Читать книгу Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes - Jan David Blais - Страница 4

“THERE’S A LOT IN THOSE PAPERS,” Jonathan says. “You did quite a job pulling it all together.”

“I’ve only been doing it for fifty years,” I say. As I lift the desk blotter several papers sail to the floor, but at least the key’s where it belongs. Sliding the drawer open I pull out a folder and extract several papers from it. The first, on heavy bond, is a letter in blue ink, in a regular hand. “Here,” I say, passing it over, “take a look.”

August 7, 2000

My Dear Gus,

I’m finally sorting through this pile of junk you’ve been nagging me for. If things continue as they are with Latimer I may soon have a lot more time for you. I admit my journal-keeping wasn’t up to par so I’ve had to create a narrative to tie things together. If I come anywhere close to the mark you can thank my powers of recall, which for some unaccountable reason have always been exceptional.

You’re right, of course, I should have been more systematic. Ironic, a man of words spending so few of them on himself, though at least I was consistent, in abandoning the written word for the wonderful world of television.

Only my regard for you leads me to undertake this effort which will take many months, with no sure outcome other than the pain it will cause me and, may I dare to hope, certain others. At any event, here’s the first batch.

As always,

Paul

“Anything else?”

“Here’s another one, barely a year later but a world apart.”

Everyman TeleVision Network

419 West 13th Street

New York City, NY 10014

September 17, 2001

Gus,

You cannot believe what it’s like here. Television can’t even come close. This is not about aluminum and plastic and paper, Gus, these were human beings! Alive one minute, vaporized the next.

Grasping for straws, let me say, terrible as it is, could it be something has finally shaken up this tired, selfish old country? Perhaps we’ll learn from it and come back strong, but that will all be about leadership, which I fear we sorely lack. We have plenty of leaders but they’re all the wrong kind. Giuliani’s the same old publicity hound. Any mayor or governor with half an ounce of humanity could do what he’s doing or better. Picking up the pieces is the easy part. Putting them back together will be the trick. As for George Bush, what can I say?

Obviously our project is on hold, my part of it, but I’ve given you enough to get started. I’ll pick it up again when I can. Susan is very good, she’ll give you a hand. I’m around for now, but for a change my time is limited.

I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t felt so exhilarated in years. In the morning I hit the floor running. This is one hell of a story and I am privileged to be able to report it. Yes, I said report – I’m back in the field. I’ll be in the studio more than I want, but mostly I’ll be out there where I belong. I hope my rusty craft is up to the task. If the American people don’t get the story from the likes of us they won’t get it at all. Powerful forces would like nothing better. Sad experience tells us that.

God bless you, Gus. Keep me in your prayers.

Paul

Jonathan nods. “Good,” he says, giving me back the letters.

I go around to my big table and take a seat behind a stack of papers. “Strong enough for you?” I ask, raising my cup.

“Just the way I like it.” He looks out the window. “Where’d all this rain come from?”

“The weatherman really failed me this summer.” I hand him a stack of papers, the first of Paul’s papers. “All right,” I say, “let’s get started. Take a look at this – it’s from the first journal Paul put together for me.”

* * * * * * *

ALL RIGHT, AUGUSTUS, WHERE TO BEGIN? It’s appropriate, isn’t it, my first memory is of a military scene. I had other fragments, of course, my brother’s face, our front yard, but my first full recollection is that scorching Sunday, the cicadas so loud you could practically see their song in the heat rising from the pavement. The year was 1945, I learned later, and I was three going on four. Needless to say others contributed some of this detail to my memory, and I filled in some later, like with the rest of what I’ll be giving you.

At the head of my block several streets met to form a broad asphalt square. The turnaround, as we called it, was next to a weedy field with a big rock at one end. When I was older my friends and I played ball and hung around when there was nothing to do which was most of the time. We’d circle the turnaround endlessly on our bikes, but this afternoon, the day of my first real memory, it was crowded with people.

A couple dozen wood folding chairs were set up in the turnaround, under the big tree in front of Omer Arsenault’s house. Sawhorses marked POLICE kept cars out. Omer was my best friend. He lived on the third floor of a yellow tenement overlooking the turnaround. As if chairs in the street weren’t strange enough, who was sitting in the front row but Mr. and Mrs. D’Andrea, and my other best friend Angelo and his sisters. Angelo lived the next street up and his birthday was the same month as mine, June, but a week earlier. When Angelo spotted me he started making faces until his father saw him and gave him a whack on the ear.

A number of soldiers with musical instruments stood in the street, one with a huge drum hanging from a strap around his neck. Then everybody sat down and they started to play. I was so close, my throat and chest pounded like it was me being played, not the drum. When the music stopped a soldier with shiny metal on his collar got up. He said something in Italian then the name of Angelo’s brother Cosmo. The soldier was tall and serious and said how brave Cosmo was. Then he went over to Mrs. D’Andrea and placed the flag in her lap. I had never seen a flag folded. I didn’t know they let you do that. She crossed herself, pulled her veil down and placed her hands on the flag. I could tell she’d been crying.

Then some man in a suit came to the microphone. My mother’s hand tightened on mine and she gave my father a look. The man stood right at the microphone, so close it looked like he had it in his mouth. PUHH! PUHH! PUHH! His words exploded on me! You could even hear him breathing. He kept looking over at Mr. and Mrs. D’Andrea. The man’s face was very sad, he was crying or sweating, maybe both. Councilman Napolitano, my mother told me that’s who it was, he went on and on and finally he stepped across to the telephone pole next to Omer’s tree. I hadn’t noticed the cloth on it before. He yanked a cord and the cloth fell away and you could see a piece of dark wood with gold letters and two little crossed flags, also some flowers.

A few people started clapping but my mother grabbed my hand tighter. Now she was crying too but I figured I’d better not say anything. Then Father Maloney from St. Teresa’s came forward. He was wearing a black suit and said some prayers in Latin which I came to know a lot about later, let me tell you, and finished by spraying everybody with holy water from this stick with a ball on the end but I only got a few drops which was too bad, it was so hot. He sat down, then the soldier with the trumpet started playing a slow sad song all by himself. I sneaked a look around, now everybody’s crying, but soon it was over and the band marched off down the street, drumming as they went.

We went back to my house and had Sunday afternoon dinner as we always did, my brother Jim, Catherine and me. My parents were quiet, which for my mother was very unusual.