Before even finishing the sentence he would already have busted out laughing, muffling the final word. The force of the laughter, however, would always serve to remind him of the crippling pain caused by the dislocated disc in his lower spine.
Goddammit, he would yell. Goddamn you, you are killing me.
DURING THE DAY—LAID UP in Kalorama with Jack Nancy—Alden’s mind would be blank and calm. But when he returned home at night, he would often find himself, against his will and better judgment, once again running over the course of events in his mind, and wondering in what way, or at what point, he might have recognized within them some sort of pattern; some way, that is, of recognizing—and thereby affecting—what was (though he could not have known it then) already to come. But he could detect no pattern; no, nothing beyond the brute facts of what had occurred: the sudden—material—onslaught of bricks and metal from the approaching cavalry; then the manner in which one of them (as though there had existed for it all along no other course) connected with the skull of Douglas Sinclair.
In none of it—no blow given or received, nor the manner in which, shortly afterward (though he could hardly recall it) their hands had been bound behind their backs, and he, along with Douglas, still bleeding, and Arthur, had been led away—could he find one single immaterial thing that he might have seized upon in order redirect the course of things. Still, he continued to trouble over it, his thoughts repeating themselves; turning over the same, stubborn groove. By what method, he wondered, might he train them toward some different end? (It was, as he had reflected on countless occasions, hardly worthwhile to dwell on the past.) If there existed any way of affecting the future, it would have to be—he reasoned—not, as he had so far supposed, in the discovery of some auxiliary route based upon and beginning from the moment at hand but in altering the direction of the route along which one had already come. Where he had previously envisioned, that is, a complete break with the past, it was obvious no break could possibly be! The future, he realized, quite unmistakably now, would always arrive in some recognizable form. He recalled, for example, the look in the eyes of the Bonus Army in the moment they had turned—as if a single man—to face the approaching cavalry, who had just then begun toward them at a charge. There had been fear— yes. And anger. Both of which Alden understood. But there had been something else, too, which at the time he’d found difficult to place. It occurred to him now what it had been: a look of absolute recognition. The look of a man who stares at his own face in the mirror, say, and— though he does not always like what he sees—registers, through the simple fact of his gaze, an exact equivalence. A complicity with image and form, which at once cancels out both true judgment and every course of action that has not already been tried.
And so it was, and had always been, Alden thought—throughout history. Where no man or woman had any other manner of looking at the world, except to stare back at the past. No wonder they found themselves so hopelessly trapped there! Yes, he thought, it was that … simple acknowledgment—of there being no actual distance to traverse between the future and the past—that had filled him suddenly, in the moment of the cavalry charge, with a horror more devastating than the rush of smoke and dust, or the volley of guns, or even his own intentions (the probable effect, that is, of the small block of wood he then carried on his person; an object that, though it appeared innocent enough and measured less than six inches in diameter, soon promised—by means of a small vial of sulfuric acid, a blasting cap, and a stick of dynamite lodged within its hollowed core—to achieve for itself a very different meaning).
Yes, it was quite clear to him now: where he had previously envisioned the future as arriving with the same force he then carried (that pure, unalloyed potential), having no correspondence with either the present or the past … it could never arrive that way; quite possibly, it could never arrive at all! The future, he saw now, would always arrive a moment too late, in what would (by the time it arrived) already be the past. It was therefore not the future that needed to be anticipated and arranged, but the proper recognition of it when it came. What was necessary (Alden thought to himself now, with some satisfaction—having arrived, finally, at a loophole in the trap that had otherwise been made of his mind) was some method of inspiring within the hearts of men not an idea, but some substantial form according to which they might, in a moment of sublime recognition when it came, actually become the future, rather than, as usual, pitting themselves against it as though it were the most rudimentary foe. But he was at a loss to understand how this might be done: how any thing might resist—when transferred either in time or in space—becoming, at least in part, an idea again. And even his own thoughts—in direct proportion to his efforts to contain them—continued to erupt in the most impulsive manner, as though disconnected from any progression, let alone any tangible form, so that it was a very difficult process to train them toward anything that might be considered of any substance at all. Proof of this was that, though he might spend an entire sleepless night attempting to work through the problem, first one way and then another, the next day not even the slightest trace of his efforts would remain.
There was never anything to do in the morning but to eat the breakfast provided for him, and depart, as soon as he was able, to Jack Nancy’s, where—sweet tea in hand—he would be regaled by Jack with whatever details he had been able to glean about preseason training, or his sister’s varied exploits with men. This latter topic, in particular, was one that held for Jack considerable interest because of the fact that he had so far had none of his own. This was a regret that was, of course, never spoken out loud, but was always implicit—and quite possibly taken to his grave. It is quite possible that Jack Nancy plummeted to his death in the North Atlantic—his scrotum pinched with cold and the pressure of terror and wind—a virgin. But that would occur many years later, and the future was never a subject that interested Jack. Neither of course was the past, and thus he never was able to satisfy Alden’s own niggling and morbid curiosity as to the nature and dimensions of the death he’d been witness to as a boy. The smell of it, say, or its other lingering aftereffects. Did it scald itself, for example, onto your eyes, so that even when you looked away, and possibly for a long time after, it left a tiny white light dancing at the outer field of your vision as after staring too long at a naked electric bulb? And as it was well known that to die by one’s own hand was a very different matter from dying by natural cause, he wondered further if there was not, perhaps, some instant knowledge that the body, remaindered by such a death, imparted to the onlooker—a knowledge that, if briefly, illuminated the origin of the death itself, which had arisen, somehow, deformed and monstrous within the soul?
After all of Black Nancy’s sandwiches had been devoured and they had begun to hear the telltale signs of evening falling in the form of the clinking of ice in Mrs. Nancy’s glass downstairs, and her heavy sighs, which became even heavier as the sun descended behind the trees and spread its shadows like soft blankets on the ground, Alden would glide home, his brain a bright red ball glowing in his head, and it would only be as he neared the gate to his own house and saw the light in his father’s window and felt, before he saw, the pale echo of the light in his mother’s back hall and the contrasting pressure of Sutton’s bulb pulsing with a betrayal and resentment he could neither admit to nor understand, that he would be filled suddenly with the sweeping, nearly unbearable sensation of the relativeness of his own small glow, which would suddenly both dim and flare: an erratic, searing pain.
WHO KNOWS HOW MUCH time would have passed in this way if the future had not suddenly arrived, then, in the last days of August, looking—as it nearly always does—so very much like the past? It was the Indian, John, who appeared one day, just after Mrs. Nancy’s lengthening sighs had alerted Alden to the fact that he would shortly be due home, pacing the length of Mrs. Nancy’s Kalorama drive. The Indian had, over the course of the weeks that had passed, become pale and thin, so that indeed he appeare
d to Alden almost like a ghost of himself as he approached in the waning light. Having no experience with the matter, Alden failed to recognize what he might well have years later: that what he mistook in the Indian as the effects of inadequate food and sleepless nights, was actually the result of a slow-burning dread that had gradually begun to overtake him. Alden was, at that time, still very young; he could not foretell the future. He could, just barely, see ten feet ahead of himself—what with how quickly the darkness had come, and the great distances that always existed between lampposts in the more fashionable neighborhoods.
When finally Alden reached him, the Indian turned stiffly, as though suddenly unused to his overlong limbs, and, without extending a hand or a single word in greeting, began to walk slowly in the same direction. The two walked together then, without speaking, their pace checked by darkness.
Why don’t they light these goddamn neighborhoods? the Indian said.
Alden realized only then that he had been walking as stiffly as the Indian. At the sound of his familiar voice, however, Alden relaxed; his knees bent. Pretty soon there were lights in the distance. They walked faster toward them as though drawn on by the light. The hill hurried them, as though pressing from behind—ushering them out of the darkness of Kalorama, and into the future. He wanted very badly to arrive there.
Finally, after twenty minutes or more, the Indian stopped abruptly on a well-lit street, under a low awning. Alden waited for him to speak, but he only continued to regard him silently. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
Come on, the Indian said finally. Let’s go inside.
Then, turning, he knocked twice on a heavy door adjacent to where they now stood. Shortly afterward, when the door opened inward, he ducked inside, without motioning for Alden to follow. But Alden did follow. He entered the house after the Indian, and shut the door behind him.
Perched on a large stuffed chair at the far end of the entry, a thin man in spectacles—very serious-looking, in what was perhaps a rather premature middle age—had evidently been waiting. Whoever it was who had opened the door was nowhere to be seen. It had evidently not been the man in the chair—unless, that is, he had raced back across the room very quickly, in just the short time it had taken Alden and the Indian to enter the room. This did not seem very likely—though he did appear poised in such a way (balanced as precariously as the book held open on his knee, or the spectacles at the end of his nose) that it was not out of the question he had either recently arranged himself in that position or was preparing at any moment to spring.
Now, abruptly, he closed the book on his knee and looked up, toward where the Indian—Alden behind him—hovered just inside the door.
Ah, he said, addressing Alden as a professor might an especially promising new pupil. A pleasure. He extended his hand, but did not get up or move toward him, so that Alden was forced to do so himself. He did so; allowing his hand to be taken up firmly in the professor’s own. He had not expected so firm a grasp, however, and returned the pressure only after the professor had released his own—in doing so, extending the handshake a beat too long.
It has been brought to my attention, the professor said, after returning Alden’s hand, that you are quite (here he paused, allowing him to put extra, though delicate, emphasis on the word that followed) dedicated to our cause. Would you consider that to be the case?
Alden could not help but shift, uncomfortably, from one foot to the next, but he nodded.
The professor nodded as well, then leaned back in his chair, his fingers clasped tightly around the book on his knee. Automatically, Alden searched its spine for a title, but found it was covered in a protective leather case.
I would, the professor said—gazing off somewhere beyond Alden, into the distance—accept your word on this matter more readily if something else, of late, had not also been brought to my attention. Now he let his gaze drift back toward Alden, who concentrated on meeting it. Were you not charged, the professor said, adjusting his position so that once again he sat forward as though ready to spring, with the possession of some very … sensitive materials some weeks past? Sensitive materials (he pronounced each word as if they themselves might explode on his tongue) which never did arrive at their destination and, in failing to do so, directly resulted in the obstruction of a major element of our operation?
I was, Alden said, charged with … sensitive materials. Yes.
Which did not reach their destination.
Yes. Sir. You see, I—they—were intercepted.
His voice broke a little on the final word.
I was, Alden said—clearing his throat before beginning again— taken … But he could not finish the sentence. I put myself, you see—he began a third time—at great personal risk, sir—I hope you understand.
The professor eyed him from behind the reflective lenses of his spectacles, as though peering at him from a great distance.
I have heard, he said slowly, after a weighty pause—still gazing at Alden intensely—one other thing of the affair, which I will tell you, and then we’ll be done with it—put the whole thing behind us, so to speak. I have heard … that your personal risk, as you say, in this affair was significantly reduced due to some very worthwhile connections. Again, the professor paused. Would you say that this was true?
It is, of course, he continued after a moment or two, when it became clear that Alden had no reply to offer him, a great disappointment to us that the materials in your charge were intercepted—the interruption of this operation came indeed at great cost. But what is most important, as always, with the sort of work that we do, is that we are able to learn from our mistakes. That we are even able, from the new configuration of events and circumstances within which we find ourselves, to recognize some new advantage. Now—he said—leaning forward still more, and redirecting his gaze so that for the first time he appeared to be looking at Alden directly, I see before me a young man with every mark of one day becoming … a great leader within our party. Is this a thought that has occurred to you?
Again, Alden made no reply. His mouth felt remarkably dry.
The professor raised his hand and, as though she had come from nowhere, a thin woman dressed in a long dark gown, as from a previous century, and carrying a tray with four tall glasses, entered the room.
Why don’t we have a toast? the professor proposed, rising. He then turned to the thin woman, indicating to each of them that they should take a glass. After they had done so, he took the last for himself.
To the future! the professor said, lifting his glass in the air—a gesture the others copied—then drinking the contents in a single swallow. Alden attempted the same but could only manage a little. He measured the quantities of alcohol still left in the Indian’s and the tall woman’s glass. Neither one of them had drunk as quickly or as heartily as the professor.
During all this time the tall woman appeared not to have noticed that anyone else was in the room. She stood with them nonetheless, silently, towering a full head above the professor and nearly as much over Alden, so that his gaze fell level with the point at which the prominent bones of her chest conjoined, exposing a most vulnerable V shape between them, from which he found it increasingly difficult to look away. So mesmerized had he become that it was some time before he noticed that the professor had begun speaking again, this time in a foreign language he could not understand. After another moment or two, he at last recognized—from a few scattered words familiar to him—the language as Russian. Now the tall woman turned to the Indian, and spoke to him in the same language, and—to Alden’s immense surprise—the Indian replied. An Indian speaking Russian! He did not have long to ponder the strangeness of the scene, however, because very soon the professor, in a startled voice—as though he had for a moment forgotten Alden entirely—interrupted the Indian, saying, Please forgive us, and the conversation continued in English. But because Alden had already missed so much by that point, what passed between them was no more understandable t
o him than it had been before, and he turned his attention instead to his glass so that it might more quickly empty itself and he might have some excuse to depart.
IT WAS SOME HOURS later that Alden stumbled, alongside the Indian, into the street. The solid lines of the buildings they passed, and the hard, perpendicular angle of the street, were a disorienting contrast to his own muddled head. Beside him, the Indian seemed even larger and more solid than usual, and when, once, in faltering slightly, Alden reached out to steady himself against him, he felt an almost physical shock at the touch.
Before long, the Indian pulled up short just as he had in front of the house of the professor a few hours before. The houses in front of which they now stood were of a very different sort: long and swaybacked, they huddled together, seeming almost as temporary and haphazard as the shelters at Camp Marks.
All right? the Indian said.
Alden nodded yes.
The Indian returned the nod, then he ducked through a low entryway, motioning for Alden to follow. Once inside, they were enclosed in almost perfect darkness. Alden followed the Indian hesitantly down a short flight of stairs, his hand on the rough wall beside him, so that he wouldn’t stumble. At the bottom of the stairs, he could see that the small cellar they had just entered had been converted into sparely furnished living quarters with a bed in one corner of the room and a table at the center. A small lamp on a high window ledge cast a limited glow.
What—? Alden began—but the Indian put a finger to his lips, and pointed toward a third figure in the corner, at that moment just rising to greet them. It was Aida. Though Alden’s eyes had not yet fully adjusted to the light, he recognized the contour of her shape immediately as she approached. What a relief it was to see her!
Quartet for the End of Time Page 15
