Sleeping in Flame

by Jonathan Carroll

  She looked at me as if I were putting her on. "You know what it sounded like. You were doing it!"

  Her man snorted again. "What did it sound like? It sounded like this." He put two fingers together and started whistling – whistling so loud that it startled a flock of birds out of a nearby chestnut tree. I looked at him, then at his wife. She nodded at me.

  "That's it. Just like that. Where do you speak like that? Can you do it again?" She smiled encouragingly.

  I didn't tell Maris. What would I say? "I met two old women at the cemetery today. I attacked one and spoke dolphin-whistle to the other. Then they ran away and stuck their tongues out at me." It would have been a funny scene in a film, but in real life it had the ring of cuckooness deluxe.

  And what about that strange language I was supposed to have spoken with them? Where did it fit in, and why hadn't I been aware of speaking anything other than my good old American German?

  Who was Rednaxela? Or if I was him, as two nutty old women and a bearded UFO on a bicycle contended, who was he/I? How come I didn't know anything about who "we" were? Or did I?

  Finally, what did Moritz Benedikt have to do with it? Joking, the old woman said it'd taken me long enough to figure out that I had to come to the cemetery to see his grave . . .

  How did it all fit in? What screws or pieces or instructions were missing from the kit that would enable me to put things together correctly and understand?

  I knew a peculiar American in town named David Buck who spent most of his time in the National Library researching an obscure sixteenth-century German Anabaptist who'd camped out in Austria for a while. Buck was forever broke and looking for ways to make money. So I called and said I'd pay him to research Moritz Benedikt. All I knew about the man were his dates and the fact that he was buried in the Zentralfriedhof, but Buck said that was enough to go on. He would get back to me when he had something.

  Nicholas's death and the bizarre scene at the cemetery shook me badly. I spent days just reading, looking out the window, and eating the good meals Maris cooked. She kept me company and shared a comfortable, necessary silence. At first I tried to hide the dark things swimming just below my surface, but she saw them fast and said I didn't have much faith in us if I did that.

  "The whole purpose of friendship is to give the other strength when they need it. Don't cheat me out of that perk, Walker."

  To complicate things, Eva Sylvian called two or three times a day, every day. The conversations (monologues) were all the same. It struck me she would have been happier taping what she said on a recorder, then playing it back so she could agree with herself. She asked if we would do this or that for her, ranging from helping to choose the inscription on Nicholas's vault to picking up her dry cleaning. The tone of her voice said she expected these things to be done. Maris said it sounded more as if Eva felt she deserved to be loved, if not for herself, then certainly for her loss. Funny how some people expect the dearest things in life to come to them simply because they exist or because they have suffered.

  One night late the phone rang in my apartment and I was sure it was Eva again. Maris answered, but her eyes widened when she heard who was calling. Excitedly, she waved me over to the phone and, pointing to the receiver, said, "It's Weber Gregston!"

  Gregston was the hottest director in Hollywood. I'd read an interview with him about his newest film, Breathing You, which had been nominated for six Oscars. I knew about him through Nicholas, who'd once been his assistant on a film.

  "Hello, Walker Easterling?"

  "Yes?"

  "Hi. Weber Gregston. Listen, I called about a couple of things. I just heard about Nicholas Sylvian. Jesus, I wish I'd known sooner. I'd've come to the funeral. I just talked with Eva. Can you tell me more about what happened? I didn't get a very clear picture from her."

  We talked half an hour about Nicholas and I liked everything Gregston said. He was genuinely grieved about the death. You could easily tell he'd admired and enjoyed Nicholas very much. What was especially nice was his knowledge of the Sylvian films. He spoke about shots and angles in them as if he'd seen each film three times and paid the closest attention. Our dead friend would have loved to hear the conversation. He had thought Gregston the only near genius in contemporary film.

  "Listen, Walker, there's something else. I'm right in the middle of shooting a film out here. It's a little embarrassing to say, but one of my actors had a heart attack yesterday and I need someone fast to fill in for him. It'd be about five days of shooting in L.A. I saw you in Nicholas's film and he said you're good to work with. Do you think you could get away for ten days and fly over? I know it's short notice, but you'd get good money besides doing me a great favor."

  Maris was sitting right next to me. I put my hand over the receiver and asked if she wanted to go to California for a couple of weeks. She threw both hands up, closed her eyes, and gave the lucky air a big kiss.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1.

  The bad thing about flying to California was that the trip would have to start at the Vienna airport so soon after the massacre. For some strange reason, I'd . . . forgotten for a while that Nicholas died there. Maybe because I didn't want to think about it, maybe because I'd thought about it too much. The realization struck me on the ride out there.

  "God, I completely forgot about where we're going."

  Maris was looking out the window and turned to me, smiling. "What do you mean?"

  "To the airport. You know. Nicholas."

  "Yes, I know. Someone told me they haven't replaced the glass windows yet. You can still see the bullet holes."

  "That's not very reassuring, is it?" I put my hand on her knee. She covered it with hers. "I've always liked going to airports before. They're exciting and make me start dreaming as soon as I get close and see the planes taking off and landing."

  "Walker, I've got to tell you one thing about this trip: I'm an absolute chicken when it comes to flying. The worst." She reached into her handbag and took out a small pharmacy bottle.

  "What's that?"

  "Valium. Real strong ones. I took a couple before we left, so if I pass out halfway across the Atlantic, you'll know why."

  The bus drove up the ramp to the departure section and stopped. I looked at Maris and took a sad deep breath. "I really ain't looking forward to going in there."

  "Me either. Let's do it fast and get it over with."

  Unfortunately, there was a long line at the check-in counter and we had to wait. Maris asked if I'd mind staying with the bags a few minutes while she went to buy magazines.

  Looking around after she'd left, I noticed there were security police everywhere, "Kobras," in berets and battle dress, carrying stubby gray Uzi machine pistols that looked like strange plumbing fixtures under their arms. What disturbed me most was that these men looked at everyone and everything with completely attentive, suspicious eyes. They trusted no one. And they had probably been told not to. It reminded me of a friend who'd been in Vietnam and said when he was there, everyone was suspect. He'd watched a child hand a bouquet of flowers to the driver of an American troop transport truck and then run away. The truck blew up seconds later.

  Maris returned looking as if someone had hit her. "I had to look. Walker, there really are bullet holes all over the windows downstairs! It's unbelievable. One of the soldiers told me there was a shoot-out over there on the escalator."

  She pointed off to the left. I told her I wanted to take a look.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. If I see it, then maybe I won't think about it so much. My imagination is my worst enemy these days."

  I walked across the floor listening to the sounds of excited travelers, the P.A. announcing flights to everywhere. A typical day at the airport. The same sounds Nicholas would have heard as he stood at the El Al counter waiting to check in. I looked for that counter but then thought better about really finding it. What did I expect or want to see there? Chalk outlines of the bodies on the ground? Old
bloodstains? The shot-out windows would be enough.

  The escalator Maris had pointed out was built next to a steep staircase. I started down those stairs because I wanted to come across the windows at my own speed. If I didn't like what I saw, I could turn around and go right back up.

  Seeing those bullet holes would be final proof the attack had actually happened and Nicholas was one of the victims. Otherwise, his death for us was only a composite of news reports and hysterical phone calls, a service at the Steinhof church, and dropping his widow off at the door of a crematorium.

  I descended the stairs slowly, holding the rail for support. There was an overhang in front of me, so I'd counted fifteen steps before the windows began to come into view. I went down two more before noticing the woman passing me on the right, moving fast down the metal steps of the escalator. She wore a full-length fur coat and sunglasses and had the kind of perfect mood hair that comes with long hours in the chair at the best Friseur in town. She jingled when she moved because of all the jewelry she wore. The jingling was distracting, so I stopped to have a look at her. She had that fast purposeful walk and straight-ahead glare of an important person in a big hurry. Beep-beep – out of the way for a Hard Charger!

  She suddenly stumbled and fell face forward onto the sharp edge of the moving steel step. I grabbed for her instinctively but was too far away. Jewelry clanked hard against metal, then a quiet, thicker sound – skin and bone hitting. She flailed her arms, cried out, somersaulting down one step after another, hitting and rolling. Her coat and skirt flew up, legs spread helplessly. She was wearing peach-colored panties. There was a small purple bruise inside one thigh.

  I ran down some stairs, trying to catch up, but by then she was in a heap at the bottom. Her hair was already being sucked into the grate at the foot of the escalator. She lay unmoving as the stairs tore her scalp off.

  I heard a scream and unconsciously stuck my arm out to the right. It hit something and I grabbed on to it. Looking quickly, I saw I'd caught the woman by the arm as she was stumbling. The same woman who'd just fallen! She steadied herself and smiled gratefully at me. Horrified, I looked at the bottom of the escalator. No one there. I'd seen everything take place before it happened. Stopped it before it continued.

  "Thanks so much! It's these damned high heels. I always have so much trouble walking in them. Thanks again." She gave another smile and, standing still, moved slowly down the rest of the way.

  I sat down right where I stood, put my hands to my head, and shook like a dog in a bad thunderstorm. Nicholas's death, the old women at the cemetery, Rednaxela, saving this woman from her future . . . I had to tell Maris everything now. I had begun to run out of luck.

  "Hey, you, get up! Let's go. What're you doing there?"

  Looking up, I saw a Kobra checking me out with both disgust and suspicion. He gestured with his gray Uzi for me to get going.

  For dinner we were offered a precise square of mysterious-smelling beef or mysterious-looking chicken. The stewardess had the face of a woman who'd once come in third in the Miss North Dakota contest. To her dismay, both of us declined the meals and returned to our conversation. I don't like the taste of alcohol, but halfway through the flight I was vaguely drunk on scotch and feeling much more relaxed.

  Maris knew it all now. It isn't often in life that you come clean with another person, but I'd tried. What good was it to leave anything out? How could she make suggestions if left in the dark about important, albeit frightening or embarrassing, details?

  I looked for some answer on her loved face. From past chats, I knew she liked to think things through before giving her opinion, but my impatience showed too clearly in the way I kept rattling the ice in my glass.

  She looked at the glass, then me. "I have my tarot cards here. I'll do a reading for you now if you like, but I'd still rather not. This isn't the place for it.

  "The best thing to do is call my brother Ingram when we get in. I was going to anyway, but this is all the more reason to. Remember I told you he's a disc jockey in L.A.? He has this cockamamy talk show in the afternoon called 'Off the Wall' where he interviews every kind of weirdo and lunatic you can imagine. It's funny and odd, but over the years he's met them all – good and bad. I'm sure he'll know someone you can go see. Maybe a really astute palmist or astrologer."

  "That's good, but what do you think of all this, Maris?"

  "I think it's something to worry about. You have to find out what's happening. If you knew someone strange and mean like Luc, it might be a very elaborate practical joke. It's the kind of joke he liked to play."

  "Seeing a woman's future? Looking exactly like a dead man? That's no joke, Maris. It's God!"

  "True."

  "I'm glad you're calm about it. It makes me feel better."

  "I'm calm because there's nothing we can do this minute, ten miles above the earth. Plane rides scare me and I'm just in the middle of praying we get there. Once we've landed we can figure out . . . Oh, forget it."

  I sat up and looked at her carefully. "What were you going to say?"

  "I was thinking about how magical these last months have been. How we met, how fast we fell in love. But then there's the other magic too – Nicholas's death, your friend Rednaxela, Moritz Benedikt . . . It's really a strange time for us."

  "Nicholas's death was magic? That's an odd word for it."

  "I don't think so. Magic means mysterious and supernatural. We both know he shouldn't have died. Why he died is the mystery. My God, everything is so strange these days.

  "You also said something before that isn't true: You're running out of luck? No way! We have each other now. The only two important things in life are real love and being at peace with yourself. You've got one of them. I think what's happening is balance. If you get one, you lose the other. Or it diminishes. You have the love, so you have to lose some peace. It's standard physics: For every action, there's an equal and opposite –"

  "– Reaction. But you can have both. Loving someone brings you peace."

  "Nope. It makes life interesting and alive, but it doesn't bring much peace."

  The first thing I do whenever I return to a town I know is eat a favorite meal there. In Vienna it is melange and a Tцpfen golatschen. In Los Angeles it is a chili cheese dog at Pink's. Within hours of landing in California, we were sitting at an outdoor table in eighty-degree January weather eating America's best with her brother Ingram.

  They looked so alike: tall, topped with thick black hair, eyes set wide apart, lips round and perfect as a dark coin. Ingram (Maris called him "Inky") was thin and dressed in typical L.A. wear – T-shirt with the name "Meat Puppets" across the front, baggy/fashionable pants, sneakers. He talked fast, but his hands never moved except to bring the hot dog to his mouth. I kept imagining him at a radio microphone with those still hands, fielding questions from guys selling real estate on the Lost Continent of Atlantis (once it rose). Maris was his best audience and their closeness was self-evident.

  After they'd caught up on each other's lives, she told an abbreviated version of our story. His eyes went back and forth between us, and he asked many questions, some of them alarmingly personal. He knew Luc, and angrily kept repeating he'd warned her about that asshole.

  "Don't be obnoxious, Inky. I warned you about a couple of your friends, but you didn't listen either. Two of them tried to kill you. I only had Luc."

  That made him laugh. He reached across the table and tried to take her bottle of cream soda. She pulled it back and shook her head. It was one of those games brothers and sisters play until the day they die and enjoy every minute of.

  "Everything is good between you two?"

  "Wonderful. But, Inky, there's something important you can help us with."

  While Ferraris and low riders roared by a few feet away, she told him about the "magic" of our last months. This time he asked no questions at all, which made me skeptical. But then anything was possible in his world, including people who talked to Pluto. When
she was finished he nodded his head and said more to himself than to us, "Venasque."

  "What's that?"

  "It's a man. A shaman. He teaches people to fly."

  The studio gave us a sunny apartment off Wilshire Boulevard with a couple of long porches and bougainvillea flowers growing everywhere. It was such a pleasure to wear light clothes again and go out of the house without a coat on.

  Weber Gregston's company, "Black Lion," gave us a car and the news that shooting would begin for me in a few days. Weber was making a thriller/horror film called Wonderful based on three paintings by Eric Fischl. He'd written it together with one of the most famous novelists in America. No one outside the production knew much about the film because it was a closed set and people involved were keeping their mouths shut. The script arrived in the hands of a woman who looked like a prison guard.

  I was set to play a professional killer named Mr. Pencil. Although the part wasn't difficult, it was peculiar. While Maris and her brother spent an evening out, I read the script first as an actor and then again as a screenwriter. Both ways it was macabre, perverse, original. Weber was still riding high on the success of his last film, and I'm sure that was the only reason why a major studio agreed to finance Wonderful.

  That was also the night I called Venasque for the first time. From the first he was garrulous and friendly. The tone of his voice sounded as though he was grateful for someone to talk to. Ingram must have filled him in on my "problem" because the shaman asked for details on the way the woman had fallen down the escalator stairs, the color of the women's faces in the graveyard, how to spell "Benedikt," my birth date.

  "And you're here to make a film?"

  "Yes. We'll be staying about two weeks."

  "It'll have to be longer."

  "Why?"

  "Because if we work together, it'll take a whole day to drive to the mountains. Then we'll be up there a minimum of a week, another day to drive back . . . I'd say give yourself a good ten days just to be sure."