The 14th Day

by K. C. Frederick

  “I see you got here,” Vaniok says when he gets to the booth. “I saw an owl on the campus,” he adds irrelevantly. “The sky is very dramatic. We’re going to have a big storm.” Even in their own language these statements are a disconnected ramble, as if he’s in a rush, or as if with empty patter he’s trying to avoid talking about something else.

  Leaning over a bottle of beer and a half-filled glass, Jory, as still as stone, shows no interest in either the owl or the weather. Whatever momentary impulse of comradeship led him to accept this invitation, there’s no trace of it now. From the angle of the man’s elbows on the table Vaniok has an intuition of how alien this place must feel to him and he can only guess at what Jory was thinking about before he came in, what it must feel like for him to believe he could end his days in this town.

  “How are things at work?” Vaniok tries for neutral ground.

  Jory shrugs. Up close Vaniok can see his eyes are ringed with red: he may even have been crying while he waited for his countryman. His cousin’s work, no doubt. He’s sorry about that situation but there isn’t anything he can do to help. Still, they’re going to have to talk about something. Vaniok is glad when his beer comes so that he can wet his throat before trying to say anything more. He lifts his glass and takes a swallow. “At least,” he says, “with the news about the cutbacks, Carl shouldn’t be bothering you so much.” He could bite his tongue: he hadn’t planned on bringing Carl up so quickly. Now that he’s done it, though, he hopes Jory will choose to talk about the cutbacks.

  At the sound of Carl’s name, though, he straightens, he looks at Vaniok. The sadness in his eyes is gone. “What Carl feels about me doesn’t have anything to do with jobs or cutbacks,” he says.

  Jory’s response is a bit unsettling. Vaniok hoped things between him and Carl had at least subsided a little with the general easing of tension at work—in fact, in his fondest dreams that whole conflict has disappeared altogether. But from Jory’s tone it’s obvious that no such fairy tale can be believed: their quarrel is still a live issue and now, more than ever, Vaniok wonders whether he ought to tell him about that damned business he heard of at the Barn. He takes another drink. No matter how many times he’s tried to convince himself that Carl and Jory simply don’t like each other, he can’t dismiss the feeling that somehow he’s contributed to the bad blood between them. More than once he’s wished that he’d never accepted Royall’s invitation to join the men for drinks that day. But he did accept, he did talk to Carl and now he realizes that he owes it to Jory at least to warn him about their fellow worker.

  Determined to plunge on, yet still hoping to get off easy, he leans forward. “Jory,” he says, “be careful with him. That man could be dangerous.” As though he’s the one in danger, Vaniok is suddenly aware of the heat in the bar. His shirt sleeves are rolled and his arms stick to the shiny black table. He’s facing the street and over the top of the booth he can see the change in the light outside: the bright sunshine has become muted, something seen through the green-gold strands of a fine piece of netting.

  “What do you mean, dangerous?” Jory’s mouth curls. “The man is an animal. I’m not going to change my behavior toward him. If he harasses me I don’t have to put up with it.”

  “No, no,” Vaniok shakes his head. “This goes beyond his bothering you on the job.” Across the table from him Jory is waiting and Vaniok is aware again of the man’s capacity for acting rashly. For a moment Vaniok looks at him, poised to say something, his hand raised in an accompanying gesture. He still has a chance, he reminds himself, to let the subject drop here. He doesn’t have to be specific: Carl is dangerous because he’s Carl. But if he doesn’t tell Jory what he knows, he won’t forgive himself; it will be a relief to get it over with. “Listen,” he says quietly, praying for the best, “Carl may be looking into your past.”

  Jory’s head snaps up abruptly. “What do you mean looking into my past?”

  Both men light cigarettes. Vaniok smells the sulfur, then the tobacco, he hears the muffled. protracted cough of distant thunder. He exhales, then tells the waiting Jory, “You know he dislikes you.” Jory watches him steadily. How can he put this? “But he says he knows someone in the university.” Jory doesn’t blink. “This person can track things on the computer, she can investigate your records.” Vaniok has lowered his voice. “And if Carl has a mind to, he’ll ask her to do it.” As he hears himself say this, the assertion seems ridiculous, melodramatic, unbelievable. Why should anyone credit Carl’s story just because he says it’s so? He waits for Jory’s disdainful response but the man simply looks at him without blinking and at last Vaniok says, “If you have anything you’re hiding that might get you in trouble, you should be careful.”

  “How do you know this?” A wild look crosses Jory’s face. “Are you and he allied against me?” He takes a drink of beer and suddenly pounds the table. “God damn it,” he says, “God damn it. Is everyone turning on me?” Even though only the two of them understand the words, Jory’s agitation is clear. Across the room the bartender inclines his head toward them a moment, then turns away. When Jory looks at Vaniok again there’s a dangerous desperation to his eyes. “God damn it,” he says, more quietly this time.

  “Wait,” Vaniok lowers his voice even more. “Of course I’m not on his side. Why do you think I wanted to tell you about this?” He takes another drink. This is precisely the kind of reaction he was afraid he’d get. This is why he didn’t want to raise all this business in the first place. But now he’s done it and there’s no undoing it. Vaniok sags back in the booth. His reasons for telling Jory at last are as confused as his reasons for not telling him. It would be difficult to explain his motivation, even to himself. It’s true that a weight has been lifted but he feels no relief. Outside the light has turned ominous, a color without a name. “Look,” he says, leaning forward again, “a few weeks ago we were all drinking at the Barn and Carl called me over.” To be sure, this is going to be an edited version of the story and Vaniok isn’t telling everything but after all, these are the essentials. “He told me he was suspicious of you, he thought you were hiding something. I told him he was crazy but he was a little drunk and started boasting about this friend of his who could track you down on the university’s computer.”

  “Track me down?” Jory can’t hide his alarm.

  Vaniok nods.

  Jory is silent a while. At last he asks, “And how long have you known this?”

  “Oh,” Vaniok waves his hand, “this happened just before the basketball team lost that game.” In spite of his dismissive gesture it seems to him a long time to have kept this information to himself.

  “My God,” Jory says. “My God.” He’s still for a moment, then he settles back, lost in thought. For a time it looks as if he isn’t going to move again, let alone speak. At last he mutters, “I hate this place.”

  “Wait, Jory,” Vaniok says. After the first remorse, he’s felt a gradual sense of unburdening, now that he’s told Jory at last what he’s been keeping to himself. “I want to help you,” he says. “I don’t want to pry, I’m not asking you to tell me what it is, but there is something, right? Something that could get you in trouble.”

  He expects his countryman to deny the assertion; he’s surprised when Jory nods. “Yes,” he says. He draws on his cigarette meditatively, he exhales and watches the smoke. Thunder rumbles outside, perceptibly closer. “In the place where I was before I came here,” he says, “I knocked someone down and hurt him, probably very badly.” He’s silent for a while. Vaniok can see the street sizzling with rain. The bartender has come to the door to watch and he yells something into the downpour but Vaniok can’t make it out. “Possibly I killed the man,” Jory says. Vaniok swallows hard. The declaration stuns him. “I had to hide, I had to get false papers,” Jory’s voice is flat, he looks at his hands on the table. The storm is fully upon them now, lightning flashes continually, the crash of thunder seems to rattle the bottles behind the bar.

>   Vaniok nods soberly, still trying to assimilate this news that’s shaken him. The idea of Jory as a killer changes everything about the man who sits across the table from him; it raises the stakes of his quarrel with Carl. Vaniok runs his hands along the smooth surface of the table. His countryman has become a stranger once more. The booth they’re in, the bar, this town, all seem thin and papery while the real world is somewhere outside, in that other country Jory has fled, elsewhere. And yet, after the first shock Vaniok is determined to accommodate himself to the new information. It seems to him that since the Thirteen Days he’s heard other stories like this. Having told it, Jory too seems calmer. “So if you’re found out?” Vaniok asks.

  “I could be sent back there. I could be sent to prison.” He looks away, toward the bar’s interior. For a long time he says nothing. Then he shakes his head. “I’m not going back. I’d rather go to the island.”

  “The island?”

  Though they’re talking in their own language Jory speaks very quietly now. “It’s complicated,” he says. Vaniok nods. If Jory wants to keep silent about this, he’ll accept it. But Jory goes on. “The man who saw to the false papers is on an island to the south. I have a way of getting there.”

  In the midst of the turmoil around them the idea of a sunny island to the south appeals to Vaniok. How fortunate for his countryman: there’s someone who has fixed up his false papers, someone holding a place on an island for Jory. Outside the bar the rain continues to come down relentlessly, whipped by gusts of wind that slap against the plate-glass window. The bartender, still standing in the doorway, appears to be singing now. Vaniok looks at the storm. This is the place where he’s chosen to live: he has no way of knowing what awaits him out there. “Look,” he says again, suddenly hopeful, “all this was weeks ago. Things have changed and Carl very likely has dropped the whole subject. But he’s dangerous, that’s what I’m telling you.” As he says it his hope collapses as quickly as it arose: he knows he doesn’t believe in Jory’s reasonableness—or Carl’s; he expects this quarrel to be pushed to violence, and he wonders if his telling Jory earlier would have changed anything.

  Across from him, Jory is silent. “Look,” Vaniok says. “All I’m saying is, be very careful with Carl.” Jory certainly knows the kind of man he’s dealing with in Carl but that may not be enough to keep him from some reckless action. “Be careful, for God’s sake. You’re the one who said it: you don’t want to go back to where you were before you came here.”

  Jory shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it. Maybe it would have been better if I’d stayed in the homeland and died there.”

  Vaniok waves his hand dismissively. “We all wonder about that,” he says. “But it’s too late for that kind of thinking. You’re here and you have to survive. Nothing would be gained by going back to that other place.”

  Jory’s brow furrows. “But how do we know what Carl knows? How do we know he’s not just talking?”

  Vaniok is encouraged by this response. Maybe Jory can be counted on to be sensible. “We don’t know for certain that he knows anything,” he says, “but surely you don’t have any doubt what he’d want to do to you. If he got hold of something that could harm you, do you think he’d think twice about using it?”

  Jory inhales on his cigarette and lets out a long exhalation.

  “The point is,” Vaniok says, “you have to be careful, you have to pay attention.” He looks into the silvery rain and for a moment he has the irrational wish to be standing in the street under all this water.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Jory says and suddenly his being sensible seems like a childish dream. “There’s nothing for me here anymore.” he says. “This place is a wasteland.” Jory looks at Vaniok. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be happy to see me go.”

  “No,” Vaniok answers. He’s feeling a complicated emotion and he tries to put it into words. “I’m not so sure about that. Look, we both know Ila is going away. When she leaves, this place will be much emptier for me. Really, I don’t need any more people leaving.” He listens to the rain: since it started coming down its force hasn’t abated. Surely there will be flooding somewhere. “As for me,” he says, “I’ve decided to stay here.”

  “You mean you’ll be friends with Carl.”

  “This has nothing to do with Carl, or you or Ila. It’s my choice, I want to stay here.” He wishes it didn’t sound so desperate.

  Jory says nothing in response. He seems to have lost interest in the subject. Vaniok takes another drink. The two of them are silent while the thunder rumbles outdoors. The bartender has returned behind the bar where he continues his singing. Vaniok listens: he can’t make out the words to the song and for all he can understand, the man might be chanting a plea to the forces of nature. Meanwhile, Jory seems to have lapsed deeper into abstraction, as if he’s been bewitched by the same chanting; and Vaniok can only guess where he’s gone: to the cold country where he might have killed a man, to that island in the south, or to one of the countless other places he must have lived in since leaving the homeland? A full minute passes, and more. When Jory meets Vaniok’s gaze again his eyes are bright. “Vaniok,” he asks, “you’ve been to the capital in the homeland, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” he answers, caught off guard.

  Jory nods as if in approval. “Did you ever go to The Willows when you were there?” he pursues.

  Vaniok shakes his head, recognizing the name of the summer palace of their country’s kings, situated on the outskirts of the capital. “No,” he admits. “We saw a film about it in school, though.” He remembers a hundred windows glinting in the sun, the camera moving toward the building at a solemn pace while a reverential voice intoned the names of the country’s rulers who had lived there. “What about it?”

  The other man frowns; it’s clear he’s disappointed. “Oh, nothing,” he says. Behind him Vaniok can see the rain, which is abating at last. “I was just remembering the place,” Jory goes on musingly. “It’s quite wonderful.”

  “Yes,” Vaniok says. “I suppose.” He can conjure up no more images of the building he remembers from the film. All he can see is the rain outside, this long narrow room and the disappointment on Jory’s face. He recognizes that he has no way of entering his countryman’s memories.

  As if he’s read Vaniok’s thoughts, Jory waves his hand like a man brushing away a fly. “I’m sorry to bother you with my private nostalgia,” he says.

  “No, no,” Vaniok answers. “It’s very understandable.” Outside, the storm has ended abruptly and there’s a dazzle of sunshine in the street.

  When Vaniok remarks on it, Jory turns to look. “Well,” he says, “we may be able to leave this place at last.” Vaniok nods, still feeling vaguely guilty for not having been to The Willows. He’s ready to offer what he remembers from the film if his countryman returns to the subject of the summer palace. But Jory doesn’t return there. His mouth tightens with what might be a smile or a scowl—whatever it is, it’s totally private, without reference to anyone else—and he straightens, clearly intent on leaving. “I wish you luck in your stay here,” he declares.

  Vaniok studies his countryman. He genuinely appreciates the sentiment, though the way it’s delivered is unsettling: it sounds like a farewell. “Thank you,” he answers, thinking, He looks like someone who’s already left. Vaniok feels a sudden rush of emotion. “I wish you luck too,” he says. “Really. And remember, I’ll help you in any way I can.” Jory nods. He still looks like somebody who’s already left and suddenly Vaniok feels emptied. He slumps back in his seat, a man who’s finished the job he set out to do but with resignation rather than satisfaction. At least, he thinks, I can tell Ila I’ve done my duty. He has no idea, though, of what he’s accomplished by having done it.

  The air is cool in the street outside the bar, the sky is clearing. Beside the curb a stream of water rushes downhill from the direction of the campus. To Jory the town itself seems to be leaning, still settl
ing into place after the storm. “I appreciate what you’ve told me,” he says to Vaniok.

  The other man frowns. “That business about Carl—it might be nothing at all.” He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself. “Most likely it’s nothing at all.”

  A cool, damp breeze carries a faint tang of beer, water continues to rush noisily down the dipping street. “Yes,” he responds, “I expect you’re right.” What else is there to say? He puts out his hand. “But now I have to get home,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  After Vaniok walks off, Jory remains standing in front of the bar. As he watches his countryman disappear around the corner he becomes aware of his heart’s muted pounding, residue of the abrupt turmoil that swept him up moments ago when he suddenly remembered The Willows. But the summer palace is long gone and now he’s back here, among strangers, among enemies. Of course in a manner of speaking it’s been that way ever since he left the homeland. And yet after what he heard this evening it would be foolish to believe that things are simply the way they have been. He looks for consolation in Vaniok’s parting words: Most likely it’s nothing at all. But he knows Vaniok doesn’t believe that. It’s entirely possible that even as he and Jory sat in the booth talking about it, somewhere in this town an unknown woman was tracing his history on a computer screen, tracking the false name back to its origins, retrieving street numbers, names of places, people. Could that computer deliver to Carl the whole story of what happened there, could it communicate the despair that finally overtook Jory on the icy night of the winter carnival when people in thick coats gathered on the snowy street like arctic beasts, the knife-sharp air turning their breath to vapor as they clustered around the giant bear made of ice; could that machine convey what it felt like to see the sleek frightening curve of the creature’s haunches outlined against the alien sky? Hundreds of miles from the scene, Jory’s stomach remembers that massive icy shape.