The 14th Day

by K. C. Frederick

  A black car looms in the lane ahead of them, moving slowly, and it takes Ila only seconds to come up behind it, where they can see that it’s occupied by a number of men in dark suits. A bumper sticker says something about Jesus, but before Vaniok has a chance to read it, Ila swings out and passes the car. She stays in the passing lane, going even faster now. “They looked like missionaries on their way to convert the savages,” Vaniok says. “You went by them so quickly I didn’t get a chance to read what their sign said.”

  Ila laughs. “Am I driving too fast for you?” Her voice is playful, taunting.

  Vaniok doesn’t have to look at the speedometer to know the car is traveling well over the speed limit. “No, no,” he raises his voice against the noise. “I don’t care. This is a good road. You can go faster if you like.”

  But even as he makes his declaration he realizes Ila isn’t paying attention to him; she’s turned toward Jory. For a time only the sound of the engine and the rush of the wind fills the car. Vaniok feels ignored, he waits with his cousin for Jory’s answer. At last the other man looks at Ila with a faint smile. “How are your tires?” he asks. “Will they hold up under the speed?” His manner is cool and ironic and yet Vaniok can see that Jory isn’t really so calm about Ila’s driving: he holds a cigarette in one hand but the other, resting on his thigh, is curled into a loose fist, like that of a man who’s debating whether or not to get into a fight. Look, Vaniok wants to tell Ila, can’t you see? And yet it seems quite likely that she knows as well as he does how Jory feels, that, in fact, everyone in the car is aware that some kind of game is going on.

  Ila is silent for a moment before answering Jory’s question about her tires. “I don’t know. I never checked them. Maybe we’ll have to find out how good they are.”

  “Ah,” Jory says with a mirthless laugh. “Then we may have a very short ride.” Would he ask her to slow down, Vaniok wonders, if someone else weren’t there? He’s amused by the situation, though it suddenly strikes him that Ila might even consider Jory braver for trying to hide his concern than a person like himself who isn’t bothered at all by her speeding; and once more he can’t help feeling that Jory has bested him in some way.

  The road before them is straight and empty. Ila’s response is to increase her speed. Vaniok watches the speedometer needle advance, he feels the pull of the car. “Is this all right for you, gentlemen?” Ila asks.

  Jory looks straight ahead. “I trust our hostess.” Vaniok can hear the effort it costs him to seem calm. He looks from his countryman to Ila.

  “But I want to be polite to my guests,” she says.

  “And therefore you want us to get to the picnic more quickly,” Jory answers coolly.

  “Exactly,” Vaniok adds, determined not to be left out of this conversation. “Maybe we could go a little faster.”

  “I could go faster,” Ila makes it sound like a question. Again she looks toward Jory, waiting for a reaction. Jory shrugs, then inhales deeply on his cigarette as the car speeds on. Ila’s hair is blowing in the wind.

  Vaniok looks at Jory’s loosely clenched fist. The man is stubborn: why doesn’t he just admit he’d be more comfortable if Ila were driving more slowly; and why does Ila keep deferring to him?

  But Jory only laughs quietly. “You must have been a terror on the roads around the Deep Lakes,” he says.

  She responds with a wicked smile. “You should have seen me. Especially in the winter when there was a lot of snow on those narrow roads.”

  “I pity the animals who were trying to cross them,” Jory says. “You must have taken your toll of rabbits and squirrels. I hope you didn’t number any bison among your victims.”

  Well, Vaniok thinks, give him his due: he hides his feelings well; let each person act the way he wants to. And, warmed by his own generosity, he smiles to himself. Why should he care about how Ila and Jory are behaving, after all? He’s enjoying himself here in this car that’s speeding eastward. Soon they’ll be at the ocean, which he’s been dreaming about since Ila announced her plans for the picnic. He closes his eyes and listens to the wind, he breathes in the cigarette smoke. In the darkness, to his surprise, he sees one of the narrow, snow-covered roads in the region of the Deep Lakes. How many times did he push his little car across roads like those in the winter, on his way to a lodge where a fire blazed in the fireplace, awaiting the fishermen who’d spent hours on the ice, peering into the slushed-over holes they’d cut, dangling their silver lures in the dark, cold water, dreaming the whole time they shivered of the warmth awaiting them on their return?

  “Oh, oh,” he hears Ila say. Jolted out of his reverie, he opens his eyes, feels his own weight returning as the car slows suddenly. His first thought is that something has happened to the tires, just as Jory predicted. “What is it?” he asks.

  He looks at Ila, then Jory: their faces have become serious. Ila is looking into the rear-view mirror and Vaniok swings his head around to see the flashing light. “My God,” he says aloud, “the police.” The hair on the back of his neck rises. Even after he’s turned and is looking at the open highway ahead he can see the pulsing light, the powerful car, an armed man at the wheel. “The police,” he says again, his own voice sounding strange. “Go faster.” As he says the words, though, he knows that’s a futile plan: the police car is certainly faster than Ila’s; besides, there are no places to turn off this highway, they’re trapped. Ila has already slowed down and she begins gently urging the car toward the shoulder. “No,” he shouts, lunging for the wheel; but before he can reach it Jory’s hand encircles his wrist, he pulls Vaniok’s arm away.

  “That won’t help,” he says firmly. Vaniok turns toward him as if he has something important to say, but he can’t find the words. His hand is still being held as if he’s a fugitive who’s just been caught.

  “It’s all right.” Jory releases his grip on Vaniok’s wrist. Vaniok looks at him, alert to something going on beneath his words. The man is frightened, Vaniok recognizes. There’s something he’s afraid of. The deliberate calm of Jory’s voice doesn’t cover it. Though he’s looking directly at Vaniok, he isn’t seeing him. His attention is elsewhere, as if he’s working out a complex mathematical problem at great speed. “Remember, we’re foreigners,” he flicks his eyes briefly toward Ila. “You have your license, I hope. Other papers?”

  “In the glove compartment,” she indicates with her head as she swings the car onto the rougher surface of the shoulder. Jory reaches in, pulls out some papers and shows them to Ila, who nods in response. The two of them are communicating quickly, almost in shorthand, in a language of their own, and Vaniok feels excluded. And yet there’s something going on that isn’t being acknowledged.

  In a few moments the car has pulled up onto the grass by the side of the wide highway. Ila turns off the engine. Smells from the outside enter the car with the spring warmth. A large truck rushes past and the three of them are buffeted by the wind of its passage. Ila’s hands remain loosely on the wheel for a moment, then Jory gives her the papers he took from the glove compartment. Filled with shame, Vaniok watches the truck pass out of sight: if only he were on that truck, disappearing forever. He still feels the pressure of Jory’s grip on his wrist. He senses rather than actually sees the police car pull up behind them, his body tenses in response. Nobody in the car is talking and Vaniok looks straight ahead into the bright sunny day: on the flat land beside the highway is a farmer’s field covered with a thin layer of crops. What are those crops, he wonders. The metal roof of a barn glistens in the distance. They’re far from the little university town. Nobody in this place knows that he’s here, nobody knows his name. If he were to die on the spot, where would they bury him? Somewhere deep within the dread that’s overtaken him he feels a terrible sense of defeat. He can’t help remembering that he was the one who encouraged Ila to drive so fast, he’s the one who’s brought the police into their holiday.

  Now there’s a presence at Ila’s window. Vaniok continues to look
straight ahead, surprised by his heart’s pounding. Deliberately he makes himself turn toward the man in the uniform, he sees the wide young face, the serious mouth under the sunglasses, the military style cap with the shiny badge. Vaniok looks at the man with an amiable expression but the policeman is directing his attention to Ila. The language of the country they’re traveling through is being spoken in the car for the first time today. “Did you know … did you know … may I see …?” A minty smell of chewing gum accompanies his words.

  “I very sorry, officer,” Ila says in a voice Vaniok has never heard before. He’s startled to see his cousin transformed into a stranger before his eyes. “In my country …” she goes on, deliberately speaking the language haltingly, in a higher register, with an uncharacteristic note of helplessness. When she turns away for a moment Vaniok can see that her eyes are moist. But surely the man in the uniform will see through this ruse.

  “It’s all right.” The policeman raises a hand like an orchestra conductor regulating the volume of unruly horns. “Just be calm. Whose car is this?” he asks.

  “It’s mine, officer,” she answers. She takes a deep breath, looks into her lap for a moment, then gives him the papers.

  “You just stay put, lady,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He leaves with the papers, returning to his car.

  “What’s he doing?” Vaniok asks in an urgent whisper when the policeman has left. Whatever has caught hold of him hasn’t let him go. He’s just as disturbed by the man’s departure as he was by his presence, he closes his fists on a trembling he can barely control. Behind them a voice booms unnervingly over the radio in the police car. The last few minutes have been like swimming underwater and Vaniok is desperate to reach the surface where he can breathe.

  “He’s checking to see whether the car is stolen,” Jory says. “I assume it isn’t.” Vaniok glances at him quickly: though he’s joking with Ila, Jory’s mouth is tense, there’s a glaze of sweat over his upper lip; and Vaniok can see what he glimpsed earlier: that, no less than he is, Jory is holding his breath, waiting for this to be over. It isn’t the speeding, he thinks; that’s not what’s bothering him. He’s as nervous as I am, maybe more. Still, Vaniok can’t take any satisfaction from his intuition because of his own response.

  Ila smiles at Jory. “What kind of woman do you think I am? Isn’t it enough you believe I killed all those animals back in the homeland? Bison!” She shakes her head.

  “He’s taking a long time,” Vaniok says. Then, shamed by the banter of his companions, he reminds himself: they’re not in the homeland, after all. There’s no real danger in this encounter with the police: it’s only going to cost money. “How much does a fine for speeding cost?” he asks. “I should help you pay, since I encouraged you to drive fast. I’ll pay it all, in fact.”

  Ila laughs quietly. “That’s very sweet, Vaniok, but I’m a big girl. It was my decision.”

  He turns up his hands. “Still …”

  They fall silent as they hear the policeman approach. “Who are your passengers?” he asks, leaning into the car, his big face and dark glasses threatening once more. When he and Vaniok give their names Jory has to clear his throat. “They my cousins, officer,” Ila says in the voice she’s put on for the occasion. “It’s holiday in my country,” she sniffles, “and we go to ocean to make picnic.” She dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief and smiles charmingly. The policeman watches, then shakes his head like an indulgent older brother. Frowning, he pushes back his cap and says, “I’m going to let you off with a warning, miss. I’m not going to write you a ticket, you being a stranger and all.” He pauses a moment. “But from now on, you watch that speed limit.”

  “Oh, thank you, officer,” Ila says. “I will.” Vaniok nods at the policeman, expecting to feel a sense of reprieve, if not a return of his earlier high spirits; but already he knows this isn’t going to happen. He feels the empty gratitude of a beggar. After the policeman leaves, Ila pulls back onto the road and soon the car is traveling at the legal speed limit. It would be wiser to drive a little more slowly, Vaniok is sure, at least while they’re still in sight of the police car, but he isn’t going to make any suggestions.

  Jory, on the other hand, seems to find the whole situation amusing. “What an actress,” he says.

  “Who, me?” Ila’s eyes widen. “I just poor foreign girl,” she says in the language of the host country.

  Vaniok joins weakly in the laughter of the other two, but everything has changed in the last few minutes; though he’s seated between his companions, he might as well be in the back of the car. The encounter with the policeman has depleted him. He feels a vague irritation with Ila and Jory for treating the whole episode so lightly, especially since he knows Jory wasn’t nearly as casual as he tried to seem. What is it that the man’s hiding? But at least, whatever it was, Jory kept it concealed while Vaniok let himself fall into a panic back there. It makes no sense, here in this country, where nothing more was at stake than a traffic ticket, for him to have got so upset, to have lost all courage. Were they likely to be thrown into a cell, after all, then led out to the woods to be shot?

  Vaniok looks glumly at the countryside through which they’re moving. He thought he’d proved what had to be proved once and for all in the homeland. Even after failing Ranush, he stayed, he fought. Even after the Thirteen Days, when it was clear to all but the suicidal that everything was lost, Vaniok, who’d never had the slightest interest in politics, remained there for a time with a group called the Thorn and played his futile part. In the border town of Bostra he waited alone beside a bridge, a rifle in his hands, long after it was safe or reasonable, listening to the nighttime insects, listening for other sounds. Whether or not that was really courage, didn’t he have a right to expect that something of that experience would remain with him permanently? Yet here he is, in another country, and the man who called himself Vaniok who waited at the bridge might be a stranger he’s read about in the paper. He can’t even be sure how much of a self he carries with him from day to day. Vaniok’s anger is a hammer pummeling him into silence.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of Vaniok’s baffled muteness, Jory seems to be flourishing; he and Ila are talking animatedly. No, Vaniok realizes, he can’t even pretend to have been the one who encouraged Ila to drive faster. Ila was playing some kind of game with Jory and it was Jory’s response that egged her on. It was Jory, after all: the shadow-stealer who’s come out of the clock and taken Vaniok’s shadow. And the man was as bothered by the police as he was, Vaniok is sure of it.

  “What do you suppose it’s like off the highway?” Jory asks Ila. “It looks as mysterious as the moon.”

  “The moon? You do think I was driving fast, don’t you?”

  “Who knows? It could be the moon. We could explore it.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Today is a holiday; it isn’t a time for being serious, is it?”

  “Then let’s turn off and see what the moon looks like,” Ila says. “What do you say to that?” she asks Vaniok.

  “Yes, of course,” he answers. Who was the Vaniok who waited near the bridge in Bostra? Who was the Vaniok who didn’t join Ranush on that street corner? Where is either man now?

  Off the highway they’ve suddenly wandered into a vast flat emptiness and a silence that seems to rise from the land. On both sides of the road are fields where something is growing, but the only structures are distant blots against the horizon; there are no humans to be seen. A sign promises a town within two miles, but it would be easy enough to imagine the straight, two-lane road leading to the edge of the earth where the green car would drop off into the infinite spaces, tumbling forever among the stars and planets.

  Jory points out a lone tree in the field: a beardlike fringe hangs from its black, writhing limbs. “We are on the moon,” he proclaims. “I’m sure of it.” His whole manner has changed since the episode with the policeman; he seems lighter, as if he’s thrown off a pair of water-soaked
boots. “Trees like that are found only on the moon,” he says. And it’s true: it looks like something from a fairy tale.

  “We have to see this town,” Ila says.

  “What do you suppose the moon-creatures grow in those fields?” Jory asks.

  “Melons,” Ila offers. “Pumpkins, baby moons.”

  Vaniok looks at the scene before him. He remembers thinking not long ago that the three of them were lost angels moving across the earth. Possibly those angels would have felt exactly what he’s feeling now: a sense of terrible disconnection. Where are we, each of them would ask. How do we find our way back to where we came from, a place we can scarcely remember?

  “Look,” Ila says. “How desolate.” She stops the car before a small house standing by itself in the fields, the kind of tumbledown shack a tenant farmer might have lived in with his family crowded into its tight spaces, though no one has lived under this sagging roof for years, it’s clear. Unpainted, the wood has turned silver, conferring a mysterious glamour on this modest ruin. Ila looks at the house a long time. To Vaniok this place could only have been abandoned in haste by someone trying to escape a terrible fate. How long has it been empty, he wonders. It’s remarkable that nobody has come here in the middle of the night with a can of kerosene and burned the place down. It would be so easy: Flames would pulse for a few moments in the dark field, but the dry wood would be consumed quickly. Then there would only be the charred remnants, black grass; after a time, nothing would be left.