School of Velocity

by Eric Beck Rubin

  “It was Pirm,” I say, “who told me you were back.”

  Dirk takes a sip from the bowl and half turns to face me. “I see Pirm every so often,” he says. “He’s on various admissions panels.”

  He reaches behind him, to the island, and grabs a roll of paper towel. He tears a piece for himself and one for me, then immediately crumples his piece and places it in his lap. I fold mine and tuck it under the bowl.

  “That was maybe six months ago that I ran into him,” I say. “After which I looked you up on the computer. It took me a while, I’m not much for computers, but eventually I found the Sint Ansfried website.”

  Dirk brushes the side of his mouth with the balled-up paper towel.

  “The school looks the same,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says. “They probably need to update the website.”

  His bowl is empty. His spoon is turned upside down.

  I take a few quick spoonfuls to catch up.

  “Really good,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Dirk nods at the compliment, then stands to clear the plates. I make to stand too, but he motions for me to sit. As he sets up the next course, nudging plates and cutlery along the counter, I am visited by sounds from the drive up. Motor, steering rack, suspension. The rearing of changing gears. Tires passing over gravel, asphalt, the plastic reflectors embedded in lane dividers. I take two long sips of wine and slide off my jacket, draping it over the back of my chair.

  The steaks are on the table. I lift the wine bottle and ask if I can refill my glass. Dirk blinks, which I guess does not mean no. I tip the bottle until the glass is two-thirds full.

  “Pretty good dinner for a pit stop,” I say.

  He nods, then grins. A glint of the chip. Then he looks away, to the windows, examining the trims, mullions, panes, sills. Tiny tremors pass through his chin as he chews.

  As we finish dinner I refill both glasses with wine. Dirk takes the bottle to the recycling bin and starts transferring dinner plates to the island. “Nice little mess we’ve made,” he says.

  I stand up with him and bring the glasses and cutlery to the sink. “At least let me help with the dishes,” I say.

  Dirk shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

  He runs the tap and fills the sink with sudsy water. He’s asked a question.

  “Pardon me?” I say.

  “I said, did you drive?”

  “Yes.”

  He grabs a cloth from a cupboard knob, leaving the tap on. The sound of running water is soothing. He begins to dry the glasses. “Is that your car in the dead end?” he asks.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Dirk nods, then speaks loudly over the running water. “They ticket, you know.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Didn’t you used to be able to stay overnight?”

  Dirk pauses. “I don’t remember. In any case, it’s been this way for a while. And they’re vigilant about it.”

  I look at the bay windows, as if checking for the ticketing police, and see steam has condensed on the lower part of the glass. The food, wine, oven, hot water filling the sink. All starting to hit me, and I begin to feel nauseous. Dirk, still occupied at the sink, has his back turned, so I drift towards the quieter living room.

  In semi-darkness I make out the couch, the patterned fabric on the wingback chair, and the open mouth of the fireplace with the wicker basket next to it. The tall curtains that cover the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park are half-open. I pull them back the rest of the way, gently, but still unsettle the dust in their folds. A beam of park lamplight lights up the unfurling ringlets of dust and lands on the first steps to the second floor.

  Framed photos are arrayed on the mantel. I pick them up, one at a time. There’s Dirk, Wim, and Cornelia. Dirk is in his regular, stooped posture, but Cornelia’s hair has gone white and Wim’s face has hollowed out. There’s a soft-lens portrait of Granny, and one of Dirk’s brother, sitting on a couch with a child on his knee. There is a couple who seem older than Dirk but younger than his parents, maybe an older cousin or friends of Dirk’s. There is also an unfamiliar woman who appears on her own, in two pictures.

  The throb of noises, having calmed somewhat during the tail end of dinner, have begun to recollect themselves. I adjust the photos on the mantel and try to focus my mind on something else, an old technique. I notice the room, at first soothingly cool, is actually cold. The back of my throat is beginning to itch. I touch one of the radiators behind the curtains. Off.

  I hear Dirk calling from the kitchen, saying something like “I’ll be a minute.” I am about to head back for my jacket when I see a throw hanging from the back of the armchair. I wrap it around my shoulders and start to pace the living room. That woman in the two photographs, I think to myself. Is she familiar? But I stop myself from going further. Why should I know everyone who has passed through Dirk’s life in all this time?

  Dirk still hasn’t appeared, so I call to the kitchen. “Do you have something else to drink?” Digestif quoi? as Dirk would have put it.

  He calls back. “Let me take a look.”

  Cupboards open, then drawers. After a few moments Dirk passes from the kitchen into the dining room. As he fishes around I peer at the small picture that’s replaced the Scholte. A pastel seascape, the type of thing a tourist would buy. Maybe there’s something to the painting I can’t see. A sea monster, lurking amid the waves. Dirk hunches into the living room holding a bottle of Scotch and two crystal glasses by the insides of their rims. He places everything on a side table between armchair and couch, uncorks the bottle, and pours two fingers into each glass.

  “Cheers,” I say, lifting my glass. “To a special occasion.”

  I sit on the couch. Dirk sits in the armchair.

  I take a slug from the glass. A taste of fire wakes up my throat and warms my chest, but with it comes a sharp sting to the side of my head. I adjust the cushion behind me, take another sip, and wait for the sting. It’s delayed this time, but it comes. It’s stronger.

  “You know,” I say, “it’s been thirty years since you popped down to Maastricht to visit me.”

  Dirk scratches the side of his nose. “Thirty?”

  “Thirty and a bit,” I say.

  He nods slowly. Like he had at the front door and dinner table. He takes another short sip of his drink and grins as the heat of the Scotch goes down. “Where does the time go, eh, Jan?”

  “You know, every time I run into Sint Ansfried people, they always ask about you.”

  “And?”

  “And they tell me what they’d heard.”

  “What they’d heard?”

  “Yes, about how you’d been spotted here, there, everywhere. It’s how I kept up with the news.”

  He scratches his nose, looks down at his glass.

  “I heard, for instance, you were in Paris and teaching at the Sorbonne.”

  “I did teach here and there,” he says.

  “And in America?”

  “I was, for a while.”

  “Someone told me you were on Broadway.”

  “I was, in various capacities. On Broadway and off-Broadway. Do you know off-Broadway?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s far better,” he says.

  I nod, waiting for more. But it doesn’t come.

  “So did you like America?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says, “though that’s not always a popular thing to say.”

  Dirk looks into the far upper corner of the room. I feel a jab, or maybe a prod. A scrabble of noises too tangled to identify.

  “I heard other things, you know.”

  Dirk keeps his face turned towards the corner. “I’m sure most of it was exaggeration.”

  “I was told you were back,” I say. “That one was true.”

  He clears his throat. “But enough about me, Jan.” He taps the side of his glass, maybe deciding whether to pour himself, and me, another shot. I make the decision for him.

  “You don’t mind
, do you?” I ask, not waiting for an answer.

  In the long pauses between words, the noise level increases. There are skips and scratches in what I hear. Mounting pressure. As Dirk fiddles with his crystal glass I try to wrap my mind around the noises, establish a limit to the disruption, a type of fire-ditch. But it isn’t working. Something is always crossing the barrier. Sparks to start a conflagration.

  Dirk scratches behind his ear. I shake my head, trying to clear space. “A little while after I ran into Pirm,” I begin, “I cleaned out my apartment in Maastricht and found this trove of letters and photographs from Sint Ansfried days.”

  Dirk rubs at his cheek. Frowns slightly.

  “Actually, I brought them with me,” I say. “It includes the letter you wrote while I was in Maastricht. I hadn’t heard from you in such a long time, you know, and this letter came out of nowhere.”

  Suddenly a change in the room. It was dark before, but now it’s nearly black.

  “The park lamps,” Dirk says. “They’ve clocked off.”

  I try to regain my bearings. The volume in my ears is steadily increasing. Dirk, now only an outline, says something to me, but I’m having trouble hearing.

  “Pardon me?” I say.

  He mouths the words again. I raise my hands in confusion.

  He says it louder. It’s a question. Sounds like the word “water.”

  “For the road.”

  A scalding heat races through my head. The confusion that had been held at bay is becoming visceral. Crippling. Feedback from speakers, crossed wires screaming at one another.

  Dirk is talking to me, but his voice is tucked somewhere behind the noise. A rush of blood presses into the sides of my head. I close my eyes and jam my fists against the place where the blood is pulsing.

  I try to apologize. Mumble some excuse. It’s all happening too quickly. What must Dirk be thinking? Suddenly I feel his hand on my shoulder. I grip his forearm and try to stand, but as I rise I feel my knees buckle and I stumble to the ground. A cushion tumbles after me. I reach up again and knock the scotch glass off the side table.

  Dirk says something else, but I don’t know what it is. I fumble behind myself for the cushion, try to set it back on the couch. Dirk grips my shoulder again.

  “I’m … I’m …” I say. “This …”

  Dirk bends closer. He grabs my wrist and swings my arm across his back. Up. I lean against him now. Can just make out his words.

  “You can come upstairs and lie down,” he says. “The old room.”

  My chest begins to heave, my nose becomes stuffed. Dirk pretends not to notice. He is focused on helping me stand. Keeping my arm around his neck, holding me to his side as we walk to the staircase.

  By now the sharp sounds in my head have melded into a brutal tangle, worse than ever before. As we climb the stairs together I look at Dirk, but he is staring ahead. Once or twice he stops to get a better grip on my arm, or pull my body closer to his, but he keeps his focus on the next step and the one after. I think of how he and I used to race up these steps, me trying to outrun him, him pushing past me. Watch you don’t snap a tendon, Old Man. Watch you don’t fall back and break your head, Dirk. I won’t be wheeling you around the parks on Sundays. Yeah? Well I won’t be changing your colostomy bags.

  “Take it easy,” Dirk says, looking down at the tricky turn at the top of the steps. “We’re almost there.”

  Dirk pushes open the door to his old room, unwraps my arm from around him, and leans me against the doorframe. Once he sees I’m settled, he reaches for the light switch and adjusts the dimmer to low.

  The room looks like it’s used for storage now. The teetering bookcase that housed Dirk’s stereo system and speakers is gone. The space where the desk used to stand is now occupied by a half-dozen, shoddily assembled cardboard boxes. Reference books and what look like plays, probably the same ones we used to read in school, are piled up along the walls. In place of the bunk bed, at the far side of the room, is a metal-framed cot, low to the ground.

  “Wait here,” Dirk says, touching my shoulder. He goes to the almost empty cupboard and pulls out a sheet, pillowcases, and a fleece blanket from the top shelf. He unfurls the sheet, spreads it over the mattress, and tucks in the corners. He slides the pillows into the cases and drapes the blanket over the freshly made bed.

  “Goodnight,” he says, and before I can register the word, or react, he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

  At first I don’t move. Then I turn the lights off. Still dizzy and susceptible to falling over, I gingerly strip off my pants and dress shirt, and in semi-darkness feel for the edge of the cot. The mattress bows and the cot’s springs groan. Lying down, I feel like I’ve been buried beneath a collapsed roof, and I can barely breathe under its weight.

  Unable to fall asleep, I look through the two windows past the foot of the bed and make out what looks like a jittery night sky. One moment it’s pitch-black, the next it’s as if light is pulsing through. A rash of stars appears and disappears, like in some kind of game.

  I close my eyes and try to start again, from the top. Like a practice session. Putting every note in its place.

  The first time I saw Dirk. First time I went to his house. All our Christmases. Maastricht. After. Vivace. Allegro. Scherzo. Adagio.

  Lights like bright stars shine down on me. Keys like firecrackers sparkle beneath my fingers.

  I see Weetman. At first I’m ignoring him. But now his words are coming back to me. We’ve been reviewing your case, Jan, he says, not saying who “we” are. And I have to say … He is wearing a lab coat with a Bic and Hi-Liter in the pocket, and he’s turning up the palms of his small hands, looking me in the eye. Listing, once again, all the tests and all the negative results. We can’t find the cause, Jan.

  He keeps talking, but his words are breaking up, floating upward on the strings of Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia. A wave of violins washes over the familiar landscape. Straight roads. Morning frost on the canals.

  I’ve got to get up, I think to myself, I’ve got to get back. I’m about to push my legs over the side of the bed, to leave the house and head down to the car, when I see a blade of light cutting across the carpeted floor and remember I’m in Dirk’s bedroom.

  For the first time in a long time, there is a kind of quiet. I know this because I can hear, within this quiet, the sound of long, regular breaths.

  I sit up on the edge of the cot and rub my eyes. I can still hear the breathing. The fleece blanket slides off my chest. Goosebumps rise on my arms.

  He’s sitting on top of one of the packing boxes.

  “Dirk?”

  I detect a slight movement. My heart begins to pound. I lean forward. My breathing is shallow.

  “Dirk?”

  He clears his throat.

  I wait. Will he slowly rise and embrace me? Will he launch himself at me? Will he bring me into his chest and hold me tight, or will he force me to my knees, circle behind, and lean on the spot between my shoulder blades?

  I tense my shoulders, ready.

  Dirk rests a hand on his knee and looks me over, weighing me up. The blade of hall light illuminates the side of his head. Hair, ear, cheek.

  “Why now?” he says.

  “Because I need you,” I say, without hesitation.

  No answer.

  “Because I needed to come home.”

  A smile out of the shadows. Or maybe a smirk. “Home?”

  “Yes. Of all the places in the world, this is my home. Will always be my home. Just like it’s yours.”

  The smirk shrinks away. Maybe it hadn’t been there in the first place, maybe I misread his face.

  “Remember our wrestling matches in this room?” I say. “One hand behind your back? Two? How, every time, I lost?”

  More silence and stillness from where Dirk sits.

  “Remember what came after them, when the lights went out, after the music stopped playing?”

  Dirk shifts. His ey
e flashes in the light, then disappears, along with the rest of his face. I shiver as a bead of sweat drips down my side.

  “Dirk, I came back because there’s something wrong with me. Nobody can fix it. Nobody can even figure out what it is, or if it is, but I’m tired of fighting it, fighting myself.” I wipe my hand across my forehead. “What I wanted to say is … I need you. And you need me, too. I never understood that.”

  “Understood?”

  “Pirm told me about your breakdown. About dropping out.”

  A thunderclap runs from ear to ear, like weather starting up again. My arms start to shake. I don’t have much time. I begin to blurt out the words. What I’d meant to say from the moment I stepped in the front door.

  “Pirm told me about what you suffered and it finally made sense. Why it ended the way it did. You see, we didn’t drift away, we didn’t outgrow each other, like friends. You cut me out, overnight, because we weren’t just friends. We were much more than that, only I didn’t realize it at the time. You knew it, but I didn’t.”

  I feel my eyes beginning to well. I can only just hear the words pouring out of me.

  “You loved me, Dirk. And I didn’t realize I loved you too. And you suffered for that. That’s why you didn’t tell me about the breakdown, about leaving school. That’s why you didn’t meet me in Japan. It was because you thought I didn’t love you, but I did. I still do.”

  The moment of auditory reprieve is over. A razorlike ringing enters with full force. It cuts into me, through me, tears me apart. I fall forward from the bed and reach towards him.

  “Please don’t be so cold, Dirk. Please.”

  Can’t he see that he could solve everything just by reaching out, touching my arm, letting my head rest against his chest?

  Finally he speaks. “Jan,” he says. His voice is low, cool, and pierces the noises in my head. “All this was thirty years ago. You can’t just show up at my front door as if time hasn’t passed. As if this was still your home and everything’s the same.”

  I hear his words, but it takes a further moment to understand their meaning. And when I do I feel a wave of nausea pass over me. I can’t see straight. Can’t see his face. Tears start streaming. I feel sick all over again, like I did the night I saw Pirm.