The university’s inn is on the way to Jory’s place and Vaniok stops there to find Ila.
“Jory got into a fight,” he says. “He’s going to have to leave. I wanted to borrow your car.”
“What kind of fight?” she asks. “Is he hurt?” Her hands run nervously down her apron.
“I don’t think so. I don’t really know,” Vaniok answers. “But I wanted to be able to drive him if he needed a ride.”
“Certainly,” she says. “Follow me. I have to get my keys. You’re sure he’s all right?”
“I understand the other man hit him a few times but it doesn’t sound as if he’s in bad shape.”
Ila stops a moment in the carpeted corridor and the two of them hear the muted sounds of the guests in the nearby cafeteria. “Vaniok,” she says. “I hope I acted in the right way in all this.”
“Don’t even think about it,” he says. “Jory’s on his own mission here. He’s been that way from the beginning.”
“Yes,” she nods. “Still … is he really leaving?”
“I think so,” Vaniok says. “Yes, I’m certain.” Vaguely he remembers the time the three of them were here during the storm, when Ila suggested her Constitution Day picnic.
“That island, I suppose.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
Ila shakes her head. For a moment she’s lost in her own thoughts, looking down the corridor. Possibly she’s also thinking of that time during the storm.
“Ila,” Vaniok says at last, “I want to get to his place.” Against the wall behind her is an antique clock, its face flecked with images of the sun, moon and stars. “We don’t have a lot of time if I’m going to help him.”
“Yes,” she responds and she leads him quickly to the room where she has her keys. When she comes out she hands them to Vaniok. “Keep the car as long as you need to,” she says. “And tell him that I wish him happiness. Tell him I hope he’s in the homeland soon.”
“I will.” He can’t think of anything more to say and the two of them stand there a moment. Vaniok can read in her expression a complex set of feelings, one of which must certainly be wonder that this story is ending so abruptly and completely. Just months ago neither of them knew Jory; now he’ll be gone for good. It must be as hard for her to believe as it is for him. “This doesn’t seem real,” he says.
“No, it doesn’t,” she answers and says no more.
As he drives Ila’s car to Jory’s place, Vaniok is suddenly fearful that the man is already gone—how long would it take him to pack, to call a cab? And I’ll have missed him. It suddenly seems crucial for him to have a last meeting with his countryman. Possibly he believes that if he doesn’t actually see Jory again he won’t ever be sure the man existed. He drives quickly, barely slowing for stop signs, and before long he’s at Jory’s building. Could he really have made his calls, packed and be gone already? The house’s exterior gives no clue to whether or not Jory’s still there and once inside Vaniok hurries up the steps to the door of his apartment. His knocking produces no response and he stands there a few seconds, catching his breath. The smells bring back the memory of the only other time he’s been here. Maybe, it occurs to him, his countryman believes it’s Carl knocking on his door. “Jory,” he calls, “it’s Vaniok.” He’s relieved when he hears movement inside.
Given Vaniok’s expectations, Jory is surprisingly unmarked when he shows himself at the door, though one cheek is slightly swollen. He greets Vaniok wordlessly and returns to his rooms, one arm held stiffly at his side as though protecting his ribs.
“Are you hurt badly?” Vaniok asks.
He shakes his head and resumes the packing that Vaniok interrupted. In the ensuing silence Vaniok has time to look around the room. The walls are denuded, desk drawers are flung open, clothes lie across the bed where a pair of small suitcases are half-filled. The room is in the process of reverting to the impersonal space it was before Jory came here. Vaniok has seen all this before; it happened countless times during the Thirteen Days. It’s happening again. For Jory it’s happening again.
The men have exchanged fewer than a dozen words and now as Vaniok watches Jory at work he’s able to get a closer look at his countryman. The man’s face is pale—he’s clearly in some kind of pain—but under his silence there’s a kind of quietly mad elation—Vaniok remembers pictures of the assassin who a generation ago killed the prime minister during a high mass at the cathedral in the homeland.
“I talked to Royall,” Vaniok says. “He says you can’t go back to work.”
Jory looks at him, his mouth turned down in scorn.
“What are you going to do?” Vaniok asks, though in the light of the evidence it seems obvious what Jory is doing. “Have you made your contact with the people about the island?”
Jory nods and looks at Vaniok for a moment, his eyes blazing as if with a secret joy mere words can’t express.
“You’re going then?” Vaniok is surprised by the excitement in his voice.
“Yes,” Jory says simply.
“How?” Vaniok asks. “How are you going to get to where you have to be?”
“I’m going to take a bus,” he answers.
“I have a car,” Vaniok tells him. “Ila’s.”
Jory seems to flinch at the name but says nothing. He’s only a few feet away but he seems to be looking beyond Vaniok into the distance.
“If it would be helpful, I could drive you.”
The other man comes out of his reverie with a frown and Vaniok, hearing his own words, realizes he might sound eager to have Jory gone; but his countryman’s response is mild, even amiable. “That would be good,” he says quietly. It’s as if his crazed elation exists side by side with something more serene. He even touches Vaniok’s shoulder, a surprising gesture for him. “Yes, I’d appreciate that,” he says. “And I appreciate Ila’s help too.” He smiles sadly. “Will you have a drink with me?” he asks. Vaniok welcomes the note of hospitality injected into the chaos of departure.
As Jory pours the amber-colored liquid into the glasses Vaniok looks again at the scar on his countryman’s forearm. Now he’ll never know how that happened. Jory lifts his glass and they make a formal toast. Vaniok senses that there will be no talk of Carl, of the fight or of possible consequences. He’s gone already. Vaniok remembers thinking that last night. He’s standing beside the man but he’ll never know anything more about him—Jory has become a book in another language. Vaniok observes him closely and can see from his restricted movements that he’s still in pain from his encounter but he moves with a decisiveness that makes it clear that the pain is unimportant, that all the recent history of the last few hours is now irrelevant. Carl has played his role: he’s enabled Jory to make an exit from this place that he was destined to make.
The liquor burns going down, it brings an inner spaciousness even in these close, musty rooms and Vaniok recalls the other time he drank with Jory here. At the same time he’s visited by a scene from the homeland: a long lake at evening, its surface still. Where was that? Who was with him there? Suddenly aware that time is hurtling forward, he remembers another moment from his previous visit to these rooms. “I wonder,” he asks, surprising himself, “if I could touch the soil in the jar one more time.”
Jory smiles bleakly. “Of course,” he says. He brings the jar from the suitcase and undoes the cap, releasing the smells of the dark earth. Vaniok dips his fingers into the jar like a worshiper reaching into the holy water font to cross himself on leaving a church. His throat burns. Yes, this is the last time. He runs the grains between his fingers and carefully replaces them.
Jory takes back the jar and puts it in the suitcase. Bent over, he suddenly seems overborne by the weight of things. “Sometimes,” he says hoarsely, “I think it would be better if I just stopped moving, let the story end. Why not here?”
Vaniok wonders about the island toward which Jory is headed. He remembers a phrase from school: “the ends of the earth.” That’s where this man
is going, to the ends of the earth. It’s a frightening thought. All at once he wishes with all his heart that Jory can return one day to the place where he was born. “No,” Vaniok protests. “One of us has to get back to the homeland. Otherwise what was the Thirteen Days all about?” Naming that dark period in their country’s history, Vaniok feels all the heaviness and dread of those times. Then it passes. It’s over for me, he thinks.
Jory looks up, smiling wanly. “The Thirteen Days. What was it about? Will anyone know the answer to that, my friend? Still,” he brightens, “you’re right: I can’t lose heart so easily.”
Once again Vaniok thinks of that island. “What are the arrangements?” he asks after a while. “How are you going to meet this person?”
“The actual meeting is hours away,” Jory says. “I needed the time. Especially if I was going to take the bus. I’m supposed to be at a shopping mall. If I’m at a certain place at a certain time someone will contact me.”
“I’m free for the rest of the day,” Vaniok says. “I’m at your service.”
Jory looks around at his bare room. “I’d like to leave as soon as possible,” he says. “This chapter is over.”
“Whenever you want to,” Vaniok offers.
A few minutes later they’re in Ila’s car. As they pull away from the curb, Jory doesn’t look back toward the place where he’s lived for the last few months; he keeps his eyes directly ahead. Vaniok, who feels some kind of comment might be appropriate, says nothing. He wonders, though, how he’d behave if he had Jory’s history; he wonders what the man is thinking about. Before long they’re outside of town, on the same highway they took to the ocean, but neither man comments on that. In the silence Vaniok becomes aware of a vague, simmering agitation that feels like anger but he concentrates on getting the feel of driving amid this rush of speeding vehicles. Traffic is heavy and the noise coming through the open windows discourages conversation. There must be something to say between us, Vaniok thinks, aware that the miles are slipping away, the distance to Jory’s place of rendezvous receding speedily. Still, nobody speaks. In the meantime Vaniok finds his way back into the habits of driving and he feels satisfaction operating Ila’s car—he realizes that he has to get a car of his own. There is a future, he reminds himself as they move farther away from the university town. Yet this hopefulness is intermittent; underneath it is a dark, tangled emotion: what he felt as anger is entwined with a sense of impending loss. He’s surprised by the heaviness he feels about the imminent departure of this man he’s never really liked.
“Jory,” he asks, moved by a sudden need to connect with this man, “do you remember that little town we visited on the way to the ocean?”
Jory turns toward him. “The town on the moon,” he says. The words are faint, almost a whisper. His brow is knit, there’s a hint of recognition in his eyes, as if he’s picturing the place.
“Yes,” Vaniok says. “Those trees with beards, the abandoned house out in the fields.” Jory nods. Vaniok wants him to say more, he feels that this shared memory is important, and he waits for his countryman to respond but Jory says nothing. His silence is a wall. Still, that scene is vividly present to Vaniok and he remembers how he felt there, excluded, somehow displaced—and yet it was something that happened to him, and therefore valuable. He remembers his fantasy about lost angels trying to find their way back to heaven. He should have told that to the other two while they were all three in the car. Now, as he and his countryman make their way down the highway toward Jory’s departure, the silence lengthens. Jory is looking straight ahead. As if he’s denying that time, erasing it. Vaniok wants more. It’s true there’s little to say about that excursion off the highway—nothing really happened there. And yet, though it’s becoming clear that Jory will say nothing more about it, Vaniok is glad that he not only reminded him of that time they spent together but got his acknowledgment that he remembers that time. He said the words: the town on the moon. That’s something, Vaniok thinks. After all, in a way that too is their homeland, the times they experienced together in exile. He wants Jory to remember that, to take that with him. Remember that, he thinks, remember that on your island.
When they arrive in the neighboring city where his countryman is to have his rendezvous Vaniok manages to get lost more than once but repeated requests for directions finally bring them to one of the many malls in the area. “There,” Jory points out. “The Motor Vehicle Registry is across the street, just as the man said.”
“Yes,” Vaniok says needlessly, since both of them can see the name in large letters, “this is it.” Still, when he pulls off the street and drives up to the entrance to the mall, he realizes he isn’t ready for this yet. Now that they’re here it seems only seconds ago that they raised their glasses of the amber-colored liquor in Jory’s apartment, only seconds since Vaniok sat in Royall’s office looking at the picture of his supervisor with his dark hair. All along Vaniok has been expecting this moment, he’s tried to prepare himself for it; now it’s come upon him surprisingly. Wasn’t it only seconds ago too that he stood on the loading dock waiting for the truck’s tailgate to come down? Here at the mall there’s a bright buzz of shoppers on the sunny walk; under the elaborate archway people emerge from the air-conditioned interior carrying bags of clothes, toys, electronic appliances. When Vaniok brings the car to a stop, Jory shakes his hand quickly and steps out to get his luggage from the back seat. As the door closes behind his countryman, Vaniok realizes with astonishment: this is the end, this is over. Seconds later Jory is at the window. “Goodbye,” he says. “Good luck. Thanks for the ride. And please thank Ila for the use of her car.”
“And good luck to you too,” Vaniok answers. Though there’s so much to say their vocabulary seems to be reduced to a handful of the simplest words. “Good luck,” Vaniok repeats. Jory nods his acknowledgement and sets out toward the entrance of the mall. Vaniok watches him. Carrying his two small bags, he looks as though he’s going to exchange them for some of the merchandise on sale at the many shops inside. His tall frame and stiff gait make him recognizable until at last the door opens and he disappears into the crowd.
Well, that’s over, Vaniok thinks as he drives out of the mall’s parking lot. He retraces his route down the street and finds his way without trouble to the highway that leads back toward the university town. Jory is gone and soon Ila will be gone, he thinks. They’re both going and I’m staying. Things are happening to them and I’m being left behind. The thought brings a shiver of panic. Cars and trucks hurtle by and Vaniok realizes that he’s driving very slowly. Sun glints off of moving metallic surfaces, large green signs come into view, showing distances to places he doesn’t even know; the car shudders in the wake of a passing bus. I’m in a strange land, he thinks. I’m going to be buried here. His hands are trembling and he grips the wheel fiercely. Oh, my God, he thinks, recognizing that he’s terrified.
A truck’s horn sounds behind him, jolting him into alertness—the wide chrome brow of the big vehicle fills his rear view mirror, and he pushes his foot down on the accelerator. Yes, he recognizes as the car belatedly responds, he’s alone, he’s in a strange place; but he’s able to think that thought, to acknowledge it and to continue breathing, continue moving. He’s strong enough to be able to deal with this; he’s done this before. Most of his life he’s been used to thinking of himself as not very forceful, the younger brother who has to give way before his elders. And he has given way. He remembers countless talks with Ranush about it. So many times he’d had plans and at the last minute he’d had to set them aside because one of his brothers had more important business. It’s nothing, Ranush assured him. It’s natural but it will pass. Being able to give way, being able to change your plans at the last minute, that was a strength, Ranush said. None of us is strong all the time, he’d say, but mostly we’re strong enough. And Ranush was right: Vaniok has survived. He’s been strong enough to survive experiences he’d never believed he could endure. In fact he’s stronger n
ow than he was only months ago when Jory first arrived. It’s true that he’s staying here while the others are leaving but it may be that he’s changed more than either Jory or Ila. Staying doesn’t mean staying the same. Ranush would understand that.
Ila’s old car roars as it moves down the highway. Vaniok drives swiftly now, passing cars and trucks, fearing no policeman this time. He takes satisfaction in the skill with which he negotiates his way across the multilaned highway, he’s pleased in spite of the sense of emptiness he feels knowing that his countryman is gone—but then, it’s possible for both feelings to exist at once. And now as he drives toward the university town, images begin to seep into that emptiness. When he was drinking with Jory he remembered a moment from the homeland but he hadn’t been able to identify it. Now it comes to him: the last of Old Ferik’s parties before the Thirteen Days. Old Ferik’s party. How much younger he was then. He remembers the clang of horseshoes, the soft feel of the deep grass underfoot, laughter coming from the shade of willows, a young priest singing a patriotic song. Then there was Lora: he and she had stood on a dock and watched a fighter plane move over the still waters of the lake. All of this is with him now and here on the highway he feels what he felt then, the mystery and excitement of an uncertain future.
When Vaniok returns her car and tells her about Jory, Ila offers to drive him home but he says he’d rather walk. It’s clear the two of them want to be by themselves this evening and Ila is grateful for his understanding. Alone in her room, thinking about her time with Jory, she can’t help feeling like the villain in the piece. Yes, finally he wasn’t able to pull free of his memories of the homeland but hadn’t she seen that from the beginning? Did she venture upon this relationship only to satisfy her curiosity, was Jory only an experiment of hers? Maybe knowing him was simply her way of vicariously living in the capital. She knows that’s too simple a statement but it hurts anyway. She cared for Jory, she still cares for him very much, maybe for a time she believed he could actually change, but in the end their relationship was impossible. It’s not contemptible to try at something and fail. But her thoughts turn to Jory: she remembers the set of his shoulders when she first met him, remembers his hesitant smile. Where is he going now, what satisfaction can he find on that island with the man Fotor that he told her about? Oh, God, she prays, may he find his way back to the homeland.
The 14th Day Page 26