The Queen of Wands is the card of passion. Her throne rises from the rubble of the fallen wall, and the sands of the American plain blow over her from the east. In this way her passion rises from the American earth; she’s a thing of the earth and the passion’s a thing of her. At her feet is a large black cat. A round white sphere rises behind her against a dark blue sky. The rod in her hand intimates magic but the magic’s really in the hand and not the rod. Her brooding beauty cages the very breath of every man who lays eyes on her and blasts loose the underpinnings on which he’s confidently and foolishly built a feeble life. She is without true malice. At her moments of greatest fury the rod may take on the appearance of a knife; that she always fails to use it isn’t a sign of weakness but of a goodness she can’t overcome.
Rather her powers of destruction lie not in hate but chaos, just as the antithesis to God is chaos; and her chaos blows across those in her realm like the sands that bury her throne. She’s fickle and will betray, without reason or warning, the one who loves her most.
She’s hungry for whatever love any man can give her and because she doesn’t trust either love or herself she’ll abuse both, and rush to the next man who might give her a love the previous man could STEVE E R I C K S O N • 243
not, in her search for the love that somehow raises her above her own throne, for which she has contempt. She doesn’t believe in what she deserves and she deserves more than she’ll ever know.
Though Georgie imagines her as fair and golden the Queen of Wands is dark, her beauty understands that white is not the color of illumination but emptiness and that black is not the color of the void but eternity. Though the rings of her regeneration grow paler in time the core of her memory becomes the glowing ebony of a collapsed star: in the American Tarot she’s not the Queen of Wands at all but the Queen of Slaves.
Georgie doesn’t know this since he’s never seen her. The card’s great presence for him lies in its absence, because the absence of a single card renders all other cards invalid. Since a year ago when he first stole the deck off an old Parisian Jew in Zoo Station, the meaning of his queen has in her absence grown only more magnificent. Now in the dark in his flat, just below the surface of the floodlights, in every fitful dream he sees just a little more of the woman in the dark yet not enough so that he can tell her hair is black and not gold, her eyes are the green of the sea and not the blue of the sky. She inches just a little further into view. She hovers just a little closer into the present. The shape of her becomes just a little more distinct. But Georgie doesn’t know that the Queen of Wands, or the Queen of Slaves, is not the creature tattooed on his chest for instance. He’s only figured out that his queen is waiting for him in a buried city, like the one in the picture that has replaced her on his wall, and that the buried city is not Berlin but somewhere in America at the future’s farthest point of exhaustion, which means he has a long way to go and not long to get there before the big day arrives, the distance growing farther with every day that time grows shorter.
Nevertheless the black hollow of the Beichstag yawns before Georgie tonight. At this point the nights are running together: was it last night he killed the American, or the night before? Georgie hasn’t gone to the Beichstag in a long time, frequenting when he does only that part of it controlled by the Pale Flame; he’s never gone into the Beichstag basement. The Beichstag basement is ver-boten by Pale Flame law. But the nights are running together now and there’s no sleep for Georgie from thinking about what happened to him in the dark of room twenty-eight at the Crystal Hotel.
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Perhaps Georgie thinks that, by his forbidden presence in the basement of the Reichstag, he’ll testify as to his control. Perhaps he believes that if he leaves the Reichstag basement with his erection still unspent and slick with the evidence of a woman the night will forgive him; in such an event he may even forgive himself. But mostly he can’t get out of his head that she may be in the Reichstag basement and he goes there now not to prove she is but to reassure himself she is not, he goes there to prove to himself that the woman who selects her men by a number on the telephone and takes them in the privacy of room twenty-eight at the Crystal Hotel has no need to wander the Reichstag basement available to whoever gets his hands on her first. The squat Reichstag sits in the center of Berlin just off the Tiergarten, apart from everything around it, as though abandoned by the city in the same way Berlin abandoned everything at its center a half century ago. On the Reichstag’s far northern side is the jagged gape where a bomb ripped a hole in the spring of ‘96.
Georgie circles the Reichstag basement in apprehension that he’s going to run into some of the Pale Flame. He’s wearing the American’s shirt. He hasn’t really forgotten why he never comes to the Reichstag, which has nothing to do with Pale Flame law, but for the moment he tries not to think about it; the reason is there in the back of his mind, rejected by him. He finally enters the hollow.
Everything’s dark. He brushes past people coming and going; through an entryway he sees in the dark the forms of others moving. At a small table with a light, a young woman with short black hair wants some money to let him go on into the arcade. There’s no indication she’s been authorized by anyone to collect a tariff, since there’s no indication any authority exists here at all, but Georgie gives her some money. She hands him a blindfold and informs him he must put it on before he passes beyond the entryway behind her. Other people’s clothes are strewn against the walls and before he undresses Georgie goes through them looking for money; he keeps glancing over his shoulder at the woman with the short black hair. But she isn’t watching, she doesn’t care what he steals. She’s here to enforce nothing but the darkness of a blindfold.
In the darkness of his blindfold he reenters room twenty-eight STEVE E R I C K S O IS • 245
of the Crystal Hotel. Once more he’s standing in the doorway of the American writer’s rendezvous, the American writer’s darkness. He wanders tentatively forward, his hands before him, waiting for her touch to meet his. He’s surprised by the heat of the basement, it’s the heat of something older than the summer solstice; the smell of ashes is thick around him. The lurking form of the reason he never comes to the Reichstag spies on him from around the corner of his mind, the American bitch. He feels someone grasp the tag around his neck and he feels to be sure it’s a woman. Immediately he becomes erect. He pulls her to the ground which is hard and hot, and says in English, “What’s your name.”
When she doesn’t respond he repeats the question in German.
“No names,” she answers. She sounds drunk. She touches the bandages on his arms.
He takes her by the neck and shakes her. “What’s your name?”
he demands.
She squirms beneath him. “Christina.” He nods, relieved. He opens her and puts himself inside. The reason he never comes to the Reichstag continues to watch from around the corner, treacherous spying American Stasi bitch. Go away, he mutters; the woman beneath him cries out. Go back to your new wall, he seethes, petulant. He now knows the woman beneath him isn’t from the Crystal Hotel even if her name is Christina. Her moans and whimpers don’t sound at all like the female at the Crystal Hotel and her breasts are much smaller. She feels and sounds much smaller and reeks of beer and cognac. He’s sure he sees a flash of light somewhere beyond the darkness of the blindfold, and in the flash he feels the basement freeze around him and it occurs to him he’s been revealed. It occurs to him there are witnesses everywhere. It occurs to him he’s a fool, that it’s all been a trick and he’s the only one wearing a blindfold, and as in a chijd’s game everyone’s standing around in a circle watching as he stumbles to his next humiliation. Believing this, he doesn’t come but rather wilts to nothing; the woman beneath him sighs with audible relief.
Georgie rips the blindfold from his face and jumps to his feet: but no one’s watching. It’s dark, not pitchblack like room twenty-eight but dark nonetheless, a few barely distinguishable
forms of people doing indistinguishable things.
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He yanks the female up from the floor by the tag chain and drags her out of the basement. He grabs his clothes from where he left them but doesn’t bother to look for hers, and pulls her naked out into the Berlin summer night.
They walk south past the Brandenburg Gate through the bank-rupt monument of the unfinished Potsdam Plaza. The moon is full.
Christina has long red hair and freckles all over that Georgie can see even in the moonlight, and her most exotic attraction besides her small budding breasts is that except for the hair on her head she’s completely shaved, giving her the body of pubescence even as her face makes clear she’s several years older than Georgie.
She’s just sober enough to understand she’s completely naked and that the light above her is the full moon and that the trees of the Tiergarten are in the distance. Georgie pulls the female along with the impatience of a child disgusted by the way some long-coveted toy hasn’t measured up to the coveting, until they reach an S-Bahn station where they ascend to the platform and wait for a train. The few other stragglers waiting for the train see Georgie and his naked woman and desert the platform immediately. The night’s final train arrives and Georgie and Christina get on. Most of the seats are empty, and when the few other passengers see the naked woman and the boy with the tattooed wings, they empty their seats as well. Georgie doesn’t want to sit down. Christina’s legs buckle as she crumples to the ground at his feet. He pulls her back up to her feet by the chain.
Everyone’s a witness now, he tells himself. He grimly believes he’s passed some point of no return, that the Pale Flame will cast him from their ranks or kill him when the word gets out about tonight in the Reichstag basement. In a small street-corner market that’s open late, Georgie buys a beer while Christina stands stunned in the market’s stark overhead light; she covers her face with her hands. The store owner, a Turk, stares at them, not sure which holds his greatest attention, the completely naked shaved woman or the boy buying the beer with the sign on his body of the Pale Flame, which savagely kill Turks as a matter of course. Tonight, however, Georgie says, “Thank you very much,” when the owner returns his change. Georgie pulls Christina back out into the night and to his flat. Just inside the flat, slipped beneath the front door, is the result of Curt’s efforts with the American’s pass-STEVE E R I C K S O JV • 247
port. Georgie examines the passport as Christina collapses to the floor.
Georgie puts on a cassette. “This is a good one,” he assures the semiconscious woman. He turns the music up, then down, then back up, and undoes the bandages that have been wrapped around his arms. He ties the bandages into several long strips and binds Christina’s wrists and ankles, lashing her to his slab of the Wall in the center of the flat. In her stupor she groans. Around and around his Wall Georgie circles, stepping over or around Christina’s prostrate body and taking swigs of beer and listening to the cassette.
Christina writhes in dazed confusion. Georgie takes the paint can and sprays across the Wall i dreamed that love was a crime and then returns to his orbit, wishing he had another beer when he finishes the one he bought. Then he goes over to the floodlights and turns them off.
The flat’s dark now, nearly as dark as a room at the Crystal Hotel, darker for sure than the Reichstag. He stumbles to his Wall and touches it; he feels the wet black paint of the new graffiti. He finds her in the dark. He strips off the rest of his clothes and lowers himself to take her, but he’s wrapped her ankles too tight and there’s no separating her. He turns her around but no matter how he tries he can’t get inside her. He thinks perhaps he’ll put himself in her mouth but he can’t even get her mouth open; he keeps turning her this way and that. He keeps telling himself she’s someone else. He tells himself it’s another’s breasts and that the sound that comes from her is another’s sound. But she’s already been too exposed to the light of trains, to the light of late-night markets, to the light of the moon, for him to trick himself into believing he’s never seen her. All his wrath cannot inflate his loins with enough semen and blood to make him erect; his impotence is bigger than the dark. He wails at his situation, rises from the floor and hurls himself in the dark at his Wall so that the wet black paint of his manifesto will leave its imprint on him and tar his wings. But when he hits the Wall there’s no wet black paint anymore: Day X has already sucked his message to the other side through the Wall’s portal, and the Wall is already blank.
He turns the light back on. For a while he sits against the blank Wall. The Female doesn’t move in her bondage except to shiver; in the still of the flat, in the hushed haze of the floodlights, Georgie A R C D’X • 248
looks over in the light and sees her eyes are open. A single tear runs down her face. “Don’t cry,” he says and, aiming carefully, reaches over to crush her tear beneath his thumb as he would an insect, or the flame of a candle. The black paint of his graffiti is long gone from the Wall but the paint on his thumb leaves a vague print on her cheek. Outside, the solace of Berlin meets the new upward tick of the hour, the hum of everything indiscernibly escalates to a new pitch, and for a few minutes, perhaps even closer to an hour, Georgie actually dozes in the light without dreams. When he gets up Christina still hasn’t moved, hopelessly bound as she remains to the Wall. Georgie shuts the door of the flat carefully behind him so as not to wake her.
In the Kochstrasse U-Bahn it’s probably half an hour before dawn. The trains will begin running soon. No one closes the stations in the offhours anymore and homeless people sleep on the station platform, those desperate enough not to care who robs or knifes them in their sleep. In this final hour of the night Georgie isn’t here for robbing or knifing. He stands on the platform just feet from where the American writer made the mistake of sitting next to him; but Georgie isn’t thinking of that either. He’s forgotten everything about the American except what he’s taken from him.
Georgie lowers himself from the platform and carefully steps over the rails of the track. He crosses to the other side of the tunnel. A gypsy lying on the platform wakes just long enough to look over and mutter a warning before falling back to sleep; on the other side of the tunnel Georgie pulls himself up alongside the wall.
Several times he has to jump up to get a grip on the opening of the hole; he tries to hold himself up long enough to peer inside. Beyond the breach of the hole is a relentless darkness, the kind of darkness he’s been looking for since the Crystal Hotel, only to find it now when he doesn’t want it. Now he’d settle for light. Now he’d settle for a window or a bulb or a moon; with a spare hand he’d flick a switch if he could, or light a match. All he can do is look into the dark as hard as he can.
Into the hole he calls, “Papa?”
There’s only one response to his question as he drops from the hole. He hears it come first from the tunnel of the U-Bahn and with some concern he believes, at first, that the sound is the first train of the day. He thinks maybe he should get off the track. Georgie STEVE E R I C K S O N • 249
doesn’t know, no one really knows, about the new pitch to which Berlin has escalated; one or two of the gypsies on the station platform also wake to the rumble. At that point Georgie decides the rumble isn’t a train. He steps over the rail and stands in the middle of the track staring down into the black tunnel of the U-Bahn. The din slowly breaks the surface of the city’s hush. And then, so quickly it startles Georgie, a hyena darts out of the blackness of the tunnel and across the platform, creating a small furor among the waking sleepers who have begun to gather themselves up in apprehension. The animal lurches up the stairs of the U-Bahn to the street level. People on the platform are looking around them, expecting something to happen.
Georgie raises his eyes. Now the sound has risen above him. He looks down into the tunnel once more, following the string of small white lights that line the hills and curves and valleys of the track for as far as he can see; he crosses back to the pl
atform. He hoists himself back up onto the platform and heads back up the stairs to the station entrance. At the top of the stairs he freezes. In front of him an albino peacock spreads its white fan and furiously shudders. Beyond that an emaciated antelope bolts. At the station entrance the rumble is louder; on the street the new pitch is almost audible. On the street Georgie turns to see, thundering toward him from the other end of the block, the last escapees of the Tiergarten’s autumnal cages, purring panthers which hunger has left no longer fleet, spindly ostriches and hobbling kangaroos and barely lumbering bears, the surviving cats and wolves and reptiles shaken loose from the cellars of Berlin by the growing roar of the rush toward the black twenty hours that wait beyond the millennium’s final chime. Georgie leaps up onto a U-Bahn signpost, where he clings for safety as the animals stampede past him in the silvery blue of the unlit dawn, their ragged sprint westward as though from a pursuing inferno in the jungle.
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Curt did a g o o d j o b, Georgie thinks to himself on the airplane. Once Georgie has finally begun to relax from the takeoff, he studies the passport carefully. Curt has put Georgie’s picture in place of the American’s and changed the birth date from 1950 to 1980; the name’s been left alone. Georgie leans forward in his seat to put the passport back in the bag under his feet, but it means unlatching the seat belt; Georgie hasn’t unlatched the seat belt since he got on the plane. This is the first time he’s ever been on an airplane. On takeoff he clutched the armrests so hard that for several minutes he didn’t notice how the old woman in the next seat, taking pity on him, was holding his hand. If he hadn’t been so terrified he probably would have yanked his hand away from her, but he let her go on holding it; they were well in the air before he let go. She’s an old woman, Georgie tells himself; with some concern he suspects she’s Jewish. But she makes jokes about the flight and puts Georgie at ease, and soon he’s doing things for her, walking up and down the aisle of the plane getting magazines for her and a pillow, and the stewardesses are charmed by the friendship between the older woman and the disconcertingly sweet young man with the shaved head. In New York City, as they’re going through customs at the airport, the woman tells him he’s in the wrong line: “The one for U.S. citizens is over here,” she says, pointing at the blue American passport Georgie holds in his hand.
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