He stopped three blocks up and pulled into the parking lot of a Gas-n-Go, where he bought a fifth of whiskey, sitting in the car and drinking in order to clear his head. He thought how little things had changed after so many years, the way Renton revealed herself, how she showed him still to be no more than a hustler and brawler—and worse—a half orphan who remained in Hamburg because he felt no great urge to come home. (“What did I think would be different when I got back to the States?”) His time in the army, studying electrical engineering, working for Berchup Brothers, and the charity performed at the Band of Forbearance were all bullshit now, and even if he wanted, how could he possibly reclaim that which had already fallen away?
“Shit,” he said. “Shit and shit,” again. “Here I am. I am nothing but this.” The revelation came spontaneously, making everything else that followed a matter of reflex, and shifting into reverse he produced but a brief grinding of the gears.
Franklin raises his hand in an imaginary toast, “To shit that is and can’t be changed.” Just as he believes no truer words have ever been said, he sees the blue Ford return and a large man climb out. The figure runs around the front of the car on his way inside the Reedum & Wepe, glancing quickly over his shoulder and up at the sky as if spotting Franklin there on the thirty-fourth floor of the Ryse & Fawl, so that even from a distance the father knows and cries out, “God!” Such a thing and on this anniversary day no less! Here was Chance singing out in perfect pitch. Franklin jumps and waves and screams for his son, while in the blink of an eye all things change again, hope and reformation passing as a flash of light so bright it blinds. A crash of thunder rings out, the rattling of windows and swaying of steel, while across the way the structure that was the Reedum & Wepe bursts from within and drops down, shattered and gone along with Tyler, leaving Franklin in the grey, grey smoke of the smoldering waste to stare outside and strain to see through what is once again nothing.
CHAPTER 12
IN ALGIERS
In darkness memory is all. There is nothing but what the mind remembers.
By the time I woke, Niles was already up and gone from our room. I looked about, confused at first, taking a moment to recall exactly where I was and wondering where Niles might be. I stared across the floor at his duffle, moved my legs slowly over the side of the bed, undoing the rope while searching for a note. Niles’ camera was still in its case, his copy of Camus’ A Happy Death where he left it last night on the table. I checked the time—just after 9:00 a.m.—and sure he’d be back any minute, I went into the bathroom, then dressed and sat down to wait.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said as he came in, carrying a manila folder that he tucked back inside his duffle. “I went for a walk,” and wiping sweat from his brow, he asked if I was hungry and suggested we get something to eat. We had coffee in another outdoor restaurant then spent the day—and much of the next—exploring the city. As a man in tow, I followed Niles wherever he led, walking through the markets (souqs) and qasbahs, where crafts and foods, clothes and carpets, jewelry and vegetables were sold. Niles used his camera to record the crowds, the interior of hotels, stores and movie theaters, the main post office, the fish market, and port. Later we went by hired car out into the country, and the following day drove from the Palais du Gouvernement and the National Library out along the skyline above Les Tagarins, down to the beaches and back up again to the Parc de la Liberté and the Museum of Antiquities.
One afternoon—and more to humor Niles than any ambition I had—we stopped at the American consulate and the local English press and asked after Timbal. The answers we received confirmed that he was still in the area, though interest in the old artist had waned and no one knew much about him or seemed to care. We were told only that he lived outside the city and came into Algiers now and then. I considered my effort in that regard complete, and concentrated otherwise on Niles. I asked frequently how he was doing, wondered if our trip had brought him any closer to the curative he was after, and how being here made him feel. Despite his claim of being in good spirits, I noticed in his face a guardedness layered beneath his pale complexion, his gaze at times distant and distracted. He did his best to divert my concern, explaining the history of a particular area of the city, educating me on the unrest in the region, the clashes between the government and rebel forces, the AIG and ISF, Muslim extremists opposed to a conservative Islamic state, the bombings and recent assassinations of Adbelbak Benhamouda and the AIG’s leader Antar Zouabri. I showed an interest only because it seemed to make Niles happy, and still in secret I continued to wonder if something was wrong.
Our third morning in Algiers, I got up to the sun pouring through the blinds. Niles was gone again, his early walks now part of his private routine. I untied the rope from my right ankle and went into the bathroom to pee. After washing my face—the water came out cold and had a rusty odor—I dried my hands and returned to find Niles back in our room, sitting in the chair and staring toward the window. His complexion was paler than yesterday, with beads of perspiration in his hairline and beneath his nose. I didn’t like the way he looked—a sense of the febrile had entered the equation—and finding my pants and pulling them on, I asked, “Are you all right?”
“Sure.”
“You look sick.”
“It’s hot.”
“It’s more than that.”
“I’m fine.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Good,” he continued looking toward the window, and after several seconds glanced at me in order to discuss our plans for the day. “I was thinking you might want to take a drive outside the city and see if you can’t find Timbal.”
“That’s all right,” I answered. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“They said he’s east of the city. Someone has to know.”
I shook my head. “That’s OK.”
Niles retied the laces of his boots with a mechanical motion of his fingers, and sliding back in his chair repeated, “It’s just that I think you should.” He ran the back of his hand across his forehead, his features pinched and drawn together. He got up and went into the bathroom where I heard the toilet flush and then the water run. When he came back, he sat again in the chair. I stood near the window, smoking and glancing out at the people passing below: men in long cotton shirts and embroidered gandouras despite the heat, others in suits, women in pale blouses, in haiks and scarves covering their heads. Niles remained in the chair, and staring up at me said, “I was thinking about the man on the train.”
“The one with the fever?”
“What he told us about having no choice.”
“Crazy.”
“No matter what pressure he was under, he still chose to get on the train.”
“Exactly.”
“And he chose to ignore what his fever was trying to tell him.”
“He traveled even though it made him sick.”
“He should have come up with a different plan.”
“No doubt.”
“So you agree a person can choose to do the wrong thing?”
“Of course.”
“And regret it?”
“Yes.”
“Like your coming this far and not wanting to see Timbal.”
“I won’t regret it.”
“So you say now.”
“I came because you asked me to.”
“All right, then what about regretting what happened with you and Liz?”
“Niles,” I felt foolish for failing to see where our conversation was headed. Up until then, Niles was sympathetic enough toward my situation to refrain from discussing Liz at all, though I knew the exchange was inevitable, and endured further questions as best I could, answering honestly and only when he made reference to the way I chose to play piano did I wave my hands and say, “Enough.”
“What?”
“It isn’t that simple,” I finished my cigarette and discarded it in the toilet, the last of the ash giving way with a hiss as I
returned to the front room and sat on the bed. “In the first place, I didn’t choose to play as I did. I didn’t want what happened.”
“You told me not to come hear you.”
“I told you not to bother.”
“Because you knew you’d fuck up and feared I wouldn’t let you.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then I’m confused,” Niles shifted forward. “I thought you told me everything is a matter of choice.”
“Sometimes, shit just happens.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, Niles. I suppose once in a while the cumulative effect of earlier decisions just combusts.”
“So what went wrong wasn’t your fault?”
“I was as surprised as anyone.”
“Not more surprised than Liz.”
“Hell,” I walked to the window, closed the drapes and turned around, thinking myself clever as I tossed the question back. “What about you? Why are we here if you’re such an advocate of self-determination? Why can’t you simply take control of your nocturnal nonsense and make it stop?”
Niles folded his arms across his chest and sat quietly for several seconds before answering me with a concise, “I can.”
Surprised, I came back and sat on the end of the bed, waiting for him to say more, asking, “What do you mean?” but he remained evasive and resumed our conversation by asking yet again, “What about Liz? What do you intend to do?”
“I told you, nothing.”
“You’re satisfied with how things are?”
“It isn’t a question of being satisfied.”
“Or happy?”
“Don’t start.”
“What?”
“She’s gone.”
“Then get her back.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can.”
“She’s in Spain and I’m here and there’s a reason for that.”
“What reason?”
“Things are because they can’t otherwise help being that way.”
Niles shook his head. I watched him tug at the end of his sleeves and continue with, “So what you’re telling me is that you plan on treating what happened with Liz the same as everything else?”
I nearly said no, that of course Liz was different from the rest, but then Niles was sure to ask how is she different and in what way could I explain? Wasn’t I dealing with Liz’s leaving exactly as I always did? As I treated my dissertation and impending dismissal from the university, as I handled my music and the story I created about L.C. Timbal and on and on? How then could I draw a distinction? I sat stone-faced, and repeated my mantra. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“If you ask me,” Niles said.
“Which I didn’t.”
“But if you did.”
“I’m fine.”
“Maybe so,” he repeated, “but if you did ask me, I’d say your problem is that it doesn’t frighten you enough to stay as you are.”
I tossed up my hands in such a way as to make it seem the deadeye accuracy of Niles’ charge had missed its mark, and smoking a fresh cigarette, knocked a bit of ash to the floor and replied as glibly as possible, “It isn’t a question of fear.”
“If that’s the case,” Niles reached toward his duffle and pulled out a thin rectangular envelope that he tossed onto the bed beside me. I stared down, blew more smoke then told him to forget it.
“Think it over.”
“I don’t have to,” I spoke firmly, as I did when one of my students insisted on clinging to an untenable position, and ignoring the ticket said, “I’m not going to see Liz. I’m here because you asked me to make sure you don’t carve yourself up at night and that’s all.”
“You don’t want to see her?”
I frowned. “What I want is what I have.”
“Who are you trying to convince?”
“You, obviously,” I crushed my cigarette beneath my heel, and unable to look at Niles just then, I turned away, stared down at the ash in the wood, at the drapes across the window and the thin ray of light still shining through. I glanced back at the small table between the two beds, and spotting Niles’ copy of A Happy Death, knew intuitively I was making a mistake, though I couldn’t resist and said, “You’re forgetting one thing. The risk of being in love only keeps me from being happy.”
Niles recognized the line at once, and coming from the chair, picked up the book and flipped to the correct page, scanning down a few paragraphs in order to correct my misapplication of the text. “But Mersault ‘realized how easily his certainty could be shaken. His heart was strangely hard… There was nothing ahead of him now except the Chenoua, a forest of ruins and wormwood, a love without hope or despair, and the memory of a life of vinegar and flowers.’” He wiped more sweat from his brow and asked, “Is that what you want? To spend your days in a forest of wormwood?”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t believe you. Why would you want to do that?”
“Because it’s safe.”
“Nothing is safe.”
“Exactly.”
Niles sat back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap, his voice weary and face not quite healthy. He sighed from somewhere deep in his chest. I appreciated his trying to look out for me, understood his intentions for what they were, and still I couldn’t keep from sounding resentful. “Why is it all right for you to fly 8,000 miles in search of God knows what and I can’t say a word or convince you the whole trip is nonsense, and yet when it comes to me and what I need to do for myself while I’m here, you think to know better?” Before Niles could answer, I decided to defend myself further, and added, “Nothing keeps me out of trouble. Nothing is harmless. You should try it sometime. Just think how much better off you’d be if you weren’t always trying to do something. What the fuck are we doing here, Niles?”
He looked at me then, more oddly than before, then stood and slipped his copy of A Happy Death inside his pocket. The effects of his walk that morning, the heat outside and whatever else had him appearing fevered, caused his legs to shift awkwardly for a moment beneath him. He recovered quickly however, the color in his face returning, and setting his shoulders back, he hesitated just a second, then said in response to my claim, “I know why I’m here.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer, and after another second he turned and gathered up his video camera, wiped a fresh line of sweat from his brow, shooed the fly from around his head, told me to have a good day, and walked out into the hall. The door closed and once again I was alone.
CHAPTER 13
THE WATER’S EDGE
What is passes, or so the thought occurred to Aziz Zaboud as he surveyed the qasbah with its bins of oranges and pears, the rounds of cheese and mayonnaise jars, the meats and breads and dozens of other staples that just a few short months ago would not have made their way so easily into the country. Since the election many—though certainly not all—of the everyday hardships had diminished. There was still unrest, guerrilla attacks in the countryside, car bombings, and raids on villages. (Just last week seventeen people were killed in Ain Defla Province, less than 80 miles south of Algiers, and three days before the start of Ramadan a bomb exploded downtown at a bus stop frequented by female university students, killing several innocent girls.) The Armed Islamic Group and the Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat seemed to have grown out of the ashes left by the ISF and the history of past insurgencies, and still things had changed.
Aziz swore as much was true as he slipped a juicy pear into his pocket and headed off to the port. As was his routine every morning, he went to the port in order to supervise the incoming and outgoing shipments from his uncle’s store. (Gul Ami Zaboud owned a small yet profitable import-export business on the east side of the city.) Sometime before ten an American with slender shoulders and an odd tangle of limbs arrived and paced through the crowd with his video camera aimed at the trains and the ships both moored and moving out to sea. The sight of foreigners wa
s nothing new—they passed through the port as conspicuous as blackbirds—yet something about this particular outlander caught Aziz’s eye. More than the camera, which the American failed to realize was already the target of thieves, Aziz was taken by the man’s focus as he made his way through the crowd, his machine held firm, his movements both severe and pliant, suggesting the liquid glide of fish.
Aziz finished his work and began following the American around the port, convinced there might be some business the man was there to conduct, a lucrative deal Aziz and his uncle could benefit from. Intrigued by the mystery of the American’s filming, he decided to stay with the man as he headed toward the street to catch a bus going west. They rode several miles before the American got off beyond Bordj El Kiffan and Alger Plage, near the beaches of Boumerdes. Aziz trailed behind from a safe distance, hiking up the hillside before stopping in a shaded patch where he sat and watched the American pass through high weeds, eventually cutting across a clearing and striding to the water where he baptized himself in the sea.
The air in the late morning was already quite hot, and as Niles hiked he held his camera bag against his side, alternating shoulders every few hundred yards. The route he took from the port by way of the Enterprise Publique de Transport de Voyageurs skipped the Turquoise Coast that attracted more travelers, and he went instead out toward a secluded patch of beach beyond Bordj El Kiffan and Alger Plage, nearer the white sands of Boumerdes—though not as far as Cap Djinet—where he walked away from the road and parallel to the water.
For a time he thought about Bailey, wondered whether he made the right decision to leave him alone, if such would force him to come to his senses and either go off in search of Timbal or take up the ticket and fly to see Liz. (Or will he just sit there inside the room?) He considered the core of their argument, how ridiculous Bailey’s talk of securing happiness through resistance and avoidance. The attitude was myopic, the notion that doing nothing was ever best, as if happiness was some accidental occurrence one stumbled into and not, as Camus wrote in A Happy Death, Man’s greatest and most arduous ambition. He considered, too, his own reason for being in Algiers—“I know why I’m here,” he said—how he walked each morning, secretly spying and wanting to experience the sense of forgiveness that would allow him to be healed, and yet what was it Massinissa Alilouche had said about human impulse and the plight of being a rebel? What was it that caused him to feel so unsteady now, so weak and frightened and confused?
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