Come Sunday

by Bradford Morrow

  I appreciate that the supply-side resources are thin, yet so must the demand-side be weak. This splits the difference. Please agree to this by return, or I’m afraid I will have to bow out. And as we both want this transaction to occur, and also in light of the fact I will agree to every other stipulation you have imposed, I hope we can settle on this sum now, not wrangle over it, since for each of us it is the least important aspect in the deal. You have convinced me of this in your letter.

  I confess I don’t know exactly what hanging paper means (phony bills?) but you can be sure it is nothing I would be capable of doing—I wouldn’t know where to begin. Arrangements will be made for the money to be wired wherever you wish or, of course, payment can be made in cash if you prefer, though you may or may not be aware that carrying more than ten thousand cash in or out of the country is against the law (I think). Not that that measures up to kidnapping, to call a spade a spade—kidnapping being my gloss for your “shipping”—It meaning, I presume, our patient. Shipping It, kidnapping the quadricentenarian and spiriting him across international borders being naturally a crime of considerably greater gravity than smuggling more than the allotted number of hundred-dollar bills (or whatever denomination you require, let me know) through customs. But in any case, as I say, let me know what form of payment you require and I will take care of it from there. I should add that because I am permanently situated and you are, it would be my guess, transient or at minimum mobile, I think it is unnecessary for you during the rest of our negotiation to worry about my dependability and honesty, about whether I am going to hang paper. I don’t deceive myself into believing that the post office box I am using for this correspondence in any way affords me real protection from you, or any real anonymity (for example, I’m sure your name isn’t Corless, and a little research has turned up “Corless” as the special agent in charge of the FBI office in Miami who broke up that assassination plot on President Córdoba earlier this month, so I can see you don’t even feel sufficiently threatened to throw up more than transparent protection for yourself). You could find me, I think, with relative ease, if you wanted. I know that I could not find you, though. So spare me gratuitous insults in future communications, if possible. I would appreciate it if only as wasting less time.

  Now, as regards It. I do not have extensive enough facilities to house more than one and therefore I won’t be able to take you up on your offer to ship these lesser patients you have access to. Were the world a more pragmatic, less vicious and insipid place, undoubtedly by now all my work might have come to “more.” It’s hard for me to imagine what actual progress could have been made with proper facilities. I myself now am far too old to leave this country, at least too old to undertake such an adventure unless I have to, a sorry indictment in itself: family responsibilities, if not a poor education, one which circumstances forced me to undertake on my own and with no professional help, the restrictions of a repressive government—these and so many other things combined against my studies. It is no wonder all the serious research on cancer, at least all of the imaginative research, is being done elsewhere. And now you have idiotic youths blowing up laboratories and setting lobotomized monkeys free in the streets! The priorities are turned upside down, or even worse drowned under so much neoliberal milk toast that nothing can be seen for all the dead white of boiled bread and confectioners sugar. You can understand my frustration, especially at your kind offer, and believe me I would like more than anything to take you up on it but as you see I cannot. But what I can’t have in quantity I would want in quality, so, yes, it is that oldest one of all I want.

  Of course, of course, of course; he will not be harmed in any way while he is here in my care. This would be counter to the very nature of my own research. I will be willing to sign any document you wish, confirming this. Humanitarians’ first principle is the preservation of that which we find most precious of all, life itself.

  Now finally to answer your question, yes I would be honored to meet with your representative and examine the documentation which I understand will include photographs along with other verifying materials, but am only prepared to do so at a location that we both deem to be neutral, and safe. It’s not my intention to sound mistrusting of either you or of whomever you might send, though I think you’ll agree it might be wiser to do things in this manner. Somewhere in or around Manhattan—a place already crawling with so much questionable activity that a conference between us regarding our own projected peccadillo would be unnoticeable—might be best.

  I hope this will not create too many hardships for you. If it does, I am willing to listen to alternative strategies, but do keep in mind—and I say this not to lean on your good nature, nor to curry sympathy—that you’re not dealing with a wealthy man (indeed, I’m not eager to sell off prized family portraits, antiques and other possessions to come up with funds to make this lease-purchase, though I am ready & willing), and so my suggestion that we meet in New York is well considered. I know of several possible places where we might without any fear of being discovered, meet, go over your papers and, if all is in order, proceed with this transaction. Before I indicate where these are, I should like to have some reply from you regarding various points made above, and until then I will remain, Yours faithfully, Owen Berkeley.

  “Jesus god,” Krieger chortled, dropping the four sheets of neatly typed paper onto the table. “A few dozen of these guys you’re looking at enough to fund a first-class private army down here, swank pad, naked maids, maybe a chalet over in Switzerland for a change of scenery from time to time and if the revolution heats up, live like a king.”

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you were rich.”

  “Working with great idealists, men of vision like you I’ll—” (pausing for a retort which did not come) “probably never get the chance to find out, but still, they don’t make them like this Berkeley anymore. You said there’s another letter?”

  “There is,” said the fat man.

  “Well, let’s see.”

  Krieger looked over at him and saw the scowl had returned; the envelope, pale blue edged in red swatches, he waggled, before releasing it into a wispy arcing flight that ended on the floor at Krieger’s feet. Krieger picked it up and read:

  Corless my friend, Far be it from me either to question your sincerity and graciousness or dispute your preeminence in matters scholarly having to do with It, its history, its actual age and any other details concerning the presumption it has acceded to the not quite Methuselahean age of between four hundred sixty and four hundred eighty years. I am not an irrational man, and I have no pretensions that would lead me into misjudgment of your aims in this matter. Before I write another word here I want you to rest assured my interest in pursuing our transaction remains constant. No doubt there is some logical explanation so simple I can’t see it, like the forest-for-the-trees type of problem. Everything in your proposal made perfect sense to me but for one small detail. By nature I am not a critical person (except when it has to do with matters of physical science, of course), but something struck me as queer when you mentioned Its ownership of an armillary sphere and a kaleidoscope. Now, I recognize that the former article must well be genuine, carried over to the New World in one of those quaint caravels used by Spanish mariners in those heroic times, but the kaleidoscope … and the supposition Mr. Olid (can we call It, him I mean to say … by his proper name??—at least, in my half of this correspondence I intend to from this moment hence, assuming you will destroy my letters as that would be expedient and wise, and understanding you best proceed with the It mannerism for reasons mentioned in my last)—the supposition Olid himself manufactured this as a toy for his children: well, this bothered me. I have looked into the matter and discovered that the kaleidoscope was first invented by one Sir David Brewster who indeed coined the word, as I gather from the Greek kalos which means beautiful, eidos which means form, and scope, that is the watcher. Both the kaleidoscope and an instrument called the
teleidoscope, whose clear uncolored lenses broke the world into kaleidoscopic images when manipulated in the same manner as the kaleidoscope, were all the rage in Europe in the early nineteenth century. Now, unless I have completely misunderstood the chronologies involved—reviewing your letter this doesn’t seem probable—a Spanish (not British) kaleidoscope dating from the period when our man first settled in the mountains of southern Honduras would predate historically the earliest known example by nearly two centuries. This is not impossible, to be sure. But its improbability does not seem to me to bolster any allegation that may be made about Olid’s antiquity. Indeed, I assert that if anything this kaleidoscope business throws those claims into serious question. I think you would agree? As a scientist I am willing to postulate any number of reasons why the little toy—and it sounds from your description as if it is a primitive example—is in his possession. A traveler might have brought it to him as a gift. And the inscription you say is on the burled wooden barrel in Latin, Xtobal me fecit anno d. MDLXXXVI, may well have been carved on later, as a joke perhaps rather than with the pernicious motive of forgery underlying. Nor is it out of the question that he did have this idea independent of the known course of history, independent simultaneity of various inventions such as, say, calculus (Newton and Leibnitz) or the wheel not being so uncommon, that he found shards of colored mica or quartz, or agate, jasper, etc., and tinkered with these until he found a way to make them work. This is a loose Planckian model for all research. I’m sympathetic with an immethodical, even chaotic view of the history of all the sciences: chaos seems almost a pathognomonic sign of human progress.

  I don’t like the kaleidoscope. Rather than substantiating the assets you claim for your product the kaleidoscope merely clouds and corrupts the issue. Have you got it wrong do you think? In any case, I for one should like to forget it and, as I say, my interest remains strong, and unsullied by this curious anachronism, and in the meantime still remain yours, anxious for response to mine of yesterday. Truly, Owen Berkeley.

  “Crackers, a loon,” Krieger concluded. “Talk about your loose planks.”

  The fat man sniffed. “Pathognomonic, characteristic of a certain disease. Write him back, Corless finds terms compatible, representative to be dispatched to any address he—purchaser—deems suitable …”

  “I don’t know why I have to write these things all of a sudden, I thought you did such a great upper-crust job on the first one.”

  “You do it, I’m tired of your commentary on my work.”

  “The kaleidoscope, what about.”

  “That’s your problem,” he said and, as he might have expected, Krieger had finished the second epistle to Owen Berkeley within the half hour:

  Dear Sir, Thank you for both of your letters. Your attention to detail and your erudition are equally breathtaking. Before I proceed to address the details of our transaction let me address the problem of the kaleidoscope. I have no reference books down here in the mountain forests which I could use to double-check your points. Even if I had, I doubt I would bother since so obviously you know whereof you speak. Instead I have examined the thing itself with a fresh eye and find that I agree with you. I have interrogated It on the subject for fifteen minutes this evening and It continues to insist that he made the thing himself—Itself—and more or less at the time the inscription gives. What more can I say? It—this—is a small point in the end and proves little one way or the other. It may well be that It is remembering wrong or that he is having some fun at our, mostly at my, expense. I have replaced it in its teakwood box, the top of which has some lovely marquetry work in darker-colored woods of a scene that looks sixteenth-century to my untrained eye. The image is of ships anchored in a bustling port that could be Genoa or Naples. The case easily might predate the kaleidoscope, you’ll suggest. See how well we have gotten to know each other? And again I would agree. So this item, exhibit “K” call it, we withdraw, and insofar as our concerns are with a larger view of matters, good riddance. Indeed, if you will allow me I’d like to make a present of it to you.

  After mature deliberation we’ve decided to accept your offer of a hundred and a half. We feel this is a fairly low wholesale price for what we offer but in light of the importance of your research we think it would be derelict of our own duties to go ahead and make the sale elsewhere, even though we might realize a higher price. We would like to look on it as our own small contribution to the advancement of your work.

  We’re ready to send the packet of supporting materials via messenger to any address you name. I hope you’ll agree that our request of reimbursement of this messenger’s traveling expenses (should you elect not to go ahead with the purchase) is fair and reasonable. Sincerely yours, Corless.

  “Done,” and after placing the draft on the bottom step where the fat man’s daughter would see it in the morning and copy it out with her own untraceably childish penmanship to be sent along to Owen Berkeley, Krieger walked outside, kicked off the switch to the generator and listened to it wind down as all the light bulbs were extinguished and the dark woods in turn began their trespass into the bolsón.

  The letters are good, he thought—only two impediments were out there in the dark. But Hannah had something to lose. Jonathan Berkeley?—it was open.

  How’s your road?

  “Bix a bel?”

  This was the question, put in Yucatec, that once. The group in this lovely old Spanish cloister garden behind the golf course, air scented with orange and lemon, stone benches around the walls, ghost of a breeze through the humidity. The greens were, as ever, unoccupied, though the links were kept up nicely by gardeners from the embassy; only sometimes were they ever used, and at that the soft grass was less often brushed with an iron than flesh encumbering itself in the comfort of this semi-natural setting.

  Krieger’d coughed at his cigar.

  There was this guy, this Berkeley kid, and he was down here mucking around, some kind of brat anthropologist copping scads of attitude, his hair grown down to his chest and cropped tight Maya-style across the forehead, his nails curling, his feet dirty, left his robe back at the milpas and managed to get into guayabera for the occasion, though to Krieger’s eye he still looked like a dime-store Jesus, just not as threatening. The guy was a long way from home.

  The Lacandones, what about the lousy Lacandones? and whoever could give the first flying fuck?—but there he was talking Indians, this kid who was green, a pup, a cub, his long hair and the “gone-native” politics aside. He was arguing, cordially it had to be admitted, with someone about some promising data which might come through infiltration into the tribe.

  “You lose your dialectic that way, though,” it was proposed.

  “Right,” Krieger said. “Peyote button now and then, all right, but unless you’re prepared to do a Castaneda trip, make everything up, I mean the worm’s best left in the bottom of the bottle. Drink the tequila. But the worm’s already dead.”

  “Worms are rich in protein.”

  “You’d fare better eating cirrhosis and onions.”

  Jonathan wasn’t listening, was saying at the same time, “This’s the only way to get inside, penetrate the purple haze, you’ve got to live through to your scholarship, you can’t be a good mechanic and keep your hands clean.”

  “That’s different,” Krieger recommenced. “Mechanics work with known systems, finite engines, like osteopaths. You come from one world to observe the behavior in another, unknown systems, infinite injuns. Why should the scholarly community pay any attention to your findings? that is, aren’t you seen as a traitor? I mean, you ladies, don’t you consider him a traitor, a when-in-Rome sort of tourist?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know his work.”

  That’s right, be delicate, go soft, you can never tell when some colleague is going to end up on a grants panel cradling the family jewels in one hand and the sword of justice in the other.

  “Specious bunch of philistine crap,” Jonathan said, breaking in on the
inner dialogue.

  Which took Krieger aback. He acquitted himself by repouring wine around the table, thinking, Jonathan, wimpy sort of name, and like most every Jonathan since the second war named after the famous General Jonathan Wainwright, great hero, great American, yet still the only thing he’s remembered for is the death march at the Bataan Peninsula where instead of winning he was forced to surrender, was even taken prisoner by the nippers, who stowed him in Manchuria until the war was over. Jonathan, he nearly snarled it.

  But, bix a bel—dinner conversation, some pretty boring fare at that, and Krieger looked around the table: the fat Nicaraguan; the anthropologist Sardavaal up in Tegucigalpa to raise a little money for some lost community; a couple of ladies from Tulane (the one on the far side of the table warming more into the discourse with Jonathan, having perhaps gotten the upper hand with her last query); the whole lot of them decadent (Krieger averred), dissolving into the landscape, the one woman cross-eyed behind her glasses which was at least to Krieger’s mind sexually inviting—crosseyed women being especially attractive to him, drawing the man into their bodies in some fashion he couldn’t explain. And yet, everybody in this particular group knew that bix a bel meant “how’s your road,” “how’s it going with you,” and that the proper answer would be toh in wok, “straight is my step.”