Voice of our Shadow

by Jonathan Carroll

  When I opened the door to our room, it was a blast of blazing white light after the darkness of the hall. India was in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. She had opened both balcony doors and the place was an ice palace.

  "Are we trying out for the Eskimo Pie team in here? What's with the windows?"

  "It's good, pulcino. Smell the air."

  " 'Little chicken'? I didn't know you spoke Italian, India."

  "Ten and a half words."

  "Pulcino. That's a nice nickname." I walked over to the balcony and took a few deep breaths. She was right. It smelled the way air should. When I turned to look at her, she had her hands behind her head and was smiling at me. Her arms were bare and soft peach in that sea of white colors. They framed brown hair that flowed across the pillow in all directions.

  "India, you look absolutely beautiful."

  "Thank you, pal. I feel like a little queen."

  With more courage than I usually had, I pulled the covers down to see what she was wearing. She had on an old gray sweatshirt of mine with the sleeves pulled up. It made me feel even better: she had taken it out of my suitcase, and that small but entirely intimate gesture told me she really was ready to begin our physical relationship again.

  "I feel like a banana being unpeeled."

  "Is that so bad?" I untied a shoelace.

  "No – very tropical."

  No matter how willing both of us were, I was still nervous; my hands trembled as I took off my clothes. To make matters worse, she watched my every move with a smile and half-closed Jeanne Moreau eyes. Try to be calm when you're playing to an audience like that.

  Before I got into bed I wanted to close the window to shut off the arctic flow, but she asked that I leave it open for a little while longer, and I wasn't about to argue. She turned off the bedside lamp. I slid in beside her and took her in my arms. She smelled of clean clothes and the coffee from dinner.

  We lay there unmoving, the cold air sweeping through the room like an icy hand searching for something in the dark, not necessarily us.

  She put a warm palm on my stomach and began to move it slowly down.

  "It's been a long time, pardner."

  "I was beginning to forget what it felt like."

  Her hand kept moving, but when I tried to turn to face her, she pushed gently with the hand to keep me from doing it. "Wait, Joey. I want this all slow."

  Far, far away a train crawled across the night; in my mind I saw the staccato blur of its yellow lights and the match-stick heads at the windows.

  I was about to grab her when her hand closed on my stomach like a pair of pliers. I jerked from the pain.

  "Hey!"

  "Joey! Oh, my God, the window!"

  As I turned to look, I heard the sounds. Clink-a-tank. Clink-a-tank. Metal wings. Metal wings flapping slowly but loudly enough to fill the room with an evil tin racket.

  "Joe, Paul's birds! His trick! Little Boy!"

  The same toy blackbird Paul had used in his Little Boy trick that night at their house. But now there were three of them perched on the balcony railing. When the first slash of fear passed, I realized they were all facing us in a perfect row, their wings beating in sharp unison like tin soldiers on the march.

  The room was blue-black, but somehow the birds glowed from within; every detail of their bodies was easy to see. There was no mistaking what they were and whom they belonged to.

  "Oh, Paul, Paul, Paul –" India's chant was slow and sexual, as if she were peaking to some kind of horrific orgasm.

  The birds leapt from their perch and flew into the room. They were suddenly ten times faster: giant houseflies careening through the kitchen window in the middle of the summer. They zagged and dropped, flapped in a madness of flight. Bang, ka-chang, flank – it sounded like some maniac throwing tin ashtrays at invisible targets.

  "Stop them, Joe! Stop!" Her voice was low and hoarse, emptied by fear.

  What could I do? What powers did she think I had?

  I started to get out of bed, and from different parts of the room the three of them came at me at impossible speeds. I ducked and threw my hands up to protect my head. Their beaks cut into my arms, my back, one across my scalp. I struck out and hit one, but it did no good – there was just another deep gash on my forearm as a result.

  Then it stopped. I looked up and saw they were once again on the balcony railing in perfect order, facing us. My hands were up near my face, a failed boxer ready to be hit again.

  One by one they turned and flew back out into the night. When they were ten or fifteen feet away, they sparked into blue and orange and grass-green flames. Familiar flames – colors I'd seen before in Paul Tate's living room the night the real bird danced and screamed in its small burning agony.

  Ross believed in ghosts, but I didn't. He even beat me up once after we'd gone to a horror movie because I refused to believe anyone could be scared to death by anything as dumb as ghosts. I did an article for a travel magazine in America on a haunted castle in Upper Austria, but it was rejected because the only thing I could say was I stayed up all night in the hauntedest room of all, reading, and never once heard a peep or growl from the previous tenants.

  My father once told me having children was like discovering new and amazing rooms in a house you've lived in all your life. Without children you don't necessarily miss these rooms; but once they're there, your house (and world) becomes a different place. I think I could have somehow rationalized the night of the birds if it had been the only incident of its kind in my life, but after what happened the next day, I knew that my "house" had grown too, only in a terrible, unbelievable way.

  On our way back to Vienna the next morning, India slept with her head against the window on the passenger's side. We had talked until daylight and then tried to sleep, but it was impossible. When I suggested we go back to town, she quickly agreed.

  A few kilometers before the turn onto the Sudautobahn, I stopped at a traffic light in the middle of nowhere. The sides of the road were marble-patterned with snow and black earth, but the road itself was dry and flat. I was so tired I didn't realize the light had changed until I heard a car honk behind me. I moved forward, but not fast enough for him, because he flashed his lights at me to get going. I paid no attention, because Austrian drivers are silly and childish; if the guy wanted to pass that badly, he had all the room in the world. There were no cars coming from the opposite direction. But he kept flashing and that, combined with leftover fear and fatigue from the night before, made me want to get out and bust the fool in the jaw.

  For the first time I looked in the rearview mirror to see who the hell it was and what kind of car they were driving. From behind the wheel of a white BMW, Paul tipped his black top hat. Seated beside and behind him were four other Pauls, all tipping their hats too and looking directly at me. My feet came wrenching off the clutch and brake pedals. The car jerked forward twice and stalled. India murmured in her sleep but didn't wake up. I kept looking in the mirror and watching as the other car pulled out from behind and moved forward. When it was alongside I looked, and all five Paul Tates, all five Little Boys, with their prim white gloves on, waved and smiled. All of them out for a Sunday drive. The BMW accelerated and was gone.

  8

  Hell will undoubtedly turn out to be a big waiting room full of old magazines and uncomfortable orange chairs. Plastic airport chairs. All of us will sit there, waiting for the door to open at the other end of the room and our names to be called out in a bored voice. We'll all know there is some kind of excruciating pain waiting for us on the other side of that door. The ultimate dentist's office.

  We waited for Paul to do something more, but he didn't. We didn't see each other for a week, and our only communication was by phone once a day. Nothing happened, so I carefully suggested we try having coffee somewhere very public, very open, and very unintimate.

  When India came into the restaurant she marched right over and kissed me on the forehead. I tried not to cringe.<
br />
  "Joey, I got it figured out."

  "What?"

  "Why Paul's here, why he's come back." She swished her hand through her hair and smiled as if she owned the world.

  "Do you love me, Joey?"

  "What?"

  "Just answer the question. Do you love me?"

  "Huh, well, yes. Yes. Why?"

  "Don't make it sound so passionate or I'll fall into a swoon. Hmmm. Mr. Lovebug. Anyway, Paul thinks you double-crossed him. We were all three great friends, right? Did everything together, all for one and all that stuff. It was okay because he trusted you and even asked you to take care of me when he went away. Trust, Joe. When he got around to discovering how we'd stepped all over that trust, it broke him in half. Snap!" She looked closely at me, then away. I could sense she was about to say something either hurtful or uncomfortable. "I think it was part of what killed him. There's no way to avoid it."

  "Oh, India!" I feigned indignation, but I'd thought about the same thing a hundred times.

  "Look, let's not start playing games with each other, okay? Paul died two days after your clinky scene in that men's room. Well, Joe, you should have seen what he was like those last two days before he died."

  "Was he that bad?" It was my turn to look away.

  "Yeah, it was bad. One night he started crying. I asked him what was the matter, and he tried to slough it off and everything, but, God, it was so completely obvious."

  "India, how did he find out about us?"

  "It's funny you've waited so long to ask." Her voice was all accusation.

  "I was too embarrassed before. I was afraid you'd –"

  "Forget it. The truth is, I told him. No, wait and hear me out before you say anything! I am the world's worst liar, Joe. I can never fib, because my face shows everything. Besides, Paul knew me better than anyone. You know that. He knew something was up the minute he got back from his trip, even though we hadn't gone to bed then. Will you stop looking at me like that, Joe? I'm telling you the truth.

  "One time he asked if I wanted to make love. I said okay, but when we were ready he couldn't get hard. Not at all. That was no big deal, but when he knew it wasn't going to work, he blew up. All of a sudden he was asking me if I'd done it with you and if you were any good. All these shitty questions."

  "Paul asked you if I was good?"

  "You didn't know that side of him, Joe. He could be a totally mean son-of-a-bitch. The worst was, sometimes he'd really flip out and say these crazy, crazy things. Little Boy was Little Lulu compared to him then." She shook her head. "It doesn't matter anymore. The important thing is this time I've been telling you about. He kept at me and at me until I couldn't stand it. Like a little monster I ended up saying, Yes, yes, we'd done it all right." She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "And because I'm such a shit, I couldn't help throwing in that you were really good, too. Nice, huh? Nice woman."

  I picked up a magazine and opened it to a spread on the Austrian actress Senta Berger. Senta on television, Senta with her children, Senta in the kitchen. "Senta's in the kitchen with Dinah, Senta's in the kitchen I know-o-o-o, Senta's in the kitch –"

  "Shut up, Joe."

  I dropped the magazine. "I feel as if my head is going to crack open. All right, India, so you told him about us. What is your idea now? Why has he come back?"

  "You're mad, huh? Joe, he would have found out sooner or later –"

  "I am not mad. I'm tired and scared and . . . scared. No, I realize you had to tell him. It's not that. Ever since he died I've known how much to blame I was. Partly to blame? Totally? Seven eighths? Who the hell knows.

  "But the fact you and I slept together, India, had nothing to do with him. India, I loved Paul! I've never had a better friend in my life. I –" None of it was coming out the right way. I had to stop or else I would end up banging my head on the table in frustration.

  She waited a beat, then ran her fingers down my cheek. "You mean you loved him and you loved me, but you ended up loving me different 'cause I'm a woman, right?"

  "Yes, exactly." The words came out sounding so bleak and gray.

  "Okay, but what you're saying only fits in with what I'm saying too. Listen to me carefully. Paul loved you too. He said it a million times, and I know he meant it. That's what hurt him all the more, see? He thinks you and I got together because you wanted to screw me and because I wasn't satisfied with him. That's all. Period."

  "Part of that is true, India."

  "Don't interrupt me. I've got it all straight in my mind and I don't want to get confused. Yes, part of that is true, Joe, but only part. We went to bed partly because we wanted each other, sure, but also because we just plain like each other; partly because we're good friends, partly because we're attracted . . . Do you see what I mean? Paul thinks we jumped at the first chance we had to get a little fuck in. As far as he's concerned, we stabbed him in the back after he'd been so willing to trust us. We were willing to throw all of that great love and friendship out the window just so long as we could get it off a few times. Understand?"

  "Yes, but what's the point?"

  "Joe, the point is, if we can somehow reach him and tell him, show him it happened because we love each other, then maybe he'll understand and not be so hurt and vengeful. Yes, it will still be bad in his mind, but put yourself in his place. You find your wife waltzing around with your best friend. Bang – you go crazy 'cause you think they're dumping everything good just for a few hours in the hay. But then somehow you find out – God forbid – it wasn't like that at all. Those two are in love. It would change everything, don't you see? You've still been betrayed and bitten, but there's not so much venom because it wasn't just sex, it was the real thing!"

  "India, that would be a hundred times worse! Having sex is one thing – it's pleasant and great – but love? I would much rather hear my wife was having a fling than about to take off with my best friend because they're in love. Flings are emotional and temporary, they're all skin and senses. But love? With a fling she still loves you and everything will probably be okay again in a while, when she comes back down to earth. But there's so little hope when she's in love."

  "That's true with most people, Joe, but not with Paul."

  "What isn't true?"

  "Joe, I was married to the man for more than ten years. I know this is how he's feeling now. You'll have to trust me. I know him, believe me. I know him."

  "Yes, you knew him, India, but the man is dead. It's a whole new ball game."

  "Oh, is he dead? I hadn't noticed. I'm so glad you told me."

  While I fumed she ignored me and ordered a bowl of soup from a passing waiter.

  "Please, India, I don't want to fight with you. Especially now. I just want to know how you can be so sure of things when it's all so bizarre."

  "It's bizarre all right, but I'll tell you something. The way Paul's going about it isn't bizarre at all. It's my husband, Joe. I'd know his brand ten miles away."

  I wanted to trust her judgment, but I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried. In the end I was right.

  Whenever they were bored, Ross and Bobby played a game that inevitably drove me crazy.

  "Hey, Ross?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I think we should tell Joe the seeeeecret!"

  "The secret? Are you out of your mind, man? No one hears the secret. The secret is a seeeeeeecret!"

  "You guys don't have any damned secret," I'd lisp, desperately hoping this time they would tell it to me. I was three quarters convinced there wasn't one, but I had to be sure, and they always knew when to nudge me when my belief was waning.

  "Seeeecret!"

  "The seeeeecret!"

  "We got the secret and little Joe doesn't. You want me to tell it to you, Joe?"

  "No! You guys are stupid."

  "Stupid guys but not-so-stupid secret!"

  This kind of bull-baiting went on endlessly until I would start either screaming or crying. Or if I was really in control of myself that day,
I would walk regally out of the room to a chorus of "seeeeeecret!" behind me.

  To this day I love to hear and be part-owner of any secret. It was easy to see India had attics full of them and that some of the most tantalizing had to do with Paul. But after the discussion in the restaurant she wouldn't say another word about why she was so sure of Paul's behavior. I constantly asked questions, but she wouldn't give an inch. She just knew.

  Nor did she want us to have much contact until she had figured out the best way of reaching her husband. In the meantime, I went to all the English bookstores in Vienna and bought everything I could find on the occult. I made pages of notes and felt like a graduate student preparing for his doctoral thesis. Seances, Aleister Crowley, and Madame Blavatsky filled those days. Meetings with Remarkable Men, Lo!, and The Tibetan Book of the Dead filled my head. At times I felt as if I had entered a room full of strange and threatening people to whom I had to be nice in order to get what I needed.

  It was a land of quacks and yowls, flying objects and great cruelty. I knew there were thousands of people "out there" who molded their lives around these things, and that alone gave me the chills.

  Whenever I thought I had something interesting, I called India and told her what I had found. Once I burst out laughing in the middle of one of these conversations when I thought of how shocked any sane person who had been listening would be.

  About the same time, I received a letter from my father. I hadn't heard from him in months. His letter was long and chatty and talked familiarly about his world. He still lived in the same town, although he had sold our old house and moved his new family to a modern apartment complex in the ritzy part of town over by the country club.