“But if you sign them, then…I promise you…you won’t regret it.”
Then MacPherson wasn’t in his cushy velvet seat at all, but was instead on stage and in the spotlight. Tucked inside black fabric. Or, perhaps he wasn’t tucked inside anything at all. Maybe he was black fabric. Black fabric that held scissors in something like a hand, and took them to the trembling boy’s left ear. Black fabric that hesitated one exquisite moment to savor its robust power and the boy’s corresponding frailty.
Snip!
Kitterman shook his head, then scratched it. “That just won’t do. Mr. Krieg is a man of little patience. A visitor on site will mean many complications to his daily routine, which he insists on knowing about as soon as possible. I, well, I’m sorry but I’ve been instructed to give you twenty-four minutes. You can think about it out in the waiting area. I suggest you not discuss it any further and get to mulling over your pros and cons.”
MacPherson found himself back in the Quonset hut, and somehow five minutes back in time. No sign of the stage or the spotlight. He wiped sweat off his brow. His heart fluttered. He stammered. “I, I th-think we can work something out along those lines. Allow me to make a few calls.”
“Twenty-four minutes, starting now. Mr. Krieg’s specific instructions. I’m sure you’ll understand that that’s why I have to remain rather firm on the matter. Krieg doesn’t pay me to be flexible.”
In the next twenty-four minutes many phone calls ensued from MacPherson to his subordinates, tax attorneys, and stock brokers. Demands to know if there was anything shady to be concerned about. They mentioned one or two small things—matters easily enough withdrawn from for the sake of Experience. He commanded his broker to make the necessary sales (at a loss, to avoid accusations of guilt). He commanded his lawyer to refrain from writing off some expenses that might have proven difficult to justify. It would mean a seven-figure hit from the tax man, but well worth the insights into Krieg’s method he’d be granted by the agreement. Well worth the apex of Behavioral Art. The suffering children—how he yearned to see them outside of his daydreams.
The decision made, the paperwork followed. Page after page in need of a signature that MacPherson was only too eager to offer. He didn’t read any of the forms in their entirety. He skimmed.
“Very well,” Kitterman said. “When would you like to meet Mr. Krieg? When do you fly back?”
“Well, I, I hadn’t booked a flight back yet. I wanted to see how matters here proceeded, you see. When might he be available?”
“I’ll tell you what: why don’t you go ahead and get yourself a room back in town. There’s an inn on Mulberry that business travelers—the few we get up around these parts, anyway—use when they’re here. They’re never fully booked, and it’s pleasant enough accommodations. Get some rest, and I’ll let Mr. Krieg know you’ve agreed to the terms. We’ll review your background check and be in touch in the next few days to determine the best time to commence your experience.”
* * *
Two noises: the ringing of bells and the growling of stomachs; the latter superimposed upon the former. Then a third sound: that of a palm smacking a wall. Intentionally. Violently. The slap echoes throughout hundreds of feet of Nowhere, Indiana.
Then a voice—that of the younger of the two young men. “Maybe there’s a tiny passage through here. Maybe that’s the way to get closer to the food drop.”
“Fuck…we’re no closer to the manna than we were yesterday. We must be going in circles.”
And the bells keep clanging, telling the brothers they still have time to be fed by the Angels—all they need to do is negotiate the twists and turns. All they have to do is feel their way around until they reach the right alcove of Nowhere—the place where the Angels ring bells and give out food. The place where they and all the other boys from Nowhere gather and trade war stories about the misery they went through to arrive at the bells. The place in which they swap survival tips, and sleep. (Oh how deeply they sleep, even though they pass out amidst the chiming of the bells. Oh how they dread waking up to silence because that means the Angels have moved farther on into Nowhere; someplace so far away they can’t even be heard.)
* * *
The call came much earlier than expected—that very night at 12:46 A.M. MacPherson almost missed it because his phone merely vibrated vigorously against the hotel’s nightstand rather than lighting up and ringing. Had he been so careless as to put it on the wrong setting at such an important time?
The voice on the other end of the phone had a British accent. “Mac-Pher-son?”
“Sp-speaking.”
“Mistah Krieg asked me to give you a call to officially welcome you to Nowhere!”
MacPherson found this to be a gaffe on the Englishman’s part. Technically speaking, he wasn’t yet in Nowhere. Nowhere, Indiana, was the art installation…somewhere underground, somewhere near the Quonset hut. This was the town next to Nowhere. (What was it called? Madison? Mason?) Surely, the Englishman knew this. Perhaps he merely meant to welcome him to the Experience of Nowhere, rather than the place.
“Why…why thank you. I have to admit, I didn’t expect to hear from anyone else associated with Krieg until tomorrow, at the earliest.”
“Tut, tut, Mr. Mac-Pher-son. Look at the date on your cell phone. It is tomorrow.”
“Well, you know, I meant daylight.”
“Daylight’s overrated. Each day begins anew at midnight. Curious, eh? Perhaps an unconscious recognition on the part of civilization that darkness is at the ’eart of things. What do we see outside our windows the very first moment of a new day? Darkness. What do we see the very last moment of a day soon to pass? Darkness. Mankind could ’ave just as easily set each day to roll into another at noon, but chose not to. Tacit acknowledgement, I think, that Darkness is the alpha and the omega. In the beginning and, most especially at the end, that’s all there is.”
MacPherson had never before heard such an argument (and he’d thought he’d heard it all). The novelty was intoxicating. At that moment, he felt reassured that he’d made the right decision in agreeing to Krieg’s terms.
“In any event,” the Englishman continued. “Mistah Krieg ’as prepared a new exhibit, specifically for your appreciation. A new Experience, you might say. Set to commence immediately. Meet us in the alley next to the inn.”
“So my background check has been approved? Already?”
“We’ll discuss the matter of your background check in a few moments, Mistah Mac-Pher-son. Mistah Krieg would prefer to discuss it face-to-face.”
MacPherson coughed. Felt a sense of unease crawl over him like ants. Had Kitterman found something, already, that would endanger his Experience? He wanted answers now, but feared ticking off Krieg’s henchman. “Why, yes, of course. Now, if you could just allow me to take a shower—”
“That won’t be necessary,” the Englishman sniped. “If you’ll pardon the egregious pun, Mistah Krieg is quite literally an underground artist. Body odor goes with the territory of working sixteen hours a day in a subterranean bunker. If ’e doesn’t care ’ow ’e smells, why on earth should ’e care about your odor?”
“U-understandable,” MacPherson stammered. “Then I’ll be down just as soon as I can put on some clothes.”
“Mistah Krieg says the briefing starts in five minutes. If you’re serious about this, you’ll be down here in three. Starting…now.”
MacPherson dispatched with any formality whatsoever. The only things he bothered to don for the occasion were socks and shoes. He’d neglected to pack sneakers, and so he slipped on black socks and penny loafers instead. Combined with his sweatpants, T-shirt, and beard stubble they created a garish ensemble. He glanced in the full-length mirror that hung in his room and cringed, noticing he looked like a derelict. He grabbed his room key and wallet and slipped out the door.
No time to wait for an elevator. He took the stairs instead. His shoes made conspicuous clip-clop sounds and the night clerk looked up fr
om the smart phone on which she’d been texting and eyed him suspiciously.
“It’s me,” MacPherson said. “The guest in room 312. Just going out for a bit.”
She gave him a puzzled look. He feared she thought him a trespassing vagrant. Moments passed, then finally a glint of recognition. “Oh yes,” she said, perhaps remembering some distinguishing mark in his generally unremarkable face, or, more likely, picking up a clue from his voice. “Going out to see the eclipse?”
“Just going for a walk,” he said. He wasn’t the sort of person who kept close tabs on the movements of heavenly bodies. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a lunar eclipse. High school? Some other time in his life, he wagered, back before he worked twenty hours a day and slept only four.
He took on a brisker pace, and soon enough found himself in the cool night air. Although the quaint small-town road was well-populated with street lamps, only a few provided illumination of any sort (and even these flickered on and off, faintly, like strobe lights.) He turned left out the front door of the hotel and made another left into the alley.
Two men stood in silhouette, one shorter than the other. The taller one held a crowbar. Alongside them, steam drifted up from the asphalt. Then something at their feet. A heavy-looking metal disk. They’d just removed a manhole cover from its moorings.
The short man walked forward, out of the shadows and into the faint, shredded light that made its way into the alley. He wore a Fu Manchu mustache, a leather jacket, and a red beret pierced with various and sundry pins. He looked at a pocket watch. “Just barely in time.” A nondescript American voice. He placed the watch into an inside pocket of his jacket and clapped one black-gloved hand against another in slow, ironic applause.
The tall man was the Englishman. “Shall we take ’im down now?”
“Yes, let’s.” He then turned to address MacPherson directly. “I wish I could say I was taking you down the rabbit hole. Alas, a manhole will have to suffice.”
MacPherson approached the cavity in the ground with some trepidation. He couldn’t see how he could safely take the plunge.
“There’s a ladder,” the Englishman said. “’unch down this way. I’ll show you.” MacPherson felt a huge, callused paw suddenly grasp his own trembling hand, guiding it downward until he felt the touch of rusty metal. He then reached out his other hand and found the other rail. He put his leg down, tentatively searching for the first step. Finding it, he started his descent. As he began to go down, he craned his head skyward. Overhead, he spied the full moon. The eclipse-in-progress stained it with shades of red and black. It looked bruised, but still shining.
“Pretty now, ain’t it?” the Englishman said. “But if you wanted to see the eclipse, you could ’ave just gone to an observatory. C’mon now, get a move on.”
And so he did.
He clung close to the bottom of the ladder while the other two men worked their way down. The Englishman dragged the cover back over top of the hole with one hand and carried the crowbar back down with him.
“Stay close,” Krieg said. “Just follow us.” MacPherson kept up with the men through twists and turns, around and around the sewer and cistern. Krieg and the Englishman seemed to navigate their surroundings by touch. It was as though they’d memorized the tactile sensations of each inch of cement, each pipe, each bit of grime, and used them as landmarks.
The group stopped. MacPherson heard a metal door slide open. Then light. Shocking illumination, sufficient—it seemed—to scald his eyes. The men dragged him through the opening. The Englishman tossed the crowbar down to the cement floor with a clang and put on a pair of sunglasses he’d had tucked away in his jacket. Krieg donned sunglasses, too. MacPherson had none. He could only cover his eyes with his hands and peek in between his fingers.
Krieg walked toward a far wall on the other side of the room. “You’ll want to come over here, MacPherson, this is the art I wanted to show you.” The Englishman lingered near the tourist.
“And m-my background check,” MacPherson stammered. “We’ll talk about that?”
“Indeed,” the Englishman said. He nudged MacPherson. Gently grasped MacPherson’s hands and pried them off his face. Put something plastic into them. Sunglasses. “There,” he said. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.” He let out a hoarse laugh.
MacPherson put on the sunglasses and found his environs—for the first time in what seemed far too long—acceptably lit. Neither too bright nor too dark. For the first time he caught a full glimpse of the Englishman, and found him to be a hairy, bony, demented-looking nightmare of a man. Not an inch of his face was left uncovered by beard, ink, or piercing. The tattoos—odd, sinister symbols, perhaps pictographs from languages long expelled from the Earth by a merciful God. A long, scraggly mane framed that desecrated face.
MacPherson grudgingly followed the Englishman, joining Krieg at the wall. The artist was admiring a series of documents and black-and-white photographs—dozens of them—framed side by side, row after row. MacPherson approached and, in a matter of moments, became aware that all the framed pictures were of him, and that all the framed consent forms bore his signature. In the photos, he appeared vaguely desperate. Each signature looked rushed. A flat-screen television hung above all the framed papers and pictures. It was playing what seemed to be a surveillance tape of his meeting with Kitterman.
Krieg smiled, showing crooked, decaying teeth. “I’ve titled this exhibit ‘The Yearning.’ Surely you’d agree that’s appropriate, wouldn’t you, Mr. MacPherson. This piece—or rather, set of pieces—captures, quite visually, the desperate desire you have to know my work from the inside out.”
“Mistah Krieg likes to play practical jokes. Most of the time they’re lame, but this one…” The Englishman placed his hand over his mouth to suppress a giggle. Then he looked up at MacPherson with faux-earnest eyes. “I ’eard someone once say that art sometimes depended on ’umiliation. Do you think that’s right, Mistah MacPherson?”
MacPherson gritted his teeth. Considered his options. Decided to play along and offered a fake laugh to join in with the Englishman. “Okay,” he conceded. “You got me.” He thought about the hit he’d taken on some of the transactions. Seven figures. Gritted his teeth again. “I can take a joke. It’s easy for you to make fun, Krieg. You’re the artist. You don’t appreciate just how unique your work is, because it’s the work you live with, twenty-four/seven. I can understand how my ‘yearning’ could seem so fanatical as to lead you to ridicule me.” The wheels in his brain kept turning. If it was all a game, then perhaps he could make a few phone calls. Reverse course. Prevent at least some of the losses he’d only too eagerly agreed to take. “So, you plan to use none of the documents I’ve signed? They’re to remain up here, as a testament of my fanaticism?”
“Perhaps,” said Krieg. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m tempted to take them off the wall and have my man on the surface exercise the power of attorney to redirect wealth from your accounts to ours.” He waved a hand toward the framed documents. “After all, how much can your money mean to you if you’d put it all at risk for Experience? For, as you like to put it, behavioral art?”
MacPherson felt his pride shrivel inside of him like rotting fruit. “Money is only a means to an end. That’s true enough. Art is what makes a man feel truly alive, but I’d appreciate it if you kept your word and only used them for background checks. Anyway, I did what you asked me to do. I’ve lived up to my end of the bargain. Do you plan to live up to yours?”
The Englishman snickered. “Do you ’ear ’im questioning your integrity, Mistah Krieg? Are you gonna stand for that?”
Krieg smirked. “He’s just nervous, that’s all. On the one hand, he’s unable to stand still, because he’s so excited about his impending Experience. On the other, he’s terrified at the financial sacrifice he’s made as his part of the exchange. He’s terrified because he’s never had to make hard choices—not really hard choices.”
MacP
herson didn’t like Krieg and the Englishman talking about him this way. Like he wasn’t even there. “The Art, Krieg. Now. I want explanations. I want details. I want to see Nowhere.”
Krieg turned to him. “And see it you shall! But first, follow us into the briefing room. More will be revealed!”
* * *
“I feel the vibrations from the bells on the walls now,” the younger boy says.
“You better be telling the truth,” the older one says. “I don’t want any lies that just make me feel better.”
The younger boy laughs. “But that’s all you do. Lie to yourself about all this. Pretend you don’t remember the light.”
A slap. The younger boy cries out. The older boy starts lecturing. “You think the Angels give out food to those who claim light exists anywhere other than Heaven? You think the Angels take kindly to blasphemers?”
The younger boy screams. “There was light somewhere else! I saw it. It was—”
The sound of a body getting shoved against the wall. Then words not so much said, but hissed. “Shut up! You don’t remember nothing…okay? Can we agree on that, at least until we find the next manna drop?”
“It’s not manna it’s—”
The sound of flesh pounded. A ragged growl resolving itself into another “Shut up!” and then the sound of a body hitting the floor, and the sound of skin tearing. There, in a corridor of Nowhere, Indiana—where no dogs or birds or airplanes distract the ear from the sounds of human violence—the sound of skin tearing is not only audible but distinctive. Like a hiss. Like a zipper.
More sounds of the older boy lecturing. “No more words about light! No more doubting what we were taught! Understood? Are you trying to make things worse? You want them to punish us?”
“B-but it’s not r-right…”
The older boy makes a sound like barking. It’s half growl, half grunt. There’s a tussle. Then, for a moment, nothing. Silence. Then shrieks. Frantic, crazed shrieks as the Doppler effect takes hold of their voices—as the sounds sink into the maw of the ground that has just swallowed them up.
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