Forgetfulness

by Ward Just

  He lived a spare life, occupied mostly by his work. During the cold weather he worked in the big downstairs room making portraits. He thought that before he was through he would draw everyone he had ever known or heard of. These included many self-portraits, himself as a young man and later on, at fifty and sixty. In a number of these, remarkably, Thomas saw the pentimento of his father. Arthur Malan thought enough of the work that he proposed a show in New York.

  You've turned some kind of corner, Arthur said. I'm damned if I know what it is, but whatever it is, you've turned it.

  It would be good if you'd come to the city, do some interviews, make nice.

  It wouldn't kill you, Arthur said. We'll see, Thomas said.

  When the weather was tolerable Thomas spent adventurous afternoons drawing his pier. The sign at the end of it read DANGER DANGER UNSAFE PIER KEEP OFF THIS MEANS YOU but everyone knew to stay clear. The pier listed drunkenly as it fought the breeze and the tides but it was unsafe in any weather. An August storm had wrenched the mooring yet again. The wood was rotten underfoot, causing alarming gaps in the planking. Still, if it gave way the fall wasn't much, five feet into a fathom of cold water, and it served you right for ignoring the sign.

  One bright afternoon in early September Thomas picked his way the twenty yards from the shore to the end of the pier, where he set down a camp stool and a canvas beach bag. The pier shuddered in the wind, a pleasant sensation, as if the pier and the ocean surge were one. Thomas stood glowering in the weightless afternoon sunlight listening to the waves and the screech of gulls diving for bait fish. His ears were ringing and he moved his jaws to clear them. This was not successful but he didn't expect it to be. He had hay fever or some other allergy. Perhaps it was only the wind. Either way, the ringing continued, a nagging companion that wouldn't leave him alone. He flexed his fingers, a pianist preparing a recital. Down the beach a man and a woman—the Duffields from the look of them—gathered their belongings and began the slow march to the parking lot behind the rocks and the shallow dune. Thomas's eyesight had worsened over the past year and the sun's glare made him squint but he gave a friendly wave. If they weren't the Duffields they were the Maxwells or the Lunds, neighbors all. Then he saw the man was speaking into a cell phone. Lund.

  The beach was empty now. Thomas maneuvered his camp chair to a solid section of the planking where he could sit comfortably with his back against a piling. He rested quietly a moment looking at the meandering line of the old pier, almost as old as he was. On the island all structures came with a history, sometimes more than one. Duffield and his father had built the pier during the Second World War. In those years, theirs was the only house on that stretch of the north shore, a modest cape heated by woodstoves and lit by kerosene lamps. They built the pier as a mooring for their two dinghies and as a place to fish from and also for the aesthetics, a hand-built pier in Maine being the equivalent of an olive grove in Jerusalem. Duffield was a retired banker from Boston who kept the house as he had known it as a boy, except for the addition of indoor plumbing and electricity. Those were his concessions to the modern world. Now there were half a dozen houses hereabouts, including the Lund monster, visible at the summit of Hall's Hill, with stables, a swimming pool, and a Le Corbusier–inspired main house, seven thousand square feet of bad taste and megalomania. At dusk the sun's rays collided with the picture window, transforming it into a blinding wall of fire. What redeemed the Lunds was their daughter Tina, a sprite aged fourteen, lovely to look at, nonstop talker. Tina usually arrived unannounced, scampering across the shaky planks like a circus acrobat, settling at the edge of the pier, her legs dangling, commencing a rapid-fire monologue. She was on the outs with her parents. Her mother disapproved of her boyfriend. The dope, her parents called him. All he wanted to do was run away to New York and start up his rock band and become a star and what was so dopey about that? Will you teach me to draw, Tom? I need something personal in my life.

  Would you say something to them? They'd listen to you.

  They say you're a man of the world. What does that mean, by the way?

  Thomas took a thermos from his beach bag and put that beside him. Next he withdrew a worn square of plywood, then his sketchpad and pens and charcoal stick. He sat with his back to the sea and began to draw the pier, stressing its insecurity as it ran into the stony beach, the dunes and ragged sea grass beyond. A narrow rutted road disappeared into the underbrush and scrub oak of Hall's Hill, a gnarled thicket that in its complexity and antiquity suggested the land mass of Asia, including Lund's preposterous wat. This made a stark and inviting drawing, one of a hundred Thomas had made in the past year. He believed his pier had the personality of a human being, as many faces and as many contradictions, presenting one face in the birth light of early morning, quite another in the afternoon or at dusk. No drawing was identical to any other. When he thought he understood the essence of its character, the pier turned once again and he saw something utterly unexpected, a sudden shift of gravity or of shadow, desire ignited or extinguished. He thought of these shifts as mood swings. The pier aged the way a human being ages, stooped here and there, fragile in the usual places, forgetful, complaining of the cold weather, complaining of neglect or betrayal, pleading that it was being asked to bear too much weight, and all this time remembering its robust and buoyant youth, indomitable under the assault of Atlantic hurricanes. As the afternoon breeze freshened, the arthritic planks trembled and creaked, the coughs of distress sounding like hollow laughter.

  Thomas worked for an hour, oblivious of his surroundings except for the ragged line of the pier, and then his eyes moved to the stony beach, the dune with its eyebrow of grass and the rising rutted road. The wind had shifted to the northwest, bringing with it a damp chill, and behind the chill a low rumble, something close to a feline purr. The unfamiliar sound made Thomas cock his head and listen, and then on the edges of his vision he saw the car easing down Hall's Hill Road. It seemed to come on forever, a stretch Mercedes limousine as long as a boat and as sleek, heeling this way and that as it tipped sideways in the ruts, emerging at last from the trees to level ground.

  The intruder slid silently to a halt in the parking lot. The driver, dressed in black jeans, a Hawaiian shirt, and a baseball cap, alighted and opened the rear door. After a moment a passenger emerged, shaking the creases of his trousers with thumb and forefinger. He looked around and shook his head, apparently making some droll comment because the driver laughed loudly, the sound carrying to the end of the pier where it mingled with the cries of the gulls. Thomas had returned to his sketching, working swiftly because he knew the weather was turning. The passenger removed his blazer and handed it to the driver, who put it inside the car and stood importantly to one side, his rear against the front bumper, arms folded, the baseball cap low over his eyes. He appeared to be scanning the horizon. Then the other rear door opened and a second passenger alighted, this one shorter and stockier than the first, but judging from his demeanor no less bemused by his surroundings.

  Thomas continued to sketch and the visitors made their way slowly over the dune. He could not see them clearly but he knew that neither of them were local—that was obvious from the Mercedes. Islanders favored pickup trucks and clapped-out Dodge Darts except for Lund's Hummer. Thomas guessed that the tall one was yet another urban predator in fitted slacks and a cobalt-blue shirt, a little stooped, painfully thin, moving sluggishly in the soft sand. The other one lagged behind, anonymous. Thomas bent to his sketchpad, concentrating on the gaps in the planking. No doubt his visitors were investment bankers or land speculators privy to the new wisdom, advising clients that island real estate was undervalued so why not take profits from the portfolio and buy something that's here today and here tomorrow, unspoiled real estate with a water view on an island with dependable ferry service, a nine-hole golf course, and a fine state-of-the-art helipad to get you the hell to Portland in case you were infarcted. Two mil, two-five buys you the house with the swimming pool and
the water view. And what fun your young wife will have furnishing the layout. Every week Duffield received letters from real estate brokers begging him to put his house on the market. One of them even showed up at his front door. You won't be sorry, Mr. Duffield, and our splendid seller's environment won't last forever.

  This one, in his Palm Beach duds, his insolent chauffeur, and his Mercedes the size of the Ritz—how did he manage to find the beach, at the terminus of such a difficult and confusing road? The visitor arrived at last at the end of the pier, leaning on the railing, gasping from the exertion. Thomas was squinting in the glare of the sun. He lowered his sketchpad and sat watching the stranger. The rings on his fingers winked in the sunlight. All in all, a stranger to avoid. Thomas picked up his pad, and then it occurred to him that Mr. Palm Beach was in distress.

  He called, Can I help you with anything? The other shook his head but did not look up. He bent to remove his shoes and shake them free of sand.

  What do you want? Private property here, Thomas said in his proprietor's voice. No trespassing, as the signs say.

  The stranger nodded wearily. Evidently this was a story he had heard before.

  And none of it's for sale, Thomas said.

  That so?

  That's so.

  Damn, he said, his voice raised but thin.

  I wish you luck getting that boat up the hill. Then Thomas saw the chauffeur on the crest of the dune, carrying three beach chairs and a wicker basket. The stranger indicated where he should place the chairs, then turned to look directly down the pier where Thomas sat. He stood back and cocked his head, no longer out of breath. The stranger mustered a toothy smile—no one who had seen it once would ever forget it—and gave a jaunty wave of his pale hand.

  Hi, Thomas. Long time no see. Bernhard?

  And look who's here with me. Antoine, all the way from Le Havre.

  Bonjour, Thomas, Antoine said.

  The chauffeur had set up the chairs side by side and was busy opening a bottle of wine. Three glasses rested on the lid of the wicker basket.

  Thomas did not move. Everything about Bernhard was diminished—his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the size of his hands, the thinning hair on his head. They had not seen each other for a year and a half, since parting company at the Café Marine. The shirt that Thomas had thought was cobalt blue was now seen to be navy and not a shirt at all but a tight-fitting sweater. In the glare of the sun he had missed everything; and he had known Bernhard his entire lifetime.

  Thomas picked his way back from the end of the dock, his camp stool in one hand and the beach bag in the other. The wind was up, the dock swaying, his footing uncertain. But in a moment he was stepping over sand, embracing Antoine and putting his hand on Bernhard's shoulder. He could feel slack muscle under Bernhard's skin and bones beneath the muscle. His friend's face was gray. Thomas sat in the chair between Antoine and Bernhard and watched the chauffeur pour wine, then move off down the beach. The breeze caught his shirt, revealing a pistol in a hip holster.

  He said, How are you, Bernhard?

  Bernhard shrugged and gave an approximate smile. What you see is what you get.

  You don't look well, Thomas said.

  I got hit by an express train, Thomas. One minute I was shooting skeet with some friends at the lake, the next minute I was flat on my back. And the minute after that I was in the hospital. A heart attack, can you imagine? You didn't recognize me at first, did you? And I don't wonder. I've lost twenty-five pounds. I can't walk across the room without stopping for breath, though each day it's a little better. I'll be fine. It'll just take a while.

  Ah, Bernhard. I'm sorry.

  A hell of a shock, Bernhard said.

  I can imagine. Does Russ know?

  He does not know. Russ is not good with illness in case you haven't noticed.

  I can tell him, Thomas said.

  No, Bernhard said. Russ is in good nick these days. I think he's going to marry the merry widow from Connecticut. Let him be. Bernhard laughed suddenly, a flash of his old style. He said, Remember how I used to spy on your father's waiting room? I always knew which patients were at the end of the line. A day or two after the express train I looked into the mirror to see what the future would bring, and after a long hard look I knew my time had not come. Now let's talk about something else.

  Thomas shivered and when he looked up he saw fog gathering to the north. He said, Why don't we go up to my place? I'll build a fire. We can talk there, out of the cold.

  In a minute, Bernhard said. I like it here.

  A beautiful place, Antoine said. It reminds me of Bretagne.

  I'm surprised to see you again, Antoine.

  Antoine's working for me now, Bernhard said. Between the two of us we know just about everybody worth knowing in the security industry.

  Thomas said to Antoine, Congratulations, and Antoine smiled bleakly.

  It's quite a business now, Bernhard said. You wouldn't believe the money.

  More work than we can handle, Antoine said. We're in twelve countries, Bernhard said. On three continents, Antoine said.

  Antoine's damn good, Bernhard said. Brought in some French troopers. Beautiful soldiers, good with languages, good with roughhouse. We got one or two from the Foreign Legion who didn't work out, but on the whole, beautiful soldiers.

  The legionnaires were undisciplined, Antoine said.

  Gorillas, Bernhard said. Knuckle-draggers. He paused then, his eyes drooping. He looked up and signaled the chauffeur, who returned in a hurry, rooting around in the hamper and coming up with a black bag from which he extracted two vials. He shook a pill from each vial and handed them to Bernhard, then poured a glass of water. Bernhard said, So we let them go reluctantly because they were good men. But they didn't have a sense of proportion. They ignored protocol. They didn't play well with others. Bernhard threw the pills into his mouth and drank the water.

  Thank you, Leon.

  The chauffeur grunted, closed the bag, and resumed his post, watching the fog crawl in from the north. The harbor foghorn began to sound.

  A fine lad, Bernhard said. Strong as an ox.

  I can see, Thomas said.

  Excellent with automobiles and firearms, Antoine said. He's Welsh, Bernhard said. SAS-trained. Thomas said, Last I heard you were living in Geneva. Bernhard looked at him a long moment, his eyes unfocused. What was that?

  Are you still living in Geneva?

  I've been out of touch, I know. I'm sorry. Press of business, constant travel. My firm moves at warp speed, threats everywhere, multiplying daily. A man has to be on his toes. You have to speak the language of Mr. Chairman and Ms. CEO. You have to convince them that they're at risk every day, same's a Marine in Fallujah. Same thing exactly. It's no time to go slack, turn a blind eye. Bodyguards are part of the cost of doing business, like keeping your cholesterol down. They're fully deductible as well. With difficulty Bernhard reached for the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. He listened a moment to the foghorn, smiling blankly. And how have you been keeping, Thomas? Have you been working? I hope so.

  A little of this and a little of that.

  Let me guess. Self-portraits.

  Those, too, Thomas said.

  You should take care on that pier. It's dangerous.

  I do, Thomas said.

  And you like Maine?

  It's quiet. I have few visitors here.

  And you intend to stay on?

  For the time being, Thomas said.

  Well, Antoine said. It's certainly out of the way.

  But you found it.

  Yes, Antoine said. We found it. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. We have some news for you, Thomas.

  Oh, that can wait, Bernhard said. It's so pleasant in the fog. Look at it. The color of belon oysters, wouldn't you say?

  Thomas looked from one to the other but did not speak.

  Antoine said softly, It's getting late, Bernhard.

  Bernhard said, Look at it. That fog
is my tomorrow. That's why I like watching it, so messy and opaque, any damn thing could be on its far side. The lost city of Atlantis, a ship in distress, Scylla and Charybdis, the Garden of Eden, your worst enemy or your closest friend. I may close my eyes for just a sec, if you don't mind. His eyelids closed, then popped open. You're my oldest friend, Thomas. You and Russ, but I think you predate Russ by a month or so. I heard you were in LaBarre. You must tell me sometime if you found what you were looking for.

  His eyes closed again, this time for good. Leon was at his side at once, taking his pulse. He counted a moment, dropped Bernhard's wrist, nodded casually at Antoine, and walked off to the pier. They watched Leon step cautiously to the end and wait there in the swirling fog as the horn sounded again and again.

  He's all right, Antoine said. He'll sleep now for a while.

  I didn't recognize him, you know.

  Or me, either, Antoine said.

  You said you had news.

  Yes, Antoine said. Some developments at Le Havre, just last week. Yussef's out. In fact, all four are out. Out? Thomas said, louder than he intended. An exchange, I believe. That's what I understand. An exchange of what?

  The four of them for one of ours, Antoine said. They were just—let go?

  Put on a plane for—I don't know where. My friends wouldn't tell me.

  So they're loose.

  Never to return to Europe. That's the arrangement.

  Thomas slumped in his chair, his thoughts disordered. He was quiet a minute or more, listening to Bernhard's shallow breathing. He said, You don't know where they are?

  Antoine said, No.

  Beirut? Damascus? Tripoli?

  I don't know, Thomas.

  Thomas was quiet again. What do you propose I do with this news?