From the Teeth of Angels

by Jonathan Carroll

  By the time he stopped, I was hugging him as hard as I could. We stayed there so long. And then he said, “I want to go to Italy. I want to go with you. Will you go with me?”

  WYATT AND ARLEN

  I looked at Wyatt and thought of him for a moment as Finky Linky, the vibrant, funny man who’d made a million kids laugh and think. More than anything in the world, I wanted him to be Finky Linky now—full of magic and solutions, capable of flicking a wrist and saving both of us from what was already happening. His eyes met mine but fell away quickly, as if he were guilty of some crime. He was only a man, a sick man who had come to my house because he was as scared and confused as I was about what had happened. I sighed and worked up as much of a smile as I could find.

  Before the conversation began, I’d put things on the table. I wanted to look at them as I spoke so that I’d remember everything. The brown leather dog leash, the blue baseball cap, and of course the photograph. Where would my story be without that? I’d brought it to the table along with the other things, but turned it face down so that he couldn’t see what was there until I was ready. “Wyatt, do you remember the first time I saw you at the Hilton? The day you arrived in Vienna with your friend?”

  “Yes. It was such a surprise to see you.”

  “That was the happiest time of my entire life. Forget the career, the fame, and all the rest. Right then was it. I’ve thought about it so much since, and even with everything that’s happened, that was the best. My heart was full of absolute pure joy. I’ve never been more exactly where I wanted to be. With a man who was compelling and marvelous. I totally believed in him and what was possible between us, even with his sickness hanging over us like a black radiation cloud. Still! We were going to Italy because he wanted to be with me. Finally. When I saw you I wasn’t surprised at all. It was just another great thing. Hey, there’s Wyatt Leonard, isn’t that nice? Know what else? Know how sometimes when you’re having a great time, you can’t help wondering when it’s going to end? When’s the bad going to come back? That never happened. For, I don’t know, two weeks, I was utterly fulfilled and satisfied. There was nothing more I wanted from life. And I didn’t wonder whether I was worthy or when it was going to end, or why this wonderful thing was happening to me. It just was and I flowed with it and thanked God twenty times a day.”

  “God?” Wyatt snorted and said the word archly.

  I looked my friend in the eye. “Yes. You want me to say there is no God after what’s happened, but I won’t. I don’t understand any of it, but I do believe that if there’s one of them, then there’s got to be the other.”

  “Strayhorn says there is only Life and Death.”

  “But Phil’s not a very reliable source, is he?” I tried to keep my voice steady but it cracked at the end of the sentence.

  “Tell me the whole thing, Arlen. I want to hear it all. I have to.”

  “I know, I’m getting there. But I’ve got to tell this my way, or else I’ll get confused. So, we met you at the hotel and then took the bus to the airport. We would’ve taken my car, but Leland said we shouldn’t because he had no idea when we’d be back, and parking might end up costing a fortune. Such a zip of electricity went up my back when I heard that! He didn’t know when we’d get back. Everything was up in the air, everything up for grabs. Neither of us had any plans beyond each other, and we were pushing everything else away. People talk about just picking up and going, but they never do it. Too dangerous, too much at stake. But the hell with dangerous! We were going to try, so don’t take the car to the airport ‘cause we don’t know when we’ll be back. Moments like that make you want to shout and throw your arms in the air. And there were so many moments those days when I’d really gasp at the intensity of something, or a chill would freeze me with excitement and anticipation.

  “The things Leland said and the way he saw life got more and more interesting the longer we were together. The man knew things, and you wanted to hear all of his opinions. On the plane to Italy we talked about politics and love, food, travel. Every time we got talking, it just got richer and fuller, no matter what. He knew so much and could express it so well; put a whole new spin on a subject so your head would be vibrating and reeling at the same time.

  “Another thing was his incredible ability to listen and retain everything you said. Do you know what a compliment it is when someone brings up something trivial you said but forgot four days ago? The man remembered it all! Even the way he listened…

  “There was a beautiful young stewardess on the plane who was obviously interested in him, but he didn’t even tip her a nod. She kept trying to bat her big eyes and make contact, but it was funny, because he ignored her and kept listening to me.”

  “Well, you’re also known by half the world as a pretty good-looking woman yourself, Alien.”

  “Sure, but this was different. He wasn’t paying attention because he wanted to seduce me. He knew he had that if he wanted it. No, he was interested in what I was saying. He wanted to hear. That’s a whole other thing and such a compliment! Anyway, isn’t that what love boils down to in the end? I want to listen to you; what you have to say matters to me. I believe it is. I even started laughing once and told him the way the two of us were always head to head gabbing away must make us look like two little kids sharing secrets. And who listens more carefully to a kid than his buddy?

  “Florence was lovely, but it didn’t matter where we were. We went sightseeing and ate in restaurants Leland had heard about. My main memories of those days, though, were walking and talking and the heat. It was so hot that we’d walk a while, then plop down in outdoor cafés and order ice-cold Cokes. I’ve never liked Coca-Cola so much in my life. Usually they brought it to you by the glass, but if you were lucky they gave you the bottle and a glass. That way, before you poured it out, you could roll the cold bottle across your forehead or up and down each arm first. It was as refreshing as the drink itself. Walking and conversation and cold Coke.

  “One day we took a bus to Siena. It was overcast and cooler. By afternoon it was misting rain. We climbed to the top of the fourteenth-century tower in the middle of that incredible town square, and no one was up there but us. Leland described the famous horse races they hold there every summer. The Palio. How Siena’s divided into districts and each has its special name for the race—Eagle, Giraffe, Caterpillar, Goose.”

  “Did he ever touch you when you were there?”

  “Never. He wouldn’t even hold my hand unless I took his. Ever since he told me about being sick he’d been wary of any kind of physical contact between us. That was the strange part—there was so much passion and intensity crackling between us, but so little physical contact. As if we were both naked and mad to touch, but separated by a thick piece of glass. Frustrating, but in a way delicious too. I felt like a virtuous teenager in love for the first time and dying to do it, but the boy respected me and agreed I should be a virgin when I get married. That was mostly from his side; I wanted the contact bad.”

  “Would you have actually slept with him? A man who was HIV positive?”

  “I don’t know, to be totally honest with you. Pure suicide, huh? I thought if it happened, we’d deck ourselves out with double condoms and spermicides . . . maximum safety, but who was I kidding? It was insane, and so was I for him after a while. Who knows.”

  “You loved him that much?”

  “Sometimes I’d look at him and couldn’t breathe. Sometimes I felt I was being crushed from inside by my swelling heart.

  “Anyway, after Italy we flew to London because he wanted to show me things there he loved. It was terrific. More bliss, more great days together.

  “Only one curious thing happened while we were there, which didn’t amount to much, so I basically ignored it. I love roses and somehow that came out when we were in London. One day we split up to do separate errands. When I got back to his apartment, he wasn’t there but a giant bouquet of yellow and white roses was sitting on the kitchen table. Pr
opped against it was a note in his handwriting: ‘I think we are not only a secret place but also a dangerous place. It’s a world so beautiful, so pure, that now that we’ve gone inside, we have two problems. First, how can we bear all this beauty and stay alive? And second, how will we ever manage to get out and keep living in the ordinary world?’

  “Any other time, flowers and a note like that would have sent me over the moon. Instead, I put it down, frowned, and didn’t know whether to be upset or feel even sorrier for the guy. I stared at the gorgeous flowers and, after a while, walked into his bedroom for the proof I knew was there.

  “As I’d expected, he lived very modestly in London except for the books and music. His entire apartment was floor-to-ceiling shelves for the most colossal collection of books, records, and CDs. They were done in this beautiful honey-colored oak, and he must have spent a fortune on them, because the apartment was oddly shaped in many places and the shelves were custom-fitted into just about every available nook and cranny. And needed to be, because they all were packed to the brim. There was no order either, which surprised me, because other book collectors or audio freaks I know are absolutely gaga for order. But Leland’s collection was everywhere. Books, records, and CDs were all together helter-skelter and since there were so many—thousands of each—it would have taken a hell of a long time to find something. When I asked him about it he said he rarely wanted to read or listen to specific things. He was a browser, responded to a mood, and liked nothing better than roaming around his shelves and discovering what was there. He chuckled and said sometimes he’d even buy something, bring it home, put it on the shelf, and forget it. Then he’d rediscover it with new delight days or even weeks later. It made sense. His life was spent going from one deadly situation to another. At home, why not relax and let everything have its spontaneous way? He’d known so much horrible riot; at least here the riot was enjoyable.

  “But I knew what I was looking for and exactly where it was. A few days before I’d been looking through the books and come across a novel called Minotaur by Benjamin Tammuz, a writer I’d never heard of. It was short, and since I was waiting for Leland to come home, I’d sat down and read it straight through. I liked it very much, and one memorable passage in particular: the one I had just read on the note pinned to the flowers. Having received his many postcards from Yugoslavia, I was used to his quoting from things he was reading. But he always put the name of the work and the author’s name afterward so that if I liked it, I could read the book too. I took it for granted that anything else on those cards were Leland’s own thoughts, which was great because I usually liked them more than the quotes.

  “I remembered where the Tammuz was and took it down from the shelf. Skimming through, I found the passage. With the exception of a few words, the lines were exactly the same as on his card. I put the book back and went into the kitchen to cut the stems on the flowers and place them in a larger vase. After that, I kept trying to push the thought away but couldn’t. When he came in a few hours later, the first thing I said was how much I loved both the flowers and his quote. He said he was glad. That’s all. It made something in me cringe. What if everything he’d written to me was someone else’s? What if none of those canny, moving, funny lines, insights, observations were his? The possibility made me feel sorry for him, then ashamed I’d ever asked. But I had, and that was that. I remember looking at one of the bookcases as if it were to blame, as if it held the real culprit. I’m sure too that on my face was the blush of a person caught looking through a keyhole or going through someone else’s drawers.”

  “Arlen! Why would you feel guilty? He was the guilty one. He was lying.”

  “That’s a big word. And come on, Wyatt, you know the rules—whoever says I love you first, loses. This was a double whammy—I told him I loved him first, but then was also the first to discover he was lying in a pathetic way. I felt guilty and hurt but didn’t know if I had any reason to feel either. It was all very strange.

  “Anyway, maybe because of that, I started feeling itchy to get back to Vienna and quietly suggested it to him. He could do whatever he wanted—come with me, or stay in London and then come over. But he seemed to like my suggestion, and a day later we flew back. Neither of us knew how things would work out or what exactly we were going to do, but I fully believed that our being as happy as we were with each other would take care of problems. He agreed. We’d do it one day at a time and whenever there was even the slightest anything, we’d face it square on.

  “I’ve never had so much fun hanging around with any man. We cooked together and walked and watched TV and he told me anything I wanted to know about him. We talked about high school and old flames and what we felt about our parents. He said just when we grow up enough to begin forgiving them for whatever happened when we were young, we have to get used to pitying them. I thought it a strange comment, and then the question raced nastily across my mind: Was it his thought or something he’d read? I said nothing, but it returned later to hit me on the back of the head like an iron boomerang.

  “Every morning we followed the same routine. He’d get up first and wake me. Then he’d take Minnie out for a walk in the vineyards while I made breakfast. At his request his breakfast was always the same—bacon and eggs because that was the first meal I’d ever cooked for him.

  “Usually they came back in a fluster because they’d had an adventure—seen a deer grazing, or Minnie had taken off over the hills and Leland had had to chase her. He never seemed to mind. They loved each other, and whenever he sat down on the couch, she’d follow and climb right onto his lap. He was very sweet to her, and sometimes when I was out of a room I’d hear him talking to her as if she were human. I liked that too about him—liked knowing he enjoyed the dog as much as I did and didn’t see her as any kind of imposition.

  “And then she… died.” My throat closed quickly and I had to stand up. My chest heaved and in a second I was crying hard. “She just died.”

  Wyatt got up and put his arms around me. Such a nice man, but no arms would have done any good then. All I could think of was that dear, dear animal and what a good friend she’d been. How she brought her chew bone to my feet and said with happy eyes, “Let’s play! Throw it!” Or the time she was sleeping on the couch and, shifting, slid slowly down and onto the floor without ever waking. How slobbily she ate food but didn’t like to be watched when she was outside doing her business. How gentle and sweet she was.

  “That sunny morning she had staggered through the door, blood pouring out of her mouth. She collapsed on the floor and had one last, agonizing seizure. It was over so fast.

  “As Leland ran in shouting for her, she twitched a few times and then was still. She’d been nosing around something, he said, but then she’d put whatever it was in her mouth and began eating it. Seeing that, he went after her to get it away, but she ran off toward home, delighted to be naughty right in front of him.

  “Poison. Poisoned meat. The veterinarian in Klosterneuburg, the man who’d given her her rabies shot and told me what to feed her, pulled off his rubber gloves and threw them onto the examining table in total disgust. Sometimes it happened. Sometimes an animal hater bought a nice piece of meat, laced it with poison, and put it where he knew it would be found.

  “I was destroyed. Yet even in the darkest, saddest moments I thanked God Leland was there. He took over everything and gave me all the space and time I needed in which to grieve. And though he was wholly there, most of the time he stayed invisible. But somehow he also sensed when I needed him in the room with me. Then he’d hold my hand and talk to me, and from the things he said, I knew her death was as terrible to him as it was to me. I had nothing but pain inside, so he supplied all the other necessities for both of us—love, strength all around, and a solidness that I couldn’t get enough of. What must it be like to lose a child? How in his own fear and failing health did he find the strength and goodness to keep me afloat? Are there really such precious people on earth? Here
was one. He was proof.

  “I thought I’d loved him before, Wyatt, but after Minnie died and he saved me, whatever I felt before was absolutely nothing compared to this. Do you know what a shochet is?”

  “A what?”

  “A shochet. That’s a kosher butcher. You know, the Jews do their slaughtering very differently. The whole procedure is done in a way so the animal feels no pain. They use a knife called a chalef, which means ‘sharp-no-nick.’ Another way of translating it is ‘that which from life to death transforms.’

  “What are you talking about, Arlen?”

  I could see concern in his eyes, as if he were afraid my sanity had begun to wobble.

  “They’re important words, and they’ll mean a lot when I’ve finished telling you the whole story. ‘Shochet’ and ‘chalef.’ ”

  “Shochet and chalef. Okay.”

  “You know the saying ‘Never get comfortable till you hear the other shoe drop?’ I was still staggering from Minnie’s death when Leland came in a few mornings later with the mail. There was a large manila envelope from my uncle Len Mira in West Lafayette; he was my mother’s brother, and I hadn’t heard from him in years. Inside was a small, thick leather book with the word DIARY in gold letters on the cover. There was also a note from Len saying it was Mother’s. Dad had sent it to him years before, right after Mom’s death. He said he was getting on now, and though he’d never read it because he didn’t think it was any of his business, he thought I should have the book.”