“You never took advantage of a girl before?”
“No, I meant I never loved one before. But it was just one mistake.”
“It may have been one mistake, but it had multiple consequences, so it really was probably more than one mistake.”
“What do you mean?” I blurted.
“You want me to rattle them all off? OK. You lied to me about living here. You lied about loving me. You deserted me in my hour of need, and as a result I panicked and did the last thing in the world I ever wanted to do, which has scarred me for the rest of my life. Does that answer your question sufficiently?”
“It’s scarred me, too. I did lie about living in London and I did panic about calling you that day because I didn’t want you to find out that I couldn’t stay in London, but I didn’t lie about loving you.” Then I told her she was the only person in the world I did love or would ever want to have a child with, realizing after I said it that it was true.
“It’s too late, Gerry. It’s much too late.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I protested.
“I’m sorry. I’ve made mistakes in this, too. Many mistakes. I forgive you for yours and I wish you well, but please respect what I need and don’t call me again. Goodbye, Gerry,” she said in a tone just ambiguous enough to allow me to rationalize calling her again. In fact, I called her five more times in the next month. In each case I drank first, the last time quite a bit. Her response was always the same, except she ended the last call more quickly than she had the others, and yet enough of her normal self emerged in each conversation to make me yearn for her and to realize more acutely each time the immensity of my mistake.
There was only one thing left to do: go to London (without telling her) and propose to her. It would be difficult to arrange at my job and might get me fired, but I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even tell Phil about it, knowing what he’d say anyway.
I remember that I didn’t say a word to anyone during the flight and barely looked out the window. I didn’t read or watch either of the in-flight movies. I simply thought or, more accurately, let my mind run where it would. I did take three short naps. The first nap was dreamless, but in the next one I dreamed about making love to Paulette in my St. Louis apartment. She was trying to get pregnant and in the dream we somehow knew she had. That dream seemed straightforward enough to me, but it was followed by one during my last nap that was much more mysterious, in which I dreamed I was playing hide-and-seek with my father. It began in the country, or at least on land more rustic than the neighborhood I grew up in near St. Louis. We were laughing as I ran after him, but soon he was out of sight. I was running by myself, occasionally calling out his name, but now in a different setting, where it was twilight by a lake. I was feeling anxious as I turned a corner and saw a cave. Still, I ran into it calling his name. The cave seemed to expand as I ran through it, as if it were made of elastic. I ducked my head, crossed another dark passageway then saw him suddenly, in an illuminated corner. He was smiling as I ran to him. When we hugged, I seemed to disappear into him. He was left standing alone, yet I was happy to have merged with him.
I woke up amazed by my dream. In ten minutes we’d be landing at Heathrow. I remember I spent almost no time at all in my hotel, stopping only to brush or wash a few key places. Then I was out in the London dusk, where it was chilly and purplish gray. I had only her face in my mind as I set off toward her apartment. I remember passing by the street where we first met, then past the pub where we went shortly after meeting, and then, like a stop on a tour, the Japanese restaurant where I took her to dinner on Queensway Road. I’d retraced in my mind the route we took so many times (even before I made the decision to go back to London) that I wasn’t surprised that I only made one minor mistake before finding her place.
Except that it wasn’t her place. She didn’t answer her buzzer, which I tried intermittently for ten minutes or so. Finally someone asked me who I wished to see? It was a clear-eyed, dowdily dressed woman of fifty who identified herself as the building’s manager.
“Paulette,” I said. “I came to see Paulette.”
“She moved out, I’m afraid.”
“What?”
“Yes, she cleared out two weeks ago.”
I looked at the buzzer and saw the name card had been replaced by that of a man (a man whose face I still sketchily recall, as I hung around after the landlady left, eventually knocked on the door, and looked into his uncomprehending eyes when he answered that he didn’t know anyone named Paulette).
“Do you know where? Did she leave any forwarding address?” I asked the landlady.
She shook her head like a metronome. “I remember she said she was leaving London. I think she said she was going out of the country or maybe she said to the country. I really couldn’t say. Out of London for sure, with no forwarding address, I’m afraid.”
Of course I tried the operator, but there was no listing for her in London or in a number of other towns I tried. It was years before the Internet, when you couldn’t track people down and you had to rely instead on your memory and its infinite limitations.
It was, of course, obvious that she didn’t want to see or hear from me again. There was no ambiguity now. Everything she said and did was honest and sincere. That was the shocking beauty of it. I paid a lot of extra money to leave London the next day.
The old men in the pool are making noises—new, disturbingly high-pitched noises, like a cross between a violin and the whirring of mosquitoes. Maybe it’s because it’s raining now, and one can even hear some distant rumblings of thunder. In any case I start moving toward the hot tub, where Grandfather Pool has staked out his temporary home. Sitting there in the steamy part of the pool, his face seems slightly out of focus, as if I’m seeing it underwater. But I move toward it nonetheless, preferring the threat of his conversation to the reality of those weird, high-pitched noises from the old men in the kids’ pool.
There are certain people you never recover completely from losing, and Paulette was one of mine. My father, of course, was another. Or maybe it’s life itself we spend all our time trying to adapt to or recover from. And yet we do recover, partially, at least, as most of us choose to go on. Eventually I laughed again. I made progress in my work that brought me some satisfaction. I aged reasonably well. In time I went on to new women, a couple of whom even lived with me for a year or so. But it’s also true I never got married or had a child, though these last few years I often find myself wishing I had. Those of us who can’t love adults in a lasting way often turn toward children for their solace, and I wish now that I had acted on this tardy knowledge earlier. I think that even my father felt something like that in his decision to have a child, although I can’t be sure.
I’ve entered the tub now where men shut their eyes to forget their lives for a while. I’m sitting opposite Grandfather Pool, wondering if he still remembers my father, when he used to come here with me. In the dreamlike light of the pool, whose windows seem to turn the sunlight gray, I can almost see my father’s face in his. I wouldn’t mind if he talked now, but Grandfather Pool is being as quiet as an angel. Perhaps there’ll be no old-man talk today, after all, though I wouldn’t really mind if there were. No, I really wouldn’t mind that at all.
Memo and Oblivion
Although he was now taking Memo on a regular basis it was sometimes hard to remember the moment when he’d decided to become a member. He did remember how he’d first learned about it. It was through an ad in a literary quarterly, of all places, called The Galaxy Review. “Is Your Memory a Fiction?” the headline of the ad said, which both amused and intrigued him, as if memory were somehow a literary concept. He also remembered much more clearly, of course, since he’d been taking Memo, being late for the first meeting and taking a cab to get there, as he would again tonight. The organization’s headquarters were on the third floor of a handsome brownstone on Beekman Place, near the East River. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the spacious build
ing the first time he saw it, but he was also disconcerted by the slightly disapproving stares of the initiates as he hunted for a seat.
“Excuse me, Sir,” said Dr. Rossi, from the podium, a tall, extraordinarily pale-skinned man. “Are you Andrew Zorn?”
“Yes, I am. I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Zorn. We’re about to embark on a great adventure and there isn’t a moment to lose.” Dr. Rossi had waited a moment then extended his arms in his black suit like the wings of a giant black bird. “Welcome co-pioneers,” he’d said, addressing the audience of about fifty. “Project Memo is indeed a great adventure as well as a unique one. It’s an adventure that’s grounded in firm science, but also promises to take us closer to the metaphysical center of things than man may ever have been before. In exchange for this adventure, this great gift, we ask only three things of you. The first is complete confidentiality, of course, which means not only absolutely no discussion about the project with anyone outside this room but also no recording or note taking. Once you fully experience Memo, taking notes will be a superfluous activity anyway. Second, we ask that you be punctual. We’re always here on time, so you should be too. Punctuality is a golden rule of the organization. (Andrew remembered with great clarity nodding to reemphasize his regret for his tardiness.) Third, if you ever feel any anxiety or doubt about what happens here we ask that you come to us first to discuss it. In other words, trust us in all things regarding the organization. Remember, we’re the only experts in this field, and we also have the assistance of first rate doctors and lawyers so we know how to help and protect you,” he added with a slight smile.
Yes, thought Andrew, as a taxi finally pulled up to take him to tonight’s meeting, he would never forget that introductory speech by Dr. Rossi—so forceful and reassuring. He got in the cab finally feeling relaxed enough that he decided he could take his last pill. At the meeting he’d get more, yet he always worried a bit that somehow he wouldn’t. The e-mail said this was an emergency meeting of all senior members, and Andrew couldn’t help but wonder if some serious new problem had arisen. But what could it be? He was almost afraid to speculate. Were there perhaps production problems with the supply that would cause the members to have to wait longer to get their next package of Memorosa? Or maybe a potentially deleterious side effect had been discovered? It was frightening to contemplate such undoubtedly farfetched scenarios, but he couldn’t completely stop doing it. He knew his memory had increased since he’d been taking Memo but so, oddly enough, had his anxiety.
He was a few minutes early (as was his practice since the fateful first meeting) and walked directly into the auditorium, sitting just a few rows from the stage. The organization had done such a seamless job converting the apartment they owned into a functioning auditorium, complete with stage, podium, and curtain, that it really did look like it had always been one. He took a seat, felt the Memo begin to hit, and found himself recalling in incredibly vivid detail the sled rides he’d taken with his brother twenty-five years ago down the alleyway just in front of his back yard. Tears came to his eyes when he saw again the bright blue “magic mittens” he used to wear with the hole on top of the index finger. He shook his head from side to side to expel the memory. Such an important meeting required the increased concentration and later the power of recall that Memo alone could give him. That’s why he’d taken it, after all, he said to himself in a chastising inner voice, not to once again indulge in his favorite sequence of memories when he was eight years old.
Turning his head, he suddenly realized that except for the guards, one posted at each door, there was no one else in the room. The stage was also empty. He felt another surge of memories threatening to inundate him, involving a day at the beach with his mother. This time he stared at the second hand of his watch to distract himself. Finally, at exactly 8 p.m., Dr. Rossi appeared at the podium dressed in his characteristic black suit.
“Good evening, Mr. Zorn,” he said, in a voice that, if it had a British accent, would sound like Alfred Hitchcock.
“Good evening, Dr. Rossi,” he said, quickly standing up.
“You’ve undoubtedly noticed that you’re the only member present tonight. This was by design, for security reasons. I hope you don’t feel in any way deceived.”
“No, not at all, Dr. Rossi,” he said, as earnestly as possible, although a part of him did feel slightly tricked. “I know you have your reasons,” Andrew added.
Dr. Rossi said nothing to that. His silences were every bit as effective as his theatrical gestures and well-modulated voice.
“We have a special project to discuss with you tonight,” Dr. Rossi continued. “Based on our research and general knowledge of you, we’ve selected you to help fulfill this project. Do you feel ready to begin?”
He could feel his heart beat, but also a sudden surge of pride that trumped his anxiety, at least for the moment.
“Yes, Dr. Rossi, I’m ready.”
“Excellent. We thought we could count on you. You’ll please follow the guards to the Special Projects room, where you’ll meet with an officer of the organization. Oh, and one more thing that should go without saying. You are not to discuss this private meeting with any of the other members. They don’t know about it, nor do we want them to. Is that clear, Andrew?”
“Yes, Dr. Rossi,” Andrew said, feeling both surprised and pleased to be called by his first name. “Completely clear.”
Moments later, burly, stone-faced guards were on either side of him indicating by nods of their heads that he should follow one of them while the other stood behind him, almost as if he, Andrew, were a prisoner they were guarding. They led him out of the auditorium, where the lights were now turned off, then down a well-lit hallway. Apparently the organization owned or rented much more of this apartment building than he’d thought.
“Where are we going?” he asked, in spite of himself.
For several seconds the guards said nothing as they escorted him down the floor. There were more rooms, mostly unlabeled, although he did see the word “laboratory” on one, “x-ray” on another.
“Here, please enter this room, sir,” the lead guard said as he opened it.
“You can sit down,” the trail guard said, just before they closed the door.
The Special Projects room was nondescript. A desk, three chairs, four full-sized filing cabinets, one rather old-fashioned schoolroom-type clock on the wall, with oversized roman numerals. No paintings or anything else on the off-white walls (except one discreetly placed photograph of Marcel Proust facing the clock), as if time itself was the only distraction recognized in the room. And yet time was passing so slowly.
How strange that this should be happening to him, he thought, a thirty-four-year-old librarian who worked for a branch of the New York Public Library, to whom such things were not supposed to happen. Not only was his career choice bland, but so was his slow rise to his current midlevel position—a rise based more on longevity of service than on anything brilliant or innovative he’d done during his career.
His mind was suddenly teeming with childhood memories he was struggling to resist because any moment his meeting could begin. Finally he let himself remember, in heartbreaking detail, the tricycle route he took when he was five from the lilac bushes through the rose trellis over the cracked sidewalk to the garage and back.
He really did feel that he’d been in the room a long time. Then he had an awful thought—could he be locked in? He stood up on his way to check the door just as an officer of the organization—who was also tall, at least as tall as Dr. Rossi—opened it and fixed his icy blue eyes on Andrew.
“Hello, Mr. Zorn. My name is Officer E.”
“Good evening, Officer E,” Andrew said.
E was tall, his height accentuated by his extraordinary thinness. Now that Andrew reflected on it, the overwhelming majority of members were thin, as if their immersion into their new powers of memory made eating irrelevant.
“Please
sit down,” Officer E said, permitting himself a trace of a smile. “You have been patient, Mr. Zorn, so I’ll get right to the point. Perhaps you’ve seen the posters on the street or more likely read on the Internet about an organization that calls itself ‘Oblivion’?”
Andrew shrugged to indicate that he hadn’t or only in the most peripheral way.
“Frankly, there’s every reason to believe that they’ve modeled themselves after us except, of course, their organizational goal, if one can speak of them as being an organization, is diametrically the opposite of ours. So then, Mr. Zorn, what exactly do you know about the philosophy and modus operandi of Oblivion?”
“Nothing really. Nothing more than what you’ve told me so far.”
This wasn’t completely true. It was Memo itself, he realized, that helped him to recall now the strange posters for Oblivion he’d seen on his walks around lower Manhattan, where he’d also noticed some pro-Oblivion graffiti.
“I’ll give you a short briefing then. We also have some literature to give you about them as well, which you will read before you leave here, please. Did you take a Memo before this meeting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then you won’t need to take any notes either.” Officer E cleared his throat once, seemed almost embarrassed to have done so, and then continued. “Oblivion is the name of a group of emotionally or psychologically damaged people who claim to have developed a drug, which is also called Oblivion, that purports to obliterate only painful human memories. But what they don’t tell you is that it’s highly addictive and that taken enough, up to 90 percent of all memories can be destroyed, leaving one eventually with only the knowledge of one’s name, address, and phone numbers and perhaps the ability to perform a minimal-competency-type job. This drug, by the way, which occurs in both pill and powder form, was not developed by bona fide scientists, nor has its safety, either short or long term, been monitored in any way. Our intelligence indicates that, unlike in our organization, no reputable scientists or doctors are affiliated with the group. … You might well wonder now, Mr. Zorn,” Officer E said, his voice rising slightly but unmistakably, “why we concern ourselves at all with these morally derelict drug dealers who turn normal people into little more than zombies for a quick dollar. The answer is, our intelligence has recently learned that they have targeted us in ways we don’t completely understand, but that they have targeted us is indisputable. Since enhanced memory, knowledge, and self-empowerment are anathema to them and they fear too many of their potential victims will be saved by Project Memo, it’s perhaps not surprising. That’s where we need you, Mr. Zorn.”
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