Читать книгу A Geography of Secrets - Frederick Reuss - Страница 9

38°55’34.46”N

77° 6’29.43”W

I am at my desk, which is set in front of a window that faces west-southwest. It is an unusually cold morning. The wind is blowing in gusts. Snow is predicted—a storm. It’s the big story on television. The meteorologists are calling for up to six inches. Reporters are interviewing commuters and store clerks and school officials all over the metro area. Federal employees are on liberal leave. My window looks out onto a small patch of lawn shaded by mature oak, ash, and elm trees. A leafy suburban neighborhood, well inside the Beltway, of brick colonials and split-level ranches, many in various stages of remodeling and renovation. Along the property line, holly, evergreen, and azalea bushes make for privacy and a sense of enclosure. There is a pink dogwood in front of the house. Recently, deer have been turning up in the yard. A new subdivision going up on some undeveloped land nearby has displaced the herd. They are disoriented and wandering now through the neighborhoods. The last one was a buck with a large rack of antlers. I watched him grazing in the yard for a while, then opened the back door to see how tame he was. He lifted his head, looked over his shoulder. We had eye-to-eye contact for a good minute before he lumbered off. Later, I saw him lying down by the brick terrace wall in the neighbor’s yard. We regarded each other again, and this time it was I who moved on.

I always sit at the window to work. My drafting table is there, cluttered with old notebooks, pens, inks, and pencils of all types and colors. Everything in its usual place. I am a mapmaker, a “geographic information scientist,” in current jargon, and yes, I still draw and write by hand with pencils, pens, and ink. Although I use all the latest GIS systems and technology, I prefer to work whenever I can by hand and on foot and enjoy a reputation as a purist and a throwback to the days when those were the chief tools of the profession. For me, the point of mapmaking is to establish linkages and relationships on a terrestrial and a human scale, to see where one is in the fullest sense possible. Sure, it’s a mistake to confuse a map with the terrain itself, or where one is with who one is. But they do cohere. And must.

When I returned from my father’s funeral, it was difficult to return to work. By odd coincidence, I’d sat next to a professional grief counselor on the return flight. She had just finished a tour in Bosnia, having been sent there by the Red Cross to work with people still traumatized by the war in the 1990s. As we were settling into our seats, I broke into a bout of uncontrollable coughing. She offered me a lozenge, asked where I’d been, curious about the cough I’d picked up. I was too miserable for in-flight pleasantries. “A funeral,” I said flatly. “I’m sorry,” she said and shifted in her seat to allow me more of the cramped space we were forced to share. “My father’s,” I added, obliged by her kindness not to withdraw too rudely into silence. “I’m very sorry,” she said. There was a moment of awkwardness. I leaned my head against the window, and she returned to her book. My coughing persisted. I tried my best to muffle it, but without much success. Later in the flight, she turned to me and said, “Grief often settles in the lungs.” Then she told me about her work in Bo-sina. I remember little about what she said except that she was convinced that my cough was directly connected to the death of my father. She rejected my observation that the loss paled by comparison with the tragedy of Bosnia. I’ll never know who she was, but I have her to thank for the insight into how strangely grief settles and unsettles us. I was still thinking about her and what she’d said to me as I walked above Canal Road a few days after I returned home. It was twilight, the afterglow of a brilliant sunset. I had been walking on the C&O Canal and was returning to my car, parked on Potomac Street, which runs along a ridge of the palisades overlooking the river. It is one of my favorite spots, a quiet residential street with an eclectic variety of houses on one side and clear views across the river to Virginia. In autumn, the colors are spectacular. At one end, a path leads down a wooded embankment onto an old railroad bridge that crosses the canal at Arizona Avenue, part of the old Georgetown Branch Rail Line that once connected Georgetown and Chevy Chase. In the early 1970s, the bridge was a rusting, graffiti-covered structure with a clear drop through the tracks to the road. Teenagers went there to smoke pot and run around in the woods. Now it is a restored and heavily bicycled part of the Crescent Trail, which links Georgetown with Bethesda and Silver Spring.

I’d just come up the trail from the bridge, was standing on the embankment for a last look at the pulsing sunset, when I heard the distinctive whoosh-click of a golf ball being hit. It wasn’t a light chip shot but the solid crack of an earnest drive. In the vanishing daylight, I could make out a figure. He bent down, placed a ball on the tee, straightened, and after a brief pause—crack—launched another ball. I glanced at the long stream of cars just below on Canal Road. Another ball was hit, a little less solidly this time, followed by a hoarsely muttered “Fuck!”

The man ignored me, went through the whole pantomime, wriggling hips and flexing shoulders. Just as I was about to interrupt, he drew back and—whoosh-click—the ball disappeared into the darkness.

“Don’t you think that’s a little dangerous?”

He set another ball on the tee without so much as a glance in my direction.

“Hey!” I called.

He relaxed his grip and turned to me with an expression of forced calm. He was well over six feet tall, with bunched athletic shoulders and a neatly trimmed goatee. His hair was cropped short, and he wore a red Washington Nationals baseball cap. My heart was thumping. “There’s a busy road down there. You could cause an accident.”

“You know what this is?” He held the club up, pointed to its absurdly outsized metal head. “Big Bertha. Titanium cup face, carbon composite body. Named after a forty-three-ton mobile howitzer. I can drive a ball three hundred yards with this sucker. Wanna try?”

I shook my head.

“Go ahead,” he urged, as if my anger was priggish and unjustified. “The gun was named for Adolph Krupp’s wife. It was fired for the first time on August 12, 1914, outside Liege. Took sixty seconds for the shell to travel the distance. Over nine miles. Then, boom! Fuckin’ World War I.” It was dark now except for the glow of traffic below and a single streetlight farther up the road.

“The canal down there is a national park. I’m sure there’s a law against littering it with golf balls.”

“Who are you? The neighborhood watch?” He shook his head and yanked the tee out of the ground. Muttering, he stalked off.

I remained for a while, feeling as if I’d somehow earned rights to the spot. An airplane descended overhead, following the Potomac down to the airport. Across the river and through the trees, I could see traffic moving along the George Washington Parkway. Like many who call D.C. home, I am not from here but of here. I am not from anywhere, really, and yet I call this city home. It’s a strange triangulation of geography, psychology, and fate and makes for great confusion, a confusion that calls for—no, demands—a map. Or many maps since, in cartography, a true one-to-one correspondence is impossible. The moment we begin to apply scale, we distort and alter our relationship to the world. Finally, I got into the car and drove home, listening on the radio as NPR reported on a missile strike against a Taliban guerrilla leader in Helmand Province.