Image Decay

by Mark Lisac

  “You know, Jack, there’s still time to work things out more amicably. Let me see what I can do without raising the tension by setting a harsh deadline backed by some kind of threat.”

  Ostroski leaned back and looked at him. “Maybe you didn’t catch why I said I left Hollywood. I got sent to Korea. I don’t ever play that veteran card. It was just something that happened. But it taught me there are moments in life that are serious, life and death. They happen fast and you can’t play around when they do. Too much depends on how you react. You don’t think. You react. If you don’t, you regret it. Make sure Becker knows that.”

  He stood up. Rabani understood that was the end of the talking and did the same. On his way to the door, he asked how Ostroski had found out the collection was going to be catalogued in a rush.

  “If I don’t say, then Becker can’t ask you. As a matter of fact, you don’t have to tell him you’ve heard that. Just say that I’m getting antsy because I haven’t heard from them and I look worried enough that you may not be able to control me.”

  11.

  SOME OF THE OLD WAREHOUSES HAD BEEN CONVERTED INTO tire shops or restaurants. Others looked like shells that might still be serving as warehouses but never showed any activity. Rabani walked east past them. He saw the buildings were the same as the last time he’d gone through here except that one restaurant had closed. He turned south, going back to the office the long way, using the time to think.

  Teenagers with knapsacks sagging with schoolbooks waited at the downtown bus stops. These were the kids going to a second-chance high school and Rabani recognized the look. They all had hair hanging over their foreheads and ears. They had a tentative air of kids who had absorbed beatings but were still standing.

  At a windy main corner he passed an old man pushing a bicycle. The old man had a sturdy upright body and face that looked as if it, too, had absorbed beatings. It was a long rectangle of a face, weathered and ruddy, lumpy like potatoes. The old man was stopped at an intersection but his patter was still in full flow. He was telling people in a loud Eastern European accent that their souls were in extreme danger. Their pride was a sin. All sorts of things they did were sins. Rabani’s favourite was, “Your hairstyle is a sin.”

  He reached the office and asked if Morley Jackson was in. Jackson was a senior partner but that description covered only half of what he actually did at the firm. He was known to the junior lawyers as a resource of knowledge about the law, local society, the arts, and many of the sciences. Better yet he was willing to share his knowledge when asked but did not push it on anyone without being asked. Rabani liked him for other reasons: Jackson praised his work enough to make him think he was rising fast in the firm but had the discretion not to show signs of favouring him over the other young associates, and Jackson was the only person he knew who would suggest going out and talking through an issue over a hot fudge sundae.

  This time he wanted only a quick consultation. He went to his own office to check messages and put his feet up on the desk, staring out at the grey concrete and dark glass of the two neighbouring buildings. Two minutes later the phone rang and he was told that Jackson was free. He walked along the thick, dark green carpet in the hallway, knocked and opened the door after Jackson’s “Come in.”

  Jackson was sprawled in his chair in his usual attitude, a book in hand. He was just taller than average and carrying just a little too much weight for his substantial frame. A place behind a desk suited him. He looked up at Rabani with his characteristic inquisitive and weary twinkle—always ready to laugh, but knowing that he might at any moment have to offer consolation instead.

  “I think I’m getting dragged into something and I don’t know what it is,” Rabani said.

  Jackson looked at him. “Sounds like you’d better have a seat,” he said, closing the book and laying it on his desk. He never used a bookmark.

  Rabani briefly outlined the course of the Ostroski and Becker business, leaving out Ostroski’s tacit threat. He finished with what had brought him to seek advice.

  “Now here’s what’s bothering me. Ostroski wants money for his photo collection, much more than he got. That part of his demands is clear enough and reasonable. It looks like he wasn’t fairly dealt with. But he also wants to keep some pictures of an old girlfriend he had in Hollywood back in the late Forties out of view. He never looked at those photos, he says. He lost track of them in his files. But they apparently still mean a lot to him. Or the woman still does, although he’s not forthright about that. Are memories really worth the kind of fight he’s apparently ready to get into?”

  “Are you sure it’s about the memories?” Jackson said.

  “That’s all I have to go on. The only connection with the present is that the woman may still be alive in Hollywood and he doesn’t want old photos that could embarrass her being made public.”

  “I don’t expect that would be much of an issue. The government isn’t going to be eager to become known as the purveyor of skin shots.”

  Rabani took heart from that, knowing Jackson’s reputation for quiet connections with senior people in the government.

  “That’s my assumption,” he said. “Ostroski seems to think that any collection of old pictures would be embarrassing, even innocent ones. He says making them public would be an invasion of privacy.”

  “The old girlfriend’s privacy? Or his?”

  Rabani leaned on an armrest, his fingers moving up to his lower lip and brushing back and forth and he considered the choice.

  “Do you believe that memories are what make a person, George?”

  “I’ve heard the theory,” Rabani said. “My own experience is that people have a lot of conscious or unconscious choice about what they remember.”

  “It’s a good question,” Jackson said. “Does the past have a grip on people? Or do they create a past to fit who they think they are or who they want to be? The great myths and the epics of literature usually filter a kernel of truth through a layer of imagination. Witnesses are apt to do the same, even under oath in court. You could say that people partly shape themselves by what they choose to remember. But they usually carry things with them that they can’t forget.”

  Rabani thought that over. Jackson asked, “Have you run across a Polish writer named Marek Hlasko?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He was the bad boy of Polish literature during the post-war era. No real surprise in that. First he lived under the Nazis, then under the Communists. A character in one of his novels says, ‘Memories are garbage.’ He apparently believes that, although it isn’t clear whether he wants to. Maybe he is only trying to convince himself it’s so. The same character says it’s too cruel to force a man to remember the most sacred moments of his life. He obviously thinks calling memories garbage is not the same as being able to dispose of them.”

  “Maybe it’s like that with a lot of people,” Rabani said.

  “Unfortunately,” Jackson said, “you won’t know what’s driving them unless they tell you.”

  Rabani nodded at that and sat staring at the carpet for a moment. He got up to leave. Jackson smiled and told him, “Next time you drop in I’ll try to have some coffee on hand, so you’ll at least have got that much out of it.”

  I got something out of this, Rabani thought: a pain in the gut—remembering what I want to forget and knowing it will never go away.

  He walked back to his office for his coat. He had intended to wait until he got home before making the call but decided he should get things rolling. He half expected to be told the deal was off or would be reshaped. Instead he heard Becker saying that if the pictures meant that much to Ostroski, a joint review of them could be worked out. But that couldn’t start until next Monday. It would take time to move the collection to a secure place with room to work and to line up staff.

  It was down to haggling over days and Rabani was relieved. He didn’t trust a politician, let alone one who had already tried to go back on a de
al. A lot of his business came down to compromise and trading. The rule of thumb was that most people were sensible enough not to get into a damaging fight if they didn’t have to. But some took leave of their senses. Life wasn’t perfect. He hoped he could get Ostroski to agree.

  He drove to his apartment, looking at the doughnut shop three blocks from his home but not stopping in for a chocolate dipped or a sour cream. He had dinner planned with Adela Morales on Sunday night. He was pretty sure that he wanted her company. She had become more than a mere incentive to keep him away from another helping of calories.

  When Sunday came around Rabani drove over to pick up his brother and take him for their semi-regular visit to the downtown Smitty’s for pancakes and ham. After the meal they drove to one of the ravines running through the city and down to the river. The excursions were Alex’s rare outings to a landscape that did not consist of asphalt, concrete and stucco.

  Once they had been lucky and spotted a coyote slipping into the underbrush after it had watched them for a few seconds. Mostly they saw squirrels and different kinds of birds. Identifying some of them was tough. Rabani was particularly pleased whenever he saw a nuthatch and definitely tell it was not a chickadee. Chickadees were easier to spot. In winter, Alex liked to hold sunflower seeds in an outstretched hand. He would wait for the chickadees to land on his palm and dart their beaks down for a treat.

  As they walked and looked for wildlife through the dwindling screen of leaves, Rabani noted the different kinds of bark on trees as well. The trunks stood out more clearly as fall progressed and the days shortened. He had not paid much attention before his regular walks with Alex. Now he recognized the deep furrows on the sprawling laurel willows, the smooth skin on the aspens, the irregular patterns on the spruces and the thicker patchiness on an occasional pine. The poplars had dark spots looking strangely like drawings of eyes. The pines and laurel willows were fewer in number. They mostly grew toward the top of the ravine, where they had likely been introduced by the city or by house owners.

  Alex told him about a new book project. He had put the quotations project aside after taking into account that Walter Benjamin had already in effect created a verbal arcades project many years earlier through his lifelong collection of quotations.

  “I’m going to write a book called The Human Instrument,” he told George.

  “Oh, what will that be about?”

  “Hand clapping,” Alex said, “in popular music. The subtitle will be Hand Clapping from ‘Hound Dog’ to ‘Cinnamon Girl.’ Have you ever noticed how many popular songs have hand clapping in the background? My theory is that human beings respond to sounds made by other human beings even more than they respond to sounds made by instruments. It’s a deep music. It probably goes back to the earliest days of humanity.”

  “That’s an interesting thought, Alex. I think I’d like to read that.”

  “Of course, the big problem will be how to write about music. I’d have to rely on people’s knowledge or expect them to buy recordings. Not everyone can go to the library to do research like I can. And then there’s the question of boundaries. I think ‘Hound Dog’ is a good place to start because it represents the breaking out of a revolution in popular music. But the study could just as easily go back to something like ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas.’ And then I wondered whether I shouldn’t go a little past ‘Cinnamon Girl’ and include Aretha Franklin’s Amazing Grace album. It was recorded live and a lot of the clapping was done by the audience as well as by the choir behind her. It’s possible to make a case that the sounds from the audience are part of the music in that album. The people listening to the record are the ultimate audience. Maybe the audience in the church where it was recorded were actually musicians in a way. All these questions. Isn’t life thrilling?”

  George looked at his brother, who was scanning the path for interesting leaves and alternately looking up into the trees for squirrels and birds. Alex was still close to athletically strong and lean six years after his accident. Idleness in the library and in the yard of the pawnshop was threatening that look. But help with decent food supplies and regular outings were keeping him in reasonably good shape. There was only a bit of sag around his middle. His dark brown hair was thick enough to make up for a perpetual lack of combing. With better clothes he could probably pass as normal for a few minutes in a conversation with someone who didn’t know him. His forgetfulness would eventually betray him—that and his wandering attention, and a proclivity for talking about obscure subjects that he brought up out of the blue and had nothing to do with the preceding part of the conversation.

  George was unprepared when Alex began talking again.

  “I like it when you walk with me, George.”

  “I like it too, Alex.”

  “I missed you.”

  “We went out a week ago. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that it seemed so long to you.”

  “No, not that. I think there was a long time when we didn’t see each other. It seems long ago to me. I can’t remember much from that time. I feel like I really missed you. I don’t think I always remember things clearly. Did you really go away? Where were you?”

  George stared at the path in front of him. The first fallen aspen leaves were dingy yellow. The leaves from the other trees and bushes were a soiled green or a dusty brown. He remembered parties and a girl, both leading to hangovers in their way. There were three months of dabbling with marijuana; he would be forever grateful that he quit before blundering into a possession charge that would have put a tawdry end to his hope of a law career. He remembered long nights reading texts and old cases, telling himself he had to be prepared for classes and exams while knowing he was glad for the excuse to be absorbed in study. The long hours had led to a high standing in his class and a silver medal. The medal had been useful when he was searching for a firm where he could article, but now he was too ashamed to display it. The medal felt almost like an award for cowardice. He still could not bring himself to drive past the house where he and his brother had grown up.

  He finally said, “There was a time when I couldn’t come to see you, Alex. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I’ve been sorry about that ever since. If I could change what happened, I would. But I will never be away from you again.”

  Alex was quiet for a few moments thinking about this and said, “Thank you.”

  He was quiet again and then went on: “Sometimes it feels like things are spinning around me. I feel dizzy and don’t know what’s happening. When I see you, everything falls into place again. Things feel right. And you listen to me when I tell you about my book or other things. Jerry listens to me when he’s not busy in his pawnshop. Mr. Sandro listens, too. But it feels like you really understand.”

  “I think your ideas are always really interesting. I enjoy hearing about them. They make me think.”

  “George?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know something happened to me. I had a different life once. I think I used to be able to remember things better. I didn’t have to get food from Mr. Sandro.”

  George hesitated again. This time he felt moisture gathering in his eyes.

  “Something did happen to you, Alex. You had an accident. A car hit you and your head banged on another car that was parked nearby.”

  “I remember being told I was hit by a car. Sometimes I see a picture in my head of a street that’s sideways. I’m feeling surprised and looking up at buildings and treetops. I think some people told me that something happened to me. They said I would be different than before.”

  “We all change. We’re all a little different than we used to be. Sometimes after a few years and sometimes after a few weeks. That’s what makes people interesting.”

  “But I’m different from myself, too. I can’t remember what I used to be like, but I think I did different things. I don’t think I used to write books and build smokers.”

  “No, you spent a lot of time in school learning how to design buildings so
that they would work properly. Then you were going to law school. That was going to help you design the agreements that people make when they put up large buildings. But a car hit you and you do different things now.”

  “Were people sad when the car hit me? Were you sad?”

  “Yes, I was very sad. So was Mother.”

  “I wish you weren’t. I hope you’re not still. I don’t feel sad. I know it takes me time to finish books but I can finish making smokers. And I can read books in the library. And people are good to me. You’re good to me. Jerry and Mr. Sandro are good to me. Losing something doesn’t mean you have to be sad all the time.”

  They walked on and George said, “I’m glad I didn’t lose you, Alex. I almost lost you when you had the accident. Then I almost lost you when I didn’t see you for awhile. I’m glad we can still be together. You make the world slow down for me, too.”

  They walked through the leaves and the trees with the different kinds of bark and the scattered chirping of birds and furtive rustling of watchful squirrels. George took Alex to his rented room, asked whether he had enough food on hand for dinner, and left him to his own world.

  He had enough time to go home and rest and have something to eat before picking up Adela but he wanted to be among other people. It didn’t matter whether they were strangers. He went to a doughnut shop on a busy avenue on the south side, ordered a coffee and sat by himself at a table for two. He sipped his coffee slowly and looked out the plate glass window at unremarkable cars and pickup trucks with extra lights on their grilles and on the tops of their cabs. He watched university students walk by and half listened to the conversations nearest him. Three older men in cheap versions of loose-fitting dress slacks worried about whether the economy or the local hockey team was in worse shape. A middle-aged couple—the man in a baseball cap and thick fall jacket with matching trucking company logos, the woman in mud-coloured slacks and matching sweater—talked about getting their regular lot ready for selling Christmas trees.