Little, Big

by John Crowley

  “Yes,” he said. “The further in you go, the bigger it gets. Would you like a drink?” He pulled from his pocket a flat clear bottle.

  “Early for me,” she said. She watched, fascinated, as he undid the bottle and slid a good bit of it down a throat no doubt now so flayed and tanned it couldn’t feel. She was surprised then to see him shaken by big involuntary shudders, and his face twisted in disgust just as hers would have been if she’d tried that gulp. Just a beginner, she thought. Just a child, really. She supposed he had a secret sorrow, and was pleased to contemplate it; it was just the change she needed from the hugeness she had been struggling with.

  They sat together on a bench. The young man wiped the neck of his bottle on his sleeve and recapped it carefully. He slid it into the pocket of his brown overcoat without haste. Strange, she thought, that glass and clear cruel liquid could be so comforting, so tenderly regarded. “What the hell is that supposed to be?” he said.

  They faced the square stone place that Hawksquill supposed to be a tool shed or other facility, disguised as a pavilion or miniature pleasure-dome. “I don’t know exactly,” she said, “but the reliefs on it represent the Four Seasons, I think. One to a side.”

  The one before them was Spring, a Greek maiden doing some potting, with an ancient tool very like a trowel and a tender shoot in her other hand. A baby lamb nestled near her and like her looked hopeful, expectant, new. It was all quite well done; by varying the depth of his cutting, the artist had given an impression of distant fields newly turned and returning birds. Daily life in the ancient world. It resembled no spring that had ever come to the City, but it was nonetheless Spring. Hawksquill had more than once employed it as such. She had for a time wondered why the little house had been placed off-center on its plot of ground, not square with the streets around the park; and after a little thought saw that it faced the compass points, Winter facing north and Summer to the south, Spring east, and Autumn west. It was easy to forget, in the City, that north was only very approximately uptown—though not easy for Hawksquill, and apparently this designer had thought a true orientation important too. She liked him for it. She even smiled at the young man next to her, a supposed descendant, though he looked like a City creature who didn’t know solstice from equinox.

  “What good is it?” he said, quietly but truculently.

  “It’s handy,” said Hawksquill. “For remembering things.”

  “What?”

  “Well,” she said. “Suppose you wanted to remember a certain year, and the order in which events happened then. You could memorize these four panels, and use the things pictured in them as symbols for the events you want to remember. If you wanted to remember that a certain person was buried in the spring, well, there’s the trowel.”

  “Trowel?”

  “Well, that digging tool.”

  He looked at her askance. “Isn’t that a little morbid?” “It was an example.”

  He regarded the maiden suspiciously, as if she were in fact about to remind him of something, something unpleasant. “The little plant,” he said at length, “could be something you began in the spring. A job. Some hope.”

  “That’s the idea,” she said.

  “Then it withers.”

  “Or bears fruit.”

  He was thoughtful a long time; he drew out his bottle and repeated his ritual exactly, though with less grimace. “Why is it,” he said then, his voice faint from the gin that had washed it, “that people want to remember everything? Life is here and now. The past is dead.”

  She said nothing to this.

  “Memories. Systems. Everybody poring over old albums and decks of cards. If they’re not remembering, they’re predicting. What good is it?”

  An old cowbell rang within Hawksquill’s halls. “Cards?” she said.

  “Brooding on the past,” he said, regarding Spring. “Will that bring it back?”

  “Only order it.” She knew that, reasonable as they might seem, people like this who live on the street are differently composed from people who live in houses. They have a reason for being where they are, expressed in a peculiar apprehension of things, a loss of engagement with the ordinary world and how it goes on, often unwilled. She knew she must not press questions on him, pursue a subject, for like the paths in this place that would only lead her away. Yet she wanted very much now not to lose contact. “Memory can be an art,” she said schoolmarmishly. “Like architecture. I think your ancestor would have understood that.”

  He lifted eyebrows and shoulders as though to say Who knows, or cares.

  “Architecture, in fact,” she said, “is frozen memory. A great man said that.”

  “Hm.”

  “Many great thinkers of the past”—how she had caught this teachery tone she didn’t know, but she couldn’t seem to relinquish it, and it seemed to hold her hearer—”believed that the mind is a house, where memories are stored; and that the easiest way to remember things is to imagine an architecture, and then cast symbols of what you wish to remember on the various places defined by the architect.” Well, that surely must have lost him, she thought, but after some thought he said:

  “Like the guy buried with the trowel.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Dumb,” he said.

  “I can give you a better example.”

  “Hm.”

  She gave him Quintillian’s highly-colored example of a law-case, freely substituting modern for ancient symbols, and spreading them around the parts of the little park. His head swiveled from side to side as she placed this and that here and there, though she had no need to look. “In the third place,” she said, “we put a broken toy car, to remind us of the driver’s license that expired. In the fourth place—that arch sort of thing behind you to the left—we hang a man, say a Negro all dressed in white, with pointed shoes hanging down, and a sign on him: INRI.”

  “What on earth.”

  “Vivid. Concrete. The judge has said: unless you have documentary proof, you will lose the case. The Negro in white means having it on paper.”

  “In black and white.”

  “Yes. The fact that he’s hanged means we have captured this black-and-white proof, and the sign, that it is this that will save us.”

  “Good God.”

  “It sounds terribly complicated, I know. And I suppose it’s really not any better than a notebook.”

  “Then why all that guff? I don’t get it.”

  “Because,” she said carefully, sensing that despite his outward truculence he understood her, “it can happen—if you practice this art—that the symbols you put next to one another will modify themselves without your choosing it, and that when next you call them forth, they may say something new and revelatory to you, something you didn’t know you knew. Out of the proper arrangement of what you do know, what you don’t know may arise spontaneously. That’s the advantage of a system. Memory is fluid and vague. Systems are precise and articulated. Reason apprehends them better. No doubt that’s the case with those cards you spoke of.”

  “Cards?”

  Too soon? “You spoke of brooding over a deck of cards.”

  “My aunt. Not my aunt really,” as though disclaiming her. “My grandfather’s aunt. She had these cards. Lay them out, think about them. Brood on the past. Predict things.”

  “Tarot?”

  “Hm?”

  “Were they the Tarot deck? You know, the hanged man, the female pope, the tower …”

  “I don’t know. How would I know? Nobody ever explained anything to me.” He brooded. “I don’t remember those pictures, though.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “I dunno. England, I guess. Since they were Violet’s.” She started, but he was lost in thought and didn’t see. “And there were some cards with pictures? Besides the court cards?”

  “Oh yeah. A whole slew of ‘em. People, places, things, notions.”

  She leaned back, interlacing her fingers slowly. It had ha
ppened before that a place which she had put to multiple memory uses, like this park, came to be haunted by figments, hortatory or merely weird, called into being simply by the overlap of old juxtapositions, speaking, sometimes, of a meaning she would not otherwise have seen. If it were not for the sour smell of this one’s overcoat, the undeniable this-worldness of the striped pajamas beneath it, she might have thought him to be one of them. It didn’t matter. There is no chance. “Tell me,” she said. “These cards.”

  “What if you wanted to forget a certain year?” he said. “Not remember it, but forget it. No help there, is there? No system for that, oh no.”

  “Oh, I suppose there are methods,” she said, thinking of his bottle.

  He seemed sunk in bitter reflection, eyes vacant, long neck bent like a sad bird’s, hands folded in his lap. She was casting about for words to form a new question about the cards when he said: “The last time she read those cards for me, she said I’d meet a dark and beautiful girl, of all cornball things.”

  “Did you?”

  “She said I’d win this girl’s love through no virtue I had, and lose her through no fault of my own.”

  He said nothing else for a time, and (though not sure now that he heard or registered much of anything she said to him) she ventured softly: “That’s often the way, with love.” Then, when he didn’t respond: “I have a certain question that a certain deck of cards might answer. Does your aunt still …”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Oh.”

  “My aunt, though. I mean she wasn’t my aunt, but my aunt. Sophie.” He made a gesture which seemed to mean This is complex and boring, but surely you catch my drift.

  “The cards are still in your family,” she guessed.

  “Oh, yeah. Never throw out anything.”

  “Where exactly …”

  He raised a hand to stop her question, suddenly wary. “I don’t want to go into family matters.”

  She waited a moment and then said: “It was you who mentioned your great-great-grandfather, who built this park.” Why suddenly was she visted with a vision of Sleeping Beauty’s castle? A chateau. With a hedge of thorn, impassable.

  “John Drinkwater,” he said, nodding.

  Drinkwater. The architect … A mental snap of fingers. That hedge wasn’t thorn. “Was he married to a woman named Violet Bramble?”

  He nodded.

  “A mystic, a seer of sorts?” “Who the hell knows what she was.” Urgency suddenly compelled her to a gesture, rash perhaps, but there was no time to waste. She took from her pocket the key to the park and held it up before him by its chain, as old mesmerists used to do before their subjects. “It seems to me,” she said, seeing him take notice, “that you deserve free access here. This is my key.” He held out a hand, and she drew the key somewhat away. “What I require in exchange is an introduction to the woman who is or is not your aunt, and explicit directions as to how to find her. All right?”

  As though in fact mesmerized, staring fixedly at the glinting bit of brass, he told her what she wanted to know. She placed the key in his filthy glove. “A deal,” she said.

  Auberon clutched the key, his only possession now, though Hawksquill couldn’t know that, and, the spell broken, looked away, not sure he hadn’t betrayed something, but unwilling to feel guilt.

  Hawksquill rose. “It’s been most illuminating,” she said. “Enjoy the park. As I said, it can be handy.”

  A Year to Place Upon It

  Auberon, after another scalding yet kindly draught, began, closing one eye, to measure out his new demesne. The regularity of it surprised him, since its tone was not regular but bosky and artless. Yet the benches, gates, obelisks, marten-houses on poles, and the intersections of paths had a symmetry easily adduced from where he sat. It all depended from or radiated outward from the little house of the seasons.

  That was all hopeless guff she had instructed him in, of course. He did feel bad about inflicting such a lunatic on his family, not that they would notice probably, hopeless themselves; and the price had not been resistable. Odd how a man of wide sympathies like himself started such hares and harebrains wherever he went.

  Outside the park, framed in sycamores from where he sat, was a small classical courthouse (Drinkwater’s too for all he knew), surmounted with statues of lawgivers at even intervals. Moses. Solon. Etc. A place to put a law-case, certainly. His own infuriating struggle with Petty, Smilodon & Ruth. Those coffered brass doors not yet open for business the locked entrance to his inheritance, the egg-and-dart molding the endless repetition of delay and hope, hope and delay.

  Stupid. He looked away. What was the point? No matter how gracefully the building accepted his case in all its complexity (and as he glanced again sidelong at it he saw that it could and did) it was needless. How could he forget all that? The doles they eked out to him, enough to keep him from starvation, enough to keep him signing (with an increasingly furious scrawl) the instruments, waivers, pleas and powers they presented him with as those stony-eyed immortals there proffered tablets, books, codices: the last of the last had bought this gin he now drank of, and more than was left in the bottle would be necessary for him to forget the indignity of his pleading for it, the injustice of it all. Diocletian counted out wrinkled bills from petty cash.

  Hell with that. He left the courthouse outside. In here there was no law.

  A year to place upon it. She had said that the value of her system was how it would cast up, spontaneously, what you didn’t know out of the proper arrangement of what you did.

  Well: there was a thing he didn’t know.

  If he could believe what the old woman had said, if he could, wouldn’t he then set to work here, commit every tulip-bed and arrowheaded fence-post, every whitewashed stone, every budding leaf to memory, so that he could distribute among them every tiny detail of lost Sylvie? Wouldn’t he then march furiously sniffing up and down the curving paths, like this mutt that had just entered with his master, searching, searching, going sunwise then antisunwise, searching until the one single simple answer arose, the astonishing lost truth, that would make him clutch his brow and cry I see?

  No, he would not.

  He had lost her; she was gone, and for good. That fact was all that excused and made reasonable, even proper, his present degradation. If her whereabouts were revealed to him now, though he had spent a year trying to learn them, he would avoid them of all places.

  And yet. He didn’t want to find her, not any more; but he would like to know why. Would like to know (timidly, subjunctively) why she had left him never to return, without a word, without, apparently, a backward glance. Would like to know, well, what was up with her nowadays, if she was all right, whether she thought of him ever, and in what mode, kindly or otherwise. He recrossed his legs, tapping one broken shoe in the air. No: it was just as well, really; just as well that he knew the old woman’s batty and monstrous system to be useless. That Spring could never be the spring she had blossomed for him, nor that shoot their love, nor that trowel the tool by which his rageful and unhappy heart had been scored with joy.

  In the First Place

  He hadn’t at first found her disappearance all that alarming. She’d run off before, for a few nights or a weekend, where and for what reasons he never pressed her about, he was cool, he was a hands-off guy. She hadn’t ever before taken every stitch of clothes and every souvenir, but he didn’t put it beyond her, she could bring them all back in an hour, at any hour, having missed a fleeing bus or train or plane or been unable to bear whatever relative or friend or lover she had camped with. A mistake. The greatness of her desires, of her longing for life to come out right even in the impossible conditions under which hers was lived, led her into such mistakes. He rehearsed fatherly or avuncular speeches with which, unhurt and unalarmed and not angry, he would counsel her after he welcomed her back.

  He looked for notes. The Folding Bedroom though small was such a chaos that he might easily have overlooked one; it
had slipped down behind the stove, she had propped it on the windowsill and it had blown out into the farmyard, he had closed it up in the bed. It would be a note in her huge, wild round hand; it would start “Hi!” and be signed with x’s for kisses. It had been on the back of something inconsequential, which he had thrown out even as he searched through inconsequential papers for it. He emptied the wastebasket, but when its contents lay around his ankles he stopped the search and stood stock still, having suddenly imagined another sort of note entirely, a note with no “Hi!” and no kisses. It would resemble a love letter in its earnest, overwrought tone, but it wouldn’t be a love letter.

  There were people he could call. When (after endless trouble) they had had a phone put in, amazing George Mouse, she had used to spend a good amount of time talking to relatives and quasi-relatives in a rapid and (to him) hilarious mixture of Spanish and English, shouting with laughter sometimes and sometimes just shouting. He had taken down none of the numbers she called; she herself often lost the scraps of paper and old envelopes she had written them on, and had to recite them out loud, eyes cast upward, trying out different combinations of the same numbers till she hit on one that sounded right.

  And the phone book, when (just hypothetically, there was no immediate need) he consulted it, listed surprising columns, whole armies in fact, of Rodriguezes and Garcias and Fuenteses, with great pompous Christian names, Monserrate, Alejandro, such as he had never heard her use. And talk about pompous names, look at this last guy, Archimedes Zzzyandottie, what on earth.

  He went to bed absurdly early, trying to hurry through the hours till her inevitable return; he lay listening to the thump and hum and squeak and wail of night, trying to sort from it the first intimations of her footfalls on the stair, in the hall; his heart quickened, banishing sleep, as he heard in his mind’s ear the scratch of her red nails on the door. In the morning he woke with a start, unable to remember why she wasn’t next to him; and then remembered that he didn’t know.