by Jesse Ball
What to do?
He opened the door, jumped through it, and tackled the man from behind.
The man fell beneath him. It was not a man. It was a girl. But she had not shrieked or made any move to escape.
Now, quite quietly and simply, she spoke.
—Would you mind getting up? You really don't know me well enough for this yet.
He got to his feet. She did as well.
She was wearing now a sort of prefabricated factory coverall drawn tight around the waist. Over it, a coat with a high collar.
—What's the meaning of this? he asked. Why are you snooping about?
—What do you mean? she asked. Nobody's snooping. I've just got a crush on you, and I've come around to see if you'll take me on a date.
—That's a lie, said James. Who sent the rubber mask?
—I did, said Anastasia. I thought it would be funny.
—It's not funny at all, said James. And furthermore, you're part of . . . something else. I know you are. This business in the paper.
—Well, that's not a very nice thing to accuse a girl of, just after having met her, and her having returned to you your wallet that you dropped, and furthermore her having come around to your place. And besides, I'm not the sort of girl who chases after men. You should feel lucky that I'm being so forward with you.
To this James said nothing, but looked at her with narrowed eyes.
It was his favorite toy. What was it? A little wooden bird painted the color red. It was a red color, it really was, a shining lovely red such as a boy might dream upon, looking at it in sunlight, in shadow, with candles, and at firesides. But do not suppose that it was a songbird or any such frivolous sort. No, his bird was an owl. He had found it one day when Ansilon told him to look under the floorboards of his room by knocking everywhere with his hammer. When he found the red owl, Ansilon was pleased. It is your father's owl, he said. Do not let him see it. He left it there many years ago with a filament of his bone wrapped around a piece of ivory at the toy's heart. He believed it would bring him good luck, and it has. But now, my little friend, that luck will be yours. Oh, thank you, James had said. Thank you. No one ever had a friend like you. Nor will they, said Ansilon, nor will they. And when he would take the red owl to the seashore, he would hide it from his father in a Russian fur hat which James insisted upon wearing at all times. No one but James and Ansilon understood this absurd practice. Why was the boy wearing a Russian fur cap to the seashore? But James was always finding things, old coins, arrowheads, and such, which he gave away freely and generously, and so no one said anything to him about the fur cap until one day his father burned it while he was off at school. Regrettably, the bird was inside. That day his father became very ill and was never the same again. In fact, he died within the hour.
IN THE KITCHEN
Anastasia sat at the kitchen table. She no longer spoke with an accent. She confessed that her name was not Anastasia. It was, she said, Lily Violet.
—You've obviously made up that name, said James, who was busy setting the pot to boil on the stove.
—No one would make up a name like that, said Lily Violet. It's too far-fetched.
James considered this. Perhaps she was right.
Lily had taken her coat off. She came over and stood behind James.
James turned around and pushed her away.
—What's the big idea? he said loudly.
—Nothing, she said, and sat down again. What is it? You don't like girls?
James ignored this question.
—So, your position is that you are not a part of the plot that's in the newspaper, that furthermore, you have nothing to do with it, and that you have met me only by chance?
—I have met you, said Lily Violet, only by chance. The rest is too silly for me to even answer. Anyway, don't you think I'm a nice sort?
—I will not marry you, said James. You are not suitable at all. I don't like your yellow-dress. I don't like your hair-cut, and I don't like your approaching-of-men in public places.
—You don't like my hair-cut? said Lily Violet, looking then at herself in the window. It had become dark outside, and the room was reflected and distorted in triplicate, for alongside of the kitchen there were three broad windows. She ran her hands through her short hair and looked at him.
—Well, to be fair, said James, it's all right.
He felt suddenly thoroughly tired. He felt he had been outmaneuvered again, but this time he did not even know how it had happened.
He went into the hall and sat down on the bench for the second time that day. The mask was still there. He didn't like it, not one bit. There are certain items that one does not want to have in one's vicinity, that when one learns of their existence, one feels a bit worried that perhaps one day they will be present in the vicinity of oneself. Such was this. But who would expect to be sent a rubber mask of one's own face?
—Really, said Lily, entering the hall. It isn't as bad as all that.
She sat beside him on the bench.
—Why don't I be your girlfriend, and take care of you, and we can go on little outings?
—What are you doing here? asked James. This is completely ridiculous.
—You ask so many questions, said Lily Violet.
She went and got her coat, then looked James carefully in the eye and curtsied in an exquisite and practiced manner. The door closed softly behind her, and James was left once more alone.
day the third
Shall we say, James did not arrive at his appointment at the doctor's office? He was at the door, at the door to the building, upon the stroke of three, having decided he would not bother to come early, when two men in large overcoats forced him into a waiting car.
An Item in the News
THIRD “SAMEDI” SUICIDE BAFFLES AUTHORITIES
Washington, September 29: The suicide of an unidentified man outside the White House yesterday, the third such death in as many days, has resulted in increased concern on the part of federal authorities, while yielding no further leads into the identity of “Samedi,” the author of the cryptic notes found with all three bodies.
The suicide of the man, whose face was mostly destroyed by the blast of the forty-four-caliber pistol that ended his life, differs slightly from the first two suicides, in which William Goshen and Albrecht Moran slashed their own throats. Nonetheless, the note found with the latest man has been confirmed through handwriting analysis as the work of the same author, signed “Samedi”:
TO GROW GOLD ON TREES FOR MEN WHO OWN ALREADY ALL THE ORCHARDS? HOW FAR HAVE OUR IDEALS, OUR PRINCIPLES FALLEN? AN EXAMPLE SHALL BE MADE, FOR THE LIVES OF MEN ARE LONGER THAN THE LIVES OF NATIONS.
SAMEDI
In a White House press conference today, the president decried the incidents. “We must not give in to fear, or the threat of violence,” he said. “Democracy is and always has been our right. Individuals cannot control the mechanisms of popular government.”
No further details into the nature of the investigation had been given as of press time.
The man in the front seat set the newspaper down.
—Quite a note, ain't it? he said to the one next to him.
—That it is, that it is. What does our new friend think? said the man, looking over his shoulder.
James sat in the backseat. Beside him, the third man.
—What do you think, sweetheart? asked the third man. It's written so nicely. So short. How could you not like it?
—I like it plenty, said James. Where are you taking me?
—He wants to know where we're taking him, said the third man to the second. Sweetheart wants to know.
—Of course he does, said the second man. Isn't it just like sweetheart to ask, and so nicely, where his new friends are taking him? Isn't it nice?
—Enough out of the two of you, said the first man. Everything worth saying already got said.
He seemed to be in charge. He put the car into gear and pulled out into tra
ffic. The car had only traveled a few blocks after picking James up, for they'd stopped almost immediately thereafter to get the newspaper. Now they were heading in a northwest direction, out of the city center. That would be . . . James closed his eyes and saw in his head a map of the city, clear as though he were looking at it set on a table before him; that would be . . . towards the wealthy section, large houses, estates, and so forth. James had gone there before on the company dime. Of course, nothing was definite; the car could be going anywhere until it stopped.
James had thought about struggling against the men, but it had happened quickly, and something in their manner suggested that there would be no violence unless he began it. Such men were practiced at conveying such subtleties. Or perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps they would take him to an empty sump and bury him there, where he would never be found. In his head, James had memorized the faces of the men, the license plate, make, and model of the car. He knew their voices, each, by heart. But it was useless to even bother. The men hadn't frisked him; that much James knew. His hands were tied, but in his coat pocket he could feel the weight of the pistol he'd taken from 2 Verit Street.
Of course, he couldn't be sure that it was loaded. Mayne had gone for it as if it were, but that was no assurance. He should have checked last night. If he drew it now and it was empty, it would be his own fault. That and everything else.
It was a fine autumn day, really, and the air through the open windows smelled like life. James could feel on the backs of his hands and his face the crispness of the day. The car wound on pretty roads through hedged estates. They had indeed come where James thought they would. After many turns, all of which James marked in his head, they pulled up to a gate. The second man got out and walked up to an intercom where he spoke for a moment, presumably with a guard on the interior. The gate swung back, the man got back in, and the car drove on up a curving drive. The hedge ceased along the sides of the road; an immense lawn and a large mansion could be seen. There were several cars pulled up in front of it.
I wonder, thought James, am I being brought before Samedi? The weight of the pistol in his coat reassured him. Since they'd tied his hands in front of him, he could still reach it if he had to. Not that James had had much practice firing a pistol. But he felt he could, if he had to.
The car stopped. The men got out and pulled James upright.
—Into the house with you, said the first man.
He led James up the walk towards the house. Through the windows, James could see the vague outlines of people watching. Have they, he wondered, made up their minds about me? Then he thought of the letter in the paper. Perhaps it's not me at all they're looking at. After all, the future is always outside of the room one is in, beyond the windows, beyond the doors. If this is Samedi's house, who could live here and not think constantly of the seventh day?
James was taken to a sort of sitting room. His hands were unbound, and his coat was taken from him. It was hung over the back of a chair on the far side of the room. Too far, really, for James to jump for it. Anyway, this gun wasn't lucky for jumping at. Mayne had learned that lesson.
The room was done up in a sort of eighteenth-century style. Engravings on the wall, were they Hogarth?
The first man was standing behind James's chair. It was an awful habit, very rude, thought James.
Five minutes passed.
—Where are we? said James to his captor.
The man said nothing.
Five minutes more went by. The door creaked, and opened. Thomas McHale entered, dressed neatly in an expensive-looking suit.
James could not hide his shock.
—I see, said Thomas McHale. You have met my brother, haven't you?
He laughed. The man behind James laughed also.
—Torquin, said Thomas, you can go now. I'll keep an eye on him.
Torquin, thought James. The other Thomas McHale had said that name. Could they really be brothers? Twin brothers? The odds were against it. But certainly it was the only solution. A man could not die so convincingly and then stand again before one in such a bold and shameless way.
Thomas McHale shut the door after Torquin, and then turned to face James.
—You've met my brother, then, he repeated. Did you like him? No, no, I guess there wasn't time for you to meet properly, was there? Very sad, what happened. Do you know the story? I'm sure he told you something.
—If you're going to do to me what you did to him, you might as well do it now. I don't like waiting around for nothing.
—Hmmm, said Thomas McHale. What we did? What I did? Hmmm. I wonder what he did tell you. . . . Do you know, do you know my brother had gone quite insane? Thought he was in the middle of a spy novel, really. The strangest thing. Nothing could convince him otherwise. I didn't want him in an institution, of course, frightful places, so I kept him here. But then he escaped. Persecution mania. He told everyone we were against him. Then before I can find him again, he gets mugged, assaulted, and dies. We had his funeral just yesterday up at Mount Auburn.
James tried to follow this line of thought. Had the first Thomas McHale been mad? He had been right about where Estrainger lived. Or, at least, he had known that a man named Estrainger did indeed live near the Chinese district, and was indeed a playwright.
Suddenly, McHale's information seemed less and less sure.
—Then why the mask? burst out James. Why send me the mask?
—The mask, yes, said McHale, tapping a letter against his sleeved arm. The mask, yes . . . well, that was a sort of mistake, really. You know, Grieve, she's an odd one. Her father likes to give her little jobs to do. She's quite a case. Lies about everything. Can't help it.
—What? said James. She said her name was Lily Violet.
—Of course she did, said McHale. Yes, well, it was said that someone had spoken to my brother before he died. The police said someone had been there, but they couldn't figure out who. We managed to speak to someone who'd seen you there, and Grieve's father sent her to ask you what it was Thomas said. All of us here, of course, are very interested to know what his last words were. My dear brother . . .
McHale said this with real feeling.
James desperately tried to clear his head.
—None of this makes any sense. Why did Lily Violet—
—Grieve, interposed McHale.
—Grieve, continued James. Why did Grieve steal my wallet, why did she send me a strange mask, and why did she come to my house to spy on me?
—She came to your house? said McHale. Interesting. We didn't know that. She did slip her minder yesterday and go off into the city. We weren't sure where she went. Well, he said, that's one mystery solved.
He examined James closely, pulled another chair over, and sat beside him.
—The truth is, she took your wallet because she is a very good pickpocket, and we were interested to know about who you were. She had been instructed to simply ask you, but that's not her way.
James nodded, following along.
—As for the mask, well, she must have taken photographs of you, and then taken them to a mask factory. I can't imagine how that sort of thing could be done so fast, but evidently it was. . . . What can I say, she's an odd sort of girl. If not for the watch her father keeps on her, she'd have gotten into a lot of trouble a long time ago. I can tell you that much.
There was a knock at the door. McHale rose.
—Yes, he said peremptorily. Come in.
The door opened. A young woman dressed as a maid stood there, holding a tray.
—Bring that over here, said James.
She did so, setting the tray upon a table close by James's elbow.
—Of course, said McHale, we became even more interested in you after the death in Estrainger's building. You were there looking for Estrainger, were you not?
He took something out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was the napkin James had had at the diner.
* * *
What should be done?
&
nbsp; nothing
tell someone, the police.
* * *
—Were you thinking of telling the police the story McHale told you? You wouldn't be the first to go to them. Before he ran into those muggers, my brother spoke to at least four people, and convinced them all to go to the police. They all did, every one, each with the same story. He was away from this house for four days. Don't you think it's strange that he didn't go to the police?
—I don't know what to think, said James. It's all rather strange to me.
—Yes, well, think through what he said. We know your profession. Of course, you can tell us exactly how his last minutes passed. We would very much like to have that information, as all of us here miss him deeply.
James nodded.
—Should I write it out?
—Yes, that would be preferable.
McHale pointed to the tray. On it there was a metal bell, the sort for concealing cakes and such.
—That's the key to your room, said McHale. We'd like to extend an invitation to you to stay here a few days. There are many of us who live here, many who knew my brother intimately. Some of us would like, I'm sure, the chance to speak to you personally, as you were the last one to see him alive. We have here a very fine chef, and a staff that is quite accommodating. Anything you want can be seen to. There are, however, a great many rules that govern our life in this house. When you get up to your room there is a little book where they're written. We ask that you observe them while you're here. You see, there are patients, many of them, and staff as well, and then there are those of us who live here on a rather different basis. Everyone here observes the rules, save Grieve, of course. She can be difficult, as you've learned.
McHale noticed James's puzzled expression.
—This is a verisylum. There was only ever one before this, built in 1847. We believe it is the only real treatment for dramatic cases of chronic lying, cases where the lying ends up compromising the identity of the individual. Instead of giving medications, or applying truth-rubrics, Margret Selm came up with her own method. She established the parameters for the creation of a country house in which all behavior would be governed by a set of arbitrary rules. There would be no prohibition against lying, but the individuals present in the house, the chronic liars, would find in the arbitrary rules, which, as you'll come to see, are many, a sort of structure that allowed them, as time passed, to construct an identity for themselves. The idea is that when many lies are told, unfettered by immediate comparison to fact, they end up comprising a kind of truth. On that truth too lies can be based.
