She did not answer. He went on. "The first significant point is that Hoag is a consummate actor. Instead of being a prissy little Milquetoast, he’s a dominant personality of the first water. Look at the way I shut up and said, ‘Yes, sir,’ when he pretended to throw off the drug and ordered us to buy all those groceries."
"Pretended?"
"Sure. Somebody substituted colored water for my sleepy juice—probably done the same time the phony warning was stuck in the typewriter. But to get back to the point—he’s a naturally strong character and almost certainly a clever hypnotist. Pulling that illusion about the thirteenth floor and Detheridge & Co. shows how skillful he is—or somebody is. Probably used drugs on me as well, just as they did on you."
"On me?"
"Sure. Remember that stuff you drank in Potbury’s office? Some sort of a delayed-action Mickey Finn."
"But you drank it, too!"
"Not necessarily the same stuff. Potbury and Hoag were in cahoots, which is how they created the atmosphere that made the whole thing possible. Everything else was little stuff, insignificant when taken alone."
Cynthia had her own ideas about that, but she kept them to herself. However, one point bothered her. "How did Potbury get out of the bathroom? You told me he was locked in."
"I’ve thought about that. He picked the lock while I was phoning Hoag, hid in the closet and just waited his chance to walk out."
"Hm-m-m—" She let it go at that for several minutes.
Randall stopped talking, being busy with the traffic in Waukegan. He turned left and headed out of town.
"Teddy—if you are sure that the whole thing was just a hoax and there are no such things as the Sons, then why can’t we drop it and head south? We don’t need to keep this appointment."
"I’m sure of my explanation all right," he said, skillfully avoiding a suicide-bent boy on a bicycle, "in its broad outlines, but I’m not sure of the motivation—and that’s why I have to see Hoag. Funny thing, though," he continued thoughtfully, "I don’t think Hoag has anything against us; I think he had some reasons of his own and paid us five hundred berries to put up with some discomfort while he carried out his plans. But we’ll see. Anyhow, it’s too late to turn back; there’s the filling station he mentioned—and there’s Hoag!"
Hoag climbed in with no more than a nod and a smile; Randall felt again the compulsion to do as he was told which had first hit him some two hours before. Hoag told him where to go.
The way lay out in the country and, presently, off the pavement. In due course they came to a farm gate leading into pasture land, which Hoag instructed Randall to open and drive through. "The owner does not mind," he said. "I’ve been here many times, on my Wednesdays. A beautiful spot."
It was a beautiful spot. The road, a wagon track now, led up a gradual rise to a tree-topped crest. Hoag had him park under a tree, and they got out. Cynthia stood for a moment, drinking it in, and savoring deep breaths of the clean air. To the south Chicago could be seen and beyond it and east of it a silver gleam of the lake. "Teddy, isn’t it gorgeous?"
"It is," he admitted, but turned to Hoag. "What I want to know is—why are we here?"
"Picnic," said Hoag. "I chose this spot for my finale."
"Finale?"
"Food first," said Hoag. "Then, if you must, we’ll talk."
It was a very odd menu for a picnic; in place of hearty foods there were some dozens of gourmets’ specialties—preserved cumquats, guava jelly, little potted meats, tea—made by Haag over a spirit lamp—delicate wafers with a famous name on the package. In spite of this both Randall and Cynthia found themselves eating heartily. Hoag tried everything, never passing up a dish—but Cynthia noticed that he actually ate very little, tasting rather than dining.
In due course Randall got his courage up to brace Hoag; it was beginning to appear that Hoag had no intention of broaching the matter himself. "Hoag?"
"Yes, Ed?"
"Isn’t it about time you took off the false face and quit kidding us?"
"I have not kidded you, my friend."
"You know what I mean—this whole rat race that has been going on the past few days. You're ixed up in it and know more about it than we do—that’s evident. Mind you, not that I’m accusing
you of anything," he added hastily. "But I want to know what it means."
"Ask yourself what it means."
"O.K.," Randall accepted the challenge. "I will." He launched into the explanation which he had sketched out to Cynthia, Hoag encouraged him to continue it fully, but, when he was through, said nothing.
"Well," Randall said nervously, "that’s how it happened—wasn’t it?"
"It seems like a good explanation."
"I thought so. But you’ve still got to clear some things up. Why did you do it?"
Hoag shook his head thoughtfully. "I’m sorry, Ed. I cannot possibly explain my motives to you."
"But, damn it, that’s not fair! The least you could—"
"When did you ever find fairness, Edward?"
"Well—I expected you to play fair with us. You encouraged us to treat you as a friend. You owe us explanations."
"I promised you explanations. But consider, Ed—do you want explanations? I assure you that you will have no more trouble, no more visitations from the Sons."
Cynthia touched his arm. "Don’t ask for them, Teddy!"
He brushed her off, not unkindly but decisively. "I’ve got to know. Let’s have the explanation."
"You won’t like it."
"I’ll chance it."
"Very well." Hoag settled back. "Will you serve the wine, my dear? Thank you. I shall have to tell you a little story first. It will be partly allegorical, as there are not the ... the words, the concepts. Once there was a race, quite unlike the human race—quite. I have no way of describing to you what they looked like or how they lived, but they had one characteristic you can understand: they were creative. The creating and enjoying of works of art was their occupation and their reason for being. I say ‘art’ advisedly, for art is undefined, undefinable, and without limits. I can use the word without fear of misusing it, for it has no exact meaning. There are as many meanings as there are artists. But remember that these artists are not human and their art is not human.
"Think of one of this race, in your terms—young. He creates a work of art, under the eye and the guidance of his teacher. He has talent, this one, and his creation has many curious and amusing features. The teacher encourages him to go on with it and prepare it for the judging. Mind you, I am speaking in metaphorical terms, as if this were a human artist, preparing his canvases to be judged in the annual showing."
He stopped and said suddenly to Randall, "Are you a religious man? Did it ever occur to you that all this"—he included the whole quietly beautiful countryside in the sweep of his arm—"might have had a Creator? Must have had a Creator?"
Randall stared and turned red. "I’m not exactly a church-going man," he blurted, "but— Yes, I suppose I do believe it."
"And you, Cynthia?"
She nodded, tense and speechless.
"The Artist created this world, after His Own fashion and using postulates which seemed well to Him. His teacher approved on the whole, but—"
"Wait a minute," Randall said insistently. "Are you trying to describe the creation of the world— the Universe?"
"What else?"
"But—damn it, this is preposterous! I asked for an explanation of the things that have just appened to us."
"I told you that you would not like the explanation." He waited for a moment, then continued. "The Sons of the Bird were the dominant feature of the world, at first."
Randall listened to him, feeling that his head would burst. He knew, with sick horror, that the rationalization he had made up on the way to the rendezvous had been sheerest moonshine, thrown together to still the fears that had overcome him. The Sons of the Bird—real, real and horrible—and potent. He felt that he knew now the sort of rac
e of which Hoag spoke. From Cynthia’s tense and horrified face she knew, also—and there would never again be peace for either of them. "In the Beginning there was the Bird—"
Hoag looked at him with eyes free of malice but without pity. "No," he said serenely, "there was never the Bird. They who call themselves Sons of the Bird there are. But they are stupid and arrogant. Their sacred story is so much superstition. But in their way and by the rules of this world they are powerful. The things, Edward, that you thought you saw you did see."
"You mean that—"
"Wait, let me finish. I must hasten. You saw what you thought you saw, with one exception. Until today you have seen me only in your apartment, or mine. The creatures you shadowed, the creature that frightened Cynthia—Sons of the Bird, all of them. Stoles and his friends.
"The teacher did not approve of the Sons of the Bird and suggested certain improvements in the creation. But the Artist was hasty or careless; instead of removing them entirely He merely—painted over them, made them appear to be some of the new creations with which He peopled His world.
"All of which might not have mattered if the work had not been selected for judging. Inevitably the critics noticed them; they were—bad art, and they disfigured the final work. There was some doubt in their minds as to whether or not the creation was worth preserving. That is why I am here."
He stopped, as if there were no more to say. Cynthia looked at him fearfully. "Are you ... are you—"
He smiled at her. "No, Cynthia, I am not the Creator of your world. You asked me my profession once.
"I am an art critic."
Randall would like to have disbelieved. It was impossible for him to do so; the truth rang in his ears and would not be denied. Hoag continued, "I said to you that I would have to speak to you in terms you use. You must know that to judge a creation such as this, your world, is not like walking up to a painting and looking at it. This world is peopled with men; it must be looked at through the eyes of men. I am a man."
Cynthia looked still more troubled. "I don’t understand. You act through the body of a man?"
"I am a man. Scattered around through the human race are the Critics—men. Each is the projection of a Critic, but each is a man—in every way a man, not knowing that he is also a Critic."
Randall seized on the discrepancy as if his reason depended on it—which, perhaps, it did. "But you know—or say you do. It’s a contradiction."
Hoag nodded, undisturbed. "Until today, when Cynthia’s questioning made it inconvenient to continue as I was—and for other reasons—this persona"—he tapped his chest—"had no idea of why he was here. He was a man, and no more. Even now, I have extended my present persona only as far as is necessary for my purpose. There are questions which I could not answer—as Jonathan Hoag.
"Jonathan Hoag came into being as a man, for the purpose of examining, savoring, certain of the artistic aspects of this world. In the course of that it became convenient to use him to smell out some of the activities of those discarded and painted-over creatures that call themselves the Sons of the ird. You two happened to be drawn into the activity—innocent and unknowing, like the pigeons used by armies. But it so happened that I observed something else of artistic worth while in contact with you, which is why we are taking the trouble for these explanations."
"What do you mean?"
"Let me speak first of the matters I observed as a critic. Your world has several pleasures. There is eating." He reached out and pulled off from its bunch a muscat grape, fat and sugar-sweet, and ate it appreciatively. "An odd one, that. And very remarkable. No one ever before thought of making an art of the simple business of obtaining the necessary energy. Your Artist has very real talent.
"And there is sleeping. A strange reflexive business in which the Artist’s own creations are allowed to create more worlds of their own. You see now, don’t you," he said, smiling, "why the critic must be a man in truth—else he could not dream as a man does?
"There is drinking—which mixes both eating and dreaming.
"There is the exquisite pleasure of conversing together, friend with friend, as we are doing. That is not new, but it goes to the credit of the Artist that He included it.
"And there is sex. Sex is ridiculous. As a critic I would have disregarded it entirely had not you, my friends, let me see something which had not come to the attention of Jonathan Hoag, something which, in my own artistic creations, I had never had the wit to invent. As I said, your Artist has talent." He looked at them almost tenderly. "Tell me, Cynthia. what do you love in this world and what is it that you hate and fear?"
She made no attempt to answer him, but crept closer to her husband. Randall put a protecting arm around her. Hoag spoke then to Randall. "And you, Edward? Is there something in this world for which you’d surrender your life and your soul if need be? You need not answer—I saw in your face and in your heart, last night, as you bent over the bed. Good art, good art—both of you. I have found several sorts of good and original art in this world, enough to justify encouraging your Artist to try again. But there was so much that was bad, poorly drawn and amateurish, that I could not find it in me to approve the work as a whole until I encountered and savored this, the tragedy of human love."
Cynthia looked at him wildly. "Tragedy? You say ‘tragedy’?"
He looked at her with eyes that were not pitying, but serenely appreciative. "What else could it be, my dear?"
She stared at him, then turned and buried her face on the lapel of her husband’s coat. Randall patted her head. "Stop it, Hoag!" he said savagely. "You’ve frightened her again."
"I did not wish to."
"You have. And I can tell you what I think of your story. It’s got holes in it you can throw a cat through. You made it up."
"You do not believe that."
It was true; Randall did not. But he went on bravely, his hand still soothing his wife. "The stuff under your nails—how about that? I noticed you left that out. And your fingerprints."
"The stuff under my nails has little to do with the story. It served its purpose, which was to make fearful the Sons of the Bird. They knew what it was."
"But what was it?"
"The ichor of the Sons—planted there by my other persona. But what is this about fingerprints? Jonathan Hoag was honestly fearful of having them taken; Jonathan Hoag is a man, Edward. You must remember that."
Randall told him; Hoag nodded. "I see. Truthfully, I do not recall it, even today, although my full persona knows of it. Jonathan Hoag had a nervous habit of polishing things with his handkerchief; erhaps he polished the arm of your chair."
"I don’t remember it."
"Nor do I."
Randall took up the fight again. "That isn’t all and that isn’t half of it. What about the rest home you said you were in? And who pays you? Where do you get your money? Why was Cynthia always so darned scared of you?"
Hoag looked out towards the city; a fog was rolling in from the lake. "There is little time for these things," he said, "and it does not matter, even to you, whether you believe or not. But you do believe—you cannot help it. But you have brought up another matter. Here." He pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to Randall. "You might as well take them with you; I shall have no more use for them. I shall be leaving you in a few minutes."
"Where are you going?"
"Back to myself. After I leave, you must do this: Get into your car and drive at once, south, through the city. Under no circumstances open a window of your car until you are miles away from the city."
"Why? I don’t like this."
"Nevertheless, do it. There will be certain—changes, readjustments going on."
"What do you mean?"
"I told you, did I not, that the Sons of the Bird are being dealt with? They, and all their works."
"How?"
Hoag did not answer, but stared again at the fog. It was creeping up on the city. "I think I must go now. Do as I have to
ld you to do." He started to turn away. Cynthia lifted up her face and spoke to him.
"Don’t go! Not yet."
"Yes, my dear?"
"You must tell me one thing: Will Teddy and I be together?"
He looked into her eyes and said. "I see what you mean. I don’t know."
"But you must know!"
"I do not know. If you are both creatures of this world, then your patterns may run alike. But there are the Critics, you know."
"The Critics? What have they to do with us?"
"One, or the other, or both of you may be Critics. I would not know. Remember, the Critics are men—here. I did not even know myself as one until today." He looked at Randall meditatively. "He may be one. I suspected it once today."
"Am—I?"
"I have no way of knowing. It is most unlikely. You see, we can’t know each other, for it would spoil our artistic judgment."
"But ... but ... if we are not the same, then—"
"That is all." He said it, not emphatically, but with such a sound of finality that they were both startled. He bent over the remains of the feast and selected one more grape, ate it, and closed his eyes.
He did not open them. Presently Randall said, "Mr. Hoag?" No answer. "Mr. Hoag!" Still no answer. He separated himself from Cynthia, stood up, and went around to where the quiet figure sat. He shook him. "Mr. Hoag!"
"But we can’t just leave him there!" Randall insisted, some minutes later.
"Teddy, he knew what he was doing. The thing for us to do is to follow his instructions."
"Well—we can stop in Waukegan and notify the police."
"Tell them we left a dead man back there on a hillside? Do you think they would say, ‘Fine,’ and let us drive on? No, Teddy—just what he told us to do."
"Honey—you don’t believe all that stuff he was telling us, do you?"
She looked him in his eyes, her own eyes welling with tears, and said, "Do you? Be honest with me, Teddy."
He met her gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes and said, "Oh, never mind! We’ll do what he said. Get in the car."
The fog which appeared to have engulfed the city was not visible when they got down the hill and had started back toward Waukegan, nor did they see it again after they had turned south and drove toward the city. The day was bright and sunny, as it had started to be that morning, with just enough nip in the air to make Hoag’s injunction about keeping the windows rolled up tight seem like good sense.
The Unpleasant Profession Of Jonathan Hoag And Other Stories Page 12