The Tidewater Tales

by John Barth

  Now we’re talking, cheered Dunyazade. But I see trouble in the next paragraph, Scher, as we scribblers say.

  Yes. Because that’s what he said in short, and I seconded the motion, heart soul and body. But what he said in long was to come over to his PTOR and—Are you ready, Dun?—join him and Mrs. Djean on Chesapeake Bay, in the USA, in the year Nineteen Seventy-nine of the Common Era. Don’t ask me! They would take me to a place called Annapolis, he promised, in a place called Maryland, and put me in the hands of cruising sailors as knowledgeable as any on the planet: far more so than he and his wife, for whom sailing was by no means a way of life but merely an agreeable recreation rich in metaphors. The hands of cruising sailors! What’s more, he would introduce me to a group of mainly female storytellers called the ASPS, who would embrace me as their tutelary spirit and see to it I lacked for nothing.

  Hey, I’m interested, said Dunyazade. But I know how you must have felt. Is the man oblivious, or is a month of Mondays really all he wanted?

  I truly don’t know. I have to think it was the second. But either way, I lose.

  Maybe if you told me more about the nonverbal part.

  No: That part will remain nonverbal. I went along with his idea, hoping that he was speaking in code, too, and that it was the same code. In the talking part of our next-to-last Monday, I pointed out to him that the magic in the Thousand and One Nights book is all in my stories, not in the story of me and Shahryar—what Djean called the frame story. How could we break through that frame? The only truly magical thing that had ever happened in my real-life story was him, I told him.

  That’s putting it plainly.

  I thought so. And he told me, not for the first time, that the same was true for him. We agreed that this story couldn’t go any farther unless one or the other of us found a different kind of magic by next Monday: a new key, to a different treasure.

  But here you are, said Dunyazade. I therefore sadly gather, dot dot dot.

  We tried, Dun. We lost a lot of that Monday experimenting with our old formula—reversing it, rearranging and reemphasizing the words—to see whether that might take me to his place. The key to the key is the key; treasure the is treasure the to key The. Nothing. At twelve-fifty, when Djean started to fade, I literally jumped him; I hung on with my arms and legs, with everything.

  Good girl.

  But by one o’clock it was myself I was holding onto. Empty air. Imagine how I racked my brains that last week! My family had no idea what had come over me; I think they chalked it up to change of life. I was frantic; all the more so because I sensed Djean wasn’t. He cares about me, Dun; I know that. (Look at me using the present tense!) I can’t really believe he’s unaware of my feelings for him, or indifferent to them. But to Djean, finally, this really was just a more than usually poignant problem in an uncompleted story that he was involved in. He was concerned. He was sad. But he wasn’t holding onto me the way I was trying to hold onto him.

  So.

  I didn’t even want to call him up that last Monday noon. But I called. I didn’t want to see in his face that he hadn’t come up with the magic new words we needed—I needed—and that it wasn’t killing him that he hadn’t, sorry as he was. But that’s what I saw. I’d half hoped he’d take the coward’s way out and not come over at all this last time, so that I could hate him while my heart broke. But he did come over, and my heart melted instead. I was wearing that same plain white smock I’d worn on our first Monday—but this time I had the rest of my clothes on, too, and my hair was braided up tight. . . .

  Earrings?

  No earrings, and no makeup. The first thing I noticed, after I’d seen exactly what I didn’t want to see in his face, was that this time he’d left his pen behind.

  I should think so.

  Of course. All the same, I missed seeing it so much that my eyes watered. So many times he’d smiled and set down that pen and reached out to touch me, and after he’d faded I’d find ink smudges on me from his fingers. ... I guess he saw my eyes fill up, because he said my name with his foreign accent, just the way he’d said it on our first Monday, and he came across the library to where I was sitting—I wasn’t going to meet him halfway that day!—and he hugged me so hard that I felt something break against my chest.

  Scher.

  Wait. He held me like that for a long time, lifting me right up off my cushion. I didn’t push him away, but I didn’t respond, either. After a while he moved back from me a little without letting go, and we saw a black stain on the front of his shirt and the front of my smock, just over my breast: the same mark on both of us, where we’d pressed together. He hadn’t left his pen behind; it was just out of sight, in his pocket, and we’d broken it. We laughed and cried. I didn’t hold back then.

  But there was nothing to say. Halfway through our last hour together, we actually dozed off in each other’s arms, on the old Bokhara on my library floor that we called our magic carpet. There: I’ve told you more than I meant to, in that line, and you can put it in your story. I woke before he did, with my back turned toward him. We were still . . . connected. His arm was under my head; I watched our last minutes run by on his wristwatch. At the very end, he pressed up tight behind me. Then I felt him disappear.

  That’s the end of the story, Dun, even though it’s no way to end a story.

  It certainly is not. How long ago did you say this was?

  It’s been a year and a half since that last Monday, and I’ve never felt so unfinished in my life. For a while I went a little crazy. I would send the help away and clean the whole palace in one day. I threw out the ink-stained smock and then turned the city upside down to get it back, and wept when I did. Sometimes I’d curse myself for ever having gone past the storytelling stage with him. Other times I’d lie down naked on our magic carpet on a Monday noontime and . . . pretend Djean was there. At my worst, I’d get weepy and kiss the ink stain on my smock and wish I’d been able to get pregnant by him, at least, before our time ran out. A little daughter . . . Please don’t say anything.

  Change of life, my family said; change of life. They were patient and understanding, and I tried to get back to normal, for their sake and mine. But they were like strangers, even little Shahryar Three. And I’d thought I was restless before! So I decided to trek over here and tell my little sister all about it. Not because I think that you or anybody else can prescribe for me; there isn’t any medicine for my condition. But I hoped that telling the whole story to somebody might take the edge off, you know? Maybe help me come to terms.

  Has it worked, I hope? asked Dunyazade.

  No. I feel worse than before. And that, May Jump told us all late last night in the great center cockpit of Katydid IV, is the end of the first story Scheherazade ever told yours truly in Annapolis, Maryland, U S of A, after I’d come to know her well enough to trade stories of that kind. Now, then: Let’s hang it up and turn in. It’s tomorrow already.

  WYDIWYD UNCONCLUDED: WYDIWYD

  I guess we should, Henry Sherritt agreed. We old guys, anyhow. We thank you for the story, Miss May: quite unusual and quite entertaining.

  And quite unfinished! Irma Sherritt said strongly, to her daughter’s pleased surprise. You turn in, hon; I’m going to hear the rest of this story if I have to make it up myself.

  I’m with you, Joan Bass declared. That genie fellow doesn’t get off that easily while Irm and I are awake.

  And I’m with Hank, her yawning husband said, much as I’d like to hear you tell along. My eyes are closing—not from your story, young lady! And Captain Chip’s are already closed.

  Sure enough, Andrew Sherritt was asleep, his head on Katherine’s right shoulder. So by now was most of the thronging anchorage. Doctor Jack and Hank Sherritt kissed their wives good night and went below, Hank first gently waking his son to suggest that the boy get himself horizontal next door. I guess I will, Chip said; I missed the last few Mondays anyhow. You’ll tell me tomorrow, Kath, right?
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  If I have to make it up myself, Katherine promised.

  Frank Talbott stretched his arms and legs and guessed he too was about storied out. What did Lee think? Lee Talbott thought she was as ready for bed as she’d been since they’d reached the Chesapeake after standing watches from Bermuda to Norfolk, but she had to hear what happened next. Captain Donald Quicksoat said he’d storied out in 1616; what’s more, he’d heard his colleague Scheherazade spin what he imagined was the next and final episode of her still-unfinished yarn at the ASPS jamboree in Kitty Hawk, just before she took off for parts unknown. But he guessed he’d hang in there and listen—if that’s what his shipmate planned to do—to hear whether the story had grown a proper tail on it since then.

  Am I going to hang in there and listen? asked Carla B Silver. I’m going to help Miz Irma tell along, if she needs any help.

  Irma said she’d just been joking; that she was no storyteller. But if somebody called Scheherazade had actually told stories at the last get-together of her daughter’s storytelling club, and already before that had told May Jump in Annapolis the story she’d told her younger sister Whatsername—the story we just heard—then for better or worse she must have found some way to get from there to here, right? Irma would certainly like to know what that way was and what happened next.

  So would Irma’s daughter, Katherine said: Half asleep is half awake.

  So would Irma’s son-in-law, said Peter, if men are allowed in this next installment. I can’t leave my favorite storyteller lying alone on that rug, kissing her ink stains.

  You’re allowed, my friend, May Jump declared: This is the story of a woman, but it’s not just a woman’s story, any more than the ASPS is just a woman’s club. Right, Kiss?

  Well.

  Okay, so it’s mainly. But not exclusively. Irma Sherritt has got us off to a good start, if you ask me. What would Carla B Silver say happened next, back in Samarkand?

  To the eight of us who remained (Frank Talbott yawned a few times, but stayed), Carla B Silver said Carla B Silver would say that when Scheherazade told her sister how she felt worse now than she’d felt before, ‘cause the story was so damned unfinished, old Dunyazade there said something like I know where you’re coming from, Sis, ‘cause I’ve more or less been there myself.

  I can hear her, Lee Talbott declared: I won’t pretend I have any advice for you, Scher-babe, but I affirm my solidarity with you one hundred percent in this exemplary mid-life crisis of yours.

  She doesn’t want solidarity, Joan Bass bet. She wants Djean-Boy. But she knows that that’s over and done with. We’ve all kissed our share of ink stains, right?

  Cracked Kath You might say the magic had gone out of their relationship. And magic is the only thing that can come to her rescue, other than time.

  Which we all know is the final medicine, said May Jump. Don’t we. But the trouble with time is that it takes too long.

  And it has bad side effects, added Irma. Like old age. I’ll take magic anytime.

  But who can write that prescription? May Jump asked. Not Miss Dunyazade, for sure. I pride myself on being realistic, I can hear her telling Scheherazade, in my life as well as in my stories. If you want my honest opinion . . .

  What you’ve done is what you’ll do, declared Carla B Silver.

  Katherine Sherritt gave a little gasp, waking Dichtung. Relax, Wahrheit whispered: I’m on watch, and it’s only about eleven hours, seventeen minutes and counting.

  Now how in the world, May Jump pretended to marvel, all the while thumbing her guitar, did Miz Carla B Silver know that that was what Dunyazade said?

  For one thing, said C.B S., I’ve been down on some rugs myself, in my time: magic and otherwise. For another, I had a spy in the audience at Kitty Hawk.

  What you’ve done is what you’ll do, Donald Quicksoat affirmed: That’s what the lady said. And it’s true, too.

  Whatever it means, Peter Sagamore put in, remembering our musings upon those words when Kath happened to dream them in the Annapolis Hilton early in the morning of Friday before last. I have more trouble with that bit of wisdom than I do with first second menstruations.

  So did Scheherazade, said Carla B Silver: all the way home from Samarkand. And I think Miss May had better tell along from here, ‘cause she was closest to the action.

  Closest of those bodily present, May supposed, though she certainly was not on the scene at either end when Scheherazade’s story took its next leap forward.

  She’d been disappointed by her sister’s words, Scheherazade told May Jump in Annapolis early last fall: disappointed, but scarcely surprised. Time was your only ink-stain remover. But time was the problem, too, in more ways than one: Dunyazade’s dark prophecy itself, depressing as it sounded and whatever it meant, was time-soaked from start to finish. In Scheherazade’s words, it presupposed both a past and a future, while denying their difference in the present.

  What you’ve done is what you’ll do. At first the saying seemed as clear as it was chilling: She should forget about any really new direction; her future would be Business As Usual. But in major respects, that was literally impossible: She had been young, and was no longer. She had borne children, but (once that desperate wish for a love child had subsided) she would bear no more, even if she could. She had recounted stories at a prodigious rate that she could not expect to match again, under circumstances that would strike her speechless now. She’d been a virgin girl, a concubine, a wife, a mother—those roles were all behind her.

  Then did Dunyazade’s prophecy mean perhaps that what she had accomplished was all she ever would accomplish, of any significance? Nonsense! Forty-plus is not twenty, but it isn’t eighty, either. Those Mondays on that magic carpet had picked her up and then let her down for sure, but even homeward bound from Samarkand she knew she had begun to get over that affair and would soon be ready again for some large, novel undertaking before she settled down to late middle age and grandparent-hood—if she ever did.

  What you’ve done is what you’ll do. What had she done? She had helped a catastrophically embittered king to become a gentle and humane one. Though not a radical like Dunyazade, she had introduced a few modest but real improvements in the lot of Islamic women: nothing miraculous, but a genuine beginning, or a high-water mark to be remembered, should things backslide in the current administration. Moreover, so Djean had often told her, she had embodied the storyteller’s condition in such a way as to become a symbol; she was not sure of what, but gathered it was something hopeful, of positive value. Finally, and no doubt most important—the key to all the rest—she had come truly to understand that both in human intimacies and in human language, the key to the treasure is the treasure.

  A pause here for fresh tears, truly less salt-stinging than their forerunners. (She’s back in her library, having home-come and distributed souvenirs of Samarkand—just another place—and news of Aunt Dunyazade. It is a blue Monday—but she’s not kissing ink stains; she’s not down on that Bokhara.) By Allah, she and her genie friend had defeated time, or at least got ‘round it, when he’d supplied her from the future with exactly those stories from the past that she’d needed in the present—and had supplied them from his copy of the Nights. Prophecy be damned: What she wanted to do was as unlike what she’d done as anything could be: Once again (but no longer to the same end as in her Month of Mondays) she craved to cross over, from her PTOR to . . . some other.

  Did she really think he might appear when she repeated their words, in their special place? Did she really want him to? Not really, no. Yes, of course (Admit it, Scher: You’ve got that white smock on); but no. No doubt he was busy turning that key upon his present treasure: his life-in-the-works, his story-in-progress (in which she hoped parenthetically, if she was in it, he would maintain the reticence he’d pledged, and make her no unhappier than she was in fact). He seemed content enough to go on doing what he’d done, in however different company and circumstances from when she’
d first met him: scribble scribble scribble, to the end of the story. Isn’t that why he’d not held on, when their arbitrary time was up? Now she did truly wish she could see him—innocently, innocently—before their next thousand-and-first-night anniversary, just to ask whether he perhaps knew the key to her sister’s prophecy, apparently so clear, actually so cryptic: What you’ve done is what you’ll do.

  Ka-pow! cried Captain Donald Quicksoat at this point in May’s retelling, for he had been among the listeners around a certain bonfire on a certain famous sand dune near Kitty Hawk last October.

  Blam blooey, added Peter Sagamore, who had not been there but didn’t need to be. Various of the assembled looked startled indeed at that brace of male startlers; but Carla B Silver said Yup; Katherine Sherritt said Oh my! and Baroque said Dad’s not calling us, Rococo; those sound effects have to do with the story they’re telling.

  In which the original narrator suddenly found herself no longer in her tranquil library of a thousand-plus volumes in her and Shahryar’s quarters in their first son’s palace, formerly theirs, in the Islands of India and China, but on the low side of some sort of sailing-boat such as she had never seen before and was likely never to see again, as it was tilted terrifyingly far over onto one side—her side—in a stiff wind on some choppy sea, and obviously about to capsize and go down like one of Sindbad’s clunkers, with all hands. Which was to say, herself (holding for dear life onto a shiny stanchion down there on the boat’s low side, almost in the water, and in fact getting soaked with spray as they crashed through the waves); another woman, somewhat younger than herself, dressed in what looked to Scheherazade like nothing but the briefest of undergarments and, incredibly, perched up on the vessel’s high side as much at her ease as if she were sunbathing instead of about to drown; and—equally at ease the first moment she saw him (he hadn’t yet seen her) at the vessel’s helm (a wheel that he steadied with the toes of one bare brown foot)—her old friend Djean. He was dressed only a touch less scantily than . . . his wife, Scheherazade realized: bleached-blue trousers cut off at mid-thigh and a short-sleeve white combed-cotton pullover shirt with what at first glance she took to be ink stains on its front but then saw was some lettering, in his alphabet and presumably in his language.