Instead, he unzipped his pack and took out the book, the paperback that Kayla had lent him.

  “I read it,” he said.

  “And?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure what happened.”

  The cover showed a painting of blue water, and waves, and boats in a harbor, bare masts sticking into the sky; it was different, but also close to the scene they were watching. Above the painting was the title, The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea, and the author’s name, Yukio Mishima. At the top of the cover, it read, “A Novel of the Homicidal Hysteria that Lies Latent in the Japanese Character.” Kayla reached out to point at these words.

  “Kind of misleading,” she said. “That’s how they sell books, I guess. Watashi tachi wa amerika-jin. Watashi tachi no kokoro ni naniga aru no kashira.”

  Chris turned the book over; on the back, a yellow banner read “Now a Major Motion Picture! Starring Sarah Miles and Kris Kristofferson!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t speak Japanese,” he said.

  “Then learn it; we could speak it together.”

  “I thought we decided I should learn Spanish. I should master the one before starting another.”

  “Fine,” she said. “And I know what you mean abou
t the book—you never find out what happened to the kids. Were they right to follow their beliefs? Were they wrong? Did they get in trouble, or did something else happen? How did they feel?”

  “The ending is kind of fast,” Chris said.

  Kayla reached out and took the book from him. “Did you see this page here, where I bent the corner back?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “only I couldn’t tell what you thought was important.”

  Kayla read it aloud: “There was a label called ‘impossibility’ pasted all over the world, and they were the only ones who could tear it off, once and for all.”

  “Right,” Chris said.

  “Doesn’t that sound familiar?” she said. “I’m going to write it down.”

  Kayla began writing in her notebook again. Chris leaned forward to retie his shoelace; when he tugged at it, it broke, and he had to tie another knot, to fit the tattered end through an eyelet.

  “One more week of school,” he said. “You think we’ll ever get to that Bartók? Those folk songs? Finally a piece with decent solos for clarinet and flute, and I bet we never even get to play it.”

  “There’s our sailor again,” Kayla said. “There he is.”

  Steven was back on the boat’s deck, holding a phone to his face, talking.

  “I don’t have the headset,” Kayla said, still squinting through the binoculars. “But even if I did, it’s too light out; we’d get caught. Can’t even see the line, anyway. Oh—it’s a cell phone. I wonder what he’s saying. Look at him!”

  Even with his bare eyes, Chris could tell that Steven was angry. He gestured with his free hand and paced back and forth, turning quickly. He’d put on a yellow t-shirt, a baseball cap against the sun; he tore the cap from his head, waved it in the air, then jerked it down tight again.

  “I bet he’s talking to Natalie,” Kayla said.

  “I wonder if he called her or she called him.”

  “The way he left that night,” she said, “I don’t know. Oh—look, look!”