Voice of our Shadow

by Jonathan Carroll

  "Don't you think parents love their kids?" She turned the key in the lock and pushed the heavy glass door open.

  "If I were to generalize, I'd say they love them but wish they'd stay at a good distance. Once in a while they want them around so they can giggle and laugh and have fun with them, but never for very long."

  "Seems as if all you're saying is kids are dull."

  "Yes, India, I'd agree to that."

  "Were you a dull kid?" She turned to me and dropped the keys into her purse in one movement.

  "Compared to my brother I was. I was dull and good. Ross was interesting and bad. But really bad. Even evil sometimes."

  She reached over and took a thread off my coat. "Maybe that's why your parents paid more attention to him than to you."

  "Because he was a bad boy?"

  "No, because you were dull."

  The stairwell was damp and dark after our having been outside in the sun for so long. I decided to say nothing to India's mean remark. She went ahead of me. I watched her legs climb the stairs. They were so nice.

  The apartment was a mess. It was the first time I'd been back there since the day Paul died. Cardboard boxes on the floor, the couch, and the windowsill. Men's clothes and shoes unceremoniously dumped into them; some were already brimming over with socks, ties, and underwear. Over in a corner three boxes were sealed with shiny brown tape and stacked out of the way. There was no writing on any of them.

  "Are these Paul's things?"

  "Yes. Doesn't it look as if we're in the midst of a fire sale? I got so uncomfortable opening closets and drawers and seeing his things everywhere I decided to lump it all together and give it away."

  She walked into the bedroom and closed the door. I sat down on the edge of the couch and shyly peered into an open box on the floor near my foot. I recognized a green sport shirt Paul had often worn. It was ironed and, unlike the other clothes in there, folded neatly and placed on top of some brown tweed pants I'd never seen before. I reached into the box and, after a quick glance at their bedroom door, took the shirt out and ran my hands across it. I looked at the door again and brought the shirt up to my nose to smell. There was nothing – no Paul Tate left in it after its washing. I put it back and unthinkingly brushed my hands off on my pants.

  "I'll be out in a minute, Joe!"

  "Take your time. I'm fine out here."

  I was about to get up and look in some of the other boxes when I heard the door open. She stuck her head out, and I caught a second's flash of black underwear before I met her eyes.

  "Joe, would you mind waiting a little longer? I feel all dirty and gritty from this morning and I'd like to take a quick shower. Is that okay?"

  A picture of her standing naked in the shower, shining wet, made me hesitate before I answered. "Sure, of course. Go ahead."

  I thought of the film Summer of '42, where the beautiful young woman seduces the boy after she's learned her husband has been killed in the war. I heard the first spit of the shower and felt a full erection growing thick and randy down the inside of my thigh. It made me feel perverse and guilty.

  I stepped over to a smaller box filled with all sorts of letters and bills, an empty green checkbook, and a number of fountain pens. I picked up a handful. Paul would only use fountain pens, and holding them, I realized I wanted one as a keepsake – don't ask me why. Then a strange thing happened: I was afraid if I asked India she would say no, so I decided to just take one and say nothing about it. I'm not really a thief by nature, but this time I did it without hesitation. There was a fat black and gold one. It looked old and sedate, and on the cap it said Montblanc Meisterstьck No. 149. There were two others like it in the box, so I assumed that even if India was planning on keeping them she'd never miss this one. I slid it into my pocket and walked over to the window.

  The shower stopped, and I listened carefully to the small distant sounds that followed. I tried to imagine what India was doing: toweling her hair dry or dusting powder onto her arms, her shoulders, her breasts.

  A woman in a window across the courtyard saw me and waved. I waved back; she waved again. I wondered if she thought I was Paul. What a chilling, uneasy thought. She kept waving slowly like a sea fan under water. I didn't know what to do, so I turned around and went back to the couch.

  "Joe, I thought of what I want to do."

  "Okay."

  "You're going to hate it."

  I looked at the closed door and wondered if she could do anything I would hate.

  She came out of the bedroom a few minutes later wearing a hooded gray sweatshirt, old Levi's, and a pair of sneakers. She wanted to go jogging down by the river. She said I didn't have to go with her unless I wanted to – she felt better now. She wanted to "clean a few miles" out of her system. It made perfect sense, and I told her I'd go to keep her company. We walked from their place down to the path beside the Danube Canal, which was long and straight and perfect for running. I had a book with me, and I sat down on a wooden bench while she padded off. There were scattered mobs of seagulls diving and floating over the fast-flowing water. A few old men were fishing from the banks; once in a while a couple with a baby carriage walked slowly past. All of us were playing hooky from the day.

  I knew India would probably be gone for at least half an hour, so I looked at the water and wondered what was going to happen now. How long would she remain in Vienna? If she left, would she want me to go with her? Would I want to go with her?

  Until I'd met the Tates I'd been so comfortable here. I didn't know exactly how happy I was, but by the time I had adjusted my rhythm and pace to that of the city, I fully realized how lucky I was to have that.

  In a couple of months what would she want to do? Where would she want to go? As appealing as she was, India was a restless woman, and her sense of wonder needed constant refueling from new stimuli for her to be happy. What if she wanted me with her, but in Morocco or Milan? Would I go? Would I pack up my life and move it at her whim?

  I chided myself for being so sure of things. Also, the way I had already dismissed Paul from both our lives was obscene.

  I reached into my pocket and brought out his fountain pen. I held it up in front of me. If I'd dusted it for fingerprints, his would be on it somewhere. All of his left thumb perhaps, or the right-hand pinkie. I held it up to the paling sun and saw ink in it. Ink he'd put in. Dear Paul – A few days after you fill this pen you'll be dead. I undid the cap and frowned at the ornately engraved gold and silver point. How old was this thing? Had I stupidly taken an antique that was worth a fortune? I knew nothing about pens. Guiltily I screwed the cap back on and closed my hand over it, hiding it from the world.

  The tapping of India's sneakers came up on one side; I had just enough time to put the pen away before she was there. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing hard through her mouth. I turned to meet her and was surprised when she came right up to me and put both hands on my shoulders.

  "How long was that?"

  I looked at my watch and told her twenty-three minutes.

  "Good. I don't feel any better, but at least I'm exhausted now, and that helps."

  She looked at the sky, putting her hands on her hips. She walked off a little and stood panting. "Joey? I know we're probably thinking about the same things now, right? But could we please not talk about anything for a while at least?"

  "India, there's no hurry."

  "I know, and you know, but tell the little gremlin inside me who keeps saying I've got to get everything together now and settled now so I can start right in on a new life. Tell him that. It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "I know. I'm going to try and ignore it the best I can. Hey, why should I care if things are settled? What am I, crazy? My husband just died! Here I am, trying to make everything right again on the same day they buried him!"

  She turned halfway around and ran one hand through her hair. I felt totally helpless.

  7

  After it snows in the
mountains, the roads are in charge. There is nothing you can do about this but follow their whim. You drive slowly and hope the next turn will be friendly – that the trucks will already have passed through and there will be gravel spread over the surface like cinnamon or chocolate sprinkles on a cone. But this is wishful thinking; too often the snow glistens and is packed tight – it's been waiting for you in its nastiest mood. The car begins to slip and drift in a slow dream of danger.

  Although I was trying to drive well and carefully, I was petrified. India had been giggling only a moment before.

  "What are you laughing at?"

  "I like this, Joey. I like driving on these roads with you."

  "What? This stuff is dangerous as hell!"

  "I know, but I like that, too. I like it when we whish back and forth."

  "Whish, huh?" I turned and looked at her as if she was nuts. She laughed.

  We were twenty kilometers from our gasthaus, and the sun that had been so bright and friendly that morning when we'd gone out for the drive had dropped behind the mountains. It had taken its yellow cheer with it, and in a moment things everywhere were a sudden, melancholy blue.

  What if we broke down out here? The last person we'd seen was a child standing with a sled by the side of the road. He stared stupidly at us as if he'd never seen a car before. He probably hadn't. They probably didn't have cars this far out in the hinterlands.

  She reached over and squeezed my knee. "Are you really all that worried?"

  "No, of course not. I just don't know where we are, and I'm hungry, and these damned roads give me the willies."

  Still smiling, she stretched luxuriously and yawned.

  We passed a road sign that said BIMPLITZ – 4 KILOMETERS. It looked tiny against the backdrop of the mountains. I silently wished we were staying in Bimplitz, no matter how ghastly it was.

  "Did I ever tell you about the time we saw the bear in Yugoslavia?"

  Something quieted in me for the first time in minutes. I loved India's stories.

  "Paul and I were driving way off in the country somewhere. Just driving around. Anyway, we came over this rise, and out of nowhere this goddamned bear loomed up in the middle of the road. At first I thought it was some crazy guy in a gorilla suit or something, but it was a bear all right."

  "What did Paul do?" We passed through Bimplitz and it was ghastly all right.

  "Oh, he loved it. Slammed on the brakes and pulled up next to it as if he were going to ask for directions."

  "What'd he think it was, a safari park?"

  "I don't know. You know what Paul was like. Stanley and Livingstone personified."

  "What happened?"

  "So he pulled up next to it, but by then these two guys had appeared out of nowhere and were standing next to the thing. One of them was holding a big thick chain that was attached to a brass ring through the bear's nose. Both guys started screaming out, 'Pho-to! Pho-to!' and the bear did a little dance."

  "That's what they were there for? They stopped cars so you could take a picture of yourself with their bear?"

  "Sure, that's how they made their living. The problem was, they were out there in the middle of cloud-cuckooland, and I don't know how many cars went down that road every day, much less tourists."

  I knew the answer to my next question, but I asked anyway. "Did Paul do it?"

  "Do it? He loved it! Didn't you ever see the picture on the living room wall? He showed it to everybody fifteen times. Mr. Big Game Hunter. Frank Buck."

  Why did India like me? The stories she told about her dead husband made him sound like the perfect companion – witty, adventurous, thoughtful, loving. If I had seen a bear in the road I would have run all the way home. The five o'clock blues seeped through my pores; even her presence didn't help.

  "Look, Joey, that's the name of our town, isn't it? It's only ten kilometers."

  The car did another squiggle on the ice, but seeing the sign made me feel a little better. Maybe the owners of the gasthaus would lend me a gun so I could go out and shoot myself before dinner. I reached over and turned on the radio. A disco tune leaped out of the dashboard, strange and out of place in these surroundings. India turned it up and started singing along. She knew every word.

  "Do just what you have to do,

  but don't tell me no lie.

  Soon the time is here again,

  Sundays in the sky."

  It was a good song that made you want to hop around and dance, but I was surprised she knew every verse. She was still humming the tune when we arrived.

  Our gasthaus was set back from the road and up a small hill, which the car gladly climbed, knowing its job was over for the day. I got out and stretched out of my neck the tension cramps that had been gathering all afternoon. The air was silent and full of the smell of woodsmoke and pine. Standing there, waiting for India to gather her things from the back seat, I looked at the mountains that swept the horizon. I was filled with a contentment that brought tears to my eyes. It had been a long time since I had felt that way. The night we'd be spending together smiled at me with white teeth and diamonds in its hands. We would go up to a room with white-and-red-flowered curtains, wood floors that rose and fell under your bare feet as you crossed to the bed, and a small green balcony that made you stand close together if you wanted to be out there at the same time. I had been to the place by myself several times and had vowed to take India there when the snows came and the area was at its most beautiful.

  "Joey, don't forget the radio."

  Her arms were full of coats and her hiking boots. She smiled so knowingly I almost thought she'd read my mind.

  We walked up to the gasthaus; the clack of her wooden clogs on hard ground was the only sound.

  An attractive woman in a loden and velvet suit was behind the reception desk and seemed genuinely glad to see us. Without thinking, I signed us in as Joseph and India Lennox. There was a section on the registration form that asked for our ages, but I left it blank. India was looking over my shoulder as I put the pen down. She gave me a nudge and told me to fill that part in, too.

  "Just write at the bottom you like older women."

  She walked up the wide wooden staircase. I followed, watching her lovely body move from side to side in a comfortable slow sway.

  The woman let us into our room and before leaving said dinner would be served in an hour.

  "You done us good, Joe. I like it very much." She touched the curtains and opened one of the balcony doors. "Paul and I were once in Zermatt, but there were too many damned people around. I kept trying to see the Matterhorn, but some jerk was always blocking my view. What town did you say this was?"

  "Edlach." I came up behind her. I kept my hands in my pockets, not knowing if she wanted to be touched.

  Paul had been dead a month. In that time of pain and forced readjustment, I'd circled her warily and tried to be there if she needed me, gone when she gave even the slightest indication that she wanted to be alone. Often it was hard to tell how she was taking things, because she moved cautiously through that time, her volume turned way down, and a kind of dulled expression owned her face. We hadn't made love since Paul's death.

  India folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the balcony railing.

  "Do you know what today is, Joe?"

  "No. Should I?"

  "A month ago today Paul was buried."

  I had a coin in my hand and realized I was squeezing it with all my might. "How do you feel?"

  She turned to me; her cheeks were red. From the cold? Sadness?

  "How do I feel? I feel as if I'm very glad we're here. I'm glad Joey brought me to the mountains."

  "Are you really?"

  "Yes, pal. Vienna was beginning to make me sad."

  "Sad? How?"

  "Oh, you know. Do I really have to explain?"

  She put her hands on the balcony railing and looked out over the sweep of snow-covered land. "I'm still trying to put all my blocks back in their right place
s. Sometimes I pick one up and look at it as if I've never seen it before. It makes me nervous. Vienna is always reminding me of something else, of another block I can't find the hole for."

  The dining room was decorated like a mountain hut. Enormous exposed beams, a floor-to-ceiling porcelain stove in one corner, and rough Bauern furniture that must have been around since the 1700s. The food was heavy, steaming, and good. Whenever we dined together I marveled at how much India ate. She had the appetite of a lumberjack. This time was no exception. Sad or not, she tucked into it with glee.

  We finished with ice cream and coffee, then sat across the table from each other, both looking sheepishly at the exhausted battlefield of empty plates in front of us. Just as things were getting a little too quiet, I felt a bare foot going up my leg.

  India looked at me, her face a castle of innocence. "What's the matter, bub, you nervous or something?"

  "I'm not used to cuddling under the table."

  "Who's cuddling? I'm giving you an extended knee rub. They've very therapeutic."

  As she spoke, her foot kept moving up my leg. No one was in the room, and after a quick scan around, she slid down in her seat; her foot went higher. She looked me squarely in the eye the whole time.

  "Are you trying to torture me?"

  "Is this torture, Joey?"

  "Extreme."

  "Then let's go upstairs."

  I looked at her as hard as I could, searching for truth behind her very naughty expression.

  "India, are you sure?"

  "Yup." She wiggled her toes.

  "Tonight?"

  "Joe, are you going to play Twenty Questions or are you going to take me up on my offer?"

  I shrugged. She stood up and walked to the door. "Come when you're ready." She went out. I listened to her clog resolutely down the hall and up the stairs to our room.

  Because I was alone in the restaurant, things became preternaturally still the moment she left. I looked at the empty bottle of wine and wondered if I should fly to my feet or get up slowly and then run up to the room.

  I could hear all of the sounds coming from the kitchen: the plink and clank of plates and silverware, a radio that had been playing since we'd first sat down. As I got up to leave, the song about Sundays in the sky that India had been accompanying earlier in the car came on the radio and I stopped at the door to listen. It seemed a good portent of things to come. When it ended this time, something clicked in me: I knew it had just taken its place in my mind forever. Whenever I heard it again, I would think of India and this time together in the mountains.