by Peter Rock
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I’m blind,” he said. “I mean I’m practicing being blind.”
“For sympathy?” she said.
“No,” he said. “Well, to help me understand. And I’m helping train this dog here, too.”
He smelled the faint perspiration, the heat of her body as Natalie leaned closer. He flinched as she tapped at the lenses of his glasses with her fingernails.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re blinded, you sure are. Where have you been? When was the last time I saw you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It didn’t seem like a good idea to be in touch again, after last time.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It just came back to me—I had a good time that night, don’t worry; in fact, we could do it again. Eleven more times, if you want, and then we could go back through the months, or if you have a favorite—”
“No,” he said. “I’m seeing someone. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I appreciate it.”
Natalie laughed. “You’d be surprised what a girl like Linda Beatty would do,” she said. “I’ve been practicing my poses, wearing that striped towel like a turban on my head.”
“Natalie,” he said.
“Stop taking everything so serious,” she said. “I’m kidding. It’s all up to you.”
“Are you riding the rides?” he said, trying to shift the conversation.
“What?”
“Here at the park.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I have some work to do, here.”
A man ran past, shouting about a family reunion. A wave of screams crested and faded away. It took a moment for Steven to realize that Natalie was no longer sitting with him, that she was gone. He tried to see if he could feel the absence, the empty space she’d occupied; he wasn’t certain if he could tell a difference.
Natalie walked quickly through the midway, away from the noise of the games and the rides, the shrieking and carrying on. The two-inch wooden soles of her brown sandals knocked on the asphalt path as she moved closer to the river, through the picnic sites, the sections of land that could be rented for gatherings. She passed emptied buckets of chicken, smoldering grills, groups of heavy, similar-looking people drinking beer from cans and smoking cigarettes. Someone whistled at her; she did not turn. The wide brim of her straw hat hid her eyes.
While the adults wasted the evening, she knew, the children ran to the amusement park. And when the money ran out, as darkness fell, the children would be left to their own devices, and they would find the fringes of the tended land, and stray down along the riverfront, into the bushes and thickets. Her pockets were full of girls—Patti and Hope, Laura, Linda and Ann, torn and stiffened, used and still eager, still free, so close to the Fourth of July—and she had to get them out, make them available.
A fat raccoon, dragging a bag of popcorn along the ground, entered the bushes just in front of her. Already the blackberry thorns snagged at her knee socks. She braided her hair before going any farther, then moved silently down the overgrown paths, into the hidden clearings, the settings for misdemeanors, for secrets. She slipped torn pages under bushes, in tall, dry grass. The girls smiled out; they snapped suspenders; they bathed; they stripped in roadside cafés. Someone would find them, some young girl would keep them. A glance would explain what all those fireworks were hinting at.
And then, a rustle, deep in the undergrowth. The bushes shook. Natalie stepped closer, pulled back a branch. A tall, gangly man wearing slacks, a white dress shirt, was crawling on all fours. He looked up at her, his pale face set off by his sharp, black beard. Had she seen him before?
“I don’t know you,” he said. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“I don’t know you, either,” she said, letting go of the branch. She listened to the rustling fade as he crawled away in the other direction.
18.
THE DAY HAD DRAWN TO ITS CLOSE, the customers of Shanghai Shanghai long gone. Chesterton sat down and opened his notebook. Of his subject this evening, he wrote with great relish:
IV. ON VICTOR MACHADO
In this chapter I hope to reflect upon the character and examine the person of Victor Machado, the most dependable of those who work for me, the one among the Affected with whom I have developed what might be understood as a relationship.
Victor is a gangly, skinny, awkward fellow, his dark hair shorn close to his skull, his black beard tapering to a well-defined point. His speech is flustered and formal. He gives the impression of being constantly out of his depth. As to his height: he is only slightly shorter than I am, and I stand six foot nine inches in my stocking feet, my head held level.
Victor is a man whom I’ve studied in hopes, but with no certainty, that what I’ve learned can be extrapolated to others among the Affected population—or, ultimately, to the rest of us. And yet I hope to stress that he is a person, not merely a subject of study, that I have become fond of him. I must freely admit this, as it may influence the course of my investigation.
I look out for Victor, I look after him—I brush his teeth; I polish his shoes each morning, and send him out. I would cut his hair, if it needed it, or trim his handsome, striking beard, yet herein lies one mystery. Perhaps this is the one area where he cares for his appearance; perhaps, it has occurred to me, his hair simply does not grow.
I must digress to provide the necessary background. I did not seek out Victor; he found me. He came looking for employment. No one else would give him a job, what with the community notification laws that exist and every other thing.
Where to begin?
Victor Machado was electrocuted in 1998, on the rooftop of a private junior high school in Beaverton, Oregon. It is my belief that he had good reason to be on this rooftop, that he was working on the ventilation system or even checking for leaks against the coming winter rains. He was found in a narrow passageway where wires clustered, and he got tangled up. It could have happened to anyone. He was almost killed by the current that passed through him, and barely resuscitated. But this was only the half of Victor’s misfortune—
—For the site where they found him was next to two rows of skylights: one looked into the girls’ shower, while the other shone down into the boys’ locker room. It could be argued that Victor had been spying on these students while they were undressed and washing themselves. What’s more, the electrical shock that he underwent was sufficiently severe as to remove his very clothes from his body.
The fact of Victor’s nakedness when discovered, along with his proximity to the young and unclothed, is what generated the charges against him, what ultimately led to the strictures and probation that now bind him.
I must pause here, I must again digress in order to discuss Victor’s susceptibility to suggestion, what I would term his malleability. He is a fellow extremely prone to the influence of opinion, very eager to provide the desired reaction (as I have already demonstrated in my description of Walter, and others, such flexibility is not uncommon in the Affected; however, some rare individuals may be characterized by an unshakable fixity of purpose). I believe that Victor agreed to the false charges against him not out of actual guilt, but because such guilt was suggested to him and he could not resist the suggestion.
This young man is the most amenable among the Affected to experimentation, the gentlest by far. For instance, I once ordered a device from a newspaper advertisement, a simple set-up that promised to provide the growth and definition of one’s muscles through the application of low-level electrical impulses. This process was supposedly developed by the Russians and is known as Russian Stimulation or, more familiarly, Russian Stim. I did not find the device helpful, or interesting for my purposes, but recently—some years after procuring the device—I attempted to hook it up to Victor, to see how his body would react. I adhered the electrodes to his body, and the machine exploded before I’d even plugged it in!
I get ahead of myself, and further discussion of this experiment and those of a muc
h more advanced nature will follow. In this chapter I must focus on presenting the character and person of Victor Machado. Forgive me.
Of course, I am aware that the history above is my version of Victor’s story, and I am no impartial observer. The possibility remains that this gentle fellow was a sex offender, a pervert, that I—no matter how much I protest—have it backward here. There is also the danger that his probation for child molestation, all the counseling he receives, might actually suggest such activity to him, bend him in this unfortunate direction. This is why strictness is necessary. It is necessary to keep him occupied.
Victor works for me. He is dependable, indispensable. He runs errands; he picks up the wire from the drop-off site; he helps me in the complicated process of melting the copper, molding the bracelets, anklets and the like. Still, I do not always have enough work to keep him busy at all hours (especially because he sleeps so little), so it is sometimes necessary to send him on scurrilous errands, just to keep him out of trouble. Scavenger hunts, almost—I send him out for a specific number of bottlecaps, for instance, a specific brand, found at a set location; I ask him to tell me what color cars are parked in front of a certain store on Burnside, that kind of thing.
I feel affection for him. If I didn’t buy him new clothes, he wouldn’t think to do so. I must put notes in his pockets—his memory is not strong—to remind him of his assignments and even my address. Every morning, I shine his shoes. Perhaps I mentioned that; allow me to add detail: he puts his foot up on a wooden box, and I polish the right shoe, then the left. They are pointed black wingtips, fine shoes. I look up and Victor is watching with fierce concentration.
Sometimes I think of stories I’ve read, near-hypothetical accounts of people found frozen in blocks of ice and somehow brought back to life, into a different world, and I think of Victor. His recoveries are manifold—emotional, physical (this is a fellow who had a toe grafted to his left hand, in place of the thumb lost in the accident), even intellectual.
And this bears on one of the primary foci of these, my written investigations of the lives of the Affected and what might be gleaned from them. Can these individuals learn? What do they make of the notion of progress? Do they aspire to it, or does repetition satisfy them in a way that we cannot imagine? I suspect that the answer may lie in a different relationship to time (might they live in a world that multiplies possibilities without the danger of time ever running out?), and my suspicions must await a later and certainly a more deliberate treatment.
19.
THE THREE STOOD ON THE CROWDED MAX platform at Lloyd Center, yet they did not stand together. Leon was fifty feet away—walking tight circles, clenching and unclenching his fists, his eyes apparently closed—and he did not realize that Chris and Kayla were watching, following.
“Let’s just talk to him,” Chris said.
“We’ve tried that a million times,” Kayla said. “You know what we decided.”
“What if he sees us?”
“We’ll tell him we’re going to Cal Skate,” she said. “I need some new wheels, anyway; he can get some grip tape.”
The sun shone down, late afternoon. Kayla wore her usual skate clothes, not the sandals and skirt and makeup. Chris chewed at his lip and looked past her; now standing between a man with a bicycle and two old ladies, Leon lifted his feet, eyes closed, and walked in place. Even at this distance, the collar of his T-shirt looked stiff, corrugated, as if he’d been chewing on it and it had dried that way.
“Train,” Kayla said.
The brakes whistled and whooshed; the doors jerked open. People poured out, swinging shopping bags, wheeling bicycles. Leon disappeared into the front car.
Chris and Kayla got in the next one back, sitting where they could see Leon through the two windows, so they would know where he got off, and could follow. Doors closed, the MAX slid west, through traffic, toward the river, downtown. Leon faced away from them, oblivious; he stood with both arms stretched over his head, hanging on.
Soon they were crossing the Steel Bridge—below, the river stretched black and blue; a jet-ski tore its surface; a boat with a ragged sail struggled upwind.
“Look,” Kayla said. “The sailor’s girlfriend.”
Four seats ahead, a tall, strong-looking woman sat in a black skirt, a white blouse, and dark glasses. She held a slender white cane with a red tip between her feet, its handle pointing at the ceiling.
“She can hear us,” Chris said, whispering. “Probably. They can hear a long way.”
“Watch this,” Kayla said. Standing, she stepped down the aisle, sitting down across from the blind woman. She reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she said. “We’re almost downtown. Just so you know.”
“I realize that,” the woman said. “I know where I am.”
“Do you need any help?” Kayla said.
“No, thank you. I’m headed to an important appointment.”
Chris listened and watched, also trying to keep track of Leon. If Leon looked back and recognized him, he would wave. He would talk to him, again, try. In a way, he wished he were in the other car, his arm around Leon’s shoulder, just being his friend.
“Can I ask you a question?” Kayla was saying to the blind woman.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid it might be a little rude.”
Chris leaned forward, his neck against the seat in front of him, listening. Outside, the buildings of downtown slid past, people on the sidewalks, cars on every side.
“Go ahead,” the blind woman said.
“That cane, does it fold down?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Can I see it?” Kayla said. “I mean, hold it?”
The doors opened, the voice overhead saying “Pioneer Courthouse Square.”
“Kayla!” Chris said. “Leon!” He pulled on her arm as the doors opened, as people pushed their way in and out.
They slipped through the crowd, the two of them, past the Starbucks, the red bricks beneath their feet, the fountain and all the people—the hippies with clipboards, petitions to save trees or owls; the businessmen in suits and ties; the fake punk rockers and heroin-addict wannabes, kids in vinyl trench coats leading others on leashes, their spiky hair, their pimply necks. Where was Leon?
There, moving away from them, jaywalking, his face upturned as if he were asleep.
Chris and Kayla set after him, walking parallel, on the other side of the street. West to east: Fifth, Fourth, Third Avenues. They dodged through traffic. Cars honked. A bus driver shouted something.
“You stole that?” Chris said.
Kayla looked down, and laughed, surprised to see the blind woman’s white cane, still in her hand. Hardly slowing, she bent, then collapsed the cane; it telescoped in on itself until it was only a foot long.
The trees’ green leaves snapped overhead, and smokers clustered in doorways, and one-legged pigeons hopped out of the way. South to north: Stark, Oak, Pine Streets. It wasn’t hard to keep up with Leon—he was barely lifting his feet from the cobblestones, sliding his shoes along, his arms limp at his sides—and it was easy not to be seen, as he only looked straight ahead, focused, his expression unchanging. They crossed Burnside, near the red gate to Chinatown.
“Look behind him,” Chris said. “Who’s that? Abraham Lincoln?”
Halfway down the block, a tall, bearded figure moved jerkily along, his serious face suspended above the heads of everyone on the sidewalk around him. He, too, seemed to be following Leon.
“I think maybe I’ve seen him before,” Chris said.
“At Oaks Park?”
“No, I don’t think so. I can’t remember.”
“You sound like Leon,” Kayla said. “Leon knows him, I think. Maybe. Or something.”
“Look where he’s going—”
Leon had turned down a narrow alley, and the man followed; both moved more quickly, now, shambling with purpose. Kayla was already after them, Chris close be
hind. They could no longer see Leon, only the man, who did not look back.
Toward the end of the alley, before it dead-ended, a green dumpster stood. The man disappeared behind it, around the far side.
“Come on,” Kayla said, whispering.
High overhead, windows were covered by bars and dirt. Rusted fire escapes dangled from the brick walls; fans blew smoke and grease from restaurant vents.
The man did not reappear. Kayla and Chris stood ten feet from the green dumpster. After a moment, she bent down and looked along the ground, the space beneath the dumpster, out the other side.
“He’s gone,” she said, whispering. “I can’t see his feet.”
“Maybe he climbed inside there, somehow,” Chris said.
Kayla took hold of his arm and pulled him forward, toward where the man had disappeared.
Around the far side of the dumpster was a manhole, its cover half slid off, a dark moon of bottomless space in the gap.
“They went down there,” Chris said.
“Obviously.” Kayla bent down and pushed at the cover. “Help me.”
The cover slid across with a gristly, scraping sound. A damp wind rose from the round hole, blowing in their faces. A thin ladder stretched down, only the first few rungs visible.
Kayla turned; she descended slowly, into a concrete vault. Wires snaked in and out of boxes, all along the walls.
“Telephone lines, there,” she said, low, to herself. She lifted her hands just before Chris stepped on them.
At the bottom of the ladder, the space opened, darkness all around. Light filtered down, barely; their eyes adjusted as much as they could. Their feet kicked up dust; the air smelled dirty, stale.
“Where?” Chris said.
“Shh,” she said, her hand over his mouth.
Slowly, they began walking, following one wall into the darkness. Shards of glass cracked beneath their feet. Overhead, pipes suddenly loomed, everywhere, thick and narrow, dripping and dusty dry. Pressure gauges flashed round and white like the faces of clocks. The brick walls were uneven; here and there were holes, like rough doorways made by sledgehammers. Kayla and Chris leaned against each other; they held hands.
