American Genius: A Comedy

by Lynne Tillman

  Things seem plain, and they aren't, but there's no going back, everything's in motion, matter doesn't die, and some human matters, especially, persist, because they're irresolvable and irremediable, people accumulate consequences. I kept walking, staring at the sky as it imperceptibly changed color, then down at the trail and the snow beneath my feet, while listening for the songs of birds, their elaborated calls, which I didn't understand, and often halted in my tracks to watch them, whose identity I didn't know, except for finches, mourning doves, crows, seagulls, and sparrows. For about ten minutes, a strong wind blew the trees and shook old snow, so that it fell and lightly dusted my coat, scarf, hair, and trail, but it stopped quickly, and I didn't feel worried or cold; instead, while the light snow swirled, I imagined that the crystal ball my dead friend bought me as a joke souvenir accompanied me, a good luck piece, and even owned the power to transform the woods into venerable, ugly, and beautiful Vienna, whose early 20th century architecture and design I revered, so the tallest trees became monuments or memorials. The snow must be telling us something, he kept repeating, impishly, and he may have been right, it uncannily foreshadowed the unidentifiable future, since snow blankets on a mountain hid insidious crevices through which he probably fell and disappeared. In my room, I can easily lift the crystal ball, turn it upside down, shake it with vigor, and the fake snowflakes occlude its scene, nothing else happens, but now the city of Vienna vanished, and I chided myself for wishing, since it was only the woods, vast, natural, weird, and when a fine lace crested on my hair, scarf, and shoulders and touched my face, I wondered if it was moisturizing or drying it and also remembered other snowfalls, which smelled the same as this one did now. I took several breaths, sucked in the fresh mixture of spring and winter air, and filled my healthy lungs. I was so alive, but it's strange to be alive, it is very strange to live. There's imagination and knowledge, I'm free to wander toward no end or for no discernible reason, but also I often duel with purpose and rarely beat it. The light snowfall ended quickly.

  I stood in place, suspended by a thought or a desire, I couldn't tell, when I heard rustling and noises I was sure weren't mine, and again, I looked around, everywhere, maybe Moira had followed me, since she'd popped up before, unexpectedly, and now hovered in mind, but I didn't see her. I heard louder noises, closer, and hoped it wasn't a bear, but if it was I wouldn't move, and if it approached and was about to attack, I might bravely strike it hard on the middle of its chest, because bears have poor balance and fall backward if struck hard at the center of their chest, and, when that happened, I'd run fast, I'm a fast runner. A small bird screamed excitedly and three nearby flapped into the air, agitated by noisy company, when, to my surprise, through a gnarly thicket, the Count and Contesa emerged, shaking leaves and snow off them. So, Contesa knew all along where the Count was-or maybe he was staying with herwhich was the reason she hadn't been noticeably upset after his disap pearance, instead she appeared supremely introspective and somewhat removed. I had questions for the two, especially the Count-was it his fire? was it a seizure? were they looking for me?-but I decided not to ask, just to listen closely, they might have something to tell me.

  -I hope we didn't give you a bad start, the Count said.

  -Happy to see us, right, Helen?

  I was, especially now that it was growing colder and darker, it's always darker in the middle of the woods, not yet dusk, and it was harder to see, but anyway we walked farther into the woods or farther from the main house, miles by now I figured, sometimes the Count veering one way, Contesa another, he to the east or, in my vernacular, left, she west or right, where the sun was setting. After they compromised on a direction, I followed contentedly, having no idea where we were headed, though the Count assured me they knew, and also I didn't mind, like a passenger along for a joyride. I even hoped the hike would never end and that I'd remain in the dark, because I like surprises, and, if I knew the destination, I might be disappointed, also I liked to imagine there was no destination, nothing teleological or driven, but all things come to an end, like breakfast or dinner or an evening's entertainment, when I can return to my room, take off my clothes, placate my skin with rich emollients, and read into the night, then when the house is still, reading is like listening, and I like to listen. If I listen well, I might gather why the Count and Contesa scrupled to find me, trace my steps in the woods, since they must have been looking for me for a reason, although they might not and just came upon me, but I didn't want to know, when usually I do.

  Out of nowhere, at least to me, as we march along, while I'm walking behind Contesa, she calls to the Count, "One thing ends, another begins."

  -The Roman Empire, the Count retorts.

  -The British Empire.

  -Or, World War I.

  -You're a cynic, Gardner.

  -A skeptic. When you die, you die. You're never yourself again, Violet.

  -I'll be something else, she said.

  I dug inside my pocket for the apple I'd saved, then inquired of them if they were hungry, but they'd eaten not long ago. The red and green Macoun was crisp and tart, the way I like, not mealy and slimy, its skin crunchy, and my appetite abated, as the sky darkened, though the sun, while it dropped, left behind radiant streaks of pink, orange, and blue, two number threes, because of their pale hue, one four, and soon the Count decided he'd make a fire and we'd rest for a while. I had begun to worry about hiking when the sun had set, but the Count was not only a good fire builder, he could survive in the woods, which soothed my doubt, though I also wished it would never end. Contesa's capacious, mohair shawl served as a blanket, and she and I sat upon it, while the Count expertly built his fire, and I, filled with questions but wanting to listen, checked my tongue. Contesa offered up a remark about the beguiling sky, while the Count hunted for tinder and logs and I reminded myself that Contesa and I both disliked small talk. She was intense, a Kafka of the spirits, who might now be communing with Felice or other numina, though if it were so, I'd be uncomfortable. I'd never been alone with just the Count and Contesa, the pair had a history, wholly outside my experience, and with it an apparent rightness or ease in being. When I looked toward the fire, even it seemed new, and I was surfeited with nameless expectation, I guess that's what it was, about what might occur among us or between them, since being with them provoked me, and though our temporary arrangement was a comely shape or configuration, which I liked, something out of order might develop and instigate a calamitous denouement. We three might suddenly be enmeshed in intrigue or poised upon an invisible but unfathomable foundation, sink into menace, a daunting sub-layer that could undo our symmetry, since people are flawed and arbitrary, and, unlike a worthy design whose decisions aren't arbitrary, when a subtle mistake might even augment an object, peoples' flaws rarely enhance them, though people learn to love, usually temporarily, their friends' and lovers' mistakes. I determined to stare into the fire, not think into a future I might never know, and kindle reverie, but stick figures emanated from the wisps of flames, the way they usually do, my skin dried and itched, my face burned, and, restless, I shifted about on Contesa's shawl.

  -So, we're around a campfire. We could tell stories, Contesa said, drolly.

  -Which kind? the Count asked.

  -Any kind.

  I had no stories of any kind to tell, I felt as empty and flat as my stomach.

  -May I ask for one?

  I was hedging.

  -That depends, Contesa said.

  -I'd like to know, if you don't mind, Gardner, when you began to change night into day.

  -It's not a proper story, he said.

  He poked the fire, bothered, laid on another hunch of thick sticks, turned from it, and sat upon the ground in front of us, tucking his calflength, leather, fur-lined coat under him, and, as dusk neared, his horse face was almost frighteningly enigmatic or unreadable, with its high cheekbones pulling his skin taut, crafting craters or vaults beneath them.

  -In Paris, I found a timepiece along
the Seine. I fell in love, you know. Rather, I decided to live. I returned to America. I had already inherited a great deal of money, with my father's death. And when my mother died, I had even more. Too much, no doubt.

  I wondered how he felt about his parents' deaths, but he didn't say, and it was his story.

  -But I wasn't idle. I studied. Languages, especially, and ancient history, the classics. I collected many museum-worthy pieces. Word got 'round. I was plagued by, let's say, enthusiastic acquaintances. It's not easy for me to send people away. One day a man showed up on my doorstep. He said he'd known Violet in Paris.

  Contesa's face turned gloomy, impassive, or stricken.

  -He importuned me. I gave him money for a scheme. It went badly. He was a con man. He had come to my house at midday. I'm a rational man. And I knew two things. One, time is of human origin, and, two, since it is, I could use time as I wanted.

  He etched a circle on the ground with a pointed stick.

  -If I slept all day and rose and lived in the night, no one could bother me at lunchtime or during business hours. I hired a secretary to do what needed to be done in daytime hours-banking and so forth. I saw only a few close friends. That's why I turned day into night. You see, it's not a story.

  It was not what I expected or imagined, not at all, his story was simultaneously simple and complex, of a bizarre practicality that surpasses reason. Without response, Contesa and I absorbed his tale, the Count too, but unlike the silence between Birdman and me, it was full and comforting, and I felt less empty, though my stomach gurgled softly. While each of us rested, or not, in our own minds, I realized I'd missed an opportunity to inquire about his paroxysm. But the Count rose to fix and fuss with the fire again-I imagined he'd once been a heavy smokerwhen Contesa nestled against me, like the beloved family cat my parents had killed a long time ago.

  -What would you like to hear? she asked.

  -What's the story about your friend who conned Gardner? I asked.

  -Not that. Ask me another.

  -Unfair, the Count said.

  -It's OK, I said.

  -I have a story, Contesa said. In the late 1950s, early 1960s, I was friends with a famous fashion model. This was in Paris. She was very beautiful, everyone knew her face. I knew her lover, actually he was my friend first. We were friends from back when. He was smart, great, but a dog. I adored him. I lived with them, in fact they took me in.

  The Count's head had dropped. I couldn't see his face, his eyes.

  -I was at loose ends. I'd been designing clothes, but it wasn't working. So I took up social work, but that's another story. I was twenty-nine. At loose ends. The model had a spectacular house in the 7th arrondisement. One Wednesday morning, she invited me to join her, that very afternoon, to fly to Rome. She was doing the shows. She wanted me to accompany her, she said. My friend would stay home and work-he was a soul brother, as we said then or maybe later. He wrote scripts. God, they're a desperate breed. He made some money reviewing films, his French was flawless. I went to Rome, as her companion. Why not? She worked, and I walked around. I visited all of the museums and churches. I lit candles in every church. It was spring, I think. We ate fantastic dinners, on elegant patios overlooking the seven hills, way into the night. Always surrounded by her celebrity friends. There was a darling photographer . . . another story, another time. Rome lives at night. I drank too much.

  Now the Count followed Contesa's every gesture, she was becoming a little Roman, her hands, patterns in the air, and he hung on her every word, just as I did.

  -Then Sunday came. I was about to go to Mass. As a pagan. But the model took me aside. She said, "I've changed your plane ticket." I expected to fly back with her on Monday morning. She wanted me to go back to Paris, that very night. She said, I remember this exactly, she said, "I'd like you to make sure the house is in order." That's all she said. I was put on a late flight. Everything had been arranged neatly. The Paris-Rome flight is fairly quick. But on it I felt uneasy. I didn't know why. It was about three in the morning when I arrived at her house. I unlocked the door and entered. I heard moving around upstairs. There was a commotion, hushed voices, I just stood there. A woman, Lord, her lipstick was smeared, and her mascara, maybe she'd been crying, she came running down the stairs. She didn't look at me, just ran past me, and went straight out the door. Then, my friend came down the stairs. He was like a sheepdog. It was almost funny. I helped him clean up-scads of empty wine bottles, ashtrays with red-lipsticked cigarettes, dirty glasses and dishes everywhere. It took hours. In the morning, the model arrived. Her house was in perfect order. I'd done my job, I'd done a great job. All was well on the homefront. The next day, I left. She and I said nothing to each other. Nothing. I never saw her again.

  The finality of the story and her response alarmed me, I didn't know what to make of it, why she had told it now, to us, but it must have been after that episode she returned to America, around the same time, I reckoned, as the Count.

  -You never saw her again? I asked.

  -Never, she repeated.

  -Tell us your story, Helen, the Count said.

  -Let me think. I need a little time.

  In their accounts, they'd been betrayed, they'd changed the directions of their lives and returned to America, but their stories also had different kinds of content. I could tell one in which I was good, bad, indifferent, young, cruel, sensitive, a helper, a hindrance, a victim, a victimizer, hero, bystander, or, like them, betrayed, by a colleague in the American History department, a best friend, a lover. Or one in which I'd betrayed someone, though I'm a sensitive person, and sensitive people need to believe they wouldn't, so they often don't recognize when they hurt others, but the worst kinds of sensitive people are those who believe themselves to be victims, so they victimize others righteously and viciously. I could tell them about my brother's dramatic disappearance, but I knew too little about it and him, since my parents hardly ever mentioned it, then my father died soon after, but then the two might ask why I hadn't searched for him, and I didn't know myself. I hadn't known him, that was an explanation, he was so much older, my birth was planned, or a mistake, but I didn't want to tell that story. I could talk about how I became an atheist, an historian, why I left the field and how I feel sad about America, or how I became a designer of objects, but now I want to undo things.

  -You're taking a long time, Contesa said.

  -It doesn't have to be a big deal, the Count said. You don't have to, you know.

  -I've got a story, I said, impulsively. It's funny. My mother had open heart surgery about ten years ago, to correct a valve. They were going to give her a pig's valve. I waited in the hospital while she had the operation. It's a long operation, and she was seventy-eight, but pretty strong. She was old but healthy. Except for that valve. The anesthesia was almost the biggest issue, really. I waited in a very ugly reception area. Really awful. I became focused on the other people there, mostly families. I suppose that's how I distracted myself. Some were already grieving, preparing themselves for the worst, the end ...

  -Is this really a funny story? Contesa asked.