I cross the Old Bridge southward, then the West Bridge northward. I see smoke rising from beyond the Wall. Intermittent white swatches at first, gradually thickening into the dark billowing gray masses that burning corpses make. The Gatekeeper is in the Apple Grove. I hurry toward the Gatehouse. Everything holds its breath, all the sounds of the Town are lost under the snow. The spikes of my snow boots crunch into the newfallen powder with a disproportionately large sound.
The Gatehouse is deserted. The stove is extinguished, but it is still warm. Dirty plates litter the table. The Gatekeeper’s pipe is lying there as well. It seems that at any moment he will appear and place a giant hand on my shoulder. The rows of blades, the kettle, his smell, everything undermines my confidence.
I carefully lift the keys from their wall hook and steal out the back door to the Shadow Grounds. There is not a footprint to be seen. A sheet of white extends to the one lone dark vertical of the elm tree in the center. It is too perfect, too inviolate. The snow is graced with waves written by the wind, the elm raises crooked arms in sleeves of white. Nothing moves. The snow has stopped, this whisper in the air but the afterthought of a breeze. Now is the moment I defile this peaceful but brief eternity.
There is no turning back. I take out the keys and try all four in order; none fits. A cold sweat seeps from my armpits. I summon an image of the Gatekeeper opening this iron gate. It was these four keys, there can be no mistake. I remember counting them. One of them must be the right key.
I put the keys into my pocket to warm them by hand; then I try again. This time, the third key goes in all the way and turns with a loud dry clank. The metallic sound echoes across the deserted enclosure, loud enough to alert everyone in the Town. I look nervously around me. There is no sign of anyone. I ease the heavy gate open and squeeze through, quietly closing it behind me.
The snow in the enclosure is soft and deep. My feet advance across the enclosure, past the bench. The branches of the elm look down with menace. From somewhere far off comes the sharp cry of a bird.
The air in the lean-to is even more chill than out. I open the trapdoor and descend the ladder to the cellar.
My shadow sits on his cot waiting for me.
“I thought you’d never come,” say his white puffs of breath.
“I promised, did I not?” I say. “We need to get out of here, quick. The smell in here is overpowering.”
“I can’t climb the ladder,” sighs the shadow. “I tried just now, but couldn’t. I seem to be in worse shape than I thought. Ironic, isn’t it? Pretending to be weak all this time, I didn’t even notice myself actually getting weaker. Last night’s frost really got to my bones.”
“I’ll help you up.”
My shadow shakes his head. “It won’t do any good. I can’t run. My legs will never make the escape. It’s the end of me.”
“You started this. You can’t bow out now,” I say. “If I have to carry you on my back, I will get you out of here.”
My shadow looks up with sunken eyes. “If you feel that strong, then of course I am with you,” says he. “It won’t be easy carrying me through the snow, though.”
“I never thought this plan would be otherwise.”
I pull my exhausted shadow up the ladder, then lend a shoulder to walk him across the enclosure. The dark heights of the Wall look down on our two fleeing figures. The branches of the elm drop their heavy load of snow and spring back.
“My legs are almost dead,” says my shadow. “I exercised so they wouldn’t wither from my being prone all the time, but the room was so cramped.”
I lead my shadow out of the enclosure and lock the gate. If all goes well, the Gatekeeper will not notice we have escaped.
“Where to from here?” I ask.
“The Southern Pool,” the shadow says.
“The Southern Pool?”
“Yes. We escape by diving in.”
“That’s suicide. The undertow is powerful. We’ll be sucked under and drowned.”
My shadow shakes and coughs. “Maybe. But that’s the only possible exit. I’ve considered everything; you’ll have to believe me. I’m staking my life on it. I’ll tell you the details along the way. The Gatekeeper’s going to be coming back in another hour, and the ox is sure to give chase. We have no time to waste.”
There is no one in sight. There are but two sets of footprints—my own approaching the Gatehouse and those of the Gatekeeper leaving. There are also the ruts left by the wheels of the cart. I hoist my shadow onto my back. Although he has lost most of his weight, his burden will not be light. It is a long way to the Western and Southern Hills. I have grown used to living free of a shadow, and I no longer know if I can bear the umbrage.
We head east on the snowbound roads. Besides my own earlier footprints, there are only the wayward tracks of the beasts. Over my shoulder, the thick gray crematory smoke rises beyond the Wall, a malevolent tower whose apex is lost in the clouds. The Gatekeeper is burning many, many carcasses. The blizzard last night has killed scores of beasts. The time it will take to burn them all will grant us distance. I am grateful to the beasts for their tacit conspiracy.
The snow packs into the spikes of my boots. It hinders my every step, causing me to slip. Why did I not look for a sleigh of some kind? Such a conveyance must exist in the Town. We have already reached the West Bridge, however, and cannot afford to go back. I am sweating from the difficult trek.
“Your footprints give us away,” says my shadow, casting a backward glance. I imagine the Gatekeeper on our trail, all muscle and no one to carry, charging over the snow. We must flee as far as we can before he returns to the Gatehouse.
I think of her, who waits for me in the Library. Accordion on the table, coals aglow, coffeepot steaming. I feel her long hair brush my cheek, her fingers resting on my shoulder. I cannot allow my shadow to perish here, cannot allow the Gatekeeper to throw him back into the cellar to die. I must press onward, onward, while the gray smoke still rises beyond the Wall.
We pass many beasts on our journey. They roam in vain search for such meager sustenance as remains under the snow. Their limpid blue eyes follow our struggle. Do they understand what our actions portend?
We start up the Hill. I am out of breath. I myself have been without exercise. My panting forces out white and hot into yet new flurries of snow.
“Do you want to rest?” asks my shadow from over my shoulder.
“Just five minutes, please.”
“Of course, it’s all right. It’s my fault for not being able to walk. I’ve forced everything on you.”
“But it is for my own good, too. Is it not?”
“You must never doubt that.”
I let my shadow down. I am so overheated, I cannot even feel the cold. But from thigh to toe, my legs are stone.
“And yet,” muses my shadow, “if I had said nothing to you and quietly died, you would have been happy. In your own way.”
“Maybe so,” I say. “But I am not sorry to know. I needed to know.”
The shadow scoops up a loose handful of snow and lets it crumble.
“At first, it was only intuition that told me the Town had an exit,” he says. “For the very reason that the perfection of the Town must include all possibilities. Therefore, if an exit is our wish, an exit is what we get. Do you follow me?”
“Yes. I came to understand that yesterday. That here there is everything and here there is nothing.”
My shadow gives me a firm, knowing look. The flurries are picking up. Another blizzard is moving in.
“If there has to be a way out, it can be found by process of elimination,” he continued. “We can count out the Gate, where the Gatekeeper would be sure to catch us. Besides, the Gate is the first place anyone would think to escape from; the Town would not allow an exit so obvious. The Wall is impossible to scale. The East Gate is bricked up, and it turns out there is an iron grating where the River enters. That leaves only the Southern Pool. We will escape where the River e
scapes.”
“How can you be sure about that?”
“I just know. Only the Southern Pool is left unguarded, untouched. There is no fence, no need for a fence. They’ve surrounded the place with fear.”
“When did you realize that?”
“The first time I saw the River. I went to the West Bridge with the Gatekeeper. I looked down at the water. The River was full of life. I could feel this. There is nothing bad about it. I believe that if we give ourselves over to the water, the flow of the River will lead us out. Out of the Town and back to a real world. You must trust me.”
“What you say does make sense,” I respond. “The River connects with whatever is out there, with our former world. Lately, I don’t know why, I am starting to remember things about that world. Little things. The air, the sounds, the light. I am reawakened by songs.”
“It’s not the best of all worlds,” says my shadow. “I make no promises, but it is the world where we belong. There will be good and bad. There will be neither good nor bad. It is where you were born and where you will live and where you will die. And when you die, I too will die. It’s the natural course of things.”
We look out upon the Town. The Clocktower, the River, the Bridges, the Wall, and smoke. All is drawn under a vast snow-flecked sky, an enormous cascade falling over the End of the World.
“We should be moving,” says my shadow. “The way the snow is coming down, the Gatekeeper may have to stop and return early.”
I stand up, brushing the snow from the brim of my hat.
39
Popcorn, Lord Jim, Extinction
EN ROUTE to the park, we stopped by a convenience store to buy some beer. I asked her preference, and she said any brand that had a head and tasted like beer.
I had money to spare, but Miller High Life was the only import I could find.
The autumn sky was as clear as if it had been made that very morning. Perfect Duke Ellington weather. Though, of course, Duke Ellington would be right even for New Year’s Eve at an Antarctic base. I drove along, whistling to Lawrence Brown’s trombone solo on Do Nothin’ Till You Hear from Me, followed by Johnny Hodges on Sophisticated Lady.
Pulling to a stop alongside Hibiya Park, we got out of the car and lay on the grass with our six-pack. The Monday morning park was as deserted as the deck of an aircraft carrier after all the planes had flown.
“Not a cloud,” I said.
“There’s one,” she said, pointing to a cotton puff above Hibiya Hall.
“Hardly counts,” I said.
She shaded her eyes with her hand to take a better look. “Well, I guess not. Probably should throw it back.”
We watched the cloudlet for a while. I opened a second can of beer.
“Why’d you get divorced?” she asked.
“Because she never let me sit by the window on trips.”
She laughed. “Really, why?”
“Quite simple, actually. Five or six summers ago, she up and left. Never came back.”
“And you didn’t see her again?”
“Nope,” I said, then took a good swig of beer. “No special reason to.”
“Marriage was that hard?”
“Married life was great,” I said. “But that’s never really the question, is it? Two people can sleep in the same bed and still be alone when they close their eyes, if you know what I mean.”
“Uh-huh, I believe so.”
“As a whole, humanity doesn’t lend itself to generalizations. But as I see it, there are two types of people: the comprehensive-vision type and the limited-perspective type. Me, I seem to be the latter. Not that I ever had much problem justifying my limits. A person has to draw lines somewhere.”
“But most people who think that way keep pushing their limits, don’t they?”
“Not me. There’s no reason why everyone has to listen to records in hi-fi. Having the violins on the left and the bass on the right doesn’t make the music more profound. It’s just a more complex way of stimulating a bored imagination.”
“Aren’t you being a tad dogmatic?”
“Exactly what she said.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes. ‘Clear-headed, but inflexible.’ Her exact words. Another beer?”
“Please,” she said.
I pulled the ring on a can of Miller and handed it to her.
“But how do you see you?” she asked.
“Ever read The Brothers Karamazov?” I asked.
“Once, a long time ago.”
“Well, toward the end, Alyosha is speaking to a young student named Kolya Krasotkin. And he says, Kolya, you’re going to have a miserable future. But overall, you’ll have a happy life.”
Two beers down, I hesitated before opening my third.
“When I first read that, I didn’t know what Alyosha meant,” I said. “How was it possible for a life of misery to be happy overall? But then I understood, that misery could be limited to the future.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “Not yet.”
She laughed and stood up, brushing the grass from her slacks. “I’ll be going. It’s almost time anyway.”
I looked at my watch. Ten-twenty-two.
“I’ll drive you home,” I said.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got some shopping to do. I’ll catch the subway back. Better that way, I think.”
“I’m going to hang around a bit longer. It’s so nice here.”
“Thanks for the nail clippers.”
“My pleasure.”
“Give me a call when you get back, will you?”
“I’ll go to the library,” I said. “I like to check out people at work.”
“Until then,” she said.
* * *
I watched her walk straight out of the park like Joseph Cotten in The Third Man. After she’d vanished into the shade of the trees, I turned my gaze to a smartly dressed woman and her daughter throwing popcorn onto the grass, pigeons flying toward them. The little girl, three or four years old, raised both hands and ran after the birds. Needless to say, she didn’t catch any. Pigeons are survivors by their own pigeonness. Only once did the fashionable young mother glance in my direction. It took her no time to decide that she wanted nothing to do with anyone lying around with five empty beer cans on a Monday morning.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the names of the Karamazov brothers. Mitya, Ivan, and Alyosha—and then there was the bastard Smerdyakov. How many people in Tokyo knew the names of all these guys?
I gazed up at the sky. I was in a tiny boat, on a vast ocean. No wind, no waves, just me floating there. Adrift on the open sea. Lord Jim, the shipwreck scene.
The sky was deep and brilliant, a fixed idea beyond human doubt. From my position on the ground, the sky seemed the logical culmination of all existence. The same with the sea. If you look at the sea for days, the sea is all there is. Quoth Joseph Conrad. A tiny boat cut loose from the fiction of the ship. Aimless, inescapable, inevitable.
So much for literature. I drank the last can of beer and smoked a cigarette. I had to think of more practical matters. There was little over an hour left.
I carried the empty cans to the trash. Then I took out my credit cards and lit them with a match. I watched the plastic curl, sputter, and turn black. It was so gratifying to burn my credit cards that I thought of burning my Paul Stuart tie as well. But then I had second thoughts. The well-dressed young mother was staring at me.
I went to the kiosk and bought ten bags of popcorn. I scattered nine on the ground for the pigeons, and sat on a bench to eat the last bag myself. Enough pigeons descended upon the popcorn for a remake of the October Revolution. It had been ages since I’d last eaten popcorn. It tasted good.
The fashionable mother and her little girl were at a fountain now. For some reason, they reminded me of my long-gone classmate, the girl who married the revolutionary, had two children, disappeared. She c
ould never bring her kids to the park. Granted, she may have had her own feelings about this, but my own vanishing act made me feel sad for her. Maybe—very likely—she would deny that we shared anything at all in common. In taking leave of life, she’d quit her life of her own will; I’d had the sheets pulled out from under me in my sleep.
She’d probably give me a piece of her mind. What the hell have you ever chosen? she’d say. And she’d be right. I’d never decided to do a single thing of my own free will. The only things I’d chosen to do were to forgive the Professor and not to sleep with his grandaughter. And what was that to me? Did my existence offer anything against its own extinction?
There was almost nothing left in frame at this point. Wide shot: pigeons, fountain, mother and child. I didn’t want to leave this scene. I didn’t care which world was coming next. I don’t know why I felt this, but how could I just walk out on life? It didn’t seem like the responsible thing to do.
Even if no one would miss me, even if I left no blank space in anyone’s life, even if no one noticed, I couldn’t leave willingly. Loss was not a skill, not a measure of a life. And yet I still felt I had something to lose.
I closed my eyes, I felt a ripple run through my mind. The wave went beyond sadness or solitude; it was a great, deep moan that resonated in my bones. It would not subside. I braced myself, elbows against the backrest of the park bench. No one could help me, no more than I could help anyone else.
I wanted a smoke, but I couldn’t find my cigarettes. Only matches in my pocket and only three left at that. I lit them one after another and tossed them to the ground.
I closed my eyes again. The moaning had stopped. My head was empty of everything but a drifting dust of silence. Neither rising nor sinking, motion without dimension. I blew a puff of air; the dust did not disperse. A driving wind could not blow it away.
I thought about my librarian. About her velvet dress and stockings and slip on the carpet. Had I done the right thing by not telling her? Maybe not. Who on earth wanted the right thing anyway? Yet what meaning could there be if nothing was right? If nothing was fair?
Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World Page 36