Mount Terminus: A Novel

by Grand, David

  It took the better part of the day to learn how to maneuver with the invertiscope towering over him, but the material Isabella had used to manufacture the device, and the shoulder harness she’d designed, were remarkably well engineered, so well, in fact, that before the morning had finished Bloom had grown accustomed to its weight and was able to adjust his balance and gait. As a precaution, however, Isabella remained at his side, her arm entwined in his, advising him along the way when to make small adjustments to the scope with the pulleys. They spent the day walking the grounds, first through the mazes of the front gardens, next through the open field to the promontory, where Isabella held him with her chest pressed against his back, her hands gripping his shoulders, as Bloom stood at the headland’s edge. There, he looked down, and saw himself looking down, and he described to Isabella the state in which he discovered his father at the bottom of the ravine. She guided him through the grove, around low-lying limbs, walked him under the canopy of trees jeweled in ripe summer fruit, and there in the shade he looked down on himself and Isabella as a bird might.

  And here, when Bloom had begun to question his ability to love, he found this was the perspective he needed. He reached out with the hand nearest Isabella’s shoulder and said to her, This space between us, this narrow space separating our shoulders, reminds me of a passage I read in Leonardo’s notebooks. He advised painters who lacked inspiration to contemplate with a reflective eye a crack in an old wall, and there the painter, he advised, would find what was lacking. When Bloom said this, he could see from his vantage point Isabella look at his hand and tenderly take hold of it. She then leaned into him to close the gap between them. They next walked with great care up the stairwell to the tower’s pavilion, where Bloom introduced her to his birds and demonstrated the various lines of repartee he had developed with Elijah. Here he could see the muscles in Isabella’s face relax in appreciation of his aviary; and, later, when he observed with what ease she adjusted the gauges of the telescope to suit her eye, he couldn’t help but think how naturally she fit into his private world above the tree line.

  Before they entered the dining room for dinner that evening, Isabella said to Bloom, I should warn you, Dr. Straight will want you to carry on wearing the invertiscope for the remainder of the week. If you’d prefer not to, you should say so. He’ll grumble a little, but he won’t keep it up.

  Why a week?

  We’ve discovered it takes at least that long to fully alter your perception.

  Meaning?

  In that time you’ll have adapted to your new point of view. Your orientation will have changed. You’ll have grown accustomed to using your hands, for instance, by observing them from above instead of directly before you. But more important, you’ll have observed yourself and the world around you long enough to fully comprehend in what ways you’re an active participant in your own life. When I remove the invertiscope at that point of separation, you will, in theory, retain a more vivid memory of the divided self. The longer you experience the invertiscope’s perspective, the longer it takes to reorient yourself when you shift back to your normal perspective. The process reinforces Dr. Straight’s hypothesis, that perception isn’t absolute, that the mind and body are capable of adapting to new associations.

  In other words, said Bloom, we are not fixed.

  Yes, said Isabella, looking up to the eye of the scope. We are not fixed.

  When Bloom saw Isabella look at him directly and he thought of the intimacy they had shared without exchanging glances in the traditional sense, he said he was eager to continue on. I’d like very much to experience what that change feels like.

  In that case, I recommend I feed you your dinner.

  Why?

  Handling small objects, she cautioned, will be the last motor skill you perfect.

  Bloom found this arrangement agreeable. In the company of Gottlieb and Dr. Straight, Isabella sat beside him at the table and thoughtfully fed him and then fed herself. He related to the doctor and Gottlieb the strange and remarkable sensations he had felt throughout the day. He described them as one would describe a dream. And when he saw Isabella take the last bite from his plate, he confessed to feeling fatigued, which Dr. Straight said was common on the first day when wearing the invertiscope. Your body and mind haven’t been as challenged, he said, since the time you were a small child. Isabella took him by the arm and led him up the stairs to his room, where, once inside, she ordered Bloom to shut his eyes, and when his eyes were shut, she removed the scope from its harness, the harness from his shoulders, then proceeded to place a pad of cotton over each eyelid and blindfold him. In the dark, he changed into his nightshirt and lay down in bed. From what point of view are you seeing in the dark? Isabella asked.

  I seem to be switching back and forth.

  Before the end of the week, you should see only from the eye of the invertiscope.

  Will I dream from the invertiscope’s point of view?

  It’s been known to happen. We’ll see, won’t we?… I have a book in hand, she said. Shall I read to you?

  If you don’t mind.

  Not at all. And on Isabella went to read from the pages of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.

  * * *

  In the seven days Bloom wore the invertiscope, he adapted to his altered perception. He successfully managed to help Meralda prepare a meal in the kitchen, handled a deck of cards and played out several hands of rummy with Gus, navigated his way through the grove to the stand of eucalyptus trees, where, with his back to the plateau, he watched Simon conduct the morning orchestration of the studio lot. When Isabella blindfolded him on the third night and asked him what he saw in the dark, he saw only from the invertiscope’s perspective. And that night, he dreamed he was flying, following Isabella through the labyrinths of his father’s gardens. When, at the end of the seventh day, Isabella and Dr. Straight removed the scope and harness from Bloom’s body, he expected to feel some profound change take place within him, but aside from his equilibrium having been set off balance, and his lines of sight feeling somehow limited and inadequate, the most powerful sensation he experienced was a feeling of ennui. He described his melancholy to Isabella before bed that night. She assured Bloom this had been a recurring theme among their subjects.

  I believe, she said, it has something to do with the loss of the elevated perspective, with the diminution of feeling one experiences from loftier heights. You’ve grown accustomed to seeing yourself play a role in your own life from a position of remove—it’s as if a character in a story has disappeared.

  This made good sense to Bloom, and he was certain all this played some part in the onset of his malaise; but he knew, too, when he looked into Isabella’s eyes as she searched for further theories to explain his altered mood, his sadness had as much to do with the fact that she and Dr. Straight would one day depart from Mount Terminus and return to the university. The only comfort Bloom took from the connection he had formed with Isabella was that she appeared to have grown equally connected to him, and perhaps, he thought, she would consider remaining behind.

  * * *

  In the coming days, they separated after breakfast—Bloom went off to work in his studio, Isabella to the library—and they returned to each other for a walk up the trails after lunch. When her work was through for the day, Isabella joined Bloom in his studio and sat with him as he continued the tedious work of constructing the cathedral within Death’s fortress. They left Dr. Straight to Gottlieb’s company after dinners and lounged together in the gallery, where they read to each other and shared with each other more details about their pasts. Bloom told her the story of his father and mother, his aunt and brother, and when Isabella had heard the entire tale, she expressed an interest in meeting Simon. She wanted to see, she said, what she could expect Bloom to look like in ten years’ time. Bloom was moved to relate to her what had transpired between him and Simon in the months before her arrival, the dull ache he continued to feel in the aftermath of Simon’s deception,
but he couldn’t see how to do this without betraying Stern’s confidence, or casting a pall over Simon’s character. He didn’t want to elicit pity or suggest in any way that he was a cynic on the subject of love, whether it brotherly or otherwise. And because he couldn’t invent a good-enough excuse to keep Isabella from meeting Simon, he walked her down to the plateau one afternoon to make the introduction, when, to his relief and good fortune, he learned from Murray Abrams that his brother had departed for an extended leave, to the north, to the Bay Area, where he was consulting with his architects and engineers. I know he intended to see you before he left, said Abrams.

  It must have slipped his mind.

  He has been overwhelmed.

  Bloom sounded a false note of regret and apologized to Isabella for Simon’s absence.

  Abrams, who Bloom could see was as entranced as Bloom had been when he first set eyes on Isabella, insisted he be allowed to tour Bloom’s new friend around the studio. Bloom rather enjoyed the privilege of watching Abrams lord over the lot as if it belonged to him. He told them old show-business stories from his vaudeville days, and grew nostalgic for a time before he involved himself in the novelty act of making pictures. He missed proper show people. He missed the desperate wretches who couldn’t survive without the adulation—the laughs, the groans—of a living, breathing, coughing, talking, abusive, overly enthusiastic audience. The applause, Abrams said to Isabella, it filled us up with what was lacking inside. Here, he said as they walked among the hanging strips of film in the editing suite, we are little more than ghosts of the men and women we used to be.

  They parted company with Bloom’s old mentor, and the young Rosenbloom took the liberty of taking Isabella into Simon’s home. He showed her the white parlor and the memorabilia of Simon’s past glory on the stage. He showed off photographs of Simon standing in the company of his stars, and from these images Isabella could see one possible outcome of Bloom’s physical future. As she turned her head between Bloom and the photograph, Isabella said—as everyone said—There really is quite an uncanny resemblance. To provide her greater context, he led Isabella to the room in which Simon maintained his shrine to his mother, and there she was impressed by the devotion his brother had shown his mother, and she was equally intrigued with the rather forward images of Leah, the boldness of her sexuality, the unapologetic manner in which she presented herself to the world, and what that unfettered spirit inspired in the artists she came in contact with. She marveled for some more time over the raised relief map depicting Simon’s vision, and she loved the screening room, where she and Bloom spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting side by side, watching pictures he’d helped make, including Mephisto’s Affinity.

  * * *

  When Bloom completed the construction of Death’s cathedral, he returned to the wall, aged it with sulfuric acid, adhered vines to its crevices, and began painting moss and lichen. Isabella had taken to sitting by him in the evenings, reading while he worked, asking him an occasional question about a poem or a story, a point of philosophy. After one such night some weeks into Isabella and Dr. Straight’s stay, Bloom awoke to find a note from Roya pinned to the chest of his nightshirt. It read, Take her to the chamber. When you have seen all you have seen before, I’ll reveal to you two items yet to be discovered.

  Upon reading this, Bloom wanted to rush outside to Isabella’s cottage and steal her away, but he knew she was expected in the library at any moment. He chose to wait until lunchtime, when she wouldn’t be missed. And all the better, as after he dressed and walked downstairs he found Stern waiting for him in the parlor. His attorney’s health appeared to be in decline. He had lost a considerable amount of weight; the flesh under his eyes sagged and looked bruised. His body effervesced a sweet odor from too much drink, his suit jacket and pants looked slept in, but most untidy of all, the hair about his horseshoe of baldness had grown out into uneven tufts that made him look like a madman escaped from an asylum. When Bloom asked Mr. Stern if he had been unwell, Stern said in a voice entirely depleted of his former self, I’ve been drinking.

  Perhaps you’d like to lie down for a little while?

  No, I wouldn’t. The news I have to deliver is unpleasant. I’d prefer to get on with it.

  What’s happened?

  Stern’s eyes drifted from Bloom for a moment, then returned. Losses, he said. I’m here to report we’ve experienced substantial losses. Given Stern’s conservative nature with regard to Bloom’s financial holdings, perhaps, Bloom thought, his use of the word substantial wasn’t quite as substantial as Stern was making out. Perhaps substantial to Stern meant a small shortfall. Bloom knew nothing about the rise and fall of fortunes, but he intuitively understood a fortune as large as his couldn’t be easily dissolved.

  How substantial?

  Quite substantial … I’m afraid Simon’s demands on us, on you, have grown excessive.

  What does that mean, Mr. Stern? Am I ruined?

  No. Well … not quite. But your holdings outside your brother’s concerns have been significantly diminished. The short of it is, Joseph, if Simon fails to deliver the water to the property he’s developing in the next year, at the latest, you will be ruined. For the better part of the next half hour, Bloom made a concerted effort to listen to his drunk and disheveled advocate erratically advocate a method to hide some of his assets from his brother. He proposed he fictionalize the premature purchase of such and such a property, inventing several risky capitalizations that failed to pay off. He concocted stories about an outbreak of hoof and mouth disease at two of Bloom’s ranches, a devastating explosion in the oil fields, something about poor crop yields in the tropics, a host of margin calls by the market. The poor man, thought Bloom, was losing his mind. Perhaps he already had. Stern could think of no other way to stanch the bleeding and reassert Bloom’s position …

  What was Bloom to say?

  Stern had never solicited his opinion before. He had only informed and advised and acted on his behalf, and Bloom literally knew nothing of what was being asked of him. You must do whatever you think best, Mr. Stern, Bloom said in the end. I trust you to do what’s best for us both.

  Stern, half-composed, said, Yes, all right. All right.

  Meanwhile, Bloom proposed again, perhaps you should have a rest before you begin your journey down the mountain?

  Stern ignored Bloom’s offer and instead took hold of his shoulder and looked him in the eye. You do realize, Joseph, it’s in your power to do with me as you see fit. You should consider the possibility you might better benefit by letting Simon act on his threat against me. You would be free of him at that point. You could take legal action against him. I wouldn’t blame you. In some ways, it would be a relief.

  No, said Bloom. We are in this together, Mr. Stern. We must have faith in Simon and his project if we’re to get through this.

  But all that money, said Stern with widening eyes. A lifetime of your father’s work. Don’t be foolish. My cousin, Saul, will happily help you find someone else to conduct your business. Given the way I’ve failed you, I’d consider it a reasonable course of action if you decided to dispossess me of that privilege.

  Bloom was now confused. Do you want me to release you from your responsibility, Mr. Stern? Do you want me to inform Mr. Geller? Is that what you’re saying?

  Stern looked down to his feet for a moment. When he looked up, he shook his head and said, No. No. My entire life …

  I know, said Bloom, I know. Mr. Stern, I do know something of life’s disenchantments, and this, said Bloom as he pointed to Stern’s overstuffed attaché, doesn’t trouble me nearly as much as I think it troubles you. That you’re so upset by what’s happened only inspires my faith in you. I have every reason to believe you’ll do everything you can to see us through this. Please, don’t make yourself ill over it. You have loved ones relying on you. Feel blessed you have that, if nothing else.

  Stern nodded at this sentiment. I do. Of course I do.

  Then all is
well so far as I’m concerned. As long as I’m able to continue living here, as long as I can sustain the estate and its staff, continue to work on my pictures, I’m very content.

  In which case, you have nothing to worry about.

  Then I’m not worried.

  Very well, then, said Stern, who appeared relatively calmed. That puts me at ease.

  I’m happy for that.

  Thank you. You’ve been very kind, Joseph. Too kind. And with that said, off Stern went with his fat attaché weighing down one side of his skinny frame.

  * * *

  Isabella entered the parlor just after Stern departed. Who was that sorry-looking man?

  That was Stern.

  He looks unwell.

  I know. He’s deeply troubled.

  He doesn’t look fit to be on his feet.

  I said to him as much. But I couldn’t persuade him to lie down.