Legend says this island is haunted by the ghosts of its first feverish missionaries, who prayed and planted and went mad by the moonlight. What ghost or god or chimera of the grave was it that impelled me to give Roman a wedding gift so light in heft and heavy in symbol?
I boxed up my old Baby Hermes and sent it to him.
I made the acquaintance of Dr. Lemon. We had a standing appointment for dinner and chess, each night. Gray-eyed little Beatrice brought books down from the shelves and bottles up from the cellar; owls nested in the eaves; and so the hours passed pleasantly.
CHAPTER 13
Susu drinks all the wine in the winedark sea
WAIT, WAIT: IT WAS THE BIRDS. In the beginning. August in the grand old Chicago hotel and I crossed the room to him sitting alone in the bar and I came to him in my brown dress and he was spinning coins flipping coins on the table. This is not the beginning. It began the day before. It was only one day before and barely that because it was evening and then it was night at the lecture when in the darkness of the auditorium a cough a rustle of pages a whisper but no more than that, a darkness in which he was the only light and he said, “The story that I am about to tell you is true, though some parts are entirely false,” and there was laughter sporadic communal excited everyone waiting to see what to do next and when to laugh or when to be quiet everyone sitting in the darkness looking at him in the light and the high old windows the sky growing darker blue purple winedark summer. He put up his hand and the laughter stopped but he could not stop the darkness creeping in and surrounding us. He said, “Do you want to hear a story? My boys ask for stories at night at bedtime they want to hear of heroes, dragons, and lost kingdoms. They want stories; they need stories to carry with them into the dark world of their dreams. I do not know what tenderness or terror resides awaits waits there for them in that place. I know that as the clock ticks and the hour approaches as the shadows lengthen the boys they will prolong drag out each minute each moment into an eternity until finally both strategy and tactic worn down and suffering the humility of little gods in Superman pajamas tucked into twin beds in the light of a lamp whose distracted globe is shaped like a baseball, they, one, the elder or the younger, will ask, no, no, command: tell us a story. And I do: I tell and I tell and I tell my children a story and I give them what they will need to fight the demons that will rise up from the underworld. It is an underworld of their own creation. It is terrifying for this very reason. And they need weapons. They need poison arrows, swords, daggers, keys, slingshots and stones to launch, to arm them against monsters. And are stories the same for us? Do stories whether a book a movie a television drama keep us distract us save us for one more moment one more minute from facing the thing that we fear? Do they distract from some ancient terrible truth? Don’t worry, we will not face that ancient truth tonight. Not here. Not now. Tonight here in the darkness in this darkness we will turn upend overturn the hourglass. For what is a story? A story is a map to the underworld and how you follow that map is, of course, entirely up to you. There is a price for your travels. I won’t say that there isn’t a price. Remember to keep a coin for the ferryman. He must have his payment. He demands his due. It’s warm in here, isn’t it? You have listened to me read from a book on a summer night when you could be seducing a stranger or burying a body. So so so I will toss the coin and tell you one last story now, or rather the first story—not from the book, but a story for you because you came out tonight when you might have been committing a crime or taking a wrong turn on a deserted road. A story of monsters and lost kingdoms and children who cannot find their way through the woods. You have been patient.” He paused and looked at his wristwatch. “In an hour or so you will be at dinner awaiting the waiter and wondering, when it comes around to it: which part of the story was it exactly that was true? And it may even occur to you that perhaps there was no truth to the story.” Laughter, here and there. “You may, as you reach for the salt, utter speak say the word: liar,” laughter, there and here, in the auditorium. “You feel deceived. I don’t blame you. I don’t. Because of this deception and because it is summer and before we move along our separate ways paths into the night and lose the mystery that binds us together in the darkness in this darkness before we end, I will I’d like to tell you the story of how I became a writer.” I had arrived late. I was in the back row watching him in the spotlight. He stopped. His book was open on the podium. The light from the windows went darker fell was falling. He stood on the stage. It seemed like forever. But it was not. There was silence. I waited. I waited. We all waited. He said, “Once many years ago when I was young I fell in love with a girl. Whether the girl was beautiful or not should have no bearing on this story. If it does, the story is at fault from the beginning. And if beauty does not matter, then the story is not worth telling. Perhaps it is not a story. It has no substance. It is composed of ghosts. It has no sequence, only consequence. It has no hero. And the only plot is in a graveyard. It has a girl who may or may not be or have been beautiful. And a boy who lost his way in a labyrinth. Though fate would tell us that such a thing is not possible. A labyrinth is a maze, but a maze is not always a labyrinth. One wanders aimlessly through a maze, turning, lost and found, finding one’s way; but the path through a labyrinth leads always to the center. Though each turn may seem like a choice; there is no real choice. One must move forward toward the worst of it. The boy was lost. The girl was tragic. This is a form of beauty. This is the labyrinth. This is the story. Here is your rope. How will you find your find your way to the monster? to the monster who is at the heart of every story? I fell for a girl who told me a ghost story. I was young, did I mention that part? and I, young, foolish, fortunate and favored, born lucky and prone to games of chance, partial to time and tide, I, a bit of a liar and something of a thief, I did not want to be a writer; I became this thing because of her. Because one day or maybe it was night, along an avenue lined with willows she said to me, she told me, she said, I have done something terrible.” He paused, caught in the shadows of his memory or only for dramatic effect; I couldn’t tell. “We walked past the willows larch and apple trees.” His face was white and damp in the lone light of the stage. “And she told me her story. The story was dark and terrible. Do you believe me? she said. We walked. She wore a perfume of roses. Or else the night was dark with flowers that I could not see. We walked. She was quiet. And we walked we passed houses dogs cats gardens we walked on that street for a long time. It seemed like the world would stop. But it did not. It seemed like time might give way. But it didn’t. It couldn’t. Did I believe her story? How does one answer such a question? How does one—that is: how did I—make a differentiation, let alone a choice between belief and disbelief? There is always a moment of choice; isn’t there? a path, a pause between Scylla and Charybdis, between dog and wolf, icing and cake, between sugar and salt, a slip of the tongue between s and z? What happens when Oedipus meets the king at the crossroads? What happens in that that fated moment when one believes that there is yet the possibility of choice before choice itself is negated by its own existence? She asked me if I believed her. In the darkness. I pulled an apple from the branch, and I handed it to her. It was hard and green. No, I said. I said, No. She took the apple from me, and she threw it out into the night. And she laughed. She took my hand. She took my hand and she closed it into a fist. She she she raised it to her mouth, and kissed the inside of my wrist. Do you promise? She said. Do you promise never to believe me? I promised her that. I promised her that I would never tell her story. And I have kept my promise.” He wiped his pale damp white brow glowing either feverish or holy in the light. “You, you’ve been very good to me tonight. I thank you for it. Did you know, have you seen the girls in white aprons carrying trays? did you see them in the hallway? There will be wine and chocolate later. There will be, I saw cake and coffee and cream and sugar. We will stay the ghosts for a time against the darkness. I have been many places and seen so many things good beautiful ugly the deso
late the desolation and the unspeakable and yet it is the sight of a cake on a plate that brings me almost to God. I fall to my knees weeping for the beauty of butter-cream. This is civilization. The sound of a spoon turning in a teacup. A key turning a lock. A closed box. We will keep the ghosts away for one more hour one more day or maybe it will be night. I saw my books that I will be signing I am to tell you that they are ah very suitable to read on the beach or in airports my books my newest book very thick in hardcover isn’t it? very good to jam under an uneven table leg or to prop open a window or cover your head if you are caught in a rainstorm. You’ve been kind here in the dark and soon we will have our cake and light the candles and we will talk as though none of this ever happened a vague embarrassment a confession a lie a ploy to sell books soon we will have had our wine and coffee and you will say and whisper perhaps he looks odd old ill so much older what’s wrong with him? Is it an act? Is it for show? And ladies and germs how was the show? In an hour I will be back in my hotel room and you will be waiting for the waiter to bring your dinner and talking of today and tomorrow and what will happen next. And perhaps it will come around to you that the story that you heard that the story that I told at the podium was mostly true though parts of it were entirely false and perhaps as you salt the soup it will occur to you that the story was not much of a story and as the waiter sets your plate on the table and you take fork in one hand and knife in the other and you may wonder suddenly and cry out and ask aloud wait wait! how does the story end? For that for this moment in the future, I’ll tell you now. This is how the story ends.” He broke each word apart slowly, he was tired. He was laboring. “It is not a story. It does not end.” He waited. He waited. “If you should in your life be so lucky so so so fortunate as to have a girl tell you a tragic tale and then ask you if you believe her—let me, allow me, please let me give you a word of advice. Lie. A story is only a dream, and I went into my dreams armed with rock, paper, and scissors. I kept a coin for the ferryman. I write and I wrote and I have written book after book. And beneath every story is her story. I became a writer to tell her story. And her story is the one tale I cannot tell. I cannot tell her story. One day I will break my promise. The beginning will begin. The story will end. And it will begin again. Eternity is our punishment. Eternity is our punishment for inventing eternity. It’s not so bad, not really. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day. And no story is too long for someone who wants to read it. Or too short for someone who does not. So so so I have eaten salt and sugar. I have been an exile and a wanderer and I have been I am as happy as any wicked king in history. Happy enough to,” he laughed here, “grow fat. And wise and ancient as a coiled rope. I know terrible things. I know what she did. And yet, here I am. I continue to exist. It’s not so bad, is it? It’s not poverty, is it? The glass is yet half full. All signs point to yes. Did I say, did I mention? there is to be cake. And wine. We will talk quietly low pleasantly I’ll be signing books they make nice gifts, books do, wrapped up and tied with a knotted knot hiding the terrible things printed on the pages. Oh, I haven’t had such a bad life, but I tell you I have done some rotten things,” here there was laughter because we all knew of his life, of the actresses, the girls, of Hollywood, of his happiness now, his wife and children. We all knew. We knew all. We longed for more. We laughed. He stopped us. He held up his left hand. “I tell stories,” he said. “I lie. I do. I steal. I have stolen, but this is the true part of the story. Believe me—” there was more laughter, now nervous, giddy, one hysterical wail. “Wait, wait,” he held up his right hand, “the movies won’t save you. The stars won’t save you. He who is destined to hang won’t drown.” And he closed shut the book on the podium before him. The story was finished. It was over. The audience did not realize that it was over. No one moved. There was silence no cough no laugh no scuffled heel or muffled whisper and suddenly all at once applause. The spotlight went dark and the audience went on applauding in darkness. And then the house lights came up and we were dizzy blinded looking for him but he was gone.
CHAPTER 14
Eloise admits to objectification
ON CHRISTMAS EVE, after a dinner (at that Vietnamese place, just down the street, where it’s usually impossible to get a table; let alone the nice one in the corner by the aquarium) of salted eel with ginger root (for him) and tamarind pearls (for her) and a shared plate of Buddhist tiger lilies, with smoky tea (Lapsang Souchong, she said; though he insisted upon calling it Russian Caravan) in japanned cups, Louis and Eloise walked home in silence in the falling snow.
2.
I used to so look forward to my evenings with Dr. Lemon. After the formalities of the meal, with our coffee, we would retire to the library. The doctor and I would sit at the chessboard. He would ask questions. And I would answer. First, I did this out of kindness, because he seemed to enjoy our play at cat and mouse as much, or more, than our game of chess. Later, I began to depend upon my own confession. And I told him everything.
3.
That night Eloise baked a cake.
“Louie, I’ve done something terrible,” she said.
“What is it this time?” he said.
“Don’t joke,” she said.
“It isn’t funny,” she said.
Louis poured them out each a glass of a brandy.
“Drink this,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”
The cake sat cooling on the table.
She said that it was a Swedish chocolate cake, with cardamom, elderberry, espresso, and pepper, and that one ate it with oranges.
He asked if she was sure that it was a Swedish cake.
Was she sure?
Because he had had Norwegian cake.
And that was good too.
One ate it with strawberries.
She said that she was so very tired.
“Let’s have a fire,” she said.
He built a fire in the fireplace.
“Oh,” she said. “Turn out the lights—will you?”
They sat in the firelight.
He asked his wife, “Eloise, what have you done?”
4.
We spoke for hours.
The doctor and I.
I told him about Mother.
I talked to him about Father.
There was an apple tree.
The world was accurate.
Or perhaps it was only my memory of the world—
That was accurate.
I told him about Pru.
“These tragedies,” sighed the doctor.
“They are like small thefts,” he said.
“Fallen coins,” he said.
I refilled our glasses.
“These small thefts,” he said.
They add up.
We drank.
At a rap upon the door—
Beatrice would open the door.
And bring her father his medicine.
Beatrice would close the door.
The doctor said, “Where were we?”
And I would begin again.
5.
Eloise told her husband everything.
6.
Dr. Lemon listened. I told him—those nights, those years—my story. I told him my story past the time when he could comprehend its meaning. When his illness began to overcome him, he wanted the story to go on. I know this. He wanted me to keep telling him the story.
7.
Louis did not believe Eloise.
8.
The seed of illness took root in the old doctor. The root grew to vine and, oh, it flowered. I began to suspect; to fear; to wonder: were my words an infection? Was the story itself a disease?
9.
Mr. and Mrs. Sarasine spent a quiet Christmas Eve at home.
Among their ovoid Etruscan vases and miniature Eiffel towers.
And a life of mementos and memories.
In their beautiful home.
In their warm well-appointed living room before the fire.
He sat upright in his
leather chair.
And she reclined upon the sofa.
She drank.
She finished her brandy.
And he rose and he poured her another.
And she drank.
She held her glass in both hands.
“You don’t believe me,” she said.
Though the clocks on the mantel refused to tick or tock or chime—
One could not doubt that such a thing as the very concept of time continued to exist.
10.
I told the doctor about my typewriter.
11.
It was Eloise who had the strength to force the moment to its crisis.
12.
My typewriter was a 1960 apple-green Baby Hermes manual. It was once called: the world’s finest portable typewriter. It was good—fine, even—for the writing of stories.
It was an object and therefore, objective, about the story itself.
I don’t suppose that it cared whether Father killed Mother.
Or if it was the other way around.
13.
Louis Sarasine asked his wife if she really wanted to get into this tonight?
He said it was too late, past two.
“Time can’t mean anything to us,” she said.
He poured another drink.
“You tell stories,” he said.
The chocolate cake—the brandy—
The warmth—the fire—
She laughed.
“I tell stories?” she said.
He said, “You told me—”
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