by Don DeLillo
“I always knew if anyone came back, Glen, it would be you.”
“Not much left, is there?”
“Everything you’ll need.”
“I won’t be staying, Levi.”
People use names as information and Selvy believed the use of that particular name, Glen, indicated that Levi was deeply pleased to see him and wanted to suggest a new level of seriousness. In the past he’d often called Selvy by his rarely used first name, which was Howard. A teasing intimacy. It had amused Levi to do this. His eyes would search Selvy’s face. Those fixed looks, curious and frank at the same time, were irritating to Selvy, even more than hearing the name Howard. But he’d never complained, thinking this would put a distance between them.
Levi had been tortured, had spent extended periods of time in a dark room not much larger than a closet, and consequently had things to pass on, knowledge to impart, both practical and otherwise. He’d found tolerances, ways of dealing with what, in the end, was the sound of his own voice. He’d come out stronger, or so he believed, having lived through pain and confinement, the machine of self.
“This is a stop then? On a longer trip?”
“You might say.”
“A way station,” Levi said.
The phrase seemed to please him. His liquid eyes peered out of the shadow cast by the visor of his hat. He wore a soiled fatigue jacket, torn in places.
“I see you’ve brought along some metal.”
“An antique,” Selvy said.
“We were just getting started when you left.”
“I know.”
“We were beginning to see results, I think. I’m happy you’ve come back, even for a while. It’s gratifying. You’re looking well, Glen.”
“Off the booze a while.”
“You ought to stay, you know. There are things you can learn here.”
“True. I believe that.”
“The less there is, Glen, the more you’re tested to find the things that do exist. Within and without. It works. If you limit yourself to the narrowest subject, you force yourself to concentrate to such an extent that you’re able to learn a great deal about it. You already know a great deal about it. You find you already know much more than you’d imagined.”
“I believe that.”
“With no limits, you wander back and forth. You’re defeated at the outset.”
“That’s why you’re here, Levi.”
“Both of us.”
“Tighter and tighter limits.”
“To learn. To find out what we know. When you left, we were just starting out. Damn shame if you didn’t stay for a time. I’ve learned so much. So very much of everything.”
He was squatting on the other side of the bench where the knife lay on several old newspapers, the only things Selvy could find to soak up the honing oil. Levi let a fistful of sand gradually spill to the ground. The sky was changing radically. Dust rising in the wind. Darkness edging across the southwesterly wheel of land.
“I’m born all the time,” Levi said. “I remember other lives.”
Staring.
“Creature of the landscape.”
Smiling.
“Gringo mystic.”
The wind lifted dust in huge whispering masses. Toward Mexico the mountains were obscured in seconds. The butte in the middle distance still showed through in swatches of occasional color, in hillside shrubs and the mineral glint of fallen rock.
“I feel myself being born. I’ve grown out here. I know so much. It’s ready to be shared, Glen.”
“I’m on a different course right now.”
“You were making real progress.”
“I’m primed, Levi.”
“Yes, I can see.”
“I’m tuned, I’m ready.”
“I don’t accept that.”
“You know how it ends.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know what to do, Levi.”
“Have we talked about something like this?”
Sand came whipping across the compound. Above and around them it massed in churning clouds. Wind force increased, a whistling gritty sound. Levi took off his field cap and jammed it in his pocket. His jacket had a hood attachment, tight fitting, with a drawstring around the face and a zippered closure that extended over the mouth. Levi fastened this lower part only as far as the point of his chin.
Selvy recognized a sound apart from the wind. He got to his feet and took off the Sam Browne belt. He threw it in the dirt. Damn silly idea. He had to admit to a dim satisfaction, noting the confusion in the other man’s eyes.
“There’s no way out, Glen. No clear light for you in this direction. You can’t find release from experience so simply.”
“Dying is an art in the East.”
“Yes, heroic, a spiritual victory.”
“You set me on to that, Levi.”
“Tibet. Is that the East? It’s beyond the East, isn’t it?”
“A man chooses a place.”
“But this is part, only part, of a longer, longer process. We were just beginning to understand. There’s so much more. You think you’re about to arrive at some final truth. Truth is a disappointment. You’ll only be disappointed.”
Selvy went into the long barracks and started ripping apart a bed sheet, planning to fashion some kind of mask, basic protection against the blowing sand.
Levi followed him in. Selvy watched him detach the hood from his jacket. He moved forward and put it over Selvy’s head, slowly fastening the drawstring. His eyes, always a shade burdened with understanding, began to fill with a deep, sad and complex knowledge. He raised the zipper on the lower part of the hood. Selvy, feeling foolish, turned toward the door.
Outside he went to the bench and picked up the bolo knife. He heard the sound again. There it was, color, black and bright red, a small helicopter, bearing this way, seeming to push against the wind.
Little bastards must be serious, out flying in this weather.
He walked about a hundred yards beyond the compound. The sand stung his eyes. He heard the motor but kept losing sight of the aircraft. Then he saw it again, off to the left, shouting distance, touching down near a gulley, trim, vivid in the murky gusts, its spiral blades coming slowly to a halt.
Inside the projector the film run continued noisily.
The first room.
There are now six children and five adults, all seated, facing the camera. Among the adults are the two women from the flower sequence in the furnished room.
The smaller children are restless. Several adults wear rigid smiles; they look like victims of prolonged formalities. Two children trade seats. A woman turns to whisper.
For the first time the camera is active.
In a long slow panning movement, it focuses eventually on a figure just beyond the doorway. A man in costume. After an interval of distortion, the camera, starting at the mans feet, moves slowly up his body.
Oversized shoes, turned up slightly at the points.
Baggy pants.
Vest and tight-fitting cutaway.
A dark narrow tie.
A wing collar, askew.
A battered derby.
A white boutonniere in the lapel of the cutaway.
A cane hooked over his wrist.
This footage has the mysterious aura of an event that cuts across time. This is because the man, standing beyond the doorway, is not yet visible to the audience of adults and children in the immediate vicinity. The other audience, watching in a dark room in New York in the 1970s, is aware of this, and they feel a curious sense of preview. They are seeing the man “first.”
“Is it?” Moll said.
“It could be.”
“Jesus, it’s almost charming.”
“But do I want it?”
“He looks so very old.”
“Do I need it?” Lightborne said.
The camera is trained on the man’s face. Again it moves, coming in for a medium close-up.
> Eyes blank.
Little or no hair alongside his ears.
Face pale and lined.
Flaccid mouth.
Smoothly curved jaw.
The famous mustache.
Head shaking, he acknowledges the presence of the camera. It pulls back. The man moves forward, walking in a screwy mechanical way. Here the camera pans the audience. As the man enters the room, the adults show outsized delight, clearly meant to prompt the children, who may or may not be familiar with Charlie Chaplin.
Back on the performer, the camera pulls back to a corner of the room, providing a view from the wings, as it were.
He’s a relatively small man with narrow shoulders and wide hips. It’s now evident that his pantomime, intended as Chaplinesque, of course, is being enlarged and distorted by involuntary movements—trembling arm, nodding head, a stagger in his gait.
“Do you want me to tell you what this is?”
“He’s not bad, you know,” Moll said. “Despite the tottering and such. He’s doing fairly well.”
“This is one of her home movies.”
“Whose?”
“We saw her before.”
“Eva Braun, you mean.”
“This is her idea. She was a home-movie nut. She had movies made of herself swimming, walking in the woods, standing around with him. He’s in some of them.”
“He’s in this one.”
“But he didn’t like Chaplin, if I recall correctly. I think he’s on record as not being a Chaplin fan.”
“I believe it was mutual.”
“On the other hand he was a gifted mimic. He did imitations.”
“Who did imitations? Say it.”
“There were resemblances other than physical. He and Charlie.”
The figure shuffles toward the camera, his cane swinging. Behind him, in a corner of the screen, one of the small girls earnestly looks on.
Briefly the man is flooded in light—the bleached and toneless effect of overexposure. With the return of minimal detail and contrast, he is very close to the camera, and his lifeless eyes acquire a trace of flame, the smallest luster. A professional effect. It’s as though the glint originated in a nearby catch light.
He produces an expression, finally—a sweet, epicene, guilty little smile. Charlie’s smile. An accurate reproduction.
“They were born the same week of the same month of the same year.”
“Is that a point?”
“Within days of each other.”
“But is that a point?”
“It’s a fact. A truth. It’s history.”
“You’re overwrought, Mr. Lightborne.”
“Not that I’m convinced it’s him. It’s not him. He didn’t empathize with the tramp character at all. Why is he doing this?”
“For the children, presumably.”
“Who do I sell this to?”
Three-quarter view. At first he seems to be speaking to the smallest of the children, a girl about three years old. It is then evident he is only moving his lips—an allusion to silent movies. One of the women can be seen smiling.
“Hitler humanized.”
“It’s disgusting,” Lightborne said. “What do I do with a thing like this? Who needs it?”
“I would think it has considerable value.”
“Historical. Historical value.”
“It’s almost touching.”
“Has to be one of her home movies. That bitch. What is she, stupid? Artillery shells are raining down and she’s making movies. That whole bunch, they were movie-mad.”
“You’re certain about the children.”
“Cyanide.”
“So here we are.”
“I expected something hard-edged. Something dark and potent. The madness at the end. The perversions, the sex. Look, he’s twirling the cane. A disaster.”
Flash frames.
“I set things in motion.”
New camera setup.
This is the sole attempt at “art.” The camera faces the audience head-on. The members of the audience are attempting to pretend that the Chaplinesque figure is still performing at a point directly behind the camera.
Two adults remain, an unidentified man and woman. Both gaze dutifully past the camera, forcing tight smiles. Of the six children, only three seem interested in the illusion. One of the others kneels on the chair, her back to the “action.” One looks directly at the camera. The smallest climbs down from her chair.
There is a general shifting of eyes. The members of the audience are clearly being prompted by someone off-camera.
“I put powerful forces to work.”
Silently they applaud the masquerade.
The hoods of their ski parkas kept getting blown off their heads. He saw the bright orange lining.
He gave a neighborly shout. Hey. Louder. One more time. He saw the ranger on the left reach out and touch the other’s arm. Both had him in view now. They turned into the wind, which was at his back.
They came toward him like skiers cross-country, absorbed in economy and method, leaning into the force of the storm, each step a deliberate and nearly ritual movement, diagonal stride with poles.
He forced the lower part of the hood up over his nose so that only his eyes were visible. He saw the bright nylon lining intermittently. He had his feet firmly planted in the dirt, to maintain balance. They emerged from a swirl of dust, vanishing in a single stride.
He held the long knife across his stomach. Handle in his right hand. Blunt edge resting lightly in his left. He was rocked by the wind. The sound gathered density.
Moving slowly, not appearing to struggle, they emerged again, still empty-handed, he noticed, one of them unzipping his parka, vanishing, the other vanishing, the first transformed now, an apparition, ballooning bright nylon, the second emerging, undoing his jacket, which likewise filled with wind, and they came more quickly, released from their trekking pace, orange lining wind-billowed, metal at their belts. These bursts of unexpected color. The beauty of predators.
Strong sense of something being played out. Memory, a film. Rush of adolescent daydreams. He’d been through it in his mind a hundred times, although never to the end.
They moved in, showing spear-point bowies. One of them edged off to the side. He seemed to think if he moved slowly enough, Selvy would forget about him. The other one, in clear sight, stopped his maneuvering, as an afterthought, to remove the parka he wore. Selvy wanted to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing.
When they closed in, Selvy used a backhand slash. Motion only. Drawing reaction. He turned to meet the man coming full-tilt, coming too fast, giving up alternatives. He went to one knee, throwing the man off-stride. The ranger’s face registered mistake. Selvy used his free hand to push off from the ground, giving him added spring. Stunned breath. He found the midsection, realizing he’d used too much force going in.
He was attached, in effect, to the man he’d stabbed. He shoved his left forearm up against the ranger’s chest, pressuring forward, trying to withdraw the knife at the same time. The man sagged to the ground, all mash, Selvy slipping down with him part of the way. When he turned, rising with the knife, too late, the other ranger was on him, white-eyed, wincing with every thrust.
He could see sand in the man’s lashes. They held each other briefly. The tension left Selvy’s face, replaced by deep concentration.
What he needed right now was a drink.
Van lessened his grip in stages, letting the body ease to the ground. He walked over to Cao, whose mouth was wide open. Sand came skimming along the ground in broad flat masses.
The blowing dust, which had been part of things, inseparable from events, was now a space away, the landscape, the weather, small rough particles striking Van’s face and arms. He reached for his parka and put it back on.
He put the bowie knife back in its sheath. He rolled up his jeans and took a second, smaller knife that was clipped to the outside of his boot. Working carefully with this
utility model he cut the drawstring on Selvy’s hood. Then he sliced the fabric down along the zipper. He put the knife away. With both hands he opened up the hood and lifted it off Selvy’s head.
He knelt there, still breathing heavily. The wind force decreased. He realized he was looking directly toward the helicopter; the fuselage was briefly visible. On all fours he searched for the guerrilla bolo. It was five feet away, nearly buried. He lifted it out of the sand and used it to cut off the subject’s head.
It was something he’d done before and seen others do. Heads on poles in the high noon slush of rice fields. A discomfort reserved for the spirits of particular enemies.
He dragged Cao’s body to the aircraft. The weather kept easing and he saw the butte he’d nearly flown into before setting down. He went back for the other man’s head, first emptying out a duffel bag to carry it in.
He thought Earl would want to have it. Evidence that the adjustment had been made.
“There’s another reel,” Odell said. “Where’s everybody going?”
Moll was heading toward the door. Lightborne went around turning on lamps. Briefly he stood near a three-foot-high fertility figure—wood and horsehair.
“I knew it would be no good. A document, with gestures. I was always the chief skeptic. I told everybody. Did they listen? Or did they keep calling me up? Long distance, local, from airplanes. I’m a dealer in knickknacks. I shouldn’t have to turn off my phone to avoid hearing things.”
He moved toward a wall switch, running his hand through a streak of yellowish hair over his right ear. After flicking on the light, he slipped behind the partition into his living quarters. Here he turned on more lights. Then he sat on his cot and stared into the black window shade.
Odell left his seat by the projector to unlock the door for Moll Robbins. He wore white cotton gloves, important when handling master film. As she stepped out, he gestured toward the screen.
“Who are those people?” he said.
Lightborne could hear Odell close the gallery door and walk over to the projector. Apparently he was getting ready to screen the second reel. A few moments later the lights in the gallery went out, one by one. Lightborne remained on his cot. There was a noise outside, just a yard or two away, it seemed. He lifted the window shade. It was one-thirty in the afternoon and a man with tinted glasses was sitting on his fire escape.
