Kitabı oku: «The Great and Secret Show», sayfa 2
‘Well it’s real simple …’
He started to walk towards Homer, and the chair, and the knife beside the chair. The speed of his approach made Homer nervous, but he kept his seat.
‘… I’ve found a secret,’ Jaffe went on.
‘Huh?’
‘You want to know what it is?’
Now Homer stood up, his gaze trembling the way everything else was. Everything except Jaffe. All the tremors had gone out of his hands, his guts and his head. He was steady in an unsteady world.
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,’ Homer said. ‘But I don’t like it.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ Jaffe said. He didn’t have his eyes on the knife. He didn’t need to. He could sense it. ‘But it’s your job to know, isn’t it?’ Jaffe went on, ‘what’s been going on down here.’
Homer took several steps away from the chair. The loutish gait he liked to affect had gone. He was stumbling, as though the floor was tilting.
‘I’ve been sitting at the centre of the world,’ Jaffe said. ‘This little room … this is where it’s all happening.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Damn right.’
Homer made a nervous little grin. He threw a glance towards the door.
‘You want to go?’ Jaffe said.
‘Yeah.’ He looked at his watch, not seeing it. ‘Got to run. Only came down here –’
‘You’re afraid of me,’ Jaffe said. ‘And you should be. I’m not the man I was.’
‘Is that right?’
‘You said that already.’
Again, Homer looked towards the door. It was five paces away; four if he ran. He’d covered half the distance when Jaffe picked up the knife. He had the door handle clasped when he heard the man approaching behind him.
He glanced round, and the knife came straight at his eye. It wasn’t an accidental stab. It was synchronicity. His eye glinted, the knife glinted. Glints collided, and the next moment he was screaming as he fell back against the door, Randolph following him to claim the letter-opener from the man’s head.
The roar of the furnace got louder. With his back to the sacks Jaffe could feel the envelopes nestling against each other, the words being shaken on the pages, ’til they became a glorious poetry. Blood, it said; like a sea; his thoughts like clots in that sea, dark, congealed, hotter than hot.
He reached for the handle of the knife, and clenched it. Never before in his life had he shed blood; not even squashed a bug, at least intentionally. But now his fist on the hot wet handle seemed wonderful. A prophecy; a proof.
Grinning, he pulled the knife out of Homer’s socket, and before his victim could slide down the door stuck it into Homer’s throat to the hilt. This time he didn’t let it lie. He pulled it out as soon as he’d stopped Homer’s screams, and he stabbed the middle of the man’s chest. There was bone there, and he had to drive hard, but he was suddenly very strong. Homer gagged, and blood came out of his mouth, and from the wound in his throat. Jaffe pulled the knife out. He didn’t stab again. Instead he wiped the blade on his handkerchief and turned from the body to think about his next move. If he tried to hump the sacks of mail to the furnace he risked being discovered, and sublime as he felt, high on the boor-slob’s demise, he was still aware that there was danger in being found out. It would be better to bring the furnace here. After all, fire was a moveable feast. All it required was a light, and Homer had those. He turned back to the slumped corpse and searched in the pockets for a box of matches. Finding one, he pulled it out, and went over to the satchels.
Sadness surprised him as he prepared to put a flame to the dead letters. He’d spent so many weeks here, lost in a kind of delirium, drunk with mysteries. This was goodbye to all that. After this – Homer dead, the letters burnt – he was a fugitive, a man without a history, beckoned by an Art he knew nothing about, but which he wished more than anything to practise.
He began to screw up a few of the pages, to provide some initial fodder for the flame. Once begun, he didn’t doubt that the fire would sustain itself: there was nothing in the room – paper, fabric, flesh – that wasn’t combustible. With three heaps of paper made, he struck a match. The flame was bright, and looking at it he realized how much he hated brightness. The dark was so much more interesting; full of secrets, full of threats. He put the flame to the piles of paper and watched while the fires gained strength. Then he retreated to the door.
Homer was slumped against it, of course, bleeding from three places, and his bulk wasn’t that easy to move, but Jaffe put his back into the task, his shadow thrown up against the wall by the burgeoning bonfire behind him. Even in the half minute it took him to move the corpse aside the heat grew exponentially, so that by the time he glanced back at the room it was ablaze from side to side, the heat stirring up its own wind, which in turn fanned the flames.
It was only when he was clearing out his room of any sign of himself – eradicating every trace of Randolph Ernest Jaffe – that he regretted doing what he’d done. Not the burning – that had been altogether wise – but leaving Homer’s body in the room to be consumed along with the dead letters. He should have taken a more elaborate revenge, he realized. He should have hacked the body into pieces, packaged it up, tongue, eyes, testicles, guts, skin, skull, divided piece from piece – and sent the pieces out into the system with scrawled addresses that made no real sense, so that chance (or synchronicity) was allowed to elect the doorstep on which Homer’s flesh would land. The mailman mailed. He promised himself not to miss such ironic possibilities in future.
The task of clearing his room didn’t take long. He had very few belongings, and most of what he had meant little to him. When it came down to basics, he barely existed. He was the sum of a few dollars, a few photographs, a few clothes. Nothing that couldn’t be put in a small suitcase and still leave room alongside them for a set of encyclopedias.
By midnight, with that same small suitcase in hand, he was on his way out of Omaha, and ready for a journey that might lead in any direction. Gateway to the East, Gateway to the West. He didn’t care which way he went, as long as the route led to the Art.
II
Jaffe had lived a small life. Born within fifty miles of Omaha, he’d been educated there, he’d buried his parents there, he’d courted and failed to persuade to the altar two women of that city. He’d left the state a few times, and even thought (after the second of his failed courtships) of retreating to Orlando, where his sister lived, but she’d persuaded him against it, saying he wouldn’t get on with the people, or the incessant sun. So he’d stayed in Omaha, losing jobs and getting others, never committing himself to anything or anybody for very long, and in turn not being committed to.
But in the solitary confinement of the Dead Letter Room he’d had a taste of horizons he’d never known existed, and it had given him an appetite for the open road. When there’d only been sun, suburbs and Mickey Mouse out there he’d not given a damn. Why bother to go looking for such banalities? But now he knew better. There were mysteries to be unveiled, and powers to be seized, and when he was King of the World he’d pull down the suburbs (and the sun if he could) and make the world over in a hot darkness where a man might finally get to know the secrets of his own soul.
There’d been much talk in the letters about crossroads, and for a long time he’d taken the image literally, thinking that in Omaha he was probably at that crossroads, and that knowledge of the Art would come to him there. But once out of the city, and away, he saw the error of such literalism. When the writers had spoken of crossroads they hadn’t meant one highway intersecting with another. They’d meant places where states of being crossed, where the human system met the alien, and both moved on, changed. In the flow and flurry of such places there was hope of finding revelation.
He had very little money, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter. In the weeks that followed his escape from the scene of his crime, all that he wanted simply came to him. He had only to stick out his thumb and a car squealed to a halt. When a driver asked him where he was headed, and he said he was headed as far as he, Jaffe, wanted to go, that was exactly as far as the driver took him. It was as if he was blessed. When he stumbled, there was someone to pick him up. When he got hungry, there was someone to feed him.
It was a woman in Illinois, who’d given him a lift then asked him if he wanted to stay the night with her, who confirmed his blessedness.
‘You’ve seen something extraordinary, haven’t you?’ she whispered to him in the middle of the night. ‘It’s in your eyes. It was your eyes made me offer you the lift.’
‘And offer me this?’ he said, fingering between her legs.
‘Yes. That too,’ she said. ‘What have you seen?’
‘Not enough,’ he replied.
‘Will you make love to me again?’
‘No.’
Every now and then, moving from state to state, he got a glimpse of what the letters had schooled him in. He saw the secrets peeping out, only daring to show themselves because he was passing through and they knew him as a coming man of power. In Kentucky he chanced to witness the corpse of an adolescent being hauled from a river, the body left sprawled on the grass, arms spread, fingers spread, while a woman howled and sobbed beside it. The boy’s eyes were open; so were the buttons of his trousers. Watching from a short distance, the only witness not to be ordered away by the cops (the eyes, again) he took a moment to savour the way the boy was arrayed, like the figure on the medallion, and half wanted to throw himself into the river just for the thrill of drowning. In Idaho, he met a man who’d lost an arm in an automobile accident and while they sat and drank together he explained that he still had feeling in the lost limb, which the doctors said was just a phantom in his nervous system, but which he knew was his astral body, still complete on another plane of being. He said he jerked off with his lost hand regularly, and offered to demonstrate. It was true. Later, the man said:
‘You can see in the dark, can’t you?’
Jaffe hadn’t thought about it, but now that his attention was drawn to the fact it seemed he could.
‘How’d you learn to do that?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Astral eyes, maybe.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You want me to suck your cock again?’
‘No.’
He was gathering up experiences, one of each, passing through people’s lives and out the other side leaving them obsessed or dead or weeping. He indulged his every whim, going wherever instinct pointed, the secret life coming to find him the moment he arrived in town.
There was no sign of pursuit from the forces of law. Perhaps Homer’s body had never been found in the gutted building, or if it had the police had assumed he was simply a victim of the fire. For whatever reason, nobody came sniffing after him. He went wherever he wanted and did whatever he desired, until he’d had a surfeit of desires satisfied and wants supplied, and it came time for him to push himself over the brink.
He came to rest in a roach-ridden motel in Los Alamos, New Mexico, locked himself in with two bottles of vodka, stripped, closed the curtains against the day, and let his mind go. He hadn’t eaten in forty-eight hours, not because he didn’t have money, he did, but because he enjoyed the light-headedness. Starved of sustenance, and whipped up by vodka, his thoughts ran riot, devouring themselves and shitting each other out, barbaric and baroque by turns. The roaches came out in the darkness, and ran over his body as he lay on the floor. He let them come and go, pouring vodka on his groin when they got too busy there, and made him hard, which was a distraction. He wanted only to think. To float and think.
He’d had all he needed of the physical; felt hot and cold, sexy and sexless; fucked and fucker. He wanted none of that again: at least not as Randolph Jaffe. There was another way to be, another place to feel from, where sex and murder and grief and hunger and all of it might be interesting over again, but that would not be until he’d got beyond his present condition; become an Artist; remade the world.
Just before dawn, with even the roaches sluggish, he felt the invitation.
A great calm was in him. His heart was slow and steady. His bladder emptied of its own accord, like a baby’s. He was neither too hot nor too cold. Neither too sleepy nor too awake. And at that crossroads – which was not the first, nor would be the last – something tugged on his gut, and summoned him.
He got up immediately, dressed, took the full bottle of vodka that remained, and went out walking. The invitation didn’t leave his innards. It kept tugging as the cold night lifted and the sun began to rise. He’d come barefoot. His feet bled, but his body wasn’t of great interest to him, and he kept the discomfort at bay with further helpings of vodka. By noon, the last of the drink gone, he was in the middle of the desert, just walking in the direction he was called, barely aware of one foot moving ahead of the other. There were no thoughts in his head now, except the Art and its getting, and even that ambition came and went.
So, finally, did the desert itself. Somewhere towards evening, he came to a place where even the simplest facts – the ground beneath him, the darkening sky above his head – were in doubt. He wasn’t even sure if he was walking. The absence of everything was pleasant, but it didn’t last. The summons must have pulled him on without his even being aware of its call, because the night he’d left became a sudden day, and he found himself standing – alive, again; Randolph Ernest Jaffe again – in a desert barer even than the one he’d left. It was early morning here. The sun not yet high, but beginning to warm the air, the sky perfectly clear.
Now he felt pain, and sickness, but the pull in his gut was irresistible. He had to stagger on though his whole body was wreckage. Later, he remembered passing through a town, and seeing a steel tower standing in the middle of the wilderness. But that was only when the journey had ended, at a simple stone hut, the door of which opened to him as the last vestiges of his strength left him, and he fell across its threshold.
III
The door was closed when he came round, but his mind wide open. On the other side of a guttering fire sat an old man with doleful, slightly stupid features, like those of a clown who’d worn and wiped off fifty years of slap, his pores enlarged and greasy, his hair, what was left of it, long and grey. He was sitting cross-legged. Occasionally, while Jaffe worked up the energy to speak, the old man raised a buttock and loudly passed wind.
‘You found your way through,’ he said, after a time. ‘I thought you were going to die before you made it. A lot of people have. It takes real will.’
‘Through to where?’ Jaffe managed to ask.
‘We’re in a Loop. A loop in time, encompassing a few minutes. I tied it, as a refuge. It’s the only place I’m safe.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Kissoon.’
‘Are you one of the Shoal?’
The face beyond the fire registered surprise.
‘You know a great deal.’
‘No. Not really. Just bits and pieces.’
‘Very few people know about the Shoal.’
‘I know of several,’ said Jaffe.
‘Really?’ said Kissoon, his tone toughening. ‘I’d like their names.’
‘I had letters from them …’ Jaffe said, but faltered when he realized he no longer knew where he’d left them, those precious clues that had brought him through so much hell and heaven.
‘Letters from whom?’ Kissoon said.
‘People who know … who guess … about the Art.’
‘Do they? And what do they say about it?’
Jaffe shook his head. ‘I’ve not made sense of it yet,’ he said. ‘But I think there’s a sea –’
‘There is,’ said Kissoon. ‘And you’d like to know where to find it, and how to be there, and how to have power from it.’
‘Yes. I would.’
‘And in return for this education?’ Kissoon said. ‘What are you offering?’
‘I don’t have anything.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Kissoon said, turning his eyes up to the roof of the hut as though he saw something in the smoke that roiled there.
‘OK,’ Jaffe said. ‘Whatever I’ve got that you want. You can have it.’
‘That sounds fair.’
‘I need to know. I want the Art.’
‘Of course. Of course.’
‘I’ve had all the living I need,’ Jaffe said.
Kissoon’s eyes came back to rest on him.
‘Really? I doubt that.’
‘I want to get … I want to get …’ (What? he thought. What do you want?) ‘Explanations,’ he said.
‘Well, where to begin?’
‘The sea,’ Jaffe said.
‘Ah, the sea.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Have you ever been in love?’ Kissoon replied.
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Then you’ve been to Quiddity twice. Once the first night you slept out of the womb. The second occasion the night you lay beside that woman you loved. Or man, was it?’ He laughed. ‘Whichever.’
‘Quiddity is the sea.’
‘Quiddity is the sea. And in it are islands, called the Ephemeris.’
‘I want to go there,’ Jaffe breathed.
‘You will. One more time, you will.’
‘When?’
‘The last night of your life. That’s all we ever get. Three dips in the dream-sea. Any less, and we’d be insane. Any more –’
‘And?’
‘And we wouldn’t be human.’
‘And the Art?’
‘Ah, well … opinions differ about that.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘Have it?’
‘This Art. Do you have it? Can you do it? Can you teach me?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re one of the Shoal,’ Jaffe said. ‘You’ve got to have it, right?’
‘One?’ came the reply. ‘I’m the last. I’m the only.’
‘So share it with me. I want to be able to change the world.’
‘Just a little ambition.’
‘Don’t fuck with me!’ Jaffe said, the suspicion growing in him that he was being taken for a fool.
‘I’m not going to leave empty-handed, Kissoon. If I get the Art I can enter Quiddity, right? That’s the way it works.’
‘Where’d you get your information?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Yes. And I say again: where’d you get your information?’
‘I can put the clues together. I’m still doing it.’ He grinned as the pieces fitted in his head. ‘Quiddity’s somehow behind the world, isn’t it? And the Art lets you step through, so you can be there any time you like. The Finger in the Pie.’
‘Huh?’
‘That’s what somebody called it. The Finger in the Pie.’
‘Why stop with a finger?’ Kissoon remarked.
‘Right! Why not my whole fucking arm?’
Kissoon’s expression was almost admiring. ‘What a pity,’ he said, ‘you couldn’t be more evolved. Then maybe I could have shared all this with you.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying you’re too much of an ape. I couldn’t give you the secrets in my head. They’re too powerful, too dangerous. You’d not know what to do with them. You’d end up tainting Quiddity with your puerile ambition. And Quiddity must be preserved.’
‘I told you … I’m not leaving here empty-handed. You can have whatever you want from me. Whatever I’ve got. Only teach me.’
‘You’d give me your body?’ Kissoon said. ‘Would you?’
‘What?’
‘That’s all you’ve got to bargain with. Do you want to give me that?’
The reply flummoxed Jaffe.
‘You want sex?’ he said.
‘Christ, no.’
‘What then? I don’t understand.’
‘The flesh and blood. The vessel. I want to occupy your body.’
Jaffe watched Kissoon watching him.
‘Well?’ the old man said.
‘You can’t just climb into my skin,’ Jaffe said.
‘Oh but I can, as soon as it’s vacated.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Jaffe, you of all people should never say I don’t believe. The extraordinary’s the norm. There are loops in time. We’re in one now. There are armies in our minds, waiting to march. And suns in our groins and cunts in the sky. Suits being wrought in every state –’
‘Suits?’
‘Petitions! Conjurations! Magic, magic! It’s everywhere. And you’re right, Quiddity is the source, and the Art its lock and key. And you think it’s tough for me to climb inside your skin. Have you learned nothing?’
‘Suppose I agree.’
‘Suppose you do.’
‘What happens to me, if I was to vacate my body?’
‘You’d stay here. As spirit. It’s not much but it’s home. I’ll be back, after a while. And the flesh and blood’s yours again.’
‘Why do you even want my body?’ Jaffe said. ‘It’s utterly fucked up.’
‘That’s my business,’ Kissoon replied.
‘I need to know.’
‘And I choose not to tell you. If you want the Art then you damn well do as I say. You’ve got no choice.’
The old man’s manner – his arrogant little smile, his shrugs, the way he half closed his lids as though using all his gaze on his guest would be a waste of eyesight – all of this put Jaffe in mind of Homer. They could have been two halves of a double-act; the lumpen boor and the wily old goat. When he thought of Homer he inevitably thought of the knife in his pocket. How many times would he need to slice Kissoon’s stringy carcass before the agonies made him speak? Would he have to take off the old man’s fingers, joint by joint? If so, he was ready. Maybe cut off his ears. Perhaps scoop out his eyes. Whatever it took, he’d do. It was too late now for squeamishness, much too late.
He slid his hand into his pocket, and around the knife.
Kissoon saw the motion.
‘You understand nothing, do you?’ he said, his eyes suddenly roving violently to and fro, as though speed-reading the air between him and Jaffe.
‘I understand a lot more than you think,’ Jaffe said. ‘I understand I’m not pure enough for you. I’m not – how did you say it? – evolved. Yeah, evolved.’
‘I said you were an ape.’
‘Yeah, you did.’
‘I insulted the ape.’
Jaffe’s hold on the knife tightened. He started to get to his feet.
‘Don’t you dare,’ Kissoon said.
‘Red rag to a bull,’ Jaffe said, his head spinning from the effort of rising, ‘– saying dare to me. I’ve seen stuff … done stuff …’ He started to take the knife out of his pocket ‘… I’m not afraid of you.’
Kissoon’s eyes stopped their speed-reading and settled on the blade. There was no surprise on his face, the way there’d been on Homer’s; but there was fear. A small thrill of pleasure coursed through Jaffe, seeing that expression.
Kissoon began to get to his feet. He was a good deal shorter than Jaffe, almost stunted, and every angle slightly askew, as though all his bones and joints had once been broken, and re-set in haste.
‘You shouldn’t spill blood,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Not in a Loop. It’s one of the rules of the looping suit, not to spill blood.’
‘Feeble,’ said Jaffe, beginning to step around the fire towards his victim.
‘That’s the truth,’ Kissoon said, and he gave Jaffe the strangest, most misbegotten smile, ‘I make it a point of honour not to lie.’
‘I had a year working in a slaughterhouse,’ Jaffe said. ‘In Omaha, Nebraska. Gateway to the West. I worked for a whole year, just cutting up meat. I know the business.’
Kissoon was very frightened now. He’d backed against the wall of the hut, his arms spread out to either side of him for support, looking, Jaffe thought, like a silent-movie heroine. His eyes weren’t half-open now, but huge and wet. So was his mouth, huge and wet. He couldn’t even bring himself to make threats; he just shook.
Jaffe reached out and put his hand around the man’s turkey throat. He gripped hard, fingers and thumb digging into the sinew. Then he brought his other hand, bearing the blunt knife, up to the corner of Kissoon’s left eye. The old man’s breath smelt like a sick man’s fart. Jaffe didn’t want to inhale it, but he had no choice, and the moment he did he realized he’d been fucked. The breath was more than sour air. There was something else in it, being expelled from Kissoon’s body and snaking its way into him – or at least attempting to. Jaffe took his hand from the scrawn of the neck, and stepped away.
‘Fucker!’ he said, spitting and coughing out the breath before it occupied him.
Kissoon didn’t concede the pretence.
‘Aren’t you going to kill me?’ he said. ‘Am I reprieved?’
It was he who advanced now; Jaffe the one retreating.
‘Keep away from me!’ Jaffe said.
‘I’m just an old man!’
‘I felt the breath!’ Jaffe yelled, slamming his fist against his chest. ‘You’re trying to get inside me!’
‘No,’ Kissoon protested.
‘Don’t fucking lie to me. I felt it!’
He still could. A weight in his lungs where there’d not been weight before. He backed towards the door, knowing that if he stayed the fucker would have the better of him.
‘Don’t leave,’ Kissoon said. ‘Don’t open the door.’
‘There’s other ways to the Art,’ Jaffe said.
‘No,’ Kissoon said. ‘Only me. The rest are dead. There’s nobody can help you but me.’
He tried that little smile of his, bowing his wretched body, but the humility was as much a sham as the fear had been. All tricks to keep his victim near, so as to have his flesh and blood. Jaffe wasn’t buying the routine a second time. He tried to block out Kissoon’s seductions with memories. Pleasures taken, that he’d take again if he could only get out of this trap alive. The woman in Illinois, the one-armed man in Kentucky, the caress of roaches. The recollections kept Kissoon from getting any further hold on him. He reached behind him and grabbed the door handle.
‘Don’t open that,’ Kissoon said.
‘I’m getting out of here.’
‘I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I underestimated you. We can come to some arrangement surely? I’ll tell you all you want to know. I’ll teach you the Art. I don’t have the skill myself. Not in the Loop. But you could have it. You could take it with you. Out there. Back into the world. Arm in the pie! Only stay. Stay, Jaffe. I’ve been alone here a long time. I need company. Someone to explain it all to. Share it with.’
Jaffe turned the handle. As he did so he felt the earth beneath his feet shudder, and a brightness seemed to appear momentarily beyond the door. It seemed too livid to be mere daylight, but it must have been, because there was only sun awaiting him on the step outside.
‘Don’t leave me!’ he heard Kissoon yelling, and with the yell felt the man clutching at his innards the way he had bringing him here. But the hold was nowhere near as strong as it had been. Either Kissoon had burned up too much of his energy in attempting to breathe his spirit into Jaffe, or his fury was weakening him. Whichever, the hold was resistible, and the further Jaffe ran the weaker it became.
A hundred yards from the hut he glanced back, and thought he saw a patch of darkness moving across the ground towards him, like dark rope uncurling. He didn’t linger to discover what new trick the old bastard was mounting, but ran and ran, following his own trail across the ground, until the steel tower came in sight. Its presence suggested some attempt to populate this wasteland, long abandoned. Beyond it, an aching hour later, was further proof of that endeavour. The town he half-remembered staggering through on his way here, its street empty not only of people and vehicles but of any distinguishing marks whatsoever, like a film-set yet to be dressed for shooting.
Half a mile beyond it an agitation in the air signalled that he had reached the perimeters of the Loop. He braved its confusions willingly, passing through a place of sickening disorientation in which he was not certain he was even walking, and suddenly he was out the other side, and back in a calm, starlit night.
Forty-eight hours later, drunk in an alleyway in Santa Fe, he made two momentous decisions. One, that he’d keep the beard he’d grown in the last few weeks, as a reminder of his search. Two, that every wit he possessed, every hint of knowledge he’d gained about the occult life of America, every iota of power his astral eyes lent him, would go to the possessing of the Art (Fuck Kissoon; Fuck the Shoal), and that only when he’d got it would he once again show his face unshaven.
