At the edge of the Homeland spies dug holes in the ground to wait for the enemy. When they returned with the news that the army was carving steps in the lower hills the people sent committees to the Council of the Wise, a group of women who’d lived together since childhood. The Council told the people to take all the weapons and pile them up with a sign offering them to the liberators. Then they must lay themselves down on the more difficult peaks so that the outsiders would have no trouble climbing over them. In the village that passed for a capital they must hang all the trees with ribbons and paint the sides of buildings with the face of the conqueror.
They must give the conquerors their homes, their bodies, and their beds. Above all, they must talk with them. With every drink, with every bite, with every touch, they must tell the foreigners about the rocks, the sheep, the clouds—and especially about the mountain called the Father of the World. For the top of this mountain, the tallest in that garden of peaks, was covered in clouds, and according to the people of that country, the clouds protected them from a sight too terrible to see: God’s face.
When the committees had left, the women gave a private order to a team of builders. Wind machines. Go to the Father of the World and fill the highest ledge with engines the shape of goats’ heads and blades the shape of eagles’ wings.
He Who Runs Away ran up the stairway of bodies, he crashed open the doors of houses, he tore apart the goats and sheep and people that stumbled into his path. When he had killed enough people to realise that no one would resist him he hid himself in the largest house in the largest village. Slowly the message penetrated his barriers of disgust. Here at the end of the world, where human courage had drained into the rock, there existed a mountain. And above this mountain, the other side of the clouds, rose the face of the enemy. He Who Runs Away left his army at the knees of the World’s Father. Breathing ice into his chest he climbed until he came to the ledge where the rows of goats’ heads stared up at the mist.
The black blades beat away the clouds. He Who Runs Away shouted over the engines and the wind. He looked up. Nothing. No eyes of fire, no forehead streaked with lightning, no mouth open to swallow the night. Just blank sky. It was all a joke, and his fists opened and closed as he thought of what he would do to these people who thought they could play a trick on the master of life. He looked again. He saw the stars and recognised them as suns so isolated they could no longer speak to each other. He saw swirls of greyish light and knew they were groups of suns so distant from here that they’d become less than a swarm of flies around a corpse. And even all these clouds could not obliterate more than a corner of the emptiness. With a hammer torn from the rock wall of the mountain He Who Runs Away smashed the machines.
Below the Father of the World civilisation waited for the leader’s return. Laws, agencies, budgets piled up on shelves. In the warehouses the refugees dreamed of games and bedspreads, of cabbages and jewellery. The Council of the Wise played cards for painted pebbles.
Weeks passed. The army’s corps of Speakers and Oracles studied the snow for messages. Their fingers invaded the bodies of birds, searching for clues. One morning a group of soldiers woke to find the Champion of the Great Liberation lying on the ashes of their evening fire. Beside him lay the Head of His Father, as dull as dead wood.
The Council heard a flutter of wind, they smelled the perfumed bodies of sacred messengers flying over their city. One of their nieces went up to the roof with a coil of rope, for the women had learned that the messengers lost their wings at puberty, a tragedy which they mourned in poetry for the rest of their lives. The girl brought down a male and threatened to awake his sexuality if he didn’t tell her the leader’s orders.
‘They’re leaving!’ she shouted down to her aunt and the others. ‘They’re going home.’ The women threw their cards in the air and began to dance. They were pulling off their skirts so they could kick their legs higher when one of them banged on a pot for silence. It was no good. He needed to take something away with him. Otherwise he would return and kill them all for what God’s Face had said to him.
Now, in this country there lived a girl so beautiful that the law ordered her to cover herself in mud, replacing the layers every few weeks when the mud had burned away out of shame from touching her perfect skin. This girl was called Too Pretty For Her Own Good. The army was almost ready to leave when Too Pretty was summoned to the council.
The women invited the liberator to dine with them. He was drinking goat’s milk and remembering his Death Squad of lion-men when the girl came in, carrying a pot of tea. Her face, washed clean for the first time in twelve years, floated above the high-necked dress that hid her body. He breathed; her face coated his lungs. The women averted their eyes and sipped their tea.
When the army left the Homeland of the Sun Too Pretty For Her Own Good left with them, walking beside the master of life, talking and waving her arms. Runs Away had promised he would never dress her in mud, but covered her instead with a veil and a long dress embroidered with pictures of the occupied territories. Every time the material tried to settle against her body her beauty pushed it away, like a child puffing on a feather. Too Pretty didn’t care. She helped her husband up and down the hills and she listened to his stories and stared at his face and arms. For she had never seen skin that shone, and this man’s body glistened with rage.
But when they left the mountains, when Too Pretty For Her Own Good discovered a land so flat she constantly stumbled, like someone expecting an extra step at the bottom of the stairs, when she discovered a cloudless country where the sun shone with the blank determination of an autistic child, then she begged her husband to shelter her. He Who Runs Away built a dark house, with clouds painted on all the windows.
12
She was standing with her hand on the door of Angelo’s/Sam’s when she saw him. She glanced over her shoulder and there he was, coming out the door. Without thinking she plunged inside, terrified he’d spot her. It was only when she was bending down and peeking at him doublelocking the street door that she realised she had to follow him. It wasn’t enough just to stare at his short leather jacket, with its brown fur around the collar (God, it was just like Marilyn Birdan’s), his hair slightly longer and much more curly (a perm? Mike?), his red cowboy boots over dark jeans. She had to follow him, speak to him.
She stood up and turned around to see Sam leaning on the counter and smiling at her. ‘That the guy?’ he said. ‘He comes in here sometimes. Anchovies and extra cheese, right?’ Jennie nodded. She tried to gather everything together, then dumped the papers as she scrambled in her bag for money. When she’d thrown down a dollar she gave the Revolution Mouse doll a kiss on its greasy ear, then stuffed it in her bag.
‘Hey, Nancy Drew,’ Sam said. ‘Good luck.’ Jennie waved, remembering her father reading her Nancy Drew and the Malignant Ones of the Old Mansion.
Outside, Mike had reached Houston and was turning west. Jennie hurried to within a few feet of him, then held back. For two blocks they continued, past a gas station and a broken down park littered with smashed bottles. Watching the uneven walk, the faint tilt of the head, his flat behind and sloped shoulders, Jennie tried to work up some desire, some longing to be in his arms again, even the loneliness and fear she’d felt for so long by herself. All that came out of her was anger. ‘You weak bastard,’ she whispered. ‘You deserted me. You let the Agency chase you away.’
At Thompson Street Mike turned the corner and entered a delicatessen, the sort that featured Swedish ice cream and imported beers, gourmet potato chips and twenty kinds of sandwiches on roll or rye or French. In one of its cousins Beverley had suffered her vision of people eating her daughter. Jennie darted in after him.
He was standing by the sandwich counter bouncing up and down slightly and puffing the way people do to chase the damp out of their bodies. ‘Mayo and lettuce on both,’ she heard him say.
Jennie stood next to him a few seconds before he even noticed her. When he finally s
aw her he jumped back, almost knocking down a wire rack of pretzels and corn chips. ‘Hi, Mike,’ Jennie said.
He composed his face into curiosity. ‘I don’t think I know you,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Don’t think so, huh?’
To the man behind the counter Mike said, ‘I’ll just go get a couple of beers.’ Jennie followed him to the large glass cooler in the back of the store, then said nothing while Mike pretended to ignore her as he pondered hops and malts from Denmark, Belgium, and Japan.
Jennie said, ‘You look good, Mike. What have you done with your hair?’
‘Look,’ Mike said, ‘I don’t know who you are, but will you please leave me alone?’
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important. Really important. There’s something you don’t know.’
He took a breath, like a child about to make a speech in school. ‘Ferocious One,’ he said, ‘I beg you to spare me from your Malignant intervention. Nothing I have done—’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Jennie said. ‘Don’t you even think it.’ He stopped without finishing the formula.
‘Will you go away? It’s too early to deal with bag ladies or whatever the hell you are.’
‘I’ve got to speak to you,’ she said.
‘No, you haven’t.’ He took out a couple of bottles of Dortmunder and closed the cooler door.
Jennie jumped in front of him to block him from marching back to the counter. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘we can pretend we’ve just met.’
‘We have just met.’
‘Fine. Fine. Suppose I came in here to buy something.’ She looked around, grabbed a box of sacred crackers, little biscuits in the shape of the animals from the story of ‘First Teller’. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘I came in here to get this.’
‘I don’t care what you came in here to get,’ he said, but he was no longer as hostile.
‘Then will you speak to me? Please?’
‘There’s—there’s someone waiting for me. I’ve got to go back. We haven’t had breakfast.’
‘Meet me later. You can tell your friend you want to go for a walk. Tell her you have to check something. At the travel agency.’ She smiled. ‘I mean, just in case you happen to work at a travel agency.’
He shook his head. ‘No. No, she wouldn’t—where do you live?’
‘Poughkeepsie. Ever hear of it?’
‘Poughkeepsie? That’s—that’s a coincidence. I come from Poughkeepsie.’
‘No kidding? Then you can say you ran into someone from your home town. And you want to find out what it’s like these days.’
‘Yes, I could—This is ridiculous. Why should I speak to you? I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘I’ll haunt you. I’ll hang around outside your door and follow you wherever you go. I’ll spread rumours in all the stores and restaurants about you. And I’ll find out who your girl friend is and tell her all the stuff I’m not supposed to know about you.’
He whispered, ‘Why are you doing this? The court told you—’
‘Because it’s a fake. It’s a trick.’
‘A trick? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Please Mike, just let me talk to you.’
He was silent a moment. ‘There’s a place on West Broadway,’ he said. ‘The Olympia. I’ll try to get there by one.’ He slid past her to rush down the aisle for his sandwiches and escape.
Jennie’s breath came out in a stutter. One damp hand held on to the crackers, the other found the doll and pressed it against her chest where the little leather bag hung with Li Ku’s skin. She didn’t know whether Mike would show up. She wasn’t even sure any more if she wanted him back or if she just wanted to beat the Agency. Nevertheless, she closed her eyes and nodded her head, saying, ‘Thanks.’
The Olympia turned out to be a diner with oily coffee, stale cakes in round plastic containers on the counter, fake Tiffany lamps over red booths, and a giant menu with lurid descriptions of Greek pies and roast beef ‘dripping from the carving board.’ Jennie got there almost an hour early, after an hour pretending to look for clothes, books, and records on Sixth Avenue. The place was crowded, mostly people in their thirties discussing work, relationships, and some scandal at the East Village Teller’s Hall on Second Avenue. Jennie found a booth and sat down with her second copy of The Times. Alongside the salt and pepper shakers stood a guardian, a squat plastic statue with claws and horns and a little button you could push for the eyes to light up and the belly to emit a low growl to frighten away any diseases lurking in the food. Jennie ordered a cup of coffee and a hamburger de luxe. With The Times spread in front of her she waited.
Mike came in at two minutes to one. Jennie smiled, remembering his hatred of coming late, or even early. He winced when she held her hand up by her chin and waved her fingers at him. When he’d sat down across from her and the waiter came he said, ‘Coffee. Black.’
Jennie said, ‘Since when do you drink black coffee?’ Right away she knew he’d tricked her.
‘How would you know how I drink my coffee?’ he said. He was smirking. ‘I’ve never drunk coffee with you in my life.’
Jennie wished she could hit him. Roll up The Times real estate section…
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know your name—’
‘Jennifer. Jennifer Mazdan.’
‘Fine. Now listen, Jennifer Mazdan. Whatever you want, can we get this over with quickly? My girl friend’s waiting for me at home. We’re supposed to go to an opening this afternoon.’
An opening of what? she thought. A supermarket? Was this another trick or had his new pal lured him into the art world? She said, ‘Maybe you’ll meet my mother there. She goes to openings all the time.’
‘Will you please tell me what you want?’
‘I just want to tell you a story,’ she said, wishing she sounded tougher. ‘A theoretical story about two people.’ He said nothing. ‘Suppose two people meet. Here in New York. By the river. By the black freighter.’ Still nothing. ‘You know what the black freighter is?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Well, how did they come there? I mean, what made them both show up there? At the same time? Especially if one of them, if the man, never used to go there at all.’
‘I wouldn’t know. Maybe it was just luck.’
‘Maybe it was more than luck. Maybe some kind of force manipulated them. Maybe it wanted them to meet and it made them go there at the same time.’
‘Force? Is this what you wanted to tell me. Is this why you insisted I meet you? This is nuts.’
‘It’s not. Think about it. They’re both supposed to be working, one of them never goes there—’
‘I’m sorry, Jennie—Jennifer, this is ridiculous.’
‘Please. Just let me go on. Suppose this force, this Agency, wanted them to meet.’
‘Agency?’
‘Yes. An Agency that arranges things, arranges people’s lives in order to create certain effects in the world.’
‘And you think this agency, whatever it is, made these two people get together.’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘Why? Why would this agency, these people, whoever they are—’
‘People? No, I don’t mean people. People could never arrange something—’
‘Then what are you talking about?’
‘I told you. A kind of force. A spirit Agency.’
He nodded slightly. ‘Malignant or Benign?’
‘Not that. Not the Bright Beings. Something—something deeper.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’
‘You’ve got to understand.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Lots of times, things, events have a much greater meaning than people realise. That’s not a crazy idea. It’s a known fact.’
‘Yeah. Okay. But when people start thinking their lives have such meaning—’
‘But maybe they do. If some lives have meaning outside
themselves, why not these two people? Why not?’
‘What the hell is the point of all this? Suppose there was some kind of special purpose. So what?’
Her eyes avoided him. ‘Well, these two people, the man and woman, met because the Agency wanted them together. It didn’t care about them. Not as people. It just wanted to use them. But then suppose they fell in love. Really in love. I mean, not just because the Agency, just because God wanted them to. They really loved each other.’
‘Not because God wanted them to.’
‘The Agency only brought them together. I’m messing this all up. I knew I’d mess it up.’
‘Did you really chase me down, and break—just to tell me this crazy story? You do know it’s crazy, don’t you?’
‘Let me go on. Please.’ For a moment she thought she saw a certain look he used to give her when she would wrap herself up in some complicated worry that only she could follow. There was sympathy in it, and exasperation, and amusement, and a desire to get loose. And for that moment she felt a real pull between them, and an ache to get him back, to put her head against him while he stroked her and laid his hand on her belly as if he could feel the baby’s heart whispering. But then he leaned back and crossed his arms and grimaced. Jennie wanted to hit him.
‘Just suppose,’ she said, ‘suppose they fall in love and finally got married.’
‘And go on a honeymoon in Bermuda?’
‘Yes. Yes, and then come back and move to a hive.’
‘Where they’re more in love than ever.’
‘Why not? Why can’t they really love each other?’
‘If they loved each other so much why did they break up? Isn’t that part of the story? Didn’t they break up?’
‘That’s the point. That’s exactly the point. They broke up because the Agency wanted them to. They didn’t stop loving each other. They didn’t even stop wanting to be together. It was the Agency.’
Unquenchable Fire Page 25