It is not until you consider more explicitly how and where it has spent the majority of its existence that you lay it down and leave it down. And wipe your hand on your jeans. How chivalrous-and gross-of AndrE to carry such a thing in his mouth!
Monkey, youre incredible. Im serious, honey, youre the best. We make quite a team, huh? You and Auntie Gwen are the hottest merger since RJR and Nabisco. Frankly speaking, you intone, imitating Diamonds mannered drawl, Mr. Dunn doesnt deserve the talents of you and me. AndrE emits a mini-screech, prompting you to glance over your shoulder in a naive attempt to see if he is agreeing, objecting, or merely reacting to his masters name. Of course, Mr. Dunn does care about us both very much. A wave of emotion precipitates an annoying cramp in your larynx. When you recover, you say, Im sorry, but at the airport Ill have to shut you in the trunk again. Now dont get mad. Its a big, roomy trunk this time, and its for your own good. I wont be long.
Famous last words.
FOUR THIRTY-NINE A.M.
Since higher physics regards time as relative, it might be possible to demonstrate to Einsteins satisfaction that the intervals between your entering the near-empty terminal, taking a long overdue pee, and rousing proper assistance from dozing clerks at two separate ticket counters were actually short intervals (time is relative to the motion of the observer, after all, and as a dead man, Einstein is either in the ultimate stationary position or else has condensed into pure energy traveling at speeds near the limits of light); but from your own more vital perspective, events at the airport proceeded so slowly that you lost all of your temper and most of your mind.
Diamond has a six oclock flight, which means he must check in at this same airport at about five-fifteen, which means he must leave Thunder House not much later than four forty-five. You had planned to call him on the Lincolns cellular unit on your way back into town, but now you dare not delay. A public phone in the terminal lobby will have to suffice.
You punch in the number, hold your breath as it rings, and hold your ear when an explosion of static almost blows the receiver out of your fist.
FOUR-FORTY A.M.
The interference clears, and you catch up with Diamond in midsentence… . out behind the barn. Just remember this, chums: the picture doesnt know who painted it, the story doesnt know whos telling it, and the economy has no idea who or what economists are, let alone bookies and bean-counters. What you get is what you bring, and its all a flying fuck at the moon. Dont bother to leave your name, number, or time that you called, because Uncle Larry is …
Larry? Larry! Please. Pick up the phone. Its me. Youre still home, arent you? Larry, its …
Click. Pussy fricassee. Yes. How genial of you to check in.
Is he being sarcastic? Between the static on the line and his customary menacing intonations, its difficult to tell. At least you reached him. Yeah, well, I thought Id call to say good-bye. I guess youll be heading out very soon.
Indeed.
Uh, is Twister still driving you?
Yes, and it should be interesting. I dont believe hes been behind the wheel in a year or more. If my scooter had held together another day, I wouldnt have had to trouble him. Im not troubling you, am I? Whatre you doing awake at this hour? Going to the disco? Old firehorse cant resist the ding-dong? Aching to run the gauntlet of crutches? Scour the wreckage for a sign of father tapeworm, gaze one last time into the cash drawer of his eyes?
Normally, you might have been put off by his verbal excesses, as hypnotic as they can be, but through the crackle and sting of static, you can detect a fever in his voice; something irregular, alien. His illness must have worsened in the night. I havent been to sleep, you say rather weakly.
Ah, my suspicions confirmed. When I couldnt reach you via the usual telecommunicative hardware, I labored in vain to intrude on your dreams. Id either lost the knack, or you werent dreaming. I suppose I should be pleased it was the latter.
You tried to call me?
More times than I care to admit. Are you informing me you were in receipt of none of my bulletins?
Er, no. Ive, uh, been out driving around. Thinking. Your voice brightens. But listen, Larry. I have a present for you. A very … good present. A very, very good present. I took it out to Sea-Tac and left it at the Delta ticket counter with your name on it. Please, please be sure to pick it up. Its important. Okay?
Certainly. I wouldnt miss a chance to be surprised, as slight as that chance might be.
Well see, wont we? But this surprise, Larry-you must not open it until you get to Africa. You must not. Promise.
Very well, I suppose thats a treaty I can sign.
In your minds eye, you try to imagine the look on his face when he finds the jade nozzle in his possession. The vision prompts you to blush, although neither at the intrinsic nature of the instrument nor from modesty at the extremity of your generosity. Rather, you are reliving the moment in the ladies room here at Sea-Tac when you removed your underpants and swaddled the nozzle in them, an exceedingly bold gesture, for you are convinced that, sooner or later, once he has rebounded from the shock of their contents, he will bury his perverted nose in them. That will teach him to question your adventurousness. How could a woman, he had asked, be so prim about sex and still be so sexy? Prim? Ha! Smell these! As for the nozzle itself, once he has made use of it (you included in the panty pack the jar of beta-carotene that you purchased at the all-night pharmacy: the brown rice and coffee he can acquire in Africa), he is certain to mail it back to Dr. Yamaguchi. There is no chance that Diamond will keep it and try to profit from it. The possibility of ransom flittingly crossed your mind, you must confess, but, hey, you arent that kind of girl. Besides, you have other avenues now to financial recovery. Or one other avenue.
So, Larry, I guess youre out of here.
Pardon? A ripsaw of static had chewed off the end of your remark.
I said: Guess you arent having any second thoughts about Timbuktu.
Surely you jest. Only a fool wouldnt have second thoughts about Timbuktu. In addition, Im having second thoughts about deserting America at this particularly pandemoniacal moment.
But things are a mess.
Yes. Yes. I believe I just indicated as much. Isnt it grand? A gentleman named Horace Walpole once wrote that The world is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel. Extrapolating, we can say, then, that to the whole person, the person with a balanced view, the world is tragicomedy. Ah, but virtually nobody in America thinks anymore; and nobody feels much either, beyond anger and resentment that they havent been cut a wider slice of that prodigal pie that theyve been deluded into believing not only exists but is rightfully theirs to share, regardless of their talents or virtues. What can you say about a population to whom the world is neither comedy nor tragedy but a sporting match in a seedy and extremely noisy arena, a littered rink where they might score if theyre lucky or shrewd or ruthless enough, or go completely numb if they fail? Still, theres the roar. America has a roar, an edge, you wont find in tired old Europe or fatalistic old Asia. Given a choice between our barbarism and their ennui, Uncle Larryll choose the barbarism every time.
From what I hear, theres no shortage of barbarism in Africa.
You hear correctly. The average African today, for any number of regrettable reasons, is as far removed from the complex and glorious metaphysical systems of his or her ancestors as the average Greek hawking souvlaki on a polluted street corner is removed from the Eleusinian Mysteries or the Oracle of Delphi. One difference, though, is that in Africa, for the quester, most of the major stones remain unturned.
Right. And turns unstoned. Frogs unlicked.
Now, pussy frangipane, dont try to trivialize my journey.
I dont think its trivial. I think its insane.
Diamond allows a barrage of electrical flatulence to run its course before he responds.
Yes, some people calls it madness, if I may once again quote Mr. Calloway, but if the majority ignore the rip in the fabric of c
onsensual reality and a few recognize it, ponder it, take it into account, then might I be excused for wondering whos truly mad, the many or the few? Nothingll do for Uncle Larry but to part that rip. Mind you, hes not boasting that hes going to attempt to squeeze through it. Once he gets a better look into the breach, he may back off like a lecher with heartburn or spring for the hills like an eight-point buck on the first day of hunting season. But at least hell know. My aim, if thats not too precise a term, is to relocate outside the bounds of control and definition. Even when one is on the pad, control and definition labor tirelessly to erect their cast-iron grids around you. The possibility exists that even a periodic peek through the hole in the curtain will be sufficient to ward off their constrictions. Then, I can proceed to the next step. Should it strike my fancy. And if the little monster in my rectum hasnt gobbled up my spark. Im gladdened to inform you, pussy prosciutto, that I have a strong premonition that somehow Im going to survive.
Careful, Gwen. You would not want him to pick up anything about the nozzle on his annoying telepathic radar. In an effort to distract him, you go, perhaps, a bit too far. I hope with all my heart thats the case, you say, but dont forget, you also had a premonition you were going to see Q-Jo.
A weighty silence hangs on the line. You would figure that atmospheric interference had knocked out the connection, except that you can hear him breathing. You imagine that you can also hear him trembling, feel the heat of his fever through the phone. Did you have to discourage him quite so bluntly? You are searching for the phrases that will restore his hope without revealing the reason why such hope is entirely justified, when he speaks again, but in a voice that sounds as awe-struck and wonder-struck as it is ravaged and frightened.
I did see Q-Jo.
What?!
Ive seen her. Thats why Ive been calling you all night.
Where? When? For Gods sake, Larry!
Easy, Gwendolyn. Easy now. Youre going to have to brace yourself for this.
Brace you do, as if in preparation for a devastating punch, but there is nothing in this world that can prepare you for what Larry Diamond has to tell. Speaking as if in a twitch-ridden trance, he relates how, when he left you in the bowling alley parking lot last evening, he went directly to his bathroom inside Thunder House to apply more of the Native American herbs. He had just finished and was washing his hands when there was a flash, followed by a crack and a pop, like a paparazzo having his camera smashed by an irate celebrity, and the lights in Thunder House dimmed, blinked out, and after a few seconds came back on. The atmospheric interference of the past few days had already precipitated several brief power outages, so he gave the matter little thought until he realized that the slide projector in the living room had been on ever since his presentation to you yesterday morning. The projector was buzzing more insistently than usual-like a shipwrecked blow dryer surrounded by hostile cicadas, is how he puts it-so he hastened in to check for damage and to switch it off.
The machine itself was unharmed, he says, but when I looked at the screen, there she was.
Who? What do you mean?
Your friend, he whispers, and you can feel him shudder. Up there. On the screen. In the picture. In the slide. Posing with the faculty. Larger than life, if in Q-Jos case thats not redundant. I told you that nothing surprises me anymore, but I guess I lied.
FOUR FORTY-FOUR A.M.
If this is your idea of a joke… . Even as you speak, however, you know he is not kidding.
Hardly. Youre the only person Id dare tell. I havent even mentioned it to Twister. Diamond pauses. Youre thinking it was the fever. Or the medicine. That I was hallucinating. Momentarily, I considered that myself. I ran into the kitchen and threw cold water in my face. After collecting my wits, I went back-and there she was! Standing there, in the midst of the shamans and soothsayers. Just beaming, by the way, as if she was in her element and couldnt be happier. I watched the screen for, oh, probably ten minutes. She was definitely there. It was not an illusion.
His sincerity does nothing to temper your incredulity. Ill have to see it to believe it, you say.
Again, he pauses. You cant see it. There is anguish and regret in his tone.
Why not? If Q-Jos really in—
Not anymore. There was another power outage. You may have noticed it. (No, you were in bed balling Belford.) The lights went dark for about five seconds, and when they came back on-she wasnt in the picture anymore. Gone. Completely. Ive been observing the slide off and on throughout the night. She hasnt reappeared.
Larry …
Theres something else of interest, however. I reversed to the previous slide-the group picture of the visiting faculty?-and theyre gone, as well. The whole lot of them. Theres nothing in the slide now but an empty courtyard. And that, Gwendolyn, you can see. Id show you immediately had I time.
Yeah, but its late. Youve got to get to Sea-Tac. If Diamond isnt joking, you think, and if he hasnt been tricked by medicine or drugs, then maybe he really is insane. And if hes crazy, maybe he murdered Q-Jo, after all. As much as it distresses you, you have to reconsider that possibility.
Yes. Indeed. Twisters already gone out to start the car. He doesnt want to be away from Thunder House any longer than necessary.
Well, Larry …
Listen, darling, I know its a brainful, but dont worry about it. All right? Well make sense of it when were in Africa. And that wont be long. I should warn you, pussy kimchi, that things are a trace raggedy andy in Mali. Infrastructure leaves much to be desired. The Bamako airport is bedlam, night and day, and arrivals and departure schedules are made out of rubber. So if for some reason I fail to meet your flight, grab a taxi to the Hotel lAmitiE. Ill be registered there under the name of Mookie Blaylock.
I see.
Very well. Twisters honking. Sirius C is calling. I think I love you. Bye-bye.
Bye, Larry. I … think … I care for you, too.
FOUR FIFTY-EIGHT A.M.
Did they from the little acorn spring? George Washingtons mighty teeth? Or, like much Early American furniture, were they planed from the trunk of a maple tall, after the sap had gone? Red-eyed maple? Slippery elm? Knotty pine? Perhaps they were made of quaking aspen, so as to bring the music of the riverbank to the daily chew. (When he belched, Martha might have heard the wind in the willows. A sycamore serenade.) Consider walnuts cracked by walnut, cherries pulverized by cherry, ash in the mouth before the pipe. Washington eating wood pigeon with wood teeth. Unable to taste the forest for the trees. Every beer would have been a root beer, his bark always worse than his bite.
If Q-Jo was actually in that African slide-which, it goes without saying, she wasnt-you couldnt even begin to think about it. And if Diamond, in some deranged state, only imagined that he saw her, well, you cant think about that, either. You wont allow yourself to think of any of it. There is too little time and too much at stake. You must avoid confusion, assail doubt, and proceed courageously and efficiently with the next phase of your grand strategy.
As the Lincoln purrs northbound up the I-5 corridor at twenty times the speed at which its namesake (condition of teeth unknown) trudged to school through the Illinois sleet, you soothe AndrE with his favorite French nursery song-your baby-doll voice seems to captivate him: Blossom Dearie, eat your heart out!-singing it over and over while you conjure images of balsa dentures that could be sailed around the White House dining room like toy eagles. At some point, Diamond, southbound, will be momentarily parallel with you, but since you havent a clue what sort of car Twister might own and since Diamond is unfamiliar with the Lincoln, you are destined to pass like ships in the night. Rather, the dawn, for already you can detect a pale yellow thread unraveling (or raveling) in the seam of the horizon.
You take the Mercer Street exit and drive along the shore of Lake Union toward the base of Queen Anne Hill. Shortly after exiting, you meet a motorcade of three BMW sedans and a black Ferrari, traveling at great speed: the rich boys returning to affluent suburbs after a
night of harassing the down and out. You flush with fury at the memory of their yanking your pants off-if, in fact, it was them. One more subject you must postpone thinking about until you are in clover.
Because Belford may have reported the Lincoln stolen-unlikely but you cannot risk it-you park his car at your building and transfer the monkey and your bag of supplies to the Porsche. Remember this nice car, mon ami? You screwed it up royally with your stupid vitamins. But dont worry, Auntie Gwen forgives you. You dont have to ride in the nasty ol trunk.
Immediately after starting the engine, you hear a shout and in the rearview mirror see a shadowy male figure dashing toward you. Without a second thought, you pop the clutch. For a second or two, he appears to be gaining on you, but once you are in the street, the Porsche makes a noise high in its throat, like an enraged Prussian baron about to run through his wifes lover with a saber; lays down twin streaks of that acrid testosterone jam that teenage boys love to spread on their asphalt, and leaves the pursuer behind. Probably it was poor Belford, but it just as easily could have been the Safe Sex Rapist. A girl cant be too careful. Making the Porsche bray and sway, you drive as fast as you think you can get away with without attracting undue attention, and, after stopping briefly at Thriftway for one final requisition of banana Popsicles, zoom off to Ballard and the Thunderbird Bowl.
FIVE TWENTY-FIVE A.M.
The stock market is scheduled to open in fifty-five minutes. You wonder if it will. Crossing the Ballard Bridge, you switch on radio news, but so annoying is the static that you switch it right back off. What do you care about the market, anyway? This day there is to be no Sears, Philip Morris, Merck, General Electric. No Westinghouse, Walt Disney, Procter and Gamble. No I … B … Mmmmm.