by John Barth
Jeannine, Jeannine: what has our Author done with you? And if your little cruise with me furthered His plot, can you forgive me? We’ve little time.
My old heart pounds like a spring pile driver after an icy winter. What a heavy, hokey (but not untypical) irony it will be, if natural death prevents my suicide!
That other pounding—an almost furtive pounding, one could call it—is not my heart: it’s Drew and/or his associate Indians at my door. No, there’s no one in here. No, I shan’t open up. Yes, I daresay there is an Emergency of Sorts requiring immediate evacuation of the building; but I am not inclined to believe it a fire, as you now disingenuously claim, inasmuch as you have not seen fit to sound the fire alarm. Come on, Drew, you can do better than that. Saw a bit of light up here, did you? I’ll switch to the red night-vision lens on my pen light. And I saw you, too, my lad, with my 7x50’s, sequestering the watchman (I’m pleased you didn’t hurt him, or sequester him in the building you’re about to dynamite. May you at least acquire the Tragic-Humanist View of Terrorism). Very impressive you are, son, in your Indian redface, warpaint, braids, & matchcoat: the reincarnation, not of the lost Choptanks, but of your white ancestors in redskin drag who hosted the Boston Tea Party & related festivities. I wonder whether your discovery of my death at your inadvertent hands will prove the first step of your regression from radicalism to good old Stock Bourgeois-Liberal Tragic-Viewing Humanism; and I wonder whether I hope it will. I believe I do. Go away, now: time to make your mugged watchman’s rounds for him.
Good. And good-bye, Drew.
Come to think of it, that did not sound quite like Drew Mack’s voice, though it was familiar. Fort McHenry…Wedding scene…Germaine Pitt’s bridegroom? Not likely. No doubt Drew disguised his voice.
At last night’s banquet, my last supper, two Intelligence Types were much in evidence, trying hard to look inconspicuous. Did they have wind of Drew’s plan, I wondered, or were they keeping an eye on me? Drew himself (who now believes both Cook & Castine to have been undercover operatives for rival U.S. intelligence agencies, each sabotaging the other) says that I can expect surveillance at the least, maybe even some harassment, since my suit for subpoena of Prinz’s film of the Navy’s Accident at Barataria Lodge. Do your worst, lads, so long as you don’t foil today’s big bang.
The dedication ceremonies, my souvenir program announces, are scheduled to commence at 9:30 A.M. To the strains of Handel’s Water Music as performed by the MSU Brass Ensemble, an academic procession of the faculty, followed by representative members of the board of regents and trustees of the Tidewater Foundation, distinguished guests (the state comptroller and Dorchester County commissioners), and the now official president of Marshyhope State University: Schott’s maiden ceremonial since his confirmation, not counting the memorial for Joe Morgan. Prayer by MSU Chaplain Arthur Beille. National anthem. Welcoming remarks by the chairman of the board of regents and by the executive director of the Tidewater Foundation, who is to invoke Our Algonquin Heritage apropos of American Indian Day. Official presentation of the Morgan Memorial Tower to MSU by the state of Maryland, as represented respectively by President Schott and the comptroller. Acceptance speech by President Schott (“What is Truth?”). Itemization by the acting provost of the Faculty of Letters of the contents of the cornerstone: this week’s Dorchester News; yesterday’s Cambridge Daily Banner; this morning’s Baltimore Sun (Congress complains of U.S. forces in Laos; Defense Dept. denies. Senator Goodell says cut off Viet War funds); an Algonquin arrowhead found during excavation for the building (other Indian artifacts, unearthed from their burial ground, are on display in the tower lobby, otherwise unfurnished because of Structural Problems); a list of important historical events occurring on this date (General McArthur recaptures Detroit from Tecumseh and General Proctor. Holy Alliance against Napoleon signed in Paris); Polaroid photographs of the ceremonial itself; souvenir program of same; and—if I finish this in time and contrive to slip down, deposit it there, and slip back here—this draft codicil. (Lawyers learn how burglars work. I shall tape the belfry bolt to enable my return.) Official laying of cornerstone by President Schott, the general contractor, and a construction crew (it was to have been Peter Mensch and his stonemasons, but that stout fellow has gone to his reward). Benediction by Chaplain Beille. Recessional: Handel’s Royal Fireworks Music.
These ceremonies will not take place. The fireworks will occur rather earlier than the Water Music: about 7:00 A.M., at sunrise. Charges of TNT, appropriately placed in the already opening foundation seams and other key structural members, will drop this architectural and pedagogical obscenity into its own foundation hole and rebury the Algonquin relics, together with some newer, paleface ones: a future enrichment of the past by the present. This demolition exercise, unlike the Great Chesapeake Bay Bridge Plot of 1967, has been competently engineered with the aid of construction blueprints stolen, along with explosives and detonators, from Mensch Masonry, Inc., and with the presumably expert advice of the late “Red Baron” André Castine.
Alias A. B. Cook VI? I shall never know. Erstwhile threatener with blackmail of his own fiancée? (I asked Jane quickly at our latest—and final—talk, hoping to tuck up that dangling thread of our Author’s plot.) Perhaps before their firm affiancement changed his strategy, or for some other, more complex reason? I shall never know. Some things Jane was “not ready to talk about yet.” So be it, my dear, and adieu.
On the bridge in ’67 and again at Fort McHenry two weeks ago, I frustrated Drew’s intention; I shall not again. At Barataria Lodge on Bloodsworth Island last week, I did him the favor of saving his life; he will return that favor this morning, unknowingly, by ending mine. It’s a few days past my equinoctial deadline for winding up 13 R, the last installment of my life’s recycling; but flexibility & leisurely improvisation have been of the essence of this reenactment, and shall be to its end. Yesterday Now!
6:15 A.M.: I have spotted what look to me like the late Reg Prinz’s cameramen, with portable equipment, down by the empty dedication platform, filming the “cornerstone” (which has but one engraved face, the tower being round) by Available Light, of which there is more & more as the setting moon lights up the Chesapeake to westward while the approaching sunrise lightens the Choptank to eastward. They ducked for cover when a campus patrol car cruised by. Should they enter the tower (or stay where they are), they have about 45 minutes to live. If I try to warn them, Drew is likely to intercept me and thwart my Plans for the Morning. If I succeed in warning them, they may blow the whistle and thwart Drew’s plans as well.
Now they have reappeared from under the platform. The Associate Indian speaks with them, gesticulates; but he & Drew do not Sequester them with the night watchman. Perhaps they are in on the operation, either from its inception or as of now, and are merely discussing camera angles. Not a bad replacement for their confiscated footage of 9/16!
Now all three take cover again—no, all four: there’s Drew with them—as an unmarked VW Beetle drives slowly up and parks behind the platform. Intelligence Types? Undergraduate lovers or other Innocent Bystanders? Complications.
6:35: The driver has left that parked VW and moved out of my sight toward the base of the tower. Male; couldn’t recognize. Drew & Co. have reemerged, conferred—a touch anxiously, I daresay—and perhaps agreed to disagree concerning the slaughter of the innocent. The Associate Indian now withdraws to a safe remove with the cameramen, and Drew hurries into the building: risking his life, it appears, either to save an Innocent Bystander’s or to prevent a very daring I.T. from saving Schott’s Tower.
6:45: I (and perhaps some others) have 15 minutes or less to live, in which interval I must close this Codicil, attempt to go down & pop it into the cornerstone, and hurry back inside, not necessarily to here.
Hold on: there goes Drew, alone & at a trot, over towards the others. Well, now. Don’t be distressed, lad; you did your best.
6:50: Someone is barreling up from belowstairs. It almost
sounds as if he’s got the stuck elevator working: there’s an electrical hum or buzz. All I can hope, sir, is that you’re a culpable I.T. and not an I.E., for you’re about to die. No chance now to deposit this as planned. Improvise, old attorney! Can I make, um, a thick paper airplane of it & sail it out from here at the last possible minute, towards my young friend?
Such a racket outside my door! Somebody really wants into this belfry.
6:53: Good-bye, Polly; good-bye, Jane; good-bye, Drew. Hello, Author; hello, Dad. Here comes the sun. Lights! Cameras! Action!
IN TESTIMONY WHEREOF (& of the Intrinsic Value of Everything, even of Nothingness) I hereunto set my hand & seal this 26th day of September, 1969.
T.A.
S: Jacob Horner to Todd Andrews. The end of Der Wiedertraum.
Remobilization Farm
Fort Erie, Ontario, Canada
Thursday, September 4, 1969
Mr. Todd Andrews
Andrews, Bishop, & Andrews, Attorneys
Court Lane
Cambridge, Maryland 21613 U.S.A.
Dear Mr. Andrews:
Search for Bishop Pike abandoned. U.S. Ambassador to Brazil kidnapped. Viet Peace Talks suspended until after Ho Chi Minh funeral. Birthday of Anton Bruckner, Chateaubriand, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Darius Milhaud. Anniversary of Battle of Antietam, of Franco’s capture of Irun, of Geronimo’s second surrender, of Lafitte’s offer to Governor Claiborne to defend Louisiana from the British, of Napoleon III’s surrender to Bismarck at Sedan, of Harry Truman’s inauguration of transcontinental television with address to San Francisco Peace Conference.
Of nothing, however, in Der Wiedertraum, of which I Apprised You Briefly in our Conversation this morning. Today in 1953 was Day 48 of the 100 Days between my Arrival at Wicomico, Maryland, where I First Met and Was Befriended By the late Joseph and Rennie Morgan, and my Departure Thence, after Mrs. Morgan’s funeral, for Pennsylvania, with the late Doctor and other patients of the Remobilization Farm. September 4, 1953, was a weatherless day in the eventless interim between 9/2, when Mrs. Morgan and I Committed our First Adultery, and 9/7, when classes commenced at Wicomico Teachers College, now Wicomico State College of the University of Maryland.
Before that, on 9/1/53 (You advised me today to Draft a Detailed Statement for use by the lawyer you advised me to Retain, as did the Ontario Provincial Police, in the event of a formal inquest into Joseph Morgan’s death by gunshot wound on Monday 9/1/69. But it is many years since I Wrote Anything to anyone except myself. This was not Easy to Begin; the 1st-person singular, especially, comes hard; now I Should Like to Rebegin, but Dare Not Stop; you agreed I Might Send you a copy of my Statement, to help you explain things to Morgan’s sons; hence this and the 7 enclosed letters to myself, covering the period 3/6/69-8/28/69 inclusive; I Must Add that my Wife and I are Grateful Indeed to you for arranging the return of Joe Morgan’s body to Maryland and the funeral and memorial services for him there, which we Plan to Try to Attend. There is another reason, too, why Writing It All Down is difficult. Do be patient), I visited the Doctor for my quarterly Mobility Check: in those days I Experienced Occasional Paralysis; was indeed Seized by Same in the Progress & Advice Room that day, when the Doctor discovered I was Unconsciously Imitating my New Friend Joseph Morgan; had to be Remobilized by Pugilistic Therapy; all this is important. And the day before that, 8/31/53, was Eavesdropping & Espial Day, when Rennie Morgan and I Returned at Dusk to the Morgan’s rented house in Wicomico from Horseback-Riding and Conversation about their marriage relationship, Peeked (at my Suggestion & to her Fascinated Disgust) through the window blinds of their house, and Saw that paragon of hardheaded rationalism simultaneously masturbating, picking his nose, and leaping gibbonlike about the study, whereat Mrs. M. was shocked to the center of her soul, and I Comforted Her and the next day Consummated Her Seduction, which I had Not Particularly Known was in process. Subsequent pregnancy, illegal abortion by Doctor, death of Rennie by aspiration of vomitus under anesthesia, cashiering of Morgan by Dr. John Schott of W.T.C., Departure and later Voluntary Sterilization of me, Scriptotherapeutic account of all the foregoing at Doctor’s Rx, chance recovery and novelization of said account by outside party, sudden reappearance at Farm last March of much-changed Joseph Morgan, and ultimatum from him to me to Redream our story and Present him by 9/1/69 with Rennie Alive and Unadulterated.
So. But the Doctor drowned; “Monsieur Casteene” disappeared with his people; “Bibi” likewise (our name for Ms. Golden, whom you sought, whom we have heard nothing from since 8/15, when my Wife left her at Comalot Farm, Lily Dale, N.Y. 14752, with Mr. Jerome Bray), who had been playing Mrs. Morgan in Der Wiedertraum; “Pocahontas” (Marsha Mensch, née Blank) and I Became a Couple, and on Sunday last (8/31, 14th Sunday after Pentecost) Husband and Wife; nothing was working; Morgan was out of patience; that night was to be Espial Night and next day Confrontation Day in the P & A Room, his deadline. I was to Bring His Wife (see above) and my Hornbook (see below); “St. Joe” his Colt .45 for Day 45 (see enclosed), his expression and reckoning. When he would discover to me, he declared, the Real Bone he’d had to pick with me all these years.
I was Afraid.
But to go back a bit. On Th 8/28 my Now Wife, who was then but my Woman, delivered herself of a Bombshell Letter, her term, to her former husband, Ambrose Mensch of your city. Though she did not elect to share its contents with me, she gave me to understand that it would “knock the bastard [Mr. M.] flat.” I Seized the Occasion of her glee to Propose to her what I had Long (since July) Been Contemplating: Wedlock. I had Just Left the P & A Room, a distressing session (ultimatum, deadline, Colt .45, etc.). Marsha was, I Ought to Add, and is, Pregnant. She laughed, I Cannot in truth Say warmly, and replied Why not? I here Confess that in all this I Had a Plan, but Declare & Protest it to have been my Wish, over & above & regardless of that plan, to Marry Marsha Mensch, for whom I Cared & Care.
Sunday last, 8/31, Eavesdropping & Espial Day, we Tied the Knot. It was my Hope, and part of my Plan, to Remobilize and Conclude Der Wiedertraum: to that end we were Wed exercycling, in late afternoon, upon the Exercycles central to much therapy here at the Farm, and which I had Requisitioned through August for our Reenactment of the Horseback-Riding Lessons Rennie Morgan kindly gave me 16 years before, while her husband labored at his (never completed) doctoral dissertation: Innocence & Energy, etc., I Forget. Witnesses were Joe himself, whose expression plainly suggested that he sensed What Was Up, and our Chief of Therapy, Tombo X, who let us know again, as he had done daily for some days already, that he had an Ace Up His Sleeve, which he would any day now play. One of our elder patients, a minister of the Universal Life Church who when mobile is the best in the 65-and-Over Class of the Farm’s Exercycle Tournament, mounted his machine to do the honors. Several rockers wept openly. My own eyes Watered when I Said I Do, to the point where I was Unable to Observe whether Marsha’s did likewise. She did, however, unambiguously say she Did, on the clear condition (to which I Assent) that her legal name remain, rather revert to, her maiden one, i.e., Blank. You can perhaps advise us on that. It was all nice.
We were Left Alone then to pedal through the Final Horseback Ride towards the E. & E. Scene aforementioned. Officially we were to Speak of Joe etc. (see above): in fact and understandably we Discussed our Honeymoon Plans, at least Began to: my own Inclination was to Revisit the Iroquois Motel, off Exit 58 (Irving/Angola) of the Thomas E. Dewey Thruway, which has certain sentimental associations for us; Marsha’s was, as best I could Determine, to travel to your city for the purpose of savoring the effects of her Bombshell Letter and to display to her first husband, who did not initiate it, her current pregnancy. The prospect (of so considerable an expedition) dizzied me; but I could not in any case Think Past the morrow’s Deadline P & A Session. More Immediately Alarming, moreover, was my bride’s condition: it became Every Moment More Apparent that she had put by, for this happy occasion, one last dose of that unidentified but remarkable narcotic she calls Honey
Dust, acquired two weeks earlier from Mr. Bray at Comalot Farm and (so I had Believed) exhausted a day or two since. By sundown she was off her Exercycle and calmly burbling in the grass. It was All I Could Do to Haul her over to the appropriate window of the farmhouse for E. & E. The light was on; we were A Bit Late; I Peeked In and Saw Joe smoking his pipe and perusing our script, that novelized etc. aforecited. I Rapped on the pane for him to commence his performance, and Made to Make Sure “Rennie” was set to Espy.
She was asleep, my Wife, and snoring. Joe strolled over, raised the sash, leaned out, took a look, and said: Christ, Horner. But at my Entreaty he came out; we Fetched Her In; Marsha was stirring already, must have been a minor dose of Dust; I Knew From Past Experience she would be Cross As a Bear when she was Herself again, especially if that really was the End of the Ride, ha. I Hurried to Make my Pitch.
This is, I Said in effect to Joe, my Wife. That I Care For. Nevertheless, and Against my Inclination—deeply Against etc.—but by way of Partial Recompense for, let’s Say, 8/31/53 & thereafter, I here Offer you, Joe, on my and her Very Wedding Night, her.
