Demon_ A Memoir Part 9

I HAD DREADED AND antic.i.p.ated this day. Would it be at Old Beijing on a weekend? On the pedestrian mall outside Macy's, or coming out of Peet's? Would I look up in the T T station to see her waiting across the track . . . or would it happen at all? station to see her waiting across the track . . . or would it happen at all?

In the weeks since Lucian's intrusion into my life, I had found new fears to rival my dread of running into Aubrey. Since then there had even been a growing number of days when I thought about Aubrey only once or twice. I panicked upon realizing this at first, feeling that the last traces of her were slipping away from me completely, too quickly. Later I tenuously congratulated myself, thinking that in the midst of this new madness I had begun to move on.

Even so, I was invariably conscious of her specter almost every time I left home-following me down Tremont or into the Harvest store in Cambridge, seeking me in places we had never been together before-whispering in my mind, Is today that day? Is today that day? And though I had exhaustively premeditated it, I knew when that day happened, I would not be prepared. And though I had exhaustively premeditated it, I knew when that day happened, I would not be prepared.

But I was less-so much less-prepared for it today. Especially upon seeing her with a man, the arm of whom she had instinctively clasped upon seeing me.

Richard.

Now at last I would confront him. But what I saw confounded me more than the faceless man he had been to me all these months: Other than his height, he did not resemble at all the chiseled-featured lothario of my imagination. Granted, he was tanned as if he had just come in from Saint Martin, and he had a full head of sporty brown hair. But his features seemed somehow soft, his eyebrows ill-formed over the pale color of his eyes. I thought his chin receded a little bit as well. In fact, other than the obvious understated quality of his clothing, he was disappointingly average, which evoked in me first relief and then incredulity. And I wondered, as I had a thousand times before, what the draw had been, that thing that caused Aubrey to gravitate toward him when she compared the two of us side by side as she must have done.

As I did now.

I noticed the black cashmere scarf draped around his neck: Aubrey's trademark gift. She had given one to me and her boyfriend before me. I wondered if he knew that.

Aubrey was tanned, too. They must have just come from some no-doubt exotic location. And it irritated me to think that as I wondered almost daily if and when I would run into her, for part of that time she had not even been in the city.

The introductions went smoothly-thanks, surprisingly, to Richard. The The Richard. Smooth as Richard. To his credit, he stuck out his hand, congenially and formally, as though it were a peace offering. I saw my hand clasp it, heard myself say something not nearly as clever as I had said in my rehearsals for this moment. Richard. Smooth as Richard. To his credit, he stuck out his hand, congenially and formally, as though it were a peace offering. I saw my hand clasp it, heard myself say something not nearly as clever as I had said in my rehearsals for this moment.

It was then that I caught the scent of her perfume, the bottle of which, shaped like a blue star, had sat every day on the bathroom counter. I was suddenly besieged by memories: her shoulders in the dress she wore to her office party our last Christmas together, the indentation of her pillow in the morning, the hair across her face as she slept, her clothes, pooled by the side of our bed.

"Clay," Richard said. I detected, in the single syllable of my name, a slight accent. British. Wouldn't you know it.

"You look good," Aubrey lied. She seemed flushed, as though too warm in her cable-knit sweater and corduroys, a mixture of slight confusion and what I would recognize later as benign detachment in her eyes. Her lips, glossy and pink, were parted, as if on the cusp of a remark. I remembered the shape of that mouth, found myself first gazing and then staring at it. She had a front tooth that had always been at a slight angle so that it nudged her upper lip. She had been self-conscious of it, but I had thought it endearing. It kept her otherwise aristocratic look somehow approachable, more human. But now I was certain there was no discrepancy between those white edges. She had gotten it fixed! The lips closed, parted again as her blue gaze flitted from me, to Richard, and back like a moth, settling at last on the woman coiled at my side.

"Yvonne." The demon smiled in that magnanimous way women do when they know they're the prettier of the two. Her head tilted just perceptibly then, and I recognized with alarm a faint buzzing in the air. Her smile broadened. "Clay was just telling me how you used to come here together."

I was mortified. I wrapped my arm around her. Aubrey gave a slight smile.

"I'm surprised to see you in the mummy room." I wanted to accuse her-of getting her tooth fixed, of coming to the mummy room though she didn't like it.

"I insisted, having never seen it before. Quite spectacular, really," Richard said, coming to her rescue.

I hated him.

"So nice to meet you, Yvonne." Aubrey's expression was benign, betraying no insecurity or envy, only a bare hint of surprise. "Are you from the city?"

"Yes. I'm an attorney," the demon said.

"Ah." Aubrey was obviously impressed, her gaze bouncing from "Yvonne" to me, and back. And with ex-husband perception I heard her thinking that she would never have thought an attorney to be my type. "What kind of law?"

"I litigate product liability lawsuits," Lucian said with a smile. I had no idea what that meant but felt an instant alignment like grat.i.tude toward her that both surprised and unsettled me.

Richard checked his watch. "Well, I'm a bit peckish. Do you mind much, Bree, if we head up to the restaurant for some lunch?"

Richard to the rescue again. Aubrey excused them both with a smile and nod. "It's good to see you, Clay."

When their footsteps had receded out into the American galleries, I turned on Lucian. "You had no right," I hissed, feeling the heat of the initial meeting still in my face.

"I think that went quite well." She let go of me. I stared past the funerary mask of the dead princess, quite unable to believe that it had finally happened and happened so uneventfully that they were even now walking into Bravo, the upstairs restaurant, as I stood blinking in the middle of the mummy room.

But now that it was over, I was angry. Angry at Aubrey's detachment, at being caught off-guard, at Richard's heroics. I hated Richard for stepping in the way he had, first into our marriage and now today, for saving her from the need to answer for herself, as though to protect her from me.

"Is that why we were here?" I asked Lucian finally.

"You chose to come here, Clay." She was smoothing her hair back in a way that reminded me of a Siamese cat. She peered up at me, then, her expression indulgent, the smile I hated was back again.

12.

I could not sleep the night after the museum-not until I transcribed every word and expelled every nuance of that otherworldly drama from my memory. This process, normally focused to the exclusion of even hunger and fatigue, was interrupted regularly that night as I stared out the window or at the wall, seeing neither, seeing only the image of Aubrey's hand on Richard's arm, the pink curve of her lips over those perfect teeth, the imperfect shape of Richard's face, Aubrey's gaze fluttering between Lucian and me. And I searched that memory for any glint of her reaction to the sight of Lucian and me together.

Richard had called her "Bree." Aubrey used to hate that.

I replayed the scene in my mind, outfitting it with every witty rejoinder, smug comment, and cryptic well-wish I had rehea.r.s.ed for months. But finally, upon contemplating yet again the distance in Aubrey's gaze, the fixed front tooth, I decided that she had retreated too far beyond me to be touched by any of them.

The image of them together, of the formerly faceless Richard, had preyed upon me in waking and dreaming moments for more than a year. But now that it was over, I found something disappointingly unremarkable about the reality.

I had always a.s.sumed he and Aubrey had no chance of making it, having started the way they had. But thinking back to Richard's quick rescues, I wasn't so sure. She had seemed in utter possession of the situation despite his protection of her. And I found something pathetic in his safeguarding her, in his willingness to be fitted into the mold of her expectations like a mummy in a coffin made for someone else.

I WENT TO WORK and sat in meetings. But even as I did, my mind roamed the heavens, walked the sh.o.r.e by moonlight, pa.s.sed among the reeds on the bank of Eden's river.

At home I made my way through ma.n.u.script chapters, jacket copy, and e-mail, my gaze wandering often to that pile of pages, scratched in frantic pen and harried pencil, growing on the corner of my desk, to the rumpled receipt I had saved from the Bosnian Cafe that first night. It seemed a year, an age ago.

"I'm going to tell you my story, and you're going to publish it."

Staring at the pile, I considered the narrative tension of his story, the larger-than-life qualities of his characters (and how could they be otherwise when they included both G.o.d and the devil?), the unlikely point of view-like the monster of John Gardner's Grendel Grendel telling the tale of Beowulf ripping off his arm. A stepsister's account of being born ugly. A tale turned on its head, a sympathetic character from an unsympathetic source. telling the tale of Beowulf ripping off his arm. A stepsister's account of being born ugly. A tale turned on its head, a sympathetic character from an unsympathetic source.

No. There was nothing sympathetic or likable about this teller. I thought again of Sarah Marshall, her hair matted on the pavement.

If it was a hoax, it was the most elaborate one I had ever heard of. And if it was, I found that a part of me did not want my disbelief proven, for through it the wheels of my creative mechanism, which I'd feared indefinitely jammed, had begun a familiar, albeit creaky, new motion in me.

I thought of Katrina's proposal. L. Legion. L. Legion. How clever. I tried to locate it, but it was apparently buried beneath a ream of paper-clipped proposals and sample chapters. How clever. I tried to locate it, but it was apparently buried beneath a ream of paper-clipped proposals and sample chapters.

Later, well past 1:00 a.m., I returned to my account. I had combed it a dozen times in the last week but left each time feeling that something was missing. Even as he took me speeding through the heavens and introduced me to Eden, he was coy, refusing to put me at the edge of his understanding as I demanded my authors do in their narratives, holding back some vital piece of information.

I checked my calendar.

The blank grid stared back.

13.

The parade was on TV. Apparently it was Thanksgiving. But all I knew or cared about was that it had been five days. Five days, and nothing. I sifted through the stack of pages comprising my record as an archaeologist brushes dirt through a sieve, searching for details, meaning, reason. I have lost it. I have lost it. At best, I was obsessed. The fact that I had not replayed to death my encounter with Aubrey at the museum was proof of that. I had thought I would be compelled to drink, break down, or at least stew for a few days, reliving the years of our marital routine, the arguments, the silent specters between us. But I did none of these, having already transferred my best energies to the account growing on the corner of my desk. At best, I was obsessed. The fact that I had not replayed to death my encounter with Aubrey at the museum was proof of that. I had thought I would be compelled to drink, break down, or at least stew for a few days, reliving the years of our marital routine, the arguments, the silent specters between us. But I did none of these, having already transferred my best energies to the account growing on the corner of my desk.

My pulse throbbed in my temple. I was more conscious of it of late, imagining that I felt its thumping s.h.i.+ver through the mattress beneath me as I lay in bed at night. This experience had drained me, this thing that I had fallen victim or privy to.

I checked my schedule by the hour-sometimes more often-lingering at the keyboard like a lover waiting by a silent phone.

In these idling moments of distracted nonproductivity, I looked up articles on Horus, searched for pictures of the falcon-headed G.o.d to see if I saw anything of the demonic scowl in the ancient idol's eyes. In dark, postmidnight hours, I browsed the Internet, following the links through a pantheon of Egyptian G.o.ds until, dozing in my chair before dawn, I dreamed convoluted dreams of bird-headed deities with clay bodies, of sarcophagi with wide-eyed funeral masks, of a woman the color of bone singing by the pale light of Lucian's moon.

I woke up in the afternoon, raked my hands through my hair, scrubbed at the stubble on my cheeks, and realized the holiday had pa.s.sed. It was the weekend.

That day, as I returned to the account of my meetings with Lucian, I was disturbed by the fragility of the paper it was written on, the fraying edges of the notebook pages, the bloated ink where I had set a gla.s.s of water on one of them. I recalled the shambles of the house in Belmont, the splintered table leg. Tissue paper, Tissue paper, he had called it. he had called it.

I immediately decided that I should type the entire thing, commit it to a more lasting medium.

When I finished, it was well past dark. I sat back, considered the last line of my account, which ended in the museum with Aubrey and me parting ways again. With Lucifer searching for the weakness in man.

On impulse, I pulled up an online Bible and then faltered. There were at least two dozen translations to pick from. We had read the King James in confirmation, the "thees" and "thous" as mysterious to me as G.o.d himself. I randomly chose a more modern version.

In the beginning G.o.d created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of G.o.d was hovering over the waters.

It was so bare-boned. The image of G.o.d hovering over the water that had made Lucian shudder was recounted here with all the emotion of a recipe. I read through the days of creation, and though I found no inconsistencies between this account and the demon's, I found no mention of the angelic host or Lucifer, of the fall that precipitated the earth's emptiness. I read through the creation of animals and man. I found it retold in the next chapter, this time with more detail, even down to the exact rivers flowing into the garden. The specificity surprised me, as though one might actually locate the place on a map. I read the first two chapters again, this time with a writer's appreciation for the omniscient point of view, the declarative sentences, the repet.i.tion.

Still it seemed much the same as it had been thirty years ago in Sunday school: dry and rote, down to the repet.i.tion of the days coming and going in numbered sequence. I was disappointed, tired, and very hungry. My mouse hovered over the X that would close the online Bible, but then something happened: I heard the echo of past conversations with Lucian coming back to me now in fragments like the lyrics of a half-forgotten song.

Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of G.o.d was hovering over the waters.. . . the way a sculptor's fingers roam a block of marble . . .

Then G.o.d said, "Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds."All those strange green things had within them the power to create . . . manufacturing miniature versions of themselves.

So G.o.d created man in his own image.. . . the awareness, all the emotion, the propensity to love . . .

"Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and over every living creature that moves on the ground."He gave the animals to the man and told him to rule over them.

"It is not good for the man to be alone."And he was lonely.

The one thing the demon had not yet mentioned was the tree in the second chapter. I scrolled to Genesis 3.

Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the Lord G.o.d had made.He prowled the garden, inspecting for himself the handiwork of El like the jealous critic . . . searching for the slightest weakness.

It now came vividly alive. I scrolled ahead, excited, looking for more. But I found only Cain and Abel, followed by an entire genealogy of men who became fathers in their old age and supposedly lived for centuries. Lucian had said nothing of this part, having come only, as far as I could tell, to the end of Genesis 2. Looking at the screen, I thought with some alarm of the thick, dusty, leather-bound book on the shelf at home when I was growing up. Is that what he meant every time he said time was short-that it could take an entire lifetime to recount the whole thing?

I rethought my obsession, not sure if I was up for all of that. I was exhausted, hungry, and preoccupied-and Lucian had barely covered the first two pages of that dusty book. Did he mean to recount his observation of or partic.i.p.ation in every event in the Bible?

And what did any of this have to do, as he contended, with me?

Something scratched at the back of my mind.

And there was evening, and there was morning-the first day. And there was evening, and there was morning-the second day. And there was evening, and there was morning-the third day.Time, not yet created, had begun its phantom tick for us alone. Where I once saw the artful strew of El's stars, I now saw the cogs and pendulum of a great clock, ticking the finite measure of time.