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OREST AND AUGUST
a novel
STEVEN GARBAS
©
Copyright 2015, Steven Garbas. Released under a Creative Commons
license; some rights reserved.
Printed and distributed by the Chicago Center for Literature and
Photography. First electronic edition: March 2015.
Cover: “Don Quixote” by Gustave Dore, 1863.
This collection is available in a variety of electronic formats, including
EPUB for mobile devices, MOBI for Kindles, and PDFs for both
American and European laserprinters, as well as a paperback version
and a special deluxe hardback edition. Find them all, plus a plethora of
supplemental information such as interviews, videos and reviews, at:
cclapcenter.com/orestandaugust
For my mother. And Sterling Hayden.
“I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous.”
—Freidrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
PART I.
1.
“In twenty-five years, they’ve held twenty-five strikes! The Oaxacan teacher’s union is inexhaustible! This is known by the
governor and his forces. And so the death squads come in the night.”
Orest shouted from his lectern with an unusual drawl. His voice sank low until it was lifted with flares of
dementia. Or slurred from the fifth of rye. He was dressed in grey tweed, threadbare at the elbows, a bit of dandruff
on the collar. His mustache curled like a horn.
“The leaders of the Resistance are disappeared. Gunfire answers stones! Gas answers the strikers’ calls!”
The students ignored the lecture, despite its volume. Some whispered to each other. One, aware of Orest’s poor
vision, slept just out of its range. But a movement in the front row caught even Orest’s eye. A teaching assistant was
speaking with a student behind her.
“Mr. Fortis, is there a question?”
The boy stopped then looked to the assistant for guidance. He then spoke reluctantly from his seat. “I was just
asking if this was going to be on the exam.”
The teaching assistant sat forward to project her voice better. “I think, Professor, that some of the students were
wondering if this contemporary Mexican history was going to be covered on their Twentieth Century Russian History
exam.” A small amount of laughter was just audible.
Orest squinted at the further sections of the hall. Then, down on his illegible notes. He reached to his breast
pocket for a pen. He made a small mark on one of his pages, then attempted to return the pen and missed. The pen
6
fell off his foot and rolled along the stage. He ignored it along with the
new snickering.
“Thank you Miss Zawalski, but a completely illegitimate concern,
I’m afraid. The architects of the Revolution of nineteen-hundred-andseventeen would recognize their cause in the working class of Oaxaca,
even if you two do not.” Orest returned to his notes. “And, Miss
Zawalski, come by my office after class.”
Zawalski leaned back while folding her arms. Fortis sighed. The
few students that were following the exchange chortled.
Orest directed his voice again.
“The loyalties of Trotsky, Marx, Che, and the Subcommidante do
not stop at the arbitrary borders of nations! No! They carry on in the
hearts of the commoner, the palms of the craftsmen, and on the backs
of the laborer!”
Orest leaned. And his sleeve was black with char.
7 | Orest and August
2.
Augie sat alone in the far end of a cafeteria. He’d barely touched either of his chocolate milks. He nibbled passively on
a twisted bacon slice from the pile on his tray. And he poked at the half dozen fried hash brown patties. The meal was
assembled out of habit, not hunger.
With his free hand, the boy rubbed a faint goatee that he had been cultivating, a small blot of ketchup showing
where he’d dragged his cuff. He stared at the walls of the empty dining area. For a moment, it looked like he was about
to cry.
The sound of a set of double doors being opened filled the hall. Augie straightened his back and felt the hair gel
on top of his head after putting the bacon in his mouth.
A group of students entered, their conversations booming. Trays were obnoxiously banged. Then giggling. Augie
thumbed the hairs on his chin.
One of the students emerged from the line and noticed Augie sitting in the corner.
“Augie! You get it?”
Augie looked down to his plate.
“No.”
“Man. What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You gonna go home?”
8
“They call your parents yet?”
“No, I don’t think.”
“They will though.”
“Yeah. They might write instead.”
Augie looked over at the group of students. They were setting
down at another table. Augie started pulling some fat from a ribbon of
bacon.
That morning Augie had attempted to procure a medical note to
excuse him from his half-term exams. It would be his sixth in a single
semester, a potential record for an Elswit freshman. The odds, Augie
felt, were against him.
Since September Augie had had several mysterious fevers,
an ankle injury, recurring bouts of depression, and food poisoning.
Suspicion had been growing. When a nurse remarked that his ankle
“looked much much better,” he knew that his performance was going
to face increased scrutiny.
Without the note, Augie now had to confront four half-term
essays and exams unarmed. His attendance had been abysmal. Of those
classes he did attend, his concentration was poor. He had taken nearly
zero notes. What few things he did write down were surrounded by
doodles of insects, often shooting guns. He hadn’t even bought certain
textbooks. He had hoped to get a classmate to tutor him, but this
proved impossible. No one was willing to help Augie. Not even his
roommate. There had been an incident.
One weekend while Isaac Veign was home from campus, Augie
took out the screen of their dormitory window to drop eggs on parked
cars. Afterwards, he went to bed without returning the screen. While
Augie slept well into the afternoon, a pigeon entered through the
window and roosted in the sleeve of one of Isaac’s fine suede jackets.
Isaac noticed a foul smell in the room, but attributed that to
Augie; Augie showered infrequently, had a poor diet, and his forehead
was exceptionally greasy. Down feathers began appearing in the corners
of the floor. In the dead of night, a faint coo from deep within the
closet. Then, one morning when the first chill of autumn had come,
Isaac put on his suede jacket.
Isaac pulled the dead pigeon out with his hand, thinking it was
one of last season’s gloves. He gasped and threw the bird involuntarily
at Augie’s bed. It landed in the crook between his arm and chest, its
open eye pointed at Augie’s cheek. Augie stirred and sat up. The bird
slowly rolled onto his lap, growing as its wings unfolded.
While Isaac cursed Augie in shrieks, Augie slowly began to realize
that he was not in a dream, and that someone was indeed throwing
dead pigeons at him. Then the inside-out suede jacket hit him and
covered his head. He tore at it, but had great trouble freeing himself.
He heard the door slam just as he pulled the coat off his face. Augie and
the bird were alone.
Augie squirted his sixth ketchup packet onto his plate. Then he
reached for one of his chocolate milks. He put the straw in the corner
of his mouth and the stain on his cuff had grown.
3.
“Yes, come in now. Come in.”
Orest sat at his desk, his hand holding a heavy glass of dark rye. His fingers were knotted, striped with blue veins.
Orest’s teaching assistant entered. A book-bag slung over her shoulder.
“Miss Zawalski, hello, come in. Thank you for stopping up.”
“Hello Professor.”
The two searched out each other’s faces through the towers of papers. The desk was covered in opened books,
dog-eared and facedown. Half-finished letters on yellowed foolscap; the corners were worn by a licked thumb.
After she sat, Orest remembered himself and began.
“Miss Zawalski, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve decided to return to the field.”
“I heard that you were leaving.”
“Yes, leaving this institution for the field, yes.” A note of frustration entered his voice. “As well, I’m sure there
has been much talk about some research positions opening up and if I might be hiring out of the current graduate
department.”
“Research positions out of your house?”
“No, not my house.” Orest exhaled and broke his look with the girl. “As I’m sure you can appreciate, my expertise
is valuable. Not merely in its ability to assess and explain past historical events, but current and even future ones.”
He smugly brought his eyes back to Zawalski. She perked an eyebrow in confusion.
10
“You see, Miss Zawalski, there are men in this world who would
do nearly anything to tap into the knowledge and perception that a
lifetime of learning gathers and shapes.” He leaned towards the girl and
lowered his voice. His brow threw a shadow over his eyes. “These kinds
of men go by some very ugly names and do some very ugly things. Yet,
they are and may always be the blacksmiths of human history.”
Orest let his voice fall. His dark eyes peeked over the rim on his
spectacles for the first time. The girl at last was listening, confident that
Orest had forgotten about his reprimand from this morning’s lecture.
Orest leaned back into his whining chair; he brought the glass to his
mouth and drank deeply. The skin wagged as he swallowed, moving his
bowtie. Its folds were marked from years of tying with oily fingertips.
He turned to the books along the wall.
“I’ve written and read these books for forty years. And, soon
enough, I’ll evaporate like mist after I stop publishing new editions,
new introductions.” He waved his hand at them and shrugged. His
paced quickened. “Perhaps new historians will reference my work.
Perhaps my name will stubbornly claw itself into the endless salads of
footnotes and appendices.”
Orest reached into his jacket and pulled out a small cigar, partially
smoked. He lighted it with a nervous flame and wedged it between two
yellow stains on his fingers. He exhaled through his nose; it whistled.
He glared back at the wall.
“I have often wondered, do you know, about the men who write
on a subject and the men who are that subject.” He drank. “Where
does one end and the other start. Or do they just treat the same fever
differently.”
The girl had no understanding of Orest. She seemed about to
speak when another knock came on the door, breaking Orest’s trance.
He shot his eyes back to her and his voice lowered to a hiss.
“I’ve given over the controls to the fatalist in me, Miss Zawalski.”
His head dipped like a cat; he licked his lips. “I’m going off to become
a mercenary.”
Zawalski sat stunned at the bit of madness just revealed. The
door opened and Orest reset himself in his chair, the creaking seeming
to come from his bones. A stocky man entered the room with a clear
authority. He had gunmetal silver in his hair.
“Professor Godwin, I was hoping for a moment before your
departure.” He searched the room with his eyes while he waited for a
response. Orest left his stare on the girl.
“You see, Miss Zawalski, demand for my attention skyrockets.
Even here, the scene of my most recent disgrace.” Orest was slouched,
unimpressed by his new visitor. Then he put on a new face. “My dear
Provost Levanthal. I have no secrets from Miss Zawalski. I have found
her to be a most honorable second on more than one occasion.” Orest
waved his arm dramatically. A froth of spittle appeared in the corner of
his mouth.
“I see Professor Godwin keeps his glass on the desk now.”
Zawalski smiled slightly to the Provost. Orest watched coldly.
Levanthal pressed his eyes shut for a moment, anticipating Orest’s
lack of cooperation. He began through a sigh, softly touching the clove
red boutonniere in his lapel.
“Well Professor, I just came by to say that you’re free to continue
using this office space as long as you like. The University wants you to
know that they appreciate the contributions you’ve—”
“Well imagine the possibilities! I could quietly read under these
lamps! Or nap, like an old cat in the dusty sewing room!”
“Well I see that you’re behind in your arrangements anyway.” The
Provost moved a corner of a crumpled Navaho blanket on the floor
with his loafer.
Orest stood. “You just expect me to rot up here! Reflecting well on
the University, and not bothering anyone! Is that it, Arthur? Why don’t
you just swat your gadfly?!”
Orest spit as he spoke. Levanthal stared. Miss Zawalski put a
thumbnail between her teeth. Finally, Levanthal spoke in a new,
soothing voice.
“Professor, I understand your disappointment, but I do not
accept screaming, even under your unique circumstances.”
As he spoke, Zawalski silently rose in her seat.
“Sit!”
Zawalski sat back down, startled.
Orest walked around the desk with a pronounced limp. The
Provost braced and put up his hands. Orest’s eyes shone with rage. But
his mouth shifted into a grin.
“‘Unique?’ Do you mean that I’m a madman, Arthur?”
Levanthal broke his look. He fingered his lapel, then began to
respond. Orest moved within inches of Levanthal’s face.
“I’ll die on a hilltop. Not here.”
Levanthal shook his head slowly and retreated to the door.
“There is no smoking on campus, Professor. I would think you’d
appreciate that, given your recent history.”
Levanthal turned his back smartly and walked out. Miss Zawalski
then shot out behind him.
Orest remained in the empty room, fending off a small cough, a
plume of cigar smoke rising from his shoulders.
4.
Elswit College was small. Its campus was merely four stone buildings that faced each other across a barely regulation-sized
football field. It was churned by heels and nearly dead by the first night-frost. Well before the grapes. The limestone
had blanched from the long summers. The fields had been lost when the groomsmen were let go.
Orest limped through the courtyard majestically named “King’s Circle.” His gutta-percha cane sank into the
earth as he leaned deeply. At the far end, a lone bench sagged. It faced the Haslan Building, Orest’s focus of the
morning.
Midway through the field, Orest stopped. He readied his flask, enjoying the feel of the metal warmed by his
chest. He poured some rye into a cup that he kept on a watch chain inside his coat. An old smell of liquor and autumn
came to him. A memory was surfacing.
He thought of a student that had once attended Elswit. Terrence MacAfree. The boy they called “Tree.” Orest
had met him on this field. He was a giant.
Orest unconsciously felt his chest with his hand as he thought about that boy. His eyes fell into a stare. His hands
tightened on his cane. Finally, the doors of the Haslan Building all flung open. Students poured out. Orest’s spell was
broken.
His eyes searched the string of people. At last he found his target. He stood.
“Mr. Simms! Young man, a moment.”
Orest raised a gloved hand. The young man saw, waved slowly, then turned to continue on his path.
13
“Put down that hand, son. And walk!”
The student slowly walked to him, Orest eyeing the boy carefully
as he came into his range.
“Hello Sheldon.”
“Hello Professor.”
Orest continued his stare. The student looked away.
“I suppose the word is out on me then.”
Sheldon looked down to his shoes.
“And my reference letters stink of rye. And of arson. Is that the
case, Mr. Simms?”
Sheldon looked up at last.
“Why did you do it? I mean, what was the point? Are you going
crazy?”
“I can respect the courtesy of being given a chance at a motive.”
“Just answer me.”
“No, Mr. Simms, I won’t. I don’t loathe my first eighty years
enough to answer to a teenager now.”
Orest lighted a cigar. Sheldon turned to walk away. Orest let him
build some distance before he called out.
“I came to say goodbye.”
Sheldon stopped and half turned back to Orest.
“Where are you going?”
Orest blew smoke and looked off to the field where Tree MacAfree
had cracked his rib.
“I’m going to the ends of the earth to fix something in the pit of
my heart.”
Sheldon scoffed.
“What?”
“I’m going to Mexico.”
5.
Orest sat again at his desk, a bottle near his hand and the blanket across his lap. Night had come and the halls had gone
dark. Orest lighted a cigar on a paschal candle that he’d stolen after a funeral mass.
He watched the beat of the flame as best he could with his failing eyes. He tickled it with smoke from his cigar
without moving it from between his long teeth. The flame was nearly at the ornate crucifix. He wanted to see it burn.
But his eyes sank as he stared. He could no longer fight sleep like he once could. As soon as the aching in his
fingers and hip lessened, he would begin to doze. And he would wake in a confusion that would last minutes. He
would guess at his surroundings, sure he had never seen them, then become enraged when they would turn out to be
so familiar.
A decade ago, he began to lose his languages. German first, then French. His Latin had stubbornly hung on in
Orest’s twilight. He could read his own work and not recognize it. Reprints of his publications would arrive at his
office every year or so, and he did not know them. But even these had begun to slow.
Orest looked at the titles along his shelves and wondered how many he could recall. He wondered what research
he kept. And what was the point.
He lifted the candle and stood.
He forgot his cane and limped to the bookshelf crammed with a lifetime of reading. The wax spilled and the wick
became bright like a torch. Black smoke streamed from its tip. He brought it so close to the spines that he was nearly
touching them.
15
He could not read the titles by this moving light. He recognized
some of the gold relief, but could not guess at the authors. He didn’t
know if one was him or Goethe as he passed a particularly large volume.
Then he thought of an item he did know. He limped to the
opposite wall and stopped at its middle. Before him was a framed piece
of parchment with beautiful text, all in German. He immediately lifted
it off the wall with a shaking hand and flame.
He laid it on his desk, pushing some papers onto the floor to
make room. He stared at the parchment longingly.
As a younger man, Orest was a prolific translator. His summers
were regularly spent abroad, sifting through original manuscripts,
drafts, and notes. His published translations were popular for years
until critics began to accuse him of embellishing certain passages.
Soon, a pattern developed, especially in his later work. His critics
began to accuse him of being “purple” and even “hysterical.” As newer
translations began to appear, Orest’s fell out of print.
One rival in particular made a career of re-translating Orest’s
work. Professor Felix LeMay wrote elaborate forwards with each text,
describing in detail the need to correct Orest’s work, highlighting its
inferiority. One publication arrived a mere two years after Orest’s was
published.
One June in Frankfurt, Orest was assembling and translating
various caches of Schopenhauer’s personal correspondence when he
came upon a strange item. It was a death certificate of a woman. On it
was a furiously scrawled Latin phrase in a hand that Orest knew to be
Schopenhauer’s.
It seemed that in the early nineteenth century, Schopenhauer had
assaulted a women on his property. According to legal records that the
Germans had meticulously kept, Schopenhauer had been disturbed by
the woman when she had gone to his doorstep and started to shriek.
Schopenhauer, who did not know this person, pushed her when she
refused to stop shouting in his doorway. The woman fell and brought a
lawsuit that required him to pay her a quarterly sum for the next twenty
years. This was that woman’s death certification, sent to Schopenhauer
as a record that he had fulfilled his legal obligations and no longer had
to pay her. Upon its receipt, he had apparently written: obit anus, obit
onus.
The old woman dies, the burden is lifted.
Orest turned over the frame and began to unfasten it. He slowly
removed the backing. The parchment had remained on the back and
he slowly lifted its corner. He laid the paper in front of him, finished
his rye, and swatted the glass frame off his desk. It shattered well out of
the candle’s reach.
Orest pictured the maniacal Schopenhauer throwing a woman
to the ground. A moment, completely thoughtless, that would trail the
philosopher just like his great theories. His life’s work, as thorough as it
is, could be rivaled by a morning’s foolishness.
Orest poured into his glass. His brow lowered. His mustache
twitched with his thought. He grabbed a series of envelopes from his
desk and opened them for the first time. He was searching for a name.
Orest could recall a boy who had attended one lecture earlier this
year. He was cowlicked, with toothpaste in the corner of his mouth.
His face, even to the nearsighted Orest, displayed a remarkable vacancy.
His yawns were long and shameless.
Orest found the envelope he sought and brought it to the candle.
He lifted his spectacles to his forehead and put his nose on the page.
“August Prichard.”
Orest found a pen and began to search for a sheet of paper. He
knocked several files off the desk in his search, but could not find
anything suitable.
He looked regretfully at the parchment.
He finished another drink and turned the paper over to its blank
side. He laid his cheek next to the sheet and began writing in very
precise cursive. After several lines, he stopped.
He looked over the document with his glasses off and then on.
Then he folded the irregular parchment and wrote a single word after
some thought: Blackmore.
Orest searched the desk again. He took his bottle by the neck and
thumbed the cap. On it was an embossment of two lions like a crest.
Orest spun off the cap and then took the Easter candle and poured wax
onto the page. He blew cigar smoke on it to cool, then pushed the lid
into the wax, creating a regal seal.
Then he slipped the paper into his jacket pocket. And poured
another rye.
6.
Orest walked with less weight on his cane, although there was no class to get to. There were no papers to mark. And this
would be the last day that he would set foot on this campus.
He’d taken great care to shave his face, although he’d forgotten about his neck altogether. He had washed and
combed his uncut hair behind his ears. And, in a final attempt at prestige, he had found an antique cigarette holder in
the debris in his attic and wedged one of his brown cigarillos in it. It was long and carved out of Congolese ivory. Its
end was an ornate dragon’s head, the mouth around the cigarette. The expression was furious.
He thumbed the folded paper in his pocket. Orest knew that his behavior was to be monitored especially closely.
He could not act at all out of the ordinary. His schedule must be maintained. He would visit the registrar’s office at
nine o’clock, retrieve his mail, and then, after having several unsuspicious conversations with key members of the
faculty, he would initiate his scheme.
As he entered his building, he tilted his chin unconsciously. Then, forgetting again the year, he lighted a cigarillo
and twisted it into the holder. The contraption stuck out a half foot from his lip. Then he began to whistle a song.
Orest wasn’t sure if the song was real or simply his own invention. But its notes varied sharply and never repeated,
making his cigarillo wave wildly in his mouth. Its tip smashed the brim of his hat, sending embers everywhere as he
entered the office.
The room was filled with staff that immediately took notice of Orest. He tried to casually observe them, but gave
such a bizarre impression that one of the girls behind the desks rose and put herself between him and the rest of the
18
room. Orest walked to his mailbox and opened it. He whistled and
smoked while sneaking peeks at the concerned room over his spectacles.
A letter caught his eye. It had no postage. It was from the college.
Orest stopped his whistling as he opened it. The waving of the
cigarillo stopped as he locked it in his teeth. He read. Then he looked
up, his weak eyes searching for a target of rank in the room.
“You think you can all kneecap me this easily?”
The woman who emerged earlier stepped closer while putting up
her hands. “Professor Godwin, can we go into the office and discuss
this?” She made a gesture that she expected him to follow. She half
turned.
“Not for one moment!”
The office stopped its activity. The woman turned herself back to
Orest and braced.
“It seems every second you’re wiping my fingerprints off this
place!”
“Professor, right now, simply put, you shouldn’t have access to
our students. Right now.” Her tone was apologetic, yet firm. She had
prepared herself.
“Is that so?” Orest swung his arm and pointed his cane at his
opponent. A dangle from his cigarillo broke and landed on his shoulder.
“You can cancel all the office hours you please, you can stop the
press from printing my work, you can take my name from every bloody
place you find it. But you’re never going to get my stench out of here.
I’m in the marrow of this place.”
Orest turned and blasted out of the door as quickly as his limp
would let him. He began whistling his song more frantically while his
dancing cigarillo sent off a cough of smoke.
7.
Augie knew the fate that awaited him. The last four summers had been a thorough demonstration. The piecework, the
hard palms, the welts, the rags; Augie was doomed to be an anchor-bender.
His father was a foreman in a small factory that galvanized steel. In the summer months, they added an extra
shift and several students. From eleven o’clock at night to seven in the morning, Augie worked as the sole member of
his department. The machines around him didn’t have the orders to justify a third shift, so they were shut down and
wiped, most of their operators gone. The curb-stakes could wait.
But there were always demands for anchor bolts.
The eight-inch bars were threaded at one end and curved at the other. They seemed to be essential for any project.
Any building and any roadway was teeming with them. For years, Augie could look at the most ornate monument and
only wonder how many cursed anchor bolts held it up.
Augie would take the bars from the basket of the threader, drenching his gloves in coolant that stung under his
nails, then pile the bolts by the thousand next to his press. The anchor press, a relic from the 1940s, stood ten feet tall.
It was spotted with layers of industrial colors, like a molting reptile. Augie would lay two bolts at a time in the mouth
of the press, then stomp the pedal. The jaws would crush the bolts, making the ninety-degree bend.
Augie would stoop over his press filling drums with the bolts. His earplugs reduced the machine to a hiss. There
was no one around him and his mind wandered in the twilight of the graveyard shift.
The safety grate was badly worn and a hand could easily fit inside. Often, maybe once a night, he would hit the
20
pedal too early and the end of his glove would be snipped. Then he
would take a long breath and get a new glove.
Then one night he arrived to find that the press had been covered
in canvas and padlocked. The state had come with orders from the
health department. That day, the teenager working the afternoon shift
put his hand too far in and severed his thumb. A mesh-welder pointed
to a pile of sawdust that someone had shoveled over the bloody finger.
No one had hosed off the machine.
Now, Augie felt, it was only a matter of time before the anchor
press claimed his thumb too. The world’s hunger for the bolts was too
great. His mind would drift; he’d forget the order. And then he’d join
the long line of nine-fingered summer students.
Augie rested on a stoop facing King’s Circle. The maples were
beginning to yellow with the shorter day. The air no longer had a hint
of pollen. The tan on his forearms was beginning to fade.
He could have wept. He thought of the life of black snot that was
surely only weeks away. The spot-welding, the gang-drilling, the ham
sandwiches; he wanted to sob into his sleeve.
He took his finger and began to draw in the dirt of a worn
footpath that led from the stoop. First, he drew an anchor-bolt. Then
a beetle with a gun. And then he began to line up a series of numbers.
After a few moments, his face immediately brightened.
For a moment, Augie miscalculated that a passing grade in
Introduction to Spanish might stave off his suspension. He tucked his
thumbs into his palms and squeezed them. Then he broke into a jog
toward his class. He was already twenty minutes late.
Augie apologized to a young Spanish lecturer as he entered the class.
He crept to a row with a vacant seat. With no notes or books, he was
able to do this with some stealth.
As the lecture continued, Augie’s hopes were crushed. He
understood nothing. He watched the knowing nods of his classmates
with growing anxiety. He leant back with an audible sigh. Then, began
to get sleepy.
He put his chin on his fist and fought his eyes. He shook himself
and rubbed his struggling goatee. Then, he planted his ear on his hand
and shut his eyes. The sound of the woman’s dancing Spanish fell over
him as he was lured into sleep. The strange consonants faded. The
cadence was like a lullaby.
But soon, the song of language wasn’t all Augie could hear.
Somewhere he could hear some kind of instrument. It too fluttered
strangely. And it was growing louder. In his half-dream, Augie thought
it was a flute. Then, as it came closer, he realized: it was someone
whistling.
Augie opened his eyes to see the class all looking to a shut set of fire
doors. The professor too looked as she stopped her lesson. Something
was striking the center of the doors over and over. They barely moved
for all the effort, but made a great sound as they held. Finally, one door
flung open, then shut itself just as the tip of a cane poked through.
Then, another bang and the door opened wide and Orest stumbled in.
The Spanish professor immediately recognized him and put her
hands on the podium as if bracing.
Orest squinted into the audience.
“No need to beware! Not a need! I’m looking for someone specific.”
Augie watched as the Professor scanned the room. Slowly, the old
eyes carved their way through the rows and stared directly at him. He
did not move.
“Mr. Prichard. Come down, my boy. Come come.”
Augie remained in his seat. His confusion had not passed. Slowly,
he put his hand on his chest and sat up.
“Yes, you. August Prichard. All the way.” Orest tapped the floor
in front of him with his cane.
Augie slowly rose and the other students in the row had to angle
their knees to let him out. The room was forced to wait as Augie
stopped to pick up the pen of one of the girls he passed. All this time,
Orest ignored the lecturer and watched.
Finally Augie reached Orest and stood in the spot he had
indicated.
“Good. Success. Hard fought. Think your goodbyes to Mr.
Prichard.”
With that, he put a hand on Augie’s shoulder and gestured at the
door. Augie opened it, looking apologetically at the room. Then Orest
sprang past him with sudden speed. Augie followed.
8.
Orest kept his frantic pace as they went down the hall. His course was erratic and he looked over his shoulder repeatedly
as though he expected pursuit. He pushed Augie in the small of his back. And smacked his cane on the floor while he
shouted or whispered.
They crossed the campus in this manner, followed by no one but noticed by most. When they came to Orest’s
office building, Orest stopped at the elevator after whispering, “Act appropriate. Scent is in the hound’s snout!”
Augie simply watched Orest as he tilted his eyes under his hat and started up his song. As the old elevator sank
to their floor, an unconcerned TA passed. Orest abruptly stopped his song and shouted to Augie as though he were
responding to a comment.
“What simplicity! They call John Brown a terrorist and condemn his broadsword. But he verily, more than any
of your Senators, believed his cause true enough to die. Don’t let the scholars choose your saviors and madmen.”
The TA passed them, startled by the shouting. Augie looked at Orest with total confusion. Orest nodded to him
as the elevator opened its doors.
The hall to Orest’s office was empty. Orest opened the door after throwing looks over each of his shoulders. Orest
entered and went directly to his desk, producing his flask and reaching for a cup.
Augie snared his foot in the blankets on the floor. He shut the door as he freed himself. Orest spoke with a new,
lower tone after he swallowed his rye.
“We haven’t much time, Prichard; they’ll be unfurling the dragnets after this last stunt, that’s known.”
23
Orest squared his shoulders to Augie and set down his cup.
“Do you know who I am?” Orest’s chin lifted.
Augie hesitated, then spoke for the first time.
“You’re a professor here.”
“Observant as a fox, Prichard. I am Professor Orest Godwin of
Frog Hollow, Connecticut. I head the Department of History here.”
Orest waited for Augie to comment.
“You do know then, that by any academic measure or any
conventional approach to the issue, you are a failure, Mr. Prichard?”
Augie was surprised by the tone of the comment, but expectant
of the conclusion.
“I’m not even one of your students anymore. I dropped history.”
“Of course! Your last sharp maneuver. You’d have been swallowed
up whole before you’d had a chance to warm your seat!”
Augie shuffled in the blanket at his toe.
“Now, you do know that in all likelihood you’ll be removed
from the university at the end of the semester and forced to serve a
probationary academic suspension, from which you’ll probably never
return, yes?”
Augie stiffened. “Maybe.”
“I thirst for nothing more at this moment, Mr. Prichard, than
brevity. Yes, you will be thrown out due to your utter inability to do your
work. Now, I’ve swooped down to pluck you from this immovable fate,
but I require you to listen and I require you to admit to yourself that
there are things in motion, quite already, that you do not understand.”
Augie folded his arms; he already did not understand.
“Silence: yet another sharp move.” Orest reached into his jacket,
but left his hand there. “Are you aware of the illustrious Blackmore
Scholarship for Honor and Courage?”
Augie shook his head, still opting not to speak.
“Well, that can’t be held against you, I suppose, it’s little known
now. The Blackmore Scholarship is something that transcends academics
and is awarded directly for character. It’s honored by every institution
in America. It’s sometimes not awarded for decades. Its prestige cannot
be exaggerated.”
Augie became intrigued. “No academics?”
“None.”
Augie was eager to hear more.
“Yet the requirements are much more rigorous.”
Augie darkened again.
“A Blackmore man, is a man of character. And a man of action.
A Blackmore man looks at the savage, evil conditions of the world
and is disgusted. He’s repulsed by a world that he sees as dripping with
concupiscence. Saturated in mendacity. Perverted by greed.”
Augie was confused. “You want me to enlist?”
Orest flashed some frustration and broke his stare.
“No, Prichard, I don’t want you to enli…” Then a new
consideration came to him. “Yes, I want you to enlist in something
more meaningful than any government outfit. Something more
valuable than your tiny letter-grades and meandering papers, assessed
and awarded by fools and bootlickers!”
Augie’s eyes widened as Orest raised his voice.
“You must volunteer for a humanitarian mission so dangerous,
so monumental in history’s course, that even the mere attempt at such
a lofty and benevolent task will virtually guarantee a place in the list of
names of other great Blackmore Scholarship of Integrity and Courage
holders.”
“Who else has got one?”
“The names of recipients are never divulged. And the masons of
history seek not fame, young Prichard.”
“What do you get? Like, what is it? Money?”
Orest scoffed while he poured another drink. “My boy, a
Blackmore Scholarship of Character and Courage recipient receives a
full degree.”
Augie’s mouth parted slightly.
Orest pulled out the envelope in his coat. He angled it toward
Augie so that he could see the age of the paper and the great seal.
“For forty years I’ve been looking for a name, a man, with the
principle, integrity, and the buffalo heart of a revolutionary, that would
allow me to put their name in these lines. The truth is, I thought that
day might never come. But I think, perhaps, today it has.”
Orest lowered the envelope to his hip and offered Augie his hand.
Not knowing the significance, Augie took it casually. Orest shook
proudly, forgetting that his offer had neither been made nor accepted.
“Tell no one and come to this address in sixteen hours.” Orest
slipped a small piece of paper into Augie’s pocket. “Godspeed, Augie.”
Orest then turned his back to Augie and began putting a new
cigarillo in his holder. Augie waited for more, then started back toward
the door with his hand on his pocket. He stopped before exiting.
“Professor Godwin, is it true? Did you burn down your own
house?”
Orest turned his profile over his shoulder while a puff of white
smoke curled around his head. He smoked again and took the holder
from his mouth.
“Of course I did.”
9.
Augie pulled the paper from his pocket as he walked out of Orest’s office building and outside. It was an address. The
number had been crossed out and rewritten. The corner had browned from an ash burn. The handwriting began
illegibly shaky, then finished in an elegant script. It was like it was done by two hands.
Augie walked back to his room. He missed his Spanish class.
He lay on his bed and rested the edge of his pillow over his eyes. In spite of the morning’s dramatic events, Augie
had no trouble slipping into a shallow sleep. He was sitting in his father’s yard. A pillbug crawled on the back of his
hand. The roots of a nearby shrub began to sprout around his folded legs. They thickened as they threaded around his
shins. The chutes went from green to knotted wood. He was pulled into the earth as the stems circled his waist. Then
his shoulders, then his throat. His breath was being pushed out of him. Still, he kept his right arm up, careful not to
let the louse be crushed.
“Since you’re back in bed, I assume you’ve got your note.”
Augie sat up with a gasp, still struggling with the shrub from his dream.
Isaac was typing on a computer, after letting his books crash onto the floor. He didn’t look at Augie.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m not going to tiptoe around you when you sleep all day.”
Augie lay back down and put the pillow back over his face. But his eyes stayed open, the lids tickling the cotton.
“Well?”
26
Augie ignored him. A stir-stick hit his elbow. Augie threw the
pillow at Isaac, hitting his forearm and forcing him to splash some of
the coffee in that hand.
“Jesus, Augie, watch it!”
Augie put his arm over his eyes.
“Did you get the note?!”
Augie shot up. “No, I didn’t!”
Isaac immediately swung his chair to face Augie, a smirk clear on
his face. “No? So that’s it?”
Augie leant back on his elbows. Isaac read his face, then slowly
turned to his computer. He began to type again. “I told you the first
week, Augie. No one’s gonna be on your ass to get you to class. No
one’s gonna call your dad. It’s up to you or you’re out. I told you that.”
“You didn’t tell me anything.”
“I said it before the interim exams.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“Shut up, Isaac.”
“Don’t blame me, Augie.”
“Can you stop acting like you care? You just want a double room
to yourself next semester.”
“I am looking forward to that.” Isaac smiled to his screen. “Yes,
it’ll be a new day. Less chicken ball containers. Maybe a sofa where your
bed is. Less laundry everywhere.”
Augie peeked through the fold of his arm. A paper chicken ball
container sat on the windowsill; it was glued there with plum sauce.
“You’re getting all excited over nothing.”
Isaac stopped typing, but didn’t immediately reply. “What do
you mean?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why; you have to go on suspension.”
“No I don’t.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they offered me a scholarship.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fine.”
“What scholarship?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Who offered it?”
“Professor Godwin.”
Isaac seemed relieved. “Okay, well he’s insane. He’s probably
going to go to prison for arson in the next week.”
“Maybe, but he’s tenured and we start working together in the
morning.”
“Why you? You have two incompletes already.”
“Maybe he’s insane. Doesn’t matter though, it’s only him that
awards it.”
“What’s it called?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Augie could not remember.
10.
Augie’s feigned confidence did not let him sleep that night. Still, he took his facial cleansers and put them in a backpack.
He scooped a bundle of dirty clothes from the floor and stuffed them in after. And his hair gel. Augie set his alarm for
five and waited for sleep.
He expected Orest to not recall the conversation from the day before. Or perhaps there would be several failing
students hoping to become “Blackmore men.” Augie felt he was simply delaying the inevitability of returning home
before Christmas; time enough to begin his shiftwork before the factory holidays.
He opened his eyes before the alarm but let it ring anyway. He watched Isaac stir, then settle, then lift his head
off the pillow.
“Shut it ooooofff.”
Augie grinned and hit the snooze button, knowing it would go off in another ten minutes. Augie made a great
deal of noise dressing and gathering his things. At last, he was ready and left the room after searching his jeans for
change.
The campus was dark. A small chill hung in the air for the first time that autumn and Augie tucked his hands
under his arms. He breathed out while pointing his head up to see his breath like he could back home. He couldn’t.
Augie didn’t look at the buildings he was passing. He was sure he’d see them again when he walked back to the
dormitory in a matter of minutes.
Augie knew the address that he’d been given. The street led directly to the campus. It was a tree-lined avenue of
28
century old row houses. One, belonging to an elderly alumnus, served
free tea on weekdays on the lawn. Augie had gone once. He’d had four
cups and a fistful of shortbread cookies.
The building he sought was further from campus, at the very end
of the street. It was older than the others and recessed much deeper
from the road. Its property was large, but unkempt. A gate closed
it from the passing students, unlike its neighbors. In response, they
punctured overturned coffee cups on the points of the wrought iron.
As Augie approached, he caught the scent of stale fire. The
building, unlit, looked normal, but black. There were no lights on.
And the street was remarkably quiet.
Augie felt relief as he accepted that the house was empty. And
that he was spared another bizarre conversation with Orest. Augie
disliked the shouting. Or being poked by that cane.
Augie came to the gate. He rested his forearms on it and stared
at the house. There were papers in the uncut grass. One freed itself
in the wind, only to be pinned on a sapling that had been allowed to
grow. A footpath was choked by the shrubbery. Augie’s eyes followed
it to the step, then to the window. It was black. Then, his eye caught a
tiny red point in the glass. He thought it was a reflection. Then, the red
blossomed and lit a dark face to the low brim of a black hat. Augie was
being watched.
Augie was startled and stood straight up. The eyes vanished.
Augie squinted back at the window, trying to adjust his sight to the
darkness. Then a crash inside the house was heard and the door flew
open.
Orest appeared, still smoking the cigarillo. He was dressed
completely in black. His boots beat a loud sound on the porch and he
came to the stairs. And the edge of a half Stetson hat covered his eyes.
Augie could only stare. His mouth opened involuntarily.
“Now, now. Where is your car?”
Orest waved his hand to Augie, who was still recovering. He was
feeling for the latch, barely hearing Orest’s questions.
“My car? I don’t have one.”
“Your records stated you kept a vehicle on campus.”
Augie lifted the latch and slowly entered the lot, still taking in
Orest’s costume. “That was for this guy. He gave me money to register
it because he wasn’t a student.”
“What a perfect deception! You’ve gone and put us in the noose
and you’ve not even set foot in the house.”
Augie came to the porch. He could see Orest was wearing a rifle
frock coat that went to his calf. On his shoulders, a short inverness
cape. A metal cup in his gloved hand hung on a chain that attached to
a vest somewhere underneath. And his boots had a substantial heel.
“Huh?”
“Patience and courage, Prichard. Don’t lose your mind.”
Orest moved to let Augie up. He put a hand on his shoulder
after returning the cigarillo holder to his teeth. “Now. How are your
financials?”
“What? I’m on student loan. A line of credit.”
“Yes. And how much?”
“Six thousand.” Orest led Augie into the parlor. “But I haven’t
completely paid this semester’s tuition.”
“Perfect! No need. We’ll draw it down before they get to it.
Another close call.”
“Wait, why?”
“Assuage your pettiness! And look here if you need some kind of
assurance.”
Orest opened a button while shielding his hand from Augie. Then
he produced a wallet containing hundreds of crisp bills. He waved the
money at Augie’s chin while flashing a smirk.
“Jesus, what’s all that from?”
“A pension’s been burned.”
“You took out all your money?”
“You’d have me pull down my barns and build larger ones to
horde my grains, wouldn’t you? No! The bellies of the poor will be its
storage!”
Augie stared.
“Now, first thing’s first! Priorities must be set.”
The room was a mess of artifacts and papers. Everything was tossed
into waist-high piles, as though about to be destroyed. A grandfather
clock stood over the room, saved by its own weight. The dark wainscot
was bashed. A hatchet pointed from the center shelf of a bookcase.
And a formation of empty rye bottles appeared in the threshold of the
room.
Orest put a full bottle into a green canvas duffle bag. It clanged
against the others. As Orest closed the flap and tied the rope, Augie
could see faded words stenciled on its side: Pt. Jacob Godwin.
Orest pointed to the shoulder strap of the bag. Augie, still
confused, put his arm through it. It was heavy with a dozen bottles or
more.
Orest then leaned over an open violin case. It was filled with
neatly folded waist shirts, a box of cigarillos, a cob pipe, a can of
tobacco, and a notebook. The notebook was old with a silk marker. Its
pages were long filled. Orest touched each item with his finger before
closing the case. As he fastened it, his coat opened. Augie saw a long
knife sheathed on his vest.
“Come with me.”
11.
Augie followed him through some blackened French doors into a study. The room was sunken and Orest had some
trouble moving in his tall boots. The room was still hazy in smoke. A pile of photographs lay singed at the far end.
“It smells like a tire fire in here.”
Orest ignored Augie’s comment and stared out from the doorway. Finally, he pointed out to the center wall, over
a stone fireplace that was filled with other scorched items. There was a mounted set of antique pistols there. They were
nickel and ivory, with ornate calligraphy from the handle to the nose.
Orest took a deep breath. “Bring them down, my boy. The time is come.”
Augie looked over his shoulder to Orest, who held out his hand and closed his eyes, waiting. “Are those real?”
Orest opened his eyes and let his hand fall. “Of course they are. And accurate as hawks.”
“They don’t look real.” Augie turned. “Why do you need a gun?”
Orest turned to Augie, parted his coat with his hand, then rested it near his waist. “Prichard, you are quite
a simple fool, aren’t you? Danger is closing in on you like the night, and you wonder why we would want to arm
ourselves. Now, get to it!”
Augie shook his head and crossed the floor. He removed the mounting with ease and carried it back to Orest,
who already held a screwdriver. Augie laid the piece on his lap and began to unscrew the pistols.
“I don’t think these are real, Professor. This bolt goes right through this mechanism thing.”
“Your understanding of nineteenth century weaponry is laughable! Your instructions are clear, Prichard.”
31
Augie continued to twist the bolts while Orest leered over his
shoulder. His gloved hand curled as though the pistol were already in
it. Finally, Augie removed the long screw and the gun came off. Augie
handed it to Orest, who nodded solemnly as though he knew the piece
well. It was clear to Augie that he did not.
Augie unscrewed the second pistol and bounced it in his palm to
sense its weight. Orest’s free hand shot in front of Augie’s face.
“Both pieces.”
“What am I going to use?” Augie whined.
“Your defenses are enhanced by their best marksman having a
pistol for each hand. If I had three arms, you should grant me three
weapons before you took one.”
Augie put the pistol in his hand. Orest opened his frock, again
revealing the knife, and then a pattern of holsters. Orest placed one
gun high up near his shoulder, then other near his hip. He tightened
each with the pin of a belt. The process took many minutes and Orest
seemed to forget that Augie was in the room.
Orest’s eyes went soft as he looked back up at Augie. It was clear
that Orest was making a great effort to think. Then, his eyes flared and
brow shot back up.
“Now, I’ll save us again. Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Onward through the vaults! Through the tombs!”
Orest lifted his cane and he crossed the floor.
12.
Augie followed Orest through the kitchen to a screen door facing the backyard. The kitchen too was covered in debris.
The basin sink had been used to burn papers and books. The heat had warped the counter and it was split.
Orest was careful as he walked the uneven boards of a veranda. Augie offered him his forearm, but he ignored it.
The weeds had grown tall and had stalks. The gravel of the path from the stairs was scattered. The varnish on the wood
was flaking.
Orest led Augie to a leaning, tin shed. It was pockmarked with rust. The roof had eroded through. As Orest
approached it, Augie could see his hand tighten on the head of his cane. His other hand shook. Augie joined him at
his side.
Orest reached into a tiny pocket at the hem of his vest and produced a single key. He dangled it before Augie
with his eyes shut tightly. Augie took it and walked to the padlocked metal door. He undid the lock, then rolled a
stump that blocked the door out of its way. Then, with much effort, he heaved it open.
The shed was long and gave the impression of a tunnel. It was filled with books, crates, paintings, and other
objects. Webs hung from the ceiling. Old nests and dry hives packed the corners. Through the holes, the blue of the
fading twilight could be seen.
Orest appeared behind Augie and pointed him forward with his cane. Augie began to clear a way in. He heaved
stack after stack of papers. A large armoire was revealed, spoiling his route. He began again. Sweat came through his
shirt.
33
As they moved deeper into the garage, it became dark. Orest
lighted a match and held it over Augie’s shoulder while he worked. He
repeated the process over and over. His hands trembled until the need
to strike the match, then they moved deftly. When the flame came
to his fingers, he would drop the match to the ground and produce
another. Augie had to stomp the matches before they caught the edges
of any of the pages. Orest was entirely unconcerned and almost seemed
to want the whole archive to go up in a pyre.
After another match extinguished, Augie waited for another to
appear. Instead, he felt the cane slide over his shoulder and into the
darkness. Then it stopped on an object. Orest tapped it, and the sound
of clanging metal filled the shed. Augie stood up.
Orest stood there in silence. Augie could only see his silhouette,
but he seemed to have shrunk. His crouch had grown and it joined the
head of a half-packed statue in the distance making him appear to be
a great hunchback. Augie could see that he was shaking. At last, Orest
lifted his tinderbox and with great effect lighted a dozen matches in a
single stroke. He brought the bursting flames to his chin, revealing a
tear that had stopped in one of his deep wrinkles.
“Lift the sheet! Exhume her!”
Augie turned back. Through the light of the matches, Augie could
see that a motorcycle sat before them, covered in a heavy burlap. Augie
rushed to find the edge before the light died. He slid his knuckles along
the floor and came to it. He stood, bumping Orest as he pulled off the
sheet. Orest flung the matches as he toppled backwards.
Augie leapt over him to get to the matches, which were already
igniting some pages. He let go of the burlap as he did, covering Orest.
“Free me, ogre!”
“Just a second, the place is on fire!”
Augie kicked out the pages and returned to Orest. He scrambled
to get the burlap off his face while Orest swung his cane viciously,
rapping Augie’s hand.
“You brute! Have some sense!”
Augie pulled Orest to his feet by his cape. Augie was about to
apologize when he noticed that Orest had focused beyond him. His
eyes had gone fearful, and his mouth twisted as though he was about
to cry out. Then his eyes became disoriented and his head tilted back.
“To think I’d have to face a ghost so great, so early.”
Before them was an old Triumph Bonneville. Its chrome was
spotted, its tires flat. The clutch was collapsed. Its dials were cracked.
It slanted heavily on its stand. The rusted gas tank leaned just beneath
a hole in the ceiling. Through the first hint of dawn and the floating
cinders, they could read a word in red scroll: Ginevra.
13.
Augie widened his path to excavate the motorcycle. Orest watched from his veranda, drinking from his cup and smoking.
Finally, Augie appeared with Ginevra at his side, debris gathered in its wheels. The sun was up; the morning was
passing. Augie could see that, over Orest, the second story of the house was completely burned. The windows were
blown out. Some birds emerged from within it.
Orest had Augie strap his duffle bag and violin case to Ginevra with a belt like saddlebags, then mounted her
himself. Augie waited for him to get off.
“Let me walk it.”
“Of course.”
“Well get off.”
“No. The road before us is longer than you can imagine. We’ll need to conserve my wits and my thighs if we’re
to stand a chance.” Orest shut his eyes. Augie pushed Ginevra through the side yard to the street. The bike creaked under the weight, but Orest kept his
face forward, tilted with pride.
The street was scattered with students who stared after the pair. Augie could hear their comments. Orest could
not. Augie turned down his eyes and pushed the weight harder. Sweat streaked down his temple.
“Come now! The task begins! Shoulder it.”
Augie scoffed as he brought them to a main road. He used the sidewalk. A woman with a dachshund passed
35
them. Drivers stared at stoplights. Orest noticed nothing.
“Just beyond the corner, my contacts wait. To the petrol bar.”
Augie enjoyed a slight decline as they approached a small gas station
with a single-bay mechanic shop. Just beyond it there was a small
lot with broken down vehicles that were used for parts. Next door, a
tiny diner that offered specials to Elswit students. Orest remained on
Ginevra until Augie had pushed them to the door. Then he leapt off
and entered the garage.
A mechanic appeared from behind an open hood and approached
Orest while wiping his hands on a rag.
“An assessment!”
Orest folded his arms after pointing to Ginevra with his cane.
The mechanic walked slowly past him in response to his abruptness.
He nodded to Augie who heaved on the curb.
The mechanic crouched in front of the motorcycle and tested
hoses and unscrewed caps. He turned to Augie and spoke. “I have to
order parts probably. Need a few days.”
“Nonsense! Top up her oils and tires, we’ll be sure to make our
destination. I know this machine,” Orest called out from the garage.
The mechanic stood and turned to Orest as he walked outside.
“You got plates from ’47, and I don’t think you’ve had her out
since then. I have to certify it before it leaves the shop and I don’t know
if you can certify this.”
Orest whispered to Augie in a voice loud enough for the
mechanic to hear. “You see, Prichard, this is the language of the grifter.
He describes impossible things moments before he performs them.”
He turned back to the mechanic. “Money is of no concern! Simply
restore her!”
The mechanic looked to Augie.
“Where do you need to get to?”
“Oaxaca, Mexico!” Orest shouted.
The mechanic laughed openly, then shook his head at Ginevra.
“And I’m going to need your men to outfit her with a sidecar for
my lieutenant.”
Augie stood up to object but the mechanic was already speaking.
“Look, we haven’t rigged up a sidecar in years. Not only can’t we
do it, I couldn’t tell you where they could.”
Augie returned to the curb in relief. Orest whispered audibly to
him again. “Stay keen. This foolish bat thinks he has a couple of mice
in his sights.”
Orest turned back and bellowed. “Enough of this bleating! I know
very well I can have specialists suit up my Ginevra with a sidecar any
place in town simply for the pleasure of working on such a beautiful
machine! For time’s sake, please, how much for one of these minor
companion vehicles?”
The mechanic shrugged and walked a few steps from them. He
pointed to the edge of the lot at small scooter. It was a Silver Pigeon
with a milk crate where its back tire should have been.
“That one’s five hundred.”
“And so we’ll have it.”
Orest, clearly unable to see at that distance, began to walk toward
the diner.
“Professor, wait! Can that even go on the interstate legally? Just,
wait a second.”
Orest continued his limp without turning back. “Soon, nothing
we do will be legal, Prichard. Soda awaits!”
14.
Orest drank from his cup while Augie ate slices of pie at the counter. The afternoon sun was lowering. Orest had stopped
speaking; instead, he felt the weapons under his coat and stared out to the garage.
“Six hours and we’re fifty feet from your house.”
Orest could not hear.
“Professor? Why don’t we start out again in the morning? We’re going to run out of light.”
Orest snapped his look to Augie. “Precisely my plan, Prichard! You think I’d want them to recognize the fact that
Professor Godwin of Frog Hollow was entering the country? My work has been translated into a hundred languages.
They’d know in a second that I’d come in support of the rebellion! Why, they’d have a brigade waiting for us in Oaxaca.
No, no, Prichard, we must make this venture under the cloak of night; anything else would be suicide.”
“Then why have me meet you at dawn,” Augie muttered. He pushed his crust with the back of his fork and licked
it off. “Who’s ‘Ginevra’ anyway? That a girl’s name?”
Orest smacked his cane against the bar. The wallop frightened Augie into dropping his fork onto the floor,
crumbs landing in his laces.
Orest pointed his cane. He seemed about to shout, but as he gathered his words, the growl of an engine filled
the diner. Orest’s throat loosened, his mouth changed, and he started toward the door in a trance.
“Look, she runs. That’s about it.”
Orest stood at the shoulder of the crouching mechanic, one hand on his cane, the other petting his mustache.
He twisted its end in his fingers, then laid the hand softly on his shoulder.
“Enough of this upselling. Watch her respond to these.” He wiggled his gloves and then walked through the bay
38
door. The mechanic followed, pushing Ginevra.
Orest waited for the mechanic to arrive at his side. He unbuttoned
his coat, pulled up one of his gloves from the wrist, then tipped his half
Stetson. Then with accidental grace, swung his leg over the motorcycle
and rolled his fingers around the handles. A moment passed before it
was clear that Ginevra was tilting. Orest’s heel slid along the concrete
before he fell into the mechanic, who managed to stabilize Ginevra and
her rider just in time.
Augie ran to the opposite side to help the mechanic. As he did,
he saw that Orest’s coat had opened, and a pistol and a foot-long blade
could be seen. He reached over Orest’s shoulder to close it, then set him
upright.
“All right, look. You gotta really hit ‘er. This kick-start should be
replaced.”
Orest looked down his leg. He put the heel of his boot on the
peg. It remained unmoved.
“Here.”
The mechanic grabbed Augie roughly by the shoulders and
pushed him in front of him. The mechanic had tired of them.
“Jump on this, put your hands on his shoulder to keep him up.”
Augie switched his feet twice, then jumped on the starter. The
engine clicked, then stayed quiet. Augie jumped on it again and
again with increasing pressure. Orest bounced with each motion.
The mechanic pinched the bridge of his nose while watching Augie
hop. Sometimes Augie missed the starter entirely. At last, he caught
the piece in the middle of his sneaker and the engine crackled. The
sound sputtered precariously, then fell into a roll of thuds. Black smoke
pulsed out of the exhaust. Ginevra was finally started.
Before Augie could move safely away, Orest put Ginevra into
gear and shot away. His half Stetson came off as his head was cast back.
He swerved right, then sharply left, then put Ginevra into the ground
as it stalled.
The mechanic rushed to pull the motorcycle off Orest.
“My, the sheer power of her! Again boys! Up!”
Augie pulled him back onto his feet and replaced his hat after
beating off some dust. Orest didn’t notice that he’d ripped the knee of
his suit.
The mechanic walked the Pigeon nearer to Augie. Its key was in
its ignition.
“You know how to start this?”
“No.”
“Turn the key.”
Augie climbed on to the seat nervously. The mechanic nodded
and he started the motor. It whizzed. Augie took the large, white helmet
from the seat and put it on his head. It dwarfed his shoulders.
“Ho boy! The road is the only method of learning your machine!
But you must expect less than what you’ve already seen of my Ginevra!”
Orest was already on his vehicle. He was pointing to the street
with his cane, a fresh cigarillo puffing as he shouted.
15.
Orest could not keep a consistent speed. He would amble slowly to a stop, then shoot forward, throwing back his head
visibly. He operated between first gear and neutral, rarely using his brake. Signals were never turned on. And his
helmet remained under his seat.
Augie watched from a safe distance behind Orest. The Pigeon did not have gears and Augie had mastered the
accelerator quickly. He kept the Pigeon at a low speed, avoiding the nauseating starts and stops.
His helmet sometimes tipped over his eyes and he would lose sight of Orest. But he could always hear him.
Ginevra’s deafening snarl came through the punctured exhaust. She seemed louder as she ran. Augie watched as Orest
made no effort to avoid holes in the road and the Triumph seemed to scream with each bump. And a cough of black
carbon came from Orest’s shin.
After some time, Augie noticed the brake light would flare sharply as Orest was discovering this feature. Ginevra’s
speed smoothed out somewhat. He even stopped at a stop sign. But their route was confused. Orest led them through
miles of secondary roads in all directions. He passed the same tomato stand three times causing the vendor to wave at
them on the last approach.
Augie tried to get Orest’s attention, but was unable to pass him. He tried to use his horn, but couldn’t tell if it
was drowned out by Ginevra’s engine or simply wasn’t connected.
As dusk fell, Orest came upon a long gravel road and it seemed that they had finally left Alcott.
The sky reddened and Orest gathered speed. Augie reset his wrist to try to keep up with him, but soon he was
40
pulling away. Augie tried his horn again. He guessed how to flash his
headlight. Orest did not see. He became a silhouette on the horizon.
Then he shrank until he vanished.
Augie could hear Ginevra for a long while, but then, even she
left his earshot. He looked at his gas gauge; there wasn’t enough fuel
to turn back. The dead fields on either side of them spread for miles.
There were no buildings. Just a single set of power lines that ran beside
him.
Augie pushed forward. He still hadn’t seen a turn on the road,
so he assumed Orest continued straight. Or that he’d find him crashed
into the ditch. Augie hadn’t seen another car in a long time. He tried to
think of how to stop one if he did.
Then, in the distance, Augie could see a dark point on the road
ahead. He sped up, relieved. He was sure it was a motorcycle, but he
could not hear Ginevra. As he approached, he saw the bizarre profile of
Orest’s cigarette holder and half Stetson, then the rifle frock and cape.
Augie came to his side.
The engine was off and Orest stared away at a massive field. Just
in sight was the start of a wind-farm. Line after line of two- and threeoared structures went for acres. Some spun softly, most were still. And
the sun was half behind the hill.
“This can’t keep up with yours, you have to watch for me.”
Orest kept his eyes toward the hill.
“What? What’s the problem?” Augie tried to guess where Orest’s
eyes were looking. He could not.
Finally, Orest spoke. “That’s our path across the border.”
Augie looked. “What is?”
“Through there; a crossing foolishly unprotected. We can slip in
unnoticed. This might be the victory already.”
“What are you talking about? We aren’t anywhere near the
border.”
“Certainly not by conventional roads, of course not, Prichard.”
“Not by geography! We’ve been going in circles!”
“Fear not, officials must use this crossing. These sentinels keep
no guards. They are merely a grand set design. We’ll find their path
instantly. Come! I’ll show you!”
Orest threw Ginevra into gear and turned to the field. He
opened his throttle and drove into the ditch at such a speed that he was
immediately launched out of it. Ginevra left the ground and he landed
on the edge of the field and began toward the farm.
Augie watched as Orest shook violently on the terrain. He
expected him to fall, but he did not. After a few moments, Augie slowly
pulled the Pigeon across the ditch. As he emerged, he looked up to see
Orest had lifted his cane over his head in a charge.
16.
“Speared by some wildcatter’s trap!”
Orest leaned forward precariously as he walked the rough field in his heels. His cane could not find steady
ground in the night. And blood ran from under his hat and behind his ear. His gun was drawn and his cup was out.
Augie walked behind him. He balanced their vehicles on either side of him; their provisions dragged behind. The
spokes of Ginevra’s tire stuck out like a cat’s whiskers. The clutch was bent. The grass had become long and went past
their waists. Augie couldn’t see his path and his ankles twisted when the earth shifted beneath them.
He fell again.
“Professor, we gotta stop.”
Orest stopped but did not turn around.
Augie had been unable to keep Orest’s pace across the field. His back tire became clogged with sand and he was forced
to walk the Pigeon on the first substantial incline. As he turned off his engine, he could hear Ginevra’s throttle opening.
Then a scream. Then the engine whined before it seized.
Augie abandoned the Pigeon on the hill and ran. He could not see Orest. As his wind left him, he called out
Orest’s name. There was no response. The sun had gone and the night was pale blue. Augie knew that it was a matter
of minutes before the fields were black. He thought he heard the shuffle of a snake. He stopped.
42
He turned back to the hill, but the dark had closed off his path.
The moan of a turbine rose behind him. Then the chatter of weevils.
Augie crouched to focus. He was becoming desperate.
He listened for any rustle. He held his breath. Sweat gathered
in his collarbone. But the night was already too thick. The moon was
muted behind clouds. And Augie became disoriented. He couldn’t
guess the direction of the Pigeon. He knelt in his spot after kicking
the grass for spiders. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to fend off
panic.
Slowly, after several minutes, his eyes began to adjust. The sky
separated from the crest of the hill. And the rows of mills appeared
between the stars in shadows. He could see enough of the ground to
step. And didn’t detect the eyes of coyotes surrounding him.
He stood and looked into the dark. After a few moments, he
heard the crunch of a foot. He looked to the sound. After squinting for
some time, he saw what looked like a spark at the base of a tower. Then
a huff of smoke passed over it.
Augie ran a few steps in the light’s direction, but caught his foot
in the opening of a gopher hole. He landed awkwardly, banging his hip
on a stone. He gathered himself, and skipped toward the tower.
Orest didn’t recognize him as he approached. He pointed his
pistol at Augie and stumbled onto his side without breaking his aim.
His eyes were wild. Ginevra was on her side, nearly upside down. And
half of Orest’s mustache was red with blood.
“Not of shred of honor in it! The bastards! Striking in the dark!
Slithering cowards!”
Augie could see that the ground had broken, perhaps by tremors
or a sinkhole. It had acted like a ramp and thrown Orest at his absurd
speed. And he struck the blade of the mill at the peak of his jump.
“Professor, listen to me. We gotta stop.” Augie sank between Ginevra
and the Pigeon. “We’re going in circles. Your head is still bleeding. We
need some light.”
Orest swayed as he appeared to listen. Then he produced his flask
and cup. He tried to pour but badly missed.
“You’re spilling it.”
Augie let the vehicles drop and joined Orest at his side. He took
the flask and cup and began to fill it. Orest watched with vacant eyes.
“A gentleman always uses a glass, Augie. Always.”
“You’re exhausted. Let’s wait it out here and start again when the
sun’s up.”
Orest drank his full cup and leaned into the grass, letting it drop
on its chain. His eyes shut.
“I’ve waited a lifetime.”
17.
Augie awoke after dawn, his head on his laundry bag. Some aphids tickled the crook of his neck. Somewhere in the fold
of the hill, Orest whistled.
Augie stood, smacking the bugs from his neck and cheek. He was cold. And his shoulder and hip were sore. He
looked around and saw that Ginevra was stood back up on her stand. The Pigeon still laid where Augie had left it. He
could smell gasoline.
Augie scraped the sleep from his eye and followed Orest’s song. Soon, he could see that Orest had his back to
Augie, facing the sunrise. His frock coat was lying in the grass beside him and his arms seemed to wave erratically at
the distance.
As he approached, he realized that Orest was drawing his weapon over and over. His motions were exceptionally
slow. Once, he had to retrieve the pistol from between his feet. But then he’d point it at the center of the sun, as though
threatening it for setting too soon the night before.
“Professor.”
Orest was startled. “A dangerous game, boy! You should know better than to sneak upon a weaponeer during his
exercises.”
Augie ignored him. “So what’s the plan?”
“You see, while you’ve slept like a boob, I’ve already sharpened the knives we’ll need. A key difference you’ll come
to admire!”
44
“Okay! What the hell are we doing?”
“Ah! Your lack of understanding is frustrating you. Give this up!
I know the next hundred steps.”
Augie sighed as Orest scooped his coat from the ground.
“If I knew where we were going, I could possibly help, you know.”
“Utter nonsense! Must you prove your foolishness with every
sentence?”
“Could we at least get to a road?”
The pair began back to last night’s camp. Augie could see that the
stripe of blood in Orest’s white hair had dried. They passed an empty
bottle of rye. Orest put a hand on Augie’s shoulder.
“Perhaps you haven’t considered the advantages of dropping off
the grid entirely? Don’t take it to heart if my schemes baffle you.”
They gathered their things and pushed the vehicles to the road.
They mounted and began again.
Soon they passed the tomato stand.
Orest seemed to have to relearn his vehicle. He ignored the brake, then
used it roughly. Soon though, his control increased and they managed
to travel long roads without circling back. Augie reminded Orest that
he needed gasoline at every stop. Orest didn’t acknowledge this.
A station appeared. Augie wisely passed Orest and pulled in.
Orest followed.
The station was unpaved with a single pump with flip numbers in
the meter. Augie watched it closely while Orest went inside the station.
By an icebox in the front, two teenage boys stood. They unwrapped ice
cream sandwiches and snickered when Orest passed them.
Augie had to step over their laying bicycles after he’d filled the
tanks.
Inside, Augie immediately began to stuff candy in his folded arm.
Orest watched him with his hands on his hips.
“A soldier should make due with the leanest of provisions. Not
this ghastly rainbow of sugars.”
Augie rolled his eyes away from him. “When you carry the
provisions, you can get fifty cans of beans or whatever.” Augie held up a
package to Orest. “Nibs are light.”
Behind Orest, Augie could see the teenagers through the window.
They were pointing at Orest and laughing. Augie looked away and
waved Orest to the register.
As they crossed the boys to their vehicles, the boys began to taunt
them. Quietly at first, but their volume increased with the distance.
Orest, Augie was sure, could not hear them. He walked without any
reaction. Augie, as the boys were becoming braver, scowled at them
from over his shoulder once he was on his scooter. This made the boys
approach.
“Nice face man!”
“Yeah, nice cape.”
Orest was unable to start Ginevra and Augie was forced to
dismount and assist him. This caused another barrage of shouting.
Still, Orest could not hear over the engine of the Pigeon.
At last Ginevra started and Augie briskly returned to his scooter
and left the station. Orest followed, but before he could turn to the
road, a half-melted ice cream sandwich hit him in the center of his
back. Augie watched as Orest continued onto the road without pause.
He assumed that this too had gone unobserved. Yet, when Augie looked
back again, he saw that Orest was in a turn back to the lot.
Augie turned around as well, but was well behind Orest. Orest
drove with considerable speed at the two teenagers. Their laughing
stopped outright as Orest brought Ginevra directly onto the cement
steps in front of the store, narrowly missing their legs. He had pinned
his culprit between Ginevra and the icebox.
Orest leapt off with some grace and walked toward the boy while
drawing one of his pistols. The boy stood with both his hands raised
instinctively, unable to speak. Orest walked until the barrel touched
the teenager’s chest, then pushed him against the glass of the shop.
Augie let his scooter fall and came to Orest’s side.
“Professor, Jesus Christ, put that away.”
Augie’s panic registered and the boy began to sob.
Orest merely stared into the boy’s eyes as they teared. The clerk
noticed the motorcycle on his steps and disappeared from view.
“Come on, the guy is coming out.”
Orest kept his position. The other boy timidly called out to Orest
from the other side of Ginevra.
“We’re sorry, sir. We’re sorry, ‘k?”
Orest hesitated for a moment, then withdrew. He returned his
pistol and climbed onto Ginevra in a single motion. Then pulled onto
the road with great speed and without looking back to the teenagers,
who were joined by the clerk.
18.
Orest didn’t speak for a long time. Augie knew that they indeed were traveling south, but they stayed on meandering
service roads. Long stretches of dead farmlands passed beside them. Then miles of industrial vineyards.
For hours, Orest pressed on. He didn’t look to Augie at stops, and sped through most of them. A memory nagged
him again.
The sun beat down on the pair and noon came and passed. Augie felt the top of his helmet with his hand and
was surprised at the heat.
He thought the sun was making him sick. Then he realized, he was thirsty.
He tried to pass Orest to get them to stop, but he was unable. Orest had resolved to ride into the night. Augie
could feel his arms slacken. His mind drifted. He hit potholes in the road without bracing. He feared an accident.
As Orest slowed to cross a small intersection, Augie approached with his hand in his pocket. Orest lurched into
gear and Augie hurled a fist of coins at him, striking his side and plinking against Ginevra’s engine. Orest turned over
to Augie with gathering anger. Augie removed his helmet.
He was soaked with sweat. His hair was flattened to his skull and his cheeks were flushed in patches. His collar
and chest were wet and he squinted while he tried to catch his breath.
Orest laughed as he tipped back his head. “Forgiveness, Prichard! I forget the constitution against the elements
that I have are not shared!”
Augie huffed while he leant his forehead on his speedometer. “Can we please get some water?”
47
Orest was already sipping from his rye. “Of course, Prichard. But
not here, certainly.”
Augie looked with a sneer. “Then where?”
“From here on, young Prichard, we must be on the constant look
out for drones.”
Orest pointed over his head. Augie looked, then stared at Orest
with new astonishment. “What, robots?”
“Indeed. We can expect our government to be complicit at the
very least with their scoundrel counterparts. Movements are shared.
Neither would want a pair of Freedom Riders to succeed.”
“So, where the hell can we go?”
“Why, Prichard, you disappoint me,” Orest grinned widely. “We
merely have to go where there is no sky.”
With that, Orest flipped his cape over his shoulder and threw
Ginevra into gear. Then he broke left sharply.
Augie followed, fumbling to replace his helmet.
More hours passed. Augie expected Orest to pull off at every dirt road,
yet he did not. But the heat lessened. The sun began to lose its pure
white. Then, eventually, the first signs of dusk.
Orest began to pick up speed as the road narrowed. The properties
beside them became wilderness. Brush closed in. The roads were
threatened by grass and weeds. And the trees were becoming dizzyingly
tall.
The road thinned to a path. There was no room for vehicles to
pass. It now curled around the trees like a string, the massive roots
bulging on either side. Orest rode with speed. Augie bounced in the air
on his lighter Pigeon.
They raced through the forest against the setting sun. Augie
glanced off their road and saw, fastened to a stump, a metal placard.
They had entered a national park. He passed too fast to read it.
Soon, the sun’s strength no longer mattered; the trees now
reached so high that they blocked the light. They were riding into a
sequoia forest. And the darkness would soon be absolute.
Orest swung Ginevra off their path. He stood up as he rode
through the leaves and seedlings. Augie was about to call out to him,
when he suddenly brought Ginevra to a stop. Augie walked the Pigeon
to him.
Orest rummaged through his saddlebags and bellowed to Augie.
“We’ll have safety in this verdure, at least for one moon.”
He threw a leather flask at Augie. He opened it and drank
frantically. It was nearly empty; Orest had been drinking from it all
day. Augie tore open some M&Ms and poured them into his mouth.
“From here on, the formula changes! It is time to apply code
names. Our identities are suspended. My proper name cannot be
whispered once we cross into foreign lands; my fame only grows there.
Something with a hint of nobility, for no one would accept me as a
hapless wanderer. You, of course, are completely unknown.”
Augie ignored him as he swallowed his sharp candy.
Augie rushed to gather some kindling. The forest bed was damp. He
tried to gather live twigs from the trees, thinking that they might be
drier. He yanked at them with his bare hands, unable to separate them.
Finally, he had enough to begin. He tried lighting the receipts
from the gas station and diner, but they would not light the moist
wood. He held match after match on the edge of a green leaf, but only
managed to blacken its edge.
Augie was so focused that he did not see Orest walk up beside
him. The box of matches landed in the pile before Augie, a single match
lighted and stuck in the cardboard. Augie fell back out from his crouch
as the box went aflame. Then over his shoulder, Orest began to pour his
rye on the fire. It spread wildly beyond Augie’s pit and into a bonfire.
“Build boy, build!”
Augie grabbed some large fallen branches and threw them on
the fire. Orest doused them in his drink. And soon the fire was started,
though much larger than they required. Augie thought of mentioning
this to Orest, but decided not to. Orest walked back to his spot while
holding his third of a bottle up to the light.
“A tonic for most things,” he said to himself.
19.
Augie watched Orest eat beans that he had heated in the fire. He ate directly from the can off his long knife. It was the
first time Augie had seen it unsheathed. It was dagger-length and unpolished, as though antique. He questioned its
sharpness after watching Orest lick from it without cutting himself. Eventually, Orest wiped the blade on a folded leaf
and replaced it under his vest.
Orest poured a drink. “This fire brings to mind the tale of Prometheus.” Orest stared into his cup, then looked
to Augie. “Oh no, not that Prometheus. Quite another, one not based in myth.”
Augie didn’t know either Prometheus.
“Through these woods, deep in Snake Ridge, there was a tree. Years ago. A tree so great that they named it
Prometheus, after the defier of the gods. His incredible height drew the interest of the academics; they had never
seen a tree so tall. And they came and they bored into and chipped at Prometheus to learn his age. But the tree
revealed nothing. He kept his mysteries. Soon, a pure amateur, a man named Currey, came to the woods. He sought
Prometheus. But Prometheus broke his tools when he tried to core him, so unskilled was his hand. Over and over again
he failed. Until finally, he cut Prometheus down.
“Only now, could the fool count the rings of the great tree. And count he did. Count and count again. His tally
took the breath from his lungs: Prometheus was the oldest living thing ever known to man.
“For five thousand years and more, Prometheus had looked over the peak. From Socrates and Moses, to Christ,
through the trials of Robespierre, to the betrayal of Trotsky. Now, the great Prometheus was felled by a man, only to
50
learn how long he had been unfelled.
“A gruesome irony perhaps unnoticed by the idiot. And a fate
more final than a thousand eagles shredding a thousand livers.”
Augie had followed the story until its conclusion. Orest had let
his voice drop to a whisper, forgetting his audience. Augie could barely
hear him over the sap that crackled in the fire.
“So, is that like a fairy tale or it happened?”
“It is no tale, young Prichard.”
“So what happened to the guy that cut down the tree?”
Orest’s mouth twisted as he spat out his response. “He went on
to enjoy a long career in academia.”
Orest pulled his Stetson over his eyes and folded his arms. Augie
listened for more, then poked the fire with a stick he’d been using.
After watching the fire for a while, he dragged his backpack under
his head. As he began to doze, he kicked in the rest of the wood that
he’d collected. He wondered if the fire would keep off the chill he had
gotten in the farm grasses. He hoped it would fend off the snakes and
spiders. He had little confidence that Orest’s pistols could defend them
from bears. Even if they were real, which he doubted.
Augie was weak from the day and slipped into sleep quickly.
Augie thought of his father. He constructed the conversation they
would have upon his return to Alcott. He would have been chained
to the anchor bender, but now, only now, he could offer some kind
of reasoning for his failures. He was led astray by a senile professor.
Pulled from classes, thrown into danger. Lost, hungry, confused. And
his father, like the college, would pity him.
Augie could see himself in front of the giant anchor bender. But
it was tall, like Prometheus, and its mouth too far for Augie to reach.
He stretched further and further, hoping that the machine didn’t crush
his hand. And as the bolts were smashed, sparks flew off and landed
on his arms. They felt like the stings of a bug. He ignored them, then
rubbed them, then tried to escape the machine.
Augie opened his eyes. The fire was only a bed of coals. But
embers were falling like flakes of snow and settling on his arms and
neck, and burning him. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. The fire was
nearly out. He looked up.
Far into the darkness, somewhere in the canopy of forest, another
fire burned. It looked like a black arm, twisted, and attached to nothing.
Augie couldn’t tell how far away it was, but it seemed like it burned
next to the stars. The bough of a sequoia had caught. And the shower
of slag covered their camp. He looked to Orest who had several bright
cinders resting in his lapels and in the brim of his hat.
Augie sprang over him and began to slap at his hat and chest.
Orest shouted and reached in his frock for his pistol.
“Highbinder!”
Orest managed to get out his pistol, but Augie grabbed his
forearm before he could point it. The pair rolled, each obtaining the
advantage once. Augie stopped them from rolling through the fire.
“Professor, you’re on fire! Look!”
“You’ll have your fire, Bruté!”
Orest stopped shouting as a low creaking began to grow in the
distance. Augie pushed Orest’s pistol toward the ground with both
hands. Augie could see, between Orest’s shoulder and head, the arm of
fire was moving. It seemed to turn up, its end becoming a claw. Then,
it dove toward them like a spear.
Augie seized Orest by his holster and threw him to the side. Then,
he reflexively rolled the other way. Between them, the massive branch
crashed, scattering the coals of the campfire. One landed behind the
tongue of Augie’s sneaker and he cursed as he removed it with his bare
hand.
As he stood, he could see Orest on the other side of the fire. He
looked somber and stared at Augie thoughtfully.
“Precious Second, forgive my haste in accusing you.” All around
Orest, new fires rose.
“Just run! Get the bikes!”
Orest vanished from behind the veil of flames. Augie scrambled
to collect their bags, hurtling new fires as they emerged. He got to the
vehicles and began to run them to the path. He fell as they caught on
roots. Once there, he turned around.
Orest stood facing the pyre, his back to their escape. He watched
with his hands on his hips with no indication that he understood
danger. Augie sprinted to his side and grabbed his arm. Orest did not
break his view. A fire was climbing the trunk of a sequoia. The sweat on
Orest’s face resembled tears.
“This. This is my penalty for my doubt. In the same moment that
I shun my only comrade, another Prometheus is stricken. A thousand
eagles and a thousand livers…”
Augie pulled Orest to their path.
They drove safely, their road lighted by the burning tree in the
distance.
20.
The Provost lay on his side. The television lighted the room. He wore grey fleece sweatpants and an Elswit sweatshirt. He
had had a mole shaved from his right flank and pulled his sweater up tenderly to avoid it catching on his single stitch.
The telephone rang. The Provost stretched with a grimace.
“Hello?”
“Uh, hello. Is this Dr. Levanthal?”
“Yes it is.”
“I’m sorry to call so late, Dr. Levanthal, but we have a bit of a situation. This is Daniel at campus security.”
“That’s fine, I’m up.”
“We’re getting calls about a missing student and they want to call the police.”
“Who’s the student?”
“Uh, August Prichard.”
“Who’s calling?”
“The roommate called his father. Then the father called us.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“A day, maybe two days. But he was taken out of class by a professor here and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Which professor?”
53
“I’m coming over.”
Levanthal shot up from his sofa, wincing as he stressed his side.
He pulled that day’s blazer over his sweater, leaving the boutonnière in
a saucer of water. He put his bare feet into some sneakers, checked his
coat for his keys, then walked out his front door.
The Provost’s residence was near the center of campus. In a few
steps, he was crossing King’s Circle. He was making his way to the
security gate, but slowly came to a stop as he stared up the street.
He changed his course, and turned up his collar.
He started up the dark street to Orest’s house. He passed the
teahouse; the patio furniture had been taken down. He could see that
the house had no lights, but this was not unusual. Since the fire, the
electricity could have been cut. As he approached, he could see the
debris that spotted the lawn. Garbage was spitted along the spears of
the fence. And he could see that the door was open.
He entered the property and walked slowly to the porch, listening
for any sound. There was none. He came to the door and peered in.
“Professor?”
There was no response. He could see the piles of notes and bottles
in the parlor. And the smell of old fire was overpowering. The house
had been abandoned for the last time.
Levanthal returned to the street. He slowly started back to the
security gate, but then again changed direction. He crossed King’s
Circle to the Haslan Building. He came to a door of the fire escape and
drew his heavy set of keys. He tried several before one solved the bolt.
The main lights were off and the stairwell was only lighted by
some flickering emergency system. Levanthal let his eyes adjust as he
began up the stairs. His first step was too quick and he put his hand
on his side and breathed in sharply. He slowly climbed the four stories
until he came to another door.
It led to a black hallway. Levanthal felt the walls for a switch. He
could not find one and began down the hall. He slowed his pace to a
creep. As he approached a door he stopped. Again, he listened. There
was no sound, but the hum of the emergency lights. He softly tapped
on the door with two fingers.
The room was silent.
Levanthal began to feel some concern. He had no interest
in sneaking up on someone so volatile, no matter what his age. He
knocked with his knuckles.
“Professor Godwin? It’s Arthur Levanthal. Are you in your
office?”
Levanthal produced his keys again, shaking them theatrically.
“I’m opening the door, Professor. It’s just Arthur Levanthal.”
He inched the door open, again calling out to Orest. The room
was empty. The moon put enough light over the desk. Levanthal
entered with some calm.
The room smelt of rye and smoke. The paschal candle had been
allowed to burn for days. The crucifix had melted into a cascade of wax
that guttered along the edge of the desk. The window had been shut.
And the Navaho blanket still lay in the doorway.
Levanthal found the switch by the door. The room was littered
with shredded papers and smashed frames. The glass by the desk
snapped under Levanthal’s sneaker. Over the desk, a sheet of heavy
paper dangled from the overhead lamp. It turned like a pendulum. On
one side, it was bizarre handwriting in red ink.
Levanthal took the paper by its edge. He could see that it was
Orest’s Doctorate of History from the University of California. It had
been pulled roughly from its frame and part of it had been shorn. He
tried to pull it down. It was attached by an unwound violin string. He
turned it over and left it fastened.
The first line read: The final Will of Professor Orest Routh Godwin
of Frog Hollow, Connecticut.
Levanthal plucked the paper from the string and came around
the desk, smacking his hip on the corner. He gasped and held his side
while he felt through the piles of papers and books for the telephone.
Finally he found it and wedged it into his shoulder while he hit three
numbers and pressed his shaved mole.
“Daniel? It’s Arthur Levanthal. Let’s go ahead and notify the
police.”
21.
As they fled, Orest took a bump in the road too hard and knocked the fuse from Ginevra’s headlight. The road went
black and Orest put her into a slide. From then, Augie’s Pigeon had to lead them and the increased speed burnt off her
fuel more quickly. By dawn they walked, the Pigeon’s gas exhausted, and Ginevra completely blind.
It appeared as though they had escaped the fires. They could not see any smoke gathering in the distance. But
they had left some of their supplies behind. They had no water. And Orest had lost much of his rye.
As the light grew, Augie could see that they were striped with ash. Orest appeared to have some kind of war paint
from his eyes to his jaw. The white of his once-stiff collar was now softened with sweat and yellowed with cinders.
For hours, they walked.
They did not know if they were going deeper into the forest or not. The path seemed to widen to a main artery,
then narrow again. Augie tried to follow the sun, but could not chart it property. Orest merely sulked silently over the
death of his Prometheus.
“Professor, we’re never going to find water on these roads.”
“Or matches.” Orest had been unable to smoke since leaving his matchbox.
“Let’s turn into the woods and see if there’s a creek or something.”
Orest did not argue. They crossed into the forest. Immediately the terrain made pushing their vehicles impossible.
They agreed to leave them by a certain stump and not venture too far.
Nearly instantly, they lost their way. Orest and Augie argued about their direction and soon, they could no
56
longer retrace back to their vehicles. Augie cursed openly. Orest half
quoted maxims. And the heat built.
They stumbled on in silence. Orest’s heels had greater and greater
trouble as they went. The dew of the forest and the clouds burned off.
The sun became hazy.
“Look.”
Augie called to Orest as he pointed. In the distance, the edge
of the forest seemed to end. Beyond it, only sky. Augie imagined a
shoreline and began a jog that he was unable to maintain. Still, he left
Orest far behind. The trees thinned as he approached the edge. He
could see hawks floating far above, not unlike the embers the night
before. But as Augie came to the edge, his heart sank again.
There was no lake. Only a sheer cliff. He could not tell what lay
at that bottom of the ravine below, only that it was miles away. Augie
dropped to a knee. He nearly wept when he thought about how they
could get back to their vehicles and be freed from this forest. He put
his face in his hands.
He heard a new sound far in the distance. A small rumble could
be felt through his knee. He looked over each shoulder, unsure of the
direction. The sound grew and Augie stood. Something was closing in
on him. He put up one arm and turned around trying to locate the
attack. Then, he heard the unmistakable pant of an animal behind him.
He spun once more to see a yellow dog sprinting toward him.
Its ears were back and its tongue dangled from the side of its mouth.
Augie began to retreat until he saw the red bandana around the dog’s
neck. He relaxed for a moment, and the dog leapt from a considerable
distance, put out its paws, and bounced off Augie’s chest. Augie was
weakened enough by the day to fall onto his back. Before he could sit
up, the dog had located his face and was eagerly licking.
Augie began to pet the dog as he pulled himself out of the leaves.
“Out have come the wolves!” Orest was shouting as he drew his
pistol.
“No, professor! It’s a dog!”
“Be still Prichard, I have the range to find its heart!” Orest was
pointing his gun as he neared.
“No! It’s a dog!”
Augie grabbed a stick and held it in front of the dog, then hurled
it. The dog sprinted away from him, much to Orest’s surprise. He was
now within earshot.
“It’s a dog, Professor. Friendly dog!”
Orest stared at the dog as he ran away, letting his gun down. As
the dog retrieved the stick and turned back to Augie, he lifted it again.
“What confusion it’s given over to! This hound is rabid!” Orest
again aimed his pistol.
“No, Professor, it’s playing fetch.”
Then, the sound of shouting came from over the edge of the cliff.
Even Orest heard it and he came near Augie.
“Put that away,” Augie whispered as the sounds came closer.
“Is this some kind of rescue beast?” Orest wondered aloud as the
people’s voices grew.
An arm appeared over the brink. Then the tanned body of a
shirtless man. He pulled himself up and immediately turned back
around.
“That’s it! I’m up!”
Then the man whistled piercingly into the air and the dog left
Augie and raced toward the man, still holding the stick in its mouth.
“Sheila, come ‘ere!” The man dropped into a crouch and grabbed
the dog behind its ears. “Good girl, good girl. What have you got?”
Then the man looked up to see Augie and Orest staring. His
mouth opened at the sight of Augie who had made his shirt into a
turban, and Orest still dressed in his three-piece, Stetson, and frock,
with a gun in his hand. Both black with soot and sweat.
The man lifted his sleek sunglasses onto his forehead and slowly
stood.
“Do you have any water?” Augie stared at the florescent bottle
strapped to the thigh of his spandex shorts.
“Do you have a match?” Orest had a cigarillo waiting in his
holder.
22.
The man snapped his fingers and Sheila stayed at his calf. He began to unfasten his water bottle as he slowly approached
Augie and Orest. “Whoa, what happened to you guys?”
Augie waited for Orest to speak. He did not. “We got lost, we’ve been lost for a day. We ran out of gas.”
Orest fumbled with the buckle of his holster.
“Oh man, where are you trying to go?”
The man handed Augie his water. Sheila nosed Augie’s shin. Augie drank greedily, unconcerned about leaving
some for Orest. Orest finally spoke while Augie drank. “Our destination cannot be revealed.”
The man continued to stare at Orest’s clothing. “Are you actors?”
Augie stopped gulping. “Yeah,” He wiped his chin. “We’re shooting something and we’re lost. We lost the crew
and the other guys. Actors.”
The man suddenly seemed very pleased. “I’m James. I’m an actor too. So is Kira.” He pointed over his shoulder
and offered a hand out to Augie, then Orest. Orest barely took it, and then recoiled.
“My girlfriend and me, we climb here. Hang on guys, just a second.” James smiled and a set of blue-white teeth
beamed. He walked to the spot where he had surfaced and looked down. “Come on, Kira.”
James reached down and his shoulder tensed. His sinew moved as he stood; his physique was well developed. His
forearm was locked with another. Beyond James, Augie could see a lean shadow.
James immediately turned back to Orest and Augie. As he moved out of the way, Augie could see the silhouette
59
of a woman. The curve of her breast and thigh were unmistakable. She
began to unfasten herself from her supports. Panicked, Augie took his
shirt from his head and tried to cover his chest. As he did, he felt the
tickle of the end of Orest’s mustache on his ear.
“Discipline, Prichard. Wars are launched from between a woman’s
bosom.”
Augie scoffed and put his shirt on as fast as he could.
“So, what’s the production?” James had left the woman on the
escarpment. “They making a western?” He looked over Orest’s costume.
“Again. Sniffing around much like this dog.” Orest pointed at
Sheila, who was nuzzling his boot.
James laughed heartily. Then nodded. “Method. Me too.
Meisner?”
“Meisner? I am sculpted from the stone by the hands of
Magnón, Chomsky, Eldridge Cleaver, and polished by the cries of the
impoverished!”
James became very serious. “That was great.” He put one of his
hands on his chest. He looked to Augie. “Is that from the script?”
Augie could not answer. The woman had joined James. She wore
barely any clothing. Her hair was tied back in a heavy ponytail. Her
skin was browned from the sun, especially her thighs and stomach. She
wiped her palm on her breast and then offered the hand to Augie.
“Sorry; sweaty. I’m Kira.”
“These guys are actors. They’re filming here,” James said quietly
so Orest did not hear.
Augie had taken Kira’s hand, but could not speak. Kira was taking
in Orest. Finally, Augie realized a question had been put to him.
“Sorry. I’m August Prichard.”
“Fool! Will you destroy us all over a whiff of lilac?” Orest gestured
at Kira. She took her hand back from Augie.
James laughed again and offered his hand to Orest, then lowered
his head in a formal bow. “Sir, what can I ask is your name so that I will
address thee?”
James adopted an absurd accent. Augie was about to laugh when
he noticed that Kira was watching with wonder. She put her hand over
her mouth as though a brilliant performance were beginning. James,
for reasons unclear, had shut his eyes while awaiting Orest’s response.
Orest squinted at the top of James’ head, then to Kira and Augie.
Sheila squatted near a tree.
James whispered without looking up. “Just give me your
character’s name.”
Again, Orest looked to Augie who shook his head. Then to the
delighted eyes of Kira and the outstretch hand of James. “I am the
Viscount of Berkeley and you can address me as Lord!”
He took James’ hand, who shook it with his head bowed to
Orest. He seemed like he was about to kneel, but then shouted in his
new voice. “My Lord! It would be an honor if you allow this maiden
afar and myself to take thee and your friend in our carriage back to Los
Angeles!”
“Impossible! I’ll not let this woman befoul my noble title by
escorting me outfitted like a prostitute!”
Kira laughed until James shot her a stern look. Augie stepped
forward.
“Professor, we don’t have—”
“Squire, you’ve misnamed your superior.”
Orest seemed as though he was about to strike Augie with his
cane; he was becoming too enthusiastic with the charade.
“Sorry, my Lord. But can I remind you that we’re not able to ride
Ginevra due to a mechanical issue and a you-lost-her issue?”
Orest narrowed his eyes at Augie. “Indeed. My virgin squire is
right. You must take me to my Ginevra!” Augie began to blush. Orest
began to remove his frock. “But first, this scarlet must be covered.”
Orest threw his rifle frock and cape on the ground in front of
Kira. She looked to James, who was already waving for her to put it on.
Reluctantly, she did. Augie’s disappointment couldn’t be concealed.
23.
Kira and Augie walked ahead of James and Orest, who continued their conversation. Orest bellowed admonishments
and James would apologize in completely inconsistent accents. They had apparently determined that James’ character
was of a lower class, yet the century and origin remained a mystery. Orest immediately forgot his new role as Viscount
and revealed many details of their mission.
Kira had let Orest’s coat fall off her shoulders. “This thing smells like turpentine. God knows where your
Wardrobe department found it.”
Augie forgot to respond. He was staring again.
“Of course, we will follow the blueprint of Blankqui, namesake of my Second! But then, we will drive the stake
into the Capitalists’ heart with a point sharpened on pure Marx! Then, Hiawatha’s true confederacy can bloom!”
Augie and Kira looked back. James was furiously agreeing with Orest. James had adopted a severe crouch as
though deformed.
“Is he always in character?”
“Yeah. Well, no; just during filming.”
Kira sighed. “That’s the truest artist, I think. A great actor.”
“Yeah.”
“James takes it very seriously too. He was a teacher in this community college commercial. No lines, but he was
shot doing a lesson. So, he got all these books on history, and like economics, and poetry and kind of made this lesson.
62
He didn’t have time to read all the books, but he sort of found what he
needed and everything. They didn’t ask him to do any of that; he just
wanted it to be true.”
Augie was staring at her mouth. “Yeah. That’s dedication.”
“Yeah, it is. So, what are you? Production Assistant?”
“Hm?”
“On the film, what’s your job?”
“Oh! Yeah, assistant.”
“You should tell your producer about James. He’s really brilliant.
He can do basically any accent.”
“I will.”
The shouting behind them grew.
“How long have you lived in L.A.?”
“L.A.?”
Augie was now trying to read a Sanskrit tattoo along Kira’s rib,
beneath her bra.
“Yeah, did you move to L.A. to get into film production?”
“Yeah, I wanted to make movies.” Augie forgot that he did not
live in Los Angeles.
“The deadliest hybrid! The scholar and the soldier! Teeth cut on
Bakunin, have grown into long fangs by rage.”
Augie looked over his shoulder to see Orest had drawn his pistol
again in a dramatic gesture. James stood up upon seeing it.
“Oh wow, can I hold that?”
James was reaching for Orest’s gun. Orest pulled it back, then
whipped James across his face with it. James flew back, covering his
mouth with his hand and toppling onto his back. Orest proudly
moved over him. Kira ran to James. Augie jumped to stop Orest.
“Oh my god! What is wrong with you?” She turned to Augie. “Is
he insane?”
“An important lesson! But even I sometimes forget my strength.”
Orest holstered his pistol. Then he offered his hand to James. He
kept his hand over his mouth where Orest had struck him.
“You’re quite lucky I didn’t employ my more fatal reflexes.”
“You’re a lunatic.” Kira was stroking James’ hair.
“No, honey.” James waved off her hands and then took Orest’s.
Then he laughed to himself, displayed his bloody teeth. “He’s one of
the best actors I’ve ever seen.”
Sheila licked his ear.
James and Orest walked beside each other more quietly. Augie
apologized to Kira repeatedly. After some time, she came to understand.
“I get it. I do. James is the same way. Once, he was in this play.
It was about this guy who basically cheats on his wife. And they had
him spending like all of his free time with this woman from the play.
And all my friends were like, ‘Kira, he’s cheating on you, stop being
so stupid.’ And I was like, ‘No, he isn’t, he’s working on a part.’ And
the woman he was with all the time, wasn’t even the actress that played
his mistress. So, even I was like, ‘This makes no sense.’ But what he was
doing was getting a sense of a cheater. So it was even better that he sneak
around with the girl not playing the mistress. That director was really
brilliant.”
Augie agreed that the director was brilliant.
As they approached the pickup truck, James could be heard
again.
“My lord, will you honor me by sitting next to my right in my
truck?”
Orest scowled as he passed James and Kira and began to get into
the truck.
Kira immediately threw Orest’s frock into the dirt.
“Where am I sitting, James?”
“August can go in the back.”
“He’s not going in the back of the truck, James.”
“Sheila goes there.”
“Sheila’s a dog. What do you think the studio is going to say if
you kill him?”
James was trying to think of a way to answer her and remain in
character. Kira sighed.
“I’ll sit on his lap.”
24.
Dr. Levanthal sat at his desk. His boutonniere had been restored to his jacket, but contradicted his deep slump. His palm
pushed his face until his one eye shut. The other hand held a phone to his ear.
Before him, a police officer sat with his hat on his knee. He sipped from a mug. Behind the officer, a younger
officer stood. His eyes floated over the wall of books just beyond Levanthal.
“Yes, I have that complaint, Natalie. I have all the complaints you filed. We still need you to come to my office
as soon as you’re out of your tutorial.” He looked over his eyeglasses to the officer. “Yes, thank you Natalie. We’ll see
you then.” Levanthal hung up with a sigh. He put a hand to his sore flank. “Natalie Zawalski says she doesn’t know.
She said he asked to see her before he left, but didn’t say where he was going.” He rubbed his eye roughly with two
fingers. “He did apparently mention that he was going to become an assassin.” He couldn’t help his face from breaking
into a smirk.
“Excuse me?” The officer swallowed his coffee audibly.
“Look, Orest Godwin is very old. I don’t think that you can take everything he says at face value at this stage. He
threatened me regularly.”
“Can you explain how he said it?”
Levanthal leaned back. “Not really. She said he just blurted it out the last time she saw him.”
The officer was using his pen to look over a note. “Natalie Zawalski. His current T.A.?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
65
A light knock came on the open door to Levanthal’s office.
“Doctor?”
Levanthal lifted his voice. “Mr. Simms, come in. Come in.”
Sheldon Simms entered with package under his arm. He looked
over the police officers nervously.
“This was Orest’s T.A. for all of last year. The year before he was
stripped of tenure.”
Sheldon waved bashfully.
“Son, we’re just trying to make any sense of this. Is there anything
you know that might explain any of this?” Both officers now had their
pens in their hands.
“Um, no. Not really. I only talked to him once since the fire.”
“The fire in the Haslan Building?” The second officer was flipping
back to a previous note.
“No, his house.”
Sheldon looked to Levanthal. The officers followed.
“Yes, he burned down a story of his house eight weeks ago,”
Levanthal quickly explained.
The officers looked at each other. “So, he burned down his house,
burned down his office, left a fresh will, and offered this August Prichard
a scholarship?”
“To be fair, he didn’t burn down his office. I think he was just
being careless.”
“He offered Augie Prichard a scholarship?” Sheldon squinted at
the premise.
“Not an actual scholarship, Mr. Simms. Some kind of invention
of Professor Godwin’s.” Levanthal’s frustration was growing.
“Augie was the kid who egged the grease trucks at orientation.”
“Yes, I’d heard that. His roommate said that Mr. Prichard claimed
that he had been offered a scholarship to prevent him from going on
academic probation.”
“Isaac hated him.”
“I’d gotten that impression.”
The older officer broke in. “What did he say that last time you
spoke?”
“He said he was going to Mexico.”
The room brightened.
“Where?” The second officer was writing as he spoke.
“He didn’t say.”
“Why was he going to Mexico?”
“He said to fix something in his heart or something.”
“A medical procedure?”
“No, like, his emotional heart. That’s how I took it.”
The room deflated.
“Did he sound suicidal at all?”
“Not really.” Sheldon reconsidered. “Well, he sort of talks like
that all the time.”
“Did he give you the impression that he wanted to hurt anyone?”
“That’s just sort of how he is. He is always pretty drastic.”
The officer sipped his mug again while he considered.
“I went and got his mail. I still had a working key.” Sheldon took
a stack of envelopes and placed them in front of Levanthal. Levanthal
started thumbing through them. There were a dozen letters returned
from the same address. They were unopened.
“Can I read these?” Levanthal held one of the returned letters up
to the officer nearest him.
“Are they addressed to his house or his office?”
“Some are from his house, some are the university,” Sheldon
clarified.
“Open one from his office address.”
Levanthal did, then scratched his temple as he read. He shook his
head while he handed it across his desk to the police officer. The officer
took it, looked at it for a few seconds, then began to read aloud to his
partner.
October 1st, 2006
Felix! Worm!
As I’ve nourished your career from the start, it’s only symmetry that I
ask you to cling on a bit longer. Replace the saline, turn up the oxygen! You
see, I want YOU Felix to be the first scribe to patiently document these next
historic chapters. Come to know first that you can never ape what comes
next! Live on! So that the curse can shift from me to you! Your opponent has
the upper hand. A False Dmitry has his throne!
Orest Routh Godwin
“It’s the week before he vanished,” Levanthal observed.
“Does this ‘Felix’ mean anything to you?”
“He’s another professor,” said Sheldon.
Levanthal was already reading a second letter. After some time he
noticed that the room was quiet waiting for his comment.
“It’s just more threats,” he said without looking up.
25.
The freeway was dark. It tilted with the slope of the canyon. The night’s blue barely broke from the black of the
mountains. There were no lights. And there were no other cars. The keys in the ignition chimed as they went over
older sections of the road.
Orest snored quietly, his head shaking on James’ shoulder. His cup dangled from his vest. The nickel pistol was
uncovered. And the handle of his long knife pointed out.
Augie watched James tongue his lip. His flesh was grey where it was cut. His eyes never left the road. He was
deep in thought. Augie’s leg was numb. His foot could not be felt at all. He was in pain, but nothing could make him
move; Kira slept in his lap.
Her head jostled between his shoulder and the window. Her lips parted slightly, her breath brushing him with
the scent of the peanut M&Ms he had shared. Her hand had moved from between her knees and now laid flat on his
chest. His heart boomed so that he hoped it wouldn’t wake her.
They had found Ginevra nearly instantly; they had not wandered far. Still, the sun and drink had gotten to
Orest. He had stopped shouting for a moment, and then sleep caught him. He didn’t wake when the truck turned onto
the rough path from the road. Nor did he wake when James and Augie loaded Ginevra and the Pigeon into the flatbed
and started off. Kira tried to turn on the radio but James forbade it. “They didn’t have radios back then,” he snapped,
forgetting his dialect once again.
Augie had told them that they lived on “Sunset Street,” the only road he was sure was in Los Angeles. James
68
pressed him for a cross street. Augie responded that they lived near
“5000.” He seemed to accept this.
At a gas station, Augie filled Ginevra and the Pigeon. He wisely
bought a gas can and filled it as well. He was warmed that Kira
automatically climbed back onto his lap when he was finished. And
encouraged that Orest didn’t wake during the stop to thwart his plan.
Augie counted the days. He had missed one of his half-term
examinations. He couldn’t remember when the other three were. If
he could last another day or two on the road, he felt he could call the
college. At the very least, they would excuse his absence and grant an
extension. After he threatened to sue them over his abduction.
Augie studied Orest’s profile. In the absence of his anger, his
face resembled an aged statesman from the last century. His mustache
twirled naturally. His brow had deep lines from years of consideration
and reasoning. He looked like the professor emeritus he had been just
a week ago.
Augie had been working up the courage to move his hand. It had
clutched the vinyl handle of the door, but had crept up to the small of
Kira’s back. She pressed up against his knuckles. Her skin was hot. And
for hours he had wanted nothing more than to turn over his hand and
let his fingers touch her, where that tattoo of braided thorns started.
The freeway opened wider than Augie had ever seen before. On
either side, a city was rising. Cars merged from dark onramps. And
strings of lights appeared in the hillsides. Soon, Augie knew, they
would be in Los Angeles.
But the wonder of a new city meant nothing to him. Kira had
squirmed as they had braked for some traffic, putting her mouth
directly onto Augie’s neck. His breath quivered as he tried desperately
to keep still. He kept a watch on James’ one visible eye as it kept on the
road. Then, as the signal went on and James exited the highway, Augie
put his palm on Kira’s naked back.
They drove through a tangle of overpasses and side streets. Endless
rows of parking meters lined the sidewalks. The yellow of half burnt
marquis. And the red glow of electric “open” signs in the taco shacks.
Augie saw nothing. He only felt the tingle on his neck where Kira’s
bottom lip touched when she exhaled.
He knew that the end was soon as they passed a sign dotted with
tiny bulbs. Sunset. He knew that he should move his hand before she
woke, but he couldn’t. As James swung onto the boulevard, her mouth
pressed into him and her hot cheek met his. Almost like a kiss.
“Where are we?” Orest had stirred. His slow eyes dragged along
the dash.
“We’re taking you home. You slept almost the whole way.” James
had forgotten his character completely.
“Home? Connecticut?”
“Connecticut? No, Los Angeles.”
Augie was afraid to break in and wake Kira. Suddenly, she lifted
her head. Augie shot his hand back to the handle of the door. His cheek
felt cold without hers.
“Los Angeles. Never. Never.”
Augie nudged Orest with his knee and put a finger over his lips.
Orest stared at him. He did not know Augie. His eyes searched his
face. Behind them his mind scrambled for information. His right hand
came to his chest; fingers shaking visibly.
“Professor.”
Augie thought he was reaching for his knife. He pulled out a bent
cigarillo and put it in his mouth. He forgot his holder, which poked
from another pocket.
“Oh, you can’t smoke in here,” said Kira with some surprise.
Orest looked to her. She stared back with indignation.
“Hello, Viscount. You can’t smoke a cigar in here.”
She waved her hand near his face. Orest narrowed his eyes to
slits. Kira looked over to Augie who was now watching with concern.
Orest bit the end of his cigarillo as his lips flared, baring his teeth.
“Pirates!”
James juggled the steering wheel as Orest shouted. Augie put a
hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Professor, these people have taken us out
of the forest.”
“Nonsense! This is a ransom! Stop this car!”
James kept driving. “Just a second, just a second.”
“In seconds my blade will be through your heart! Now!”
“Just stop the fucking car, James!” Kira screamed.
“I’m in the middle of the road.”
“Stop the car!”
James brought the car to a halt, while Orest gripped his forearm.
Kira exited the door before the truck was at a complete stop. James too
escaped Orest by jumping into the street. Orest followed him, again
reaching for his pistol.
Augie had run to the back of the truck to get their vehicles. Kira
howled over the shouting of Orest.
“Jamie, help him.”
James joined Augie and in an instant, they had dragged their vehicles
out. Orest put out his arms and shouted at the leaning palm trees.
“I will not trust my throat on Finchley Common in the dark!”
“You don’t just pick up insane people that you find in a fucking
forest.” Kira was lecturing James who now had gone silent. Augie offered
his apologies. Kira had already gotten back into the truck and slammed
shut the door. She did not say good-bye to Augie.
James watched Orest, who now waved both pistols. “He just
wakes up and he’s still in the role. Amazing.” He shook Augie’s hand
and got into the truck. As they began the wide turn away from Augie,
Orest noticed and pointed his gun.
“Run! Before I change my mind and take your heads.”
The truck kept its speed back to the freeway. Augie put his hand
on Orest’s wrist to force him to lower his pistol. Orest glanced up at the
street sign directly above them.
“Angels! Bah. This place is the parlor of all brands of demon. We
couldn’t have picked a worse spot to foil them. Stay guarded. These
wretched streets are teeming with sin.”
They stood over Ginevra and the Pigeon, who lay on their sides
in the middle of Sunset Boulevard.
26.
Augie and Orest scrambled through the headlights and horns of the traffic they were blocking. A man pulled over to
help Orest move Ginevra, but reconsidered after seeing his pistols and drove away. Augie feared that the police would
be arriving next. He ushered Orest beneath a burned out streetlight.
“We need a motel.”
“Not a chance, Prichard. To rest your head among these ghouls would be suicide. Escape. Tonight.”
“We’ve been driving all day. You broke your light. We can’t travel in the dark.”
Orest tweaked his moustache in thought, his gun still in his hand. “Perhaps if we made it to the city’s outskirts
the underworld might not hear of it.”
Augie was suspicious when Orest agreed with him so quickly.
They climbed onto their vehicles. Augie led. Ginevra’s front tire was now badly askew. And the muffler was
punctured, making her growl deafening. Orest’s impaired hearing spared him any discomfort.
They travelled along Sunset looking for a motel. Augie was sure he would find one on this street. The road split
at a junction and Augie continued along what he considered the main road. At a stoplight, Augie looked over his
shoulder to Orest. Orest was scanning either side of the street. Augie assumed he too was searching for a motel.
In the bend of the road ahead, Augie could see pale neon. In another minute he was sure that it was a motel. He
looked over to Orest, who he assumed could not read at that distance. Again, Orest’s head faced another way. Augie
put on his signal to indicate where he was going to stop.
72
Instead, the boom of Ginevra’s split muffler faded. Augie looked
in time to see Orest making a sharp turn across two lanes into a side
street. Augie quickly tried to stop, but his worn brake pads couldn’t
before Orest passed out of sight. Augie stuttered to a stop by dragging
his sneakers, then slowly maneuvered the Pigeon into a new direction.
He could still hear Ginevra for another moment, then it cut out
abruptly. Augie expected another crash. The road dipped and Augie
saw Ginevra parked on the sidewalk. Then, ten paces from there, Orest
was whispering to a doorman in front of a dark tavern. Then, the man
lighted Orest’s cigarillo.
Augie called to him without getting off his scooter. “Professor,
what are you doing? I found a motel.” Augie pointed behind him with
his thumb.
“Excellent scouting. Our only chance now is to hole up and pray
for daybreak.”
“Here?”
“Of course. In the folds of the commoner, the very interest we’ve
come to defend with our lives.”
The tavern had no sign. Orest already had a glove on the door.
“Shouldn’t we get the room first? It might close.”
Orest was already passing into the darkness of the barroom. The
doorman reached over and grabbed the flap of his cape and pulled
him back to the street. He pointed to Orest’s cigar and shook his head.
Orest acquiesced, took a long drag, and pulled the cigarillo out of his
holder and onto the curb. Then, he vanished into the dark.
Augie took a step to follow him, but the doorman put a hand on
his chest. He held up his finger and thumb with a cynical expression.
Augie felt into his pocket and produced his wallet. He handed it to the
doorman.
“Sorry, gotta be twenty-one.”
“I’m not drinking, I just need to watch him.”
“Sorry, can’t be in there.”
“Okay, can I at least tell him?”
“If you can do it without going in.”
“Can you tell him?”
The doorman shook his head. Augie cursed Isaac Veign quietly.
They had shared an ID of an older student in Alcott: Robert Frady.
Isaac had had it last and Augie forgot to steal it back before he left.
Augie sighed and shuffled back to his scooter. He decided to call the
bar from the motel.
Augie rode toward the sign he had seen. As he neared, he thought
it read “LIVE MOTEL.” But then he realized the “O” had been smashed.
The Olive Motel was a tiny building. Its windows were barred
with claw-like iron, but its edges were beveled. Decades of carbon had
settled in the ruffles of its stucco. There were only two cars in the lot.
One was stuffed with items, filling the backseat to the roof. The trunk
was held closed with cords. Augie thought it might be some actress in
search of Hollywood.
Augie cautiously entered the door beneath the sign. Behind badly
marked glass, a miserable porter sat smoking a cigarette and watching a
small television somewhere below the desk. Augie approached, put his
bag at his shoes, and rested his arms. The porter did not look up. Augie
read a creased notice on the wall that offered rooms for “$40/night.”
Finally, after a minute, Augie spoke.
“Hi, I’d like to get a room.”
“For the night or the hour?”
“Uh, the night.”
The porter looked up for the first time and shifted in his chair.
“Fifty-five bucks. Checkout is ten.”
“It says ‘$40’ right there.”
Augie pointed over the porter’s shoulder to the sign.
“That’s just the room. You gotta park that thing in my lot. And
you gotta gimme five for the remote.”
The porter stared and sucked on his cigarette. Augie shrugged.
He slid the money in the slot to him. A key came back after it was
counted. He didn’t want to ask him for the name of the tavern that
Orest was in. He took a key that was chained to a large piece of wood
and went out.
“No groups,” muttered the man as he turned back to his television.
A small path led him to the courtyard. It was unlit. A television
blasted from one of the rooms, the sound of tires squealing obscuring
an argument in Spanish. The blue of the screen threw the shadow of the
barred windows onto his shins. He sped to his room without looking.
The room smelled of old cigarettes. The bed was made but
appeared to have been laid on. The night table drawer was missing. As
were the doors of the closet and bathroom. There was no phone.
Augie sat on the edge of the bed. The missing drawer leaned
against the wall behind the door. It might have been used as a barricade.
The drawer-bed was covered in red graffiti. Beside the television, an
ashtray was filled with some kind of dark liquid. A cigarette filter was
unraveling in it.
Augie pinned his hands under his arms. The sirens of the cheap
television across the court could still be heard. The argument seemed
to have been resolved after a door bashed closed. But as Augie squeezed
his eyes shut, he began to discern a new sound through the rest.
It was a woman sobbing.
27.
“Apologies for these whispers in the night. I know that you need your rest, snail. I just want you to know that another
opponent has been frustrated by my hand. Whether on your orders or not, I can’t guess. But the progress you fear
continues. A legend is forming. Fill your inkwells!”
Orest hung up the payphone receiver and came to a stool where two glasses sat. The twitch in Orest’s fingers left
as he finished his first rye in a gulp. And with a steady hand, he finished his second. He fought the urge to whistle as
he took in the room and the drink spread to his cheeks.
The bar was dark and draped in deep reds. A curtain hung over the island bar and gave the impression of dry
velvet. The display was outfitted with an enormous mirror that allowed Orest to see behind him toward the brown
leather booths and a couple within one. The sconces along the wall were all but swallowed by the tones of the room.
“You play?”
The only other man sitting at the bar was looking to Orest’s boot. Orest followed his eyes; his violin case was at
his feet.
Orest looked over the stranger with careful eyes; his recent abduction had made him wary. The man’s face was
drawn. The lines of his eyes were deep and grew in the room’s shadows. He wore a suit and tie that seemed desperate
to escape him and was undone and loose. He held an empty highball in his hand. The ice hadn’t melted at all. And a
duffle bag sat on the stool beside him.
“A fellow drifter,” Orest sniffed.
75
The man grinned at the comment and laid a hand on his bag. “I
guess you could say that.” His voice was low from years of his scotch
and tobacco. And his cadence was unnaturally slow. He wiped his long,
thin hair from his forehead and then lifted his chin. “I think most
writers are drifters.” The man was drunk.
Orest remembered his volumes of publications and he too raised
his chin. “I used to be of your breed. No more.”
“Well, have you stopped drifting or writing?” The man looked
into his new glass when it arrived. He seemed to have forgotten that he
had started the conversation.
“Oh, I am no more adrift than the spear mid-throw.”
The man lifted an eyebrow. Then he looked at Orest’s profile. “I’m
Charles. Journalist. What brings you and your violin to the junction?”
Orest took Charles’ hand in his glove and looked him over. “You
first, Charles.”
Charles grinned again. Two of his bottom teeth were gone,
making his consonants soft and exacerbating his slur. “Okay. I’m a
consultant on a film here. I’m meant to inform the story with gritty
realism.” His voice dropped even lower. It croaked, then rattled out the
words. Orest still watched Charles with suspicion.
“You have come to Hollywood for fame.”
“Christ no. If I could burn this place down, I would.” The man
drank, then spoke again. “I’m here for some goddamn money. Should
be the only reason anyone comes to this place. Now you.”
“I’m merely passing through.”
“Through to where?”
“I’m going to Mexico.”
Charles scoffed through his gums. “Mexico’s dead.”
“Not just yet.” Orest felt Charles’ stare along his face. He did not
look back.
“I’ve lived in Ciudad Juarez for the last seven and a half years.”
The man swung his knees to face Orest. “Juarez? The lands of the smack
mountains. With that goddamn white horse? The severed heads? Don’t
tell me she’s not dead. You don’t have any goddamn idea.”
Orest turned to Charles who was returning to his drink, confident
he’d spoiled the conversation.
“I am Professor Orest Routh Godwin of Frog Hollow,
Connecticut. And I’ve heard the weeping from the lands you speak
of. And I’m going to them. Not like you. I’m no longer a merchant
of words. And not with song either.” He pointed to his violin case and
then to Charles. “I am coming with the surgeon’s knife.” Orest grabbed
the back of Charles’ neck. “And your time as these propagandists’ fool
are through. You must be a consultant to me.” He opened his coat and
tapped the handle of his blade.
The man seemed to barely notice it. He was looking at too deeply
into Orest’s face. “Godwin? The historian?”
“Once, yes. Now the renfort of struggling revolution.”
28.
Augie was already awake when the porter started pounding on the doors. The porter said nothing, but simply kicked the
base of the door with his heavy rubber boot and then moved to the next occupied room. Augie had fallen asleep in his
clothes. Orest had not come back.
He showered on his toes without soap, then pulled on a fresh t-shirt, already one of his last. The sun split the
buildings and flooded the room. New stains were everywhere. But Augie was no longer frightened. In another hour,
he felt, this would all be over.
He threw his key to the porter without collecting his deposit for the remote control and walked his scooter to
the street. He put the Pigeon on its stand and carried his bags along the street. On the corner, he saw a small café.
The tiny cocktail tables lined the front and Mexican servers carried steel pitchers of hot coffee. Augie crouched
beneath one of the umbrellas and into the bench along the wall. He snatched a menu and fingered a bottle of hot
sauce. A girl poured him a cup of coffee and put a small creamer onto his table. He filled it with sugar and took a first
sip. The autumn morning was crisp and the boulevard hadn’t accepted the sun yet. The hot coffee ran through his ribs
and he took a long breath to savor it. On either side of him, heavy plates of eggs and bacon steamed.
He thought of Orest and the betrayal that Augie would have to commit. And the reputation he would be
assaulting. Orest’s academic career had been impressive. Even Augie’s father had heard of him. He was a sought-after
lecturer. A cited author. He monopolized the college’s press. His analyses spawned a generation of new work. Augie
convinced himself that this would still be his legacy. Not the half-year of madness.
77
Augie was reading through the menu when something caught his
ear. Over the rush of traffic, he thought he heard the familiar whistling.
He squinted through the cars at the light toward the other side of the
road. There was a small island between three strangely angled streets.
The curb was painted red all around it. Augie stood up. He started
toward the corner. After a few steps, his hunch was proved.
The lean figure was unmistakable. His frock and Stetson hung
from the branch of a tree while he bent over a tiled fountain. He
whistled happily while splashing water on the back of his neck in plain
view to the neighbourhood, his knife and pistols completely uncovered.
Beside him was a large trunk of leather and brass, beaten by travel.
Augie considered hiding beneath the umbrella until Orest drifted
on. Then he remembered that Orest had his money in his violin case.
Augie waited for the traffic to thin to cross.
“Professor.”
Orest shot up, then looked around him. He saw Augie, then after
his moment of confusion, called back. “Ho, lad! The nights can only
break us temporarily!”
Augie shrugged and put his sneaker on the trunk. “What is this?”
“Our Pleiade has grown by a third.”
“What has grown?”
“Ah! Your cynicism led you to believe that we’d never find a
sympathetic hand. Good. It protects you. But, there are others whose
work we do. Who will reward us on our way.” Orest took his coat from
the branch that barely held it.
“We can’t carry this thing.”
“In our hearts or in our arms, we must carry this one way or
another.”
“How?”
“A simple rig attachment. I’ve got a solution in mind.”
“Attachment to what?”
“My Ginevra must remain agile as the lead vehicle. Your scootster
requires nothing but to follow.”
Augie pressed his eyes with his thumb. He opened them to Orest
dangling a key.
“This isn’t merely a key to a beaten trunk. No. This is your
intellectual birth.”
“Where’s Ginevra?”
“Again, you’ve slept through critical advances.” Orest smiled and
his moustache stretched.
Augie looked through the leaning palm trees to the spot beneath
the umbrella where his coffee cooled. Orest slapped his hands together
and hunched over the trunk. Augie tried to ignore Orest’s effort. Then,
after a minute of Orest tugging, Augie bent down and took the opposite
handle.
29.
Behind a large hardware store three Mexican men worked on Ginevra. Her fuse had been replaced and her wheel
realigned. The muffler was now wrapped in silver duct tape. As Orest approached, the men greeted him with cheers.
“See, Prichard. The alliances grow almost without effort.”
One man shook Orest’s hand enthusiastically as he pointed to Ginevra. “The light is good, the oil’s good.” Then
he pointed to the muffler and nodded.
“Excellent, Gerardo. You are a top artisan.”
Augie felt a hand on his wrist. A man was taking it from his scooter and gesturing towards another man. He then
began walking it away. Yet another man brought a two-wheeled trailer with mismatched tires from the back of an old
truck. A fourth man arrived and began to fasten the rig to the Pigeon’s rear tire with fencing wire.
“I don’t think that’s gonna work, Professor.”
“Nonsense again. These here are the engineers of the bridges we cross, the buildings that tower overhead, and the
networks of road and rail that carry us to our destiny. Of course that can attach this simple mechanism.”
“Man, how much did you pay these guys?”
“Handsomely. But not only have I bought this craftsmanship, I’ve bought trust.”
“They just taped the exhaust, it’s not craftsmanship.”
“Soon, these dollars we carry will be nothing more than clues for the villains who trail us. To spend them on
these lion-hearts is an honor.”
79
One of them men spat and wiped his chin with his sleeve.
As the trailer was wired to the Pigeon, two of the men hoisted
the trunk onto it. They produced a few feet of gnarled rope and began
to wrap it over the top of the cargo and beneath the trailer. When they
finished, one patted the seat with his pliers.
Augie climbed onto the Pigeon, eager to prove that the trailer
wasn’t properly harnessed. Instead, he saw Orest putting bills in each
man’s hands and throwing his leg over Ginevra.
“Professor, don’t let them go; this chicken wire isn’t gonna hold.”
“It may not have a sleek presentation! But if it were up to you, the
first wheel would be tossed because its circle wasn’t perfect. Or the first
vaccinations would be swatted aside because they were administered
through the eyeball.”
Orest managed to start his engine in a single attempt.
“That makes zero sense.”
“To you, greenhorn.”
Orest blasted by Augie and off the curb without looking. Augie
fumbled to start the Pigeon and then followed onto Sunset. Orest was
speeding between cars to position himself at the lights. Augie watched
as the trailer crimped and poked his tailpipe. The wire was already
bending.
Again, Orest took off and Augie was forced to keep up. The
wheels of the trailer were of different widths, and the thinner one
bounced dangerously as he went. The Pigeon was pulled to the side,
then held back. Augie tried to use his horn to alert Orest.
Soon, Orest approached an overpass and a clear view of a massive
freeway presented itself just beneath them. Even Orest couldn’t miss it.
Augie gasped as he saw Orest crossing the lanes of traffic. He followed,
shouting Orest’s various names and smashing the horn of the scooter.
Orest had opened up his throttle and was standing up as he shot down
the onramp.
Augie called one last time, then clenched the brake and put
out his sneaker to assist his stop. A low blast, like a ship, rose behind
him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the grill of a massive truck
descending. He scrambled to accelerate. He could feel the heat behind
him as the giant engine brakes screamed. The whining pistons seemed
overtop of him.
He threw the scooter onto the freeway without looking. Other
horns burst out beside him. Finally, he turned to see that the truck
had slowed and their distance had grown. The wire of the trailer was
stretched, but had held. Up ahead, Orest’s cape flowed.
30.
The freeway was rough and parts were combed, about to be repaved. Orest’s arms shook and a small nausea began to
grow in his stomach. He had left his frock open and a cool wind was stinging his neck to his vest. He reached inside
with a glove and pulled out a bottle.
He pulled his Stetson lower and took a sip of rye. A woman watched from another vehicle in disgust. Immediately,
his throat warmed. He forgot Augie. He breathed deeply through his nose. The rye and the sharp air mixed. And again,
he thought of the giant that he knew in Alcott.
Orest remembered coming to King’s Circle in the night and seeing a young man there. He was hurling a football
into the air and catching it in the scoop of his arms. Sometimes he would drop the ball as he lost it in the dark. But
once he had it, he would sprint feverishly to the end of the field. Then he would do it again. The boy’s name was
Terrence MacAfee. But he was known as “Tree.”
Tree MacAfee had come to Elswit College with the promise of being the centerpiece of a new football program.
The then-new Provost Levanthal had seen the sport as a possible way of generating new resources for the school. He
was a Stanford graduate.
Tree MacAfee was the hero of a nearby high school football team, the Alcott Eagles. The Alcott Independent
was stocked in the offices of Elswit and the Provost read greedily about MacAfee’s exploits. By November, Levanthal
was near hysterics. MacAfee had scored a record five touchdowns against the Eagles’ most loathed rivals, Our Lady of
Fatima’s Sooners. More than that, he’d given two Sooners concussions. Levanthal sprang into action.
81
By December he had formally offered Tree MacAfee a full
scholarship. He’d drawn up a one-page contract himself, as he was a
licensed attorney, and brought it with him when he drove to Alcott
High for the very first time. The coach viewed the document with some
suspicion, but seemed to be comforted when he read the two hundred
or so words. By the time Levanthal had returned to the college, his
secretary greeted him with a message of acceptance from the MacAfee
family. Levanthal was so pleased that not even when Tree MacAfee
broke another teammate’s jaw did his mood lower. But lower it did.
The Provost was unable to meet with Tree MacAfee through
the spring. He was told various things by the coach and by MacAfee’s
father, a local arc welder. Finally, fearing that an injury might be the
reason for the delay, Levanthal insisted on a face-to-face meeting.
Tree MacAfee and his father came to the Levanthal’s office.
The coach had vanished. Within minutes, the reason was clear: Tree
MacAfee was simple.
He was a near-mute illiterate. The secondary school had been
passing him in his courses only to permit him to play football. When
the Provost had offered the generous scholarship, Mr. MacAfee had
accepted understanding that a similar arrangement could continue.
But Levanthal did not have this kind of influence.
Yet, the scholarship was unbreakable. Levanthal had drawn the
papers himself. Tree MacAfee would attend Elswit. And after he failed
his first year, he would be suspended, then expelled.
Levanthal’s plans for a competitive football program were
immediately stopped. Athletic scholarships were withdrawn from all
who had not signed. And the Provost never spoke to Tree MacAfee
again.
It was during the change from fall to winter that first semester
that Orest came upon Tree MacAfee in the center of King’s Circle.
Orest watched the boy for a few moments while he smoked. He took a
swallow of rye to fend off the new cold before he decided to call out.
“Ho boy!”
Tree MacAfee stopped his game. He looked to Orest with panic,
as through he was doing something wrong. Still, he said nothing.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing lonelier than a boy playing catch
with himself in the dead of night.” Orest was setting his folders on
the ground and walking toward the boy. “I think I can hear the ivy
weeping.”
The boy did not respond.
When Orest got close enough, he could see that the boy was
confused. Orest stopped his approach and put up his hands. Tree
MacAfee’s look of concern lessened. Orest gestured with his hands
again. The boy slowly set his feet, never taking his eyes from Orest.
After some time, he threw the ball.
Orest lost it in the dark and it shot between his hands and struck
him in the chest. He chased the rolling ball in the dark grass and looked
up to see Tree MacAfee eagerly waiting for Orest to throw it back.
Orest did. But his weak hand fell far short. Still, Tree MacAfee
raced for it and scraped it from the ground as though it were an official
game. Sweat gathered on his cheeks.
Again he threw the ball to Orest and again he lost it. Then he
threw the ball and again it landed short of its target.
Orest took a drink from his flask between long breaths. He tried
to take the air through his nose to calm his heart. He shut his eyes as he
took off his spectacles and put them in his jacket pocket. He loosened
his tie.
“A proper warm-up. Onto new challenges.”
Orest crouched. Tree MacAfee stopped and stared at him. Orest
waved his hand at the boy. Tree MacAfee put the ball under his arm.
Orest waved his hand again.
Tree MacAfee began a sprint toward Orest. Orest ran with
caution, bracing himself. The boy gathered a stunning amount of speed
quickly. Orest was determined to throw himself in front of the boy.
Tree MacAfee lowered his shoulder as Orest neared. Orest watched from his back as Tree MacAfee sprinted into the
end of the field. His lungs were gasping and his ribs burned. He had
bitten his tongue and blood ran down his chin.
He slowly stood. He felt in his pocket that his spectacles were
crushed. His flask was dented. He took a drink between heaves then
waved at Tree MacAfee to try again. He shook his head to himself and
spit some blood. He couldn’t see the boy at that distance without his
glasses, but he could hear: Tree MacAfee was giggling.
31.
A navy Crown Victoria pulled into the driveway of a white home with wood trim. It looked vaguely medieval, except for
the satellite dish grafted onto the roof. The drive had been short and frost still clouded most of the windshield. The
police officer dug at the plastic lid of his coffee with his thumb and stepped out.
He removed his hat and put it with the file under his arm. He knocked on the door with his free hand, then
sipped his coffee while he waited. A ragged cleft pallet split his moustache.
A woman opened the door nearly instantly. A television screamed from somewhere deep in the house.
“Good morning, Miss. I’m Detective Meade. I have an appointment with the professor.”
“Yes, of course, come in. Good morning.”
Meade was expected, and the house was in order. The woman spoke with an eastern European accent and wore
loose clothing. Meade guessed that she was a maid rather than a nurse.
“No, no, leave those on.”
She was pointing to his shoes and waved him forward. She led him through a narrow hall and into a kitchen that
was already tidied after a breakfast. Meade could smell beans and butter.
“Can a get you a coffee?”
“No, I’m good with this.” Meade lifted the paper cup in his hand.
“Ah, but this is finer.”
Meade smiled and the woman shrugged back. Then she turned the burner off and put her flat hand in the air
84
between them. Her voice lowered significantly.
“He’s not having a good morning. He gets congested earlier in
the day. Especially when it’s a touch cold out.” She put her hand on
her chest. “It clears up by the afternoon, but he has trouble with the
breathing and is very exhausted.”
“I’m sorry that we couldn’t do this later in the day, but we thought
it was a bit urgent.”
“Yes, of course. He just might be a bit cranky is all.”
She crinkled her nose and then passed Meade. He followed to a
small staircase. Immediately, the sound of booming television applause
could be heard. They climbed the stairs.
They came to the door of a bedroom. The woman knocked on
the door ferociously, startling Meade. She kept a consistent bang on the
door while she opened it. The television blared with audience laughter.
Meade waited at the threshold.
“Felix! Your appointment is here. Put in your ear!”
Meade could see a small figure seated behind a desk. He wore
a striped dressing shirt that was thin with age. Long strands of hair
floated off his bald head. He didn’t react to the shouting behind him.
And he leaned precariously toward the television.
The woman slapped on his shoulder roughly and shouted again.
“Felix, put in your ear!”
Her accent became thicker as she shouted. She put her finger in
her ear over and over.
Finally, Felix moved and reached for a small hearing device that
sat on his desk beside a teacup. The woman was already turning down
the television. After a moment, her voice sank to more conversational
levels.
“You turn this up and it bothers everyone but you.”
“It’s my goddamn house, Octavia, I’m the only one it matters if
they’re bothered.”
“You didn’t even dress, Felix.”
“It’s my house!”
The man turned in his chair, while holding a set of plastic tubes
into his nostrils. An oxygen tank was over his shoulder on a roller. The
chair was outfitted with a series of massagers and warmers. This is the
place where he spent his time. He was changing one set of glasses for
another, trying to focus on Meade who was waiting for an invitation to
enter.
“Well, let’s get on with it. I don’t think I can do much for you.”
“Good morning, Professor LeMay. I’m Detective Ernest Meade.”
“Yes, yes, get in.” Felix was waving with irritation.
Octavia stopped between them. “Do you want me to stay, Felix?”
“You think he’s brought something to dust?”
Octavia left the room without the smallest reaction to Felix’s
comment. Meade assumed that they were frequent.
Meade sat down in a wood chair beside the desk. He put his hat
on his knee and his coffee on the edge. Then he opened his file.
“As I said on the phone, we got a call from a college in California
late Tuesday night—”
“Elswit College.”
“Yes, Elswit College.”
“A circus. A neutered provost who can’t get a knife-welding
arsonist out. They make him emeritus.”
Meade ignored the comment.
“A professor there hasn’t been seen in some days and he’s a
correspondent of yours.”
“Who do you think I’m talking about? Christ. A correspondent.
Hardly.”
“Right. Well, he writes you with some regularity.”
“He writes me, he phones me in the dead of night, he turns up at
commencement addresses. Let’s just skip ahead: the man is raving.”
“I see that several complaints have been filed on your lawyer’s
behalf.”
“What?” Felix turned his ear at Meade.
“I see that several complaints have been filed on your lawyer’s
behalf.”
“That’s right. And you people do nothing. ‘Oh he’s just senile.’
Well, now he’s gone and killed someone and you’re all scrambling to
figure out what the hell happened.”
“We don’t know that he’s killed anybody, Professor.”
“There’s a child missing. And he just burned down half the
goddamn campus. He’s been pulling knives on people for years. Add it
up.” Felix was starting to smirk. He enjoyed having information that
others did not.
“Professor, let’s back up. How do you know Professor Godwin?”
“Christ, I went through all this a dozen times. Look in your files.”
Felix was pointing to Meade’s lap.
“I understand, Professor, but I need to get as clear of an
understanding of this situation as I can so this investigation can begin.”
Meade’s tone became hard. Felix stopped talking, then went into
a fit of coughs. Meade felt that the scene was contrived. He patiently
waited for Felix to finish and said nothing. Felix returned his look to
Meade. His performance had failed. He sighed.
“Professor Godwin and I translated some of the same German
texts.”
“And that’s the extent of your relationship?”
“I wrote a critique of some of his work in one of the preambles of
one of my publications. And in an anthology two years later.”
“So you are professional rivals.”
“Not in any real sense. I’m the superior translator and so
publishers favored my work to his. This was something that he took
personally.”
“And he threatened your life?”
“Well, he doesn’t speak with any clarity, so you’d be hard pressed
to figure out what the hell he was saying. Possibly why his work was so
shoddy.”
“But he came to the opening of the Munk Center and threatened
you. In ’92.” Meade was consulting a page.
“He threatened everyone. He accused Peter Munk of being a
‘profiteer of misery’ and a ‘merchant of blood’.”
“And he spent the night in jail.” Meade was reading a new page.
“The ‘drunk tank,’ is what you people call it.”
“And you’ve heard from him since.”
Felix laughed. “Oh Christ, have I heard from him? The phone
never stops! He just hisses on the other end at all hours! He doesn’t even
say anything.”
“But you’re sure it’s him.”
“My god, you’re all dense. The letters, the calls! Every week! I just
hope one of us is dead before he discovers email or I’ll have to shoot
this goddamn machine in the yard.”
Meade let Felix relax by not asking another question. Suddenly,
Felix pulled open a drawer.
“You all don’t seem to understand how far this has gotten. Look
what I’ve had to go out and buy just for some sense of peace.” Felix held
up a pistol. It looked enormous in his weak hand and made his wrist
quiver.
“Professor LeMay, please.”
Felix set the gun back in its case. “Well, you understand now?”
“Yes, Professor. Which is why we’re trying to find something that
might help us to find him. He’s with a teenager. He may have fled the
country to Mexico.”
“Well he’s due for a call. It’s been about ten hours.”
“He’s phoned here?”
“What am I trying to say to you! Keep up!”
Meade was too focused to address the insult. “He called last
night?”
“He calls, he writes, he’ll probably shoot out of a cannon as soon
as you leave.”
“Do you have his most recent letters?”
“No! My god. He’s certifiable. I don’t read these things. I burn
them. Or send back the ones addressed properly. He hasn’t written a
sensible word since Ginny. Probably before.”
“Ginny?”
“Ginny Toulin.”
Meade began to write the name down.
“Ginevra Toulin. She’s dead now. Last winter I think.”
32.
Morning passed since Augie had caught sight of Orest. The freeway had thinned again and he’d watched the sun move
over him. The models of car that he shared the road with changed. There were no convertibles. Now, he was next to
open pick-ups and other utility vehicles. Cactus appeared in the sands beyond the road.
He had considered calling his father in Los Angeles, but did not. His father might have suspected it was some
kind of spree; Augie had applied to schools in the city and had been rejected. He thought about calling the college
directly. This, he felt, would best be approached with his father beside him. But, Augie reasoned, if he contacted them
from out of state, his story would be that much more compelling. The less glamorous the location, the better Augie’s
chances of his academic reprieve. He would give it one last day. Then follow his plan.
Still, Augie was homesick. He wanted this to be over. His hip ached. His clothes were dirty. His forearms were
red with sun.
The cars shot past him. The Pigeon shook at higher speeds and Augie slowed down when the traffic had decreased.
He kept at the pepperoni sticks in his shorts’ pocket. He drank from the hot colas that he’d wedged between his duffle
bag straps and the seat.
Augie thought of Isaac Veign. He imagined the ridicule that awaited him back at Elswit. Isaac, after enjoying
nearly a week without him, would be insufferable. And would taunt him throughout his inevitable probation.
The wind pushed on his eyes and they watered. And then he thought of his mother.
She sang country music songs softly in the front seat when they drove. He could always hear her soft ‘s’ even
88
though she tried to keep her singing to herself. He remembered the
grey velour of their Monte Carlo. The mint wrappers stuffed in the
handle of the door. The buckle of the seatbelt that pressed into his ribs
while he slept. And the pop of the dashboard lighter before the smell of
cigarettes on long drives.
“Is it too windy back there?” his father would call over his
shoulder.
She was remarried to a man twenty years her senior. His sons
were grown. New jewelry appeared on his mother’s fingers and wrists.
And the Monte Carlo was sold.
He switched on the light of his scooter. Ahead of him a large sign
stood from the shoulder.
Welcome to Arizona.
Augie exhaled. Now, he could call his father. No one would
accuse him of coming here voluntarily.
Then he lost the road in the flash white light. He put out his leg
to steady himself as he went over the split pavement. He looked over
his shoulder, pulling the scooter with him. He moved to the edge to
let the vehicle pass. The white burned in his eyes and he wobbled as he
tried to straighten his path. A pulse of siren shot out a moment before
the red and blue began to swirl. 89 | Orest and August
“You been out drinkin’?”
“Not at all, no.”
“What do you got here, a 150cc?”
Augie looked down at the Pigeon. He could see no decals. The
ground was a kaleidoscope of the sirens and headlights.
“This here, this isn’t done right.” He waved his arm at the trailer
that clung to the stripped bolt of the tire. “Let me see your license.”
Augie reached into his shorts and produced his drivers’ license
and a fist of pepperoni. The officer looked at it while putting a boot on
the scooter. He read for a moment, then squinted off into the dimmet.
“Well, you got a couple of options right here. First, you got this
on the highway and she don’t go on the highway. You hit a possum
out here you’ll be hitting ground before you know it. The other thing
is, you got a license for a car, not one of these,” he pushed on the tire
with his foot. “The Highway Traffic Act calls this a motorcycle, same as
one of those big hogs you see around. No difference. So, you gotta get
a motorcycle license. The place that sold you her should have told you
that. Same here as in any state.”
“They didn’t.”
“Well, that happens sometimes. They want to make a sale and
who the hell cares what else.” The officer looked back to Augie.
“I guess I should call my father.”
“Where’s your old man, son? Pennsylvania?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let me give you those options I mentioned,” he looked off
again. “I can ticket you for being on this road here, ticket you for riding
without the appropriate license, and phone up your old man and get
him worked up and get you in a lot of heat even though there isn’t one
thing he can do about it from there. Or I can get you up to this truck
stop ahead, call up a company I know with a flatbed and get this thing
to wherever you’re trying to get to on the wrong roads. It’ll be cheaper
than a ticket, and I won’t have to come back out here and find you
underneath an eighteen wheeler.”
“You know, maybe I should just call my father.”
“Boy, you want to call your dad and tell ‘im you have no sense,
that’s your business. My business is keeping this road safe at my
discretion. So hop on; I’m gonna put some lights on you and get you a
truck. I was being polite about saying you had options. I was thinking
out loud more.”
The officer was already returning to his car.
33.
The state trooper kept the sirens on while he followed Augie. He drove excruciatingly slow. Augie tried to accelerate,
but the trooper blared his siren. After more than an hour, Augie saw the dim light of a diner. A rig was parked in the
desert. Then, the unlighted sign of the Tomahawk Truck Stop emerged.
The trooper put on his signal and flared his siren until Augie put on his signal too. He slowly pulled onto the
dirt path and past the diesel pumps and a wooden water silo. Then the cruiser directed him to the spot in front of the
window. A waitress and a customer were already looking.
“What do ya got yourself there, Trevor?”
A driver was shouting through a mouthful of potatoes at Augie as the trooper escorted them in. A jukebox played
muted slide guitar in the background.
“Ah, just another criminal mastermind,” the officer looked over the diner and then called to the back of a waitress
while she took some dishes from a booth in the corner. “Tyra, I’m gonna use the phone by the counter.”
“Sure, honey. You want a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, Tyra.” The officer was already dialing the phone.
“Have a seat son, next to that man. He’ll keep a good eye on you.”
Augie sat next to the man that had shouted to them. The man looked over him coldly, not understanding the
91
joke.
“You in some trouble?”
“Not really.”
“Not really,” the man repeated and took a sip of his beer.
The waitress set her tray beside Augie and walked behind the
counter. She tightened her apron and blew her hair off her face.
“You want something, honey?”
“Um, I don’t know how long I’m gonna be here.”
Augie looked at the officer on the phone.
“Calvin, how far are you from the Tomahawk? I need ya to bring
down that flatbed and get someone back into town.”
Augie listened to the officer, then stood up. The man beside him
spoke before putting a fork of meatloaf and ketchup into his mouth.
“Sit yourself down boy.”
“I’m just using the bathroom,” Augie snapped.
“Not until the man says, you aren’t.”
“For Pete’s sake, he can use the bathroom, Robby.” The waitress
was pouring from a browned coffee pot.
“Well, if ya can’t ‘til then, ya can’t ‘til then,” the officer stood from
his lean and took a sip of the coffee that the waitress had put in front
of him.
“He’s liable to jump out the door, Tyra.”
“Don’t be silly. Go use the boy’s room, honey.”
Augie stood as the trooper hung up.
“Calvin’s up in Prescott, it’s gonna take him a few hours to get the
truck down here.”
“So, what do I do?”
“Wait, son. You can’t be taking this thing back on the I-10 into
Salome.”
“Salome?”
“Into town. Where the hell else you gonna go out in the desert?”
The officer sat on a stool. “I caught this boy on the I-10, on a
little scooter, going about thirty-five miles an hour. No license.” He
pointed to the Pigeon through the window.
The driver beside him shook his head. The waitress put her hand
on her mouth. “Oh, sugar, you could have been killed.”
“Had to es-cort him from about forty miles back.”
“That’s about as dumb as I can think of,” said the man while
patting the end of a ketchup bottle.
“Had another biker, over there, been driving all night, no sleep.”
The waitress gestured over her shoulder to the booth in the corner.
“Ordered as much rye as I could fit in a fountain glass and passed
straight out.”
The trooper looked over. Over the end of the bench, a well-heeled
boot dangled.
Augie lowered his face.
“He a problem, Tyra?”
“No, he’s all right, just dead tired.”
“How long’s he been like that?”
“Hour.”
The officer stood.
“Trevor, it’s fine.”
“There’s rooms here if he wants to sleep. Easier I move him now,
than you.”
“It’s all right, Trevor.”
The officer was already walking to the booth. Augie tried to keep
his face in his hand.
“Hey there, no sleeping in here. It’s a business.”
The officer set his coffee on the table and slapped the top of the
boot with his palm. After a few seconds, the boot slowly withdrew and
a black half Stetson hat appeared over the back of the seats.
“Fella, gotta get a room if you wanna sleep, all right?”
Orest stared vacantly at the table.
“Hey, you hearin’ me?”
Orest still didn’t look. Then, he slowly reached over to the glass
on the table. He finished the rye in a swallow and only then looked
over to the officer. His great collar was turned up to his jaw, and his
weapons were hidden.
“Oh boy, I think he’s stewed, Tyra. How much you give him?”
“Just that glass,” the waitress called out.
The officer put his hand on Orest’s violin case. Orest suddenly
shot his hand to it as well. It clanged as they both gripped.
“Listen fella, you can’t be sittin’ in diners drinking from what you
bring from your home. You’ll come up against the bylaws.”
The man beside Augie shot up and joined the officer at his side.
Augie stood too, his hand still over his face.
“Eh, mister. You better listen this trooper here or you’ll be getting
a free ride home.”
Orest slowly rose from the booth, dropping the ornate trunk key
from his lap. He turned to the man. “Your advice is quite unnecessary.”
“That so?”
“Quite so.”
“And why’s that, old-timer?”
Orest scowled. “Because, I’m afraid, any man that puts himself
into the clutches of a lethal thing is a fool. You might’ve sat out and
been spared. Now, you won’t be.”
The man reached over the officer’s shoulder and grabbed Orest by
his lapel while banging his thighs on the table. The glass rolled onto the
floor and smashed. Orest, whose footing was surprisingly weak, slipped
immediately, vanishing inside the booth.
“Jesus, Robby, get the hell out of here!” The officer shoved the man
toward the door.
“Robby, what the hell is wrong with you? He’s an old man.”
The waitress was already helping Orest out from beneath the
table.
“Tyra, clean ‘im up and phone him a taxi, would ya?”
“Yeah, Trevor. Just get him out of here.”
“I still gotta pay you, Tyra.”
“Pay me next time. And for the broken dishes too, Rob.”
“Boy, you hold tight for that truck,” the officer shouted to Augie
before pushing the man all the way into the parking lot. From there,
there was more shouting. Then Augie watched the men shake hands
before each got into their vehicles and drove off.
“Sliced again!”
Orest was looking at the back of his hand. It was red with blood.
He began to remove his frock.
The waitress was picking up shards and placing them in the
broken base of the glass. Suddenly she stopped. She was staring at
Orest’s chest.
“You one of them reenactment boys? The performers from
Tombstone?”
She put a dishcloth around Orest’s hand. He ignored her question.
“We had the Doc Holiday in here last year. Thin as paper, but he
was from Malibu. They cast him outta there. The accent was all wrong,
but a tourist isn’t gonna know that in a gunfight.” She pulled back the
cloth. “I think you need a stitch, honey.”
Orest finally saw Augie at the counter.
“Prichard! Allies and opponents in every saloon!”
Orest walked toward Augie, leaving his frock draped on the table
and dropping the cloth. He patted Augie’s shoulder with his bloody
hand, forgetting his injury.
“If they’d known my second covered me at every moment! They
wouldn’t believe how near they came to oblivion!” Orest laughed with
closed eyes.
The waitress seemed confirmed by Orest’s comment.
“Professor, cover these up, people might think this is a hold-up.”
“A-ha! As though these were for her? The coins of a simple
wench!”
“Excuse me?”
“Fear not, madam. We too are in the service of something grand.
You feed the weary traveler. We free the impoverished.”
The woman cocked an eye at Augie. Augie shrugged with some
embarrassment.
“Dress the wounds of the soldier! And then, food for these
bonded friends!”
“There’s meatloaf on special.”
“So be it!”
34.
The waitress made Orest keep his case on the table while Augie ate. She didn’t want him spiking his coffee. Augie finished
his plate greedily. Orest tipped the waitress each time she brought a plate or refilled a drink. Eventually, she pushed the
bills toward Augie with a wink. She thought that Orest was confused.
A silver tank truck pulled into the stop. Its bowser was marked; it carried petrol. Its uniformed driver entered the
diner and ordered a plate with no familiarity. His accent was northern. His face was clean-shaven.
Orest eyed him suspiciously. He spat out his cigarillo smoke as he watched the man sit. Then he eyed the tank
through the window with contempt.
“Speak nothing of our furlough, this man is in league with our enemies.” Orest had leaned over to table and
lowered his voice. The man noticed Orest’s stare.
“All right,” Augie was scooping ice cream on his warmed pie.
“These jackals. Goring the lands.” Orest stared at the man while he spoke. “They envenom anything they touch.”
Orest’s voice was rising.
“Okay, okay.” Augie looked from Orest to the driver. “Just relax.”
The man swallowed and let his fork rest on the plate. “You all right?”
Orest stared at the man before he put on a mocking tone. “Oh, indeed.”
“Good.”
“Very good.”
95
The man looked away with a scoff. Orest blew smoke over his
head and stabbed out his cigarillo, banging the glass ashtray and leaving
his eyes on the man. The driver shook his head to himself and took
another bite.
Another set of headlights brushed the counter through the
window. The waitress poked her head through the kitchen, then
checked the driver’s coffee.
Another man entered the Tomahawk. His skin was black and his
jeans were brown with motor oil and grease. His eyes were yellow with
exhaustion. He rubbed them before he looked over the room.
“Over there, Calvin.” The waitress nodded in the direction of
Augie and Orest’s booth. Her tone was much coarser.
The man ambled toward the table. His boots were soft with wear.
The sleeves were torn from his shirt. But his arms were contoured with
muscle. And his old shoulders still bulged with strength.
“Officer Trevor sent me to look after a young man. I’m Calvin.
Truck’s outside.” Calvin looked down at his boots with a hint of shame
after Orest’s elaborate suit. The top of his head was grey. “Sorry ‘bout
the wait, I come all the way down from Prescott. I still had a load on
‘er when Officer Trevor called.”
Orest’s face had reversed from the scowl a moment ago.
“Nonsense! It is us that are indebted to you.”
Calvin looked up at Orest’s face. Then over to Augie. Augie
smiled. The man’s exhaustion was obvious. The waitress still had not
offered him anything.
“So, our duties are clear. You must eat and rest and only then can
we embark on our next stage.”
“I was told to get this boy into town.”
“And you will. Of course, we’re a pair. Like the dactyl and
spondee. But first: pie.”
Orest made room beside him. He looked over his shoulder
toward the kitchen. “Menus!”
Still Calvin stood. Orest patted the seat loudly. Calvin sat down,
stifling a groan. The waitress at last came to the table.
“Here you go, Calvin.”
“This man is to be served whatever he wishes and we will pay.”
“I’ll pay for my food if we got time for it.”
“We won’t hear of it. But, this is not charity. There is much that
we hope to learn from you. You will have to tolerate our need. You see,
this boy is a son of privilege. And he is finally old enough to cast off his
spoiled origins.”
Calvin was too tired to smile. He pulled a pair of large eyeglasses
from his collar and unfolded them. They magnified his eyes greatly. He
searched the menu, then his focus landed on Orest’s gloves, which laid
on the table beside him. He followed them to the bloody dishcloth,
then his cuff that was spotted with burns, and up to Orest’s face.
He lifted his eyebrows and took off his glasses.
35.
“Oh, I get up and out around five most days. I get home at different times. Depends on the calls. If it’s rainin’ you find
you can’t expect to get more than a couple hours o’ sleep. If it’s real bad, I pull over and catch some in the truck. My
wife ain’t too pleased when the phone keeps goin’ in the dead of night. She don’t mind but it wakes the babies. My
oldest has two.” Calvin tapped a photograph that swung from the rearview mirror, tangled with a rosary.
Orest took it in his hand. Then began to unwind it from the mirror. Calvin looked over, then began to help him
with one hand as Orest began to struggle.
“That’s not her. That’s my youngest.”
Orest was holding the photograph near the window to use some passing streetlights. Calvin watched him before
he made another turn.
Augie was looking over Calvin’s arm. He had lifted Ginevra onto the truck himself. Augie was amazed. His
shoulders were massive. His forearms were lined with sinew and vein.
Orest passed Calvin the photograph over Augie’s lap. He noted the remarkable differences in their hands. Orest’s
was long, spidery, the nails pointed at the tip. The fingers that weren’t in use perked like feathers. Calvin’s was the width
of his chest. And grey with callus.
“And your limp, is that a battle wound?”
Calvin looked over to Orest. Orest was staring back in complete sincerity.
“No, sir. I was born with a clubfoot. Never walked any other way, so it ain’t a limp to me.” Calvin laughed. “My
97
brother was in the war though. In Asia. I never gone ‘cause of my foot.”
Calvin tapped his knee. “How ‘bout you, that cut by your ear, that a
battle wound?” He laughed again.
Orest had become sullen. “My brother was in the war too.
Another war, yet still the same war. Murdered by the profiteers who
sent him as much as the bayonet that gutted him.” Orest put a finger
to his temple and looked out of the window. “ And this, this could be
one of a thousand to come, I’m afraid.”
Calvin was grinning. He put his elbow into Augie’s rib. “Your
papa is something, boy. He still gettin’ into it, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
Calvin let out a laugh that filled the cabin. “Now, where you two
boys tryin’ to be? You in a hotel in Salome?”
“We aren’t going to Salome.” Orest’s tone had shifted again.
“Officer Trevor made it clear to get this one into town and off
them roads.”
“Officer Trevor has no jurisdiction over us.”
Calvin laughed again. “Well you two went and got youselves
written up in that man’s state. That all the jurisdiction he needs.”
Orest was unfolding some bills. “We’re going to the border.”
Calvin looked over to Orest. His money was fanned out beneath
his mustache.
“Boy, I don’t mean to tell you your business, but this one just
got a warning. There’s no need to be running to Mexico just yet.” He
laughed again.
“We’re not running.”
Calvin’s laugh stopped and he shrugged to himself. “Well, Officer
Trevor says take you to town, I gotta do as the man says.”
“This Officer Trevor should count his stars that I didn’t take his
head.”
“Your papa, he a wily old-timer, huh?”
Orest laid the money on the dash.
“Can’t take that money, put ‘er back in your pocket.”
“Impossible.”
“Well, it’s gotta get possible ‘cause Officer Trevor made that call
too.”
“Explain.”
Calvin shifted in his seat and changed his grip on the steering
wheel.
“Well, things changed in the state a few years back. They made it
so you needed a license to work a truck a certain size. This one is of that
size, easy. The license is a bit of money that I didn’t have. So Officer
Trevor came ‘round and told me the facts of life. I told him I don’t got
that kind of money. And he gave me a break.”
“What kind of break?”
“He tol’ me that he’d let me go on it, if I did some work for him.”
“Like tonight.”
“Yessir.”
“Well, you’ll be paid tonight.”
“No sir, can’t take it. Officer Trevor finds out and he tells me I
need that piece of paper to work, and then I’m shut down.”
Orest was taking the money off the dash. Augie felt disappointed.
“What’s this license cost?”
“Three year? Five hundred dollars almost.”
Orest thought for a moment.
“You’ll need to take us to darker roads. Our journey continues
tonight. Salome means nothing to us.”
Calvin shook his head and turned off a main highway. After some
time, the desert spread out and the lights of the town faded. The tinny
radio began to lose its country songs. And Calvin’s old truck roared
with speed.
“Here is perfect.”
Orest waved at the darkness beyond his window without looking.
Calvin pulled over. He limped to the back and hopped into the truck
off his good leg. He took Ginevra in his great arms and gently lowered
her into the sand. Then the Pigeon. Calvin looked at the trunk and
pulled on the wire.
It had been softened by stress and Calvin removed it with ease.
“Maybe I got a bracket for this.”
He fished through a toolbox and came up with a small piece of
metal. He fastened it to the Pigeon’s rear tire. He tightened it with his
hand.
Orest stayed in the cabin and only appeared when the lifting
was done. His violin case was unlatched and held closed under his
arm. Orest shook Calvin’s hand solemnly. Then, without a word, he
mounted his Triumph and blasted off into the desert. Augie rushed to
follow him.
The truck turned around and began back the way they had come.
Augie was trying to catch up to Orest. After several minutes, he heard
the old engine rising behind him. Augie moved to the side to let Calvin
pass. Calvin slowed and continued to follow. After some time, the long
road stopped at a sign.
Orest stopped and waited for another vehicle to cross. Calvin
jumped out of the truck and left his door open and he limped to Orest
past Augie without a look. Orest didn’t notice him until he was at his
elbow. Augie couldn’t hear Calvin between the engine of the old truck
and the torn muffler of Ginevra. But he saw money in Calvin’s hand.
Orest shot into the intersection without a word.
Then, Augie did the same.
36.
The roads were easier. Augie had fed and the trunk no longer pulled the Pigeon and he saved strength in his arms. Orest
too had maintained a speed that Augie could keep. But the desert was dark. And Augie feared packs of coyotes and
whipsnake bites on his bare shins at every stop.
Soon, the night became cool. Augie put his arms against his sides. The breath in his helmet made him shiver. His
fuel was running low. But deep in the night ahead, Augie could see lights.
It was another hour before the limits of the city were reached. Again, the traffic grew. Augie was relieved to see
Orest pull into a well-lit gas bar located along the road.
“Rest up here?”
Augie was pulling his scooter next to Orest. Orest was slowly selecting a grade of petrol.
“Here? Have you no sense, you carrot?” Orest sneered as he took his hand from the lever and put it on his hip.
“Why, what’s the matter with Phoenix?”
“We’re in the badlands, Prichard. The heart of it is this vile capital. Founded by a Confederate morphine addict
who stole the irrigation from its natives. Which opened these fetid waters to a hundred years of breeding Fascists like
gnats.” Orest spat on the gravel by his boot.
“Okay.” Augie sighed again.
“We must clear Arizona tonight. Each minute in this obscene state amplifies the risk to our benevolent task.”
Augie saw a row of payphones beside a cashier. “Okay, I’m going to make a phone call.”
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“Aren’t you listening, you chipmunk! Did you not read the
inscription on the gate? Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. We
narrowly escaped capture by drudes in Los Angeles and now you want
to shut your eyes and wait for Nessus’ ferry.”
Orest’s eyes seemed to shake with anger. His knuckles curled into
fists. His mouth turned and his long teeth gleamed underneath the
halogen lamps. Augie could sense Orest’s mind working in fury.
“Okay, I won’t use the phone.”
A chill came as they drove further into the desert and past the city.
Orest pulled the collar of his rifle frock around his neck. He pulled
the ends of his gloves under his cuffs. He kept his look straight as he
imagined the evil of the dark around him on any skin uncovered.
But soon, his eyes became weary. His legs ached from the hours
they spent crumpled on Ginevra. His wrists were sore. He could feel
his age surging over him. And the years of his life swirled in his head.
He tried to catch a memory and recall it as completely as he could.
But they’d morph like a dream and refuse. He cursed the clear hours
that he’d spent at his rosewood desk. His strongest years wasted on
obscure research. Now, nothing could be counted on. He wondered
what might break first. His mind or his knees.
The desert seemed to go on forever. Orest knew he could not
escape the state before he collapsed. But still, he would try. He would
push his spine to hold him up. He would keep his stare on the road
ahead and drive Ginevra on and on. He expected at any moment
for dawn to break. He searched for the first spot on the horizon. He
panted as his arms became heavier. He growled when he caught himself
sinking. But his eyes began to close. His anger began to pass. And his
hand on the throttle began to loosen.
Suddenly his teeth smashed into the dial of Ginevra and he head
was thrown back upright. He put his hands to his mouth and gazed
around with tearing eyes. His lips stung and he was floating. Ginevra
rolled under him. She bounced over broken asphalt, covered in drifts
of sand. Then, something struck Orest’s hand and Ginevra turned
sharply, hurling him off and into the dirt.
He was winded on his back, Ginevra stalled on his leg. The
engine was hot against his calf. He made no effort to move. In the
night somewhere around him, he heard the yelp of an animal, then the
putter of the scooter.
“Jesus, Professor.”
Orest could not call out. His lungs could not gasp.
He heard the Pigeon stop and the scuff of sneakers approaching
him. Then, his leg was released and hands slid under his arms and put
him up.
“You hit something.”
“I have no air. Time steals my breath.”
“No, you hit something. I saw you. You slowed down to about
fifteen miles an hour and then swerved off the road.”
Orest was dizzy. His back was leaned against a steel pole. He put
a glove on it.
Ginevra’s light still shone. Augie swung it around. They were
surrounded by dozens of poles like stuck out of the desert like cactus.
They were bent and had simple wires sticking out of their tops. Augie
swept the light from side to side. A large white sheet like a billboard
bounced the light over the desert. Then Augie followed a bar up to a
large sign that stood over them.
Apache Drive-In Theater.
The sign was dark. Augie put the light below it and read “Closed
for Winter.” Augie assumed that it was a winter from years ago. The
drive-in was long abandoned. But some of the speakers still hung from
the poles. Sand had blown over the pavement and some grass stalks
grew where rainwater gathered beneath it.
“It’s an old drive-in.”
Orest was feeling his leg with his hands. He was sure that it was
not broken.
“We’ll have to rest the night here.”
“Here? I thought this was Mordor to you.”
“We’ve driven through most of the night.”
“It’s not even nine o’clock.”
Orest shut his eyes. “Ah, the spells of this desert! We can’t trust
anything.”
Orest slipped off the pole that supported him and flopped into
the sand. He stared up at the night sky. His mind drifted. He could feel
the air leaving his chest and bleeding out into the stars. His heart, too,
seemed to slow. He shut his eyes. He wondered which beat would be
its last.
Then he heard the whimper of an animal.
He looked over to see Augie turning Ginevra to the road. He
put its light to the spot that Orest had turned suddenly. He slowly
searched. Then a pair of glowing eyes burned out from the headlight’s
reach.
An ocelot lay in the road. Its eyes shined, its fangs drawn in a
hiss. But its leg was crippled beneath it.
“Oh my god, you hit a leopard!”
Orest could feel his heart awaken. It banged with new strength.
His leg stopped throbbing. And the stars gave back his breath.
Orest stood and slowly limped to Augie’s side. Augie was pointing
to the eyes in the path of the light. His hand’s shadow moved through
them.
“Look. It’s a baby leopard.”
Orest’s face became solemn as his exhaustion was leaving him.
“We’ll have to take her to be healed.”
“What? I’m not picking up a leopard.”
“Of course not. She’ll tear you to shreds.”
“Should we call someone?”
“I’ll bring her.”
“What?”
“I thought the desert had confused me, but now I see: it wanted
me here, on these Apache grounds. To meet with this creature. And let
her assist us.”
“What? You fell asleep. I know you think this is some mystical
thing, but that over there is a real leopard. A wild leopard.”
Orest left Augie’s side without hearing him. He limped up to
the road, and entered the spotlight. The ocelot raised itself onto its
forelegs, hissing throughout the struggle. Orest put out his arms as he
approached it. He shut his eyes and crouched over the cat fearlessly. The
ocelot stopped its threats and for a moment, Augie thought it might
allow Orest to lift it. Then, when Orest’s hand came within reach, the
cat clawed it and pulled it into a deep bite.
Orest wailed and withdrew his hand, losing his glove in the jaws
of the ocelot. The motion of Orest’s retreat untwisted the cat’s back and
it found itself balanced on three legs.
The cat swiped again and Orest folded his hand against his chest.
The two stared at each other for a moment, then each turned and
limped from the road at the same pace. Augie could see the bone of
the cat’s hind leg through its bloody fur. It held onto the black glove as
it dragged itself into the night. And Orest’s hand dripped on his slow
walk back to Augie.
He paused beneath the Apache Drive-In sign and watched the
ocelot before it vanished into the desert.
“Whatever last task you slouch toward, I wish you luck, friend.
Just as I know you want success for mine. We shall meet again at the
martyr’s table.”
Orest walked past Augie in a haze. He climbed onto Ginevra
without looking at his cut hand and blasted back onto the road.
37.
Now, Orest truly broke his exhaustion. His eyes were lashed with wind, but stayed clear. His bare hand was cold, but
tight. The heat that came off Ginevra’s overworked pistons did not burn him. And years shed.
But the night weighed on Augie. He watched Orest ahead. He no longer slouched deeper with the hours. His
shoulders and arms were firm. He did not drift in his lane; his turns were anticipated. Augie feared that they might
cross the border that very night. They were past Tucson.
He was relieved when he saw Orest signal from the main road and begin toward some lights. He followed,
organizing his thoughts. Orest wound through a series of paths to another gas bar and diner. Augie noted the street:
Dark Star Road.
Orest parked and darted inside without looking at Augie. Augie had to search for a place that could contain his
scooter and cargo.
Inside, Orest was already seated in the deepest corner from the door and the clerk. His hat was still on and he
waved Augie over without showing his eyes. Augie came to him.
“A final meal. You’ll need American meat in you to breach her defenses.”
“Look, Professor.”
Orest silenced Augie with a glance. “These titles are useless now. Forget them.”
“Okay, look. I can’t go to Mexico. I’m not going to go to Mexico.”
Orest’s face changed remarkably. His lines grew and his eyes aged with their surprise. “But this is the task! This.
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What change can be done from a desk or a classroom has been done.
Now, now, we strike for the heart!”
“I know, Professor—”
“Trotsky! The depth and strength of a human character are
defined by its moral reserves. People reveal themselves completely only
when they are thrown out of the customary conditions of their life, for
only then do they have to fall back on their reserves. And onward to
glory dear Augie! Spend the reserves! Burn them out!”
Augie let his face sink. “I know, Professor. But I’m a teenager.
I can’t help with anyone in Mexico with anything. I don’t even know
what we’re doing.”
Orest’s eyes shook again. Again, the wild confusion surged and
passed. Then, a new darkness came to them. His voice was nearly
inaudible.
“Please, Prichard. Just get me past the border. I’ll release you then
without hesitation. You’ll have done enough for an old man. But do
this final thing. A Blackmore man would never abandon his captain.”
Augie felt a tweak of sadness. “I’m not going to leave you at a
Chester Chicken in Benson, obviously.”
Orest’s mood remained. Augie clarified.
“Look, I’ll take you to Mexico.”
Orest was staring at his ungloved hand. The wind had made
a pattern of the blood. It blew up between his knuckles toward his
wrist, thinning at the ends as it dried, and making the appearance of
an inverted talon with sharp points. Orest spoke without looking from
it.
“You can’t imagine the strength that courses up this arm and into
my heart.”
“I think that’s actually from the glass you cut yourself on at the
diner.”
“No. From the claw of the leopard, simple Augie. You saw it
yourself.”
Augie nodded, knowing not to argue.
“And now, when the angels have so clearly joined us, you wish to
leave.”
“Professor, I’ll get you to Mexico. But what the hell are we doing
when we get there.”
Orest looked up at last.
“Oh, my poor boy, you know. Of course you know.”
“No. I don’t. You won’t say. Just: what are we going to do first?
How about you just tell me that.”
Orest inhaled deeply and slowly lifted his bloody hand to his ear.
Then, he slowly made a fist.
“Our first mission is our last mission, Prichard…assassination.”
Augie ate two chicken sandwiches and refilled his cola. Then he packed
a third and a fist of crumbling cookies. Even Orest ate some fried
gizzards with his rye. They loaded up and left.
It was now the dead of night. There were no other cars, nothing
to put any light on the desert road. It seemed as black as the sky. And
it was cold. Augie could see Orest’s breath over his shoulders.
Augie listened to the pitch of Ginevra’s muffler change as the
tape peeled and its rupture grew. The Pigeon’s light dimmed as they
climbed hills or crossed rough pavement. Soon, they passed through
Tombstone.
Augie couldn’t see any buildings in the night. He tried to recall
the story, but could not. He’d seen a film, but had forgotten it. The
waitress had mentioned it too, but Augie had lost the name. He tried to
make out Orest’s shadow ahead, but it was too dark. He looked down
and to his side for his sandwich. On the takeaway bag, in white, blue,
and yellow, a bright chicken stared back. On its hip, a gun remarkably
similar to Orest’s was worn.
They rode on. Through the old limestone quarries. The granite
and shale hills moved on either side of them like ships on a steady
ocean. Dead rosebush crept to the side of the road. Opossums and
armadillos lay on the shoulder, their bellies swollen and waiting to be
dragged away by the next creature.
Augie’s groin was beginning to sting. The dry air was cracking his
lip. His wrist nagged from holding the accelerator. And, for the first
time, Augie felt that he was being led by a madman.
Of course Augie was always aware of Orest’s desperate language.
But now, he truly sensed that Orest was racing toward oblivion. His
maniacal lectures were all laced with notes of legacy, myth, and finality.
As Augie considered the outcomes, something very new came to him.
He wondered if perhaps Orest really did have a plan. Perhaps someone
on the other side of this border was waiting for him.
After another hour, Orest slowed. He pulled Ginevra to the edge
of the road and cut the engine. Augie joined him.
“Cease.” Orest was waving his hand at the Pigeon’s engine. Augie
complied. Orest was staring deep into the darkness, away from the
road.
“By my coordinates, this is the fault in the crust. Cross here, in
the peak of night, and we’ll be phantoms.”
Augie looked off, then back to Orest’s profile. “Professor, the last
time we used your coordinates, you ended up splitting your head and
we ended up sleeping in a cornfield.”
“Lessen your voice! Of course it takes time for a man to become
acclimated to work in the field. Those halls dulled me. Adjustments,
revisions, have all been made. All tools sharpened to a point. I can
sense Mexico there; moreover, I sense the movements of villains.”
“What?”
“Soon, basic Augie, you’ll sense when danger and opportunity
skulk together.”
With that Orest began pushing Ginevra into the desert.
38.
They pushed into the dark. Strange agave and bulbine appeared taller as they moved from the highway. The ground
became rough with bedrock, drifts, and roots. Beargrass became snared on their kickstands. And the cactus flowers
were all stolen by bats.
Augie heard movements more frequently as they distanced themselves from the road. The trailer tilted and
Augie’s arms burned each time he reset it. His eyes could no longer see past his shin.
But at least he sensed that Orest was tiring. His determination since the ocelot bite was waning. He was beginning
to stumble. Augie knew now to let him spend himself. Only then would they stop. Perhaps they could find enough
yuccas to build a fire to keep off the snakes. And finally rest.
Augie let the distance grow between them. Then, a burn came to the bone of his ankle. Augie swatted and lifted
his hand; an orb spider clung to it. Augie threw it before it could strike again. He gripped his ankle and turned to call
out to Orest.
Suddenly, Orest’s silhouette inverted itself and his legs wiggled bizarrely over his head as though they were still
walking. Augie thought he was poisoned and shut his eyes deeply. Then, Orest’s voice boomed out. It was followed by
rolling echoes.
“Save me! The toad-tongue of Baal!”
Augie ran, forgetting his bite. He mistimed his speed and Orest kicked him swiftly in his stomach when he
arrived. Augie grabbed the end of Orest’s cape and pulled him. The two fell backwards, crushing a bush of succulents.
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Orest’s Stetson and frock were covered in broken spider webs.
Before them was a small, old, clay well. Orest had tripped on its wall
and nearly plummeted in.
“Is this like an old Indian well?”
“Easily. And another divine intervention.”
“Why? I just had two Cokes. I have more.”
“Ha! This groundwater is not for drinking, slow Augie. It has
quite another purpose.”
“Washing?”
“Dead wrong again. The procedure is this: camouflage.”
Orest climbed from the ground, an arm of aloe falling from his
shoulder. His back was sticky with goo. He tested a bucket with his
hand, then began to churn its handle. Augie waited. Orest began to
sweat. Eventually the bucket touched the surface and Orest reversed his
motion. The weight of the water slowed him. Augie did not help.
Orest dragged the bucket to Ginevra’s side. He removed his single
glove. He poured the bucket into the sand and then lifted the mud in
his bare hands. Then, he smeared it on Ginevra’s gas tank.
“And what’s this for?”
“Do you suppose that machinery this fine might be exceptional in
the foreign lands we penetrate next?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Or the name Ginevra might have some fame to the right spy?”
“No.”
Orest pulled a branch of a small red yucca. He began sticking the
leaves to the muck on the Triumph.
“Your vehicle will be accepted immediately as standard garbage.
Ginevra will seem like the King’s Carriage in a matter of minutes.
Unfortunately, no other machine will be up to the demands of the
sally, so disguise is all that can be done.”
Augie waited while Orest decorated Ginevra. He yawned openly.
39.
Eventually they continued into the desert. The leaves covering Ginevra began to fall instantly. Soon, the paste masking
her name was completely gone.
Augie watched his ankle as it itched and grew red. He tried not to touch it, but it kept scraping against his
scooter whenever the trailer pulled on it. They could not see the highway they had come from at all.
Augie could hear a wheeze coming into Orest’s breath. Then, he began to mutter through his heaves. Augie
expected that he had been drinking from his cup all along, but did not see in the dark. Augie decided that the burden
of conversation might tire Orest more quickly.
“Professor, to understand my duties better, may I ask you some things?”
Orest groaned and tried to respond. He had no voice. He reached again and managed. “You’re a Blanquist tool
in my hand. Nothing to understand. Instruction is rationed for both of our safety.”
Augie did not understand, but continued. “Can you tell me at least, who are we going to assassinate?”
Orest did not answer. But his pace slowed. His breath was louder. “You need not be concerned. The blood that
will spill won’t be on your hands. The ghosts won’t find you some midnight.”
“I know, Professor. But can you tell me anything about your duties?”
Orest stopped. He sucked in air that rattled with his phlegm. “The people…” Orest waved his hand in the
direction that they were traveling. “The people of the sun…are in the cartel’s clutches. Once I pinch off that blood…
those hands will atrophy…”
109
He heaved again and turned. His first step was beyond the edge
of some kind of ditch and Orest toppled forward, bringing Ginevra
over him. He gasped once as the weight of her forced the air from his
lungs.
Augie pulled the handle that was pressing into Orest’s chest.
Orest did not breathe, his eyes shut, his mouth gaping for air.
A crashing sound carried over them. Engines thundered in the
distance. Then two powerful floodlights beamed onto them. Another
scoured the landscape they had just crossed. Then the lights’ intensity
grew and whitened. The motors snarled. Augie tried to stir Orest, but
he was unconscious. Augie realized that they were not in a ditch, but a
sunken dirt road. And on either side, two trucks sped toward them.
Augie stood up and waved his arms to stop them from running
over Orest. The dust swirled in the lights. Augie could not see; the
debris was in his eyes and mouth. He shouted, but choked, and went
into a long cough. He put his face under the collar of his t-shirt. He
called, but it was muffled into his chest.
He heard an engine stop a few feet from him. The lights were
mounted to its roof. Augie opened his eyes. As his blindness wore off,
he saw a driver exit and walk to Orest. Then the second vehicle’s driver
joined him. A man climbed out of the back of the truck and stood
beside Augie. Augie could not see his face through the dust. But he did
see that he was holding a long rifle.
“You better be gettin’ down like your friend here.”
The voice was right beside Augie. He tried to step away but a
strong hand grabbed his arm. He tried to answer, but could not swallow.
“How many more o’ you there out there tonight?”
A boot hit the back of Augie’s knee and he fell into a kneel. A
hand twisted his thumb and wrist behind his head. A new voice broke
through the sound of the diesel engines.
“We got a dead one here.”
Augie tried to move into a crouch and angle his ear.
Something struck Augie at the base of his neck and head. He was
launched forward in the same motion and his eye landed in the dirt
before the shouting and the engines faded.
40.
Augie awoke on his back. His neck was stiff from the blow. A scrape along the bone of his cheek itched. His mouth was
dry with grit from the road and the diesel. He slowly pushed himself up.
He was lying on the road. His sneakers had been removed. The orb bite on his ankle had swelled. He stared at it
while his memories organized. Dawn was still red over the hills. And the heat was already starting. His head throbbed.
In one of the trucks, Ginevra and the Pigeon were loaded, leaning roughly on each other. He followed the
conversation from the far side of the vehicle. Augie could see three sets of legs standing around his trailer.
“None of ‘em work.”
“He had the key to the moped, so you’d think he’d be the one with the other key.”
One of the men drew a knife.
“Hold yer horses, that thing looks antique, might be worth something. Don’t bust it yet.”
“Well we wanna know what’s there before we call Eric.”
The man stood back up. He came from behind the truck. Augie followed his boots until they passed a floral sheet
that laid on the other side of the road. Its end fluttered. It was covering the place where Orest had fallen.
Augie turned, startled. He could see that the sheet was pinned beneath Orest’s heel and tucked under his
shoulder and head. His half Stetson sat beside him. He watched for the movement of breath. There was none. The
sheet was pulled tight over his face.
Augie felt panic rising in him. He turned to scan the other side of the road for an escape. But a young girl
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instantly met his eyes. She had been watching him. She was a teenager.
Her skin was dark. Her eyes were black. She was crying.
Augie faced her without speaking. He saw that her wrists were
tied with tight, plastic straps. Her hands were visibly red, even through
her olive skin. Her fingers twisted awkwardly into each other. Her black
hair was powdered with dust. Her sweatshirt was torn at the collar and
pulled over her shoulder.
The three men came to the nearside of the truck. One gulped
from a jug of water.
Augie shut his eyes and laid back to his last position. The girl
made no sound.
“If Eric and them come down and it’s still locked, they just gonna
saw it open. And it don’t matter what’s inside, they’re gonna catalogue
it.”
“Well, if we don’t got the key before we call, then we’ll cut ‘er.”
One of the men walked between Augie and the girl. Augie peeked
slightly as he passed and saw that he was wearing full hunting gear. His
sleeves were cut off. Augie could tell this was not a proper government
agent.
“You ready to tell us if there’re more out there?” The man was
leaning over the girl. “You don’t speak no English?”
A man called out from behind the other truck. “They’re more.
These two got a whole rig of supplies and she ain’t carrying a thing.
Someone else hadda be with ‘er. Can’t cross a desert with twenty dollars
and a damn smile.”
Augie opened his eye involuntarily when he heard the girl
whimper. But he didn’t dare turn his head. He heard the boots of the
two men meet where she was sitting. He heard her soft crying. And he
heard one of the men whispering in a strange voice. Its twang was gone;
replaced with a hiss.
Augie’s heart was racing. It was becoming harder and harder
not to move. He felt the blood in his neck rushing at his bruise. He
thought they could see it if they only glanced. His eye wouldn’t stay
closed. He winced to force it. Then, something caught his ear and they
both opened.
The bed sheet moved.
A small cough shook it. Then a gloved hand, stained with mud,
broke from beneath it and pulled the face clear. Orest was squinting,
and looking from side to side. Augie, still frozen, couldn’t think of a
way to warn Orest without speaking. He waved his fingers. But Orest
locked to the scene behind Augie. The men were still over the young
girl. And Orest’s eye burned.
Augie was surprised that Orest sprang up without hesitation. He
snatched his half Stetson and put it on his head. Then his hands were
already on his pistols and the weapons were being drawn. Augie sat up
and was about to shout to him to stop. But Orest moved too quickly
and his fear held his voice.
He slipped behind the man nearest to him and put a pistol to his
temple. Then, in one motion, he threaded his other arm through the
man’s and put his second pistol on the other two.
“Throw down your weapons! Or see the death of two of your
own.”
The men were instantly rattled. Orest had accidently covered
himself perfectly, and the men assumed he was an expert at gunplay.
One hurled his gun down instantly while the other seemed too shocked
to perform the task. The first slowly reached over and took his rifle out
of his hand and placed it between them. The man in Orest’s grasp also
dropped a gun from his belt. Orest did not notice.
“Release the hostage! Now!”
The calmer man pulled a knife from his side and cut the girl free
in a single pull. He operated swiftly in his fear. She stood, rubbing her
fingers.
“Run north. To freedom! But tell no one of the man who watched
over you. They’ll know soon enough.”
The girl looked over to Augie. Then she ran as they had come the
night before.
Augie stood. Orest had still not seen him. Augie did not want to
surprise the scene. But then, he caught the motion of one of the truck
doors.
“Professor, the truck!”
Orest looked to the wrong truck in the opposite direction. Then
at Augie. A boy appeared at his back. He was about the age of the girl
Orest had freed. He was holding a large, plastic pistol with yellow on
its handle and tip. It looked like a flare gun.
Orest, not recognizing this thing as a weapon, barely reacted. He
looked back to Augie; he was trying to place his face. He stared while
the teenager moved much closer.
“Drop the gun or I’ll Taser you.”
Orest squinted at the boy. Then laughed from his belly. “You
spotted imp. Even my Augie could have you strewn up in a wink of his
greasy eye. Now is not the time for play.”
“Put the gun down and let ‘im go, old man.”
Orest’s face flared with anger. “You honourless pig. Would you
laser a man in the back, and disgrace your name and your outfit?”
“Do it, let ‘im go.”
“I’ll let your man go. This Confederate is worthless. But I want
you to promise me that you’ll discard your laser and fight me like you
have some pride. Restore yourself, mouse!”
The boy nodded and Orest took his pistol from the man’s head
before Augie could protest. Then he pushed his prisoner at the ground
and walked assuredly toward the young man. The boy pulled his trigger
without reluctance and the nose crackled with blue sparks. Two points,
with cords like streamers, shot out and stuck in Orest’s chest. His face
turned with pain. His limbs vibrated with seizure. Spit rolled from his
open mouth after he collapsed.
The men swarmed Orest. Augie saw one boot launch into his ribs
before searing pain rushed from his buttocks to his neck. Then he was
facedown in the dirt, unable to close his mouth. He could see through
the tires to a jackrabbit carcass that lay in the sand. The boy watched
over him, that yellow-tipped pistol pointed at his torso.
41.
“Orrie, come stand right here.”
Jacob’s hand moved Orest’s shoulder.
“Now, what bow do we use on the Dall’Aglio?”
Orest placed his hand on the longest bow that lay on the blue velvet of an open case at their feet.
“Good, Orrie.” Jacob lifted the bow and flipped it onto his lap with precision. “Now, get yours. I can’t play this
alone.”
Orest took the little bow and brought it to his lap, mimicking Jacob. Some women giggled. Orest looked up to
Jacob.
“Don’t worry about them. Just worry about Baba. Can you see her?”
Orest immediately found an old woman in one of their kitchen chairs at the front of the small crowd. She was
smiling brightly at Orest. She covered something in her palm; Orest knew what it was. An oxblood painted egg.
Orest’s father stood in the threshold of the living room. His hat was in his fist. Soon, he would sit down to
scrambled eggs in the kitchen; he always refused his wife’s Slavic cuisine. “The English are clearly more advanced, if
only because they’ve left cabbage behind,” he would tease his in-laws. But he would stay for Black Eyes.
Before the Easter dinner was finished, Orest’s relatives would begin to ask Jacob to play it. Orest never understood
their enthusiasm since their faces looked so sad while they listened. This year, Jacob had promised Orest that he would
teach him.
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“After you play it, you won’t ask that anymore.”
But Orest was frightened. Their Dido sat beside his wife, his coat
still buttoned. Once his plate of sausage and mustard was clean, he
placed his hands on his knees and waited for Black Eyes. He tongued
the salt from his teeth without smiling. There would be no more
conversation until the song was played.
The cousins gathered on the floor. Orest’s mother joined her
husband and put her arm around his waist. Orest felt the urge to cry.
“Don’t worry about them, Orrie. You’re playing this for Baba.
These other people are just freeloading.” Jacob slapped Orest’s head
and the sadness was broken. He laughed and swiped at Jacob’s thigh.
Then Jacob’s smile left as he brought the violin to his neck. His
eyes shut and the living room went silent. Orest watched Jacob and did
the same. Jacob breathed deeply for a moment, then brought the bow
up like a hammer, but delicately lowered it to the yellow violin.
The first note sang so softly that Orest could barely hear it. Then,
Jacob’s fingers changed. They pressed violently hard, but looked like
dancers. His face contorted as though the music was coming through
his mouth. And the bow swished like a fencing sword.
The song was both sad and angry. It wept then barked. Orest put
his bow to his strings and tried to follow Jacob’s months of instruction.
But he couldn’t. It was too fast. His hands were too slow. And the song
kept luring him into a trance.
But somehow his notes were exact. He played with Jacob’s
dazzling yellow violin identically. He couldn’t understand how Jacob
masked all his mistakes, but he was sure: the music was beautiful.
Orest looked away from Jacob only once. He saw his mother’s
head on his father’s shoulder. He saw his cousins, still as stones. And
his Dido with a tear on the lip of his eye, his chin quivering like Jacob’s
string.
It was months before Orest learned that Jacob had greased his
bow with lard. His toy violin made no sound at all.
Augie listened as Orest’s breathing gathered into moans. Then, his
one hand twisted from the other in its zip-tie and the fingers began
to twitch. Then the grunts lessened and his brow unclenched; he was
humming.
“Professor!”
Orest opened his eyes. He tried to spin on his shoulder to see his
surroundings. Augie let him have a moment before he spoke again.
“We’re in a barn.”
Orest looked at Augie unable to respond. His eyeglasses were
beside him, bent. He could see the white sun breaking through the
slates of the wall. And he could smell the manure.
“They tied my legs, but not yours. Try to stand.”
Orest did not listen. He felt his chest and his hip. “They’ve
disarmed me,” he whispered to himself.
“Yeah, they took everything.”
“Highwaymen.”
“I’m pretty sure this is their farm.”
Orest was beginning to remember. “These men, they’ve tortured
us?”
“You could say that. We were Tasered by their nephew.”
“Goddamn him.”
“Are you okay? You got it worse than I did.”
“I won’t be okay until the vengeance that quakes in me sets me
loose from this House of Special Purpose.”
“Fine. Are you able to stand? Your legs are free.”
“My Ginevra? Where is she?”
“They took it.”
“We’ve lost Ginevra when we need her most; Minos’ tail is
wrapping around us!”
“If you can stand up, you can probably get that door open. I
don’t think it locks.”
Orest finally attempted to stand. His weak leg would not allow it
after his beating.
“Just stop, Professor. There’s no point.”
Sweat streamed from his temple. “They’ve electrocuted me. But
failed like Yusupov, the fool prince. Thank the spirit of the leopard.
Though even it is depleted.”
Augie shut his eyes. He was thirsty. Another hour went by.
42.
“Would you boys like some Danish? I have coffee on and some Danish if you want, I can come bring it out.”
A woman’s voice was on the other side of the barn door. A group of men walked with her, their boots snapping
the straw as they approached.
A deep voice with an incredible drawl came next. Its hand was already on the latch. “All right, Connie. If you
have it already, we’d appreciate.”
Quick feet faded away as the giant door began to move. The searing light of the afternoon fell on Augie and
Orest and they were both blinded.
“Ho boys. Here’s the ones right here. Eric, take a look. Pat, here’s their things that they were smugglin’.”
The men from the dirt road entered the barn, but stood near the door. With them were two more men in blue
and black uniforms. They wore vests and their pants went into their high boots.
The older man briefly looked over Orest and then slowly took the wire of a pail and turned it over. He sat on it
while letting out a long sigh. He thumbed his eye while subtly shaking his head.
“The one in the black is the one with all the guns. He put one on Tim. That’s when Anthony got him.”
“Shut up, please.” The man did not look up from his crouch.
“I know we give ‘em a good beating, Eric. But they’re trespassers. An’ they pulled on us. We felt justified to—”
Eric waved the man silent. The older woman had returned with a tray of coffee and cut pastries. Eric stopped her
too.
“Pat, untie these men.”
The second uniformed man produced a small pocketknife and quickly cut free Augie and then Orest. They
remained on the ground while they waited for Eric to speak again.
Eric looked to Orest.
117
“Where you from, sir?”
Orest straightened his back, then turned to the men in the
doorway. His voice was nearly a shout. “I’m Professor Orest Routh
Godwin of Frog Hollow, Connecticut.”
Eric boomed over him before his reply was finished. “Does he
sound like a wetback to you?” The man looked to the others.
“He was crossing with the other ones. He let one of ‘em go.”
Eric stood and marched toward the men while calling to Orest.
“Where were you born, sir?”
Orest stood at last. “In the United States of America!”
Eric nodded. “Now, where are this man’s weapons? There’s a
Constitution around here.”
One of the men dumped a canvas of items onto a bench. The
clang of keys and the thump of a knife’s handle. Then the two pistols
were placed.
“Pat, have a peek at these and tell me what you’re seein’.”
The second man walked to the bench and looked over the items
while chewing a pastry.
“Antique or replica. Probably don’ work. Probably jus’
merchandise. Trade show maybe.”
“Give the man his guns.”
Augie stood.
“We had someone…from the internet…interested in buying
them, but we got lost. And then these psychos…”
“I know son, I got it. These men here made a helluva mistake this
morning. This here is the Wilhelm Ranch. This is Roger Wilhelm’s son,
Jason. Used to be run real good. Now there’s this.” Eric walked right
next to one of the men. “If your pappy was around to see this kind of
carrying on, what the hell you think he’d think about it?”
The man looked down.
“Now we gonna get those cuts looked at. And you can press
charges on this man here. But you two was on his property and I don’t
know how that’d end up in a courtroom. This man don’t look like
much, but he can sure find a lawyer when he has to.”
Orest was fully suited up again. His cape was smeared with aloe.
“I have no interest in getting to this man through his lizard attorneys.
Just bring me my Ginevra and take me to the border.” Orest walked up
to the rancher and leaned into his ear. “But you should find another
place for your children to sleep. Because I promise, I swear to you, I will
burn this farm to the ground before it’s all done.”
The patrolmen drove Augie and Orest to the crossing without speaking.
Orest accepted two stitches in his lip where he’d bitten through during
his shock. They unloaded Ginevra and the Pigeon in front of the single
guard in a booth. Ginevra was still decorated with branches and mud.
Dusk had come, but the lights of the crossing were not on. The
guard waved them through without asking for their papers.
They entered Mexico.
PART II.
43.
The Provost leaned sharply in his chair, his mauve shirt untucked. He was examining his dressing by prodding the
wound with a finger. His shoulder pressed the telephone to his ear.
“Well, yes, Detective, I have months of letters that are returned. Probably all the ones that LeMay didn’t burn.”
Levanthal glanced over the desk of torn envelopes and unfolded pages.
“What I would suggest is that you start reading.” Levanthal could hear Meade blowing to cool a hot drink.
“Oh, I have been. But there’s mountains. And he doesn’t deal in any specifics at all. Just these lofty proclamations.
I’ve seen three over a year that are identical.”
Meade sighed, then sipped. “And his lectures?”
“It seems that most of his students took his courses because they had heard that there wouldn’t be any assignments.
Rather, there would be assignments that they wouldn’t have to submit because he’d never remember to ask for them.
They weren’t what you’d call attentive.”
“Could they at least tell us what he’d been talking about? Even over this last week?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“No one can remember one lecture?”
“No. I wouldn’t say he attracted our top level students.”
“I would suggest, then, that we know enough at this point to open up a proper search. We have good indication
that he’s traveling into Mexico, we can establish a history of violence; this is becoming big enough.”
120
“Oh God. You don’t mean like an AMBER alert or something?
Prichard’s eighteen.”
“He’s seventeen.’
“Oh God.”
Meade didn’t respond.
“Is there anything else we can go forward with first? I know
this man; he isn’t a killer. Prichard’s father is going to have a fit if this
becomes something that’s in the news.”
“I’m not there, Dr. Levanthal. It’s hard for me to assess anything
in Alcott from here. I’ve talked to the Sergeants, they say they don’t
know anything that they consider actionable.”
“But they aren’t detectives. They don’t deal with things like this.”
“I understand.”
“A federal issue is going to be expensive and quite unnecessary.
I’m confident, Detective.”
“And I would guess you’re right. But a minor is missing. Nearly a
week now.”
“Yes, yes.” The Provost took his hand from his stitch. “Is there
any way that we could wait even a few days? I am sure he is going to
turn up.”
Meade was silent. Then he swallowed and spoke sharply. “Doctor.
I completely understand that this could be something that might
embarrass your college. But my interests are in everyone coming home
safe. Not reputations.”
Levanthal drooped in his chair. “Yes, Detective. Mine as well.”
He turned his look out the window. “Is there anyone we can hire to
help? Like a firm that does this type of thing?”
“A private eye?” Meade became stern. Levanthal snorted at
himself. “I wouldn’t know, Dr. Levanthal. I wouldn’t recommend.
Insurers use them all the time. And they always have trouble and they
always come to us.”
“I know. I just want this to be over.”
44.
The industrial sprawl of Agua Prieta clanged with British labour. The shiftwork continued into the night. The corrugated
steel walls and roofs of the warehouses were rotted through. Orest and Augie could see spark and steam as they passed.
The scent of the smelters reminded Augie of anchorbolts. So he quickened.
But Orest reduced his speed. The blocks were intersected frequently and barefoot children were appearing in the
street. He made right turns and left turns, but could not get through the miles of industry. He stopped and turned to
Augie.
“There are no arteries! Just this hedge maze of prisons.”
“No, there’s a park.” Augie pointed ahead. There was a break in the rusted tin of the factories. A series of trees
protected a path.
Orest drove eagerly, putting on his headlight. The night was complete and the light of the welders ended. The
tall trees seemed out of place. The rattle of the machines could still be heard. The brown air made no breeze.
Orest slowed and started onto the path. Instantly it was clear that they were not in a park at all, but a massive
cemetery.
The grounds were unlit and Ginevra’s light stopped on a worn gravestone when Orest leaned her onto the stand.
It pointed away, moved with the shifts of the earth over the years. Like a tooth in a decaying gum.
Orest began to open his violin case.
“What are we doing?”
122
“Camp, Prichard. We’ve accomplished much and need rest.”
Orest produced his cup from his vest.
“We’re not sleeping in a graveyard.”
Orest poured and laughed. “After all the enemies we’ve faced
together, you’re frightened of ghouls?”
“You just don’t sleep in graveyards. You don’t.”
Orest was walking into the stones as Augie spoke. He leaned
on a larger monument and sipped his cup. “Ah, we have nothing to
fear among these corpses. Perhaps a greyfriar might attend to these
grounds, but likely not. Either way, he’ll be a man of religion. Which
means particularly susceptible to bribes.” Orest smirked and patted his
billfold. Augie remained on his scooter.
“I’m not sleeping here.”
Orest looked off, while lighting his cigarillo. “Perhaps your youth
makes death something to be dreaded. I, in some ways, envy these
spectres. And crave to join their slumber, cheek by jowl. The leader you
follow so blindly is really just a wraith himself.”
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
“But a Blackmore man must show courage.”
Augie restarted the Pigeon.
Orest stepped off to face the marker that he was on. He lifted his
cup in a toast to the Spanish name engraved on it. Then he swallowed
it in a gulp and mounted Ginevra.
They continued through the cemetery. The path coursed through the
hills, all covered in graves. Augie stared into the dark fields as they
passed. A shape moved, then vanished behind a gated tomb. Augie’s
eyes widened. Then he noticed a candle in a tinted glass at the foot of
a gravestone. The monument was of a child angel leaping, as though it
leapt from the casket below. And tucked in the folds of its wings and
arms was fresh honeysuckle.
The path opened to a wider road and continued. The scent in
the air changed and rows of rough housing began. There was fire in the
alleys. Orange and black cables led to open windows from the poles in
the street. Tape and shoes dangled from them.
Through the squalor, they came to the center of the old town. The
buildings were stone and large, but black from the nearby machines
and their filth. Orest stopped in front of an English sign in a dark
window. He noticed it even before Augie.
Augie and Orest gathered their cases and entered the dim hotel.
The small lobby was covered in plush red carpet, stained and
worn down until it almost shined with tar. The walls were black with
smoke and broken paneling. The room felt like a cave. Above the door
was a painting of Saint Sebastian weeping, arrows through his groin
and heart, a tiny angel arriving on his shoulder.
A small bar was at the far end through a beaded curtain. Low
voices and music could be heard. A desk was in the middle, a small
man behind it. He watched Orest from the moment he entered. He
sweated in the foul air. Augie could see when the curtain swung that
three women sat on a bench just beyond it. They wore lace.
Augie watched Orest as he limped to the desk. Their wounds
were visible; he tried to cover his eye. “A simple room for my son and
for myself! We’re traveling the country, researching cultures, while his
mother frets at home!”
The man merely stared, not understanding English, nor why the
bloodied Orest was shouting.
The beads parted, jangling. A young woman crossed through
them. Her tiny dress plunged, and her breasts heaved up in her ornate
bra. Augie stared. Her lips were painted a red as deep as the stained
carpet and her black eyes were smeared with shadow.
Orest walked to Augie unnoticed. “This man is as rough as his
hotel. Speak to him in his common tongue. Keep your words direct; he
may be an imbecile.”
“My Spanish sucks.”
Orest pushed Augie forward. The man watched him. He tore his
eyes from the woman and tried to muster his words.
“Una casa. Para dos. Satisfaga hoy.”
The man reached for a pen and began something in front of him.
Augie looked back to Orest with a wide grin. Orest, too, was pleased.
He whispered to Augie. “Ask him his name.”
“What? Why?”
“Do as I say.”
Augie thought deeply. “Si nombre, satisface?”
The man nodded proudly and reached before him. He produced
a creased business card from a metal holder.
Miguel Salazar.
Orest reached over Augie to the man with a one hundred dollar
bill. The man took it stealthily and turned the motion into a handshake.
“Good, Miguel. A friend on this road. Of course, the trade of
discretion is a very valuable one.”
Miguel nodded quickly and Orest turned his voice to Augie.
“Yes, he understands. Currency has no dialect, Prichard.” Orest,
still holding Miguel’s hand, pulled him in, over the desk. “Perhaps to
make the transaction seem more plausible you should send your maids
up to clean our suits and repair some of these tears; we may already
have spies.”
Orest released Miguel and gestured at the women. Then he
pointed to a rip in his frock at the shoulder, exposing a tear in the
elbow that he himself had not noticed.
Miguel took a key from a wall of hooks behind him. He walked
to the woman and spoke very closely to her. Augie watched as she
looked over at him and Orest. Orest did not see. Her red mouth fell
into a sneer.
45.
Orest and Augie followed Miguel upstairs. He did not offer to carry any of their bags. He stomped his cigarette onto
the carpet, which continued all the way to their room. The hall was windowless and lighted only by a low chandelier
of brass and plastic. Its bulbs were tiny ovals, meant to appear like the arms of a candelabrum.
He unlocked the door and opened it without speaking, then watched from the hall for a moment after they
entered.
“Prichard, help me get these ready for our seamstresses.” Orest held his arm up. Augie threw his duffle bag on
the bed and began to pull Orest’s cape and rifle frock from his shoulders. Orest moved stiffly under Augie’s hands.
As Augie turned to hang the coat and cape, he noticed Miguel was still at the door. He was eyeing Orest’s pistols and
knife. Then he left.
“Run a bath, Augie. You take first watch; I’ll bathe.” Orest produced a full rye from his violin case.
Orest was startled by the bruises on his side and chest. His ear was brown with old blood. His palm, too, was dark
around his cut. He pressed the wound with his finger. He wondered if there might still be glass in it while he tongued
the sutures in his lip. The bite of the ocelot was also irritated. The claw and fang marks were raised.
He lowered himself into his bath. The heat eased his hip. His scabs softened. And the sting of the water made
him forget the aches of his marks and cuts.
125
He poured a glass of rye. After a large swallow, he splashed the
water and slipped under. He was trying to rinse the aloe goo from
the back of his hair. He surfaced like an otter, the drink beginning to
loosen his spine.
Then he began to whistle his song.
Augie lay on the bed nearest the door. He shut his eyes
immediately and began to slip off. He turned to his side to keep off
the pronged wounds on his upper thigh, and to keep his cheekbone off
the pillow. His joints hummed as though he still sat on his scooter. But
sleep came.
“Assassin! Beautiful death!”
Augie awoke between dreams; the sounds of splashing and the
shattering of glass came from the bathroom. But he did not know
where he was. A woman’s voice was shrieking in rapid Spanish. He
could only translate the word kill.
He ran to the bathroom.
Orest and the woman from the lobby were locked in a struggle,
wet, and half-wrapped in the torn shower curtain. Orest was nude, his
face pressed into the tiles by the woman’s dug-in red claw. Yet his pistol
was cocked and against the cup of her breast. The rye poured over the
side of the tub, joining the puddles of bathwater on the floor beneath
them.
“They have eyes everywhere! Disarm her!”
The woman continued to scream down on Orest’s face, shoving
him powerfully as she did. She kicked off one of her heels to improve
her footing and brought her knee down on his free hand. Orest howled.
“She isn’t here to kill you, she’s a hooker! It’s all hookers here!”
“Impossible!”
Again her knee ground into his hand as she yelled.
“She grapples like a soldier, not some jezebel!”
“Put down your gun, she’ll let you go!”
Augie breathed deeply and tried to address the woman. She
listened with wild eyes.
“El hombre. Confusión. Confusión. Ayuda.”
The woman thought, then released Orest’s face from her grasp,
leaving imprints. Orest reset his pistol as the woman stepped off him.
“This is, like, some kind of whorehouse, Professor. And no one
knows what the hell we’re saying. You’re throwing around hundreds,
no one knows what for.”
Orest spoke from the floor. “No. They’ve sent her like the Virgin
Corday to eliminate me, jaw-deep in my medicine bath.” He turned to
the woman accusingly and tried to climb to his feet. “But you found no
simple writer, no Marat at all, you found a mercenary. And you’ve been
bested!”
The woman did not understand, but responded to Orest’s rising
voice by sticking her bare foot into his chest and spitting. He scrambled
on his back like a beetle. Again, Augie pled with her and she released
him.
“Professor, I guarantee she’s a hooker. And not a virgin. Look at
her.”
Orest stood slowly, thinking, while the curtain fell from his body.
He did not attempt to cover himself. His wet moustache was limp and
hanged past his chin.
“This is just a mistake, Professor. She’s just a girl.”
Orest looked at her, with a hand on his side proudly. She fought
a grin. His thoughts began to gather. “The bastard Salazar! He’s forced
this girl into this disreputable life! This is chaos! Something must be
done.”
The door erupted in pounding before he finished. Orest did not
hear it, but kept a hand on his chin in thought.
Miguel shouted from the hall. The woman responded with equal
volume. Miguel’s foot began to strike the base of the door. Orest finally
heard and prepared his pistol on the other side. Then, a key entered
the lock and the door opened the width of the chain. The woman had
fastened it behind her.
“By design or by folly, I am a target.” Orest pointed his pistol at
the door. The woman began to shout louder. Orest put his hand over
her mouth delicately. “Do not worry, precious girl. We will not leave
you behind.”
The woman muttered into Orest’s palm.
“Salazar, you donkey! We’re setting the girl free! She is no longer
indebted to you and her freedom is guaranteed by every chamber in
my pistols! Now go! And fear that I don’t open that door and take your
head!”
There was silence. Then, Miguel spoke in a new voice away from
the door. Several men responded. Augie began to collect their things in
a frenzy.
“Let’s go! Let’s just go, okay?!”
Augie was at the window, his leg already on the fire escape. Orest
grabbed the woman’s hand and pushed her behind Augie. Then, alone
in the room, he aimed at the door and pulled the pin back.
“No, Professor. There’s twenty guys in that hallway!”
Orest stopped, considered, then slowly came to the window, still
completely nude.
The woman bounced awkwardly in her sheer dress and single
shoe. Augie got on top of his scooter while fishing for Ginevra’s key.
He tossed it to Orest as he rejoined them. It bounced off his chest and
into the street.
Orest laid his pistol on Ginevra’s seat and took both of the woman’s
hands in his. He faced her after blowing the ends of his moustache out
of his mouth.
“Translate Augie!”
The Pigeon started. Orest spoke slowly.
“I understand that you’re afraid, but please, you have nothing to
fear. Your life here is over, your pain here is over. If you come with us,
tonight, I can promise, as a man, you will be happy. Please, tell me your
name.”
Augie thought rapidly.
“Usted asusta. Usted asusta. Su vida a terminado. Cuál es si nombre?”
The woman’s anger seemed to fail her.
“Mariana.”
Orest was lost in her accent. He whispered to himself while he
swam in her eyes.
“‘Behold, a deity stronger than me, who coming; shall rule over me.’”
She looked at him softly for half a moment, then bashed him
brutally in the groin with her knee. He crumpled and Mariana ran to
the entrance of the hotel.
Augie lifted Orest onto Ginevra and kicked her starter. Orest,
still folded over, began to ride off as Miguel and his men flooded onto
the street.
Orest, naked and wincing, called back. “I will come back for you,
Mariana!”
And they retreated to the slums.
46.
They sheltered in the dark of the unlighted cemetery. Only when he was safely hidden behind a tall memorial did Orest
finally dress. Augie watched him as he swam in thought. His buttons did not align. He nearly forgot the pistol on
his seat. And his other holster was unfastened. Augie looked for the mourner’s candle and flowers. In the dark, in the
distance, the stone seemed a twin to Sebastian’s angel in Salazar’s brothel.
Orest, dressed, put his hand inside his thigh and crouched.
Augie waited for him on the Pigeon. “Still not sleeping in a graveyard.” He clicked is headlight on and off at
Orest. Orest didn’t notice. “You hurt?”
Orest took his hand from his thigh and rubbed his chest. “A wound so deep neither of us can see it.”
Augie waited for more. A breeze came over the burial grounds. The factories had gone quiet.
“Look, I said we’d get you to Mexico; we are. I gotta go back, Professor.”
Orest looked up at last. Augie could tell that he was trying to recall the conversation. Then he searched his
pockets, pulled out his cigarillo and holder, and lit them. “Not here. We’ve scorned those badlands over the border.
There’s a warrant, surely. Here, we’re bandits already.”
“Why?”
“We’ve crossed that pimp, Salazar. His goons hunt for us, and I’d bet he’s in league with the police. Controls the
border. No telling how many organs are affected.”
Augie pressed his face in his hands. “So what do we do? Live here?”
129
“We ride. I’ll smuggle you back into the next state. In Texas
they’ll not know we’re two renegades. Then, I’ll pursue our goal alone.
Through the guts of lawless Mexico.”
Orest walked up to Augie and put his ungloved hand on his
shoulder. “Ah, Mariana! The innocent whore. She wanted so much to
escape with us, didn’t she Augie? But the fear, the fear placed in her by
the bastard Salazar wouldn’t release her. He thought he’d lashed all the
love out of her. But he was wrong.”
Orest limped to Ginevra, walking over the markers as though
they were cobblestones. “To make time, boy, we’ll have to get off these
corduroy roads!”
Orest found the federal highway. The Pigeon and its trailer followed.
Ranges frilled in the distance. Cliffs cut by dynamite encroached the
shoulders. Then miles of nothing. But the road stayed true. And to
Augie’s left, always, he could see the blue halogen of America. Whatever
monsters waited to his right.
More hours and miles. Finally, Orest turned from the road. He
stopped and waited. Augie pulled beside him. He pushed back his half
Stetson and pointed with his gloved hand. Behind him, on the soft face
of the mountain, a message was written. It was white, and looked like
it came from the hand of a child.
CD juarez la biblia es laverdad leela.
“I won’t need you to decode this one, dear Augie. This one I
know by heart.”
“What is it?” Augie was struggling to translate.
“Ciudad Juárez, the bible is the truth, read it.”
Augie looked back to the mountain.
“It’s a plea, more than anything. This is the city of butchers.
Slaughter and rapine, every imaginable desecration. The underworld
rises here. Stay close!”
Orest rode again.
Military vehicles lay hidden in side streets. Regular cars and
trucks were fitted with heavy bars and grills. Wreaths and crosses of
paper were placed in windows and porches, and nearly every parking
lot. Candles burned beneath some; most were dark.
Steeples poked everywhere, with century bells and bleached
cement arches. In front of one, a green truck blocked the street. A
soldier leaned in the back, sipping a can of beer, a machine gun turreted
at his elbow. Several others were scattered around it. One smoked on
the steps of the church.
A solder noticed Ginevra and stood up from the curb. Orest
slowed to a stop. The soldier looked over Orest’s violin case, then
Augie’s trailer.
“American?”
“Yes.”
“Road’s closed.”
Orest did not reply.
“Road’s closed!”
The soldier kicked Ginevra with his boot, her cover ringing from
his steel toe. Another soldier stepped closer, changing his grip in his
rifle. Augie expected Orest to draw on him, but even Orest knew not
to engage these men.
Orest turned back. When they were out of the soldier’s sights, he
pulled over. “They’ve taken the boulevard; the night is theirs.”
“So how do we get to the border?”
“To dig into these alleys would be certain doom. There stands
Pluto, but the hoarders and squanderers mean death as assuredly. Papé
Satàn, papé Satàn aleppe.”
Augie ignored Orest’s quote. “So, what do we do?”
“We’ll have to seek refuge, Prichard. A hotel. Then, you’ll cross
into El Paso come dawn.”
47.
They scoured until they had come into the center of town. The streets were decorated with more crosses. But the only
movement was the vigils’ candles that flickered on every other stoop.
Finally, a man sat on a chair, alone in the deserted street. He was old and drank from a glass between his shoes.
Behind him, a yellow door and gate were ajar. And a sound of soft guitar escaped.
Orest stopped on the opposite side of the street.
“I thought we were looking for a hotel.”
“The longer we search, the better chance we become prey to these gangs.”
“What are all the crucifixes on the road? Car crashes?”
“No, boy. Murders.”
Orest took his violin case and approached the yellow door. Augie followed closely, terrified of being blocked.
The old man merely looked at the two as they passed him. His pink eyes took them in like a hound. As Orest
entered, a guitarist looked up from his stool. He was wearing a black suit with silver embroidery. Fringe swung from
his wrist to shoulder. He held his instrument by the neck. He observed Orest’s suit and case and gave him a welcoming
salute. Orest nodded back.
The cantina was filled with smoke and red light. A mural covered the wall behind the tiled bar. The Juáez
Mountains were depicted with cartoonish brightness, their peaks topped with beaming clouds and the foot of each hill
a rolling green. Augie recognized them and knew that they were actually grey.
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In the corner, a delicate guitar played. A microphone pointed to
the guitarist’s strumming hand. His eyes were closed.
Augie and Orest took a small table. Orest postioned himself
with his back to the wall. The patrons all noticed the pair, but seemed
comforted by Orest’s case; they believed him to be a musician. Near
the stage, but facing away, another man sat alone. He watched Orest
closely, leaning forward to better his view. He wore black up to his jaw
and nearly disappeared in the dark.
Despite the deteriorated appearance of the cantina, the waiter
and bartender both wore a white shirt and necktie. Their cuffs and
collars were buttoned.
Orest ordered two ryes by pointing over the bartender. Augie
assumed that they were both for Orest and sagged in his chair. When
the two full glasses arrived, Orest pushed one in front of Augie.
“And the clock strikes midnight for Faust!”
Augie, awake, took the glass in his hand and raised it to Orest’s.
“What’s that mean?”
Orest drank without answering. Augie did as well. The rye
burned, but it left quickly. It was a quality vintage.
“It means that, Mestopheles has kept his end; and I lose my
Second tomorrow.”
Augie could already feel the pain from riding leaving his thighs.
His voice rose. “Look, Professor. I’ve got finals I’m missing. I’ll fail out
if I’m just gone.”
“Bah! I told you I’d take care of those grades!” Orest waved two
fingers at the waiter.
“I know. But I’m not sure I’m gonna get this scholarship.”
Orest caught the comment as he finished his drink.
“Ah! You are unsure of the outcome? Precisely, Prichard! In order
to obtain something great, you need to have faith. And when it all
seems quite uncertain. That’s the true test.”
Augie finished his rye. “I just don’t want to fail out.”
Orest had stopped listening. He drank from his new drink and
stared through the red light to the guitarist. Augie turned to the stage,
listening.
“That’s the first time I’ve been near a cathouse for many, many
years.”
Augie turned back.
“When I was child, in the town where I was reared, we all knew
of a house that sat at the end of the town. It was a farmhouse, with
a long gravel path that led to its porch. Its three floors had many
windows. Many bedrooms. And it sat an acre back from the road. The
old orchards were allowed to grow in. The evergreens were massive.
And this house’s reputation was as dark as the property.
“A boy lived there. Coy Hubbard. And each September our
mother would sit my older brother and I down and insist we never go
to Coy Hubbard’s house. We would agree and pretend to be confused.
Of course we all knew about Coy Hubbard’s house.
“I remember I was sitting with my older brother and we started
talking about Coy Hubbard’s and I told a story about sneaking onto
the grounds and looking in one of the windows. My brother laughed
and accused me of making it all up, which I had. But I was angry. And
I told him I’d do it again. And Jacob, of course, accepted.”
Orest ordered a third drink for Augie and himself.
“We rode our bicycles to the edge of the yard and stopped. I was
nauseous with dread. My heart beat so that my hands shook. Even
though it was summer, the house was dark with trees. Jacob laid his
bicycle in the ditch and climbed over the gate. He said nothing as he
did. So I followed.
“We skipped through the apple trees, to the hedges, and finally to
the evergreens. There Jacob flopped onto his stomach, facing the door.
And then I did the same. But I was sick with fear. I wanted nothing
more than to run. I was trying so hard not to cry in front of Jacob,
that when I did finally speak, it came out a squeak. ‘Jake. I lied. I never
came here. I’m not going.’ I was beginning to tear.
“But Jacob just calmly looked over to me and put his hand on
my shoulder. He gave it a tough pinch and then winked. Then, he got
right up and ran onto the porch of that house and looked right in that
window. I buried my face in my arm. I could hear his sneakers as he ran
from window to window. Then he stopped and I looked up.
“He was at the door with his hand on the knob. I was terrified.
I wanted to call out, but couldn’t. Then I watched him turn and open
the door. Then he went inside.
“I held my breath. I tried to stop my heart. I wanted to run. But
I waited, listening.
“Then I heard a woman shouting and Jacob sprinted through the
door and leapt off the porch without touching a step. He ran for the
road and I ran too. A dark woman appeared in the doorway. Her slip
slunk off her shoulder and I remember she had a cigarette burning in
her hand. Her hair was pinned up in rollers, but her face was done. Her
lips were the reddest I’d ever seen on a woman.
“And we raced all the way home, unable to speak from giggling.”
Orest finished yet another drink.
“So, what happened inside?” Augie slurred.
Orest smiled. “He told me that the woman was sitting in the
kitchen and hardly batted an eye at him. She was so still that he was a
foot away before he noticed her. He ran as soon as he did. He told me
he heard her say as he fled, ‘Boy, in a few years, you’ll be runnin’ like
that to get to this place.’”
Augie snorted. He drank again and the glass chimed on his tooth.
“Jacob just walked right through Coy Hubbard’s front door. It
was the bravest thing I’d ever seen.”
Orest shook his head. His gaze fell. He looked over his hands. His
glove was around his rye, soiled up his sleeve. His cigarillo was in his
bare hand, cat-bitten raw. Then Orest looked to Augie. His eyes were
sharp with clarity. His mouth parted. Orest was suddenly horrified.
Augie swallowed and leaned close.
“Professor? Are you all right?”
Orest laid a hand on his heart. He paused. Then, as though
terrified at what he might find, he slowly pulled open his rifle frock.
His face went pale as he stared at his pistol and sheathed knife. He
looked up and spoke in a new voice.
“What is this? Am I a madman?”
Augie was startled. In Orest’s absolute confusion, he spoke in a
tone of pure lucidity. His strange cadence was gone. And his eyes were
clear. Orest seemed a stranger to him.
Augie, drunk, put his hand on Orest’s forearm. Orest stared at
the hand. Then felt his half Stetson on his head. He removed it. Then
looked at it as though seeing it for the first time.
“Professor, do you know where you are?”
Orest could not answer. He searched Augie’s face, then the room.
Suddenly, applause rose and all faces turned to Orest. Again, his moved
in horror. The guitarist had taken his instrument from his lap. He was
waving Orest to the stage. Orest did not move. The guitarist gestured
with his hands as though holding a violin. Then he pointed to Orest’s
boots.
Orest saw his case. The appause continued after the man said
something into the microphone in Spanish.
“They want you to play,” Augie warned.
Orest then put his hand on the case and lifted it. The clapping
grew again as the audience felt that they had compelled him.
“Don’t. There’s no violin in there.”
Orest stepped past Augie as though he were in a dream. Augie
tried to pull Orest back, but he would not. He moved to the front of
the room. The guitarist said something and the waiter nodded. The
guitarist stood and offered Orest his stool. Orest set his case on it as the
waiter brought two glasses to the stage.
Orest put his hand on the case and pulled its latch. Then, the
guitarist put the glass in his hand and held his out. Orest did the same,
still moving slowly, still desperately confused.
Then, he drank.
His eyes pressed shut. When they opened, Augie saw that the
deranged look had returned. His chest filled with pride. His shoulders
changed. His eyes flared.
Orest took his gloved hand from his violin case and put it on the
microphone before him. He breathed deeply. Then spoke.
“Peasants! As Matthew described, salt of the earth. Salt: cheap,
common, everywhere. But overpowering when in volume. Even
corrosive. In short: essential.”
The crowd did not respond. They could not follow his English.
Still, they waited for the violin.
Orest shouted.
“For too long, the controls of this country have been in the hands
of moral trolls! The corporate boot upon our throats, the grand course
for the bottomless future-eaters! No morsel too rich to gullet down! For
fifty years, these faceless and heartless structures have used our illiteracy
to rape, rape, rape, rape, rape!”
Orest jumped from the stage and into the tables. His weak leg
barely wavered.
“But tonight, the illiteracy ends! Tonight, the future-eaters will
choke when they try to swallow! Tonight we lift the bastard’s boot off
our throats! Tonight we stop this festival of locusts!”
The cord was catching on legs of tables and chairs and in the feet
of the patrons. Orest’s voice pushed the limits of the speakers.
“Now! Now is our time! Come with me to Oaxaca! Tonight we
begin to claw it all back! Tonight we join the revolution!”
Orest flung the microphone behind him, making a distorted
buzz. He passed Augie’s table and snatched up his half Stetson and
placed it back on his head.
He walked directly through the backdoor with his arms out.
Augie stood to follow. One of the waiters impeded him by
placing a hand on his chest. He was shouting something in Spanish
that Augie could not understand. Finally, the bartender shouted and
gestured with his fingers.
“Money!”
The man from the street came beside Augie. He put a hand on his
shoulder and patted his shorts searching for his wallet.
The lone man in black slowly crossed the stage, taking the violin
case from the stool. Then he slipped past Augie and the men and
through the door behind Orest.
48.
Orest stepped proudly through the alley. The cats scattered after the bang of the metal door. Then he turned to investigate
the silence behind him.
The figure in black stood. His face was obscured in the shadows.
“These people, sir, they are fools. I am the only one who understood that you speak in the language of His great
book. And so, only I understand your importance.”
He spoke with a heavy accent. And his sharp eyes countered his groveling tone. Orest saw that his violin case was
in his hands.
“Yes. But my Second translates now. Soon an army will file in behind you.”
The man smirked. “Yes, I believe. But we have very little time; your enemies know your message now too. Listen
close: I know of a great many people who are looking for a man to unify them in their cause and direct their strikes.
Soon, they can be followers of yours. Now, they are merely the followers of Christ!”
The man stepped forward. He removed his dark hat and enough light fell from the street to reveal his priest’s
collar. It was greasy with stain and creased. Orest was eased.
“I am El Pastor Mina. Come with me. A congregation awaits.”
He extended his hand.
“American! American!”
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Augie tried shouting over the bartender who continued to bark
at him in Spanish. The crowd hit their tabletops and shouted for more
music after it became clear that the violinist would not play. The man
began to strum his guitar loudly in response.
The doorman and bartender each kept a hand on Augie’s shoulder,
preventing him from pursuing Orest. The waiter lowered his tray and
slowly spoke.
“You have a bill. You pay it, then you go.”
“If you let me get my friend, I’ll pay.” Augie was slurring.
“We do not see your friend. We see you.”
“I don’t have the money. He does. In his pocket. Not my pocket.”
Augie smacked his thighs with his hands.
The bartender went to the backdoor and opened it. Augie tried
to look, but was pushed into a chair by the doorman who then left a
hand on his shoulder. The bartender returned, shaking his head and
whispering to the doorman in Spanish. The bartender sighed and
dabbed his forehead with his necktie.
A woman who was sitting at a nearby table shouted something
to the bartender while pointing at the stage. The bartender looked at
the doorman and they both laughed out loud. The waiter, through his
smile, tried to communicate with Augie.
“Your friend, he has been kidnapped.”
“What?”
He thought for a moment, searching for a word. “He is, by now,
in the asylum.”
“No! He’s an American professor.”
“He is strange. Your money is gone.”
“What the hell are you talking about? He’s through that door.”
The waiter shook his head. “He is gone.”
“Well, he’s got our money, so we better find him.”
The waiter turned to the bartender and spoke quietly. The
bartender nodded in agreement.
“We’re going to call the police and have them come here.”
Augie recalled the men at the roadblock. His mind raced through
the blur of his drinks.
“Wait. Where is this place? Just take me and I’ll get you your
money.”
The men looked at each other and again lowered their voices.
Eventually, the waiter turned back to Augie. “No.”
“Oh come on. We have all kinds of money. Just let me get it. I’ll
pay you.”
The men discussed again. The doorman sneered at Augie’s shoes
and shorts. The waiter pointed at his keys on the table. The waiter
turned back to him.
“Miguel and I will take you up after work. For a hundred dollars.”
“A hundred dollars? Where is this place?”
The staff turned away.
“Yes, yes. Just take me, I’ll pay you when we get there.”
The waiter went to consult a nearby table while the bartender
ducked behind the bar. The doorman took Augie by his elbow and
took his half finished rye and put it on the waiter’s tray.
He led him into the basement of the cantina. He pulled on a
chain and a bare light bulb stuttered on. He unfolded a chair from a
stack that leaned on one of the walls and gestured at Augie. Augie sat.
The doorman pulled out a cigarette and offered his pack to Augie.
49.
The doorman left and shut the door. Augie didn’t try to see if it was locked. He felt he was their prisoner.
The cellar doubled as some kind of office. A desk sat buried in papers and cases of liquor. The room was filled
with empty aluminum kegs, stacked to the ceiling in the back, but tossed thoughtlessly near the door. The floor was
uneven and led to a flood drain at its center. By a deep sink, Augie could see some glass bottles of scotch, lightly dusted.
One had a red funnel still in it. Next to them, some plastic jugs of cheaper scotch, emptied and thrown.
Augie stopped the bulb from swinging. He was becoming dizzy from the shadows. He sat in his folding chair
and moved one of the barrels under his feet. The cellar was hot. The smoke from the bar somehow sank through the
vents and fouled the air. The guitar came through them too. And sharp, Spanish laughter. Augie’s head began to throb.
Then he realized: he was thirsty.
He sat up in the chair and began to climb through the cellar. The sink was coated with dumped paint. Spider
webs lay in the corners. Augie turned the faucet. It was sealed.
His thirst became stronger.
A soda can stood on one of the kegs. He snatched it up, but it was empty, a cigarette stabbed out on it.
Beyond the barrels, he saw some taped cardboard. He dragged a keg out of the way and pulled one open. It was
a half case of beer. He took one out and tried to open it, but it dug into his palm. He searched the room for an opener.
Then he tried to use the edge of the sink. His knuckles bled where he struck the teeth of the cap.
He wrapped his hand with a doily he’d found in a box of seasonal decorations. He wanted to rest his legs, but his
140
thirst raged. He searched for another light. Instead, he saw a bottle of
cooking wine beside a box of single gloves labeled perdido y encontrado.
The wine was already open and Augie found that it was weak,
though very sweet. He was glad and began to swallow. But his thirst
surged and he did not stop until the bottle was done. He replaced the
cap and threw it in the box.
He tried to think of which hand the ocelot had stolen from Orest.
But he could not. He whacked the box with his fist. Then he stuffed
several gloves in his shorts.
He tried to return to his chair, but his legs were changed. They
were light. The floor’s slope steepened. Augie tried to stop his motion,
but could not. His leg was not under him and he fell forward. His chin
hit the cellar floor and he gnashed his tongue. His elbow was in the
drain and damp with grime.
He spit into it after he rose. His mouth was bloody. His tongue
was pulsing. He spit again. Then, nausea began grow from the foot of
his chest.
He gagged between his knees. His eyes teared. Drool and blood
oozed from his lip. He tried to breathe deeply, but the sickness ran
through his jaw. Then something caught his eye. It was the coil of a
telephone cord.
Augie fell back trying to follow the cord. He sprang up and ran
to the desk. He cleared a stack of paper-clipped pages and came upon
the telephone. He put his hand on the receiver and waited. His heart
was amplifying his sickness. He breathed. Then, he lifted the telephone
to his ear.
A dial tone hummed. He misdialed, then hung up and tried again.
He waited. After a moment, a recording came on in Spanish. Augie laid
down the receiver and put his face in his doily. Then, something caught
his ear.
Marqua uno para la distancia.
He hung up the phone and steadily dialed again. Then he waited.
Silence. Finally, the line began to ring.
“Hello?”
“Dad! It’s Augie.”
Augie’s voice was unclear from the wine and his cut.
“Jesus, August, where the hell are you?”
“I’m in Mexico; there’s big trouble.” Augie slurred.
“Where? Where in Mexico are you?”
“I don’t know, some stupid bar.”
“August, are you drunk?”
“No way. We’re kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? By Godwin?”
“Sort of, but now he’s kidnapped too.”
“Augie, start from the beginning.”
“These stupid idiots have me in a some beer room.”
“What city are you in?”
“Don’t know. There’s Bible stuff on the mountains.”
“Bible stuff?”
“Quotes and stuff. Like the Hollywood sign.”
“The police are looking for you, Augie. Just tell me everything you
can about where you are.”
Augie stood, at the far end of the cellar, where a window-well was
blocked with jars of coins.
He walked over to it with the receiver pinned to his shoulder. “I
don’t know man, can’t you trace this?”
“Just tell me everything you can.”
“I’m in like, Juarez or something. We were in Arizona. We got
lost in the woods, like five times. Out the window is just some old
street. The bar is all red. There’s candles on the street everywhere from
where people have been shot.”
There was no response.
“Dad? Dad?”
Augie held up the phone. The cord had been pulled out.
Augie followed the wire to the floor and pulled. It had come out
of the wall. Augie tried to crawl into the kegs and through the shelves
of storage, but he could not find the jack. Plumbing dripped onto his
forearms. Sweat dripped through his shirt. The air was thin. And he
was drunk.
Augie lay on the floor with the unhooked receiver to stop his
spinning.
50.
“Cha cha cha, amigo!”
Augie awoke to wheezing laughter. The bartender was standing over him, wagging a beer bottle. His tie was gone
and his shirt was now completely unbuttoned. He was oily in the heat. The doorman was behind him, also drinking a
beer, but his face was solemn.
Augie’s head whined. His thirst had returned. He took the bottle and drank from it. It was cold.
The bartender sat on one of the barrels and lit a cigarette. He put a hand on his bare chest and petted himself
while he thought. The doorman also lit a cigarette; he smoked it nervously.
Finally the waiter arrived and the bartender stood. The doorman pulled him close and spoke too quietly for
Augie to hear. But his eyes that had once droned slowly, now darted. The staff laughed out loud when he was finished.
The waiter pushed past him into the cellar.
“He is too scared to face El Pastor’s asylum.” He put his hand on Augie’s shoulder. The bartender placed a beer
in his other hand.
“Why?”
“Because it is filled with unhappy phantoms.” The waiter laughed, prompting the bartender to laugh as well,
though he did not understand. The doorman had taken that moment to vanish.
They led Augie up the stairs and through the barroom. The stools were turned. The red lights were off. The
143
register drawer was opened and bare. Augie wondered how long he had
been asleep.
The street was still empty. Even the candles had burned out.
The men walked Augie to a small car, parked in an alley. Its mirror
was taped in place. Its doors yawned from rust. It stunk of cigarettes.
Augie sat in the back. He watched as the bartender drove while
finishing his beer and opening another. He immediately ran a red light
without comment from the waiter.
“So, how far is this?”
No one answered.
Augie tried to memorize their path, but the patterns were too
similar: alleys, then churches, then shops with steel doors sealing them.
One windowless wall had clean graffiti of a red star on black. The
bartender was increasing his speed every block. Augie’s anxiety grew.
They left the main streets and sped down long, unlit roads. The
waiter flicked a bottle cap out of the window and turned up the radio.
Augie shut his eyes and breathed slowly through his mouth. He was
not sure if his fear or the drink was sickening him.
After some time, the bartender slowed and then turned into
pitch-blackness. The car bounced as it left the road and began into
the desert. Augie put his hand against the roof to steady himself. His
nausea ached. The bartender turned sharply to avoid pits and carcasses.
The waiter turned to the backseat. “Eh, now you need to cross to
the door and look for El Pastor. Do not shout for him, just look.” The
waiter pulled on his beer and looked forward before quickly turning
back to Augie. “And don’t open any of the cages.”
“Cages?”
The waiter smiled to the bartender, who could not follow. “Now
look! El Pastor thinks he’s a priest, so he might be dressed up as one.
You know what a priest looks like, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“But he might not.”
Augie was trying to organize the instructions. “So I don’t knock?”
“You look for the priest, you don’t shout, don’t upset anyone. You
ask for your father’s things. Then you come back and pay us.”
The bartender said something to the waiter, who immediately
agreed.
“You owe one hundred for taking you here. But you owe again
for a ride back.”
Augie was too upset to protest. The car was slowing. The bartender
shut off his headlights.
The men lowered their voices as they leaned forward. They were
searching ahead. Augie, too, tried to find what the men were looking
for. But he could not. The night was absolute.
The waiter put his hand on the driver’s wrist and pointed. The
bartender pulled on the wheel and cut the engine. They both turned
toward Augie.
“There.”
The waiter was pointing. His voice was a whisper.
“Where?”
“You walk in that direction. You’ll see it.”
Augie hesitated.
The bartender shouted to the waiter, startling Augie. The waiter
translated in a lower voice.
“Get out or we’ll leave you.”
Augie’s eyes tried to search his steps. The stars were muted. There were
no lights ahead. His focus swirled.
Then, the scent of urine came to him. He slowed to a stop. Just
beside him, among the desert scrub, a red blanket lay. It was flattened
and held in place with rocks. His eyes calibrated to the dark by them.
As he looked ahead, he saw dozens more pinned in the sand. And the
scent became stronger.
A silhouette moved in a breeze. Augie turned and held his breath.
A thin sheet, pale and almost blue in the dark, was over a dying cactus.
It was twisted around the plant so that it looked like arms of a cross, its
spines like fingers of a hand. He searched for the head of the crucified
form, then realized his mistake and began again.
Soon, with the drying sheets, there were cans and toys and other
discarded items. The ground hardened. Finally, sunken ahead in the
limestone, was a wall of cinderblock.
At first it seemed smooth, but as Augie approached, he saw
that the bricks were unaligned and unsealed. The foundation was at
a strange angle and had not been compensated. But, near the center,
there was a metal door.
Augie came to it. He listened. There was no sound from the other
side. No light broke the threshold. The place was quiet and still. He put
his hand on the knob, exhaled, and turned.
He was not sure if the sound was a creak from the door, or the
whimper of a child. He stopped his progress. Augie thought about
closing the door and waiting. His eyes strengthened with his fright and
he looked back for the car. Instead, he saw that in the distance, again
covered with stained sheets, some rows of old wheelchairs sat. They
faced him like an audience of ghosts. His heart erupted. He slipped
through the door to escape them.
The room was black without windows. No light could be seen.
He stepped onto a floor of unpolished concrete. It was cracked and
shifted. The stench of turned meat and milk came to him. He squinted,
hoping to find a path. He fought the urge to cry out.
Then a clank rang out in another part of the darkness, like a tool
deep within a mine. The sound came from behind Augie, then seemed
to echo in front of him, disorienting him again. He crouched as he
waited for the heavy noise to fade.
From the opposite end another boom began, almost in response.
Augie put his hand on his mouth, again resisting the urge to call out
his surrender. He kept in his crouch. The sounds passed each other and
then died out in the far edges of the asylum.
Augie could not move; his fear held him. He stayed lowered until
his legs started to tingle. He kept his hands under his arms. He barely
breathed.
Then his eye caught a movement on the floor. He followed it,
unable to stop a gasp. The sound of flesh slapping the cement came
from a corner of the room. He turned fully, putting up his hands.
There, behind him, was a bare foot.
He followed it up a dark gown to a set of waiting eyes. They
watched him, shaking in anticipation. His voice cracked as he almost
sobbed.
“I’m sorry. I’m looking for a friend.” His voice was weak with
fear.
The eyes did not move. After some time, the form clapped its
hands in the air. Augie’s shoulders quaked with surprise. Then the form
leapt forward. Augie shrieked and tried to find the door behind him.
He could not and pressed his face into the cinderblock wall.
“El Pastor! Help!”
The asylum awoke in howling. Metal clanged from end to end.
Augie shouted again. Then, he felt long nails scratch at his scalp and
his exposed ear. They pressed into his neck. He ducked into the crook
of his arm. The blows fell like whips. He could hear the panting of his
attacker: it was a woman.
A clear voice boomed in the distance. The recesses of the dark
called back in curses or braying. The voice repeated short phrases Augie
could not understand. It rose over the others. Soon, they were calmed
as the voice grew louder. The claw stopped swiping and Augie looked
behind him.
An old woman stared over him. Her nails still pointed at Augie’s
face. She bore her teeth. “To let a fool kiss you is foolish, to let a kiss
fool you is fatal. To let a fool kiss you is foolish, to let a kiss fool you
is fatal.” The old woman lowered herself down to Augie’s eyes while
repeating to herself over and over.
Augie moved his hand to protect his eyes. He could see her fingers
coiling. He was about to put his hand over her face to stop her.
“El Pastor! I’m a friend of the professor! I came to talk to you!”
Augie’s hand burned. He yelped and struck out into the dark. His
hand was in the woman’s mouth, locked in a bite. She growled while
Augie used his free hand to gouge her cheek. Finally, his panic was
complete, and he stood. He pulled her up in his motion and brought a
fist down onto her forehead. Her jaws loosened from his thumb. Then,
he kicked at her chest and the woman was sent deep into the dark
where he could not see.
He prepared himself by putting his arms up. But the other voice
was now in the room, announced by a flashlight.
“The Lord is troubled by all souls that wake in the night! You
have upset me, my children.”
A man in a bathrobe was standing over Augie. He stepped between
him and the woman and withdrew a large cross from his pocket. He
held it out and began to bellow in a bizarre voice.
“In the name of Jesus. In the name of Jesus. In the name of Jesus.”
The woman appeared again, nearly crawling. The man pointed
his light into her eyes, blinding her. She still pointed her claws, but the
man just shouted louder as he watched her.
“In the name of Jesus!”
The woman’s fingers slackened and she lowered them. Her eyes
adjusted and she was able to open them in the light. The man brought
the cross nearly to her head.
“In the name of Jesus.”
“To let a fool kiss you is foolish, to let a kiss fool you is fatal. To
let a fool kiss you is foolish, to let a kiss fool you is fatal.”
The woman then retreated into the darkness.
51.
The man touched Augie’s head with a finger, then began back down the hallway without another word. The chortling
around them continued to fade. Augie ran to the man’s side as he took the sole light in the building down a warped
hallway.
Augie could only see that the man wore rubber sandals and a grey bathrobe. His shins were bare; his back was
large. The hallway was not true and Augie brushed his shoulder against a wall. Wires from a failed electrical system
dangled over their heads.
“These people, this place, this is for all the broken minds. They see their families slaughtered. They are raped.
They have their eyes cut out. Then I come to them. And I show them the Lord. They see better than before.”
A small light moved ahead.
The man opened a door and entered a room. Augie followed. He put out his flashlight and sat behind some kind
of metal desk. The dimensions of the room were impossible to see in the dark. But the floor was strewn with heavy
tools, pails, and torn sandbags. A candle already burned in a stick. Its bobeche was filled with cigarette ends and wax.
Beside it, a paper plate of chicken bones.
The man moved the light to the plate and took one of the bones and put it in his mouth. Then he spoke through
the meat.
“Most of these patients...oh, but these are my children, not patients. Most of my children, they are on the street,
they smell bad, no one wants to talk to them. I come, I bring them here. I built this place from the sand of the desert
148
with my two hands, but with an ocean of love from the Lord. I give
them cups of that love and they get better. They stop the drugs, the
cocaine, the tit-bars, the heroin, the whores. They come here and they
learn to let them be loved. No one ever give them that before. I do, and
they love me because I show them the Lord.”
The man licked his fingers and held out the hand. “I am El Pastor
Mina.”
Augie shook it. “I’m Augie. I think you took my professor.”
El Pastor laughed. “Your man, he’s not from the drugs. He’s from
the booze. Even still, his mind has been blown out. He walks around
thinking he’s some kind of general, eh? He thinks he’s putting together
a battalion of commoners for the fight in the south, no? The buffalo
heart of a Zapata, he tells us.”
“Yeah, but he’s just like senile. He’s not an actual crazy person.”
El Pastor began to untie his robe. “He gave me this when I locked
him in.”
El Pastor pulled the robe from his shoulder. His chest was covered
in a white dressing. He peeled a corner and moved the flame. A deep
wound, still wet, ran along his collarbone. Orest had stabbed him.
El Pastor laughed and pressed the bandage again. “He a tough
son of a bitch, but he’s very sick. Very, very sick. And dangerous. He
keeps toy guns to point at people. But you point at the wrong man
here, you’re dead. You’re a dead man, your brains are shot out, and if
that’s the Lord’s plan for him, then it will be.”
El Pastor reached below him and held up Orest’s pistols, still
wrapped in the holster. Then he laid them on Orest’s violin case, which
was unopened on the desk.
“Can I just take him home? He’s an American. He still works at
a college.”
“I think we have him in the right place. He is a criminal now.”
“Where is he?”
“He is okay.”
“Can I see him?”
El Pastor thought for a moment. He tongued some sinew from a
tooth.
“You can’t see my work in the dark. You think that the man needs
your American doctors. But maybe. But maybe you see my work and
decide. You cannot tell my successes in this dark.”
“I’m not coming back. My ride is outside. I’m going to tell them
in El Paso to come get him.”
El Pastor began nodding to a thought. Then he stood up with
new energy. His stomach pushed his plate. His robe was still open. But
he now had a great ring of keys in his hand.
He came around the desk and put both his hands on Augie’s
shoulders. They smelled like grease and spice.
“Come see my work!” He closed his robe and wiped his fingertips
on it. Then he took the candle and walked out of the room.
52.
El Pastor left the flashlight and began down the hall. The floor seemed to sink as though they were being lowered. The
air became cooler. But the stench grew.
“Soon, I will show you my beauty queen. She’s had enough medicine today.”
Augie could see that they now were passing a series of Judas-doors. They were spaced irregularly and were of
various sizes and materials. Some were doors of other buildings, some were simply primed drywall and plaster, one was
the top of a picnic table wedged into a doorway. There were no numbers, but El Pastor stopped at one automatically
and pounded with his fist.
Again, the echoes carried through the tunnel and were met with a chorus of screeching. Then, the slat on the
door slid open.
A head came through it. It was too low to look up at them, but El Pastor put his hand on top of it. The man
murmured as he did.
“This is Javier. He is a violent rapist. He is too sexually excited to be let out. He lived near a fountain in the
square. I catch him, but he was like a bull, he was too perverted. So I put him in an old car and locked him there. And
waited until he was weak with thirst. For two days in the sun. When his lust was low, I told him that he could come
and be quenched. He followed, like a dog, weak and humble. I threw him in this cell and locked him in again. Then,
I gave him water blessed by the Lord. Holy Water. He drank and was calmed. He shouted and showed me his penis
when I told him. But it was soft and small now. The Devil’s strength had been destroyed.”
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El Pastor shoved the head back through the door. Then the man
shut the wooden slat and was gone. Augie had the impression that this
presentation was a well rehearsed.
El Pastor began again. Weeping could be heard and El Pastor
slapped a door with his palm and it ceased until they had gone deeper.
Finally, El Pastor came to a tall door. He put his cheek to it. Then,
he made kissing noises with shut eyes. After a moment, he passed the
candle to Augie and fished in his deep robe for his keys. Then, he put
one in the door.
He entered. “Come. This one is a danger only to herself.”
Augie waited at the open door. El Pastor was lighting a candelabra.
The room was small; cement and cinderblock. But a table with a
stack of tabloid magazines stood in the corner. Beside it, a sleeping bag
on rolls of pink insulation. On it, a woman slept.
She was naked, covered by a sheet. Her breast was exposed and
Augie put his look to the floor. But he could tell that she was exquisite.
Her hair flowed like paint. It covered her back in rings. Her skin was
polished and dark. Her eyes, though closed, were large, like a cat’s, and
almost certainly dark like her hair.
“My bella was a beauty contest winner in Chihuahua and the
police department contacted her and said she won a contest to come to
Ciudad Juarez and attend some of the biggest parties. Get seen. Have
fun.”
El Pastor sat beside her and began to pet her hair just as he did
Javier’s. “But when she got there, eight officers raped her and beat her
for days in a warehouse. Her mind was destroyed. The only reason they
let her go was because of the sheer madness she displayed. She became
curious to them. So they turned her loose on the streets. I found her
sleeping on the street with many, many dog bites.”
El Pastor looked from her cheek in thought. “I think that perhaps
the police sent dogs after her. Perhaps they were wild dogs. I’ve always
wondered, she could never describe them.”
Augie could see by the moving candlelight that her hand was
rough with scarring. He began to sicken. Then he thought that he
might cry.
“Can you take me to the professor.”
El Pastor stared up at Augie’s face. He could tell that the scene
had upset him. His mouth changed. He felt pride in the horror his
beauty queen had endured.
“He is too dangerous to be kept here. No problem. I have made
the facilities.”
53.
El Pastor unlocked another door and they entered a small staircase. The ceiling was low and both had to crouch to use
it. The walls too were absurdly narrow and the candelabra almost couldn’t pass.
It opened into a hallway. Again, the ceilings were low and they ducked to continue. Augie watched as El Pastor’s
sandals splashed in pooling water. Soon, Augie’s feet were soaked through his socks. The scent of chemical sanitation
was choking.
The tunnel opened into another room and El Pastor stood up. Near the entrance, a man slept. He was unrestrained,
with his head on his knees.
El Pastor set his candelabra on the floor and took a flashlight that dangled in the sleeping man’s hands. El Pastor
turned on the light and put it in the man’s eyes. The man slowly opened them, then was stunned.
“Osvaldo! Up! Usted ha dormido a través de su reloj, usted slob!”
The man began to stir. Only now could Augie see how massive he was. He labored to his feet but could not fully
stand in the room, though El Pastor and Augie could easily. His hands were broad as plates. His head moved like a
boulder.
“Osvaldo was accused of stealing sheep outside of Veracruz. They thought he slaughtered them in the mountains
like a bear, like a monster. A mob chased him out of town. When I found him, he’d taken a bus for seven hours with
two cartridges of shot in his back.”
El Pastor was petting the giant. “A back full of grape-shot and he found me.” Osvaldo made a low sound. It
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sounded like the drum of an engine.
“Can you at least give me my cane so I can stand and greet like a
man or are you determined to keep me on the floor like an insect?”
“Ah, but he never sleeps! Professor, you have outlasted your
guard!”
El Pastor pointed the flashlight through a wall of bent and wound
rebar. Deep in the cage, Orest lay. His rifle frock was rolled under his
head. Behind him, a wall cut from bedrock. Orest watched El Pastor
silently. But his eyes seethed when the flashlight passed them.
“He speaks as though he didn’t try and knock out my teeth with
that cane.” El Pastor grinned to Augie. “Of course, Professor.”
Orest was sitting up. His frock was on his shoulders again. El
Pastor took Orest’s cane from the place where Osvaldo was sleeping.
He stabbed it through the cage and pointed the light at Osvaldo. Orest
slowly pulled himself up and limped to it. Then he put it under his
weight and pushed to the rebar. Orest leant his face through it. “This
man is mad.”
El Pastor put his light in Orest’s eyes, but Orest did not react. He
spit as he shouted again. “This is a madman!”
“No!” El Pastor shook his head at Orest in a warning.
“This scoundrel is the maddest one here! He actually built this
rotted, sickening hell on earth. He thinks it’s beautiful! He thinks he’s
built something other than a disgusting maw that he feeds souls!”
El Pastor went red with anger. He drew his crucifix and tried to
rap Orest’s knuckles with it. But Orest was too fast and withdrew his
arm into the cage.
“Charlatan!”
“No!”
El Pastor set down his flashlight to lift a bar of steel that acted like
some kind of deadbolt, sheathed in the floor. He pulled the heavy bar
with two hands. Its end dripped.
Then El Pastor pulled the cage open and stepped in. He held his
cross over his head like a sword and kept his beam in Orest’s eyes. Orest
put a second hand on his cane and held it like a bat.
“In the name of Jesus! Your cruel Lord! Your cruel Lord! Save him
or let me run him through! Save him or pity him.”
“Your Lord is nothing. He’s brought madness to these people and
empowered a half-lunatic like you!”
“In the name of Jesus! Pull this demon apart! Gut him for
goodness, purity! Gut him for piety! Gut this demon!”
“Your symbols can’t gut like my long knife!” Orest lowered his
cane and struck it off one of the bars. Then he shouted. “Osvaldo rise!”
Osvaldo suddenly sprang into the cage and pinched El Pastor’s
shoulder with his massive hand. Immediately El Pastor dropped his
cross and light from the pain of the clutch. Osvaldo hurled him easily
against the stone wall and El Pastor fell forward. Augie called out for
the giant to stop. Osvaldo smashed El Pastor with his fist, making a
brutal sound and throwing his skull into the wall behind him. His
arms went dead but his legs prevented his collapse. Osvaldo struck him
again and he crumpled. Then Osvaldo stomped at the top of his head,
striking his crown and opening his skin.
The flashlight rolled, its lens blurred with blood, and put its light
on Orest’s well-heeled boot. The point of his cane rested neatly by his
toe.
El Pastor’s eye was open. He was red. His arms lay beside him.
But his mouth spoke into the floor weakly. “Osvaldo. Help your father,
please, my child. The power of the Lamb. You have no one else. There
is nothing else. The power of the Lamb.”
Osvaldo stared down at the broken figure. His slow eyes softened.
Orest stepped through El Pastor’s gathering blood and laid a hand on
Osvaldo’s shoulder.
“Remember your Angelica.” Orest pulled at Osvaldo’s sleeve and
the giant turned from El Pastor. Orest slowly sealed the cage with the
long tooth of steel. El Pastor realized his fate and made an effort to stop
him. But he was too weak and confused. His hand landed pathetically
on the one of the twists of the caging, the other recovering his crucifix
and staining it with blood from his scalp. Orest watched for a moment.
Then he struck the hand viciously with his cane.
El Pastor fell into the dark. Orest walked away.
El Pastor wept.
54.
Orest took Osvaldo’s hand and they broke into a strange sprint, Orest’s aged limp matching the giant’s lumbering. Orest’s
cane stabbed ahead of them in the dark. Osvaldo’s shoulders broke through dry piping. But Osvaldo merely bashed
through some drywall, weakened from dampness, and made a way.
Orest stopped at the first door and began trying the keys from El Pastor’s ring. A man inside the room began to
moan. Then more voices joined. Orest turned the lock. Augie could see Orest grinning to himself.
Orest moved from door to door, letting each open. Osvaldo was rushing ahead, searching for something. The
asylum hall was filling with its dwellers. Augie felt hands pulling at his shirt. Fingers tried to hook into his mouth. His
hair was being ground by a palm. He kept his pace down the hallway, all along surrounded by the mad panting and
moaning, led by Orest and his skeleton key. Then Augie realized: Orest was whistling. And his song paired with the
asylum’s howls perfectly.
In the dark it seemed like hundreds of madmen had joined them in the march. Augie was nearly carried by them.
And the path was brimming with their calls.
Augie could not see. The tangle of arms could no longer be slowed and he was pushed on their current. Orest’s
whistling was gone. Augie tried to keep his legs so that he wouldn’t fall under. He knew that he’d be trampled. He
pulled the arms from his by the wrist. He slapped at any who had their grips on him. But he was becoming exhausted.
And new hands kept coming. He heard the tearing of his shirt and the sound excited his assailants. In seconds, his shirt
was shredded from his back. New weight came onto his shoulders and he began to sink. His thighs were burning with
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fatigue. He collapsed into the legs.
The first stepped on his hand and he screeched. Then another
stood on his ribs and he gasped. His lungs could not expand under
the pressure. His back was wet. A shoe scraped his ear and a ringing
began. Long nails sliced at his neck. Then one caught his eyelid. Then,
through the ringing of his broken eardrum, he heard a voice he knew.
“To let a fool kiss you is foolish, to let a kiss fool you is fatal. To
let a fool kiss you is foolish, to let a kiss fool you is fatal.”
Augie braced himself for her revenge. He brought his forearms
over his face. He put his knees to his chest. But then, a new hand,
stronger than any previous, wrapped itself around his shin. Instantly,
Augie was upside down, dangling in the air. The old woman hissed one
last time before she was out of earshot. And he bounced over Osvaldo’s
shoulder like a caught rabbit.
Augie was dizzy from the lack of air. He nearly passed out from the
position. Then he was laid down very gently. The room was candlelit.
But Augie was spinning. He heard voices, but could not yet respond.
His ear still sang.
He felt warmth on his shoulder. He turned. Beside him, two dark
eyes watched him. His focus came and he took in the perfect face, the
cat eyes and the pulp of the lips. A ringlet of hair tickled his nose.
“He’ll find Angelica’s torso as dizzying as his marauders!”
Augie finally broke his stare. He saw Orest and Osvaldo standing
over him. He was laid on a sleeping bag. Next to him, El Pastor’s beauty
queen was naked; they were in her room.
Osvaldo put his hand on Angelica’s cheek. He truly was massive.
But he touched her softly. Augie sat up. “I have a car waiting for us
outside.”
“See! My Second has anticipated it all!”
Osvaldo did not take his look from Angelica.
“But escape cannot be immediate. I’ll need my pistols!”
Augie spoke up again. “I saw them, they’re in his office!”
“Again, dear Augie, your worth is proven! You see, Osvaldo, he
performs his reconnaissance without instruction. The soldier has at last
been tempered!”
Osvaldo looked at Augie for moment, then back to his Angelica.
Orest removed his rifle frock and handed it to Osvaldo. Osvaldo
lovingly wrapped it around Angelica like a blanket and took her into
his arms as though she were weightless. Augie began to stand.
“Can you walk, faithful Augie?”
“Yeah.”
“Then a final task before we leave.” Orest put his gloved hand
on Augie’s shoulder. “But know, son, that we leave the sixth circle only
to descend to the foul seventh. The flaming tombs of Heresy only sire
worse things that wait for us.”
Augie said nothing. Orest called out and Osvaldo kicked open
the door without disturbing Angelica.
The hallway scattered as they saw Osvaldo. Orest and Augie
filed after him, unmolested. Orest walked with pride. He looked each
madman in the eye as he passed and they went silent. The assaults
ceased. The vandals stopped.
Osvaldo kicked another door and waited for Orest who shot in
beneath his arm. It was El Pastor’s office. Orest took his pistols and
knife. Then his violin case.
Now Orest led. They turned once and Osvaldo smashed another
door made of metal. Dawn had begun. The desert was drenched in red.
“Over there!” Augie was pointed across the desert. The tiny car
still waited; its engine was now running. There was commotion all
around them. A woman was shouting and removing her clothes. A
man was sitting in a wheelchair and pushing himself into the others.
Some simply ran in any direction. Others fought viciously while more
cackled as spectators.
They ran to the car and the waiter shouted from the passenger
side through the window. “The money?”
“Yeah!”
“Just you and him, not everyone, there’s no room.”
But Osvaldo was now before the car, like a tower. It seemed as
though he might destroy it if he wished. The waiter and bartender
spoke in Spanish, then abandoned their position.
Osvaldo kept Angelica in his arms as he squeezed into the
backseat. He did not fit, but would not set down Angelica. At last he
managed. The car tilted sharply as he did. Orest put a cigarillo in his
holder and lighted it. Augie was examining his torn shorts. His collar
from his t-shirt was still around his neck, like a necklace. His pocket
was pulled from his leg and gloves from the cantina were coming out
like stuffing. Orest noticed.
“I was trying to find a replacement for the one you lost.”
“Lost? That was a trade, simple Augie.”
Orest looked over. He pulled them from the pocket and searched.
None were the correct hand. Orest left them on the ground. Then
Augie found one rolled in his other pocket. It was red. Orest took it
and put it on immediately. It fit.
Then he turned and stepped onto the bumper of the car, then
up to the hood. He faced the El Pastor’s asylum and was about to
call to the people. He put up his hand and cane. Then, Augie noticed
that Orest’s eyes changed again. He now knew the look. Orest saw the
madmen scattering across the desert without aim, screaming all the
while. A sadness came over him.
Augie looked off into the coming day. He could see all the way
to the mountains. Through their morning fog, like a spider’s web, an
image was carved in their side. It was hundreds of feet tall. It was white,
like the scripture they’d seen when they had arrived. It was a horse.
Orest lowered his red right hand without a word. They got into the car. The beauty queen was crying.
55.
They sped to the road, chased by those who panicked in the desert. Men smacked the side of the car so that it seemed
the windows would crack. One, a boy, kept their speed long enough for Augie to look into his eyes. The mania was
absolute. The pain behind them was dense as oak. But he knew the look.
Orest kept his red hand on his knife. Osvaldo stared down at Angelica, who cooed her tears into the great collar
of Orest’s rifle frock. The waiter and bartender did not speak; their fear of Osvaldo’s wrath was too much.
They came to the red cantina and Orest jumped from the backseat. The waiter and bartender waited at their
fender, but said nothing about Augie’s debt. Osvaldo lowered Angelica to her feet, but kept his hands on her shoulders
so that she barely touched the street.
Orest opened his case and walked to Osvaldo. “Thank you my friend. Join me again, when my work is done.
But run. Run. Complete your escape. You giants, like trees, you’re still. They want your greatness. They need it. They’ll
never let you keep it. It makes them frightened. And your heights are so tall, that you don’t know the saw is at your
foot until it’s too late.”
Orest put a hand on Osvaldo’s cheek, and Osvaldo made a low hum. Then, Orest took a massive fold of bills and
stuffed them into Osvaldo’s giant hand. Osvaldo did not look down at the money, only at Orest.
Angelica then pulled her shoulder out of Orest’s frock. She folded it once and handed it to him. She stood there,
between the yellow light of the dayspring and the red cantina, completely naked. Her beauty was overwhelming. The
waiter and bartender stared in silence, forgetting even to pull on the cigarettes in their hands.
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Finally, Augie ran to the Pigeon and took something from his
duffle bag. He ran to her and put it into her hands. She unfolded it and
slipped it over her head. It was his last clean shirt.
Osvaldo and Angelica turned and slowly walked into the rising
noise of the morning shift, hand in hand. Augie watched her until she
passed behind a stack of skid palettes.
“And these men are owed something for my rye!”
Orest walked to the car and counted out some bills. Augie
watched them shake his hand formally and knew that he had paid
them more than their extortion.
Orest joined Augie and they walked to Ginevra and the Pigeon.
“That pure face reminded me of a love of my own. The beautiful
Mariana, still in the clutches of the vile Salazar.” Orest lowered his
voice to himself. “Free Angelica, dear Osvaldo. For mine shall never be.”
Orest climbed onto the Triumph. Augie stopped his leg from
starting her. “Professor, look, the police are after us.”
“Of course. Even without knowledge of our honorable goal, this
looks like an outright spree.”
“No, the police back home. I called my dad after you were
kidnapped.”
“Fool! After a night of victories, you tip your hand to the enemy?”
Augie paused, looking after Osvaldo and Angelica. “Look, I’m
going to El Paso.”
“Impossible. The borders are closed to us now.”
“Why?”
“To the north, a manhunt rages. Here, we’re in the sights of
Salazar’s cartel and El Pastor Mina’s leagues of madmen. No, something
else will have to be done.”
“What? I’ll just go to the border on my own. You don’t have to
come.”
Orest thought and then looked at Augie with excitement. “Ah!
We’ll travel south to an airport. There, we’ll fly you into California. It’s
perfect!”
“But we’re at the border.”
“We may as well be on the moon! We can’t cross in broad daylight.
What’s paramount is a quick escape from cursed Juarez. Her villains
have even surprised me with their numbers and shapes.”
“I can’t buy a plane ticket at the airport. It’s too expensive.”
Orest was already stuffing a wad of bills into Augie’s hand. It
seemed like thousands. “No! The only way north is south! They’ll never
expect it.” Orest kicked Ginevra and she growled once more.
“Follow again, dear Augie. And the purse you take home will be
greater than you could have guessed. You may already be a Blackmore
man after your work tonight!”
Orest lighted a cigarillo and blasted off. Augie looked to the
money in his hand.
56.
“I’m sorry dear, I thought I called a car. I had to get my son-in-law to bring me down. I can’t see a thing, can you see
the switch?”
The tiny woman was already speaking as she stepped from the lone elevator into the dim hallway. Her voice was
a croak. A former smoker, Meade assumed. She had stopped at the door halfway between them. “That’s quite all right.
Let’s have a look.”
Meade approached the woman, who was already pointing into a room. Meade put out his hand. “I’m Detective
Meade.”
The woman pulled her hand out of the gesture and immediate shook Meade’s. “Oh, of course, I’m sorry dear. I’m
Penelope Brandwein. I just can’t see a thing by this light. We keep it dark because we don’t want to waste electricity.
These offices are shuttered.”
Meade opened the door and stepped into the room. It was a storage closet, still filled with detergents. A mop
stood in its pail, its head dry and brittle. And a fuse box was behind the door.
Meade opened it and began throwing the switches. Some sconces stuttered on. The floor dial of the lone elevator
moved.
“Good, dear. You never run out of jobs for a tall man.”
“No, you don’t Mrs. Brandwein.” Meade laughed obligingly.
“Oh, call me Penelope please.”
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“Okay. Penelope.”
She took his arm and they began back to the door that Meade
had been waiting at. “Did the doorman let you up okay?”
“Yes, he was already in the lobby when I got here.”
“Oh good. Because I saw you didn’t have a uniform and I got
scared that they wouldn’t let a black man in to wait by himself. I had
my son-in-law call over. You know how it is. Some of these boys are
more old fashioned than my grandfather.”
“No, I didn’t have a problem at all.”
“Darren is from Crown Heights. He takes the train in. A few
years ago we hired his brother and then one of their friends.” Penelope
was thinking. “Jalen. Jalen lived in the apartment Bobby Fischer lived
in.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh yes. They didn’t know until Matthew, my son-in-law,
pointed it out. To tell you the truth, they might not have known who
Bobby Fischer is, but, you know.” Her accent was getting stronger as
she talked about neighborhoods. “So they’re near the park. North of
the Eastern Parkway. Do you know New York very well, Officer?”
“Not especially, no.”
Penelope was staring at a chain of keys that she’d pulled from her
large purse. “I think this is it.” She put one in the bolt and turned and
she laughed. “Not too bad for a two hundred year old.”
She stepped through the door. Meade followed after another
laugh. Penelope was pointing to series of light switches. They were old
and plated in brass, and dark from time at the edges. Meade began to
flip them.
A tiered chandelier clicked as it came on.
The room was filled with sheeted furniture and sculptures. The
ceilings and walls were ribbed with dark wood. French doors split the
large room. The grasscloth walls were stained from missing paintings.
Electric typewriters sat beside rotary telephones, frosted in dust. But
rows of filing cabinets stood everywhere.
“It’s more storage than anything else now. The kids move house
and bring what they don’t need in here.”
“You own the building.”
“Oh yes. My father bought it in nineteen-twenty.”
“Wow.”
“Oh, he bought as much of the block as he could. The kids have
sold some of it over the years. It’s expensive to maintain. And takes a lot
of time.” She was in a room at the far end. Her old office. Meade joined
her.
“Just get those sheets please, dear.”
Meade uncovered two chairs on either side of a Louis XIV desk.
Its cabriole legs were painted gold. Penelope sat with her back to the
window, which, at a certain angle through another building, opened
onto Central Park. “Now, what brings you from Pennsylvania, dear.
Orrie’s in trouble, Matthew said.”
“We hope not. Right now we’re just trying to find him.”
“Well we haven’t actively represented him in twenty years. The
agency wound down when I retired. Which was in nineteen-ninety.
Orest had relationships with the publishers, so we kept him. But I don’t
think he’s working.”
“Does he ever call?”
“Not in years.”
“When did you see him last?”
“What’s he done?”
“We don’t know that he’s done anything.”
Penelope looked over her shoulder to the window. Her jewelry
jangled. Her ears were long from the weight of years of large rings.
“Should I have a lawyer with me?”
“You’re not being investigated.”
“Then what’s he done?”
“He’s gone missing with one of his students. We’re merely trying
to find them.”
“He’s having an affair?”
“A male student.”
Penelope opened her purse and sifted for a pair of eyeglasses. She
put them on, then took out a cellular phone. She held it at various
distances from her eyes, then pressed a combination of buttons and put
it to her face.
“Matthew, did you park the car?” She kept her eyes on the nails
of her free hand. They were polished. “Well put it in the basement. I
don’t know; check the visor. No, I want you to come up. Then have
Darren watch it. Please, Matthew. Thank you, Matthew.”
She set the phone down and looked up. “Matthew’s an attorney.
I just feel better with him here. He went to Brown.”
Meade did not comment. The woman’s lips tightened.
“Orest was a client for his whole career.”
“I understand.”
“He was always lonely.”
Meade kept his look on Penelope. She seemed to chafe under it.
“He never married.”
Finally the clunk of the old elevator came and Meade turned to
the door of the office.
“Sorry Ma, I couldn’t find the key to the garage. I hadda put it in
the alley.” The man wore a suit and shook Meade’s hand as he stood.
“Matthew, this is Officer Meade. He’s asking all about Orest
Godwin. And I don’t know what to tell him.”
“What are you talking about, Ma?”
“Well, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Orrie is a friend of
the family.”
“Orest’s a client. Tell the police what they want, come on.”
“Matthew, I don’t know anything.”
“Jesus, Officer. She’s just enjoying the suspense here. She’s got a
whole mystery theater going on.”
“Oh I do not Matthew.”
“Then help the man out, Ma. He just came down all the way
from Philadelphia. Let him do his job, huh.”
Penelope made a tsk and took off her reading glasses.
“I just wanted to know if you’d talked with the professor.”
“Christ, Ma.” Matthew shook his head at Penelope. She turned up
her chin and refused to speak. “He calls, he writes. He sends packages.
What do you want to know?”
“When’s the last time you spoke?”
“This week, Ma?”
Penelope lifted her eyebrows to herself and kept her look away.
“He called her a week ago. Dead of night, as usual. He wanted
her to assign her best writer to cover him. Like a biography.”
Penelope broke in. “So?” She turned to Meade. “He’s led a very
interesting life, it’s not so unusual.”
“Interesting? He’s been a professor at a school with two thousand
kids for fifty years. Who wants to hear about that?”
“He lived in Europe.”
“God, Ma. So did Jamie last summer. We better get a Pulitzer
winner to write it up. What else did he say?”
“You’re giving a wrong impression Matthew.”
“Then give us the right one.”
Penelope huffed and then leaned in. Her eyes flashed some
mischief. “Fine, if you two are going to interrogate me.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. Meade stopped his glare.
“He called me in the middle of the night a few days ago. Shouting,
raving, in a panic. So I said to him, ‘Orrie, you have to calm down
and think about what you want to say.’ I had to stop him; he never
would have got it out. So I could hear him breathing. Then I could
hear him pouring a drink and swallowing it. Then, clear as a bell, he
says, ‘Penelope, I love you, I love the work you’ve done for me and
everything.’ So I said, ‘Honey, you’re family, it’s fine.’ And he says,
‘I want you to be the one to write my story. I’m never going to write
again, I want you to do it.’ So I asked him, ‘What story?’ ‘cause, I don’t
know, I’m an agent, I want to know. And he says, ‘I’m going to go off
and kill a man. It will make sense when it’s all over. Please tell them my
side.’ And then he hangs up.”
“You said he wanted you to get a writer.”
“No, Matthew, he wanted me to do it.” She looked to Meade. “I
used to be a writer, you know. A good one. Orrie knew.”
Meade wrote a note on his knee. Then he turned to Matthew.
“You said he sends you things. Do you have any?”
“God, how big is your trunk?”
“I’m sorry about all that Officer. She’s old. She gets carried away. To tell
you the truth she hadn’t talked to Orest in years. But she tracked him
down after his brother’s fiancé died.”
The elevator sank past the lobby.
“His brother’s fiancé?”
“Yeah. She loves to stick her nose into some drama. She won’t
talk to you for twenty years, but if someone you know has cancer, or
someone’s kid gets a divorce, she’s on that phone at the crack of dawn.
She’s looking for that gossip like a shark. Watch, she’ll turn today
into Anatomy of a Murder. She’ll feed off this until her deathbed. The
rummy girls will be doing cartwheels.”
The elevator opened into pitch-blackness.
“Hold the door, I need some light for a second.”
Meade held the door with his foot while Matthew walked into
the dark. He could hear the sound of dragging cardboard. Then the
bang of a large breaker.
“Over here. You can let it go, it won’t leave.”
Meade followed the voice to the corner of the room. The man
was standing with his foot on a large box.
“If he sent it to us, it came down here. If he sent it to a publisher,
it came back to us. We got twenty-five years of unpublished Orest
Godwin if you want it.”
Meade sighed. And stuffed his necktie between the buttons of his
shirt.
57.
Orest kept his brim low, breaking the high sun. Augie could not see his mouth, only the ends of his moustache. His
taquito disappeared beneath the edge of his half Stetson, then the tips of moustache twitched while he chewed through
his cuts.
Augie was still tamping his wounds with a stack of serviettes. He pinned them atop the picnic table with his
helmet. He’d put on a dirty t-shirt; it still had burrs in it from the night in the wind farm and was hard to unroll. Orest had spiked his apple soda with rye. He shook after he took the straw out of his mouth; it was even too early
for him.
“What happened to your stitches?”
Orest put a hand to his mouth. One had come out. The other was broken and pointed from his lip like a long
whisker.
“The work of a distracted medic. They’d expected me to die, and I’d risen like Lazarus.”
Augie continued to take inventory of his injuries. His knuckles were scraped. His hip was brown with bruise.
His eyelid stung with each blink. He was sure his gums were sliced after his first bite; but the burn of the salsa was
overmatched by his hunger.
They had only an hour’s worth of strength left before they had had to stop. Juárez was just out of sight when they
decided to pull off the road. Augie tried to make an account of the sleep he’d had since the night in the Olive Motel.
An hour at the bordello. The cellar of the red cantina. Perhaps an hour at the Wilhelm Ranch.
165
He wasn’t sure if Orest had slept at all.
They were the only ones in the lot of the taco stand. It was still
early. Its cook watched them with suspicion. Orest worked on his apple
soda.
“Your father? He’s a man of influence? Will our searchers be
compelled by his position?”
“Huh? No.” Augie swallowed. “He’s a steelworker. I mean, he’s the
foreman, but the factory is pretty small, so he still works a machine.”
Orest’s eyes appeared from under the half Stetson while he spoke.
“Ah, a true heart.”
“I guess.”
“And your mother?”
“My mom and dad are divorced. She remarried and moved away
when I was in high school.”
“A crucial betrayal. Abandoned when you could least afford it.”
“I guess.”
“Your new father, he’s cold to you, yes?”
“He’s not my father.”
“Of course.”
“He’s okay. He’s older. And he already had kids and raised them.”
“Then you are of no interest to him.”
“No. I guess not.”
“None at all. And your mother favours him over you. This is a
shattered home. You will carry this sadness forever.” Orest slurped his
soda after his conclusion. Then he began to produce his rye from his
violin case.
“I just moved in with my dad. It was fine.”
“And you’re all he has in this world. His desperation to find you
is understandable. But our quest is to improve things for millions of
men like your father. The unskilled hands that beg at the feet of their
masters.”
“He’s not unskilled. He’s been doing it for twenty years.” Augie
bit into his breakfast.
“Your loyalty is touching.”
“Thanks.”
Augie rolled his eyes to a bloody napkin that was crumpled into
a flower. Orest lifted his voice as he started on his drink.
“Yes, the ambitions of us revolutionaries are the very same as
every steelworker in the north! Every field hand in the south! The
longshoreman of the coasts! And every wage-slave in between!”
Augie used Orest’s speech to eat more of his food. Orest looked
off into the scrub that went miles to the start of the hills of rock.
“You father’s story is symbolic, dear Augie. He acts against his
own interests. Like the idiot chipmunk that aligns himself with the
brood of vipers, even while they poison him.”
“Maybe.”
“Certainly.”
Augie thought. “My roommate Isaac is rich. His parents are
developers.”
“Gobblers of history.”
“I guess. They buy him everything. He doesn’t have to worry. I
think you can be better at a lot of things when you don’t have to worry
about that stuff. Like, you are free to like, work on things.”
“My boy, you’re working on things even as you scarf your burrito.”
“Maybe.”
“Certainly! Let me tell you the parable tale of The Whistler.”
Augie breathed deeply and put the last of his meal in his mouth.
“There was a boy, born to a wealthy man. His estate was so vast
that the boy’s future was assured. He would never have to work for
himself. And throughout his life, he was told this by all those around
him.
“But his father had worked and built his empire. He had started
with nothing and had used cunning, effort, and skill to achieve all that
his son stood to inherit. So when he looked at his son, he saw none of
these things, none of these tools. Year upon year, the boy’s mother had
coddled him, and he was soft and feeble and useless.
“As the boy approached the age where his fortune would become
his own, the father stepped into his room. He said, ‘Son, soon all of
this will be yours, but you must do something in order to receive it.
You must whistle a beautiful song to me.’
“The boy objected, ‘I don’t know how to whistle.’ To which the
father said, ‘Precisely, you must learn.’
“The boy sulked and the father left. The days passed. And the boy
did not try to learn his father’s song. He pouted instead. Finally, the
morning before the son was to perform for the father, he went to his
mother.
“‘Mother, Father is forcing me to do something impossible to
cheat me from my fortune. I’ve tried to whistle, but it’s too hard. I
can’t. And I’ll be destitute without his money.’ So the mother petted
the boy into silence, then went to the father and told him to spoil the
boy.
“So the son came into the father’s study and the father waited
for the mother to arrive. They waited. At last the boy tried to whistle
for the first time. He spat and hissed and made no noise that could be
considered a whistle.
“And the mother and father praised him. They applauded. And
the boy was rewarded. And went into the world, a man, with confidence
and bravado. Spitting and hissing wherever he went. And thinking he
was whistling a perfect tune.”
Orest stopped and Augie waited, not understanding that the tale
had concluded.
“I don’t know how to whistle.”
“The story applies to your friend Isaac, Prichard.”
“He can whistle. Does it all the time. Does a birdcall too.”
“It isn’t about whistling. It’s about the old money. That blueblood
is a leukemia; it depletes its host.”
Augie tried to think. Orest put a cigarillo in his holder and lighted
it. “Your hometown, what is it?”
“A place called Longswamp Township. In Pennsylvania. It’s really
small.”
Orest dragged on his holder and turned back to the outcrop.
Then he drew his knife and began to cut into the wood of the table.
After some time he spoke to himself.
“Some day, the revolution will touch even the salamanders of this
long swamp. Even they will be counted as allies.”
Augie couldn’t read the inscription upside down, but he made
sure to read as he passed it to the Pigeon. And he thought about it
while they were on the road again.
58.
“Orrie, you owe sixteen bucks on this and last night, you know.”
“I know.”
“Well you’re gonna settle tonight, right?”
“Certainly.”
“Yeah, certainly.”
“I can’t cross the premiere tavern in Frog Hollow, now can I? I need to watch Sheboygan defend her crown
somewhere.”
“Now he’s talkin’ sense.”
The bartender scooped Orest’s pint glass from the bar and refilled it, although it was only half drunk. He
returned it full and Orest winked and took a long sip. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with the brass lighter
he’d been twirling in his hand. He clanged it shut, blew a mouthful of smoke out, spit out a grain of tobacco from his
lip. Then took another sip.
The man next to him wore a long sneer over three fingers of bourbon. His necktie was undone and his hat was
by his drink on the bar. His hair was oiled to his head and sweat twinkled on is face. Anger was building and his skin
was gaining color. He took his dram down and hit the bar-top with the glass.
The bartender immediately took a bottle from the shelf and put its end in the man’s glass. The man took off his
jacket and hung it on a hook at his knees. He rolled his sleeves and reset on the edge of the bar. His forearms were
169
massive.
The man stared down at his drink for another moment. His eyes
narrowed to slivers. His temple beat. Then he snickered to himself and
turned to Orest’s side.
“You wanna tell me, with all that’s goin’ on, why you give a
goddamn about goddamn Sheboygan?”
Orest’s eyebrow twitched in the direction of the voice. He turned
his face slightly to put an eye on the man. Then he sipped his pint
again.
The man poked his shoulder. “Eh, Godwin?”
Orest set his drink down and dragged on his cigarette. “Well, Mr.
O’Malley, they’re a strong defensive team. Top five probably.”
“Oh, that so, huh?”
“Arguably.”
“Oh arguably.”
“Mmhm.” Orest dragged on his cigarette again smugly and
braced himself for a hand to grab his collar. Instead, the man lowered
his voice and leaned closer.
“And you wanna tell me why I gotta hear from Claudette that
you’re in here shooting off your mouth about how the damn Russians are
gonna win this war and that we’re comin’ in like goddamn scavengers?”
Orest shrugged.
“The espionage begins at home. Maybe your daughter should
enlist, Mr. O’Malley.”
The hand shot from the table and wrapped itself on the back of
Orest’s neck. He pulled him even closer. “Forget about Claudette. You
know where Steven is? You know where the hell my goddamn son is,
you little shit?”
Orest slowly coiled his arm through O’Malley’s and tapped it in
an ashtray. Then he reversed the motion and put it back in his mouth.
He did not answer.
“He’s over there. Neck-deep in it. And you sit here with your tab
and your goddamn Sheboygan basketball. Why the hell ain’t you and
Jake over there? Huh?”
Orest’s lips thinned; he shut his eyes. He waited to be struck. The
man stood from his stool.
“Hey! Connie, sit down!” The bartender had a hand on the man’s
arm.
“He needs a shot in the mouth, I swear to God.”
“He’s just a kid, sit down!”
The man leaned on his stool while Orest climbed to his feet.
“Orrie, go home, huh.”
“Me? The hell did I do? He’s shouting at me.”
“His kid just shipped out. You were here last night. Give ‘im the
place tonight. You can come back tomorrow.”
O’Malley’s face calmed. He sat completely and turned to the
bartender. “Ah, I’m sorry. It’s fine. He can stay.”
Orest was already putting his cigarettes in his coat. He took the
pint and drank it down while standing. Then he put a hand in a glove
and pointed to the empty glass.
“These aren’t going on the tab.”
He left.
The snow was gathering in drifts. Orest tried to measure his path
between the ditches and the snake-rail fences. The road was buried.
And the cold bit.
Orest could smell the burning pine in the farmhouses, but
couldn’t see them in the night. Heavy snow clung to his eyelashes. He
tightened his scarf over his mouth. Moist heat wet his face. His breath
was channeled into his ears so that he didn’t hear the car behind him
until the headlights came through his legs.
He couldn’t tell the make in the brightness. He assumed it was
someone asking if he needed a ride. He ran to the passenger side and
opened the door.
“Hey, thanks, it’s a mess out there.”
A woman was behind the wheel. Her lips were red, even in the
lowlight of the car.
“Are you Orrie Godwin?”
“Yeah.” Orest didn’t sit. He only poked his head through the
open door.
“Get in, I need to talk to you about something.” The woman had
a soft accent, vaguely European.
“About what?”
“Get in.”
Orest got in and shut the door. The woman immediately pulled
onto the road but didn’t speak. The storm filled the headlights, but the
woman let her speed climb. Then he noticed there was someone in the
backseat.
She was young; her face was half covered in the upturned collar
of a wool pea coat. Her hair was a cascade of dark curls. Her skin was
brown, even in the middle of Connecticut’s winter. Her cheeks were
wet with tears.
“Tu fait le bonne chose, Ginny. Il va d’accord, il va d’accord.”
The woman spoke to her rearview mirror. The girl in the back
looked away, another tear shooting from her face into the dark of her
coat.
“Jacob is your brother, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“Jacob came and saw us. Do you know our house?”
Orest hesitated. “I think so.”
“Jacob came to our house and he spent time with this girl.” The
woman flicked her eyes to the mirror. The girl was staring out of her
window, crying softly.
Orest suddenly became sober.
“This girl, he, he gets her into trouble.”
“Jesus, Jake.” Orest spoke to himself.
“Now, no one can find Jacob and she cannot stay in the house.
She is four months. And we find out only this week.”
Orest rubbed his eyes with his hands, then pulled out a cigarette
and lighted it. “You’re going to have to look a lot further if you want to
talk to him. Jake enlisted. He’s shipped off. He’s in Germany.”
Orest looked back and saw that the girl was listening. Her face
turned and she let out a sob. It sounded like a child. Orest wanted to
reach for her cheek.
Orest’s eyes opened to the sound of a night table lamp crashing into
the floor, its cord caught in his fingers, his arm outstretched. His half
Stetson was crushed behind his head and a pistol stuck in his back. He
dug it from beneath him and looked about the room.
His violin case was open on the bed. His rifle frock was flung
onto the floor. His knife was stuck in the surface of the bureau. Red
sun spread outside the window of an ornate hotel. He didn’t know if it
was dusk or dawn. Orest put the nose of his gun to his head in thought.
He was in the Del Camino Hotel.
And he’d spent a small fortune.
59.
Orest was alone. The room was still. Nothing of Augie’s was there. An empty bottle stood by the dresser. Another on
the floor, a cigarillo end in it. There was a film of pulp in the bottoms of the empty glasses. Some had seeds. He went
to the door.
The hallway was empty. The door across the hall had a collection of dishes at its foot. Orest retreated back to the
room. He shut his eyes and searched for a memory. Nothing came. Then after much effort, an image flashed. It was a
pool.
Orest went to pull his knife from the bureau. It was through a note, written on Del Camino stationary. He
brought it nearly to his nose to read.
He that writeth in blood doth not want to be read, but learnt by heart.
Orest knew the hand. It was his.
He took the cut page and put it in his pocket, then put the knife through his belt. He took his cane from the
floor and then went to the closet. He pulled a bathrobe from a hanger and put it over his shoulders to conceal his
weapon. Then, he walked out to the hall.
He walked slowly, listening for any sound. The hall was quiet. The floor was lush carpeting and his boots made
no sound. He kept a hand on his knife under his robe, like a sabre. He licked the wound on his mouth; he tasted
orange in his moustache. He came to a set of elevators.
Orest considered. He stepped into a deep doorway. He looked down at his cane and noted that a series of
173
notches now descended from the bulb. What they accounted, he had
no idea.
Then the elevator door made a faint chime and opened directly
upon him. He began to draw his blade, expecting his captors to stop
his escape. Instead, a woman in a bathing suit and shawl smiled warmly
at him.
“Ola.”
Orest did not respond. She had no apparent concern and walked
past him. Orest put his cane in the closing door to stop it.
He could read the button for the lobby. It was in both English
and Spanish. The elevator lowered. Orest tightened his hand on his
knife. The doors opened.
A guard stood with large rifle in his arms. The butt was stenciled
with a number. His face was dark with exhaustion. Orest pulled his
knife from his belt, but kept it under the cloth.
The guard noticed him and immediately smiled.
“Ola Le Cuente!”
Orest still did not answer. He could not hide the confusion on
his face. He passed the man and began to the large desk of polished
brass. A man in an ill-fitted maroon jacket was there. He had already
seen Orest and was standing. He called out when Orest was looking in
his direction.
“Good evening, sir. Did you rest well?”
Orest tried to answer, but his voice failed.
“You’ve got messages to collect.”
Orest limped to the desk and tried his voice again. “Messages?
From whom?” His voice was a rasp.
The concierge began looking through the pages before him.
“Mrs. Crystal Ayotte. Many times.”
“I don’t know any Crystal Ayotte.”
“I don’t know, sir. She seems to want to speak with you. Very
badly.”
Orest took one of the pages from the concierge’s hand. “These are
all from her?”
“All but one. Very late last night.”
He did not hear the man. Orest was deep in thought. He was
trying to place that name. The concierge was shuffling through his
notes.
“Was there a young man with me?”
“Yes, of course, sir. Your aide.”
“Yes, my aide. Is he gone?”
“Oh no. He’s waiting outside for you.” The concierge pointed to
a set of doors. Then returned to his notes. “Arthur Levanthal.”
Orest’s heart quickened. “Excuse me?”
“You have a message from an Arthur Levanthal.”
“From when?”
“Last night, very late. You were in town, I believe. Searching for
a cockfight.”
Orest took the page from the concierge and began toward the
doors. His jaw was delicate. His legs were unsure. A sheet of sweat
came over him.
“Thank you, Le Count!” Orest put his shoulder into the set of
doors and they swung open with a bang.
Two women were laying poolside. They looked over to the sound,
then immediately sat up when they saw Orest. Each waved their arms
to him. Orest did not respond. Beside them, wearing a black sombrero
with its brim filled with bottle caps and lime wedges, was Augie.
“Prichard!”
Augie looked over slowly. He was wet from swimming. Then
nodded to Orest.
“Prichard!”
“Yeah, I’m right here man.”
Orest was at Augie’s lawn chair. Augie lifted his sombrero to him.
Orest panted.
“We’re on the edge of madness, Augie.”
“What?”
“We’ve been cursed by some spell!”
One of the women beside Augie tipped her sunglasses up. “Did
the Count have a good sleep, huh? We thought you’d miss the whole
day.”
Augie leaned forward; a series of caps and coins ran from his head
onto the pavement. “You just got drunk.”
“No! There’s some kind of trap sprung on us.” Orest was rushing
to find some explanation. “Someone has enfeebled me. Possibly this
Crystal Ayotte.”
“Crystal Ayotte?”
Orest was looking over his messages. “Yes! I’m not sure what fatal
connection she has to all this, but the connection is certain. Gather the
clues.”
“Crystal Ayotte is my mom.”
“Lord! She’s found us?”
“You called her.”
“No.”
“Yeah. You called her last night.”
“Never.”
“Yes. You called her and shouted ‘Sons before second husbands’
then hung up. She called back and I talked to her.”
“But why?”
“You ran out of rye, and they didn’t have it. So you started
drinking some other stuff. What’s his drink called?”
The woman had returned her sunglasses to her eyes. “The Count
drinks mescales.”
Orest put his hand to his mouth. His voice could barely be heard.
“No.”
“Yeah. You drank a bunch of it. It was from that place we were
going to. What is again?
“Oaxaca.”
“Thanks Jimena.”
The woman smiled and laid back.
“An blunt irony. From the very womb of our revolution comes
that evil elixir. Cursed mescal. Poison.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty gross.”
“And now I’ve jeopardized the entire sally. The Provost’s men are
ganging up as we speak.”
“Dr. Levanthal?”
“And his mercenaries.”
“My mom probably called them.”
“An enemy in the bloodline. The mystery solved in a moment.
Now, we must redouble our speed. The roads will be brutal.”
“Sure. But I can’t go.”
“You must, Prichard! The wolves are at the door!”
“No. I can’t. You threw my passport at those dogs and I couldn’t
get it back.”
“What?”
“My passport. You threw it at a bunch of stray dogs. You said it
was a ‘final test of Blackmore courage.’”
“Cursed mescal.”
“So now I have to go to the embassy. We’re paid up here for
tonight anyway.”
Orest put his face in his hands. Augie was accommodating from
the light beer.
“My boy, these things that I’ve done. The things that I’ve spoken
to you. Know that I was in the wicked thrashes of something. It wasn’t
your trusted leader then. It was his monster.”
“Okay.”
“Please, flee with me now. Forget the rants of that goblin.”
“When can I get my passport then?”
“We’ll have to find a consulate. I know of one. Under the volcano
of Mexico City. We will be invisible in those teeming masses.”
Augie thought. “We can go, I guess.”
Orest put out his red hand. “Faithful Second, this mission is as
much yours as mine now.”
“Okay.”
“And please, should the rye run out, never, ever let me have
mescal.”
“Okay.”
60.
They entered the Del Camino Hotel. Immediately the concierge bellowed a warm hello. The guard looked up too. He
laughed and shook his head to himself at the bizarre appearance of the pair: Orest with his bathrobe and chest-high
suit pants, his moustache stained with paloma cocktails, and Augie with his soaked cargo shorts and sombrero. Augie
left a peso from his hat on the front desk as they passed.
“The Count and his dear Second,” said the guard.
Once the elevator doors closed, Orest turned to Augie in a whisper.
“Who is this Count, and why this confusion?”
“You’re The Count.”
“But why?”
“You kept screwing up our codenames. And then you told them where you’re actually from, so everyone started
calling you The Count of Frog Hollow.”
“Dear God.”
“You didn’t use your name name. Well, you did, but no one caught it.”
Orest twirled his moustache end in thought. “My arrival in this country will be known in a matter of hours.
We’ll have to slip under their nets.”
Augie produced a key and stopped at a door. The piles of dishes were at his feet; he had abused the room service.
Orest had not even closed his door. He loaded his violin case and holstered his pistols. He put on his rifle frock and
177
cape. Then he fixed the dent in his half Stetson with his red hand.
Augie was already in the hall. He wore a t-shirt that had been
pressed. Augie went to walk to the elevators but Orest tapped his
shoulder.
“A fugitive’s exit.” He pointed to the staircase.
They circled the building after coming out on the wrong side.
There, Ginevra and the Pigeon waited. They were polished to a shine.
The Pigeon’s trunk was also reattached and its tires inflated.
“They did the oils and everything too.”
“Excellent. These machines will be pushed deep into the red
before their work is through.”
Ginevra sounded surer when Orest started her. She launched
onto the boulevard with confidence. Augie too felt that his scooter had
benefitted from its time off the road. And his groin was less raw.
Soldiers patrolled the streets. Roadside food-stands all had
military vehicles beside them, all with fierce weapons resting on their
roofs.
Augie leaned to Orest at a stoplight. “This is still cartel. Like
Jaurez.” Augie couldn’t tell if Orest could hear him. He rode for some
time without turning his head. Then Orest pulled into an alley between
two rows of shops.
“Supplies, Prichard. As much as your duffle bag can hold.”
They entered a small shop with barred glass doors. The shopkeeper
watched from behind the counter. Orest marched to an aisle of liquor.
“Preservatives, boy! Find something canned that you can stomach
for the next days. Let not our mission become Napoleonic.”
Augie began to load some beans into his arms. Orest was already
filling the counter with his rye.
Beneath the counter, through the glass, was a series of shining
rocks. They were almost jewels, bright rust and orange, but crystalline
like quartz. Orest and Augie both noticed them together.
“Find out about these, Prichard.”
Augie looked up to the shopkeeper, who was already pleased with
their large purchase. He tapped the glass with a pointed finger.
The shopkeeper immediately slid open the counter and put one
of the largest pieces in front of Orest. He took it in his black hand and
held it between him and Augie.
“This stone must be some kind of sign, dear Augie.”
“A sign of what?”
“Think. The mescal spell, the claw of the leopard. All have guided
me to this.” Orest held the rock closer to Augie’s face.
“So buy it.”
“Of course.”
Orest put the rock atop of Augie’s canned and dried food. The
shopkeeper wrapped it in newspaper and put it in its own bag. Back in
the alley, Orest stopped them and dug out the stone. He held it up to
Augie. Augie shrugged. Then Orest hurled it into the asphalt, smashing
it into sparkling dust.
“What are you doing?”
Orest ignored him and sifted through the glitter. He took two
of the larger shards out. He put one in his breast pocket and held the
other out to Augie.
“Carry this always. Protection from our most traditional
opponents: the dark spirits. The treasure of Villa Ahumada.”
Augie stared for a moment. Then put the stone in his shorts.
61.
Meade stuffed his map under his arm and knocked on the door. He put some force into it, as the television was audible
through the door. He heard socked feet scampering on the other side, then the switch of a deadbolt.
A little girl put her face in the doorway and waited. Her hair was braided into two buns on either side of her
head.
“Hello, ma’am. Is this your house?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Detective Meade, I’m here to see your mom.”
The door opened, but the girl did not make a path.
“Can I come in?”
The girl thought, then ran off, leaving a landing of tiny shoes, coats, and other things open to Meade. He stepped
in and began to wipe his feet on the rug.
“Oh, that’s okay, you can keep them on.”
A woman with a stuffed rabbit held by its ear came into the room. She wore green nursing scrubs. Her sneakers
were on, Meade observed. She put out her other hand and Meade took it. The girl poked out from behind one of her
thighs, then hid again.
“I’m Nalya. You talked to my husband on the phone?”
“Yes, I’m Detective Meade.”
180
“Come in, come sit.”
The girl pulled on the woman’s leg while they walked. She gave
the girl a stern look while she shook her head. Then she smiled up at
Meade. “I’m sorry, she thought you were going to be in a uniform. She
wanted to see a police man.”
Meade winked at the girl, who was now burying her face in her
mother’s shoulder. Meade took a seat across from them after clearing
more toys.
“I’m a detective. That means I don’t have to wear a uniform
anymore. But I used to every day.”
The girl was emerging. “Then how do bad guys know you’re a
police man?”
Meade put his hand in the deep pocket of his overcoat. “Because
I show this.” He held out his badge. The girl dropped from the sofa and
ran up to it. She immediately put both her hands on it.
“Aisha, what do you say?”
“Thank you.”
“No, Aisha. You can’t go grabbing, you have to ask him if you can
touch it.”
The girl looked back at Meade, who had already put it in her
hands.
“Can I see it, please?”
“Yes, but be careful, it’s real gold.”
“How much is it?”
“You can’t buy it, you have to have one given to you.”
The girl was rubbing it with her thumb.
“I’m sorry, she has to touch everything.”
“Don’t tell her about my gun then.”
“Please, don’t.” Nalya laughed and clicked off the television.
“Can I get you some coffee?”
“A glass of water would be good, actually.”
Nalya got up and walked to the kitchen.
“I just got the message when I got home from work. Did you
drive straight in?” She was shouting over the faucet.
“Yes.”
“Long drive.”
“I did it in under a couple of hours.”
“I guess New York isn’t too far from Hartford. We used to go into
the city more. But the traffic.” Nalya reentered the living room.
“It can be something, sure.”
Nalya sat after placing a glass of water in front of Meade. “My
husband said that you’re looking for my mother.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk about your grandmother.”
“My grandmother passed last year.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“She was eighty-eight.”
“Old girl. I wanted to ask about one of her friends.”
“One of Nana’s friends?”
“Yeah. A man named Orest Godwin. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“You’ve never heard the name before?”
“No.”
“Let me ask you this: did you know your grandfather on your
mother’s side?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I see.” Meade looked at his notes. “She kept her maiden name
though. Toulin.”
“Did she? We always thought her married name was Williams,”
she almost laughed. “That’s what we put on her tombstone.”
Meade smiled. “Did you know if your grandmother was ever
married previous?”
“God, I don’t know. She was with Grandpa until he died. I must
have been fourteen or fifteen maybe.”
“I see.”
The little girl was looking through Meade’s wallet.
“This Godwin has gone missing. We’re just trying to find him.”
Nalya started a shrug; her workday had been long. This mystery
did not intrigue her. Meade could tell that she was tired. Then Nalya
reached into her pocket to produce a vibrating cellular phone. “It’s my
mother,” she said to Meade as she answered.
She said hello and then listened for a moment. She looked up
to Meade and pulled the phone from her cheek. “She says she knows
Orest Godwin.” She listened again. “He came to Nana’s funeral in Frog
Hollow. He cried in the back.”
Her face became confused. “And they think he stole an Easter
candle?”
62.
“It’s a lot more suspicious for us to heat beans on a fire in a ditch than just getting a hotel.”
“Your time on the high-hog has softened you. Now all you crave is bikini suits.”
“There’s cars every two seconds.” Augie was pointing.
“Patience! By now we should be more comfortable on the outskirts of town than in its penthouses.”
Night had fallen, but the lights of the overpass were bright. Dust from the unpaved roads near them floated into
their path. They faced rows of bungalows, separated by cement walls and with barred windows. A few were painted in
faded colors like baby blue or pink. Most were just white with stains settling in the cracks.
Augie had forced them to stop when they entered what seemed to be a city. The power lines networked overhead
in a pattern; shoes dangled from some. The buildings had water meters. The roads ran in a grid. He thought that this
place might have an embassy.
He knew that Orest could not tell how long they had been riding. Augie saw that he never consulted the time
and seemed governed by a clock that was scrambled by dementia and rye. Still, Orest refused.
Augie ignored him and passed in front of Ginevra. He led them through a side street to what was once a field.
Orest followed without objection. The grass was dead and moiled by the tracks of cars. Torn cardboard and bare tires
lay in the ditch. Plastic bags shivered all around them. And they had to kick away some cans to find somewhere to sit.
Orest was trying to light a sleeve of one of his shirts.
“Use some paper from your notebooks.”
183
“Stop your nonsense! I should burn you before I turn to those
documents.”
“Fine.”
Orest watched the match burn to his long nails. He let his sleeve
drop and instead, he lit a cigarillo and went back onto his elbows, filling
with thought. Augie sat cross-legged, eating a block of soft cheese.
“One autumn in Hesse, I came across a letter from Goethe’s
mistress Vulpius to a cousin, I think. In it, she described the call of a
now long-extinct bird that nested in the forests nearby: the laughing
owl. He would answer whenever a certain guest played long notes on
the accordion. But the sound she wrote of was not a cackle at all, as
one would assume. It was a miserable cry, filled with sorrow, and even
longing. The bird’s name, it seems, was a joke. So, the poor creature was
condemned to be misunderstood by the world, with none of his kind
left to cry out a correction. The translation is in my notes somewhere.
The bird’s last chance perhaps.”
Orest flicked his hand at his case.
“Just don’t build a fire, we can sleep here.”
Orest did not respond. He smoked, then poured some rye into his
chained cup. He was staring off over the short houses. The mountains
had continued since Juarez.
Orest took off his rifle frock and unstrapped his shoulder holster.
“What prisoners they must see when they look down on us.”
“Who?”
“Every goat on the cliff. Every crow on the branch.”
“Huh?”
“Here we are, festering a mere day after you’ve lost your papers.”
“I didn’t lose them, you did.”
“To the truly free, we must appear absurd.”
Some headlights brushed over them. It seemed like their shadows
reached the mountains’ face.
“I guess.”
Orest smoked. “This is man’s folly.”
“What is?”
“To have everything and to destroy it.”
Augie sensed a change in the mood.
“Are you not going to wear your coat?”
Orest looked at the pile of black beside him. “No, dear Second.
Tonight I want to feel the night’s chill on my skin. Bedded down in
leaves. Under a sky, not a ceiling. Like the simple leopard who aches as
I ache.” Orest was making a fist with his bitten hand.
“All right.” Augie reached over and took the frock. He rolled it
under his head and licked the cheese from his teeth. He watched Orest
for while. Then, exhausted from the day of sun and swim, he shut his
eyes.
Again, Augie was before his anchorbender. Its pace was frantic, and its
press was coming faster and faster. Augie tried to slow the pedal, but
it moved as though by a ghost. He tried to keep the machine fed with
bolts, but he could not manage the rapid pace. Sweat shot down his
face. The steam burned his arms and neck. His hands fumbled with
their task again and again. The clang of the metal grew into a purr.
Augie opened his eyes to see Ginevra crossing the dead field.
Dawn bled through behind her. Augie scrambled onto his hands and
knees, Ginevra’s speed was so great. He did not know if Orest could
stop her before he hit him.
Orest slammed to a full stop at Augie’s shins.
“Jesus Christ, Professor.”
“Slow as molasses, Prichard! If I’d been one of our more capable
freebooters sent from the North, you’d be dead or worse!”
“Fine.”
Augie was digging some sleep from his eye. Orest cut the
Triumph’s engine.
“Of course, while you nestled, I was out doing invaluable
reconnaissance.” Orest removed his half Stetson and took a folded
paper from his scalp. He handed it to Augie with his gloved hand. It
was an address.
“What’s this?”
“The location of your embassy, dear Augie.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“I managed to win the trust of the underclass of Pistolas Meneses.”
Orest gestured broadly behind him.
“So you just asked someone where the embassy was?”
“Never! Look close, sleepy fool.”
Augie sneered and looked back at the page. “Conquistador Hotel.”
“Yes. Named by barbarians after barbarians.”
“So, why are we going to this hotel? You just made us sleep in all
this garbage.” Augie was looking around in the scant daylight.
“The hotel is adjacent. Come! Today we make you a citizen.”
Orest started Ginevra dramatically, only to shut her down again when
he realized that they needed to pack up.
63.
The Hotel Conquistador was nearly a full city block and alone on its lot. Still, they had circled it several times before they
determined that it was their destination. It was a brutalist grey, but its first floor exterior was red.
“It stands in a pool of blood,” Orest whispered.
The lobby floor was polished and its overhead lights reflected. The staff wore clean uniforms and the chill of air
conditioning was instant.
“This is a pretty nice hotel actually,” Augie noted as they approached the front desk.
“Of course! This is home to all stripes of diplomats and consuls; the worst ranks of perverts.”
“What?”
“Half-mad blue bloods, those exiles too powerful to imprison, sons of accomplished men and other legacy fools.
This is the type of man who takes an ambassadorship. And then, away from his country, he atrophies. He begins to
twist in his vices. He lives beyond any laws. Any indulgence is flung to him. They are basically demons.”
They were at the desk and the clerk was waiting for Orest to stop. Augie looked on in confusion.
“Dear man! A room facing the east. There is no better lighting for the rigors of meditation than dawn.” Orest
pointed at the revolving doors they had just passed through. Beyond them, the American Consulate.
“Certainly, sir. That, though, is north.”
Orest thought. Augie stepped forward. “Come on, Grandpa. I don’t want to get up at dawn. Let’s just get a
north-facing room.”
186
Orest stared at Augie, unsure of what he was doing. Then, he
nodded visibly and turned back to the clerk. “Yes! I am nothing if not
a spoiling idiot of a grandparent!” Orest had lifted his voice almost to
a shout. “Let the brat have his northern facing window. What should
I care if he sleeps the morning away to finally wake to a forehead of
pimples!”
The clerk looked sympathetically to Augie, who was pinching the
bridge of his nose. The clerk waited a moment and then began to type.
“Well thank god we didn’t check in last night. We might have slept on
beds instead of in dirt.”
Orest ignored Augie. He was already at the window. “There. The
windows are blackened, of course. Through that glass, a hive of spies.”
Orest was watching the consulate. His lip was turning as he spoke.
“I thought you said they were all stupid.”
“Some. But they work alongside the true tacticians. Men so
faceless, their names are never spoken. Like a virus cell, they have no
hearts. Their nourishment sickens as they feast.”
Augie was getting his driver’s license from his wallet. “I think
they just do passports, don’t they?”
“No.” Orest twirled his moustache in thought. “We’ll have to be
careful, Prichard. These men already work against our efforts in Oaxaca,
no doubt. They’ve had weeks to prepare. My name is spreading across
these lands quite already. One wrong glance, one misused word, and
they’ll have us disappeared. This is the entire mission.”
“Well, why don’t I just go then?”
“You’d be netted in a second, Prichard! You’ve no experience in
the art of disinformation!”
“Fine. So you’re my grandfather.”
“Wrong.”
“What then?”
“I’m your professor.”
Orest smiled. Augie sighed and shook his head. “But you are my
professor.”
“Ah-ha! Professor Orest Godwin, eminent writer and expert on
revolution, insurgency, and nursing the pangs of democracy! Now they
will meet another man. A doddling coot, without his facts. A braying
donkey fit for the knackers. A grey husk, gumming his meals and
waiting for incontinence.”
Augie did not understand the plan.
Orest walked to Augie’s duffle bag and took a t-shirt. He dangled
it from his gloved finger.
“What’s more, I’ll be in disguise!”
64.
Orest did look remarkably different in his Philadelphia Eagles t-shirt, Augie felt. He had been staring at the wind-driven
flares of Orest’s black rifle frock and cape for so long that the faded number twelve was jarring. His shoulders came to
a point. His collar sagged. His long silver hair seemed bizarre without his Stetson.
Orest kept his black slacks and boots. The torn-out knee occasionally framed a bloody scrape. The boots were by
now well beaten.
“I think you just look homeless.”
“Nonsense! This is just the uniform of the slob. None will suspect a published intellectual to wear it.”
“No, but you don’t look like an old guy. You look like an insane guy.”
Orest faced a full-length mirror and laid a hand on his chest. It was ungloved. Augie was taken by the frailty of
the fingers. They were bent from the knuckle, knotted like old roots. The nails were uncut, and lined with marks. And
they moved as though they ached from the wrist.
Orest tried to leave his gutta-percha cane, but his limp had grown and he was unable.
“If you really want to go undercover, you should shave off that thing.”
Augie was gesturing over his lip. Orest watched him for a moment, then sneered.
“As you still await puberty, I will forgive your ignorance.”
Augie put his hand on his chin and began to rub.
“Never ask a man to shave his moustache.”
188
They crossed the street to the Consulate. It looked like a fortress. No
flags pointed from the building; it was only floor after floor of cement
and shaded window. A lane of traffic had been partitioned with pylons.
A soldier stood between two, his finger laying on the guard of his
trigger. As the pair approached the entrance Orest pointed to his chest.
“American!”
The soldier barely looked.
There were more soldiers on either side of the double doors. Again,
rifles pointed at the floor or ceiling. Other weapons were strapped to
their sides and legs.
A man sat at a desk before a long set of elevators.
“Hi, I just need to replace a lost passport.”
The man looked over Orest. “Go up to the third floor.”
Another solder leaned at the elevators. Orest and Augie did not
speak until the doors closed behind them.
“Be keen, Prichard. These men are artists in deception. We’ll
need all of our cunning for a clean grift.”
“Just don’t say anything. I talked to my mother yesterday and I
actually did lose my passport.”
“True! Only after our insurrection in Juarez. Think, scissorbill.”
Augie scoffed as the doors opened.
The room seemed empty until a soldier moved in a chair by a
stairwell. Then Augie noticed a man behind a tall counter. It was the
only wicket that was staffed. He approached with Orest behind him.
Orest eyed the room with clear suspicion.
“Hi, I’ve lost my passport and I need to get a new one to fly
home.”
The man looked up pleasantly. “Oh boy. Do you have any
identification at all?”
“Yeah, everything. Just no passport.”
“Oh, that’s gonna make this a lot simpler.”
The man began to type into his computer. Orest watched him
closely. Augie produced his license and slid it to the man.
“So was it stolen or do you not know?”
“Actually some stray dog got it and ran off.”
The man looked up laughing. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I dropped it and he just got it and ran last night. I couldn’t
catch him.”
“Well this is a first.”
Orest did not smile with the others. He stared at the man’s hands
while he typed and talked conversationally with Augie. He began to
run the strip of the license though a scanner. This was too much for
Orest. He leaned into the counter.
“Have you heard of this Orest Godwin per chance?”
“What are you doing?” Augie spat.
The man looked up again. “Hm? What’s the name?
“Orest Godwin. He’s a professor and known revolutionary in the
US. Very dangerous. And I fear his legend is about to grow.”
“Jesus, quiet.”
“No, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Ah! My name is Felix Lemay. I’m a biographer looking to cover
his latest exploits. As I move into my twilight, I’ve come to understand
and appreciate his courage that I’ve never possessed as a hermit
academic.”
The man stared up at Orest. He stopped typing. “And you
brought your grandson to help?”
Orest thought deeply. He had forgotten what his relationship to
Augie was meant to be. But then his tone darkened.
“Many would ride alongside me should they know about my
sally.”
Augie began to pull on Orest’s shoulder. The man turned fully to
them, leaving the keyboard.
“I’m sorry, what was that name?”
Augie saw Orest’s eyes were beginning to change. His brow
lowered and his lip thinned. He dove past Augie and back to the wicket.
“You’ll know that name. Not here, as The Consul requests. But
with the thunder of the thousand voices that call it out! But now, drink
your arsenic in the shadow of Popocatépetl, wait for your body to be
chucked into the ravine with the dead dog’s! You’ve been corrupted
from mouth to gut and stand no chance at stopping what comes!”
The man stood and backed away from the desk. A soldier was
already at Orest’s back and a hand was on his neck. Orest’s heel slipped
and he fell to a knee. The soldier lifted him harshly by his arm and was
pulling Orest into the building.
“No! He’s just senile! He doesn’t know where he is.”
The man at the counter put both his hands on the back of his
head in thought. “Danny, wait.”
The soldier stopped though Orest still squirmed.
“He’s just crazy. He thinks he’s in some war. He’s a vet. Our hotel
is across the street, just let me take him over there. He’ll be fine.”
The man had his hand on his heart. His face was softening.
“He’s just senile,” Augie repeated.
“Does he take anything for it?” The man didn’t take his eyes from
Orest.
Augie thought for a moment.
“Yeah, it’s next door. He just must have skipped it or something.”
“Okay. Danny, just walk him to the front.” The man spoke
directly to Orest in a childish tone. “Sir? We are just going to walk you
to the front of the building and let you get back to your room for some
rest. Okay? There is nothing to get excited about. There’s no war. The
war’s all over.”
The soldier softly pulled Orest to the elevator doors. Orest lost
his look of fury and only stared at his feet. The soldier changed his
grip and only left a gentle hand on his far shoulder. Augie thought
Orest might begin to weep. Then, with clarity, Orest looked back to
the wicket before he stepped into the elevator.
“The war is just beginning.”
65.
Orest sat at the window of the Conquistador Hotel for some time. He did not speak. Augie watched as his look changed
from moment to moment. Sometimes he would have a deep strain along his temple, and his mouth would tighten.
Then, as quickly as the shadow of a car would pass over his face, he would have a look of sadness. Once, he was
reminded of the face he wore in the red cantina.
Augie tried to get him to move to the bed, but he would not. Augie finally turned on the television and pushed
off his sneakers with his toes.
“Well, now I don’t have a passport or a driver’s license.”
Orest kept at the window. The light had changed and Augie could see the dots of Orest’s spine through his
t-shirt. And the points of his shoulder blades. He seemed thin as wire.
Augie clicked through the channels. His panic from the Consulate began to pass. His eyelids warmed. He
drifted. He had left the television on the one English newscast he found. He listened while he closed his eyes.
…The underground explosion at 2.36am BST, which followed a warning by Pyongyang last week that it was planning
such as test, was a complete success and a “great leap forward” for the reclusive communist state, its official KCNA news agency
said.
“It marks a historic event as it greatly encouraged and pleased the (North Korean army) and people that have wished
to have powerful self-reliant defense capability,” KCNA said.
191
The test was performed “with indigenous wisdom and technology
100%”, the agency said, adding that no radiation leaked from the site.
There was no independent verification of the test, but South Korea’s
seismic monitoring centre recorded a tremor registering 3.6 on the Richter
scale at the time of the supposed blast, saying this was not a natural
occurrence…
“I never went to war.”
Augie opened his eyes. Orest was still staring at the Consulate.
He stayed his back to Augie.
“Huh?”
Orest turned, giving Augie his profile. “I never went to war. You
told them that I was a veteran.”
Augie sat up and rubbed the crown of his head. “That was just so
that they didn’t take you in and arrest you or something.”
Orest turned away again. “My father was a soldier. My brother.
Never me.”
Augie listened for more. Then he leaned back onto the bed.
“My father. Fought under two flags then dropped his name to
hide his motherland. My father fought with the Red Army in defending
Kiev in nineteen-twenty. His wife, my mother, was a Pole. His father,
my grandfather, was a Russian. Three different sides of that war in one
house. But that wasn’t unique. States mean nothing. They are a fiction.
Names though. Names.
“My mother and father told a story of the Bolshevik invasion two
years before. Their flourmill was taken. They ran to the Pripet Marshes
with the babies. The lay in the marsh and breathed through reeds while
the soldiers passed.
“My father slipped in the water and slit his hand on a plowblade that another farmer had submerged to hide from the invaders. A
tendon was severed and his small finger could never be bent again.
“Two years later, he stood up to the waist in the same Pripet
Marshes. Waiting for the same Russians. And they fought side-by-side
against the Poles.
“In the city, he waited with another soldier in a narrow alley,
bludgeoning any that came that way. Until a cavalry legionnaire came
though the path. Still, they tried to take the man. The horse was startled
and hadn’t enough room to turn. Its lance split between its side and the
wall as it reared again and again. My father was thrown, winded, and
lay flat on the path. A hoof smashed his hand, pulling the skin from his
wrist to his knuckles.
“Over the years, I would hear him tell the stories of his injuries.
But liver spots covered the one wound, while the other stayed dark.
He could never match the tale with the hand. They would switch, as
though irrelevant. Beneath the startled Hussar or beneath the fetid
water of a swamp, it didn’t matter.”
Orest took a bottle of rye from somewhere near his feet. “His
worst wound was from the factory. He caught his hand in the slats of a
skid lifted on a crane. The bone came through the arm.” Orest drank.
“Hey, look.” Augie’s eyes took in the images on the television.
“Isn’t that Oaxaca?”
On the screen, a small truck was engulfed. Black smoke weaved
with orange gas. A line of men, shielded from visor to shin, walked
with their arms locked together.
Orest watched in silence. Then he slowly stood and pulled on his
red wool glove.
66.
Orest collected his remaining bottles. He pulled his vest over his Eagles shirt, his rifle frock over that. His hands moved
purposefully. His eyes did not waver. He spit on his toe and polished the spot with his palm. He rubbed his cup on his
sleeve and placed it in its pocket. Then, he pulled his half Stetson over his eyes.
“Dear Second, your work is done. See The Consul. Have him restore you to your nation. And then return to
her.” Orest produced a fist of money from his coat.
“You know where.”
“What about the scholarship?”
Orest thought for a moment. “Granted. The letters will be sent.”
Augie did not react. Orest was already moving past him.
“You don’t want me to help?”
“You can’t. The Provost is closing in.”
“I talked to my mother. They aren’t looking.”
Orest paused. “These next steps, the escalation that is coming, is not for boys,” Orest gestured to the television.
“The batons are up. Soon the barrels will flash. A slaughter. A massacre. And the new pace will be brutal.”
Augie shrugged and bit into a strand of licorice. “I don’t know, Mexico City has an airport. Probably easier to
just get my passport there and fly back.”
194
Orest turned to Augie solemnly. He put his hand on his shoulder.
“Then August, we ride.”
Augie watched as Orest blasted on, never reaching for his drink. He
coursed through acres of farmland, dusting Ginevra on their dirt
roads. The cornfields leaned for miles in the wind, unharvested stalks
collapsing with their weight.
Their path climbed into mountains, slowing their engines, and
leaving behind what seemed like a country of sugarcane.
Then sweeps of nothing. Hot air and rough gravel. Rocks in
the distance that took hours to pass. Sky that reached all the way to
the road. Nothing fenced. There was no other traffic, only occasional
carcasses and their vultures. Great power lines braided through the
countryside, leading to small villages. Then pockets of communities,
ragged nearest the road. With old cars with primed fenders and no
hubcaps. Bungalows without screened windows. Children in grey, bare
feet.
Somehow, Orest always kept south. Through the hours and hours
of winding, he managed to lead them in their true direction, deeper
and deeper toward the heart of Mexico.
Then night came. The road narrowed. The lights became sparse.
Orest’s arms began to buzz with weariness. His calf burned near
Ginevra’s pistons. His eyes stung.
The air became moist. Forests rose on either side of them; they
became lusher each mile. And with their density came darkness. They
choked out the moon. The road curved and they had to slow. They
could hear Ginevra’s engine rattle from her stripped oils. Augie’s trunk
squealed and echoed into the forest.
Still, Orest continued, hoping to find another artery. Another
hour of twisting further into the dark. Ginevra’s coolants burned off.
Her engine whined with her throttle. Then, during a peculiar incline,
she began to sputter.
Orest raced through the gears as she coughed, then a sound of
ticking metal, then she stalled. He put a heel to the road. He tried her
kick-start.
Augie pulled alongside. “You’re out of gas.” Augie was pointed to
Orest’s gauge.
Orest grimaced. “I was so possessed on this plunge that I didn’t
consult her instruments!”
“We have a bit in the jerry can.” Augie was already shaking the
red plastic container that he had strapped to his scooter. It sounded like
very little.
“But where’s it gone?”
“I had to fill up mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yeah, your tank is twice the size of this thing.” Augie tapped the
Pigeon with his foot.
“Well, while you’ve topped up that little sparrow, I’ve been left
with nothing. Now our steed is spent.”
Augie shook the can again while he walked over, then emptied
it into the Triumph’s tank. She started, found her first gear, and began
again. Then, stalled.
“These ounces mean nothing to a machine of this power.” Orest
stared over to the Pigeon. “Prepare the siphons!”
Augie crouched beside the scooter, his hand on its kickstand, the other
on the seat. Orest held its cap in his glove. The jerry can was open on
the shoulder. Augie swatted his neck.
“Jesus, there’s bugs all over.”
Orest ignored him.
Augie reset his hands. His sneaker moved in the dirt. He winced
and slowly started to the tilt the Pigeon toward the can. He switched
grips, taking a moment to breathe. Then he lowered the scooter until
it was nearly upside down. Gasoline began to pour from her side in
generous glugs.
“Go! Move the can.”
Orest was slow to react. Augie was trying to pull back the scooter.
Finally, Orest moved the can with his boot and it began to catch the
fuel. Already much had been spilled.
Then another sound competed with the whir of the forest. A
machine grew from beyond the last bend of the road. Even Orest could
hear. He looked.
“It’s a car, Professor.”
Orest stood. It was the first they’d seen since nightfall. The
headlights crawled up some trees. For the first time, the immensity of
the forest was lit. The trees seemed to have no end and reached far into
the night. The branches grew into each other making a salad of leaves
and stem. They cast a bizarre pattern that combed along the road.
This was a jungle.
The car broke the corner. Its speed was incredible. Augie turned,
trying to keep his grip on the seat. The headlights struck their feet and
blasted up to their eyes. Augie was blinded. Orest shielded himself with
his brim.
Orest’s eyes changed in this white light. He pulled off his
spectacles. He squinted to Augie whose eyes were clenched shut. Then,
past him, over the scooter. The intensity of the light, the volume of the
engine, all continued to rise. Orest noticed that Augie was not on the
shoulder at all. He was on the road.
“Prichard!”
Augie looked up and was blinded again.
“Get out of the way, fool!”
Augie was looking around himself, lost in the beams. Orest leapt
into the path, swinging his cane. The light was broken by Orest’s form.
His shadow seemed stories tall and stepped over the treetops. The cane
swung into the stars. And Augie at last could see.
Augie let the scooter go just as a horn screamed. Augie tried to
run but he was snared on the Pigeon and flung forward. But instead
of any impact, there was nothing. He put his arms forward, looking
for the ground, but felt nothing. He swirled fully, his legs scrambling,
hands searching. He was falling. Then, his shoulder brushed some wet
grass, sending him into a spin that he could not stop. His body struck
something and the wind was pulled from his lungs.
A moment later he was stopped, his leg wrapped to the groin in
dead vine.
67.
Augie could not see in the darkness. The road seemed miles away. He could not hear Orest. He tried to call to him, but
his lungs had no breath. He gasped, then listened. The jungle slowly rose around him. The beat of insect wings. The
distant cry of some bird. And he heard the beginning of rain on the canopy. It tapped like a tarpaulin. After some time,
the storm grew and the rainwater reached Augie. He tried to cover his face, but the effort made him feel sick. Then the
brush let go of his leg enough that he rolled softly into a ditch.
Augie listened, trying to steady his heart. A tickle moved on his collar like a feather. He put his hand to it and
scratched. The tickle began down his shirt. Augie squeaked and sat up. A centipede oozed from his sleeve and into the
ditchwater that had gathered in the storm.
But his squeal had been heard.
“Prichard!”
Augie tried to stand, but could not. “Over here!”
“Boy!”
He heard the voice clearly over the thunder. He shouted again.
Then, he heard the crunch of a step. He tried to focus into the black. Rain sprayed on his face. He wiped his eyes
on his shoulder and kept looking.
A fire floated in the darkness. Not unlike that branch of the great redwood. It swung sharply, then rose up and
held before it dipped again. It was a torch.
198
“Ho boy!”
“Here, Professor.”
Orest’s limp aimed toward Augie. He was relieved and sank back
into the water.
“Another miracle.”
“What the hell was that guy doing?”
“Is anything broken? Can you stand, boy?”
Orest leaned into Augie’s view, holding the light over him. The
torch was his cane. He’d wrapped the end in one of his waist shirts and
lighted it with the siphoned gasoline. Water ran from the brim of his
half Stetson as he observed Augie.
“Did the bikes get hit?”
“No; spared.”
Augie took Orest’s glove in one hand, then gripped the other to
his shoulder. “I think I’m caught in something.”
Orest waved the torch over his thigh, then drew his long knife.
He slid the dull side along his skin and pulled. The vines gave. “But
your duffle bag. It was crushed by the fool bandit.”
“Jesus.”
Augie let Orest hoist him, expecting him to fail. Yet he found
himself set on his feet, ankle deep in muddy water. His ribs burned.
“Did you get your case?”
“It’s up there.” Orest gestured up the embankment. “We’ll never
scale it here. We must find another way.”
“Jesus. I’m soaked.”
Orest held out the torch to Augie, then pulled his rifle frock from
his shoulders. Augie took it.
“Thanks.”
Orest ignored him. And they limped with equal severity into the
jungle.
68.
The torch withstood the rain, but eventually burned through. Orest tried to use it to start a campfire, but the jungles
were too wet. He let Augie down inside the trunk of a dead tree. He was sheltered in the husk, but the moss was cold.
He was hungry. And his ribs ached with each breath.
He dug his hands into the pockets of Orest’s frock. He came upon the shard of quartz from the shopkeeper. He
squeezed it in his palm. It seemed to ease his nausea. Then he fell to sleep.
Augie shook. His chill woke him. A blue dawn peeked through the broad leaves of the jungle. A spider’s web, heavy
with dew, dangled over him. The storm was ended, but the forest had not drained. He leaned forward, careful of his
side, and with a kinked neck.
Orest sat against a stump of a split tree. His vest was open, curtaining his Eagles t-shirt. His hands hummed
with movement. In one, his long knife. In the other, the end of a branch was being whittled. His lap was sprinkled in
shavings.
Augie put his hands in the rifle frock and yawned. Something scratched his flank. He reached to the spot.
Blackmore. The paper was stained now. Damp with sweat and browned with rye. The edges were soft with wear
and creased. But the seal held. Its embossment was clear. Augie could tell there was ornate handwriting, but he could
not read. The words seemed unnaturally long. Then, he thought, it seemed real. And then Orest began whistling his
200
strange song.
Augie stuffed the envelope back into the coat. He heaved himself
from his bed. Orest kept at his task. Augie saw the gutta-percha cane
laid beside Orest, its end burnt to ash, its steel point gone and its stalk
brittle.
“Professor.”
Orest did not look up. “He rises with the first sun. Your training
has begun to take.”
“My legs fail without my Ginevra or my cane.”
“Sorry.”
“Nonsense.” Orest brushed his thighs with his gloved hand,
sheathed his knife, and stood. The branch twirled upside down and
Orest put his hand, then his weight, on a bend in its contour. But its
length continued past Orest’s head; it wasn’t a cane, but a staff.
Orest stabbed it with a step and was before Augie.
“Isn’t that heavy?”
“Feather-light.”
Augie shrugged. “So what are we going to do?”
“We’ll have to continue on foot toward a village. Then hire help
out of the most trusted peons.”
Augie slunk as he exhaled. “What about your rye?”
“Lost in the collision.”
“The Cheetos?”
“Gone.”
Orest turned and began, his staff pushing leaves that reached into
their path, its end sticking deep into the brush at their feet. Augie
followed, holding his side and wrapping his neck in the collar of Orest’s
frock.
Day came. The rain left the pools and weighted the air. The heat was
wet. But the sun couldn’t break the awning of leaves and they walked
in damp shade. Augie’s side loosened with motion. Orest seemed taller
with his staff. But they could not find any sign of a village. And they
had lost the road long ago.
The jungles allowed no pathway. Orest led them between large
trees, but soon the foliage became stronger and closed in. Orest drew
his knife. He began to slash. A branch whipped his cheek. He dueled
back, but then was spent. Finally Orest leaned on his tall staff and
heaved.
“Boy. Back to the road. We’ll try our chances on the climb.”
Augie turned around weakly. Immediately he found his ankle
held in a net of roots. He fell forward to his knee. “It’s too dense. I can’t
walk this way.”
Orest tried to step over him. He swung his knife. A thorned
branch broke, then shot back, pricking Orest’s forehead and temple. It
lifted off his half Stetson. Blood streamed past his eye like a tear.
“Trapped!”
“Jesus, Professor.” Augie stopped Orest by seizing his shoulders.
Augie delicately pulled the thorn from his skin. More leaves, like hands,
seemed to grasp them with each step.
“Prichard, our bearings are gone.”
“We’re gonna need water; we can’t cut all the way out of this.”
Orest lowered to a crouch. “Can you see a way, Prichard?”
Augie squinted through the web of limbs. “I don’t know.”
Augie pushed forward. Orest followed, restoring his half Stetson.
Fear was beginning in Augie. His thirst was surging. The tendrils
of the jungle seemed to tighten. His wrists were tangled. His feet could
not lift. His lungs stretched for more and more air. His shirt was pulled.
His neck was tickled.
Augie threw himself forward in an effort to yank himself free.
The wilderness broke and Augie was suddenly on his elbows in a small
clearing.
“What eyes!”
Augie was looking around trying to stop his panic. His elbows
were scraped on what appeared to be the stones of a path. Orest joined
him and pointed with his staff.
“An ancient footway. A miracle to uncover it now.”
Augie was rolling over. “We’re a miracle an hour lately.”
“Don’t underestimate, Prichard. That was yet another death
cheated from the clutches of this forest. Thirst or jaguars could have
certainly been our end.”
“Certainly.”
69.
The path was narrow. Its stones were pale, like cement. But they locked to each other. Mud and growth had covered
most of them. The stones each had ornate etchings on them, outlined by the slime of a retreated fen. Augie leaned in
to read them before he stood up.
He brushed the one closest to his chin with his hand. On it was a weeping Christ on a tall crucifix. He bled from
his crown, darkened by the earth of the jungles. He bled from his side, which gathered in a pool at the foot of his cross.
Orest could not see the detail and began to lead. Augie rose.
The heat continued. The trail became strangled. Then opened again. Beside them, a slough of dark water made
the stones slick. Clouds of mosquitos swirled on its surface. Augie didn’t try to drink.
Orest led for an hour. Then he stopped and turned to Augie. His face was red with exertion. His sweat didn’t let
his blood dry. The heavy air seemed to drip.
“I need a moment, Second. This heat. It’s relentless.”
Augie lowered himself to his side without complaint.
“We need water.”
“Yes.”
Orest’s hat was on his knee. His long hair was drenched. He tore at his vest to open it. Yet his mustache seemed
to have grown.
Augie rolled onto his back and tried to see through to the sun. He wondered how much more daylight they had.
203
How many more hours of this heat. Then he heard something. Below
the buzz of the jungle, he could hear the rush of water.
“Professor, listen.”
Orest looked up. His face did not change from its flush.
“Can’t you hear that?”
“No.”
“There’s water.”
Orest did not respond.
“There’s like a creek or something; you can hear it.” Augie
pointed, then stood and pulled Orest up by the shoulder.
The stones became clean, as though this path was used. The
babble of the water grew. Augie could see an opening of sky. He broke
into a jog, forgetting Orest. At the clearing the stones became steps. At
their side, beyond a short wall, was a china blue pool. It was fed by a
thin waterfall that fell along a sheer cliff of smoothed slate. It roared,
despite its size. And was white with current.
Augie jumped to its edge and lifted off his shirt. He scraped off
his shoes by his heels. Augie cupped some water and brought it to his
mouth. It was cool. He began to drink.
“Spit! Eager goose!”
Augie looked up. Orest was at the top of the stairs. His pistols
were drawn.
“What?”
Orest was spinning wildly, aiming again and again.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“We’ve passed into the lands of madmen. Be it a mirage or not,
that fountain is easily the source.”
Orest pointed his pistol; Augie turned. Beside him a sculpture
emerged from the mire. It was a set of hands, one with its back and one
with its palm to the water. Its fate line was deep, its nails were long.
Augie was startled, but unquenched.
“But this is just water.”
“To the tongue of the fool. Stay close, or expect to join these
pagans.”
Augie swallowed and stood.
The trees were embedded with pillars of concrete that matched
their incredible heights. Stairs spiraled around them like the plates of a
spine. At their top, bizarre masks beamed, their eyes lighted by the sky
behind them.
Augie’s eyes moved and more and more structures separated. A
wall of dark columns that supported nothing. Archways that only led
to more forest. In the distance, a stone house laid out above the morass
of stairways and jungle.
Augie could not tell if these were ruins or simply abandoned. Or
if the skein of paths were collapsed or incomplete. But they made his
mind race with fascination.
Orest was arrested with terror. The heat, the thirst, had weakened
him. Now, a labyrinth of strange images assaulted him. They rose
outright from the jungle instantly. They were incomprehensible. They
were impossible. Yet every angle produced more. Giant hands reached
from the earth. The legs of stone houses corkscrewed everywhere.
Platforms balanced on the crown of trees. No pattern appeared. No
reason that Orest could hold. And he pointed his pistol wherever he
looked.
Finally, Orest dropped to his knees and shut his eyes.
“Professor, breathe.”
Augie had come to Orest. He spoke without opening his eyes. “If
you saw the madness around me.”
“Professor, it’s not you. It’s actually here.”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s some crazy, ancient site.”
Orest slowly opened his eyes. He only looked at Augie, careful to
avoid anything else.
“These monsters? You see them?”
“Yeah.”
Orest put his pistol in its holster with shaking hands. He breathed
slowly. He pushed down his brim and straightened his moustache.
“Then this world is madder than any sickness.”
70.
“So is this some Aztec temple or something?” Augie was pointing to a row of ornate spheres that lined their path.
“This cannot be a place of worship. The idol here is insanity.”
Orest kept two hands on his staff as though he expected one of the statues to come to life and lunge at him. He
stared ahead, still unwilling to observe his surroundings.
“But it’s almost like a city. This must be famous.”
Orest did not answer. His eyes began to dart from object to object. His heels clicked in time to his gestures. But
their route was obvious. They walked on a widening path through a series of bizarre gates. The jungle was tamed.
“Professor, look.” Augie pointed to a rustle far above them. There, sitting on a bobbing branch, was a small
monkey. It picked at a small piece of fruit in its hand, but watched them throughout its meal.
“So simple. He needs only a plum and a perch to know heaven.”
Augie noticed the awe in Orest’s voice.
“It’s a pretty good deal, I guess. But I bet he only lives to be ten or something.”
Orest kept his eyes on the monkey. “I doubt I’ve had even one year of happiness in my life if you lined up the
days.”
Orest lowered his chin and stepped. The monkey dropped a large pit that clacked on the cobblestone. Orest
looked behind him toward the bouncing pit, then up to the trees. It almost seemed like the monkey threw it.
206
After some time, the path led them to a road. It was paved, with a
yellow line. It curved through the trees and valley. They walked
downhill, careful to keep out of the way of any cars. But none came.
They struggled through the tough grasses and saplings along the side
of the road.
Soon the jungle thinned and no longer buttressed over the road.
The sun was unbroken. The insects did not follow. The path leveled.
They heard the buzz of a small engine behind them. It was a small child
on a moped.
“Flag him down.” Orest reached into his frock. Augie stopped his
arm. “Not with your guns, it’s a kid.”
Orest looked helpless. Then he turned and put his long staff into
the child’s way. The child swerved, then braked while putting a foot to
the asphalt; he was an experienced rider. The child removed his helmet
and stared at the two.
“Boy! We’re at your mercy! Bring us to water. Lead us to your
elders.”
The child did not change his expression.
“Try and talk in his tongue, Prichard.”
Augie thought deeply. He teetered in the heat. “Nos no encuentran.
Llevenos a la mama.”
The boy stared simply. Then he returned his helmet and lifted his
toe. He zipped between them and onward before they could react.
“As I suspected. He’s untouched by civilization. He’s basically as
feral as that monkey on the branch.”
“Untouched? He’s on a moped.”
The child stopped before passing out of sight around a bend.
“Look, he’s waiting.”
The child watched the pair over his shoulder. They scrambled to
catch up. As they neared, the boy began again, but at a much slower
pace.
“Lead, boy-child!” Orest shouted while pumping his staff over
his head.
The child ambled so slowly that he kept a foot off its peg in case
the moped tipped. After some time the child turned onto a dirt road
with a slight incline. The fumes from the moped darkened with the
climb. Augie and Orest became disoriented as they tried to keep pace.
Then the child looked back once more before shooting out of sight.
Orest stopped and fell to the dirt. Augie leaned his hands on a
tree, gulping for air.
“He’s lured us here. Keep vigilant, a kidnapping may be
underway.”
“He’s just a kid.”
“A valuable decoy.”
The patter of sneakers on the soft ground came, then the boy
appeared again. He was without his helmet.
“He wants us to follow him.”
“Child! Your mysterious games are bedeviling! Water us or let us
perish!”
Augie pulled Orest from the ground. They limped.
Atop the hill was a small shack with wooden sides and a metal
roof. The boy ran through its screen door and it banged shut behind
him. Orest and Augie hobbled to it. Augie slapped it with an open
hand.
“Why are you knocking?”
“We can’t just walk in.”
“And how do we know that the custom has penetrated this
rainforest? We could die waiting to learn.”
Augie waved Orest silent. They listened. No sound came from
the shack.
“Jesus. Well we’re not breaking into some kid’s house.”
“Water or doom, Prichard. Enough jiggery-pokery.”
Augie listened again for motion in the room. Then, he slowly
began to open the door. It creaked on its hinges, then a small voice
came from behind them.
“Hi!”
Orest, startled, let go of his staff. It fell with a thud at the feet of a
tiny girl. Her curls were braided in two. Her large eyes shone like onyx.
And she held a pitcher of water as big as she was with two hands.
71.
“You cannot come in because my dad is not here, but here is water.”
The girl’s accent was strong. Orest and Augie were already in front of her. Augie took the pitcher without a word
and began to drink from its pourer, spilling down his front. Orest watched frantically.
“What inefficient swallowing!” Orest turned to the girl. “It’s as though he’s ignoring my oblivion to bathe!”
The girl did not answer. She waved a pair of plastic cups that were stacked in her hand all along. Finally, Orest
noticed and took them and separated them in his gloves. He muttered while he did.
“I’ve been telling him about using a glass for a thousand miles.”
The girl stared on as Augie finally stopped, wiped his chin on his shoulder, and passed the water to Orest. Orest
promptly poured it into a cup that was waiting on the gravel by his boot and gave the pitcher back to the girl.
“A toast!” Orest drank, sticking his small finger out and putting his other hand on his hip. He forgot to make his
toast.
“Where’s your friend? The one with the bike?” Augie was still short of breath, and had his hands on his thighs
while he heaved.
“Inside. He is eight. He does not speak English.”
“And how old are you?”
“Ten.”
“Ten?” Orest gurgled his last gulp as he broke in. “Seven years your junior, Prichard, and already a more capable
lieutenant.”
Orest put his hand out to pat the girl’s head. The girl swiped at it and stepped back.
209
“You are not allowed. My dad is not here!”
Augie immediately put up his hands. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
The girl folded her arms around the pitcher.
“He’s just a weird old guy. You could probably beat him up if you
wanted. He’s really old and weak.”
The girl stopped and looked at Orest with suspicious eyes. “How
old are you?”
Orest did not want to answer and pulled his slapped glove under
his cuff.
“He’s way over a hundred.”
“I am not.”
The girl smiled at Orest’s protest.
“He is. He’s over one hundred years old. He’s all wrinkly and his
hair is all grey.”
The girl laughed.
“And he has to use that walking stick or he falls.”
Orest scooped his staff off the gravel without showing the pain
the motion caused. He passed the two. Then he began down the hill.
“Enough of this! Stay or be silent!”
Augie made a face to the girl and then called out. “I was kidding.”
The boy in the house came through the screen door and ran
between Augie and the girl. He pulled on the flap of Orest’s frock when
he caught him. Orest stopped, careful not to touch the boy. But he had
something wrapped in heavy paper. He held it out to Orest.
Orest stared for a moment, then put one of his gloves into his
pocket. He produced a something, then spread his cape to shield them
from the other two.
“Pedro, usted no puede dar cualquier cosa lejos de la cocina!”
The cape pulled like a curtain and Orest stood. The boy stared at
something in his palm and Orest chewed defiantly.
“Jesus, what are you eating?”
Augie was walking to his side. Orest swallowed with much
difficulty. “Cheese of course!”
Augie looked back to the girl.
“Pedro is not allowed to give away food when dad is not here,”
the girl scolded. “He feeds the bats.” The girl pointed over her head.
“Well Pedro has made a great peace with this simple cheese!”
Orest swallowed again and put his arm around Pedro. “While you’ve
wasted time insulting your elders, us men have made yet another tiny
step toward our great uprising.” Orest began to walk proudly back to
the others, completing the circle. “This is then Zapata country?”
The girl looked confused and took Pedro’s hand once he was near
enough. The boy put his hand in his pocket defensively. “If you are one
hundred, does that mean you are going to die soon?”
Augie snorted and reached for the water. Orest turned his look
to the clearing above the shack and thought. Then he turned to the girl
and put his red hand on the head of Pedro.
“Absolutely.”
72.
Orest and Augie sat on a quilted eiderdown that Pedro had pulled from a line that ran between two trees. They were
quenched and in shade. The children ran into the house and back, sometimes visiting, sometimes not. The afternoon
passed and the heat began to lessen. Augie slipped into a shallow sleep on his back.
Orest whistled and the girl’s face appeared in the screen door.
“Come here, little fairy.”
The girl opened the door and skipped to the edge of the quilt.
“What’s your name?”
The girl looked over the pair and did not answer.
“I’m Professor Orest Routh Godwin of Frog Hollow, Connecticut. This is Augie.”
Augie waved a finger without opening his eyes.
“Do you know where Connecticut is?”
The girl shook her head. Her strong braids were like rope.
“It’s very far away. In a very cruel land. Although you live alongside the monkeys and bats, the true savages are
in the North. Their blood is as cold as the ice that freezes along the roofs. Like fangs.”
The girl dropped to her knees on the quilt, listening. She was accustomed to stories and was eager.
“It goes dark for months on end. And we’re controlled by an evil center. Sometimes it is only a hand. Sometimes
a tongue. It is only nourished on war. And can only tell lies. It hoards our wealth to build machines. And then they
211
send those machines out to butcher.”
Augie opened his eyes and swatted at Orest’s shoulder. “All right,
Professor.”
Orest stopped, thinking. The girl waited as long as she could,
then spoke. “Is there frogs?”
“That’s the worst part: there aren’t even any frogs.”
The girl and Orest looked equally concerned. Augie opened one
eye again.
“There are frogs in Connecticut.”
“Wrong, Prichard.”
“There are in Pennsylvania, so there’s gotta be some in
Connecticut.”
“Toads, Prichard. There are toads. Just like you.”
The girl giggled. Augie covered his eyes with his arm.
“If there is no frogs, why did they name it that?”
“Another lie. Just yet another damned lie.”
The girl waited for more. But Orest had stopped. She started
running her tiny finger on the grain on Orest’s long heel. He let her
without comment. He didn’t want to scare her away.
“I am Maria,” she said to Orest’s boot.
The sky went red with dusk. Maria told them of the time Pedro was
bitten by a violin spider and was rushed in the city. He foot split and
swelled. They thought he would loose the foot. In the end it was spared,
but a toe was lost.
Augie began to check his sneakers in the falling light.
“I used to play the violin,” Orest said softly.
Augie looked up from his shaking shoe.
“I thought that thing was just for booze.”
“No.” Orest drifted in thought.
Pedro shot from the house and down the path to the road. Augie
could detect a subtle limp in his gallop.
Maria stood. “My father is home.”
Augie and Orest struggled up from their blanket. The crackle of
tires on gravel came into earshot. Then the sound of a truck in low gear.
The children gathered at the door and waited for the truck to
stop. It had no grill or bumper, only the exposed engine, pasted with
thick grease. The tires were bald and patched. Old smoke hacked from
its tailpipe.
A tall thin man stepped from the truck. The roof seemed to stop
at his waist. The children ran and he folded himself to them. He kissed
their heads and said nothing. Maria and Pedro shouted in Spanish and
pointed to Orest and Augie. The man stood again, rising like one of
the great trees behind him. In a single step, he was before them, and his
thin arm reached down like a vine.
Augie took his hand. “I’m Augie. This is Professor Godwin. Your
kids rescued us before.”
Orest removed his half Stetson and bowed. The man nodded.
His long black hair was tied. A jangle of necklaces moved with him.
“Have you eaten?” The man’s voice was low and seemed to come
from the ground beneath them.
“No.”
“Come inside.” In another step the man was holding his door.
Orest and Augie entered.
The room was dark, its ceiling low. There was no indication where
the family slept, only a series of wood tables and benches. Candles
lined the walls, which the long man immediately began to light after he
followed the pair in. Then the children scrambled behind him without
a word and sat cross-legged on the floor.
Along the wall and on various stools and shelves, skulls of paper
maché sat. Their ink-black eyes were still damp, their teeth grey with
newsprint. A straw Catrina stood in the corner, her sunhat lowered to
her ribs.
The wicks grew, and a frameless drawing behind the children
became apparent. A large paper, unwound and creased, pinned to the
wall, its corners swayed with the beat of the flames. In black charcoal, a
nude woman spread the width of the paper. Her thighs were covered in
smudges like bruises. Then, the flesh of her torso seemed to be peeled
away until her gaping jaw of only bone. Orest could not tell if she was
swallowing or howling.
At her feet, a black dog with the hooves of a goat chased her. Its
eyes were red. Its mouth foamed.
Augie watched Orest stare at the woman. He could tell that he
was frightened. He put his hand on his shoulder to try to break his
trance. Orest would not. He stared further into the drawing. His chin
moved. And then his eyes began to tear.
The long man lowered himself to the floor, carefully crossing his
ankles over his thighs. He only looked at Orest. Orest, at last, looked
down. He spoke, but only to himself.
“Stillborn.”
73.
The long man knew where Orest’s eyes were. He watched him for a moment, then spoke in his low voice.
“She is Mictecacihuatl,” he waved at the drawing. “I am Huerta.” The man did not offer his hand.
Augie waited to respond, as Huerta seemed only to be talking to Orest. Orest however kept his eyes to his lap.
His back moved strangely. His half Stetson tipped and fell into his boots. Then it was clear: Orest was sobbing.
Huerta did not seem disturbed. He observed with calm eyes in the stuttering light of the candles. The children,
too, did not seem upset. Augie did not feel compelled to explain. He watched Orest with the others, allowing him to
expel.
When Orest’s breath slowed, Huerta’s long arm reached across and lay on his shoulder. Orest placed his gloved
hand overtop and looked up. His cheeks were wet with his crying. His mouth seemed now unclenched.
“She is of the Underworld. She drinks the stars. Watches the bones of the dead. This is her season. The cadejo is
trying to kill her. But he cannot. She is too strong in her death. Stronger than in life.”
Orest nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve. Augie stared at the drawing while Huerta described.
“She has shown the Professor someone he has not seen for a long time.”
Augie looked to Orest; his eyes shined in agreement. He was careful not to look at the woman again.
The long man withdrew his hand and Orest instantly seemed weak. He pressed the spot where it had been. And
tightened his eyes.
Augie spoke. “He just needs a drink; have you got anything alcoholic?”
214
Huerta looked to Maria. She shot from the floor and into a dark
corner of the room. She came back with a large, clear bottle of heavy
glass. Its top was sealed with a dark cork. The bottle was unmarked and
the glass was cloudy.
Augie took the bottle and poured generously into one of the
plastic cups at their knees. It moved with the stream, as though it were
escaping. The fluid was white like milk.
Orest took it and drank in deep swallows. He breathed. He
dragged his glove over his face. Then, in a new voice, he spoke. “Pulque.
From the valleys of my death, if my senses have held.”
Huerta did not react. He lifted the bottle and poured again. Orest
drank. He took his hands out of his gloves and put them in his hat. He
reached into his frock and pulled his pistols from their holsters, then
his knife from its sheath. He laid them all before the long man who did
not seem surprised that Orest was armed. Orest twisted his shoulders
out of his rifle frock and undid his vest. Then, in a much lower voice,
he spoke.
“I saw the ghost of Ginevra.”
Augie looked to Huerta. “It’s crashed?”
Orest ignored Augie for a moment. Then answered so quietly
that Augie leaned nearer. “Not the Triumph that I ride. Its namesake.
The disgrace that I carry.” Orest’s spine seemed to knot and he bent
further. “She was Jacob’s whore. Maybe other men. Maybe every man.
But she was Jacob’s that winter. She was in trouble.”
The long man watched. Augie did not speak. After some time,
Orest started again.
“But Jake was dead. Gutted on the shores. Bled out in the tide
with the rest.” Orest waved his spotted hand. “And his daughter would
never know him, I thought. Her mother might talk of the soldier that
fought and died. The lover that held her. But nothing more. So I asked
for her hand. And she accepted.” Orest stared into the maw of the
drawing.
The long man’s voice rumbled through the flooring. “The child?”
Orest nodded and looked down. “The cord was around her neck.
And then my bride vanished. She no longer had to be spared from the
shame.” Orest drank. “I wouldn’t see her again until they lowered her
in her grave. As they did Jacob, his daughter, and finally, my wife.”
Orest shut his eyes. “Just now, she was young again. A child like I was.
Just now.”
Orest began to look closely at Augie’s face. At first Augie thought
that he had forgotten him again. Then Orest seemed sharp, as though
he was truly observing Augie for the first time. “I would have been
younger than you then, August.”
Maria silently rose from the floor. She slipped behind Orest
without him looking away from Augie. She put her hands on his
shoulders. Immediately, his slump lessened. His face less sallow. But he
was still a perfect contrast to Maria’s youth.
74.
The long man nodded and the children brought them cheese and bread, then a strange chorizo and oils to dip their
fingers in, and cold water and pulque. Huerta didn’t eat. He observed the pair carefully through the shadows.
“How come you guys have all these skulls and stuff?” asked Augie while he picked at a rind of the sausage.
“Day of the Dead,” squeaked Maria.
“Day of the Dead?”
“He chomps like a donkey while asking about your traditions, my apologies.” Orest’s fatigue had passed.
Pedro took a small rabbit skull and put it in Augie’s hand without a word.
Huerta lighted a rolled cigarette and then brought the match to Orest, who had a cigarillo waiting in his teeth.
He croaked through the smoke. “It is a day to honor their dead. Like your All Hallows Eve.”
“Halloween is the same thing?”
“I believe he’s threatening to learn something,” Orest grinned.
Huerta moved a candle into the floor between them. “They remember their mother.”
Augie looked over to Maria and Pedro. “Their mom’s dead?”
Huerta nodded. The children were undisturbed. “But we celebrate the unlived first.”
“Who’s that?”
“The children who have passed.” Huerta looked to Orest. “Perhaps their mother holds your daughter now.”
Orest sank. Huerta again put his long arm out and touched his shoulder. Augie remembered the mourner in the
216
cemetery. And the candle on the tiny grave.
He held the rabbit skull up to the light. “Is this like voodoo?”
Orest sneered and was pulled from his depression. “Idiot. That’s
no severed chicken head.”
“It’s a head.”
“You’ve insulted the family that just rescued you from being
shredded by that troop of monkeys!”
“It was one monkey.”
“The commander of a mob, doubt not.”
“They handed me a head. It’s a pretty legitimate question if you
ask me.” Augie pointed the skull at Orest.
“No one would ask you.”
Suddenly, the floor began to quake. They stopped their argument
as the boom went through their thighs.
The long man was laughing. Then he smoked with his wide smile
and spoke to Augie for the first time. “My children have not cursed
you, young friend.”
Augie looked down, fighting a blush. “No, I know. I was just
asking what it means.”
The long man leaned back on his elbows, still smiling. “It is only
to help remember.”
Orest looked from Augie while shaking his head. “Please,
remember their mother to us.”
Huerta looked pleased, but stopped his smiling. Pedro curled
into his side. Maria sat beside Orest.
“Ana. Her parents were Ixcatex Indian. They wove hats from palm
leaves and sold them to the field workers. I worked one of the fields.
She made me a blue hat. I looked silly, but it was cool in the sun. For
weeks I looked for another worker in a blue hat. But she never made
another. It was dyed by hand. Blue as deep water. It was only for me.
So one morning I asked her father if I could marry his daughter. And
she came with me.” Huerta sipped from his cup.
“How’d she die?”
“Again, apologies. He is child of the north. A brute, namely.”
Huerta ignored Orest. “How she left us is not as important to
remember. Before that, that is what we need.”
75.
“No, no, those ruins aren’t ancient at all.”
Huerta drove slowly up a dark road. Augie and Orest peered deeply into the jungles surrounding them.
“They were built by one man. Thirty, forty years ago.”
Augie turned from the window. “What man?”
“His name was Edward James. He was a madman.”
“Obviously,” muttered Augie as he began looking through the window.
“He was rich from his parents. He was...” Huerta searched for a word. He took his long arm from the steering
wheel.
“Manor born,” offered Orest.
“He was a nobleman.”
“Wretched blueblood.”
“He could be anything that he wished; he had no need for money. And so, of course, he became a poet.”
“Words. The pillows of the coward.”
Huerta continued without pause.
“But then he met a woman. A dancer. She was famous in film. Known in Europe. With his wealth, he was able
to court her. She was impressed by his power, his property, his name. Soon then, she agreed. And she came into his
house.
218
“But she was far from him. She would enjoy his money, but
withheld her heart. She did not want to give what she had, only to
take. And so, of course, he gave more. He doled out gifts, showered her
with attention. But she would not love him.
“Desperate, he gave her what no one else could. He put her in a
musical that would be sure to make her more famous than any woman
in the world. A ballet so magnificent that his wife would be remembered
forever. He hired the best choreographers, singers, dancers, producers,
the most famous composers. The musical, The Seven Deadly Sins, was
the most expensive ever made. And it was a success.
“But still, his wife did not love him. She began an affair. And he
was destroyed when he learned. He canceled his opera. And he came to
Xilitla, alone. Here, he began.
“He worked for decades building in the jungles. There were no
roads, and so he made them. There was no shelter, so he made some.
The men of the village all learned of the madman in the jungle. And
they came every dawn. What task would the madman give them was
anyone’s guess. Carving faces in the shale. Unpacking sculptures from
the Orient. Cutting stairs into the waterfalls. But the pay was always
incredible.”
Huerta pulled the truck over to the side of the road, then began
to turn around.
“So what happened?”
“They worked. For the rest of the old man’s life.”
“Did they finish it?”
“There was never anything to finish. The man drew bizarre plans
on sheets of paper each day. No day was the same. There was no dream
to realize. It was already come to life: isolation. Europe could not hurt
him anymore.”
“Crazy,” Augie said quietly.
Huerta was still thinking. “After his death, a crate arrived. A train
operator had waited with it at the station, but no one had come. So
he dragged it into the jungle, hoping for his tip. There he found some
men. When they broke the crate, a flock of parrots flew from it. They
were hungry. They were stunned by the sun. Many died from shock.
But one, a fiery red one, lived. It nested in the broken torso of a nude
statue. It befriended the cuckoo birds. And it lived.”
“For how long?”
“He’s still there. Parrots can live to be a hundred.”
“Like, you can see him now?”
“Yes, yes. Pedro feeds him all my cheese.”
Orest held up his half Stetson. “A blue hat. Imagine. And he tried
to give her half of England.”
“Blue as deep water.” Huerta winked.
Ginevra had fallen on her side. The violin case was dusted from the
passing traffic, but unopened. Augie’s duffle bag was smashed. Snacks
settled over the scene like confetti. And the Pigeon was missing.
Huerta kept his headlights on the shoulder, his blinkers flashing.
Orest and Augie pulled Ginevra upright. Orest sat on the trunk and
thought.
“It makes no sense. A thief passing up my Ginevra for that
scooter. What madness in this countryside.”
Augie was looking over the embankment, assessing his fall.
“Look.”
Huerta and Orest joined him on the brink. The Pigeon lay over
its edge, crooked and split.
“The senselessness of vandals. Perhaps they could not bring
themselves to destroy such a machine.” Orest looked fondly on the
Triumph.
“Well what are we going to do?”
Orest limped to Ginevra and tapped her seat with his glove.
“Double on it?” Augie scoffed.
“There’s no other option.”
“Let’s get another scooter.”
“Pedro’s moped perhaps? Impossible. We’re riding the crest of a
paradigm, we can’t arrive on a toy.”
“How are we going to pull the trailer?”
Orest thought. “Huerta, there’s no point in delaying your
inheritance.”
Huerta did not answer.
“So I dragged that thing across the continent so you could just give
it away?”
“Oh dear Augie. So much you cannot see.”
“I see that it was fine for me to pull a thousand pounds of whatever
is in that trunk, but the second you have to, you give it away.”
“Poor simple chestnut. Confused to the last. What you see as a
jettison is nothing of the sort. This is a gift. One might say this is tinged
with destiny.”
Huerta put a foot on the tire of the trunk. “What is in it?”
Augie was eager to hear the response.
Orest narrowed his eyes and stared at the trunk. But he could not
recall anything about it other than that he considered it important. He
could easily imagine anything being inside it. Yet, he could not guess.
A phrase came into his head. He could not find its meaning.
Fons sapientiae, verbum Dei.
He whispered it to himself, then shouted. “Ah! Put your hands in
my ribs! Thrust them into my side!”
Orest limped to the trunk, laid his staff along the ground, and
produced his keys. Huerta and Augie joined either side of him. Orest
tried one key. Then another. Then began again. Augie shook his head
in gathering anger.
“You don’t even have the key?”
“Of course I do.” Orest continued to pat and dig in his many
pockets.
“Perhaps it is empty?” asked Huerta.
“It’s not empty! Trust me.”
“Of course it’s not empty! The ingredients of this load couldn’t
have more potency. Yet this incredulous brat demands his slimy fingers
get through them all at every moment! Not a chance!”
“Brat? I just pulled this thing from California without a word.”
“Hardly! A tantrum every mile!”
Huerta put his hand on the back of Orest’s neck. Augie stopped
and watched the long man put the other on his shoulder.
“Your road has been hard.”
Huerta said nothing else, yet the calm was instant. Orest looked
softly at Augie. Augie shrugged and pulled his helmet from the ground.
Then Huerta went to his truck and produced a can of gasoline. Orest
leaned over his violin case.
“How far are we from Oaxaca?”
Huerta began pouring into Ginevra’s tank. But his face became
solemn. “A half day perhaps. But there is trouble there.”
“Of course! A war rages. We only hope that our side isn’t exhausted
before we can join them.” Orest snapped his case shut and stood. He
proudly held his staff in front of him.
“My wife was born there. Her parents were some of the last
speakers of their language. They taught her. And she tried to teach
Maria, but she didn’t have enough time.”
Orest approached the long man. He put his hand inside his vest.
“Dear friend, if only I’d known. I used to be a magician in languages.
A translator of the highest grade. But now, now. I am a soldier. I have
renounced that desk-life.”
Orest took a massive fold of money and put it in Huerta’s hand.
“This is the last whisper of that wordsmith’s ghost. Take this. Don’t let
their mother’s language die. Resurrect it in Maria.”
Orest tried to swing his leg over Ginevra, but misestimated her
height and kicked the gas can out from her tank. Huerta scrambled to
put it upright.
Ginevra roared through the thin road of the Xilitla’s rainforest. Orest’s
rifle frock spread, his cape fluttering, his staff out like a spar. And
Augie’s helmet bobbed like an apple.
They left the jungle.
76.
Orest rode with speed; he did not compensate for the new weight. Augie’s duffle bag was strapped across his back, the
tread of a tire over its stenciling. The violin case was wedged between them. Augie clung to Orest’s waist.
He felt thin. The bone of his hip stuck like a tooth. His ribs seemed soft. But his forearms were taut. His hands
kept the throttle open. Augie leaned with him on deeper turns, and the pair made them with precision.
Orest wanted to ride through the night. Augie could not protest over the wail of Ginevra’s engine. The hours
went. Augie shut his eyes and leaned into Orest’s spine. He let Orest’s cape fall over his face. But his head rattled with
the road and he did not sleep. His mind drifted under the skirt of black material. It smelled oiled, like a hide.
He thought of his mother’s home before she had moved away. A large home, with plush cream carpet on every
floor. And in the back: a swimming pool.
Augie was an excellent swimmer. His father knew a former water polo Olympian who had taught him at a young
age. His strokes were proper. His lungs were strong. But his mother’s husband forbade him from swimming when they
were not home. The couple worked long hours. And the pool’s maintenance was one of Augie’s chores.
All summer long, Augie would skim the surface for beetles and leaves. Then he would vacuum its lining of algae.
He would sit on the ladder and let his legs dangle in. The whoosh of the one jet on his ankle felt exquisite in the heat.
But then he would carefully cover the water by unrolling the thick insulator blanket. And try to cool in the shade of
the white elm.
His anger welled even now. The dog days of August and a perfect swimming pool was being wasted. Worse,
222
he was being teased by having to circle it again and again for his daily
chores. And should he not complete these tasks, his mother’s husband
would threaten to have the pool drained. It was a unique torture.
One afternoon, after finishing cleaning, he stepped back to assess
his work. The surface still rippled from his net. It glistened crisply
in the muggy air. The summer was ending; the temptation was too
great. Augie peeled off his shirt and sprang out of his cutoff shorts. He
launched himself nearly from where he stood and crashed into the deep
end.
The shock of the temperature was perfect. He opened his eyes to
take in the chlorine. And he sank all the way to the floor of the pool,
then shot up again. He went into a clean overhand stroke and swam
until his chest burned for air. It was glorious.
That night Augie’s stepfather called him into the kitchen. A
neighbor had informed on him; his spies were everywhere. Augie was
forbidden to swim again that summer.
But that afternoon’s swim felt better than any under his mother’s
supervision, while she blew on her tea and whined that she wanted to
go to bed. And the heat of the day had long passed.
Pale blue fluttered past Orest’s inverness cape. Augie pulled his head up
and pushed his helmet off his eyes. Dawn was coming. The hills were
behind them. The road had evened and no longer wound. On either
side of them, row after row of perfuse green. And the smell of fertilizer.
“Pull over.”
Orest could not hear. Augie smacked his shoulder.
“Pull over; I have to pee.”
Orest rode again for some time before Augie hit his shoulder
again. Then Orest slowly changed gear and pulled Ginevra into the
field on his right. Augie jumped off before their stop was complete and
shuffled to the first plant.
He unzipped his shorts and looked over when Orest did not
speak. He was on one knee. His gloves were rubbing his temples. He
opened his eyes and they were wild and bloodshot. He put his red hand
into a fist and bit into his first knuckle.
“Professor, you okay?”
Orest did not answer. Augie turned back to his task. A wide leaf
waved in his stream. Beneath it, on a bent vine, a cucumber lay by his
toe. Augie scanned for more. Everywhere cucumbers of all sizes sat.
Augie reached out with his free hand and plucked a fat one without any
yellow from its stem. He smelled it. Then he prepared to bite.
Before he could, Orest’s blade slid between the cucumber and his
mouth. “Drop it now. Or I will strike you down with these hands of
mercy.”
Augie did not move. “I was just going to eat a cucumber. I don’t
have children sneaking me cheese. And this is my first vegetable since
California.”
Orest whispered at Augie’s shoulder. “This is no simple cucumber
Augie. This is a very different kind of sustenance. One whose very nature
ensures insatiability. This impossible crop is used for the manufacturing
of morphine.”
Augie lifted at eyebrow at his hand. “What, you think this is a
poppy field? It isn’t. This is a cucumber. I’m pissing in a cucumber field.”
Augie waved the cucumber.
“Artfully interlaced with this modest cucumber patch are the
first biological elements of narcotic plants. Of course all organics seem
innocent before they’re perverted by the claw of man.”
“It’s fucking cucumber!”
“Soft, Augie. One bite and you could find yourself corrupted by
lunacy.”
Augie dropped it onto his feet and zipped his fly while stepping
away from Orest’s knife. “Fine. I won’t eat the cucumber that has you
so terrified for no reason at all. Jesus.”
Orest sheathed his knife and opened his violin case. “You don’t
see it Augie. Your age precludes a proper picture from forming. For me,
the great truth couldn’t be clearer.”
He took a hundred dollar bill from his fold and rolled it. Then he
twisted the end to keep the shape. “These plants, these simple growths,
are the foundation of the cartel and the blood of the vile profiteering
government. Just as the roots here hold and nourish these stalks, these
plants nourish the mendacity all around us.”
He drank from a half empty rye bottle and stood. His voice
rose with him. “I can see these blooms for what they truly are: the
funding for the power centers that choke the impoverished, the clouds
that sicken the weak like a nerve gas, and the shackles that keep the
beautiful Mariana as Salazar’s whore, prey to any voluptuary.” He took
the filled jerry can belted to Ginevra’s seat and pinched the bill into the
spout.
“Whoa, what are we doing now?”
Orest looked up sharply. “I’m declaring our war.” He pulled a
long match from his vest.
“Whoa, whoa, no you’re not.”
Orest struck the match on the gravel; it lighted instantly. “On
this morning, we break off a piece of this confederacy of deception,
however small.”
“No, no, we need that gas. You’re gonna get us arrested.”
Orest already had the match to the paper. Its corner caught and
Orest heaved the can onto his shoulder.
“Put it down! It’s going to explode!”
Augie shrieked while Orest calmly started a run. He moved his
hand and suddenly launched the can like a shot-put. It went surprisingly
far. Then a loud pop came from within the fields a moment before a
trail of black smoke climbed.
Orest quickly ran to Ginevra. Augie did the same. As he kicked
her starter, a man emerged from the field. Then another. And then
more. They had baskets strapped to their fronts and large straw hats
tied to their necks.
Orest drew his pistols.
77.
“Translate!”
Orest pointed at Augie, then cupped his glove by his mouth.
“Peons! Become children of history! Take up your arms and join me! Betray the kingpin that controls you now!
And what we destroy today will be replenished ten-fold by our new system! Corn-fed from the pamphlets of Rudolf
Rocker and the great lessons of pre-Franco Spain!”
Orest put his leg over Ginevra and the nose of his pistol over her handle.
“No, not in some Marxist misapplication! Not a Soviet rabbit-hole!”
Orest stood from his peg.
“Come into the fold! Rush behind me! And slay the capitalist monster with the sword of anarcho-syndicalism!”
The men stared. Augie did not attempt to translate. Orest lifted the barrel from its rest.
“I come to you as both an angel of mercy and a demon of vengeance! Join or oppose, the sidelines are closed!”
One of the men spoke to another and pointed at Orest’s pistol. Augie came to Orest’s side and put a hand on his
wrist to lower it. Orest did not notice, but leaned into a whisper. “These may be bought henchmen. We’ll have to be
swift to break their ranks and earn our escape.”
Before Augie could answer, Orest put his heel into Ginevra and launched her between the rows of cucumber.
The men became startled and retreated into the fields. Then another, unaware of the commotion, stepped into
Orest’s path, a rake resting on his shoulder.
225
Orest stood up on Ginevra and pointed his pistol. The man
turned to flee, but Orest’s single hand could not keep Ginevra true
as she took the rough earth. Orest swerved sharply into the patches at
high speed.
Augie heard the squelch of Ginevra’s engine just before it stopped.
Then a plume began to waft within the leafage. Augie ran, joined by
some of the confused workers.
Orest was strewn up in the wire and vine. His arms were
outstretched. His ankles were wrapped, his hands upturned. His eyes
were shut and his mouth gaped. Ginevra lay on her side beneath him,
her one tire collapsed like a lung, her muffler broken and spitting dark
smoke with the last coughs of her engine.
Augie stooped to get Orest’s half Stetson that was at his feet. He
picked a sprout from its ribbon and looked up. The edge of Orest’s
rifle frock waved. Orest was still swaying in the wires from the impact,
as though held in a web. Then Augie heard the daub of a drip. He
found the spot in the earth. He thought it was Ginevra’s oil. Next to it,
broken but still long, was a tooth.
Augie sprang forward and put his hands on Orest’s chest. It was
wet. He opened his coat and then looked at his palms. They were red;
a black clot clung. He tried to find his wound, but could not. A man
appeared with long cutters. He moved to Orest’s feet, then stopped. He
said something to another man, then put a hand on Augie’s shoulder
and pointed. Augie followed.
A wire was coiled around Orest’s neck. It was buried in the skin.
Augie could see the blood falling into his dark collar in weakening
beats. Orest’s throat was cut.
“Jesus Christ, get him down!”
The man with the long cutters hesitated.
“Go! What are you waiting for?”
The man could not explain himself, but spoke questioningly
to the men around him. Augie tried to take the cutters, but the man
pulled them away.
“He’s going to die!”
A man arrived in a sprint. He seemed to have some authority as
he spoke rapidly to the men and they moved without answering. At last
he took the cutters and faced Augie.
“After we bring him down, he is going to bleed very much. You
have to keep your hands on his neck.”
Augie nodded. He turned to Orest and held his breath while he
waited.
The man took the cutters and put them on the wire. He looked
at Augie and nodded. The man snapped his cutters and the wire shot
out of Orest’s flesh. Blood gushed.
Augie caught him in his hands while he came down. His neck
opened like a mouth.
78.
Orrie lighted a cigarette and drank some of his beer. He set it on the brass coaster and blew out, filling the dark booth.
Then he set the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and shrugged. Then looked away.
“I think, maybe, I just stopped giving a shit, Professor Fowler.”
The man across from him did not change his expression. He sipped his glass. Then he reached across the table
with a sigh and took one of Orrie’s cigarettes from his pack.
“May I?” Fowler asked with it already in his mouth.
Orrie put his lighter up to it without responding.
“I think,” Fowler exhaled and took out his cigarette. “That there’s never a wrong time for an education. Or to
apply oneself. But perhaps for you, this isn’t the right time.”
Orrie looked up, surprised by the comment. “So what, I should drop out now?”
“No one’s saying that.”
“So what then?”
“Look, Orest, I’ve enjoyed having you in my class. I would selfishly tell you to continue. But, a man can only read
his own gauges.” Fowler finished his dark drink in a swallow and waved at the bar. “I’m trying to talk in relatable terms,
Orest.”
Orrie looked up with a confused expression.
“That thing outside.” Fowler gestured toward the street.
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“Thing? It’s a motorcycle. What’s wrong with that?” Orrie rubbed
his lip.
“It’s pouring rain, mainly.”
Orrie shrugged again. “My brother wanted one. We had a
neighbor and he would always walk over when the garage was open.”
“You bought one because your brother wanted it?”
“He’s dead,” Orrie said matter of factly. “The war.”
“I’m sorry, Orest.”
“It’s fine. If one of us was going to get blown away by some
goddamn Nazis, it was going to be him. I’ve got the real problems.
I’ve got finals.” Orrie rolled his eyes and finished his beer. Fowler’s glass
arrived.
“What is that, hey?”
“Rye, Orest. The last half-human thing to come out of Kentucky.”
“Gimme one of those,” Orest told the waiter.
“It might be older than you.”
Orest shrugged again and stabbed out his cigarette. “You married,
Professor?”
“No.”
“How come?”
Fowler smoked and then looked away. He sipped his drink,
thinking. “I knew a painter who lived in Long Beach. Still lives there,
actually. He did well for himself. He was in some very good galleries
in New York. Had some well-off regular buyers. He had a small, pretty
decent house. He did very well for his line of work. And, he had this
wife. She was a bit younger than him, but it certainly wasn’t a scandal.
Beautiful, of course. She adored him. But she was barren. And so it was
just the two of them in that house. For years and years.
“One night she was in an accident. Killed. Gruesome. And he
stopped what he was doing cold. He didn’t paint for a year. Barely went
out. No openings. Nothing. But he was well enough off that it didn’t
matter much to him. And everyone thought, ‘Well, he’s just stopped
for good.’
“Then, at some point, he decided to paint his wife. And so, he
started working again. And when he was finished, he began another.
Then another. Then he became consumed and painted nothing but his
wife. Years and years went on. He refused to sell any. And the paintings
gathered. Their house became like a shrine.
“At some point, someone convinced him to have an exhibition.
And I was invited. So I went. And it was just wall after wall of this poor
man’s dead wife. It was ghoulish. It was so disturbing that I didn’t even
speak to him while I was there. But I overheard him in a conversation
with someone. He was standing in front of a large piece. His wife was
undressed, on her side, but with a bit of sheet up to her hip. And I
remember precisely what he said.
“The person had asked if he thought it was healthy to paint this
same image over and over. He was eating cheese from a paper plate too.
And he said, ‘Not only is it mad that I’ve done this again and again, but
isn’t it sick that I couldn’t put down my brush until I painted her a bit
of blanket. As if to say, ‘Here my love, you might catch cold.’
“And I was just astonished.”
The waiter arrived with Orrie’s glass. Fowler lifted his in a toast.
“I’m far too gutless to risk my indifference for all that.”
They touched glasses. And Orest swallowed to his heart.
“He did one I loved. Sold it for a fortune. A triptych in oil. Panels
of Dante’s hell, I can’t remember which Circles he featured. But he
called it ‘The End With Robin’ because it had all these horrible images;
you know, the lost souls on the rack, the fiery river Styx, Cerberus’
heads going mad. But in that last panel, sitting in the corner, there was
a robin, perched on a skull with a tiny blue egg in its eye, and perfectly
content.”
That night, on the way back to campus, Orest tipped his motorcycle.
He cut an artery in his thigh. He woke a day later in hospital, after he
dreamt of Dante’s Beatrice.
79.
Though his eyelids would not lift, they had made themselves thinner with the effort. The lights of the room were strong
enough to shine through. Beside him, the sound of plastic hitting a metal bar. It dinged in time. Beyond that beat,
further on, the sound of conversations. The words could not be separated. Then a voice, closer than the others, rose.
“Come on!”
It was nearly enough to rouse him, and Orest’s one eye broke open. The room was yellow past the blur. A window
was lighted in white, a valance hanging from it. It was day.
The sound of quick sneakers came into the room. Then a woman’s voice. “You know that we cannot, not for
another two hours, Mr. Alpert.”
A man groaned. “Aw, come on. This hurts.”
The feet left the room without answering.
Orest summoned his voice, but his neck was tight. And the effort made it him feel sick. He stopped and fought
with his other eye. A song played from a car on the street. It was far away. He lifted his arm. It was bare. His shoulder
burned. His fear swelled. He pushed his voice again.
“Is that a Georgian accent?” Orest’s voice was weak and his words lisped. He tongued his mouth; he was missing
teeth.
“Huh?”
Orest did not respond. He began to feel his chest with his hand. The voice in the room continued. “I thought
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you were dead. You’re pale as if you were.”
Orest’s hand inched up his neck. A long weave of sutures laced
across his throat. He fingered the stitches; their ends were long, but
hard like wire.
“Yeah, I’m from Georgia. Ashburn.”
A fan wobbled from the ceiling. Orest began to see.
“Did you happen to see a black violin case?”
“A violin?”
“Just the case.”
“I don’t know, ask someone.”
Orest suddenly tried to sit up. “Where is this?”
“Lord, come on, man.”
Orest instinctively reached to the small table between them. His
spectacles were there. The walls were papered and discolored with age
and sun. The corners peeled. A man lay in a bed. He was young. His
arms were dark with tattoos. And his legs were gone.
Orest felt his own legs with his hands, then looked back to the
man. “You’re badly injured.”
“Thanks. Jesus God, can someone deal with this guy?” The man
hit a button on his bed. It clanged off the metal bar that closed him in
like a crib. Orest stared.
A nurse came into the room. Her demeanor was stern until she
saw Orest. Then she brightened. “Mr. Godwin. You’re up!” Her accent
was thick.
“Professor, thank you,” Orest corrected automatically. “Who told
you my name?”
“Careful, careful.” The woman was pulling a saline bag closer to
Orest. He’d tangled the feed as he moved.
“Careful nothing. I need coordinates. What country is this? And
where are this man’s legs?”
“All right, settle back, settle back.” The woman was gently pushing
Orest into his pillow. He tried to resist, but collapsed instantly.
“My pistols.”
His voice was dropping.
“It’s okay. Relax.”
“My war is being lost.”
“It’s okay, you had a big accident. You need rest.”
Orest was losing his breath. “Assassins. Relentless. Drugged.”
Orest’s pants were exhausting him.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“A breast perfumed to mask its poison. Curdled. A throat cut in a
trap like a stoat.” Orest shut his eyes to stop his nausea. And the room
faded from him.
He roused again. His voice stung his slashed throat. He was speaking,
but did not know what words. A tube light hummed blue. Another
stuttered and clicked. It was night.
Next to him, a voice droned without inflection. The man was
stumbling through his speech, though sedated. His eyes had rolled, his
mouth dripped. But he was awake. And he stammered between sobs.
Another man coaxed him in a whisper. Then the man continued. He
was talking about a slaughter.
Orest strained to look towards the conversation. The effort taxed
him greatly, and he was immediately dizzy. The legless man was still in
his bed, his tracked arm dangling off its edge. Beside him, a black form.
He thought for a moment that it was El Pastor, raised from his cellar by
the power of the lamb.
Orest tried to shout. He was unable. He slipped back to sleep and
the man’s confession bled seamlessly into his dream.
80.
“Excuse me, you know where the guy in 501 is? The room’s empty.”
The nurse put up her finger to stop Augie. Then she called to a passing woman in Spanish. The woman stopped
and walked behind the desk. She pulled out some papers, then went back and forth with the nurse.
“Which is your friend?”
“Uh, the old guy, not the paralyzed guy.”
“He woke yesterday.”
“Oh, okay. Where is he?”
“He was in his room.”
“I just came, no one is in there.”
The woman gave Augie a stern look. “Aaron Alpert is not in the room?”
“The other guy? No, no one was in there.”
The woman shook her head and pulled a scrap of paper from the corner of the note that she was consulting. She
began to draw some directions in ballpoint.
The heat was strong, but the sun couldn’t get between the tall buildings. The curb was lined with old cars pinned in by
delivery trucks without doors. The brick was spray-painted in vibrant colors up to the height of a reaching arm. Bags
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of garbage piled in open parking spots.
Augie read the paper then turned a corner. Immediately, he could
hear the sound of a radio. Then women speaking and splashing. There
were two men leaning of the fender of a car. They watched Augie as he
approached but said nothing.
Augie was in the alley when he heard a familiar voice booming in
English.
“O my brothers! One must still have chaos inside oneself to give
birth to a dancing star!”
Augie turned the corner to a shaded courtyard. A small pool sat
in its center, its surface still waving. Some men sat at a long table with
a punctured, vinyl umbrella titling from it. At its center was Orest.
His frock and half Stetson were gone. Instead, he had a white gown,
loosely fastened. His long heeled boots were now paper slippers. His
hair seemed to have grown and had fallen out from behind his ears.
And his great mustache now blended with the rest of his grey beard.
“Amor fati! From the scarab to the king! And to the leagues of
archangels like us.”
Orest had his arm up with a drink. The other men did as well.
Then they drank together and hit their glasses on the table. Orest
controlled the bottle, and began to pour again.
Augie saw that the men around Orest all sat in wheelchairs. Some
were missing arms, others legs. Some were held upright by gruesome
caging. But they all smiled through the cigarette smoke and rye. There
seemed to be a dozen heads and half as many bodies.
At last Orest saw Augie approaching. “Augie, my dear boy!” Orest
turned to the man next to him. “This young man hopes to one day sit
at a table with men of action like ourselves, and shamelessly drink their
toasts!”
A man glared at Augie. “Well he can keep hopin’. I pay four
fifths of my disability for the girls, not to drink with some goddamn
teenager.”
The man flicked his eyes past Augie and he looked. At the edge
of the pool, in lawn chairs without cushions, three women in push-up
bras and heels sat in identical boredom.
“Nonsense! It’s the only way a newt like this can develop into a
man!”
Another man waved his remaining arm at Augie. “Get over here,
newt!”
Augie slowly came closer and the man curled his arm behind his
neck with surprising strength. Augie was bent into his chest. The others
laughed as Augie struggled.
“Professor, can we talk?” Augie spoke from the man’s armpit.
“Certainly! I have nothing to hide from Alpert and his limbless
gang of heroes!”
Laughter again. The man released Augie.
“You almost died you know? You’re only alive ‘cause they knew
about this veteran hospital for Americans. You had to have a transfusion.”
“So they had you believe! The blood of the leopard is a thousand
times more potent than any pack from their fridge! I’d choose a drop
of it over any transfusion!”
The men called out and lifted their glasses again. “The leopard!”
Augie shook his head. “Okay, well, I called my parents.”
Orest’s smile left him. He leaned closer.
“And they actually sent the police to Juarez looking for us.”
“The closest of shaves then.”
“Like, they’re really angry. They got a cop in Connecticut looking
for you. Like, going around and looking for you. The Provost let them
notify everyone internationally. So, like, the police at home and the
police here. They think you’ve gone crazy. I’m supposed to go back
now. And you’re probably going to get locked up.”
Orest stood. His gown opened. “Then we haven’t much time.”
81.
“Have you secured provisions? No one will follow an insurrection led by madman in a hospital gown!”
“I have your clothes, yeah, but the Triumph isn’t fixed yet.”
Orest limped behind his aluminum walker. Augie followed with his hand holding his clothes.
“Curses! Where is my Ginevra?”
“We paid one of the field workers to take it in.”
“Those accessories? They can’t be trusted!”
“They’re just farmer guys. Not cartel or whatever you were thinking.”
“Perhaps your contact is more loyal to our money than his drug lord. Yet, these mechanics are wizards of
deception.”
“Sure.”
“Augie, listen to me, boy.” Orest stopped them and turned fully. “This place is not what it seems. A hospital, yes,
barely. But it’s more than that. This is the last stop for lost men. A suicide machine. A place where men are drained to
their bones and thrown away.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This hospital is in league with the worst elements of the underworld. These men come here to be drugged
irresponsibly by these doctors. They may as well be the cartel’s peddlers directly. Then they are fed opiates by those that
control these streets. Mexico City’s fiends and the fools of our flag are indistinguishable. Even those poor women are
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kept and sold by the same factions. Like our beloved Mariana.”
Orest looked off toward the courtyard. His face turned with
anger. “But let these lost souls inherit the vengeance I’d earmarked for
her.”
“What are you talking about?”
Orest’s attention came back to Augie. He placed his bitten hand
on his shoulder. “Dear Augie, give me one more midnight here. Then
let me flee. There is another act.”
Augie was shaking his head.
“’K, I don’t care that they’re after you. Let’s just go now. Drop me
off at the airport and I won’t tell them where you’re going.”
“One day, you’ll come to understand why. But I must intervene
here. For Alpert’s shredded legs. For the whores in bondage. I cannot
turn on them.”
“This has nothing to do with Salazar. That was a thousand miles
away.”
“Oh no, dear Augie. Salazar is nothing but a varmint next to this.
No, no, this is a monster as vile as we’ve encountered.”
Augie waited while Orest waved his open hand behind them.
“This city belongs to Madero.”
Augie and Orest entered the hospital room. Alpert was half conscious
in his bed. He smelled of urine. His brow was damp. Orest pulled his
gown off in a swipe and stood before Augie with his hands on his hips.
“My livery.”
Augie skipped to the open door and closed it. “Jesus, Professor.”
Augie went to the closet and took Orest’s rifle frock from its
hanger. He threw his Eagles t-shirt onto the bed. Then he slid his wellheeled boots to Orest across the floor, a pistol nose-up in each.
“They cleaned them but they haven’t been stitched up.”
Orest seemed to move better as he dressed. He tucked his cup
in his vest, letting the chain have slack. He pulled a rolled glove from
each of his frock’s sleeves. He patted the dust from his cape. Then he
thumbed the blade of his knife and sheathed it.
He turned to Augie as he put on his half Stetson. “Rescue my
Ginevra and meet me here. If I haven’t returned by dawn, flee. Take
Ginevra to the airport and return to your home.”
Augie shrugged.
Orest turned to Alpert and laid a glove on his hand. “Just as
your body is destroyed, they’ve finished off your soul. Its battle is over;
you’ve lost. But know that you will be avenged.”
He left without his staff.
82.
Orest walked on the hot avenue. He was glad for his hat and cape. He slipped into some stairs that dove under the
street and used some large American bills to board a train. The collector called out for him to take his change; this was
ignored. Orest was set on his route: he’d memorized it the night he had followed Madero.
Orest had been told a story of Madero striking Alpert in the courtyard. Alpert had taken too much and lapsed
into seizure. Madero banned him from the courtyard afterward, then learned he was paying other men to buy for him.
And Madero instituted a tax. Now Albert paid Madero everything he had.
Soon, Alpert didn’t cover his medical expenses. He treated his injuries on his own. He used the hospital as a
flophouse. He’d fall asleep in the road. He’d lose his chair. He refused to bathe. His hair grew.
Orest watched Madero as he came to the courtyard. He pictured the afternoon that he struck Alpert. Alpert was
barely able to speak; he wept in his wheelchair. He clutched Madero’s sleeve while repeating “junksick…junksick…”
Orest wanted to gun him down then and there. But the addicts around him would wail and fight; they were too
damaged by drug. Instead, Orest followed him to his train and studied. The street was simple to recall: Edgar Allan
Poe. He’d written a note on his thigh anyway, below the long scar from the night he’d left Fowler in the storm.
You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing.
Orest rose from the station to the boulevard. His heart grew and pounded. His limp vanished. The street was wide and
238
swept, restaurants and cafes on either side. The sun was already behind
a building. It wouldn’t be long until nightfall.
Each new street was named for a great author or philosopher
or scientist: Tennyson, Aristotle, Dumas. Orest knew them all, but
refused to recall any. He was through with elegant words, through with
cautious research. Orest knew that when he had the most strength in
his arms, he’d spent it holding a pen. And he rued the lost years.
He came to his street. He put a glove on his hardening sutures.
They scratched the tips. His wound was wet with salve. He pulled his
great collar over them and entered the foyer of an apartment building.
A suited porter was watching Orest at a desk.
“Access, señor!”
The man was shaved with combed hair. He eyed Orest closely.
His accent was light when he spoke. “Are you a guest, sir?”
“Yes, yes, a guest of a resident! I’ll not be a bother!”
The man produced a large folder and opened it to a page with the
day’s date along the top. He waved Orest over. Then, immediately he
pulled the ledger back. The scent of rye had arrived before Orest.
The porter scanned him. The wounds, the missing teeth, the torn
shoulder of the frock, the bizarre beard. When Orest put his elbow
on the desk, his collar moved and the porter saw the laceration along
Orest’s throat and the bracelet on his wrist. The porter stood. “I will
have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“Hardly! I’ve just arrived for a critical meeting!”
“Sir, if you don’t leave, I’ll have to have you taken outside.”
“Taken? You’re lucky I don’t make a pelt of you for my next boots,
you pit-viper.”
The porter spoke into a radio in Spanish and began to come from
behind the desk. Orest noticed a steel door opening and chose to leave.
He stopped at the door and turned back. “My host will be insulted by
this, know that!”
Then he limped through the set of glass doors and halfway up the
street. There he stopped, slipped between two parked cars, and circled
back on the opposite side. He crouched to a spot behind a fender, and
watched the porter through the foyer.
“The Fates override doormen, fool.” Orest jeered and smirked to
himself. He continued to spy and speak aloud. “You are no Gabriel;
you guard nothing. Your horn is a child’s kazoo to my ear.”
People watched Orest as they passed. His rifle frock splayed into
their path behind him. He continued, unaware.
After some time, the porter stood with a set of keys and left
the desk. Orest pulled himself up and skulked to the glass doors. He
slipped in and then ran as best he could to the doors of the elevator.
He smacked both buttons with his palm and waited. He heard a
conversation approaching, just as the doors chimed and opened.
He threw himself in and pressed himself in the far corner with his
eyes shut.
83.
There were six floors. The doors closed and the elevator lifted to the fifth. Orest hit each one, trying to avoid the lobby.
At each floor, the doors opened, waited, and withdrew. A radio was piped in. A guitar plucked, but Orest heard it
differently. It was a weeping strum.
He drifted to a memory of summer in Barcelona. He worked in the day, then stood on La Rambla and watched
at night. The women passed and he ached. But he still loved seeing them. Orest didn’t know if the memory was true
or imagined.
The elevator rested at the lobby and Orest did not move. He leaned. Gradually, he forgot his purpose. After a
few minutes without moving, the lights inside went dark.
Orest stared up at the doors of the elevator. The light just broke beyond them, lighting the cracks in white. The
shape was thin as thread, but the rays made a cross. Orest stared, recalling a mass from his youth. Orest’s mouth went
sour as he thought.
Just then the bell went and the doors opened. Orest was blinded by the late afternoon that flooded in. He
straightened and pressed against the corner. A woman entered and scowled, a tiny dog between her heels. The dog
barked immediately.
Orest recovered. He bent down. “What a creature! He’s the last to know how easily his neck breaks.”
The woman did not respond, but glowered again when she arrived at her floor.
Again, Orest leaned in darkness in the closed elevator. He tried to retain his focus, but the dark played tricks.
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His mind wandered. And soon he was struggling with another halfmemory.
He remembered a long train ride with his father and brother.
He wore a tie and hat. The hours stretched and his knees burned. His
brother breathed on the window and then wrote on the fog with his
finger. Orest tried to read before the heat took the letters. He could still
recall the word; he’d carved it in the picnic table outside Juarez while
the train stopped. They remained in their booth while their father
stepped off for tobacco at the station.
A strange man slid their compartment open and then gestured
the boys to lean close to him. Orest hesitated, but Jacob put his ear to
the man instantly.
“Eh boys, know where we are?”
“No. Me and my brother are going to California.”
“You in Vaughan. Where Casey Jones died.”
“Where?”
Orest leaned in now.
“Jus’ outside your window boys. See them cornstalks?”
“Yeah.”
“When Casey Jones crashed, he hit a car o’ grain. That’s the stuff
growin’ right there still. There ain’t no cornfield around here.”
The boys filled the window with their faces. They watched the
stalks standing among the white stones of the railway. The man retreated
from the booth when he felt the boys were adequately intrigued.
“Come on, let’s get one.”
“No, Dad’s not gonna let us.”
Jacob took Orest’s wrist and pulled him into the aisle. They ran
past the man who grinned at them, proud of his mischief. They leapt
past the lowered step and down into the train tracks. Jacob ran to
the nearest stalk and pulled two cobs and stuffed them into his coat
pockets. They giggled as they climbed back onto the platform while the
bells of the locomotive rang.
Orest watched a green ear slowly appear in Jacob’s pocket while
he slept. When their father left them for the diner car, they bit into the
corn. And the silk of Casey Jones’ corpse stuck in their teeth.
The chime came again and the doors opened. Orest’s eyes were shocked
still by the brightness of the foyer. But it was different than before. It
was no longer sunlight.
A form entered the elevator; a shadow to Orest. But it was a man.
Orest tried to remember himself. His heart danced with the effort. His
breath fell into a pant. And his eyes could not focus.
He felt the ground move as though he was falling and he gripped
the walls. His gloves whined as they slid. He feared his heel would not
hold. Then, slowly he stopped reeling. Slowly his eyes pulled from their
fog. He saw that the man faced him.
“Madero.”
Orest put his hand to his vest, but Madero was fast as his voice
and sprang. He seized Orest’s arm and instantly Orest’s eye stung
with pain. He tried to push back, but Madero was too strong. A hand
clutched Orest’s chin and jaw and his skull bashed the mirror behind
him.
Orest now could not see. His arms did not answer. His struggle
continued but too slowly for Orest to engage. He floated. He bled.
Madero’s hand disappeared and then it held a gun.
Orest somehow flung himself upon Madero’s wrist. The blows
fell but he did not let Madero go. The doors opened and then closed.
Orest was against the split mirror. A forearm was in his throat. His
sutures were breaching. His lungs struggled. The elevator was lowering.
Then, once it was still again, the lights went off.
The arm moved and Orest was able to gasp. He dropped in the
pitch-blackness and heard the sear of a gunshot. Then the shattering of
falling glass and the stench of the powder. The shards rained on Orest’s
head and down the back of his frock. Yet the sound roused him. He
reached into his coat and lunged forward in the dark.
Madero and Orest each had a hand on the other’s throat. Orest
could taste Madero’s breath, so close was he. But Madero’s grip was
weakening. Then his hand fell away completely.
The light clicked on and the doors opened. A soft alarm pulsed
in the background. The porter had abandoned his desk. The foyer was
empty. Orest only heard the bell of the train leaving Vaughan.
Orest released Madero and looked around. A bullet hole smoked
in the wall, a pistol between their feet. Blood pooled by its nose.
Orest stepped back and Madero stared, sweat running from his
face. Then, he turned and walked in a strange lope. Orest stooped and
picked his half Stetson out from the glass and blood. He placed it and
slowly walked out while putting a hand in his vest.
His sheath was empty; his long knife was gone.
It was in Madero’s side.
84.
Augie lay on Orest’s bed, a warm Orangina soda in his hand. Alpert had convinced him to spike it with some of Orest’s
rye. Then he wanted to play cards with the stash that Augie was holding. Augie refused. But he shared some rye.
“How old ‘r’ you?”
“Seventeen.” Augie sipped. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
Augie was stunned. He observed the darkness around Albert’s eyes, the pulled skin around his scars. He assumed
he was much older.
“It don’t look like I’m gonna be able to take twenty more, uh?”
“Why?”
“Christ, boy. I’m cut in half.”
“Yeah.”
Augie looked into his soda. Alpert drank his full cup and poured another. “Half a windshield in my guts. The
organs are cut to shit. No spleen at all. ‘Cause we ran over a bomb. Had to.” The man trailed off. He rubbed the bend
of his arm, then put his glass eyes to the spot. Augie stared forward.
“Know where we hadda go? Know where we hadda be, that I’m goin’ 75 off of 11 at two o’clock in the goddam
afternoon?”
Augie did not know to answer.
243
“Another unit, same route, blew a woman to pieces with a Mark
19 an hour before. She was carrying a bag and walkin’ somewhere in
their direction. So they lit ‘er up.” The man made a machinegun noise;
his chin shined with spit and rye.
“They just fuckin’ destroyed her; nothing left. You know what was
in the bag? Fruit. She was bringing them fuckin’ fruit. And they shot
her with a Mark 19. You know what a Mark 19 is? It’s an automatic
grenade launcher. She has apples, they use a goddam Mark 19.
“And that wasn’t even the crime. That was fine. The problem
was, he didn’t have a drop weapon. We were encouraged to carry
drop weapons and even drop shovels by the end of my second tour.”
He finished a cup and refilled it. The man’s voice deepened, he was
mimicking a superior.
“If you shoot a civilian, you leave a gun by them, bang, that’s a
fuckin’ insurgent you just killed. Not a woman with a bag. Or kid with
a handful of ribbon.
“So, I was racing across hell to put an AK beside the torso of
a woman.” Alpert giggled. “And I volunteered. I always did. Always
pushed it. Always testing that city. So, I volunteered to drive like a
demon down Mujamma’ Dijla where two hundred poor Shia Hads just
watched a Marine literally fuckin’ bomb a woman. I didn’t care; I was
going to push it. I made it through a whole tour of this shit, so, sign up
again. Stop-loss, who cares, do it. Didn’t matter. I kept testing that city,
those people. I was first on securing anything. I didn’t think I could die.
I was goin’ up against everything in that theater, not a scratch.
“Then, pulled around a parked car and then black. Woke up
in Germany. My time was up. No legs. No army.” The man pulled a
cigarette from behind his ear and lighted it. Augie felt as though he had
to speak. His voice seemed weak.
“But you did lots of good over there too.”
Alpert ignored him. But he thought of something else. “I guess
they put your Purple Heart on you if they don’t know if you’re waking
up. So some prick lays a medal on my chest while I’m out. So, it rolls
off and I move or whatever, and it crimps my catheter and I piss myself.
“I finally wake up and the fuck next to me is showing some nurse
pictures of him giving candy to these Iraqi children on this digital
camera and I pull this pissed-on Purple Heart out. It just said it all, in
the first ten seconds my eyes were open.”
Alpert smoked deeply. “You know why we give candy to kids?
You know when you see that on TV or the news or whatever; some
guy with a machine gun giving kit-kats to a bunch of starving kids? It’s
because insurgents won’t shoot on kids. They’re shields.”
He looked over to Augie. Augie was frozen, his eyes on the
doorway.
There Orest stood, wavering on the threshold. And he was
drenched in blood.
85.
“Jesus, Professor, you all right?”
Orest limped into the room without speaking. Alpert pulled himself up on his elbow. Orest’s eye was closing.
“Whoa, boy. You gotta let Dr. Faber look at ya.”
Orest slowly pulled his shoulder out of his rifle frock. A dusting of mirror sprinkled to his boots. Then a full
shard.
“That candy man. Hardly.” Orest’s lisp was strange. His throat made his voice low. He did not sound human.
Augie was at Orest’s side, charting his wounds. “Your head is bleeding pretty bad.”
Orest stopped undressing to let Augie assess him.
“You broke some stitches in your neck.”
Alpert was now observing him closely. Orest’s arm was red to his glove. He squinted and finished his rye.
“You kill somebody?”
Orest stopped and looked at Alpert. Then back to Augie who was stepping away from him.
“Jesus Christ, Professor.”
Orest stood. He began to splash rye on his scalp. Augie was no longer aiding him. He winced.
“You drink with this man, what horror do you think he’s brought? He has just his orders. I’m against archfiends.”
Orest pointed at Alpert. Alpert stared at him.
“He’s a soldier. With medals.”
245
“Is he? Because a flag flows above his turret?”
Alpert dragged on his cigarette.
“Because he was in a war. You’re just a guy.”
Orest turned away and began to gather his things. He spoke into
an open drawer. “You misunderstand. Anyone can have a war.”
Augie shook his head. He saw Orest struggling with his violin
case. He reluctantly joined him. He placed it on the bed and opened it.
Alpert used his good arm to reach beside him. He pulled out a
stack of fresh dressings and flung them at Orest. They hit his leg and
fell. He looked to Alpert while Augie collected them from the floor.
Orest limped to Alpert’s bedside. “You fight blind, but you fight.
A prince among pigs.”
Alpert did not speak as Orest went to Augie. He put his black
hand on the back of his neck. “Dear Second. One day you’ll understand.
Our monsters against theirs.”
Orest sat on the bed. His legs were shaking. Augie placed a
bandage along his neck. He began to dab his head. Orest lifted the
telephone and began to dial numbers from memory.
He put the receiver to his ear and waited a long time before he
finally spoke. He voice was soft.
“Felix. Conserve your strength and accept my truce. I concede
you the superior craftsmen. And I want my tale to be in no other hand.
The first chapter begins tonight. A manifesto is birthed.” Orest hung up
the phone.
“Who was that?”
Orest did not answer. He lowered his head and brought his cup
from his vest. Alpert shoved the bottle nearer to him on the nightstand.
Orest poured and lifted his arm to Alpert. “The prince, the count, and
squire.”
Alpert drank. Orest lighted a cigarillo after screwing it into his
ivory holder.
The telephone rang.
“Jesus, who the hell is that?” Augie turned to Alpert. “Who calls
on this line?”
“No one. I use my cell phone.”
Orest and Augie’s eyes met. Augie pled. “I can’t answer it, I’ve got
the FBI and whatever they have in Mexico after me.”
Orest put a glove on the receiver.
“No, just let it ring.”
They waited, but the ringing did not stop. Orest lifted the
receiver and slowly brought it to his ear without speaking. He drew on
his cigarillo deeply.
“Professor?” The voice was low and Orest did not respond.
“Professor Godwin? This is Detective Meade of the Hartford Police
Department. Do you know why I’m calling?”
Orest stared at Augie. “Grendel has his wulf.”
“Pardon me?”
Orest smoked. “You’ve turned the coward Felix and expect a
quick surrender. A villain is only as great as his hero.”
Augie and Alpert looked at each other.
“Is Prichard all right? You need to stay put. A lot of people are
very worried.”
“I answer to an authority above even the Hartford Police.” Orest
hung up the telephone and stood. He limped to his long staff and took
it in his hand.
“The mission is unchanged, though it’s steered by the truest of
outlaws. A fate implacable.”
“Well take me to the airport.”
Orest’s face changed instantly. He suddenly looked as though
he were about to weep. He walked to Augie, leaning on his staff. He
then put his arm around him. Augie squinted in confusion, his chin
in Orest’s tattered shoulder. He blew the frays out of his mouth. Orest
broke the embrace after some time.
“Faithful Second. You shame me when your loyalty answers my
doubt.”
“Huh?”
Orest reached into his rifle frock after flipping his cape. “Injuries,
exhaustion affect me. Now the pursuit is hot. I’m half dead. I’ll need
your young hand and full heart if we’re to stand a chance.”
Orest drew the pistol on his chest and offered it to Augie. Augie
took it and stared at the piece. It was warmed by Orest’s heart. The fine
nickel etching was traced in blood.
“Those aren’t real guns.”
Alpert was stabbing his cigarette out. Orest looked at him sadly.
He put his hand on Augie’s shoulder.
“Listen to him, dear Augie. His mind is delirious on drug and
drink.”
“I’m telling you, those aren’t real.”
Orest pulled the pistol from his hip.
“These are as loaded as your pickled head. And with sights as
sharp as owls.”
Orest pulled from Augie and toward the door. Then, before he
stepped, he turned one last time to Alpert.
“To answer your question, Polanco needs a new pimp.”
86.
Orest rode through the slums to the unlit roads. The diesel engines muttered all around them. Augie kept Orest’s collar
up to cover his swelling and bleeding from the others on the highway. Soon the night was with them, and they left
Mexico City behind.
Orest made no mention of the airport and rode into the hills. Augie did not object. His parents were more
concerned with his exams than his kidnapping. The Provost, surely, would have been swayed by their lack of panic. All
that waited in Alcott were failing grades, Isaac’s shaking head, suspension, and the ire of his father. Then, an anchorbender forever.
If Orest wanted to drag him further away, he could.
Orest drove fast. The air changed and was beclouded with soot. A new carbon entered their mouths and lungs.
Augie was stirred and looked from the road.
A mountain bled orange, black steaming from its peak and face. Augie slapped Orest’s back. He pointed.
Orest looked, but did not speak for some time. “Popocatepetl. She’s been roused by our defiance.”
Augie watched. He could feel Orest’s strange voice through his coat. He leaned in to hear over the wind.
“Be patient for the wolf is always with you.’”
Augie did not understand. He stared until enough night was between them to hide the volcano. And he could
no longer taste it in the air.
248
They rode on. Hours of hills and twists. Orest’s eye shut and he tilted
the other to their road. His throat dried, a loose stitch moving with
Ginevra. She shook Augie nearly to sleep.
He thought of the jungles of Xilitla. He wondered about that
madman and the ruins he built around him. He thought about the
woman who broke him. Then he thought of the red parrot among the
cuckoos, its fiery crest over their grey.
Augie’s cheek pushed into Orest’s back. Orest was stopping
violently. Augie lifted his head over Orest’s shoulder as they slid. The
tires screamed.
Before them, filling the narrow road, was some kind of procession.
It moved in silence, each walker holding a single candle beneath their
chin. Augie followed the weak light in the distance and was stopped
with fear. The faces were gone. It was a parade of skeletons.
Augie’s voice couldn’t come. Orest was frozen. His hand did not
move. Ginevra idled helplessly while the skeletons marched closer.
Augie put his sneaker to the road and tried to pull Ginevra, but
Orest was holding them there. Augie tried to reach over to Orest’s
clutch. He gripped Augie’s wrist.
“Be still! If these spirits detect your racing heart, there’s no telling
the outcome.”
Augie left his hand. He watched as the dead came closer. He
shivered as he did. Then he noticed their size. He tried to focus through
the dark. “They’re kids, Professor.”
Orest whispered. “Once. Now, the damned envy the living with
every rattle of their bones. They would destroy us and drag us off if they
did not believe us to share their sad fates, no matter their size. But they
see the death on these hands, and that is the disguise we wear.”
The pageant began to spread into the fields on either side of the
path. Now the women followed, with bone faces but patterned dresses.
The Catrinas and the skeletons kneeled and stooped in the fields. They
were over graves.
Augie swung from side to side taking in the cemetery. The
tombstones all had been served full plates of food, and were decorated
with marigolds. A small doll sat happily on one, a candle placed at its
side. Orest watched it. He knew that it was the grave of an infant. And
he thought one last time of his stillborn daughter.
A child skipped out from the graveyard and into the road. He
approached Ginevra and waved a paper skeleton on a stick at Augie.
He shuddered, barely holding his squeal.
Other children noticed. They too began to approach. Orest
moved his boot from the road. Beyond the children, some teenagers
followed. A girl drank from a bottle of beer. Her face was painted, but
her dress was tight. Her cleavage was up, the cut was low. Augie stared.
It began to rain softly.
“Be brave, Augie. These phantoms are clever. They tempt you
with flesh they no longer have. But to kiss one of these women would
be to taste the ashes of an urn.”
The children heard Orest’s English and began to run. Their hands
were all outstretched with their palms up. They shouted something,
but Orest could not hear overtop of each other.
They slapped at their thighs and shins. Their small hands dug
at their pockets. Orest withdrew his arms, his face locked in a terrible
fright. Augie tried to calm the mob, but their shouting only grew.
“Monedas! Monedas!”
Orest turned on Ginevra’s headlight.
“Easy, Professor. They just want change. They’re begging.” Augie
began to feel the pockets of his shorts.
“Be gone tiny spectres!” Orest pulled his long staff and held it
above him. The children stopped.
“Take it easy, Professor. It’s the Day of the Dead. We’re in a
graveyard.”
Orest stood from his seat and revved. “The peace you seek is
not here! No, another level of the hell deeper than yours is what you
tempt!”
Orest jolted forward and the skeletons began to scatter and
giggle. Orest carved their way up the path. Augie looked for the girl in
the floral dress, but could not see her.
A spoonful of beans hit his back.
87.
The storm grew. Augie watched as Orest’s wounds were rinsed. He could see the depth of his cuts. Soon Ginevra’s tires
sprayed white. Then Augie was soaked to the skin. And Orest’s great moustache was washed into his beard.
The roads pulled through the shoulders of mountains, then plunged along ravines. The surfaces were rough and
Orest was forced to slow as he entered narrow valleys and canyons. The night made the edges treacherous. And the
storm sounded like a sea overhead.
Lagoons flooded a dip in the road and Orest was forced to stop. “We can’t pass by this light, Augie. We must seek
shelter.”
A hook of lightning lit the dark. A jungle was on one side, abyss on the other. They leaned Ginevra and stepped
into the forests.
“Everything in the duffle bag is wet.”
“Perhaps my matches will be dry.”
“If there’s anything to burn that isn’t soaked.”
The muds took them past their ankles; the walk was hard. Leaves slapped their cheeks like hands. Vines tightened
like rope. And the brush seemed to grow with the rains.
“We just need a tree or something. Any bit of shelter.” Augie could not hear Orest. “Professor?” He listened for
steps, or the slop of mud. “Professor?” Another glint of lightning put the jungle blue: Augie was alone.
He moved his duffle bag to his other shoulder. Panic didn’t come like it once did. He lowered himself and tried
251
to peer into the blackness. Somewhere, lost in it, was Orest. He would
be there, fighting the black even harder.
A gloved hand took Augie’s. “This way, boy.” Orest didn’t let go
of his hand. Augie held too. Suddenly, the fingers of the jungle pulled
away and Augie was able to stand. His feet came out of the mud and he
could step.
“Watch your head.”
Augie crouched and felt rough stone snag at his shirt. Then, a
darkness more complete than the night. There was no rain. There was
no storm. Just Orest’s wheezing in the distance. Then the crackle of a
match. Orest was bent over his violin case. Above him, a dripping cave.
“How’d you find this?”
Orest didn’t answer. He stood up with a bottle of rye, then pulled
out his worn notebook. He tore a page and lighted its corner.
“Drink this. Fend off the chill.” Orest slid the bottle along the
soft bed of the cave. Augie took it and sipped. The pages burned bright,
breaking off into red ash that swam in the cave’s strange current, like
the cinders of Orest’s shed. Augie drank again. Then he heard a sound
that shot through the dark, like the snap of a bone.
Another match burst, and Augie saw that Orest was standing
over his long staff, his boot through its middle. “This is all that’s dry
in the world, it seems.” Orest crossed the pieces, then started at his
notebook. He pulled page after page from its binding and crumpled
it under his staff. Augie came to his side and put the bottle by Orest.
Orest took it automatically, sipped, then doused the pages.
He lighted one, then the cave was washed in orange. Augie saw
each page before it went up. The writing was elegant. Augie recalled the
note Orest had given him that first day. Whether it matched the mad
hand or the other one, Augie could not guess.
The flames licked the staff and it caught. Orest pulled his rifle
frock and tossed it to Augie. Augie slipped it on and sat before the
gathering fire. He put his hands in the pockets. He felt the Blackmore
letter. It was soft with rain.
He tossed Orest his cigarillos. “They got wet.”
Orest was already at his case. “A true smoker always has a way.”
He put his cob pipe in his teeth. Then he stuffed it from the can after
he gave his bottle back to Augie. Orest sat. His white pipe smelled of
vanilla.
“Anything important in that?” Augie pointed his toe to the fire.
“So I once thought. Now I just see years at a desk going up in
flames. Time alone that could have been another way. See how fast it
burns. Years. And the staff I carved one morning while you slept. It
seems like it could burn forever.”
Augie was warmed by the fire and by the rye. And sleep soon
caught him.
88.
Augie woke. Light shone at the mouth of the cave. The fire was ash, but still seemed to give heat. Above him, a row of
cocoons wedged between the spires. Even they were beaded with rain. And Orest was gone.
Augie shuffled out. The sun was hot, but the dew still covered the jungle. Mist spilled from the mountain and
moved along his thighs, back and forth like breath. A bough snapped and fell just in earshot. A bird cawed.
Augie retraced their path and soon the scent of vanilla came to him. At the edge of the road, Orest stood, his
back to the jungle, his pistol being pulled on the dawn again and again.
“Professor.”
Orest spoke without turning from the chasm before him. “Are you ready at last, dear Augie?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
Orest holstered his weapon and turned his profile to Augie. His pipe curled white smoke like a cameo. His
moustache had dried and been restored.
“Good. The God of War hates those that hesitate.”
Orest rode fast and soon the hills were behind them. As they came down a long road, a city presented itself.
“Oaxaca.”
253
Fires burned. There were no cars. In the distance, an overturned truck
blocked the road. Orest approached with speed. Some men came from
behind the wreckage. Orest stopped and waited for them to come to
them. Others linked arms along the road. They too wore masks. One
wore a gas mask with a gleaming skull painted on it in white.
One wore a balaclava that he pulled over his face as they came
near. Another wore a bandana to his nose. They each had construction
gloves and boots.
“Adónde usta va?” The man smoked a cigarette through his
disguise.
“I am Professor Orest Routh Godwin of Frog Hollow. I come
from the north. And I come to bleed for your cause.”
“American?”
“American blood only gains its value when spilled. Translate, Dear
Augie.”
“Estamos aquí ayudarle.”
The man turned to the other and then put his hand warmly on
Orest’s shoulder. “Periodistas! De la Estados Unido!”
The second man moved to let Orest pass. The linked arms broke
and the men smiled.
The streets were empty. Windows were shattered. The smell of gasoline
hung in the air. Then the odor of burning tires. Another scent came in
waves.
“The redolence of insurrection!” Orest rode through the streets,
but there were no protests. He shot through red lights with no opposing
traffic. He circled back. Augie too strained to see down alleys and past
windows.
Finally, Orest put his heel to the road and turned to Augie. “It’s
as though they’ve destroyed each other completely. There are not even
ghosts here.”
Augie shrugged and Orest rode again. Soon, he turned down a
long boulevard. Orest stopped again. At the end, a barricade waited.
But it was not built of overturned cars and debris. It was made of
flowers.
Orest slowly approached. Marigolds and roses, potted in paint
cans and tear gas canisters. Sugar skulls and Catrinas in paper maché
piled upon each other. Then photographs of smiling men and women.
This was their memorial.
“They’re all dead,” Augie whispered to Orest. Then a new dread
shot through him. It seemed to burn under his ribs and course under
his arms. These weren’t the long deceased. These were young. The
photographs were recent.
The snarl of a massive engine rose. Augie clutched Orest’s waist. A
steam shovel lumbered into view. It dropped its scoop to the pavement
roughly; they could feel the crash in their feet. Then it rumbled horribly
along the ground until it gouged into the memorial. The flowers were
crushed under its tracks. The candles were smashed in its shovel. And
the photographs were torn by both.
Orest watched the display in confusion. Then he followed up
the crane of the machine to its operator after an awkward maneuver. It
wasn’t a worker at all, but a man in grey with no face. His hands were
gloved, his head masked in plastic, his chest covered in a black vest.
“They’ve sent in the army.” Orest turned Ginevra to flee. Augie
looked back. A group of men were gathering at the sound of the
Triumph. They pulled their rifles from their shoulders. Augie watched
in shock. Then the first pop of gunfire.
“Jesus! They’re shooting at us!”
Orest swerved into a side street and beneath the steel stairs of
a fire escape. He blocked himself in and used his feet to reverse to
another alley. He blasted between the buildings. Ginevra bounced
dangerously through the drains; weak loading doors clanged and bent
under their weight. Clotheslines waved overhead in their wind. The
echo of Ginevra was painful so close to walls.
Orest skidded back onto a main street with his boots out. A
formation of soldiers was already at its end. Orest turned the other
way and opened Ginevra’s throttle. Augie heard a deep thud, then the
sound of tin skipping alongside them. A pressurized fog shot at their
feet. Augie stared in terror.
“Close your eyes, keep your breath!”
Augie clenched his eyes and throat. Orest sped away from the
white smoke, but then a voice called out from the other side.
“Hey! In here! American!”
Orest stopped. He watched as the haze yawned up the building,
then thinned at the top. Orest turned to Augie, who still held his breath
and shut his eyes.
“Take one last clean breath, Augie. We’re risking the plunge.”
Augie inhaled audibly so Orest could hear over the engine and
shouting soldiers. And Orest rode directly into the poison with his eyes
wide.
89.
Orest braked as the voice called out again. The tires could not hold the smooth stone of the street. Augie felt someone
take Ginevra’s handlebars and then Orest’s arm. Ginevra fell to her side; Orest began to howl. Augie tried to follow
the sound without opening his eyes. Then he fell forward down a shallow staircase and into the legs of Orest and his
escort. They all tumbled past a doorway and into a room of people.
Orest growled with his gloves digging in his eyes. He pulled at his collar. Augie watched as a woman pulled him
by his shirt into the center of the room. Another put a knee into his chest and held his head by his hair. Then the first
began pouring Coca-Cola into his eyes.
Another hand pulled Augie’s chin up; a stream of cola waited. He coughed and tried to move, but the hands held
him. The voice was shouting in Spanish and others were replying. Finally, the rinse stopped and they let him sit up.
He spit between his knees.
Orest was silently staring at the ceiling. Someone held his hand; their knuckles were white with strain. The
brown cola fizzed through his open eyes. Augie imagined how great the pain must be for this to be relief.
Some men came through the doors with Ginevra between them. Then they shut and planked the stairway. Augie
was still gasping. They were in a basement tavern. Rags soaked in vinegar hung on the windows. Pails of solutions lined
the bar. And a group sat on the floor. Each seemed to have bloody noses or split lips. Like Orest, their injuries dried
where they bled. The more severe wounds were wrapped in shirts. He did not seem out of place. A boy Augie’s age lay
on the ground with his bone out of his shin. He smoked silently, petting his tourniquet.
256
The voice from the boulevard came through a mask. Augie
recognized the skeleton as it was removed. Beneath it was a woman,
damp with sweat. Her face was lined with tar. Her black hair was pulled
into a great tail, like a horse. She left the mask on the back of her head,
giving Augie the impression that she watched both him and Orest.
The woman took a cigarette from an offering hand and then a
light. She looked at Augie and exhaled. “Do you recognize me then?”
“You were one of the people at that roadblock?”
“Yes.” She turned to the others in the room. “I saw these men
come in through the city limits.” Then she spoke in Spanish.
She came to Augie and smoked while looking him over. “But you
are not journalists, eh? Why are you here?”
Orest spoke from the floor. “I am a professor. A teacher, like you.
Our fight is the same.” Orest wiped some cola from his nose on his
sleeve. And then tried to stand, but could not.
The woman watched him struggle. “And you came here to help
us?”
Augie snorted. “I rode a scooter from California,” he muttered.
The woman walked to Orest, shaking her head, wonderstruck.
“You came here, at your age?”
She no longer accused with her questions. Orest seemed ashamed
suddenly. He looked away from the woman. He put a glove over his
neck. Augie was saddened and tried to explain. “He’s a history professor.
He’s into history.”
The woman ignored Augie again and walked to the bar after
giving Orest a soft look. She took a bottle from behind it and pulled
the cork. She came to Orest. She took a long swill. She wiped her lips
on her shoulder. Then she handed the bottle to Orest. “Maybe I take
your class after all this.” The room laughed and the woman slapped
Orest’s chest with her hand after putting her cigarette in her mouth.
She stood and Orest drank where he lay.
A man replaced her at Orest’s side. He stared intently over Orest’s
bruised eye and his long seam of stitches. Augie thought that he was
some kind of nurse. Then, a long lens came to his face. “You American?”
Orest winced in the flash, then instinctively shielded his eyes.
“To the core.” His lisp sprayed through the cola and irritants.
The shutter swished as the man moved. His knees were bloody.
A second camera hung over his back. “Me too. Oakland. Steven
Musgrove. But I publish under a lot of pen names. Simon Hansgrohe.
Casper Roy.” Musgrove circled like a wasp. “Been here a week. Only
saw one other American journalist. You’re the first protestor.” Musgrove
looked over to Augie. Augie tried to put his scrapes forward in the
low light of the tavern. Musgrove turned back to Orest and continued
photographing him thoroughly. Augie looked away.
On a billiard table a man lay with his shirt pulled over his face.
His hands were folded on his chest. Augie became nauseous. “Is that
guy dead?”
Augie stood. The woman nearest him rubbed his shoulder. The
voice from the street answered.
“Yes. He’s been shot to death.”
90.
Augie put his hands over his mouth. He faced the body. The skin was pale like old enamel. His tendons seemed taut.
Augie could find no wound, but his pant leg was striped with blood. But far less than Orest. Augie tried to find his face
under his shirt. He imagined it was scraped to the bone under the baby blue, a true version of the costumes around
him.
Augie rocked where he stood. Then his sway went too far and he toppled forward in a faint.
Augie woke with his head between his knees on a stool. He was sick. His eyes ran. His nose dripped. It was night. Orest
sat on the floor with the masked woman and Musgrove. The bottle was at his hand. Augie could see that it was mescal.
“The University is…it is considered to be…how do you say it?” The woman looked to Musgrove.
“It’s autonomous. Off limits to the government. They promised not to attack the University.”
“Yes, but today they came and took down the roadblocks. On the Day of the Dead.”
Musgrove spoke again. “They knew that families would be honoring those killed this week. They guessed the
protests might be thinner. So, they took Oaxaca University on the Day of the Dead.”
Orest nodded.
“The city, she is with us. But not all know what has happened.”
“They’ve jammed cell phone signals. There’s outages over most of downtown.”
258
The woman adjusted her hair, then reached behind her back. She
stretched and then put a pistol on the table; black with a magazine
that extended past the butt. Musgrove did not look. Orest stared. She
continued while rubbing her shoulder. “We held the radio tower on
campus until this afternoon. Now the army has it. The signal could not
be broken until now. This was our way to the people.”
“The signal is so strong that you can hear the station through
electric doorbells.”
“Now it has gone silent.”
Orest reached across the table to the woman’s pack of cigarettes.
He put one in his mouth. “May I?” The woman did not answer while
Orest lighted. He smoked and took a swallow of mescal. “I am not a
journalist, but I do go by many names, like our friend.” Orest flicked
his fingers at Musgrove. “And I am no simple protestor either.” Orest
opened his rifle frock; it was sticky with cola. The woman looked down
and saw Orest’s pistol on his hip. “I am Professor Orest Routh Godwin
of Frog Hollow.”
The woman did not react strangely to Orest’s proclamation. She
breathed in, then put out her hand. “I am Ana Felicia of the EZLN.”
Orest nearly forgot to take Ana Felicia’s hand as his eyes suddenly
became bright. “Zapatista?”
Musgrove laughed, anticipating his response. “To the core.”
91.
Orest looked back to Augie and waved him to the table.
“My Second and I are armed with something greater than these slight munitions.” Orest shrugged at Ana Felicia’s
pistol. “We carry shields too thick for hoses and bullets. We carry American birth certificates.” Orest put a hand on his
chest. He seemed to be swearing an oath.
Augie came to his side. “They’ve already tried to shoot us.”
“Ah, we travelled unmarked. How were they to know that they were after the master’s children? To assault an
American would mean the bullwhip. The Governor would be neutered instantly. And the rebellion would be won.”
“Well how are they gonna know this time?”
Orest looked back at Ana Felicia.
“There’s a Consulate. They have flags.”
Orest was nodding slowly. “Then, Dear Second, you must play the role of saboteur before revolutionary.”
Augie did not know the word.
“Put down your edict! In your mother tongue.”
Ana Felicia wrote at the bar on the back of a menu. Augie put on a green canvas jacket over his t-shirt. A flare gun
was buttoned into its side. A bullhorn was taped to his back. Musgrove gave him a grey balaclava. Orest merely took a
260
long curtain rod from the window, leaving a vinegar-soaked blouse on
the floor.
Ana Felicia took her menu and folded it. Then she took the bottle
of mescal and walked to Orest. He looked at her through his one eye
and she slipped the note into his vest and the bottle into his rifle frock.
She closed his coat and then put her gas mask in his red right
hand.
“I’ll give you your tower.”
“Just be careful.”
Orest pulled the mask over his face. Then put on his half Stetson.
Musgrove and Augie carried Ginevra up the stairway. They searched for
a place to secure the curtain rod. Musgrove opened the seat to reveal
an unused helmet. Its finish gleamed next to the battered exterior of
Ginevra.
“You had a helmet this whole time?”
Orest handed it to Augie. “One of us can breathe, the other can
have a head.”
Augie didn’t smile. He put the helmet on over the balaclava.
Orest swung his leg over Ginevra. Augie did the same.
Musgrove hit Augie’s helmet. “Six blocks that way. On your right.
You’ll see the gate.”
He took a step to Orest’s ear, but Orest’s heel hit and Ginevra
started at once. Then Orest began. Musgrove scrambled to get his
camera in time to shoot their departure.
The streets were empty. Ginevra’s engine rang out in the quiet.
Augie could see some faces appearing in the dark windows. Orest
slowed at a red light, but did not stop; his boot did not come down.
Augie could see a small building with lights on. “There.” He
pointed over Orest’s shoulder.
As they approached, they saw that the yellow building was spraypainted with red. The hand was rushed and Augie could not read it.
Orest stopped. The flagpoles were bare.
“They’ve taken them down.”
“They’re trying to conceal their nest.”
They could hear the thump of boots behind them. Orest turned.
A formation marched. They filled the boulevard, their shields
overlapping like scales. They had no faces, just the dead glaze of their
visors. They had no flesh, only the black of vinyl and metal.
Orest put Ginevra into gear and fled. They could hear the groan
of machines overtop of the buildings. Then the chime of breaking glass.
And then hoarse cries.
Another formation of soldiers spread down another street, their
shields on their backs like plates of a shell, batons overhead.
Orest turned again, letting his speed climb as fast as he could.
A barricade fence on long bars, like the legs of a spider, cut the
street. Again Orest stopped and turned around. They were met by a fire
that burned from a parked car and up the side of a building. Its balcony
was engulfed.
“Dear Augie, every path is smothered. There’s nothing to do but
return to the University.”
For a moment, Augie thought that Orest meant Alcott. Then
Orest took his curtain rod and pointed it from under his arm like a
lance.
And Augie knew that, even through his respirator, Orest tasted
war.
92.
Orest rushed the gate. Some soldiers were still chaining the barricade when they saw Orest and Augie. One drew his
gun; the other did not have enough time. Ginevra bounced onto the sidewalk and past their line in a moment. Augie
watched one soldier bark at the other as they shrank.
The soldiers were unprepared for the breach and most were sipping coffee in unbuckled Kevlar, their helmets in
their hands. Orest wove through them without reducing his speed. Then, suddenly, there were none.
Orest slowed Ginevra enough to shout over her with his weakened voice. “Messenger! Tell them who comes!”
Augie stripped the bullhorn from his back. He put it to his mouth while Orest hurled them again.
“We are Americans! We are from the United States! You should not try to kill us!”
The riot police sprinted to build their tactical lines. Orest took Augie’s horn.
“People of Oaxaca! Come out and fight! Come take your tower and let everyone in the state join us!”
Orest put the bullhorn into Augie’s chest and accelerated into a sharp turn. Augie tried to hold Orest and lost
his grip. The horn fell into their wake. Ginevra reared with speed and Augie clawed Orest to stay on.
They came to the avenue. At its end, the University stood in darkness. A column of shield and boot slowly oozed
up the path. Between them, a line of women held hands. Orest stopped. Augie could feel Orest’s heart in his chest.
Then, behind the echelon of guns, the moan of the machines grew. The first appeared with the lumber of a giant.
It was elephant grey, with a low shovel at its front. It was wide and moved like a molar. Its windows were tiny, black
slits. Its amour was riveted seemingly everywhere. Then another. Then another.
263
The women held as the soldiers slid closer. They had long black
hair. They wore stained jeans. They had no masks. And they did not
brace as the first club bashed a woman in the forehead.
The string broke in the assault. The women put their arms over
their faces. Then the batons found their ribs. Orest reached into his
frock. Augie arrested his hand.
Augie noticed a boy on his knees in the alley. He was perfectly
still. Augie thought that the boy was praying. Then he vaulted onto his
feet and ran into the street, a bottle burning in his hand.
The boy leapt into his throw and the bomb sailed over the women
and into the ranks beyond them. It spread like water on the asphalt,
then burned. The soldiers ran, abandoning the front line. Then men
and boys began to gather, hurling stones and bombs. One broke on
the top of one of the grey trucks, harmlessly burning up as it began to
move forward, as though awakened.
Orest turned into the battle and flew toward the protestors. They
aimed at him, then lowered their hands. They could tell he was one of
them. He threaded through the fire and bodies and toward the campus.
The ruffle of the cloth wicks of the petrol bombs came though the
whistle of the tear gas canisters. Rubber bullets thudded fenders and
cracked glass.
Orest sped through the crushed marigold and through two
cement blocks that were dragged apart. Then Augie could hear a great
hiss behind them. It rumbled over the crowds and struck him in the
back like fists. The water forced his cheek into Orest’s shoulder blade.
They were thrown the length of the cannon spray.
Orest felt Ginevra was no longer beneath him. Augie’s arm
vanished from his waist. He did not know if he was spinning or
perfectly still.
His mask shattered.
93.
Orrie knelt in his pew. He put his jaw on his knuckles. Then, he watched his mother genuflect without letting her black
dress raise. She slid in beside his father at the aisle.
Orrie felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked and saw Mr. O’Malley in the row behind him. His daughter looking
down, she wore the skirt she’d worn to her brother’s funeral. Orrie didn’t respond. He simply turned away.
Father Clutterbuck was at the lectern; the casket was behind the altar. There would be several masses today;
Father Clutterbuck would say them all. The hymn numbers on the board would not change. He would read the same
psalms. In the same voice.
Orrie did not listen. He watched his mother. She did not weep. His father did not lash out. They seemed lulled
by the drone of the priest. The routine of the ceremony. The boredom of the ritual.
On the wall, a large crucifix was hanged. He’d never sat so close before; the first pew was kept for altar boys and
those who helped dispense the Eucharist. Today it was held for him. He could see the detail for the first time. The
brackets that fastened the cross to the wall. The blood that ran from the thorns, the nails, and finally his side. He could
see the sinew of his body. The sculptor put sweat on his cheek. Painted a tear on the brink of his eye. Orrie thought it
was a beautiful death. Maybe Jacob’s was as good. And that someone should dust the webs from behind it.
Then he looked to the priest. And his double chin beneath the cruet.
But it did not matter. Orrie searched the room over and over. The faces of the mass all watched him as he
did. They searched for ache in his face. They expected his temper. They assumed a spectacle. But he only looked for
265
Ginevra. If she came, he would ask her. If he could see her, he would
ask her today.
Orest stood, his heel deep in the soaked grass. A peal sang in his
ears. His lenses were cracked and sizes and shapes were all confused
through the shards. His moustache was limp with breath. And he
tasted only blood.
Shouting rode the fog of gas overhead. His eyes and throat burned
as it seeped into his mask. Pulses of light came, addling his thoughts.
He could not raise his arm. He could not step.
A hand came to his shoulder. It pulled, but Orest did not move.
Orest dropped to a knee.
“Professor, let’s go!”
Orest looked but did not answer.
“Professor!” Augie pulled his mask down. His eyes streamed. The
back of his hand was wet with cuts. His helmet was white with scrape.
Orest put out his glove.
“The tower.”
Augie tried to find Orest’s eyes through the broken lenses. Orest
saw Augie’s face change through the web of impacts. His voice lifted.
“Yeah, we did it, don’t you remember?”
Orest did not answer.
“We got there; we got the tower. Now we’re running. We have to
go.”
Orest did not move.
“Professor, we’re finished. The radio tower is broadcasting.”
Orest knew that Augie was lying. But he had doubted him too
many times. He refused to do it again.
“Professor, please.”
There was screaming through the fields. Voices passed Orest.
Then the hand left his arm. He was alone.
Orest pulled off his mask. The acid in the air was gone. The gas
was everywhere, but it did not sting him. The smashed mescal bottle
dripped on his boot from his coat.
Then he turned and took a step up the hill. He began his limp.
But soon he stopped and listened.
The beat of hooves came from behind him. Orest turned and
the red eyes cut through the fog. Orest sank into a crouch. The gallop
rose into a thunder. Orest drew his pistol; it had no weight. A shadow
spread black in the wafting grey, its gait quaking as it charged. Orest
steadied his elbow on his knee. The hound broke from the other side of
the abyss. He pulled the hammer.
“Cadejo.”
He aimed into the mouth of the beast. Its fangs swelled from
its black gums, while its throat rattled. It became massive as it strode
toward him. Its eyes never leaving him. Its wet snarl rising. Steam from
its muzzle and back.
Orest did not look away.
He pulled his trigger. A crackle came through the gas. Then
another. Then another. And Orest gave up to the wolf.
He could see something in the mist. A giant walked. It was too large
and it was obscured past the shoulders in the brume. But its shin made
it red with his glow. In his lap he held Ginevra. She was draped in a
veil like an abbess. And she wore eyelet sleeves like on the dress she had
worn to the church that day.
She wept as the hand fed her a heart. Then, in a step, they
vanished.
The hound sniffed and followed.
94.
The dogs pulled at sleeves and cuffs. They tore hands as they dragged. Then mauled where they gathered on the fallen.
Augie ran through the battered lawns of the campus. Soldiers scrambled out of formations. Hoses swept,
drenching the earth, pummeling legs. More fires were built of debris and tires. A tear gas can rolled along the stones
of the courtyard past Augie’s back foot. A girl scooped it into her hand before it stopped and threw it back into the
darkness.
Augie could not see. The fumes stung like salt. Still he could hear the bark of the dogs behind him. He ran with
new speed. He tried not to breathe through the exertion. He crashed into others. Men shrieked at him in Spanish, but
he could not understand. He tripped upon the legs of man on the ground. He opened his eyes. The man bled from his
mouth; a girl doused his eyes in milk.
A floodlight swung through the courtyard, then a wind strong enough to strip the vapor away. Augie could see
and looked up through his tears. A helicopter lowered, a gunman at its door.
Stones flew. Then bombs of petrol and oil. Augie tried to run; the floodlight had lit a path. He sprinted again.
A man tried to rinse his face in the fountain, thumbing his eyes each time he came up for a breath. Over him, at
the center of the courtyard, a statue stood. His collar was like Orest’s.
Augie ran past him to a great staircase. It was wide, then tapered like an hourglass, then opened again. It was once
white, but was now grey with time. Its ornate detail threw delicate shadows from the light of the pyres. Augie climbed
it.
268
He came to a balcony of archways. They looped elegantly. He
leaned forward on the rail and tried to take the clean air. He pulled his
quartz from his pocket and pressed it in his hand.
He screeched as the cudgel broke his wrist.
He fell forward, nearly over the railing. He swung around and a
baton struck his collarbone. He fell to the floor. He scurried and got his
back against a pillar. The blows came to his knees. Then to his side. He
put his good hand up to stop the strikes to his head. A finger snapped.
Augie put his hand into his jacket, letting the baton hit his face.
He was dizzy as he aimed his pistol. The soldier froze. Augie could see
no face beyond the mask. He aimed for the heart.
The gun popped and a flash of spark and powder blinded him.
Two flares hit the soldier’s chest and reversed through the archway and
over the courtyard. The impact did not move the soldier, but he was
startled enough to take two steps backwards into the wide staircase. He
toppled violently, until he lay motionless at the foot of the stairs.
Augie looked after the flares through the balusters. They spiraled
over the university, throwing white below them. Augie saw that the
courtyard was empty but for the injured. The gases had faded. The
soldiers were not there.
At the end of the boulevard a line of soldiers fought, only they
faced the other way. As the flare overtook them, Augie could see that a
true legion had grown behind them. Thousands surged, breaking the
ranks of the soldiers at will, some still dressed as skeletons.
The campus was filled. Cheers came from split lips. Wounds were
cleansed with tequila. A girl set Augie’s arm in a sling from his t-shirt,
then kissed his mouth as she left him. He covered his shoulders with
his jacket, his replica pistol in his belt, unused.
He searched the grass and soon found Orest. He was surrounded
by a silent crowd. They were young; they might have been students.
Augie fought his way through the circle.
Orest lay on his back, his half Stetson crushed at his shoulder, his
cup and chain strewn from his chest to his hip. There was a bullet in
his jaw. His moustache was undisturbed.
Augie put a hand on his, then opened his rifle frock. The menu
was soaked in blood.
And he left the Blackmore letter, its seal held.
95.
“Now, try to use his first name as much as possible. I know that in several interviews you’ve been saying things like,
‘Godwin’s activism was always a part of his work with the College’ and ‘Godwin always had the freedom to impress his
views on his students.’ It comes off sort of imperative. Try saying ‘Orest’s activism’ and ‘Orest’s freedom to express.’”
The Provost made a note and then looked up across his desk to the woman on the other side. Her suit was
tailored and her makeup impeccable. She continued. “Now, there’s no chance at getting Prichard to speak tomorrow?”
“No. I’m not even sure if he’s attending. He’s been home a month and Christmas break starts after the memorial.
His roommate, Isaac, told us he hasn’t been back at all.”
“That’s a shame. We’d get a lot more coverage if he would.”
“I’ve asked already. It’s all that I can do.”
“What about Miss Zawalski?” The woman consulted the name from her notes.
Levanthal lifted his hand from his ledger. “She wasn’t actively in tears last we spoke. I think she’ll give a reading
if she can keep herself together.”
“Good, good. Did you make those images available online? We don’t want people reprinting that awful
photograph from Mexico.”
“Yes, we have a series, if you want to look them over.”
“Honestly, just put them up. That skull and hat make him look like a rider of the apocalypse.”
Levanthal laughed; the woman wrote again. “All right, well, I think we’re in good shape, Arthur.”
270
“So do I. When do you go back to Los Angeles?”
“After the memorial.”
“So, you’re attending?”
“Of course. Part of the job.”
Levanthal smiled.
“Then from L.A. we can start on the next steps.”
“God, I’m dreading that.”
“Why?”
“I’ve already got letters from his old agent fighting for his notes,
which his will says to destroy with everything else in his estate. Then
some colleague of his, maybe even older than Godwin, is calling saying
he’s his biographer.”
The publicist laughed. “A little bit of fame brings them all out of
the woodwork.”
It was after midnight. A chill had come. The Provost tightened a scarf
around his neck. He crossed King’s Circle, then stopped. A shadow
stood at the edge of Orest’s yard. He leaned on the iron fence. Then,
after some time, he opened it and started along the footpath. Levanthal
watched, then began up the street past the teahouse.
The windows on the second floor were boarded. Strings of lights
snaked through the spires of the Beverly gate. On the porch, candles in
jars, cups, and in the neck of rye bottles burned. More lights dangled
from the awning. The man set his elbow on the bannister and stared.
He didn’t look as the Provost joined him at the steps.
Marigolds and roses fought the frost. Above them, a newspaper
article was taped to the parlor window. A dotted image of Orest took
up the page. He was on the back of Ginevra, Augie behind him. His
mask seemed otherworldly. And his cape spread.
The Provost pulled the boutonniere from his lapel and tucked it
among the others. Then he blew out the nearest candle of the vigil.
“Leave it.”
The Provost turned to the man on the step. He did not know
him.
His lip was cloven.
AC K N O W L E D G E MEN TS.
Special thanks to Philip Irwin, who helped write this story with me in bars for a year, Gayna Theophilus, who told me
to write books, and Almighty God, without whom no case gets tossed.
Steven Garbas is the editor of Satellite, an architecture and politics
magazine based in New York City. Orest and August is his debut novel.
CCLaP
Publishing
Daring writers. Exquisite books.
cclapcenter.com/publishing

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