The Book of Jonas

by Stephen Dau

  “I am,” says Rose, concentrating on him, now that she has been stopped, giving him her full attention.

  “I thought so,” says the man. “I’ve seen your picture. You don’t know me, but I served with Christopher.”

  “Oh,” says Rose. “I see. Well, let’s … let’s step over here.”

  2

  Jonas walks down the fluorescent corridor. Travelers rush past him pulling wheeled suitcases or hunched under weighty backpacks. The small sack he carries over his shoulder has floated through security with ease, and his stuffed duffel lies, perhaps already, in the hold of the plane. Despite this, he is convinced that the policemen have been looking at him, regarding him closely. He does not know what Paul has said, whom he has contacted, or even whether, in fact, he has said anything, but he is convinced that it is only a matter of time. A young woman hurries ahead of him, gripping her child’s hand.

  “Come on,” says the woman to the unconcerned boy. “They’re already boarding.”

  He steps onto the swift conveyor, adjusting his balance as the belt takes over. He is being pulled along now, set in motion, no longer entirely under his own power.

  He finds the bathroom at the far end of the corridor, conveniently located just across from the gate. Inside, past the row of sinks, the faucets of which are hooked to motion sensors and seem to flow randomly, as though ghosts are washing their hands, he spots the trash can, stainless steel and set into the wall. He pauses, has a thought. He waits for everyone to leave, for the bathroom to empty, a lull, and then he walks over to the trash can. He reaches into it, rummages around.

  There is nothing, no nylon straps, no vest, just a trash bag half-filled with damp paper towels. A man walks in and looks at him askance, looks at him with his arm stuck shoulder-deep into the rubbish bin, and he feels foolish. It all comes down to this, he thinks. A choice. The difference between two realities, each of them real, balanced on a knife edge in time.

  A voice, commanding and feminine, announces his flight over the public address system, echoing from the tiled walls. The bathroom has filled with people, and he is momentarily confused, unable to find the exit. When at last he does, he joins the throng of travelers, of fathers and mothers and aunts and brothers struggling under the weight of luggage and worry, or buoyed by excitement and anticipation, or driven by determined focus.

  When he gets to the gate, he finds that his flight has been delayed. There is some sort of last-minute equipment problem. The irritated crowd, which had just been preparing to board the plane, lets out a collective breath. With nothing else to do, he finds a seat in the waiting area and watches as the passengers huddle around the gate, waiting in the limbo of the airline terminal for time to restart.

  He decides he will conduct an experiment. A clean-cut young Indian man wearing a starched dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, gestures urgently as he converses with a disengaged airline representative behind the counter. Jonas was told about it, this experiment, something a monk he once met did whenever he was in public. An overweight couple arrives pushing an overweight toddler in a fragile-looking stroller. Jonas calms his breath, concentrating on nothing more than inhaling and exhaling. He will look each person he encounters in the eyes. To each of them, to every person who meets his gaze, he will wish peace. A tall, thin, elderly gentleman wearing a cowboy hat leans over toward a gray-haired woman who barely comes to his chest, their heads nearly touching, their arms entwined, as they converse in hushed tones. He watches them all as they mill about, or rush to the snack bar to get something to drink, or stare at their laptop screens.

  He is unhurried, the swirl of activity surrounding him but not touching him. A dark-skinned gentleman wearing a tan fedora arrives late, carrying a leather briefcase, and approaches the counter, confident, as though it is him for whom everyone has assembled. Jonas regards them inclusively, looking at each as they stand or pass by, male, female, young, old, infirm, healthy, offering to each his attention. Jonas spots a girl about his age, tall, with dark hair and graceful legs, and he stops for a moment, because he thinks that she looks striking and familiar.

  Many of them don’t see him, are too busy or preoccupied. Some of them see that he is looking at them and look away, at the floor, or at something that has become suddenly interesting. Some of them look up at him and smile.

  Mostly, it is the elderly and the children who notice.

  3

  Through the brightly lit corridors they move, and the cavernous meeting halls, and the convention centers, the high school gymnasiums, the temples, synagogues, and churches. They bustle about or sit and talk among themselves, the wives and children and parents and classmates and friends and girlfriends and comrades. They ask questions, and they provide answers. They mill about, or they rush frenetically. They talk about both the future and the past, starting their conversations with, “What we will do…” and “I remember when…”

  At one of these places, at one of these times, two of them stand temporarily still, apart from the movement and energy around them, and they talk, allowing it all to pass them by, like a river roaring over the rocks.

  He is telling Rose about her son, about the strength he drew from him, about how much he meant, about the comfort of his presence, about the last time he was seen alive.

  “I remember when,” he is saying. “I remember when we were on that rise above the village, before we went in. I looked up, and he was on the hill right there above me. I had just transferred in. It was my first time in combat. The other guys, they were itching for a fight. There was a lot of talk. Talk about payback, revenge. They had lost some guys before I got there. I tried to sympathize, talk a good game, but really I was just scared out of my wits.

  “And there he was up above me on the rise, looking out at the valley, at that village in front of us in the moonlight. He was quiet, calm. I think he was always like that. He turned around to look at me. They were all getting themselves angry, worked up. But not him. He didn’t think that way. My face must have been so white it shone like that moon. He must have noticed, because he looked down at me with the calm look he had, the one that told you everything was going to be okay, and he patted me on the helmet, smiled a little, like he was resigned to something. It was just one of those moments, one of those things that pass by at the time and you barely even notice it, but then you remember it for the rest of your life.

  “That’s what I want to tell you. That’s why I came here. I remember when I looked at him up on that hill, and the moon was low in the sky behind him, and he reached down and patted me on the helmet, and he nodded at me. And then the radio squawked through our earpieces, and the order came down, and just that fast he was up and over the rise.

  “Just that fast. A silhouette, and then he was gone.”

  1

  He changes his name on the airplane. Somewhere over a distant sea, he resumes his old identity. He prints his name—Y-O-U-N-I-S—in the spaces demarcated on the landing card he has been given. In his mind, the landing card increases in significance, becomes something more, a part of the trail of evidence. All this paper, he thinks. All these little ways of telling him who he is.

  He goes back. This is the point. As he has done obsessively the entire trip, he shoves his hand into his pants pocket to make sure he still has the scrap of paper, now creased and torn, with Rose’s address printed neatly on one side.

  And then he imagines himself descending from the bright airplane and into a dry, desert wind that envelops him like a wave. The peaks of the far southern mountains are jagged saw teeth in the distance. Everything is returned to the way it was.

  Someone will be there to greet him, a cousin, because his father was unable to make the trip, suddenly called away on some pressing business. But someone will be sent, someone who is happy to see him, and they will drive in a battered white truck up into the hills. They will drive beside the river, the raging torrent in the middle seemingly unconnected to the calm shallows at the edge, but h
e will know that this is an illusion, that in fact the shallows and the torrent are one.

  Despite its inner turmoil, even the river will be happy to see him there, returned.

  He will find everything the same. He will see things that are familiar, comforting. The colors, for example, will feel familiar, the red ochre rocks of the foothills, the bleached walls of the houses lining the road. He will be reminded of things he forgot he ever knew. The smells in particular will trigger lucid memories. He will recognize faces, see old friends, be returned to his former self, play in the courtyard with his sister, gratefully receive his mother’s tea. He will traverse the upturned sod, wander the low pastures with the flock and the dogs. All that which maintains a hold upon him will lose its grip.

  Somewhere over a distant sea he realizes that this is all a fantasy. He will not be greeted by his family. He will recognize little. Perhaps nothing will feel familiar. He will step once again into the unknown.

  And so, in the end, he does not change his name. The plane has begun its descent, and the attendants wander the aisles. A bell dings. He feels the sinking sensation in his stomach. He makes a decision. He knows it will cause trouble, but he does it anyway. He glances again at the landing card, at the name printed in black ink, printed in his own handwriting.

  And then he tears it up.

  2

  The parcel arrives unexpectedly in the spring.

  It’s the first truly warm day of the year, the young leaves and buds only just emerging from the long winter. Rose works in her backyard, spading a hole in the ground large enough to accommodate the sapling that leans on burlap-wrapped roots against the stone wall. Rose thinks that perhaps she is being overly optimistic, planting an oak at her age. She pulls off her gloves and smoothes her graying hair away from her face. Her breath is quickened by her labor, and the earth under her spade looks wounded. She looks around at the new spring leaves’ fresh pastels. She hears the mail truck rattle to a halt out front. Reluctant to stop working, she hesitates before she leans the spade against the wall next to the waiting tree, and goes to get the mail.

  The parcel is wrapped in brown paper and plastered with green-and-blue stamps and exotic writing. It feels dense and heavy in her hands, the thick paper wrapper crisp and new. Curious, she takes the package inside, sits down at the kitchen table, and begins to remove the wrapping.

  She recognizes it instantly.

  The book’s leather cover is heavily worn at the edges, scuffed and scratched, creased at the spine, and a thin leather tie holds it closed, tied in a precise knot.

  It looks, she thinks, like it has been through a war.

  Her hand trembles a little as she gently tugs at the knot and opens the front cover. There, beside the compass rose inscribed on the frontispiece, is a brief dedication written in her own flowing script:

  For Chris,

  On your eighteenth birthday.

  Because your words are important.

  Love,

  Mom

  Rose sits at the kitchen table, her head in her hand, the book open before her. The thin spring sunlight filters in through the window. In the backyard, a young tree leans against an old stone wall, ready to heal the wounded earth. The season is young, the fragile new foliage painting the world pastel. Rose turns the page, begins to read, and is free.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The creation of this book has removed any notion I might have held of its being a solo endeavor. I am grateful to so many.

  I owe tremendous debts of gratitude to both the world’s greatest agent, Henry Dunow, for recognizing what this story could be in its better form, for his unfailing advocacy, and for his willingness to take a chance, and to the world’s greatest editor, Sarah Hochman, for her confidence, enthusiasm, and nearly perfect editorial guidance. Tremendous thanks go as well to everyone else at Blue Rider Press and Penguin who have made this book what it is: David Rosenthal, Aileen Boyle, Kate Guadagnino, and Jaya Miceli. Never has an author felt in better hands.

  Before there was a book, there was manuscript, and an author thereof, both of which benefited tremendously from merely being in the presence of Bret Anthony Johnston, Amy Hempel, Nick Montemorano, Rachel Pastan, and Brian Morton.

  Like many teachers, Judith Vollmer probably had no idea what kind of impact she was making at the time she was making it, but I count her among the reasons I never stopped writing. I am particularly grateful for another of those reasons, my family: Paul Dau, Susan Reed, Michelle Dupuis, and Matthew Dau, for whom the simple fact that I wanted to do something was always reason enough to support it unconditionally, and to my father-in-law, Dr. Zackariya-Marikar, who routinely seems to make anything possible. Special thanks go as well to Tod Goldberg, for offering solid advice, both practical and metaphysical; to my talented and generous Bennington classmates, for their encouragement, enthusiasm, support, and for repeatedly reminding me what can be done with words; and, of course, to Jon Lyons.

  And I am always grateful to my daughter, Seraphina, for giving me everything in the world to smile about, and for forgiving Papa the hours spent away, and to my wife, Claudia, who asked me, right after we met, what I wanted to do with my life. I told her that I had wanted to write since I was eight years old, and she said simply, “Then do it.” She has not wavered once.