Virgil Wander

by Leif Enger

  We got to Leer’s after eleven. Nadine drove up through his yard full of boulders and parked well back from the house. She turned off the headlights but left the car running. We were in a hard spot. We both knew we were proceeding upon nothing actionable in the adult world. Leer hadn’t threatened anyone. He wasn’t punching faces or boiling pets. As we climbed the porch steps I think we recognized the creaky limb onto which we’d crept, the limb of hearsay and folklore, and distressing but transitory dreams.

  Nadine paused with her knuckles an inch from the door. “Are you with me?”

  “You know I am.”

  She rapped hard five times.

  Silence, then the light came on. The door opened. “Nadine,” Leer said. “Virgil. Goodness.”

  He had on pajama pants and a dark blue bathrobe tied at the waist. His television was on.

  He said, “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Nadine stood there in her boots. “Yes. Stay away from Bjorn.”

  Leer did not seem taken aback but leaned against the doorframe with yellow light streaming out behind him.

  “Is this because I offered him work? Like Virgil did? Have I transgressed some boundary?”

  Nadine didn’t give. Her voice was low and clear. “I said this years ago. I’m saying it again. You stay away from Bjorn. Don’t approach him. Don’t ask him to paint your house or shovel your steps. You see him coming, turn away.”

  She spun and descended the steps and walked toward the car, leaving me on the porch with Leer.

  He didn’t look the same. Normally in the cast of his face you saw a proud shine—a man admiring himself among the primitives. The shine was gone. His eyes looked small and dark and dry.

  “Where does this come from?” he asked. “Virgil, what do you have to say?”

  “She just said it. This seems pretty simple. Keep your distance from Bjorn, and all is well.”

  He didn’t seem to have a reply. I walked away. Nadine stood at the Jeep with the engine running and the door open. I could feel Leer up on the porch behind me, staring out.

  great wide open

  1

  SLEEP REFUSED ME—THE BLOOD IN MY VEINS WAS FULLY AWAKE. IT raced along at what felt like uncatchable speed.

  I rose and turned on the light and stood in front of the mirror. The figure I cut was not imposing. Earlier, in the sweet soft part of the evening, Nadine had made a tender remark about my ribs.

  In the kitchen I made toast with cheese, knocking around so Rune would wake up and come out, which he didn’t. Why choose now to sleep so soundly? I wanted to tell him about Nadine and me. Part of what made my pulse so swift was surely the shock of returned affection. There must be a right next thing to do, but I couldn’t think what it was.

  And Nadine and I had celebrated our mutual discovery by going out in the night and goading a serpent. At least that’s the premise we were working under, that Leer was at bottom an inveterate predator incapable of doing a kindness, for example, offering odd jobs to Bjorn without there being harm in the enterprise.

  As the night crawled on this seemed less certain. Yes, his life appeared littered with accidents and assorted grisly conclusions—but wasn’t that all of Greenstone when you thought about it? Maybe we all looked culpable from the proper angle; maybe I looked responsible for my parents, and Nadine for losing Alec. Maybe we’d been overly impulsive, or even threatening. Maybe my blood was racing because war seemed imminent.

  I made a fist and held it out. It didn’t look like much—not like a fist anyone would count on for protection. If war came seeking a person I loved, that undernourished fist was not going to be enough. I would have to put my whole body in the way.

  In the morning I tried to call Nadine. When she didn’t answer I went down to the Agate for breakfast. The place was nearly empty. Julie beamed when I ordered extra hash browns.

  Someone had left a disheveled Duluth newspaper on the counter. I started in the middle and worked toward the front page. When I reached it I saw a photo of the pretty barista from the coffee shop in Duluth I had visited after seeing Koskinen, she of the colorful tattoos and scarf and merry outlook.

  I got a cold feeling.

  The caption below the photograph said Missing.

  Her name was Josephine Sayles. Twenty-nine, single, an indebted graduate of Hamline Law pulling espressos in the Twin Ports. She lived alone and her absence had not been noticed until she failed to appear for a shift. A coworker described her as a generous person with a fondness for chamber music and a history of depression.

  The photograph showed her smiling on a sunny day in Canal Park, the lake benign in the background, her incomplete ship tattoo like a story half told.

  Julie came over to refill my coffee but stopped when she saw my face.

  “I met this Josephine,” I said.

  “The missing girl? I heard about that. Terrible. I hope she can be brave,” Julie said. “Oh. Oh Virgil. Here you are, honey,” handing me an extra napkin before topping off my cup and trundling away.

  She was surprised by my tears, as I was myself. Why this wrenching melancholy? Why did it seem as though a friend was lost, and not a stranger met one time? Then I recalled being lost myself, caught in that dream of drowning and decay, the illusion so powerful that the café upholstery became the spongy seat of my doomed Pontiac. I escaped the dream only when the barista walked up and dispelled it like a flag snapping in the wind.

  I paid for breakfast and walked home and tried Nadine again. No answer, but immediately my phone rang back and I swept it up. “Nadine?”

  “No such luck, it’s Fergus Flint,” said my Hollywood lawyer. “I’ll call back, if it’s a bad time.”

  He sounded tired, as he had in our previous conversation. His voice was still hoarse and craggy.

  “No, it’s all right.”

  Fergus reported having sent inquiries to all the studios on the list, “or their surviving entities.” About half had responded. None so far seemed angry or vengeful. None had uttered the phrase “make an example.”

  “In fact,” he said, “there have been several remarks indicating gratitude. Gratitude, I specify, to yourself—assuming your careful stewardship of their property. It’s important you comprehend both how much and how little this means.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I don’t comprehend.”

  No doubt I sounded short-fused. Fergus took a cautious tone. “In other sectors of the economy,” he explained, “gratitude might take the form of pecuniary reward, in-kind compensation, public credit. In the entertainment sphere the word is redefined. For example, overwhelming gratitude might mean you are somewhat less likely to be sued for punitive damages.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes. Let’s proceed to remove the prints from your location. I’ll arrange transport if you are amenable. There’s a facility here that stores old films in a climate-controlled environment until they can be properly reclaimed. It’s agreed to receive your shipment, if you haven’t changed your mind.”

  “Shipping won’t be cheap. It’s a lot of reels.”

  “I’m working on a couple of the studios for that. Those with most to gain. You have several desirables in that collection, you know. Not to mention the Cassidy outtake—from my conversations with a coy archivist, I believe you may be in possession of the last extant copy.” Worry crept into the lawyer’s voice. “I hope to God you aren’t running it through your projector.”

  I was quiet.

  He took a breath. “Surely this is a needless warning, but let me caution you against further showings of any of these films. It would constitute irresponsible handling. They are cultural artifacts. They are sensitive and vulnerable pieces of history.” Fergus paused and I heard him sigh—clearly the phrases bored him hollow.

  “I know it.”

  “More to the point, people are aware of them now.”

  “I understand.”

  “No more special occasions,
” said Fergus Flint.

  “What’s next?”

  “I’ll arrange for the truck. How’s January?”

  “Cold and dark. Have you learned anything about William Plate?” I hadn’t stopped wondering about the man who had sold the Empress to Edgar Poe before dashing off to the Krishnas.

  Fergus said he’d spoken with a studio rep involved with past “recoveries.” While details were hazy, he did learn that one Destin Plate, cousin of William, erstwhile of Greenstone, had worked as a projectionist in the late 1960s, mostly in Brentwood and Bel Air. This was fifteen years before videocassettes. There was a class of entertainers, investors, and legal big shots who had screening rooms in their homes and threw parties at which Destin made extra money projecting whatever films had been procured—sometimes new films not yet released, often older ones of shady provenance, blue movies, specimens “misplaced” or set aside for studio executives, sometimes damaged copies slated for incineration. The parties ranged from intellectual gatherings to forthright bacchanalia. Destin, said Fergus, was one of a number of quick-fingered projectionists who ended up with impressive private collections, but he left LA in the mid-seventies when he was sought on charges of soliciting minors. It was easy to imagine Destin as a sweaty Turturro, loading reels into a station wagon under a fugitive moon, driving through mountain passes, deserts, endless wheat fields, hoping to find sanctuary in Minnesota with his intense and mentally declining cousin Bill.

  “Thanks, Fergus.”

  “You’re welcome. If you speak to Orry, greet her for me.”

  I hung up and paid the north closet a visit. There they were, a hundred seventy reels. I’d put them in order by studio while compiling the list Fergus required. I looked them over. A change had been wrought. Their presence had always infused me with an insider’s pleasure, a low-key sense of providence. Now, nothing. The canisters shone dully. No life or brio emerged from them. I used to imagine this evocative compilation was the work of a rakish black marketeer, a Captain Blood of alleyway cinema. Now that vibrant image was gone. In its place flickered Destin Plate, solicitor of minors, small-time cad, and studio thief. I wished I didn’t know—even though I didn’t know, not really. The vault felt different; that was all I knew. The canisters looked wary and mortally tired. Some of their taped labels were peeling. Their new home had to be better than this.

  Next time the phone rang it was Nadine. She said, “I had a note this morning—guess who from.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Sealed envelope, taped to my door,” she said. “I didn’t hear anyone, but there it was. Listen.” I heard the paper rattling in front of her. She read, “Nadine, fair enough. Distance kept. Adam.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Every word.” She sounded more than relieved. She sounded cautiously exultant. I felt that way too. It made me wonder what we had expected.

  “Did you talk to Bjorn?”

  “About Adam, or about you?”

  “Either one.”

  “He’ll get over not painting the Leer house.”

  “What about the other?”

  “We didn’t talk about you,” she said, her voice low and lively. “But he’s spent some time around you lately—he might not be as thunderstruck as you expect. Virgil,” she added.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

  “You are my favorite person in Greenstone.”

  “Whoa, that was right on top,” said her nearly laughing voice. “I can feel this going to my head. Let’s have dinner tonight.”

  “Yes! Wait, there’s something I have to do.”

  “Does it get in the way of dinner?”

  “I told Lily Pea I’d check on Galen. He’s been going after that sturgeon. She’s afraid it’ll pull him in if he hooks it.”

  “Send Bjorn. He likes Galen. You and I can do projection. I’ll bring dinner. Courage, Virgil. You can wear those lame headphones if you need to.”

  We talked a few more minutes, during which there was a commotion on the stairs and Rune and Lucy thumped into the kitchen. Their coats and hats shed clumps of snow. There was a slight desperation about them because Lucy was leaving shortly to spend Christmas with her kids in California. They had a box of bakery doughnuts and were playing some undignified game with each other. Seeing me on the phone they shushed and opened the box and commenced eating the doughnuts, laughing quietly over cups of coffee. The raven tapped at the window, Rune let it in, and they devised a contest that involved lobbing bits of doughnut across the room to the bird, who caught and swallowed with athletic composure. The doughnuts disappeared. By the time I got off the phone Rune had retrieved a pair of light-wind kites and the two of them eased out and down the stairs.

  The apartment fell still. The raven tucked its beak. I set the cups in the sink, then lit the blue candle on its shelf.

  The flame swayed. My mind went to Nadine, her easy wish to have dinner tonight; and to Bjorn, who would not be thunderstruck. The raven tutted into its feathers, and I was glad for Rune, with life enough for more than just his vanished son. I thought of Marcus Jetty, who’d saved me from the lake, and Josephine the barista who had pulled me from a dream. I realized since my accident I had not prayed at all—neither to understand God’s plan, nor to ease my sense of onus in my parents’ awful deaths. At the arrival of gratitude, theology slid away, like a heavy coat. But now I prayed. Let her be safe in a warm dry room. Let her be brave, but more than that be stubborn. Sometimes the missing did return. Maybe tomorrow she would be back in the newspaper, home from wherever she had been.

  2

  NADINE STOOD IN THE LOBBY WITH HER HOOD THROWN BACK. SHE had a shoebox under one arm, a wayward red smile on her lips, and a movie ticket in her fingers. She’d bought the ticket from Bjorn, his hands full at the counter just now with a line of kids. We had the new romance featuring moody and beautiful vampires. The kids jabbered while four or five adults peered around avoiding each other’s eyes.

  “A crowd,” Nadine said, nodding at the line. “That’s nice.”

  I had to agree. It’s good to have a line in the lobby—so what if I was tired of vampires? It was a merry winter evening and Nadine retained her happy mood until Bjorn went down to introduce the picture. He opened with hello, then halted abruptly. He cleared his throat and again fell silent. It was like a chain slipping off. A swell of apprehension and sympathy rose out of the seats. Light touched Nadine’s brow as she peeked through the tiny square window. She hugged her elbows.

  “Ellen isn’t here,” she whispered.

  Eventually Bjorn made a half recovery to relieved applause and soon we heard his step upon the stairs. Nadine caught my eye, but slipping into the booth Bjorn seemed to have regained himself. His fingers flew over the console, he dimmed the house lights, the projector shuddered into its rhythm. I felt unreasonably proud of him. While the previews ran he smiled, cautioned me that the Simplex had been a little slippy, and asked Nadine for the Wagoneer key so he could drive to the riverbank and check on Galen Pea.

  “Thanks for doing this,” she told him.

  “No problem. Enjoy the shoebox. Stay out of trouble, you two.” He shot Nadine the dead-eye, which made her smile at me, which made me grin quite stupidly at Bjorn, which drove him ducking out of the booth.

  As for the shoebox, it leaned toward tangy. Clearly the dangerous side of Nadine had assembled this haphazard picnic she referred to as “tapas,” in this case olives stuffed with garlic and almonds and pimientos, asparagus wrapped in paper-thin ham, four kinds of cheese in foil packets, crackers encrusted with black pepper, an apologetic sack of prunes rolled in chili powder, and a golden tin of tasty small fish from Portugal. She even smuggled in a bottle of Argentinian wine, a thrilling transgression. It was my theater. We didn’t see much of the picture. We didn’t even talk much. The film boasts gales of pop music which kept knocking me off balance, but it was good to be running the booth again, especially in Nadine’s company.
The kids yelped and cheered, seats creaked and settled. It was only when the last of them were shuffling out that Nadine’s cell phone buzzed.

  “Bjorn,” she answered, her face turning distant. “All right—one second.” She touched the screen and he was on speaker.

  “I’m headed into Duluth with Galen.”

  We heard Galen’s hoarse voice delivering abuse over whistling road noise.

  “He got bit, down at the river,” Bjorn said.

  “Did you say bit?” Nadine paled. “What bit him? The sturgeon?”

  “No,” Bjorn said. “A raccoon. It’s a pretty bad bite. Shut up—get that seat belt on,” he added to Galen, then explained that a skinny old raccoon came down the riverbank in the dark. It wore a ratty old collar and was almost certainly what remained of Genghis. The raccoon was making chickeny noises, squawking and sneezing. Galen grabbed his bike and pointed its headlight at the gaunt patchwork-looking animal, which spasmed at the mouth and gnawed its own spine. Ten feet away things broke fast. Galen attempted an end run, keeping the bike between himself and the coon, but it sprang between the wheels and caught him above the ankle. There it hung quivering, sneezing in a muffled way with its fangs in Galen’s leg. Bjorn booted Genghis free and they sprinted away. Reaching the Wagoneer Galen was crying and furious. He slung tears off his face saying Ima get rabies. They’ll strap down my head and my hands. Bjorn steered onto the highway and put his foot down. He didn’t stop in Greenstone but sped southeast toward Duluth where the lit outskirts were just now coming into view.

  In the depths of the Wagoneer we heard Galen say, “That old bus driver got rabies, you know what happened to him.”

  “Be still,” Bjorn told him.

  “He died on a twenty-foot chain is what happened.”