Читать книгу The Others - Matthew Rohrer - Страница 9

Descending the subway stairs

in a crowd of others, slow

steps, everyone a little

hunched in their coats, probably

as unhappy as I was

to have to go to work.

At least I always assumed

the others hated their jobs

too. That’s why they call it work

my wife always says, but she

was raised in austerity;

the idea of hating

a job seemed a luxury

to her. I didn’t know. My knee

hurt for some reason, my hip

felt a little out of joint.

I couldn’t imagine why,

maybe psychosomatic.

I was still on the staircase;

someone in front of me stopped

to get on their phone the last

beams of coverage, holding

up everyone on their slow

reluctant ways down

to the subway platform

to be carried noisily

to work. I felt like I knew

these people though we never

spoke, we just glanced furtively

at each other every day

or together rolled our eyes

when an old Caribbean woman

stood up and started

at the top of her high-pitched

patois to preach the Lord’s word

even louder than the train

rattling through the tunnels:

these men in well-tailored suits

obviously on their way

to Wall Street to destroy us;

high school kids in backward

ball caps wearing their backpacks

over one shoulder, high school

for them being anywhere

in the city; guys with beards

and tight jeans wearing sport coats;

secretaries wearing

running shoes and panty hose

with their high heels in their bags;

beautiful Russian ladies

dressed like descendants of czars;

Jewish people moving their lips

reading the Torah, rocking a bit;

women applying product

to their hair right in front of

everyone (which made me think

of a good name for a gel

for hair, “coif syrup”)—

all of us waiting down there

for the F train to take us

and soon it came, preceded

by an unnatural gust

of wind from down the tunnel,

turning pages, lifting hair

announcing the imminent

beginning of another

workday, screeching to a stop

opening its doors so packed

at this hour with commuters

none of us bothered to look

for a seat though I always

stood near obvious bankers

who would be getting off soon.

And like many other days

I tried to both hold the bars

and read a new manuscript

before the train delivered

me to Midtown and that day’s

editorial meeting

where I would be asked to nod

in agreement with my boss,

Pam, and maybe say something

a little witty making

everyone laugh overmuch

the way they do in meetings,

and for this, not my advanced

degree in literature,

did Pam value me. Sometimes,

though I never got to work on the books

once they were acquired,

Pam questioned me about them.

Which was merely punitive

I complained and my wife said

Well that’s why they call it work

so I stood there knee hurting

in a crowded train hanging

on with one hand and holding

the latest manuscript crook’d

in the other arm, this one

a Victorian-era verse autobiography

and possible reprint called

CONFESSIONS OF THE TRULY

HIGH, which title I admit

was intriguing and Pam said

it was being considered

for the new Retrievals list,

which was to feature the lost,

the forgotten, the suppressed

and could you read it tonight?

she’d asked me last night and smiled

the smile that meant you’ll do it

and I smiled the smile that meant

even though you can make me

do whatever you want to

I can still give you this fake

simmering-with-hatred smile.

And then I didn’t read it.

I didn’t do anything

special, just didn’t work

after I got home from work,

which was my philosophy.

I did something to my knee

apparently, then I slept

unconcerned knowing the train

was the city’s largest most

populous and productive

office, with teachers grading

papers, young women in suits

with laptops open typing

furiously, and then me

cradling the loose pages

turning them by blowing them

or doing it with my chin

and, turning past the title

pages, I started to read—

How came I to leave my home

in the Shenandoah Valley

and sail for Paris?

Paris the city that can

confer importance on a man

just saying its name

Thus I was going to be

famous and live frugally there

and stare at the clouds

but being out at sea

for months is horrifying

nothing ever stops

pitching about heaving

up huge mountains of cold water

the nausea lasts

and lasts and the horror

of floating like a bean alone

on death’s blue surface

I saw sailors bent over laughing

throw sheep over the stern

to waiting sharks

and when a squall blows up

upon a small wooden ship

you can’t imagine

the kind of helplessness

that pours through you and your legs

and you are lucky

if you can stay standing

not me I headed belowdecks

and wet my breeches

when we finally docked

in Le Havre I turned to a fellow

who I knew spoke French

I said Doesn’t Le Havre

simply mean “the harbor”? He nodded

«What’s your point?» he said

Only that it’s general

like all these French words, the Grand Prix

merely means “the big prize”

«Yes» he said «you speak French?»

That’s not my point I said These names

are categories

I wasn’t making myself plain

and by that point we had walked down

the gangplank and sate

on the wooden quayside

floating in a cloud while customs

men shuffled papers

From all the surrounding

houses old women leaned over

their railings watching

France seemed various shades

of grey save when punctuated

by someone’s red scarf

or a pot of poppies

on a window ledge but Le Havre

was merely the first stop

The customs men showed me

to the station and soon a train

left the coast behind

followed the river Seine

which was wide like a real river

where it met the sea

not imprisoned in bricks

and forced to flow through Paris green

for reasons unknown

Stepping out at the station

I admit I was overwhelmed

by the same colour

of all the buildings by the sky

the beautiful clouds

that seemed to fill every

inch of space above by the dirt

by the Parisians

not seemingly thinking

how glorious that their city

has Roman ruins

by the way they did walk

or ride bicycles and looked great

I was overwhelmed

And when I took my leave

from the men with whom I’d travelled

where was I to go?

I meant to find a room

but didn’t speak French so I walked

along the river

And when I saw someone

I inquired about a room

(I spoke a little)

and soon an old lady

led me upstairs to a small room

and I sate alone

and thought I’ve made it to Paris

both blue sky and clouds

And after unpacking

I went to the closest café

for dinner and drinks

and thought—this will suit me

while a man played accordion

I had ever so much work

ahead of me if I

were to attain glory

for my great work,

which work I never did, Reader,

which these confessions will explain,

I trust, as they go along

but unhurriedly for

that was the life I was living

dressing in my best

high-collars, fancy pants

and wandering the twisting streets

feeling the cold age

of the ancient buildings

frowning on my American

inexperience

Thus one day still not quite

recovered from my sea voyage

I passed a chemist

whose disreputable

storefront was painted with mystic

symbols I had seen

in my uncle’s closet

he being an old Freemason

and a mysterious one

so I thought He’ll dose me

with some camphor that will stop

my lusting after

Parisian women

and entered—a ceramic bell

tinkled when I did

The shopkeep stared at me

from betwixt vials and tinctures

in a cluttered array,

dusty oilskin packets,

candle nubs, scrolls, old manuscripts,

faded oil paintings,

statues of obscure gods,

ancient very corroded knives

jars full of fluid

the air was close—musty

with the smell of old wet paper

and an acrid smell

This is a chemist’s?

I said with my nasal accent

In English he said

«We have all sorts of things

of a palliative nature

from around the globe

You are American

We have drops to cure you of that»

Meaning what? I said

«Meaning your sense of self

can be cracked open and returned

to its rightful state

with one of these» he said

holding up a strange root

«Or perhaps it’s love

doth disorder you

Mercury can help you with that but take

that business elsewhere

we deal here only with

maladies of a different sort

Let me look at you»

And he came from behind

the cluttered counter, he was short

and had thick glasses

As he peered up at me

I could see his lips were stained black

he smelled like a skunk

I found his attention

uncomfortable I glanced around

He kept staring

at me and humming quietly

the man was shaking

I thought to myself

Am I here seeking this man’s help?

And yet I stood still

Finally he stepped back

and rummaging around he took

a small glass vial

It was a pyramid

of leaded glass with a large eye

on every facet

and appeared to be filled

with a resin or tar a large

sticky chunk of it

which stained the glass inside

where it touched—I’ve seen this before

this same pyramid

«Then you see much my friend

it is an ancient secret sign»

Surely not that secret

I said—he waved his hand

and said «It can be seen

save that it rarely is»

My uncle pretended

all sorts of secrets, Freemason

gibberish and such

I said that must be it

«The Freemasons» he said «are a

body who can trace

their lineage to knights

who crusaded in Palestine

and learned secrets there

Returning to Paris

they built a temple of secrets

under De Molay

and they mustered power

a frightful amount of power—the Pope said

it was from Satan

and accused the Templars

(that is what they were called) of sins

against God and man»

You don’t say?

I said—the old man’s wicked smile

fixed me like a pin

«It really matters not

All the charges were falsified

to destroy the Knights

It is said they had

a huge horrific brazen head

they called Baphomet

Under his watchful eye

they did swear vengeance

against the Savior

And» and here he whispered

«they urinated on the cross»

What the devil are you driving at?

«In the pyramid vial

is a substance the Knights Templars

brought back from the East»

I looked at it closely

«Hashish—which Hasan-i-Sabbah

gave his assassins

who are a corruption

of Hashishin—hashish eaters»

It made them killers?

I said, not interested

anymore «No, killing is what

they wanted to do

this just made them better»

Then it doesn’t make you violent?

«No, it makes you perfect»

Perfect? Ah then, good day, sir

I said for he seemed a quack

Thank you for your time

And I made to leave

but he cleared his throat «I believe

we haven’t settled

on this» I said Come now

what does it really do? I don’t

countenance the mystical

nonsense of perfection

What will the hashish do for me?

Because the voyage

over still weighs on me

Some nights I can’t sleep I see waves

tower above me

What will it do for me?

He smiled and sate

«That is for you to learn

I trust you will feel quite good

but that is just the beginning

After good will come real

You will feel quite real

I urge you to take this right now

for only 90 francs»

And Reader, you may think

this fellow sounds like a criminal

certainly no one

you’d take seriously

but to my shame it sounded grand

I paid him and left

Walking back to my room

in heightened spirits, wondering

what’s going to happen

for I had heard of this

in the Shenandoah Valley

I then slowed down

I had no idea

how one ingested this hashish

it looked like a jam

or something you could spread

on toast. I turned around quickly

and retraced my steps

to the strange chemist’s shop

but the gate was already down

the trap had been sprung

*

Returning to my quarters

I sate at my table

turning it over

How to even open

the glass pyramid? Turning it

but finding naught

until petulantly

I poked it in one of its eyes

and it clicked open

the room filled with the smell

of a Shenandoah polecat

on an August night

Thinking it was a spread

I speared it with a knife and tried

to smear it on bread

I considered a tincture

like laudanum but had nothing

to dissolve it in

Eventually I slept

and the next day waited outside

the strange chemist’s shop

After an hour the gate

lifted and the old man stepped out

«You have some questions

about this perfection»

he said. I said How the devil

is one to take it?

«Be not so worried»

and he closed up his shop leaving

me standing outside

Right that does it I said

Turning on my heel I went home

and ate the whole thing

And thereupon nothing happened

I paced around my room a bit

but I felt nothing

I lay back on my bed

imagining I was perfect

but knew I was not

After half an hour passed

with no change and things no more real

I felt I’d been had

I put on my hat and went out

walking by the Seine

The sky as usual

was like a painting of the sky

and crossing the Pont

Louis-Philippe I saw stairs

down to a lower promenade

where vagabonds sate

imagining no doubt

that they were captains of great ships

as their legs dangled

off cobblestone bulwarks

that came to a point like a prow

cutting the river

But it seemed rather a lark

so I descended to the quai

And I dangled my legs

like a little boy gone fishing

above green water

And I stared at the clouds

and I looked at the green water

how it was stagnant

apple cores and old wigs

and a tapestry floated by

it was all quite nice

I felt grand—I realized

I could stretch out more than I was

so I really stretched

and heard a strange tone

in my ears that was also

answered in my shoulders

Narrowing my eyes

if I wanted to feel cold

I could

I thought

in my ears

a strange tone

(that was a valiant bird!)

winging up

from the water

duck

*

that was a duck

*

in the limestone cobbles it

seems as if very small mollusks

left a little trace

*

I feel a little lost

I thought

it was as if

syrup overflowed my plate

and filled the air

*

I was saying

I feel a little lost

in time

(a gull)

(a river gull)

(what is that)

*

In one of

those windows I

could have seen Héloïse

and Abélard

if Time

was not the way

it is

is there some

overlap

(no answer)

*

the vagabonds

seem much more

threatening

in this music

wherefore does it emanate?

*

I had to stand up

quickly to prove something

*

I sate back down

the green water

where it divides

beneath my feet

on either side of the quai

shrinking

to a scale

like toys

a chorus

of angels rising up

in glorious song

behind me

*

two ducks glide

soundlessly like a dream

into the green Seine

*

From the sky

*

Suddenly the vagabonds

were up and shouting

*

I stood

the sky bulged a little

everyone was running

*

I had to lean forward

in my body

it was a conveyance

I could hardly control

go!

go!

I shouted

at my conveyance

*

A horrid roaring noise

came at me

from all sides

and I stumbled

down a narrowing

tunnel of vision

towards the stairs

the roaring in my ears

was like unto the sea

*

stumbling towards the staircase

I had to get up

to the bridge

before the tunnel

in front of my eyes

clanged shut

*

Two old men hurried past

and stared at me

and I heard their thoughts

they thought

«Follow us!»

but it was too horrifying

*

I couldn’t breathe

*

Hurrying down the cobblestones

I looked down at my arm

and saw it dragging

against the stones

and furthermore

clad in steel

like a knight of old

shooting off sparks

as I hurried away

*

I sate on the staircase

and closed my eyes

(quack of ducks)

(and delightful breeze on my face)

*

The rushing in my ears

had stopped

and when I

opened my eyes

it was a sunny day in Paris

but more than that

it was more real than that

I reached out to touch it

but the day was just

a bit beyond me

unlike

a normal day

that you’re standing right in the middle of

Thus I continued up

the stairs to the bridge

and crossed to the cathedral

hundreds of people

walked in every direction

some sate behind easels

to capture the view

and each of them

I knew

was a species of transparent

fixture

they disappeared

into the background

with a wave of my hand

they moved aside

as I did lumber

in my body

across the uneven cobblestones

with a mouth

that felt like mattress ticking

spread out in the sun

*

I had great plans

great plans

I know I had an idea

it was right there

right in the front

of my face but it

evaporated

it moved

like a butterfly

the more I looked for it

it flitted in the sun

*

When I gazed upon the poplar trees

I saw eyes in all the leaves

each tree a million times

gazing upon me

*

I needed something to drink

my tongue had grown

to forty times its normal size

and every bump

every nubbin or bud

on its surface

was as dry as a desert

thus I sate

at a café

tumbling into a chair

and the waiter

came over and said

«R a a a a a a w w w w w w w w w r r r r r r r r r

h s s s s s h h h h h h h h h h h h h h h h h h»

Oh no! I said

apparently I was the one speaking

but after I pantomimed

pouring something

into my mouth

the slate was wiped clear

I thought How came I

to sit here? I should order

a drink

no time had passed

or the opposite was true

when the waiter set down

a coffee and a bottle of wine

on my table

hours later

my shaking hand

put some francs in his hand

*

Nearby a woman played cello

and a man played mandolin

the sound was as

two little clockwork frogs

made of silver

one climbing so delicately

over the other

they may have loved each other

it swelled at times

it was huge

the clouds moved

in a cotillion

to the song

they were much more than real

I pounded the table

then promptly forgot why

*

This drew the attention

of two men sitting near me

dainty with their coffees

but looking at me

now and again

as I clutched at my shirt

or stifled a cry

I stood up quickly

and crossed the street

and when I tried

to look back casually

they were still looking

stroking their moustaches

and one opened his mouth

to speak

and though I was a block away

I know what he said

for the wind said it too

*

I walked along the Seine

towards the Tuileries

hoping to find a crêpe

hoping Montgolfier had made

the world’s largest crêpe

to carry him into the sky

and that I could eat it

*

A family of ducks

hugged the side

of the river

and one little chap

hopped out of the water

to walk along the bricks

for a while

and then slid back in

and caught right up

with his mother

as if to say I’m back

(I clapped!)

*

I was in a small park

the sun was down

hours had gone by

I hadn’t been asleep

somehow I had crossed the river

but time was missing

my mind had been snuffed out

like an oil lamp while my body

had wandered around

but unlike when drinking grog

I felt light and clear, an angel

or a talking cloud

The lamplighter walked past

muttering. I brushed myself off

and walked to the Seine

following it back home

letting myself in silently

the stairs made no noise

Was I really a ghost?

Miraculous competence

was mine for a change

Still in my clothes I fell

backwards on my cot and I slept

for nigh on two days

My dreams were as precise

as visions given by angels

but ephemeral

A crow outside my room

was calling me—I threw open

the shutters, so bright

the day and the trees

so clear, I could see each leaf

The old man was right

everything was more real

at that moment I put aside

my desire to do

what I went there to do

and instead I drank a coffee

then went to the shop

The old man wasn’t there

so I found a park and stretched out

beneath a large tree

And in its shade day-dreams

and shadows were one

How I would make my way

in Paris when the money went

was a distant concern

I wasn’t scared at all

all my life I saw (right then)

had been a race

betwixt one thing

and the next never slowing down

I thought back sadly

to the way I’d behaved

with my friends when younger

acting rather cold

Now with the Knights Templars’

help the world was totally new

and I was starving

I walked along the Seine

flower-hung women were boating

they were beautiful

from the quai some young men pleaded

for them to sail by

(I wanted a glass of claret)

Everything bathed in sun

everyone fairly fainted across

the lawn everyone smiled

Was this not a sign?

This perfect day, Aeolus blowing patterns

across the river?

Beautiful petite red boats

moving not at all amidst fragrant trees

By and by

I thought of the old man

and returned to find him inside

arranging his books

He regarded me not

but held out his hand for the francs

What was there to say?

I looked up. I was at my

stop; with dignity I strode

off the train, and the doors closed.

That was close, I thought, but not

this book. I wondered which

would be the book that made me

miss my stop and I bumped a guy

and didn’t say I’m sorry

which felt good for a moment

but soon felt like a dick move,

which resolved into feeling

just a few minutes older.

And I rode the moving stairs

into an increasingly

loud increasingly bright glow

from which I again emerged

into a fluorescent bank

of elevators and I

blinked a couple of times and heard

a voice say very clearly

Just get in there and sit down

which was a thing my wife said

so maybe it was her voice

but then, just like every day,

I pushed past that and entered

HarperCollins Publishers

and sat at my desk in my coat

for a little bit too long

because at the moment Pam

wasn’t sitting at her desk

cackling and twirling the cord

to the phone and cackling some more.

Eventually I took

off my coat and got to work

going through Pam’s messages

and calling back those people

whose requests I could handle,

what trim size is the new book?

If we print a 4-color

cover how much more is it?

I started to fall into

a cloudy gray place inside

so I stood up, rubbed my hands

down the front of my dress pants,

and walked into the break room

for a cup of very strong

very disgusting coffee

that I only drank to feel

something, even just jitters,

and as I stood there, stirring

with my finger the creamer

into the desolate black—

laughing and punching

the air then slapping his knee:

“Hey man what’s up?” Barrett held

up his hand for a high five

that I reluctantly high-

fived but almost didn’t.

“Not much,” I said, shrugging.

“Oh man, that’s some funny shit”:

I took this to mean the thing

he was laughing at before.

I didn’t say anything.

“All right,” he said. “Hey, my man,”

and he laid one hand upon

my shoulder, and looked at me.

“You like fantasy stuff right?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, sci-fi, fantasy

stuff, imaginative stuff.”

“Of course,”

I said, “duh.” I noticed him

smile. “All right,” he said, “check this

idea I got.”

I said,

“You know I don’t acquire

books, man. I just work for Pam.”

“No, no, man, just listen up.

I got this great book idea,

it’s kind of a stoner flick

meets Harry Potter type thing.”

“I just told you, right, how there’s

no way I can help with this?”

“Yeah man,” he said with a frown,

“I heard you. So anyways,

it’s about this guy who has

the power to get so high

you can’t believe it, but then

in the morning remembers

everything about his dreams.”

“He can remember his dreams

after a night of smoking?”

I said. “That’s his superpower?”

“Yeah!” he said, laughing.

“It’s like, the lamest power

you could ever imagine!”

He wiped a tear from his face.

“It’s monumentally dumb,”