Little, Big Part 36

Bottom of a Bottle The little park was filling up.

Why had he not known that love could be like that? Why hadn't anyone told him? If he had known, he would never have embarked on it; or at least not so gladly.

Why did he, a young man of some intelligence after all, and of good family, know nothing about anything at all?

He had even been able to suppose, when he left Old Law Farm for the streets of the City foul with summer and decline, that he fled Sylvie rather than merely pursuing her farther and in even less warm directions. Drunkards, Great-aunt Cloud had used to say, drink to escape their troubles. If that was his casea"and surely he had tried his best to become a drunkarda"then how could it be that, not every time but often enough, he found Sylvie there, just there where Cloud said drinkers find surcease, at the bottom of a bottle?

Well: press on. Autumn was harvest, of course, the bound wheat-sheaf, the hale fruit. And faintly in the distance, cheeks puffed out and eyebrows fierce, Brother North-wind came on apace.

Was the girl who with a sickle cut the heavy-eared grain the same one who set out shoots in spring with a little trowel? And who was the oldster, huddled up on the earth piled with riches, brooding in profile? Thinking of winter a In November the three of thema"he, and she, and Fred Savage, his mentor in b.u.mhood, who had begun appearing to him as often in that season as Sylvie did, though more solidly than shea" rode a park bench, somewhat afloat in the darkening city, huddled up but not uncomfortable; the newspapers inside Fred Savage's overcoat crackled when he moved, though he moved only to lift brandy to his lips. They had done singing, and reciting drinker's poetrya".

You know, my friends, with what a gay Carouse I took a Second Mortgage on my house a"and sat quiet now contemplating that fearful hour before the City's lights are lit.

"Old Man Hawk's in town," Fred Savage said.

"Wazzat?"

"Winter," Sylvie said, thrusting her hands into her armpits.

"Gonna move these bones," Fred Savage said, crackling, sipping. "Gonna move these old cold bones to Florida."

"All right," Sylvie said, as though at last somebody had said something sensible.

"Old Man Hawk is not my friend," Fred Savage said. "Price of a Greyhound to outrun that boy. Philly, Baltimore, Charleston, Atlanta, J'ville, St. Pete. Miami. Ever see a pelican?"

He hadn't. Sylvie, from ancientest childhood, summoned them up, frigates of the Caribbean evening, absurd and beautiful. "Yas yas," Fred Savage said. "Beak holds more than his belican. Tears out the feathers of his bosom, and feeds they young ones on the blood of his heart. His heart's blood. Oh Fonda."

Fred had taken the autumn off, and perhaps the rest of his life as well. He had come to Auberon's aid, in his most need to be by his side, just as he had said he would on the day when he had first guided him through the City to the offices of Petty, Smilodon Ruth. Auberon didn't question this providence, or any other the City gave. He had thrown himself on the City's mercy, and found that, like a strict mistress, she was kind to those who submitted utterly, held nothing back. By degrees he learned to do that; he who had always been fastidious, and more fastidious than that for Sylvie's sake, grew filthy, City dirt worked itself into his fabric ineradicably, and though when drunk he would walk for blocks to find public facilities, d.a.m.n few of them and dangerous too, between these spurts of scrupulosity he mocked himself for them. By autumn his knapsack was a useless rag, a cerement, and anyway had ceased to be large enough to hold a life lived on the streets; so like the rest of the secret City's epopts he carried paper shopping bags, one inside the other for strength, advertising in his degraded person many great establishments in turn.

And so he went on, hooded in gin, sleeping in streets sometimes full of riot, sometimes quiet as a necropolis, always as far as he was concerned empty. He learned from Fred and from ancients who had instructed Fred that the great days of the secret commonwealth of b.u.ms were over, the days when there were kings and wise men on Lower Broadway, the days when the City was marked with their glyphs whose code only the initiate could read, when the drunk, the gypsy, the madman and the philosopher had their ranks, as firm as deacon, s.e.xton, priest and bishop. Of course, over. Join any enterprise, Auberon thought, and you'll find its great days are over.

He didn't need to beg. The money he extracted from Petty, Smilodon Ruth was given him as much to rid their offices of his noisome figure as for any right he had to ita"he knew that, and took to appearing there only at his most hideous, often with Fred Savage in towa"but it was enough for a drunk's few dietary needs, and the odd flop when he feared freezing to death pillowed in booze as some of his buddies' buddies had reportedly done, and for gin. He never sank to fulsome wine, he gave himself credit for that, he resisted that final degradation even though it was apparently only in the transparent fire of gin that Sylvie (like a Salamander) could sometimes appear.

His topside knee was growing cold. Why his knee should grow cold first he didn't know; neither his toes nor his nose had felt it yet. "Greyhound, huh," he said. He recrossed his legs and said, "I can raise the price." He asked Sylvie: "You want to go?"

"Sure I do," Sylvie said.

"Sure I do," said Fred.

"I was speaking to, I wasn't speaking to you just then," Auberon said.

Fred put his arm gently around Auberon's shoulder. What ghosts plagued his friends he was always careful to be kind to. "Well, sure she do," he said, his yellow eyes opening enough to gaze on Auberon in a way Auberon had never decided was predatory or kindly. "And bes' of all," he said, smiling, "she don't need a ticket."

Door into Nowhere Of all the lapses and losses of his sodden memory, the one that troubled Auberon most later on was that he couldn't remember whether or not he had gone to Florida. The Art of Memory showed him a few ragged palms, some stucco or concrete-block buildings painted pink or turquoise, the smell of eucalyptus; but if that was all, solid and unremovable though it seemed, it might well be imagination only, or only remembered pictures. Just as vivid were his memories of Old Man Hawk on avenues as wide as wind, perched on the gloved wrists of doormen along the Park, his beard of feathers rimy and his talons sharp to grip the entrails. But he had, Somehow, not frozen to death; and surely even more than palms and jalousies, a City winter survived on the street would, he thought, stick in the memory. Well: he hadn't been paying close attention: the only thing that really engaged him were those islands where red neon signs beckoned to the wanderer (they were always red, he learned) and the endless replication of those flat bottles clear as water, in some of which, as in a box of children's cereal, there would be a prize. And the only thing he vividly recalled was how, at the end of winter, there were no more prizes. His drunkenness was empty. There were only the lees left to drink; and he drank them.

Why had he been in the bowels of the old Terminus? Had he just returned by train from the Sunshine State? Or was it chance? Seeing three of most things, a damp leg where he had p.i.s.sed himself some time before, in the small hours he strode purposefully (though going nowhere; if he didn't stride purposefully he would take a header; this walking business was more complicated than most people supposed) down ramps and through catacombs. A fake nun, wimple filthy and eyes alert (Auberon had long ago realized this figure was a man) shook a begging cup at him, more in irony than expectation. He pa.s.sed on. The Terminus, never silent, was as silent now as it ever was; the few travelers and the lost gave him a wide berth, though he glowered at them only to make them singular, three of each was too many. One of the virtues of drink was how it reduced life to these simple matters, which engaged all the attention; seeing, walking, raising a bottle accurately to the hole in your face. As though you were two years old again. No thoughts but simple ones. And an imaginary friend to talk to. He stopped walking; he had come up against a more-or-less solid wall; he rested and thought Lost.

A simple thought. One simple singular thought, and the rest of life and time a great flat featureless gray plain extending in all directions; consciousness a vast ball of dirty fuzz filling it to its limits, with only the hooded fire of that one thought alive within it.

"What?" he said, starting away from the wall, but no one had spoken to him. He looked around at the place where he stood: a vaulted intersection where four corridors met in a cross. He stood in a corner. The ribbed vaulting, where it joined in descending to the floor, made what seemed to be a slot or narrow opening, but which was only joined bricks; a sort of slot, which, it seemed, if you faced into it you might peer through.

"h.e.l.lo?" he whispered to the darkness.

"h.e.l.lo?" Nothing.

"h.e.l.lo." Louder this time.

"Softer," she said.

"What?"

"Speak real soft," Sylvie said. "Don't turn around now."

"h.e.l.lo. h.e.l.lo."

"Hi there. Isn't this great?"

"Sylvie," he whispered.

"Just like you were right next to me."

"Yes," he said; "yes," he whispered. He pressed his consciousness forward into the darkness. It folded up closed for a moment, then opened again. "What?" he said.

"Well," she said, in a small voice, and after a darkling pause, "I think I'm going."

No, he said. No, I bet not, I bet not; why?

"Well, I lost my job, see," she whispered.

"Job?"

"With a ferry. A real old guy. He was nice. But bo-ring. Back and forth all day a" He felt her withdraw somewhat. "So I guess I'll go. Destiny calls," she said; she said it self-mockingly, making light of it to cheer him.

"Why?" he said.

"Whisper," she whispered.

"Why do you want to do this to me?"

"Do what, baby?"

"Well why don't you just G.o.d d.a.m.n go then? Why don't you just go and leave me alone? Go go go." He stopped, and listened. Silence and vacuity. A deep horror flew over him. "Sylvie?" he said. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Where? Where are you going?"

"Well, further in," she said.

"Further in where?"

"Here."

He gripped the cold bricks to steady himself. His knees were falling back and forth from locked to loose. "Here?"

"The further in you go," she said, "the bigger it gets."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it," he said. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Sylvie."

"It's weird here," she said. "Not what I expected. I've learned a lot, though. I guess I'll get used to it." She paused, and the silence filled the darkness. "I miss you, though."

"Oh G.o.d," he said.

"So I'll go," she said, her whisper already fainter.

"No," he said, "no no no."

"But you just said a"

"Oh G.o.d Sylvie," he said, and his knees gave way; he knelt heavily, still facing into the darkness. "Oh G.o.d," and he thrust his face into the nonexistent place he spoke into, and said other things, apologizing, begging abjectly, though for what he no longer knew.

"No, listen," she whispered, embarra.s.sed. "I think you're great, really, I always did. Don't say that stuff." He was weeping now, uncomprehending, incomprehensible. "Anyway I have to," she said. Her voice was already faint and distant, and her attention turning elsewhere. "Okay. Hey, you should see all the stuff they gave mea . Listen, papo. Bendicion. Be good. G'bye."

Early train-takers and men come to open tawdry shops pa.s.sed him later, still there, long unconscious, on his knees in the corner like a bad boy, face wedged into the door into nowhere. With the ancient courtesy or indifference of the City, no one disturbed him, though some shook their heads sadly or in disgust at him as they pa.s.sed: an object-lesson.

Ahead and Behind Tears were on his cheeks too in the little park where he sat, having salvaged this, the last of Sylvie, the living end. When he had at last awakened in the Terminus still in that position, he didn't know how or why he had come to be there; but he remembered now. The Art of Memory had given it all back to him, all, to do with what he could.

What you didn't know; what you didn't know arising, spontaneously, surprisingly, out of the proper arrangement of what you did: or rather what you knew all along but didn't know you knew. Every day here he had come closer to it; every night, lying awake at the Lost Sheep Mission, amid the hawkings and nightmares of his fellows, as he walked these paths in memory, he approached what he didn't know: the simple single lost fact. Well, he had it now. Now he saw the puzzle complete.

He was cursed: that's all.

Long ago, and he knew when though not why, a curse had been laid on him, a charm, a disfigurement that made him for good a searcher, and his searches at the same time futile. For reasons of their own (who could say what, malevolence only, possibly, probably, or for a recalcitrance in him they wanted to punish, a recalcitrance they had however not punished out of him, he would never give in) they had cursed him: they had attached his feet on backwards, without his noticing it, and then sent him out that way to search.

That had been (he knew it now) in the dark of the woods, when Lilac had gone away, and he had called after her as though his heart would break. From that moment he had been a searcher, and his searching feet pointed Somehow in the wrong direction.

He'd sought Lilac in the dark of the woods, but of course he'd lost her; he was eight years old and only growing older, though against his will; what could he expect?

He'd become a secret agent to plumb the secrets withheld from him, and for as long as he sought them, for just so long were they withheld from him.

He'd sought Sylvie, but the pathways he found, seeming always to lead to her heart, led always away. Reach toward the girl in the mirror, who looks out at you smiling, and your hand meets itself at the cold frontier of the gla.s.s.

Well: all done now. The search begun so long ago ended here. The little park his great-great-grandfather made he had remade into an emblem as complete, as fully-charged, as any trump in Great-aunt Cloud's deck or any cluttered hall in Ariel Hawksquill's memory mansions. Like those old paintings where a face is made up of a cornucopia of fruit, every wrinkle, eyelash, and throat-fold made of fruits and grains and victuals realistic enough to pluck up and eat, this park was Sylvie's face, her heart, her body. He had dismissed from his soul all the fancies, laid here all the ghosts, deposited the demons of his drunkenness and the madness he'd been born with. Somewhere, Sylvie lived, chasing her Destiny, gone for reasons of her own; he hoped she was happy. He had lifted the curse from himself, by main strength and the Art of Memory, and was free to go.

He sat.

Some sort of tree (his grandfather would have known what kind, but he didn't) was just in that week casting off its leaflike blooms or seeds, small silver-green circles that descended all over the park like a million dollars in dimes. Fortunes of them were rolled toward him by wastrel breezes, piled against his unmoving feet, filled his hat-brim and his lap, as though he were only another fixture of the park to be littered, like the bench he sat on and the pavilion he looked at.

When he did rise, heavily and feeling Somehow still inhabited, it was only to move around from Winter, which he was done with, back to Spring, where he had begun; where he now was. A year's circuit. Winter was old Father Time with sickle and hourgla.s.s, his ragged domino and beard blown by chappy winds, and a disgusted expression on his face. A lean, slavering dog or wolf was at his phthisical feet. Green coins fell across them, catching in the relief; green coins fell whispering from Auberon as he rose. He knew what Spring, just around the corner, would be; he'd been there before. There seemed suddenly little point in doing anything any more but making this circuit. Everything he needed was here.

Brother North-wind's Secret. Ten steps was all it took. If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? He'd always thought that was put wrong. Shouldn't it be, If Winter comes can Spring be far ahead? Ahead: as you advance through the seasons, first winter comes, and then spring is not far ahead. "Right?" he said aloud to no one. Ahead, behind. It was probably he who had it wrong, who saw it from some peculiar useless personal point of view no one else shared, no one. If winter comes a He turned the corner of the pavilion. Can spring be far ahead, behind a Someone was just then turning the other corner, from Spring into Summer.

"Lilac," he said.

She glanced back at him, half gone around the corner; glanced back at him with a look he knew so well yet had for so long not seen that it made him feel faint. It was a look which said, Oh I was just going away somewhere, but you caught me, and yet it didn't mean that, was just pretty coquetry mixed with some shyness, he'd always known that. The park around him grew unreal, as though in the act of silently blowing away. Lilac turned toward him, her clasped hands swinging before her, her bare feet taking small steps. She had (of course) grown no older; she wore (of course) her blue dress. "Hi," she said, and brushed her hair away from her face with a quick motion.

"Lilac," he said.

She cleared her throat (long time since she'd spoken) and said, "Auberon. Don't you think it's time for you to go home?"

"Home," he said.

She took a step toward him, or he one toward her; he held out his hands to her, or she hers toward him. "Lilac," he said. "How do you come to be here?"

"Here?"

"Where did you go," he said, "that time you went?"

"Go?"

"Please," he said. "Please."

"I've been here all the time," she said, smiling. "Silly. It's you who've been in motion."

A curse; only a curse. No fault of your own.