It was in the rundown Ax Bax Bar near his hotel that the American writer first saw Georgie. He was a twenty-year-old skinhead and reputedly one of the leaders of the Pale Flame, but he didn’t appear to be leader of anything; with a face that was almost pretty, his mouth delicate like a girl’s, Georgie had a serene sweetness that knocked the edge off any hints of violence, sitting at the table laughing at jokes that didn’t include him, told by strangers standing around talking to other strangers. Every time Georgie laughed at one of the jokes, someone looked at him in dismay and moved to another part of the bar. This didn’t seem to perturb Georgie either.
Erickson saw him again a few days later at another bar in Kreuzberg, and then about a week after that at the Brandenburg Gate.
The American was walking along the desolate stretch where the old Wall used to be, between the gate and the deserted Potsdam Plaza project, looking at the beginning of the Neuwall. In the distance he could hear the escaped monkeys from the zoo that now lived in the trees of the Tiergarten; as he drew nearer to the gate an alligator shot out of the garden, trailing the water of one of the ponds and slithering across the ugly barren scar of the old border to disappear toward Alexanderplatz. The Neuwall was built in the STEVE E R I C K S O N • 219
dead of night; the Pale Flame usually came along afterward to kick down the results. Sometimes the two forces battled in the gate’s shadow among the patches of moonlight. Begun in 1995 by a coa-lition of Stasi victims and Stasi informers, the Neuwall’s mortar was made from the rubble of the old Wall as well as the reduced paste and pulp of old Stasi files, which numbered in the millions, and whatever pieces of the Potsdam project—a pillar, a post, a demolished corridor—could be spirited away for the effort. The members of the Neuwall Brigade long ago agreed, not formally but implicitly, never to identify among themselves who had been informers and who had been informed upon, an unspoken treaty that was a by-product of why they seized the files in the first place, when the revelations of 1992 were exposing fellow workers and friends and husbands and wives and children to each other. They began the Neuwall not to eliminate freedom but to resurrect the promise that freedom held only when it was denied; they continued the Neuwall as a tribute to the way the old Wall was the spine of the world’s conscience, without which humanity was left to its own worst impulses in considering the final resolution between authority and freedom, order and anarchy.
More than this, however, the Brigade believed—for reasons similar to those that brought Erickson to Berlin—that the city’s function as the urban metaphor of the Twentieth Century couldn’t be fulfilled without a Wall. When the Wall fell and there stood behind it the naked figure of freedom, those in the East couldn’t stand the voluptuousness of her body while those in the West couldn’t stand the humanity of her face: there was the awful revelation that while at the outset of the millennium’s last decade people had pursued and embraced the ideal of freedom, at decade’s close they had come to despise its moral burden and absolve themselves of it. The Neuwall was bone white. It bore no graffiti. Earlier, upon its desecration by the Pale Flame and other gangs, someone among the vandals was just shrewd enough to realize they were only complet-ing the concept, that their graffiti had already been anticipated and was part of the blueprint; thus the Pale Flame simply tore the Neuwall down when they could find it, otherwise leaving it un-marked. The Neuwall’s only message was written there by the Brigade itself: hitler was elected. Now the Pale Flame patrolled the city in vain looking for blurts of the Neuwall, which didn’t A R C D’X • 220
follow the path of the old but rather an inebriated, slapstick zigzag through the city. The old denominations of East and West no longer mattered; now what mattered was the mortified memory of a wall. It rocketed wildly up this street and down that one. For all that the Berliners of the year 1999 knew, any one of them might go to sleep at night only to find himself barricaded in the next morning, a wave of old Wall rubble and Stasi files petrified in his doorway, through which the only recourse was to tunnel.
Among the vendors still left at the Brandenburg Gate after the Wall’s fall, the American stopped to check out the Wall’s sad remains, undistinguished except for the vendors’ historical claims and, if one looked closely, some telltale bit of graffiti. Erickson always thought about buying a piece, just because someday soon it was all going to be gone. He had this idea that on Day X he’d sit in the hotel window clutching his bit of the Berlin Wall like a human time capsule, taking it with him to the other side. On this particular day that he saw Georgie at the gate, Erickson finally picked out a piece, at first glance the most nondescript chunk on the table because the flat outside part of the stone was blank, not a scribble of graffiti on it to note anything of the Wall at all; rather its markings were on the other side. Which didn’t make any sense, since the other side was part of the Wall’s craggy gray innards, where it wasn’t possible for anyone to have written anything. Yet there it was, the fragment of rhetoric: pursuit of happiness, and Erickson bought the stone and put it in his coat pocket and turned around and was staring right into Georgie Valis’ face.
He was smiling. The writer didn’t know whether Georgie remembered seeing him in Kreuzberg or the Ax Bax; maybe he was just hanging around the Brandenburg looking for a tourist to mug.
Erickson would have thought it was pretty obvious he wasn’t worth mugging. At any rate Georgie was smiling and he started to talk and spoke perfect English, with barely a trace of an accent, or rather he spoke perfect American, which wasn’t necessarily surprising since the most interesting thing about Georgie wasn’t his repellent political affiliations but what two total strangers had told Erickson on the previous occasions he’d seen Georgie, that on the morning in 1989 when the East German professor left his house ostensibly for work but in fact to begin his life as the Tunneler of STEVE ERICKSON • 221
legend, Georgie was the ten-year-old son he held so close to him that final time.
In his short acquaintance with Georgie, Erickson never asked whether this was true. It seemed at times too personal and at other times too ridiculous, and there was no telling whether Georgie would have given a straight answer or not. What Erickson did note was Georgie’s profoundly ambivalent and furiously mystic obsession with the idea of America. More often than not this was a secret America that Erickson liked to think had little to do with the real one: Georgie was full of stories about great American geniuses Erickson had never heard of, cracked Midwest Nazi mes-siahs and white supremacists who Georgie assumed commanded the same rapt attention of everyone in the United States. Georgie’s obsession with America often got the better of his politics. Ultimately he didn’t discriminate between Thomas Paine and Crazy Horse, between sex goddesses and television stars and soul singers; Erickson was never sure Georgie recognized the contradic-tions. It didn’t seem possible Georgie could have listened to that blues tape of his and somehow heard a white man singing. Yet Georgie’s corrosive racial romanticism burned the black right off the singer until all that was left was the scarlet muscle of a beating heart.
They didn’t talk about politics. The American listened as Georgie rattled on, blithely and earnestly; Erickson would reproach himself afterward for not having said something. He’d reproach himself for not realizing that good manners, even in someone else’s country, had their limits. Only once during a Georgie monologue about nig-gers and fags and kikes and gooks—and it was a monologue rather than a rant; a rant might have provoked more of a response—did the writer suddenly blurt, “Maybe that’s just a lot of horseshit.”
Erickson wished it had been pure moral indignation on his part but it was more reflexive than that, born of some growing dread in the back of his brain that he was going to have to spend the rest of the millennium ashamed of the fact that he hadn’t said anything while Georgie conducted his own personal holocaust. So Erickson said it.
Georgie stopped. He’d been staring straight ahead of him and now he stopped, and he didn’t turn to the other man or me
et his AR C D’X • 222
eyes. He stopped as though the distant abrupt backfire of a car had disrupted his train of thought, and then Georgie just got back on the train, he just started back up where he’d been interrupted, and after a while he got onto the subject of America again, the betrayal of its promise, a theme they could both agree on, except Georgie’s version of the promise was rather different from the American’s version of the promise, Georgie’s version of the betrayal was different from Erickson’s version of the betrayal, which finally brought them around to Georgie’s real interest in the writer, the real reason he’d approached Erickson at the Brandenburg: the small chunk of Wall the writer had bought, with the remnant of its phrase on the back. Georgie had recognized it immediately.
He took the American to his flat in Kreuzberg. In the flat a dull light shone up from the floor. Out of a secret place in the floor against one wall Georgie hauled up a tape player and some tapes, skipping wildly from one musical selection to another, L.A. punk bands and Hollywood movie soundtracks and 1950s Julie London albums. High on the wall beyond anyone’s easy reach was what Georgie called his American Tarot. The cards were tacked to the wall in six rows of thirteen. From the floor peering up into the shadows of the wall it was impossible for the writer to see the cards clearly, but they appeared very old, and the thing one noticed immediately was the missing card: a place had been left for it in the seventh spot of the third row, right in the middle.
Georgie’s flat was empty because in the badlands of Berlin one kept little except what one wasn’t afraid to lose, like his tapes, or what he couldn’t bring himself to disown, like his American Tarot, or what couldn’t be hauled away by scavengers. And in Georgie’s flat was also something that definitely couldn’t be hauled away by scavengers. It was a slab of the Wall, the old Wall, and it stood in the center of the huge flat towering over the emptiness, where it looked a lot bigger than it had out in the middle of the city ten years before. Erickson hadn’t a clue how Georgie got the Wall up there. At its base sat a can of black spray paint, and across the Wall’s surface, where the old graffiti had been sandblasted away, Georgie wrote his own, including phrases from the music that was blacker than his love for it would acknowledge.
Georgie and Erickson stood looking at his Wall and the writer thought about Georgie’s apocryphal American mother, who had STEVE E R I C K S O N • 223
rejected her country so she might drive Georgie’s apocryphal German father into the mother earth of the fatherland. That night, leaving the flat and heading for a bar, the two of them turned up a small sidestreet only to see, as though melting into the pavement, an afterthought of the Neuwall jutting insanely onto the landscape
“rom a neighboring alley. Before the American’s eyes, Georgie transformed from innocence to ferocity. Struck motionless in his tracks, the young Berliner shook himself free of his stunned inertia to approach the Neuwall’s small pitiful sputter, still fresh from someone’s efforts only minutes before, where he kicked it, at first almost playfully. After a moment he wasn’t playful. Soon he was wailing futilely at the Neuwall as though trying to kick the whole thing down himself, his face black with rage, while the writer watching him realized in a flash that at this moment Georgie’s mother was up there with the Brigade in the Reichstag, in whatever wing the Pale Flame wasn’t occupying, one of the former informers decimating Stasi files into paste.
The last time he was in the United States, driving aimlessly through Wyoming and the Dakotas for the purpose of being aimless, he heard the news of the Cataclysm the same way he heard all the news that year, on the car radio. He turned the car around at the edge of Iowa and headed back toward the Pacific, assuming the Pacific was still there but never getting far enough to be sure. Every few miles he stopped at a pay phone to try to call anyone in California he could get through to, until it was obvious this was a waste of time, and then somewhere in Utah Erickson came over the ridge of a mountain and saw ten miles ahead on the highway below him the cars backing up in the billowing sheen of the sunset. He met the traffic jam in the middle and they all sat there the rest of the night, no one going anywhere, the cars in front not going and the cars in back waiting for the cars in front to go, until the highway patrol finally came along announcing there was nothing for anyone to do but turn around. At dawn, when he got back up to that mountain ridge, Erickson pulled over and stared A R C D’X • 224
westward as though he might see columns of smoke rising in the direction of home, vast and steaming. But there was nothing to see.
Not long before, he’d lived in Los Angeles. For Erickson it had gotten to the point where there was no telling whether L.A. chose him or he chose it; he’d never loved it and had come to distrust people who said they did as much as he distrusted those who claimed they hated it, dismissing the perceptions of both lovers and haters as facile and shallow. He’d been born in Los Angeles, left it at one point in the mid-Seventies to spend some time in Paris and New York, and then returned precisely for L.A.‘s profound lack of presence, the way it assimilated the Twentieth Century’s dislocation of memory from time into its own identity. He flattered himself as being liberated by the city’s abyss.
But by the late Eighties the abyss wasn’t liberating anymore, with the end of his marriage and, after that, the most important love affair of his life, in which he invested every dream he still had left. In the midst of this he turned forty. A month later his father died. By 1991 the affair had collapsed and by 1993, with the final failure of his career as a novelist, the ruins around him smoldered close enough to spring him loose in one direction or the other: west, off the edge of a cliff in the Palisades, or east, where the geography offered more potential for emptiness. He gave the west some thought. Being a coward, he went east.
He assumed it was only a matter of time. Over those last two or three years in Los Angeles he kept peering around for the doom that was hounding him. Standing at the corner of an intersection waiting to cross the street, he kept his eyes peeled with passing interest for the stray car that—its driver seized by sudden cardiac arrest—would leap the curb and give Erickson one good bump into eternity. He felt for the throb in his body of this cancer or that virus. Never having been practiced at living in the present, nonetheless he’d been silently shocked by the prospect that his father might not have spent enough of his life being happy, and that the son was doing the same. He wasn’t certain happiness was in his genes. When his love affair had ended, his heart had broken in time to the crumbling of history. He came to understand that while in youth it was quite true that time healed the heart, now the revelation of time’s passage was that the point finally comes when the heart isn’t going to heal again after all. There wasn’t much to STEVE ERICKSON • 225
do but pursue the purely sensual moment. He might have been better at this if he’d only been without conscience.
With his lover he had glimpsed the possibility of a life that included all of him, the dark interwoven with the light, the bad with the good, the weak with the strong, until he was complete and of a piece. After it was over and he knew this completion wasn’t going to be possible anymore, he accepted and came to terms with the way in which his literary life, his public life, his private life and his secret life lined up like four rooms, with guests, tourists or tempo-rary residents occasionally straying into one room or the other, none of them necessarily knowing there were other rooms with other guests. There was a door between the literary life and the public one, through which someone might slip back and forth, and a similar door between the private life and the secret, and a hidden passage that ran directly from the secret to the literary. But the only one who ever went in all the rooms was Erickson. The only one who even knew there were other rooms was Erickson. No one else was allowed access to all of him again; and when he did things with people in the secret life that remained unknown to those in the private, he understood this arrangement might just be a moral expediency, to justify to himself infidelities and spiritual
disarray, even as he also persuaded himself—and sometimes actually believed—that it was the only arrangement keeping him sane.
The rooms became strewn with furious women. Once it would have meant everything to him if even one of them had loved him.
Now they all loved him, when he was either too old for it or too unworthy. A friend argued that there was something about him that almost naturally raised these women’s expectations, something that persuaded them he was incapable of hurting them and was bound to submit, sooner or later, to their tenacity or patience.
But in the wake of everything he finally couldn’t convince himself he’d acted in anything other than bad faith, whether he misled them himself or allowed them to mislead themselves, permitting hope to grow into expectation without yanking hope up by the roots, in one room after another repeating the same scene with only a variation of details, the slammed door of a woman’s angry exit or his own dreadful walk out that door with the sound of her crying behind him. “Your love was a lie,” one of them said on his phone machine, a woman he had loved passionately years before A R C D’X • 226
and about whom he’d even written his first novel. “I guess it’s the surprise of my life,” said another bitterly, on yet another phone message, “to find out you’re just a bastard like all the rest.” She’d been in some novel or other too, though he couldn’t remember exactly which one, or what character she was.
“You’re just a real fake,” said the last, who had once called him
“mythic.”
After the Cataclysm he headed on to Iowa and spent some time there with a friend, and then south to Austin and east to New Orleans and north to New York, as purposefully as aimlessness could be. With the crash the next year he sold the car and headed for Europe, settling first in Amsterdam and then Paris, which was no more or less practical than anyplace else until, a year and a half before his fiftieth birthday, he read about Day X on page seventeen of the International Herald Tribune. The writer figured they had to have known about it for a while. He had to figure the scientists didn’t all just wake up one morning and look at their wrists and tap their watches wondering when, during the night, the small inner coil of infinity missed a beat. Even if he didn’t accept the conspiracy theories—conspiracy, after all, to what end?—he figured there had to have been at least a lurking suspicion, quantum whispers of the slowing cosmic timepiece, out of which seeped into the millennium the lost seconds and then minutes and then hours.
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