“Sounds like you got your definition right there.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s lacking.”
“What’s it lack?”
“An element of necessity, a moral dimension.”
“You mean it’s gotta be good and everybody’s gotta get some?”
“Not exactly.”
“What the hell you mean, then?”
“By necessity I mean that its existence is not predicated on anything, that it is because it is and it cannot be reduced.”
“And the moral part?”
“The moral dimension must result from the necessity of its existence.”
“So why you calling me? All them fancy terms—sounds like you got it all figured out for yourself.”
“I’m looking for more.”
“More? What more?”
“I don’t know, exactly.”
“Well, all as I can say is I’m satisfied with what you said. Can’t think of anything to add to it. I’m not a preacher or a philosopher. I just go for the basics like most people. Love is as love does, I always say. Love your spouse or hate ’em. Love your neighbor or hate ’em. And if you love ’em you leave ’em alone. Let ’em be.”
“And if you hate them?”
“Well, you do exactly the same. Leave ’em alone. Let ’em be. No need to go around smashing up things just ’cause they don’t set with you. I don’t see as you got much choice. Let things be. Don’t go causing trouble. World’s got enough trouble already.”
I hang up and sit for a while to think about the old woman’s pragmatic view of the world. It is a disposition I often wish I could share. The conversation incites more calls, and I spend the rest of the evening punching numbers randomly into the phone and mostly getting nowhere.
Mohr calls at seven the next morning.
“Horace?”
“It’s Lucian.”
“Lucian? Ah, yes. Excuse me. Lucian of Samosata. Of course. Lucian. Lucian.”
“I should thank you for your advice. But there has been a snag.”
“Snag?”
“The Sentinel won’t publish my notice, and I don’t know if there is anything I can do about it.”
“They won’t publish it? Why not?”
“It’s a long story. The owner took a dislike to me.”
“Muriel Maydock? She is one of our more enlightened citizens. I’d have thought you two would see eye to eye.”
“We didn’t. Now I have to come up with an alternative that the court will approve. I was thinking of posting notices around town.”
“Does the announcement have to be in a local paper?”
“I didn’t think of that. I’ll find out. How are you feeling?”
“So so. Listen. Today’s the day.”
“The day for what?”
“The dig. It starts this afternoon. The people from the university are here. Are you still interested?”
“How about you? Are you up to it?”
“Don’t worry about me. I don’t need an excuse to get out of this damn place. Should I come by to get you?”
“You’re still driving?”
“I’d be stuck out here if I didn’t have my car. I’ll probably drive it to my grave.”
“I’ll walk out and meet you there.”
“Fine. I’ll get there around noon.”
“See you then.”
Mohr has already hung up.
I am too restless to wait until midday, so I get dressed and drop The Diatribes of Lucian into my pack along with an apple and a banana and start out for the mound. It will be the last time I have it all to myself before it gets ripped open by archaeologists.
The streets are quiet this time of morning. It is Saturday, and the people of Oblivion sleep late on Saturday. It has been so long since I have tracked the days of the week that I only recognize Saturday by the quiet early morning and Sunday by the car-jammed parking lots of Oblivion’s churches.
Everything is crisp this morning. The air is crisp, the light is crisp. My legs make a swishing sound as I walk. I pause at the bend where Old Route 47 turns suddenly from south to westward. A flock of birds passes overhead. The fields have begun to sprout and are covered in a fine green silk that captures the morning light and absorbs it directly into the earth. The trees in the distance also shimmer with this same light-green essence, 196 standing by the side of the road I feel like some solitary vessel that has slipped its mooring and is drifting in a vast expanse of quiet.
In the last few days I have committed eight short pieces by Lucian to memory and have begun to copy the Greek into my notepad. I know the alphabet and pronounce the words as I copy them down. The English translation follows line by line, and a dictionary is not necessary. As each paragraph ascends into memory and takes its place with all that already resides there, Horace slips into the background a little and a reassuring vagueness sets in that resembles the vagueness of personality with all its unaccounted-for latencies. Horace will remain a part of me as long as I continue to incubate his words. Besides, short of complete and total amnesia, Lucian’s Greek couldn’t displace Horace’s Latin any more than Horace’s Latin could displace any of the other texts that reside within me, all packed and bundled and bound. At times they run together willy-nilly, and it takes a great effort of will and concentration to separate them. Thus, the luster of the present hour is always borrowed from the background of possibilities and Das Dasein ist ein Seiendes, das nicht nur unter anderem Seienden vorkommt and Beatus ille qui procul negotiis, ut prisca gens mortalium … Were I blind and bumping into walls I would still have these words to recur to.
As I round the bend and continue toward the mound the rising sun is at my back. All the excess preoccupations of the morning begin to melt away, and a rising tide of good feeling begins to well up. Can this be?—and the moment the question breaks the calm surface of the mood a measure of it drops away, and I stop walking for a moment to try to recapture it. Horace comes up gasping:
Vitas inuleo me similis …
You keep fleeing from me, Chloe, the way a lost
Fawn darts off to the wilds seeking his timid dam
Scared for nothing at each slight
Breath of air in the forest trees;
If the coming of Spring rustles the leaves for one
Instant, or if the green lizards go whisking through
Tangled briars, he stops dead,
Terror stricken in heart and knees.
I can’t recall the rest of the ode but stand for several minutes caught in this freakish conjunction of poetry and nature, waiting for the good mood of moments before to reassert itself. The flow of words slows to a trickle, and the gentle breeze across the newly planted field blooms across my shoulders and trembles through my hair. If I had a walking stick and a topcoat and were standing atop the light-drenched peak of a mountain like Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer, I think my mood would be no different—except that that wanderer was stirred by some powerful Germanic evocation of wild Nature and Spirit, and I am standing not in a wilderness but on a paved road beside a cultivated field, and on the horizon is an ancient mound about to be excavated and a high-tech munitions factory, and the only Spirit stirring within me is the quiet flight of words and the decocted meanings of texts that I have learned and taken too much to heart.
Parked behind a tree at the base of the mound is Tom Schroeder’s motorcycle. The bike has been positioned so that it is not visible from the road. Schroeder is nowhere to be seen. I conclude from the dew on the seat that it has been parked for some time and wait beside it for a few minutes just in case he suddenly materializes with a can of gas or a wrench or whatever it is he has had to fetch to restart the machine. After a short wait, it occurs to me that maybe he is up top. I walk around to the gate and climb over it at my usual spot.
Instead of going up along the path, I circle at the base and start up from the opposite side. Near the top I cro
uch behind a thicket. A jack-rabbit bursts from underneath, speeds down the slope, and disappears into the undergrowth at the bottom. A minute or two passes. I am unable to see over the crest, so I inch forward, staying near the tangle of weeds and branches sprouting around the bush. Suddenly a low moan breaks the silence, accompanied by a laugh and a woman’s voice. My pulse begins to race, and I shrink back for a moment. A few seconds pass and a chorus of moaning begins. I creep forward again until over the crest of the mound the naked figure of Sylvia rises in outline against the blue morning sky. She is bent over him, back curled, hands planted on the ground beside his shoulders. They are lying on a sleeping bag beside a small heap of clothing. A fire smolders lightly; a half-gallon bottle of Jack Daniels is planted in the grass near to hand. I begin to inch back as Schroeder’s supine body heaves upward; lifts the straddling Sylvia, flips her, and sets her down underneath him. Her legs curl up around his thighs, and he begins a rapid tupping that in a few seconds breaks up in spasms and a strained howl. After a few moments he pries himself away and leans back on his haunches, glances down at his slackened penis, grabs the bottle by the handle, and drinks from it. I can see the angel tattooed on his chest. When he tips the bottle upward his long, stringy hair falls away and I can see his face as he drinks. His gorge rises once, twice, three times, and when the retching stops he grins stupidly and hands the bottle to Sylvia. She rises up on one elbow and drinks, spilling down her chin. Schroeder leans forward and slurps the dribbled liquor from her face. She lets out a peal of laughter, plants the bottle in the ground, and pulls Schroeder down to her. He falls toward her with a grunt, toward one more possibility of possibilities.
I back away, crouched, keeping low to the ground. When I’ve dropped far enough from the crest I stand and walk quickly back, climbing the fence at the gate. I sit down at the ruined picnic table in what was once a shaded pull-off and now serves only as a muddy turnaround for cars and trucks and a place to hurl garbage.
Sylvia and Schroeder? I glance toward the summit, and the thought of them mingled together combines with the memory of my awful encounter with her, and I see that garrulous asshole seizing his opportunity without a moment’s hesitation. It was bound to happen, only a matter of time before they beat their miserable paths toward each other. It’s not my business, yet I am disturbed by what I have seen. I don’t think it is concern or outrage or jealousy or lust or moral indignation but merely the hollow vertigo, the primal thrill of peeking.
I return home and read for a few hours, turning to the essay on the ordo amoris. But the phenomenological shadings and gradations of the various powers of love don’t clarify much for me, and if it is true that loving can be characterized as correct or false—insofar as acts of love can be in harmony with or oppose what is worthy of love—then is it possible that what I have seen is an aberration? That Sylvia and Schroeder’s coupling is a gross mistake? All philosophizing aside, my instinct tells me it is—and that the answer to the question, What draws them together? lies with Sylvia, not Schroeder.
The neighbor’s kid pounds on the door, his knock now irritatingly familiar. I put the book down and go to answer it.
“My dad said you’re an asshole.”
“Oh yeah? When did he say that?”
“I heard him talking to Mom last night.”
“What else did he say?”
“Will you give me a dollar?”
“Okay.”
“He said you’re a nut and they should put you in a stray jacket and lock you up.”
“It’s strait-jacket.”
“That’s what I said, stray jacket.”
“What else did your dad say?”
“He says somebody’s going to run you over one day.”
“Did he say who, by any chance?”
The kid shakes his head. “He said that people don’t like the way you just walk around doing nothing and that you should get a job like everyone else and you’re asking for trouble.”
“What did Mom say to that?”
“She said he was right and that she heard you were a millionaire but she thinks you’re a shady character and you’ve been giving her the creeps since you moved in.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing.”
“What about your dad?”
“He says you’re not a millionaire but probably got a record or something.”
“What else?”
“He said never trust a man without a car.”
I laugh. “That, my friend, is worth two bucks.”
The kid grins and takes the money. “Thanks!”
“Do your parents know you come over here like this?”
“No.”
“Would they be mad?”
“I only come when they’re not home.”
He dashes off in a thrill. I go into the kitchen and heat up a small portion of leftover beans and rice and walk back to the mound. Schroeder’s motorcycle is still leaning up against the tree when I arrive, and there is no sign that anyone else has been here since I left. I sit down at the bench, facing the nearly empty Semantech parking lot across the road. A large flock of blackbirds has landed. They seem to be feeding on something. I cross the road and stand at the fence for a better view. It isn’t crumbs they are feeding on. They are drinking from a large puddle of bile-green antifreeze that has spilled onto the asphalt. I search the grass for a stone and hurl it into the middle of the flock. They scatter into the air, then return moments later for more. I throw a few more stones, but the birds return each time.
A while later Mohr arrives. He pulls off the road and crunches to a stop near the picnic bench. With a look of fierce concentration he raises the gearshift and twists off the ignition before lifting a hand and waving to me. He has difficulty opening the door, and I walk over to open it for him. He takes his time getting out, reaching for his cane and a new safari hat that he dons as soon as he has extracted himself from the car. A costume of stiffly pressed khaki trousers, shirt, and multipocketed bush jacket hangs like drapery from his tiny frame. The shiny brown leather boots on his feet are laced neatly to the top—the merry anthropologist. “Are we the first to arrive?” he asks, making directly for the picnic bench with a less than steady gait.
“Not exactly.” I close the car door and follow him over. The bench creaks under our weight.
Mohr takes his hat off and adjusts the band. He is completely bald underneath, his head a tiny orb protruding from the stiff collar of the bush jacket.
“The owner of that motorcycle is up there with a woman. They’re having sex.”
“You don’t say?” Mohr says without a trace of sarcasm. He puts the hat back on and looks over toward Schroeder’s motorcycle.
“I went up there a few hours ago and found them going at it.”
“How funny. Did you tell them they were about to lose their privacy?” He pronounces privacy the British way—as in privy.
“I figured they’d come down soon enough.”
“And they haven’t?”
I shake my head.
“Well, good for them!” Mohr lets out a laugh. “But they’re in for an unwelcome interruption.” He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and takes out an antique gold watch on a chain. He fumbles to open the cover. “It’s just after noon. They should have arrived by now.”
“Are you well enough to be out here?”
Mohr tucks the watch back into his pocket. “No,” he says flatly. “But I’m not well enough to be anywhere.” He parses his words as if inured to them. “So it makes no difference.” After a short pause he begins rummaging through the pockets of his jacket. “Besides, I have bought all these new toys and I want to play with them.” He begins placing them on the picnic table, naming them as he goes. “Compass. Magnifier. Knife. Measuring tape. Spyglass. Camera. Snakebite kit. Brushes—soft, medium, hard bristle. Pocket flask.” He twists off the cap. “With real brandy!” He sips and offers me the flask. The brandy settles into my stomach with a
nice burn.
“They look like antiques.”
“They are antiques! Except for the camera, of course. It’s the newest model I could find.” A whirring of tiny gears as he slides the black compact case apart to demonstrate all the camera’s features.
I examine the rest of his gear, taking each item and turning it over in my hands. They are wonderful old brass instruments, cleverly hinged and solidly fitted together in early industrial fashion. The spyglass is tucked into a felt-lined leather case and looks as if it might have belonged to John James Audubon himself.
We make small talk and fidget with the various instruments. I photograph Mohr and he photographs me, and I set the camera on the end of the table and set the timer to photograph the two of us together. Mohr lifts his arm across my shoulder for the pose and I place my arm across his, feeling his scrawniness underneath and the poignancy of the gesture as the camera’s timer winds a self-conscious infinity into the moment.
When the picture-taking is over Mohr fills me in on library gossip. Mrs. Entwhistle, he says, is beginning to sabotage his project to digitize the archive collections. She wants to spend the money buying more books and periodicals and was surprised to discover that the funds Mohr had raised came with strings attached. He begins to chuckle and for a moment seems about to launch into a coughing fit but settles back against the picnic table, cane across his knees. “She was indignant,” he brags, “accused me of arranging it so that she had no discretion over the money.”
“Did you?”
Mohr grins. “Of course I did. She thinks the archive doesn’t belong there. Too much trouble. A bunch of papers. She’d like to transfer it all somewhere else. Preferably the State Historical Society.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”
Mohr shakes his head and taps the end of his cane in the dirt. “The archive was set up by the Wilkington Trust. The library didn’t come until much later. It would be like moving this mound to another county to be with the mounds there.” He cuts off abruptly and takes a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it to his forehead for a moment, wiping underneath the brim of the hat. “Besides, my manuscripts are part of that archive now. The idea of moving them somewhere else is upsetting.”
Horace Afoot Page 21
