STRÜCKNER: Me? [The sound of a smirk.] Well, yes. Occasionally, Wells would call me “Aeschylus.” I don’t know why.
A.: Mr. Strückner, do you know that Ambrose left a message for you on his desk?
[A second’s lapse.]
STRÜCKNER: How do you know?
A.: I saw the envelope. Did you decipher the message inside?
STRÜCKNER: I destroyed the message; how do you know it was encoded? Did Mr. Knox tell you about this?
A.: No, I know because I saw the envelope, and Aeschylus was the key word. Or wasn’t it?
STRÜCKNER: [Sigh.] Yes, it was. A simple alphabetical code. Mr. Wells used to exchange notes like that with Mr. Ford; he showed me how it worked.
A.: So you deciphered it.
STRÜCKNER: Yes, I did.
A.: But you never followed the instructions.
STRÜCKNER: I couldn’t. The message referred me to the safe in his office, but I don’t know the combination.
A.: He didn’t mean the safe. The message said, “Check behind the Van Krugge,” didn’t it? He left a letter for you hidden behind the painting.
STRÜCKNER: Wh— Oh, God.
A.: Could you go get it, Niamh? Don’t worry, sir; Ambrose is to blame. He tended to overcomplicate things.
STRÜCKNER: How stupid of me. That’s what Mr. Knox was looking for.
A.: Uh … this Mr. Knox, was he friends with Ambrose too?
STRÜCKNER: Oh, yes. They met quite regularly. He lives in Lawrenceville. I phoned him the day Ambrose died and he drove here right away.
A.: Thanks, Niamh. Mr. Strückner, this is … This is Ambrose Wells’ letter to you.
[Paper unfolding.]
Uh … We’ll take this to the kitchen and leave you with it. Come on.
[Teacups board a tray and the porcelain tremor moves away, along with the footsteps, and both are shut behind a massive door. Only the pattering remains.]
[A couple minutes drop by.]
[Sniffing. Paper crumples delicately beside the voice recorder; in the background, softer than the rain, perhaps higher above, air flows jerkily around a bulky throat lump, muffled behind long-fingered hands.]
[Door opens; A.’s voice approaching.]
A.: Would you fancy some whiskey, Mr. Strückner? We found a bottle.
STRÜCKNER: No. [Sniffs hard, for reassurance.] No, I’m okay.
A.: I’m sorry, sir. I know you lost much more than an employer.
STRÜCKNER: It’s okay. He … [Sigh.] Most thought of him as a hermit, on account of the last years. But I think he saw so much more than most men could ever dream of.
[A chair sighs, relieved.]
Well, uh … I think I should be going if I’m to be in Washington for the night.
A.: Mr. Strückner, there’s something I must ask you. You surely have read the bit about the book. We haven’t been able to find that book.
STRÜCKNER: That book …
[Paper unfolding, once again … ]
I really don’t know what he’s talking about.
[Anticlimax.]
A.: Well, it seems there is a book you used to read by a tree.
STRÜCKNER: That I used to read? I don’t remember ever reading in the woods.
A.: It was a children’s book. Maybe something you and Ambrose read together …
STRÜCKNER: We never read together.
A.: Or something you borrowed from the library …
STRÜCKNER: No, no, you don’t understand. When I first came here, I didn’t speak a word of English. I had been living with my mother in Aarau; I learned English working here. I used to play with Ambrose because … Well, because children just get along, that’s why, but we could hardly talk to each other back then, let alone read together.
[An untimely thunder comes rumbling along—one that might have fit better at some other key point in the dialogue.]
A.: So these letters …
STRÜCKNER: I’m sorry; I don’t know what he’s talking about. [Voice grows distant as he stands up again.] Look, you have both been very kind, but I fear the storm may get worse, so I need to—
A.: Wouldn’t you rather stay for the night and leave tomorrow? I don’t think it’s safe out there. Your room is just how you left it.
STRÜCKNER: Again, it is very kind of you, but I only have Sundays to myself; I must be back in my new house first thing tomorrow. You know. A butler’s job.
A.: Oh, now that you mention the job … Niamh? I think this belongs to you now, sir.
STRÜCKNER: Oh. [Chuckle.] Oh, God.
A.: As Ambrose wished. I think it’s worth some money.
STRÜCKNER: Oh, I know it is. I was there while he was bidding on the phone.
A.: Yeah, that sounds like him. Whatever it takes to hide an ugly safe.
STRÜCKNER: Thank you. Really, thank you.
A.: You think you could retire with that?
STRÜCKNER: Well I … I don’t know. [An insufficient pause to think. Amused:] God, I don’t know. I wouldn’t know what to do, really. I’ve been looking after richer people all my life.
A.: Well … Whether you retire or not, if you don’t care to have rich people around … Well, you’ll always have a room and a job here. And we don’t need much looking after; we have surprisingly low hygiene standards.
STRÜCKNER: [Laughs.]
A.: What I mean to say is, if you want a job, you’ll have one. And if you plan to retire … Well, this is your family’s house as much as mine.
STRÜCKNER: Sir. Please don’t take this the wrong way. But the memories I have from this house are … hard. And … your eyes tell me you will need some looking after.
A.: I have Niamh. Don’t worry about me.
STRÜCKNER: Too late, sir. I worry. It’s my job. But I wish you two the best.
A.: Thanks, Mr. Strückner. It’s been a pleasure.
STRÜCKNER: Likewise.
[Handshake.]
Miss. A pleasure to meet you.
[Writing. Reading.]
Oh, thank you! That’s so sweet of you. Thank you very much.
[All voices walk away from the microphone.]
A.: Please promise if you ever drive by you’ll pay us a visit.
STRÜCKNER: I can’t promise that I’ll wander this far, but if I do, you promise me that I’ll find you in good shape.
[Distant voices fade in their own echoes in the hall. A door opens far away. In the immediate surroundings of the microphone, the gale never gets tired.]
[A minute after: A car starts beneath the rain, grinding the gravel, and speeds away.]
[Another minute after: A distant door closes.]
[Footsteps approach, along with a pencil scratching on paper.]
A.: Yes, I know.
[One pair of footsteps comes closer and plonks down on the sofa, next to the microphone.]
[A few piano notes fall like lazy raindrops. It’s Sinéad O’Connor’s “John I Love You.”]
[A deep breath. Paper unfolds, very slowly.]
[Muttering.] “That wonderful book of our childhood …”
[“I let tears fall like rain / Apple-sized they were / All over her …”]
“You used to read by a tree …”
[“And through all of those times / When you could have died / This is what you find …”]
A book you used to read …
[“There’s life outside your mother’s garden …”]
By a tree …
[“There’s life beyond your wildest dreams …”]
By … a … tree …
[“There hasn’t been any explosion / We’re not spinning like—”]
SHIT!!!
[Piano stops on an off-tune, quizzical note; rain doesn’t. Voice and footsteps stampede away.]
Quick, car keys! Before he reaches the highway!
[Hurried steps out of the room; door opens to the gale, door slams.]
[…]
[Door opens again.]
NIAMH: [Very loud calling whistle.]
&nb
sp; [Footsteps come closer: Niamh grabs the voice recorder. Much distorted noise accompanying the following sounds: sliding on wooden floor, impatient whistles, a dog sprinting downstairs, the loudest downpour ever, rubber shoes and paws on flooded gravel for about ten seconds, a car door opening and closing, muffling the storm down to a loud surrounding drumroll.]
A.: Help, in the back. In the back.
[The voice recorder tumbles onto the backseat and crashes somewhere on the car floor. Engine starts. Something fluffy shakes.]
Yeah, good place to do that, Help, thank you.
[The Audi speeds up. Seat belts fastening.]
It’s not just a cipher. It’s a pun. Hurry up; let’s hope he found a roadblock!
[A loud screech; the rain drumroll grows irregular again as gusts of wind alter its pattern.]
[Five minutes of reckless driving follow.]
Roadblock! There he is; he’s pulling back!
[Car horn. Noise; doors open; the rain is tumbling down like buildings; wind gusts shouting past. Voices are almost inaudible.]
[A car window lowers.]
A.: How would you spell “by a tree”?
STRÜCKNER: What?!
A.: In German! You used to read the book “by a tree” because you spoke German; how would a German spell “by a tree”?!
[Thunder crashing like a train through a mall.]
STRÜCKNER: Uh … “Bei,” bee, e, i … Er … “A tree” … I don’t know; it’d be pretty close to English!
A.: What’s German for tree?
STRÜCKNER: “Baum,” but— OH, GOD DAMN—
Sorry.
A.: What?
STRÜCKNER: Baum! L. Frank Baum! The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is the book that was written by a “tree”!
NOVEMBER 20
A.’S DIARY
* * *
Actually, L. Frank Baum set fourteen books in the fantasyland of Oz, and he wrote another forty-one novels, many of which are represented in Axton House’s library. This we found out in the catalog, immediately after a wordless drive home and a straight march through the front door and into the library, all three of us in our dripping coats—no, all four of us in our dripping coats: Help was there too.
It was Niamh’s idea that led us to the right book: She went for the one on the highest shelf, which people shorter than Strückner would have missed. She climbed on my shoulders to get it.
It was The Magical Monarch of Mo, a 1930 edition with original illustrations by Frank Ver Beck. This I caught only after leafing through it twice. By the third time, when Strückner had joined us on the iron balcony, we noticed the trick: Several groups of pages were glued together on the margins, forming three different pockets. By then we were breathing easily enough to use a letter opener and spare the book some damage. Shaking all the books in the library, in the end, would have produced nothing.
It was at this point, once we had laid three sealed envelopes on the library desk and Niamh was wielding the opener in her hand, that Strückner’s sense of butlerdom got over the excitement:
“Well,” he said, “curious as I am, we are not supposed to read them.”
Niamh and I exchanged looks. I told Strückner he was absolutely right. So we put them in the drawer and I instructed Niamh to post them tomorrow in the morning together with our daily letter to Aunt Liza.
To which she nived in acquiescence.
And, of course, she never carried it out.
Next morning we woke up extra early to wave Strückner good-bye once again. He’d called in the night before, apologizing for the inconvenience, as if being delayed by tornadoes were an unforgivable license.
The postapocalyptic dawn after the storm was astounding. Even by American standards.
As soon as the car disappeared into the graying woods, we raced upstairs and tore open the letters.
LETTER
* * *
Axton House
Point Bless, VA
Dr. V. Belknap
402 Lafayette St.
Midburg, VA 26900
Dear Dr. Belknap,
I am truly sorry to inform you that unfortunately I will not be able to continue with our sessions. Health problems forbid me to take the long drive to Midburg anymore, even on a quarterly basis.
Please believe me when I say that I resent terminating our professional (and may I add, on my behalf, friendly) relationship in such an abrupt way. Not only because our sessions, I realize, were more fruitful than my incurable cynicism implied, but because even as an excuse for a day out, I enjoyed them. I enjoyed the long drive, the cozy little café below your office, and above all the sixty minutes of conversation with you. As I travel down the road of life and my body and mind pay the toll, to fix the rapidly wrecking parts becomes less of a priority than it is to appreciate what is left. Therefore I hereby thank you for so efficiently treating my most urgent condition: self-involvement and boredom.
On a personal note, and only if you care to continue our talks on dreams and such, will you allow me to recommend you some literature? Try U. Bianchi’s article in the June 1968 issue of Mind & Beyond magazine, and if you tolerate his views, check the bibliography—particularly J. Kuttner and I. Dänemarr. I caught you kindly repressing a sneer at these names when I mentioned them, but it is not as a patient in need of comprehension that I quote them now, but as a friend. Take them, if you will, as a memento from your doubtlessly most trivial case.
Yours sincerely,
Ambrose Gabriel Wells
LETTER
* * *
2/14/1995
Axton House
Point Bless, VA
Mr. Curtis Knox
120 Vaughan St.
Lawrenceville, VA 23868
Dear Curtis,
By the time this letter reaches you, you will know what became of me better than I do now. I dare to assert so because you are Socrates, and we both know Socrates don’t travel much. Other years I chose a different opening—for I have been rewriting this letter every year since 1974, usually around my birthday. (I always trusted that I would not leave in winter, at the beginning of a new campaign. Although I do fear, every once in a while, especially on the nights before the meetings, while Strückner oversees the lodgings, that some year, maybe not this one, hopefully not the next, but some year, it will be so dreadful that we will not last a single night. I never brought that up, but I do think about it. I wonder if you do.)
But I beg your pardon: I digress. As you will surely have guessed, this is not a suicide note. At the time of writing this I do not intend to put an end to my life. I am writing it because I fear that the end may be put.
If so, some issues must be addressed. Our Society must be taken care of. As a Member, I am expected to bring a replacement. As a Host, I am bound to set a new course. As our Historian, you shall be entrusted with my posthumous vote on the fate of the Society. And my vote is this: Dissolve it.
Yes, I know what you are thinking: I am a hypocrite. Indeed I am. I have been for twenty-one years. Every February I pen an anxious caveat about our activities and I exhort you not to celebrate another meeting. And yet, once the meeting approaches and my letter goes unread, I say go on, encore!, one more year! Simply put, I want you all to end this game only because I can’t play anymore.
It is true, Curtis. I am a lousy loser. But since I know you are not callous enough to just dismiss a letter from the dead, I might as well try to justify my stand.
First, I am a Wells. As you well know, my position grants me a few privileges. As the Host, I call the meetings. Members report to me. The Archives lie with me. My grandfather Horace was among the first players. Were it not for him, this fellowship would have no reason to exist; we would not meet; we would sleep at night; we would live peacefully in ignorance. A Wells began this game; a Wells may be given the chance to end it.
Second, I am childless. Which leads you all into a position the Society has historically avoided: a succession debate. Nobody challenged my grandfat
her when he willed the reins to his son. And when my father forgot to write a will, nobody objected to Stillwall becoming my teacher and putting the reins in my hands. (Have you considered, by the way, that my father, who actually committed suicide, never left a note? Have you considered that his act too was an attempt to dissolve the Society?)
Third, I am dead. And here is what my father failed to make you all see. He probably felt as I feel now, the same way we all feel in bad years. But he took his own life. So the Game didn’t do it, we all thought.
Well, not this time, Curtis. The Game has taken my life. The Game is responsible. As it was for Spears, Lutz, Dagenais … Must I go on?
All this you can transmit to the Members for discussion. You can borrow the red notebook in the left top drawer in the study on the third floor for their contact details, together with my key to the Archives, which are yours to do with as you see fit. I have always admired your oratory, Curtis; I am sure the debate will result in the Society taking the course you support, no matter what it is. However, the Key to the continuity of the Society I am entrusting to the Secretary. This is only to ensure that there will be a debate.
I know I am not posing any problem that the nineteen of you cannot overcome. New situations call for new measures, and our Society has wonderful improvisation skills. We are not bound by laws carved in stone, after all. It’s just a bourgeois pastime.
Good-bye, my friend.
Yours truthfully,
Ambrose Gabriel Wells
LETTER
* * *
[To Caleb Ford in Clayboro, Virginia]
NIAMH’S NOTEPAD
* * *
The Supernatural Enhancements Page 9