The last dishes were cleared away. Sparks lit a cheroot and warmed the honeyed nectar of his brandy over a candle. “So…” he said, gaveling the proceedings back to order, “…as to my brother.”
Doyle had not expected him to open with that trump card, but he was more than willing to accept candor from the man as he found it. He nodded, betraying no impatience, willing his mind to focus in again, as he meditatively rolled the Benedictine around in his snifter.
“Do you find it as troubling as I that the corpus of human hope is pegged so directly to the concept of our social progress?” asked Sparks. His tone was open and inviting, far from rhetorical. What this nonsequiturial tack had to do with his brother, well, Doyle had waited out far more tortuous tangents than this with far less expectation of return.
“Yes, Jack, I do,” said Doyle, warming to the task. “I look around at this golden room, the pleasure it gives me, all these fine, handsome people, the meal we’ve just enjoyed, and I am tempted to say…this is the best civilization has to offer us: the human harvest of education, scientific advancement, social evolution.
“But these are transitory satisfactions. An illusion. And how infinitesimal a percentage of the people alive in our world this sample represents. As we sit here priding ourselves on our refinement, not a stone’s throw from these windows there is a surfeit of human suffering and misery as terrible as any human being has ever endured. And I am forced to consider: If so many are left behind, do our achievements count for nothing? What value does our passing through this life leave behind us? What gifts, if any, will our age bequeath to the generations that follow?”
“That question’s not for us to answer,” replied Sparks. “Following generations make up their own minds about our contributions. And how is any age remembered? By the work of man’s hand or of his mind? The Elizabethans left us poetry that speaks to us because we share a language. The Egyptians built the pyramids, but we can’t know their secret thoughts. Their greatest discoveries may be beyond recovery. Perhaps it’s simply a matter of what survives.”
“But which is more important? Will our age be judged by our monuments, our bridges and train stations, or by our science and arts?”
“Our expanding knowledge of medicine has certainly succeeded in prolonging the physical span of human life,” said Sparks.
“Yes, but the conditions imposed by our prosperity have necessitated most of those discoveries. I won’t dispute that the convenience and comfort of life, for some, even many, are greatly enhanced by the objects we’re now able to mass-produce. But weigh against it the cost, the by-products of industry: subhuman labor conditions, scarring of the earth, poisonous air. Without these medical advances, most of us might not long survive our ‘prosperity.’ And for many of the lower classes that do survive, even if their physical lives are lengthened, what value does that surplus provide if that life is stripped of joy, of kindness, or the time to enjoy the fruits of their labor?”
“The suffering of the unfortunate aside—and all men suffer, don’t they, each to his measure, in his own way—doesn’t it seem clear that science has us on the cusp of a new epoch? Think of the marvelous inventions they say we’ll soon enjoy: electricity in every house, the motorized car. Telephone, typewriter. Enhanced communication, freedom to travel. Warmth and light in the home. Ignorance banished by education.”
“You assume that surrounding ourselves with these new, arguably liberating devices will fundamentally change some persistent qualities in the human character.”
“Which qualities are those?”
“The will to power. The impulse to hoard. The instinct to fend for ourselves at the expense of others.”
“The instinct to survive,” said Sparks, as if Doyle were taking him exactly where he wished to go. “Ensuring the survival of the strong.”
“At the expense of the weak.”
“Just as in nature—like as a competition, Doyle, a fight: for air, light, for strong, attractive mating partners, for space or food. Nature does not announce to its components, ‘Life requires of you no aggression, for I have provided on this earth an abundance, an embarrassment of riches,’” Sparks said, vehemently tapping his fingers, rattling the glasses on the table.
“And when those same powerful impulses are expressed by the human animal, as in every other kingdom of nature—”
“Dominion. Domination. Material greed. The root of human conflict.”
“We are in agreement,” said Doyle.
Sparks nodded, his eyes hot with discovery. “It’s inescapable. Man is compelled to obey the instinct to dominate, because of our unconscious imperative to survive. And this message is so persuasive and commanding it overrides every other biological impulse—compassion, sympathy, love, any of the niceties sacred to the privileged lives in this room—well after our physical safety has been secured and every serious threat to our existence completely eliminated.”
“A paradox, then,” said Doyle. “Does man’s will to live present the single greatest danger to our survival?”
“If human nature does not soon demonstrate the ability to willfully change its course, I submit to you that it does,” said Sparks, leaning forward, lowering his voice, holding Doyle taut in his gaze. “I offer in evidence the life of one Alexander Sparks. Born to wealthy parents, a beloved first child, indulged and cosseted through early childhood by every creature comfort known to man. Nurtured and protected to a fault, a world of privilege and possession opening to him as generously as the petals of an evening primrose. Quite independent of these influences, the boy soon demonstrates a remarkably headstrong native character. An insatiable curiosity. An intellect of cold and calculating genius. A will like tempered steel. By anyone’s standards, an exceptional child.
“Through his first years, he remains blissfully unaware of the vagaries of fortune flesh is heir to. With his father stationed half a world away on diplomatic assignment, the boy grows up surrounded by women who want nothing more than to pamper and indulge his every waking whim. The jewel set in the center of that adoring circle is the child’s mother: a celebrated beauty, a woman of style, strong moral fiber, and fierce intelligence. She dotes slavishly on her boy, devotes herself to him without limit. He comes to perceive himself as God’s chosen one, an infant Sun King, with absolute power over a domain extending in every direction as far as his eye can see. A boy who wanders the woods of his estate feeling command not only of the people around him, whom he regards as his subjects, but the wind, water, and trees as well. His world is a paradise, and he its undisputed master.
“Then, one day, in his fifth summer, the adored and loving mother of the king disappears from sight, gone a second and then a third day, without explanation. Even the boy’s tempestuous rages, the most potent weapons in his considerable arsenal, are not sufficient to effect her reappearance. None of his subjects offers any reasons for her absence, only winks and Gioconda smiles. Until the fourth day, when he is once again allowed access to her bedchamber, and discovers, to his astonishment and horror, that in her arms lies a hideous usurper. Helpless, wrinkled, crimson-faced, pissing and mewling like a cat. A baby. In an instant, the boy sees through the fiend’s pathetically transparent, manipulative deceptions, but is stunned to discover his mother has fallen completely in thrall to his tiny demon. This monster has the temerity to lie before him on his mother’s breast, mocking him, demanding and receiving her loving ministrations that in his clear understanding of the world were intended solely for him and him alone.”
“You?” asked Doyle quietly.
Sparks shook his head. “A sister. It even has a name. Madelaine Rose. The Sun King is wise enough to recognize that when an enemy holds a superior position, his best course is to withdraw and marshal his forces to fight another day. He smiles and offers no protest to this hideous affront, understanding only too well the danger he is facing. He conceals his disgust that such a puny, feckless creature could wield enough influence to threaten the life of his glorious re
ign. How could this vile incubus have so unequivocally mesmerized the woman, who had never demonstrated anything but the greatest good sense to worship him without end or reservation? The boy leaves that room with his map of the world cracked to its foundation. He lets no one see the slightest hint of his humiliation. His instinct for survival tells him the safest strategy against this unprecedented challenge to his absolute rule lies in letting his subjects continue to believe that nothing in the kingdom, or within their king, has changed. He waits a week, two weeks, a month, to see if his mother’s deranged infatuation with the pretender will break like a fever. He examines his adversary dispassionately, satisfying his curiosity as to its form and evident weaknesses, giving his mother to believe that he finds the repellent, sluglike bundle as irresistible as she does. He endures the collective enslavement of his subjects to the monster’s hypnotic allure—these stupid women want nothing more than to prattle on about it incessantly with him! He lets them chatter, watches his rival bask in their affections, and all the while formulates his revenge. He insinuates himself into his mother’s confidence, encouraging her to talk with him about the thing, hoping to find the key to its terrible appeal. He familiarizes himself with the demon’s routine—sleeping, waking, crying, eating, shitting—all it seems capable of doing, what a dim mystery the source of its magnetism remains. The contempt that knowledge brings serves only to multiply his determination to take action: decisive, swift, and merciless.
“Not long after, late one warm summer night when the house is at rest, he creeps silently into his mother’s chambers. She is in bed, sound asleep. The monster lies in a cradle, on its back, awake, smiling a toothless grin, cooing, happily kicking its arms and legs about, as if an arrogant belief in its own invulnerability renders it immune to the treachery the Sun King has come to realize lurks behind every friendly face. Illuminated in a shaft of moonlight, the thing’s eyes catch his as he peers down at it, and in a moment his steely determination to act stands on a precipice—he’s flooded with shame and remorse at his hatred of the little creature, he wants to take and hold the baby in his arms, feel its happiness enveloping him in a warm, beneficent, healing sphere of love and forgiveness. Feeling himself pulled inexorably into the monster’s orbit where he’s seen so many fall before him, at the last possible instant he tears his eyes away. Horrified to realize how close the thing has come to ensnaring him. For the first time fully comprehending the danger this evil genius presents.”
“No…” said Doyle involuntarily.
“He picks up a small satin pillow, and he puts it over the thing’s face, and he holds it there hard until the creature stops kicking its arms and legs and lies still. It never makes a sound, but as it dies, the mother awakes with a scream! How pernicious was its hold on her! It’s had communion with the woman even as life took leave of its tiny body. The Sun King runs from the room—his mother has seen him, he is sure she has seen him leaning over the cradle—but when she moves to its bed and finds the inert remains of his midnight work, her mind comes undone. Such a heart-stopping wail shakes the very walls of the house that if allowed to rise unimpeded into the night might shatter the gates of heaven. As the boy lies quaking in his bed, his mother’s cry drives a spike deep into the frozen reaches of his heart. It is a sound he will call upon the memory of for many years to come, and it gives him more pleasure than a thousand kisses.
“His mother collapses. The house is within minutes of her discovery awash in a sea of grief. To the king’s surprise, he is smothered by the sympathetic comforts of his bereaved subjects, imagining, these stupid peasants, that he must be every bit as stricken as they. The bewilderment he offers in response tends only to confirm that conviction, and they clasp him ever closer to their heaving bosoms. His mother disappears again into guarded seclusion. This time the women are only too eager to bring him constant reports of her condition; she’s had a setback today, the night did not go well, she’s resting comfortably, she took no food again this morning. He rejoices at the fervor with which the woman appears to embrace her just punishment for his betrayal. A week passes, and his father returns from his distant overseas post; he had never even seen the usurper. His eyes are clouded with sympathy as he greets the young king, but after spending an hour behind the closed door of mother’s chamber he goes directly to his son and takes him alone into his room. He doesn’t speak. He holds the boy’s chin in his hand and gazes at him for the longest time. It is suspicion with which the man searches the young king’s eyes—so she did see him in the chamber, this look tells him, but there must be some uncertainty—suspicion, not naked accusation. The king knows well enough how to conceal the entrance to the place he keeps his secret. He shows his father nothing: no remorse, weakness, or human feeling. Blank opacity, open and unreachable, the boy returns the look and sees something replace suspicion in his father’s eyes. Fear. The father knows. And the boy knows his father is powerless against him. The man withdraws from the room. The king knows the father will never challenge his authority again.
“They bury the thing in a lavender box, adorned with garlands of spring flowers. The boy stands quietly, watching his subjects weep with abandon, allowing them to lay their hands on his head as they pass by the grave, atonement for their transgression, paying obeisance to their one, true master. After the funeral, when his mother reappears and they meet, formally, in a public room, he sees something has irreversibly changed between them. She never again looks upon him with the loving gaze that had been her custom before the pretender came. She hardly ever dares to meet his eyes at all. He is no longer allowed entrance to her private chamber. Over the following days, he overhears many tearful, whispered conversations between mother and father, brought quickly to an end when his presence is detected, but he’s confident no overt action will be taken against him. His father leaves to resume his duties overseas in Egypt. The boy spends more and more time in contented isolation, pursuing his studies, feeling his powers grow, in solitary walks of peaceful contemplation. Over time, the shroud of silence spreads from his mother to overtake all the subjects of his kingdom. There are no more pretenses of affection toward him. The currencies of exchanges with his inferiors are reduced to their basest coin: power and domination. His storehouse is filled to bursting with both commodities. He has retaken his throne.”
“Good Lord…” said Doyle softly, wiping a tear from his eye. “Good Lord, Jack…”
Sparks seemed singularly unmoved by the story. He calmly took a drink and then continued: a cold, dispassionate recitation. “The next summer, the woman discovers she is once again with child. The news is kept from the boy, but as a precaution Alexander is packed up and sent away to boarding school the moment her condition becomes visibly self-evident, months before the child is expected. This proves no hardship to Alexander. He is more than ready to expand his sphere of influence beyond the confines of the garden walls. Fresh meat, he says, looking about hungrily at the new world that greets him; populated not just with adults, who he can already manage easily enough, but boys his own age, whole battalions of them, as pliant and malleable to his tools as uncut stone. And they are, none of them, parents or headmasters alike, witting enough to realize they have crowned the fox and set him up a palace in the henhouse. The next spring, hidden from his view and far from the reach of Alexander’s grasp, a second son is born.”
This time Doyle’s question was left unspoken.
“Yes, Doyle. My entrance onto the stage.”
“Did they ever let him near you?”
“Not for the longest time, for years, was he even aware of my presence, nor I of his. Alexander stayed at school through terms and all the holidays, even Christmas. Summers he was sent to stay with distant relations overseas. My parents paid a visit only once a year, every Easter week. My father, who had been serving all this time in the diplomatic corps, retired to stay close to myself and my mother. In spite of the damage done, I believe they were able to find some small measure of happiness in the home we made
together. It certainly seemed that way to my unknowing senses; I was well and fairly loved. I suspected nothing of my brother’s existence until I was near ready for schooling myself, when a man who worked in the stables, my confidant and favorite among the staff, let slip some reference to a boy named Alexander who’d ridden there years before. My parents had never spoken his name, but when I confronted them with my discovery of another boy riding at our stable, they admitted his existence to me. I did not interpret their reticence as having anything at all to do with their feelings toward Alexander—needless to say, no mention was ever made of my late sister—but once I learned that I had an unknown older brother, my curiosity became insatiable. After realizing my parents were not to be more forthcoming, I pumped the servants endlessly for news about this mysterious boy. They were clearly under orders to tell me nothing, and this blanket of silence surrounding Alexander only served to increase my eagerness. I ached to know him. I tried in vain to secretly gain his address so I might write to him. I prayed that God would soon acquaint me with the boy who I was convinced existed solely in order to serve as my companion, protector, and coconspirator.”
“They never let you, did they?” asked Doyle, alarmed at the prospect.
“Only after two years of relentless campaigning and six months of bargaining—I was never to write to or accept letters from him; I would never be alone in his company: I eagerly accepted every one of their conditions. That year we paid our Easter visit to my brother’s public school together. I was seven. Alexander was thirteen. We greeted each other formally, shaking hands. He was a striking boy: tall, sturdy, with black hair and riveting eyes. He seemed to me the soul of comradeship. Our parents were not prepared to leave us alone even for an instant, but after a few hours in which he exhibited such polite and openhearted enjoyment of both my company and theirs, their vigilance relented as we walked back from dinner through the gardens. As we turned a hedge ahead of them, Alexander pulled me from view, pressed a note into my hand, urging me to conceal it from our parents at all costs and to read it only when my absolute privacy was secured. Along with it he gave me a black polished stone, a talisman, which he assured me was his most treasured possession, and which he fervently wished me to have. I accepted the terms of his offerings gladly and, for the first time in my life, willfully concealed an event of such import from my parents. The first wedge between my life and theirs had been driven, the narrowest gap opened that had never before existed, and it was of my brother’s conscious design.”