Beast Of The Heartland And Other Stories Part 24

It was reflex that moved me to pick up the sword, and it was dumb luck that Mahmoud had recoiled from the electrocution and wound up beside me. But I did not waste the opportunity. I slid the blade under his neck, making a yoke of it, and dragged him toward the rear door. Kate was sitting up, dazed, her prosthesis dangling horribly from a spaghetti of charred wires; but when I called to her, she got to her feet and came weaving toward me. More than half the men had fled, terrified by the witchery of her hand, but the remainder were closing on me. I pulled the blade tight against Mahmoud's Adam's apple, making him stiffen and gasp.

"Ems.h.i.+!" I shouted, and his men backed away.

With Kate at my side, I guided Mahmoud through the rear door into a small room whose back wall had been obliterated. Three cars were parked outside. Kate leaned against the wall beside me; her face was empty, slack.

"Keys," I said to Mahmoud.

He groped in the pocket of his robe, fingered them out. "The Peugeot," he said, gritting out the words.

"Can you drive?" I asked Kate.

She did not answer.

I kicked her hard in the calf. She blinked; her head wobbled.

"Drive!" I told her. "Take the keys and drive."

Though the men hara.s.sed us, aiming their rifles, threatening us, we made it to the car. Mahmoud and I taking the back seat. I sat turned toward him, barring his throat with the blade. Then we were b.u.mping along the cratered streets, jouncing over potholes, past the last houses and out onto a rocky, precipitous road that wound down into the moonstruck valley. No headlights showed behind us. Once the land began to flatten out, I removed the blade from Mahmoud's throat. His men would not risk confronting the Israeli patrols. I was shaking, rattled with adrenaline, yet at the same time I felt woozy, drifty, as if a cloud were building in the center of my brain. I remembered the opium.

"s.h.i.+t!" I said.

Mahmoud seemed as calm and content as a hawk with a dead mouse. Kate was staring straight ahead, her good hand clenching the wheel; her skin was pasty, and when she glanced back I had the impression that she looked like she might be going into shock.

"You okay?" I asked.

She muttered something; the car swerved wildly onto the shoulder.

It was definitely the opium coming on. I was having trouble feeling the tips of my fingers, and my headwas turning into a balloon. Everything I thought left a vague color in the air. Smoking opium was a fairly smooth sail, albeit a long ocean voyage; eating it, however, was a rocket to the moon. I was still lifting slowly from the launch pad, but in a minute or two I was going to have all the physical capacity of a cantaloupe. Or maybe a honeydew. I couldn't decide. Something round and gleaming and very, very still.

I had intended to turn Mahmoud over to the Israelis; I was sure they wanted him, and I hoped that his capture would help them overlook our illegal entry. But now, with the opium taking control and Kate on the wobbly side, I could not chance having him along.

"Stop the car," I said.

I had to repeat myself twice before she complied, and by the time she did, I had almost forgotten why I wanted her to stop.

"Get out," I said to Mahmoud. That blind eye of his had acquired the nacreous depth of pearl, and I was beginning to see things in it. Beautiful things, amazing things. I told him again to get out. Or maybe I didn't. It was difficult to distinguish between speech and thought. Everything was so absorbing. The dark, the distant lights of a kibbutz. The attar of roses smell that clung to me. I could lose myself in any of it.

Then something touched me on the brow, leaving a cool spot that went deep inside my head.

"From thy poison I have made thee a vision of the time to come," Mahmoud said. "What thou will have of it, I know not. But it is a gift of the Prophet, may His name be praised, and he planteth no seed that doth not bear fruit."

In the interval between these words and when next he spoke, I heard a symphony compounded of breath and night sounds and metallic creaks that implied an entire secret history hitherto unknown to man.

Then there was a whisper, as sinister as a violin tremolo in a minor key: "Thou will not evade my punishment this night."

I thought I heard the car door slam shut.

"Kate," I said. "Can you get us somewhere? A town. Some place..."

I never heard her reply, for I was walking along the crest of a green hill shaped like a dune. A verdant plain spread in every direction, picked out here and there by white stone houses formed into elaborate shapes, and by deep blue lakes along whose edges flamingos stalked and lions with men's voices took their ease, and by white cities where no one cried for meat and in whose highest tower lofty questions were put to a wonderful machine that had summoned and now embodied the soul of the Prophet. White clouds the size of small kingdoms floated overhead, and flying among them were golden s.h.i.+ning things that whirled and darted like swallows, yet were made of metal not flesh. At long last I came to a pool shaped like a deep blue eye, almost purple, that lay in the midst of a bamboo thicket, with the ancient statue of an enthroned pharaoh at one end, worn faceless by the wind and the sand. I made to drink from the pool, but when I dipped my hand into the water, it began to stir and to ripple, and strange lights glowed beneath the surface illuminating an intricate thing of silver fibers and rods and other structures whose natures were not clearly revealed, and I heard a voice in the air, the voice of this silver thing, saying, "I am the Oracle of the Past. Ask and I will tell thee where thou hast been."

And I said to her, for it was the voice of a woman, "Of what use is this? I wish to know the Future."

"Truly," she said, "the Future is already known. This is the time of Paradise long prophesied, the time without end when all men live as brothers. Only the Past remains a mystery, and indeed, it has always been thus, for no man can know himself by knowing his future. It is from the Past that the greatest wisdom derives."

"Then tell me who I am," I said.

There was a silence, and finally the voice said, "Thou art Daniel, the infidel who is known as The Arm of Ibrahim, and thou hast struck down many enemies of Allah and also many enemies of the sons of Abraham. Thou hast faced peril and known terrible strife, yet thou hast survived to wield great power in the service of peace and righteousness, though thy life is as secret to the world as a stone at the bottom of the Nile." The voice paused, then said, "I do not understand thee, for it seems thy past and thy future are the same."

(At this point I heard a scream, a tremendous noise, and felt a tearing pain in my right arm; but I wasoverwhelmed by the opium and it was as if these things had happened to someone else to whom I was somehow remotely physically connected.) I, of course, understood the Oracle's confusion. Was not her past my future, and vice versa? "What must I now do?" I asked.

"Thou must return to the city of Saladin, and there thou will build a city within the city, and all I have told you will come to pa.s.s."

"And who will sustain me against the peril and strife that you have prophesied?"

"I will," said the voice. "I will sustain thee."

"Tell me who you are," I said.

"I am the Oracle, the soul of the machine," the voice said. "Yet I am also, and this I do not understand, the love of thy life come across the centuries to find thee."

And from the pool there emerged a woman all of white metal save only her right hand which was bone and blood and milky flesh, and her eyes had the shape of the pond and were of alike color, indigo, and it seemed I had known her for many years, though I could not call her to mind. I took her hand, and as I did, the flesh of her hand began to spread, devouring the metal, until she stood before me, a woman in all ways, complete and mortal.

(I heard anxious voices, "Where's the driver?" "She was thrown out." "Have you got him?" "Oh, G.o.d! I can't stop the bleeding!" and felt even more intense pain. The vision had begun to fade, and I saw flashes of red light, of concerned faces, the interior of a van.) And I lay down with the woman among the bamboo stalks, and we touched and whispered, and when I entered her she gave a soft cry that went out and out into the world, winding over the green plain and into the dark valley like the wail of a siren or a call to prayer, and in our lovemaking it seemed we were moving at great speed past strange bodies of light and towers, heading for a destination beyond that of pleasure and release, a place where all my wounds would be healed and all my deepest questions answered.

The doctors in Haifa tried to save my right arm, but in the end they were forced to amputate. It took me six months to adapt to a prosthesis, six months in which I considered what had happened and what I should do next. Kate had also been in the hospital, but she had returned to America by the time I was well enough to ask for her. She left a note in which she apologized for the accident and for involving me in her "misguided attempt to recapture what I never really lost." I felt no bitterness toward her. She had failed herself far more than she had failed me. My fascination with her, the psychological structure that supported strong emotion, had died that night in the ruined mosque, its charge expended.

Neither did I feel bitter toward Mahmoud Ibrahim. In retrospect, it seemed he had been no ordinary fanatic, that his poise had been the emblem of a profound internal gravity, of peacefulness and wisdom.

Perhaps I manufactured this characterization in order to justify my folly in terms of predestination or some other quasi-religious precept. Yet I could not wholly disbelieve that something of the sort may have been involved. How else could Mahmoud have known that I came from Cairo, the city of Saladin? Then there was his prophecy of my "punishment," the vision with its curiously formal frame and futuristic detail, so distinct from the random lucidity of the usual opium dream.

A gift from the Prophet?

I wondered. I doubted, yet still I wondered.

Claire came to Haifa, distraught, horrified at my injuries. She slept in the hospital room with me, she washed me, she tended me in every human way. The similarity between her and the woman of my vision was not lost upon me, nor was the fact that her studies in artificial intelligence and her secret project withthe mosque gave rise to some interesting possibilities and paradoxes concerning the Oracle; yet I was reluctant to buy into something so preposterous. As the months pa.s.sed, however, I could not ignore the way that things were changing between us, the tendrils of feeling that we had tried to kill with drugs and cynicism now beginning to creep forth and bud. If this much of the vision had a correspondence with reality, how then could I ignore the rest of it? The life of power and strife, the building of a city within a city: my business? It occurred to me that I had only played at business all these years, that now I was being tempted to get serious. There was much one could effect on an international level through the agency of the black market. But if I were to get serious, it would call for an increased ruthlessness on my part, a ruthlessness informed by a sense of morality and history, something I was not sure I had in me.

I did not know what I would do on my return to Cairo, but on my second night back I went for a walk alone through a secluded quarter of the Khan al Khalili, heading -- I thought -- in no particular direction, idling along; yet I was not altogether surprised when I came to a certain door in a certain whitewashed wall, the retreat of a wealthy businessman. I hesitated. All the particulars of Mahmoud's vision came before my eyes, and I began to understand that, true or not, it offered me a design for life far superior to any I had contrived. At length I opened the door, which was locked, with no great difficulty, and stepped into a courtyard with a tiled fountain and lemon trees. I moved quietly into the house beyond, into a long study lined with books, furnished with a mahogany desk and leather chairs. I waited in the shadows for the man, idly playing with the coins in my pocket, a habit I had picked up during my rehabilitation. I left one of the coins on the desk for him to find. I knew he was a poor sleeper, that soon he would wake and come into the study. When at last he did appear, yawning and stretching, a plump fellow with a furious moustache and sleek black hair, I did not hate him as much as I had presumed; I saw him mainly as an impediment to my new goals.

He sat at the desk, switched on a lamp that cast a pool of light onto the writing surface, shuffled some papers, then spotted the ten-piastre coin that I had left for him. He picked it up and held it to the light.

The coin was bent double, the image on its face erased by the pressure of my right thumb and forefinger.

It seemed an article of wonder to him, and I felt a little sad for what I must do. He was, after all, much the same as I, a ruthless man with goals, except my ruthlessness was a matter of future record and my goals the stuff of prophecy.

There was no point, I realized, in delaying things. I moved forward, and he peered into the darkness, trying to make me out, his face beginning to register the first of his final misgivings. I felt ordered and serene, not in the least anxious, and I understood that this must be the feeling one attains when one takes a difficult step one has balked at for years and finds that it is not so difficult at all, but a sweet inevitability, a confident emergence rather than an escalation of fear.

"h.e.l.lo, Rollo," I said. "I just need a few seconds of your time."

HOW LONESOME HEARTBREAK CHANGED HIS LIFE.

Previously unpublished.

"Jesus and the moneylenders," the journalist said to Mizell. "Know the story? Jesus tries that clear-out-the-temple s.h.i.+t here in Vietnam, they'll co-opt his Christian a.s.s. They'll sit him down and say, 'Man, we don't care you preach, you prophesy, change puppy chow into peanut oil. If it feels good, do it. But if you're gonna take ten percent from the flock, we gotta have twenty percent off the top.' What choice does he have? These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are relentless. They'll break down anyone's moral fiber. So he agrees. Pretty soon they want a bigger percentage. Jesus has to increase the t.i.the to keep his operation going. And the flock, they gotta start hustling so they can pony up their end. 'Fore you know it, the ManFrom Galilee is running smack in from Laos and pimping Chinese girls just so he can get his message across."

"It's not that bad," Mizell said absently. He reminded himself to check on Anna -- she'd been in the ladies' room a long time. Give her a couple more minutes.

"You're used to it is all." The journalist s.h.i.+fted in his chair, studying Mizell with what seemed wry conjecture. "Me, I'm still in a state of wonderment."

Mizell couldn't tell if he was being f.u.c.ked with, whether the journalist was doing real att.i.tude or simply trying out new material. He had a dark, Mediterranean face that was difficult to read. Curly black hair and a bushy, graying mustache and an old livid scar along the jawline under one ear. The face of someone, Mizell imagined, who might in weak moments consider himself a romantic figure. He was dressed for low-end travel -- jeans and an olive T-s.h.i.+rt -- and carried a leather shoulder bag.

"There's this cop I ran into, okay," he said. "I mean, this is the essence of the situation right here... this cop. He stands out front the New World Hotel from dawn 'til, y'know, nine, ten o'clock at night. Every day. His entire job is to hand out tickets to people who run red lights, and to extort extra money. One day the power goes out, the traffic lights stop working. No red lights, no job. He doesn't give a thought to unsnarling the traffic jams and s.h.i.+t, he just goes home. That's the end of his responsibility. It's the Vietnamese way. You can't f.u.c.king escape it."

He asked if Mizell wanted another beer. Mizell said No, and tried once again to remember the journalist's name. He'd forgotten it the instant he heard it, because he hadn't expected they would be spending much time together.

They had met an hour before outside Zee Bar in Saigon, a yuppie sp.a.w.ning ground where no one did any serious drinking, and they had taken a table amid potted palms and aqua lighting and piped-in lounge music in a dim corner of the place, which was almost deserted at that hour of the afternoon. When the journalist learned they were driving to Vung Thao, he had begged a ride. Mizell did favors for a living; he took the occupation seriously, carried cards with his fax and phone numbers, and cultivated a casual, approachable look, kind of an aging surfer thing, so as to encourage business. The thought of doing a favor for free -- even such a small one -- caused him to hesitate, but he decided that having the journalist along would help pa.s.s time on the drive. It was for sure Anna wouldn't be up to conversation.

"What are you looking for in Vung Thao?" he asked, and the journalist said he wanted to find the rave, someone had told him there was going to be a rave out that way.

"I heard about this guy calls himself Lonesome Heartbreak," he said. "Crazy f.u.c.ker dresses up like Roy Rogers and plays guitar."

"Oh, yeah," said Mizell. "He'll be around. The DJs usually give him a slot. Everybody loves a freak."

"You know him?"

"I did business with him once. They screwed up his visa, and I helped him get an extension. He seemed like an interesting guy. I was still curious about him, so I broke into his van and checked him out."

The journalist had turned his attention to the bar, where a couple of thirtyish occidentals with gelled hair were talking into cell phones; now he cut his eyes toward Mizell. "Wow," he said mildly. "You must have been really curious."

"Just keeping up to date." Mizell took a swig of beer. "I heard he's not j.a.panese. That's what a j.a.panese woman told me. Of course she's probably lying. Most of the j.a.panese seem to feel he's an embarra.s.sment."

"So what was in the van?"

"The most illuminating items were relics of his dead wife. Photographs. A bronze urn full of ashes. A clipping from the London Times. She was killed crossing a street in Highsmith. Hit by a car. The stuff's all arranged on this sort of altar. I got the idea he's completing the around-the-world trip they were on.

Their honeymoon. Like it's this ceremonial deal or something."

The journalist mulled this over, then asked Mizell if he'd ever been to j.a.pan.

"Yeah, I did a week or so in Tokyo. The consensus society..." Mizell made a sour face. "Not forme."

A new song from the speakers. Green jungle noises, bird calls, vibraphone notes simulating rain, and a girl singing whispery and frail, complaining to whoever would listen that love was transitory, the world in disarray, everything was so very, very sad. One of the yuppies at the bar said something in a loud voice, and the other laughed. The bartender, scarcely more than a shadow against a neon-lit mirror, held a clean gla.s.s up to the light for inspection. And as if central to this little movement, Anna stepped out of the bathroom, walking with exaggerated languor, the way she always did when she was trying to hold it together, gliding past the yuppies, presenting her slim, cool, silvery blond, astrally disengaged Nordic princess self for their review. The zipper of her jeans was wide open, spoiling the effect.

She sat down next to Mizell. Lowered herself deliberately, cautiously, as if expecting something to go wrong, the chair to lurch and hit her in the a.s.s and send her floating head over heels into nowhere. The air conditioning was full-on crispy, but a sweat had broken on her brow. Mizell asked if she was okay. She gave him an unsteady smile and crossed her legs, still moving cautiously, exploring her s.p.a.ce. She tipped back her head. Her eyelids drooped, but he could see the green irises, pupils reduced to BBs.

The journalist was staring at her -- to distract him, Mizell asked what he intended to write about.

"f.u.c.k, I dunno," said the journalist. "I was going to write what it's like to come here, this place with all the evil history, y'know, from the viewpoint of someone who missed the big event of his generation because he was running around Greenwich Village with a peace sign on his back, trying to get laid." He shot a dubious look at Mizell, as though antic.i.p.ating disapproval.

"It seems kind of impure," Mizell told him.

"Impure... yeah." The journalist laughed. "It's turning into a G.o.dd.a.m.n self-flagellation tour. I don't know what I'm doing in this f.u.c.king place."

Two fat, sunburned, bearded men in jeans and T-s.h.i.+rts nosed through the Zee's front door, letting in gas fumes and traffic noise. They wore baseball caps on which the names of Marine units were embroidered. After a brief look 'round, they about-faced and tried to wedge through the door at the same time, shouldering one another off-balance in their haste to leave.

"You don't see too many black vets around," the journalist said. "Ever notice that?"

"You don't see any," said Mizell. "I figure black people have better things to do."

A degree of energy had returned to Anna's face, but she wasn't yet capable of speech. She made a soft cluttered noise in her throat and then appeared to have difficulty swallowing.

"When this guy suggested I look you up, y'know," said the journalist, "I wasn't going to do it, I usually like to find my own way. But it's working out pretty good."

"Why do you say that? Because I'm giving you a ride?"

"Nah, I'm impressed with your level of involvement... the quality of your information. You are as advertised."

"Shouldn't we go soon?" Anna's eyes were fixed on her right forefinger, watching it go tap tap tap on the tabletop, as if amazed by her control. "I want to drive. Is it all right if I drive?"

"Maybe the second leg," said Mizell.

The journalist dug out his wallet, selected a couple of bills. "Yeah, this guy told some stories about you, man. Made you out to be this miscreant superhero. Mister Connected or something. The Man of a Thousand Phone Numbers."

"I'm okay to drive," Anna said. "Really."

Mizell's curiosity was piqued; he asked the journalist who had described him so.

"I drive better than you," Anna said petulantly. "You always drive too slow."

"I don't know," said the journalist. "Some guy... I forget his name."