I Met Someone

by Bruce Wagner

  “And after that deplorable act, I felt a rush of freedom! Some of that sense of release, no doubt, I attribute to complete shock—the shock of excitation that I was able to go through with such a thing at all, after having thought about it for so many years . . . you see, the thrill wasn’t in the getting away with it, but in the doing. There’s no point in speaking to the details that drove me to commit the act. Suffice to say that little Jim—‘Jimbo,’ my son—had become savagely, incurably violent, and my Margot—well, he’d effectively destroyed her, enlisted her, and now both were actively conspiring to destroy me.”

  For a long moment, his gaze turned inward. The heavy, hooded lids blinked and flirted with his eyes, promising the opiated sanctuary of sleep—but were spurned.

  He resurfaced and became present once more. “And when it was finished, I wondered—not What have I done? but rather What else am I capable of? Oh, that query possessed me! What else was I capable of that was beyond my power to imagine? Not in the sense of the monster-hunter becoming the monster, or the abyss staring back into me . . . You see, I had always favored the ‘mystical,’ Jerome—in my teenage years I was of the type who haunted the metaphysical section of booksellers, those traders who were moribund even in pre-Internet days . . . Well, an answer to that came (in the form of another question): Am I capable of enlightenment? And am I a “candidate”? It was a thought that was actually in the back of my mind a long, long while. Could murder—might murder—for me—might it be the avenue of that first step of the journey to moksha, kaivalya, nirvana? I’d read certain parables that seemed to assert an ‘enlightened murderer’ was no oxymoron, and the so-called liberated state may soon be attained through the homicidal act itself. If that were true, imagine how one’s odds at being liberated would be increased by the killing of those whom one loves and protects, one’s very own blood! Isn’t that what Krishna counsels Arjuna? That not to kill those kings and fathers—in my case, mothers and sons!—was to be impotent by sheer weakness of heart? That not to kill would incur sin? Is it not written in the Gita? The ingenious hypothesis was simple, and only in want of a ‘test phase’ to prove or disprove its worth. And I’m no sociopath, lad, far from it! Though I know the declaration encourages the rejoinder, Thou doth protest too much.

  “There’s an old saying that if one is going to tell a lie—a significant lie—one must plan it as carefully as a murder. In my case, I planned the murder first and then the lie that I eventually told my Devi . . . what’s the lovely thing Twain said? He said so many funny, lovely things. Oh, here—‘The truth is a fragile thing but a well-told lie can live forever.’ Haha. You see, my plan was to make a getaway from far more than merely the jejune scene of the crime—it was to flee from all that I knew, and all I was known by. I chose the invisibility of homelessness because I imagine it appealed to a romantic fantasy I’d carried throughout the years of cutting anchor, divesting myself of reputation, relationships, possessions. [“I suppose the double murder accomplished that!” he said, in a chilling, theatrical aside. “Though ‘triple’ would be more accurate, as it wouldn’t be fair to leave myself out. I killed misself off as well.”] This desire to self-excommunicate, you see, was an impulse I’d had since, well, adolescence. And if it weren’t exactly spiritual enlightenment I was seeking at that time, it certainly would have been an illumination of Self—though I suppose in many quarters it’s hard to draw a distinction between the two.

  “Let me interject a little something about solvency, because I have the feeling you’ve been puzzling over it. I know Devi mentioned some business about my having made arrangements vis-à-vis access to funds—which is true. Before the murders, I’d spent months stashing money away in safe-deposit boxes around the country . . . which the prosecution would of course use against me as evidence of premeditation, will use against me. And I shan’t argue. In fact, I shall rush to their defense! Isn’t that what Lord Krishna urged? In defense of war? To urge that one enlist in the war against Self, through the supreme act of violent surrender?”

  While unable to shake a queer, out-of-body feeling, Jeremy was pleased to have found himself comfortably settling in (or nearly so) to the sonorous rhythm of his companion’s speech. In other words, he no longer feared ambush. While listening to MacKlatchie’s words, he took in their surroundings with a preternatural attentiveness—the reactive expressions of fellow luncheoners engrossed in private conversations; the telltale gait of servers and their wry, conspiratorial whispers; the very temperature of the large, sunlit room, and its minute fluctuations therein. What’s all this? Jeremy mused, then understood: “all this”—impressions, perceptions, and feelings—were nothing more (or less) than a heightened, holy, inordinate sense of being alive. And now he saw firsthand the very thing that Devi had: a man before him who belonged to energetic royalty, exemplar of a gang whose controversial greatness could be defined by the possession of two qualities, diametrically opposed—a convivial command of the commonplace and a proficiency in the untranslatables of the dark Unknown. It was the effortless personification of those extremes that made the guru.

  He spoke of the months immediately after the crime when he lived as a fugitive in Mexico. For a while he kept abreast of the frenzied stateside search for the wealthy heir who’d slain his wife and troubled son, but interest soon ebbed; the public, in its haste to make room for fresh kills and faddish reality shows, moved on. He kept a small room for a while off the Zócalo, where he took flight in profound meditation, channeling the “assemblage points” and “lucid-dreaming bodies” of his Margot and little Jim—before and after death. During one of these zazen, he came to understand (“By a truth revealed through the act of ‘reading’ energy”) that “they hadn’t died at all, because they were never born. None of us were, don’t you see, Jerome? It’s true, my friend! I always thought it was balderdash, but it’s true!” The fallacy of man, he said, was in believing anything else. “This puerile ‘doctrine of Death’—so primitive!—is man’s undoing. For I am telling you that it isn’t the thing of Death, it’s the wrongheaded idea of it that lays waste to man’s joy, his Love, his Freedom.” His work in Mexico City done, he decided to return to Minnesota, where he’d broadcast his revelations in a court of law. “Because they have to transcribe it—isn’t that marvelous? Anything I said would be permanently enshrined: transcribed by law.”

  Sidelined along the way by a brutal beating in Monterrey; another one shortly after crossing the border at Laredo (with the same flawless counterfeit passport used in his original flight); and a small heart attack in Oklahoma City—he rode a Trailways bus through that wilderness of megachurches and porn emporiums on the banks of the I-35 (“‘The Highway of Holiness,’ they call it! Locals say the I-35 refers to Isaiah 35:8: ‘A highway shall be there, and a road, and it shall be called the Highway of Holiness’”) before finally arriving in Chicago, where, “a tad bit worse for wear,” he at once felt himself again, himself being a hundred pounds heavier (his body’s counterintuitive response to all manner of travails) than two years before, with a beard like a forest growth after a deluge.

  “Well, I didn’t feel on the lam. I had planned on returning for my ‘just deserts’ . . . but for the moment, was absolutely glorying in American cuisine—one could say I was eating just desserts!—and after the grandes avenidas of D.F. and the horrors of that most consecrated of Interstate highways, found the gem¨utlich chaos of Chicago streets to be thoroughly refined and amenable. And as I said, I had been crafting my return all along and was meaning to get on the road again—to Duluth and its courthouse—yet there I was, happy as a soft-shelled mollusk, making camp outside that venerable institution of Mandry’s, and there I seemed, by fate and inertia, to remain. Until she came along. One day there she was, and I fell in love. I heard the sirens, Jerome, not the bells! It was a passionately romantic and carnal love—from my side—though the dear soul never knew it because I never let on. I was startled by her interest in me—at first any
way, till I understood—it seemed so unlikely, as I was an obese and very peculiar sort, of unidentifiable genius and genus of foul-smelling changeling (my normally fastidious toilet had suffered greatly by then), a transcendental ogre, and I wondered—as perhaps you have!—why she would have paid such attention. But you see another part of me was watching and knew. That I was not my former self. That I had become someone, some-thing else—a thing to be reckoned with. That new thing, you see, was a five-star general, who could lead men to freedom or lead them to death. From the moment of that realization, I never looked back, and let myself be taken . . . by Energy.

  “And I love her to this day, Jerome, but no longer in that fashion. Oh, it’s been years since I loved her that way. The transformation of my love was a by-product of my so-called enlightenment; I say ‘so-called’ because it’s treacherous to crow about such a thing. Though perhaps I am a guru after all, have become one, or some sort of one! No, I never took advantage of her innocence and trust—though I know that may be arguable, from your point of vantage . . . Friend Jerome, that girl taught me as much as she claims I’ve taught her. She tutored me how to go beyond love, into that ‘Silence’ she speaks of unendingly: the realm of her precious, confounded bells. (The bells that confound because they live in the space between belief and nonbelief.) By concocting that story about Mandry’s, born of those meditations wherein I got under the skin of my wife and son, inhabiting them (where did such a narrative come from, where did it, really? From that damned ‘Source’ of hers, from that ‘Silence,’ where else? How else?), by telling the story of Mandry’s I was set free. It was theater—the theater of Infinity! And Devi became the witness of my moksha, my liberation. I told her a story of becoming, of embodying the personae of the workers and denizens of that bar—that burlesque magic lantern show that represents the world—told it so many times, I actually believed it did occur! And each anecdote, each incarnation was a step that led to Freedom . . .

  “The MacKlatchie murders—of Margot and little Jimbo—you’ll note that I always say killed or murdered, I never shirk from that declaration because I know the power of the mind, if I don’t state the naked truth aloud, one day I’ll come to believe I had nothing to do with it!—in recent weeks, the unsolved double homicide has gotten some attention in the media. Perhaps you’re aware of it? [Jeremy shook his head.] I do manage to keep up a bit on what’s happening in the world. It was featured on one of those cold-case shows . . . what’s funny is that before I learned of this latest piece of information, I had resolved—once again!—to return to Minnesota, to confess and face charges. The timing is strange, no? Cosmic fairy dust is in the air. And of course it’s nothing anymore for me to go from one dream into another . . . the other morning I was mulling the whole thing over when I awakened to Devi’s damn bells. She’d washed the strop and hung them outside like a wind chime; the Santa Anas made them sing. ‘The world is like the impression left by the telling of a story.’ Have you heard that marvelous Hindu saying? Isn’t that the most gorgeous thing? And so true! What it means to say is the world is a dream, that’s all. And I am going back to a dream called ‘Duluth,’ a dream of justice and retribution—society’s dream of settling accounts for crimes committed against the state, against its people. A dream called penitence . . . penitence is a lovely dream, isn’t it, Jerome? I will go back to their dream in order to tell them of another, the dream of deathless death, the dream of liberation, the dream that is a dream, and the stenographer will memorialize my words, my dreaming words, for the public record. (There shall even be courtroom artists to sketch me, in mid-dream oratory.) And when I awakened to the ringing of Devi’s bells I knew, as surely as I did that day on the sidewalk in front of Mandry’s, that it was time to move on from this dream. I heard the sound of the bells and knew it was time to leave the dream of wandering this precious land with that beloved being I call Devi—she who’d become my teacher, my guru, my Ma’m! Perhaps she is right, after all. Perhaps the bells speak to us all the time, if only we would listen.”

  Just then, Jeremy heard the hard clank of a bell, and thought he was dreaming himself. MacKlatchie smiled, outstretching his leg to show off Devi’s bells—a déjà vu of when she’d done the same that night at the restaurant on Chautauqua. They looked much smaller on their new owner’s edematous ankle.

  “When I made the decision that it was time to leave, I snatched ’em from her. Took ’em back, ’cause they’re mine. You see, I had ’em on when Devi and I first met (she was ‘Cathy’ then) and gave ’em to her as a gift. This morning I said, ‘You’ve worn ’em long enough—time to be free!’ She was upset at first, then understood. She understands all. She pretends she doesn’t, ’cause she’s so decorous.”

  He paused to devour an entire club sandwich. It was like watching a feeding at the zoo; the action took a minute or so but seemed to proceed at a most leisurely pace. He washed it all down with a vanilla shake then with great finesse, used a handkerchief to wipe his mouth before resuming.

  “There’s a wonderful Sufi tale of a young man who went to Calcutta to earn his fortune and make his parents proud. Is it Rumi? He was a stranger in a strange land and had a hard time of it. They stole his money and he found neither work nor shelter. After just a month of begging, he’d had enough and resolved to go home. On the eve of departing, he was so beaten down, so broken, that he thought he might lose his mind before morning—and with it, his will to return to the place he was born. Truly, he feared being trapped in that foul and terrible city forever! So he came up with a strategy. He found a little patch of sidewalk to make his lodging, just as I did outside Mandry’s, I suppose! On that last night, when he knew he’d be most vulnerable to ‘the demons,’ a fellow traveler occupied the space next to him. (A gentleman who, while down on his luck, was more seasoned than our hapless friend.) The young man shared his hard-luck story, and that he was leaving Calcutta in a matter of hours. ‘But why are you wearing those bells?’ asked the more seasoned fellow. The young man said, ‘The city is too vast. In my final hours here, I fear falling asleep! The demons might cast a spell and entice me to stay. So I’ve tied these bells around my ankle so I’ll awaken to their sound. And if they make no sound, I’ll at least see them and remember their reason—to ward off the demons who might interfere with my homecoming. When I see the bells, I won’t be confused. I’ll know exactly where and who I am.’ His new acquaintance pretended to enthusiastically agree with the logic of such nonsense. When our friend fell asleep, the mischievous vagabond carefully untied the bells and fastened them to his own ankle, partly as a little joke and partly because he coveted them. Soon after, they plunged side by side into that special sleep only poverty, hunger, and hopelessness confer. At the break of dawn, the young man awakened—and panicked, just as he knew he would. But at that very moment, he heard the ringing of bells (his impish neighbor had rolled over in his sleep) and reflexively looked down; his own ankle was bare! Was it a dream he recalled about affixing them there? He rubbed his eyes and looked around—that was when he saw them attached to his fellow traveler’s foot. He grabbed the man by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Are you me?’ he cried, thinking he might still be dreaming. ‘Answer me! Answer! Are you me?’ The vagabond startled and grew fearful, and rightly so, for our friend was in a state! While he didn’t confess to stealing the bells, he was compelled to be as truthful as he could. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am not you.’ When the young man heard that, his worst (and best) fears were realized. He stood up and stared blindly at the rising sun. ‘If you are not me . . . then who am I? And where am I?’”

  A chill raised the hair on Jeremy’s arms. MacKlatchie smiled at him with warmth and sorrow. Like the perplexed man in the story, Jeremy found no comfort in the bells, real or metaphorical, and fretted, not knowing what to believe—whether his lunch companion had actually killed his wife and son; whether Devi had a daughter who died, or even had a daughter at all . . . he hardly believed the stories he told himself abou
t his own life anymore.

  “‘Now I am alone—all alone,’” said the guru. (Like the bells inhabiting that “space between belief and nonbelief,” it seemed to Jeremy that the man across from him now lived in the space between guru and murderer.) “‘In all India there is no one so alone as I! If I die today, who shall bring the news—and to whom?’ That’s Kipling,” he said. “Isn’t it marvelous? Isn’t it glorious? Here’s a little more: ‘Few white people, but many Asiatics, can throw themselves into amazement by repeating their own names over and over to themselves, letting the mind go free upon speculation as to what is called personal identity. When one grows older, the power usually departs, but while it lasts, it may descend upon a man any moment.’”

  His face became grave, before a smile flitted across, as if softening a stone.

  “The second piece of information I wanted to tell you—well, this second piece has far more significance, at least, for you. I should add that I’ve already discussed it with Devi and believe you must go ahead, without delay.”

  “‘Go ahead’? With what?”

  “Why, having the child! No need to use Cathy’s egg though, if it’s genetics you’re concerned with—I mean, because of the disease that beset her child. Though it’s my studied opinion that as a breeder, our Devi’s top-notch, irregardless of poor little Bell’s fate; the little one’s cancer was a rare and anomalous event, I can assure. But if you still have your doubts, why not use one of the eggs you’ve already paid for? Devi’ll carry it. She told me your surrogate reneged, true?”

  She had. The gal was a military wife with three children of her own. When one became deathly ill, she told Jeremy that the strain of care was too much and remorsefully bowed out.

  “Don’t hesitate—it’s what the girl wants, with all her heart. D’ya think you two met for any other reason? That baby will save you both.”