The New York Trilogy (12 page)

“The allusion to darkness?”

“No, no. Nothing so obvious. It was the initials, H.D. That was very important.”

“How so?”

“Don’t you want to guess?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, do try. Make three guesses. If you don’t get it, then I’ll tell you.”

Quinn paused for a moment, trying to give it his best effort. “H.D.,” he said. “For Henry David? As in Henry David Thoreau.”

“Not even close.”

“How about H.D. pure and simple? For the poet Hilda Doolittle.”

“Worse than the first one.”

“All right, one more guess. H.D. H… . and D… . Just a moment… . How about… . Just a moment… . Ah… . Yes, here we are. H for the weeping philosopher, Heraclitus … and D for the laughing philosopher, Democritus. Heraclitus and Democritus … the two poles of the dialectic.”

“A very clever answer.”

“Am I right?”

“No, of course not. But a clever answer just the same.”

“You can’t say I didn’t try.”

“No, I can’t. That’s why I’m going to reward you with the correct answer. Because you tried. Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

“The initials H.D. in the name Henry Dark refer to Humpty Dumpty.”

“Who?”

“Humpty Dumpty. You know who I mean. The egg.”

“As in ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall’?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Humpty Dumpty: the purest embodiment of the human condition. Listen carefully, sir. What is an egg? It is that which has not yet been born. A paradox, is it not? For how can Humpty Dumpty be alive if he has not been born? And yet, he is alive—make no mistake. We know that because he can speak. More than that, he is a philosopher of language. ‘When
I
use a word, Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less. The question is, said Alice, whether you
can m
ake words mean so many different things. The question is, said Humpty Dumpty, which is to be master—that’s all.’ “

“Lewis Carroll.”

“
Through the Looking Glass,
chapter six.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s more than interesting, sir. It’s crucial. Listen carefully, and perhaps you will learn something. In his little speech to Alice, Humpty Dumpty sketches the future of human hopes and gives the clue to our salvation: to become masters of the words we speak, to make language answer our needs. Humpty Dumpty was a prophet, a man who spoke truths the world was not ready for.”

“A man?”

“Excuse me. A slip of the tongue. I mean an egg. But the slip is instructive and helps to prove my point. For all men are eggs, in a manner of speaking. We exist, but we have not yet achieved the form that is our destiny. We are pure potential, an example of the not-yet-arrived. For man is a fallen creature— we know that from Genesis. Humpty Dumpty is also a fallen creature. He falls from his wall, and no one can put him back together again—neither the king, nor his horses, nor his men. But that is what we must all now strive to do. It is our duty as human beings: to put the egg back together again. For each of us, sir, is Humpty Dumpty. And to help him is to help ourselves.”

“A convincing argument.”

“It’s impossible to find a flaw in it.”

“No cracks in the egg.”

“Exactly.”

“And, at the same time, the origin of Henry Dark.”

“Yes. But there is more to it than that. Another egg, in fact.”

“There’s more than one?”

“Good heavens, yes. There are millions of them. But the one I have in mind is particularly famous. It’s probably the most celebrated egg of all.”

“You’re beginning to lose me.”

“I’m speaking of Columbus’s egg.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

“You know the story?”

“Everyone does.”

“It’s charming, is it not? When faced with the problem of how to stand an egg on its end, he merely tapped slightly on the bottom, cracking the shell just enough to create a certain flatness that would support the egg when he removed his hand.”

“It worked.”

“Of course it worked. Columbus was a genius. He sought paradise and discovered the New World. It is still not too late for it to become paradise.”

“Indeed.”

“I admit that things have not worked out too well yet. But there is still hope. Americans have never lost their desire to discover new worlds. Do you remember what happened in 1969?”

“I remember many things. What do you have in mind?”

“Men walked on the moon. Think of that, dear sir. Men walked on the moon!”

“Yes, I remember. According to the President, it was the greatest event since creation.”

“He was right. The only intelligent thing that man ever said. And what do you suppose the moon looks like?”

“I have no idea.”

“Come, come, think again.”

“Oh yes. Now I see what you mean.”

“Granted, the resemblance is not perfect. But it is true that in certain phases, especially on a clear night, the moon does look very much like an egg.”

“Yes. Very much like.”

At that moment, a waitress appeared with Stillman’s breakfast and set it on the table before him. The old man eyed the food with relish. Decorously lifting a knife with his right hand, he cracked the shell of his soft-boiled egg and said, “As you can see, sir, I leave no stone unturned.”

The third meeting took place later that same day. The afternoon was well advanced: the light like gauze on the bricks and leaves, the shadows lengthening. Once again, Stillman retreated to Riverside Park, this time to the edge of it, coming to rest on a knobby outcrop at 84th Street known as Mount Tom. On this same spot, in the summers of 1843 and 1844, Edgar Allan Poe had spent many long hours gazing out at the Hudson. Quinn knew this because he had made it his business to know such things. As it turned out, he had often sat there himself.

He felt little fear now about doing what he had to do. He circled the rock two or three times, but failed to get Stillman’s attention. Then he sat down next to the old man and said hello. Incredibly, Stillman did not recognize him. This was the third time Quinn had presented himself, and each time it was as though Quinn had been someone else. He could not decide whether this was a good sign or bad. If Stillman was pretending, he was an actor like no other in the world. For each time Quinn had appeared, he had done it by surprise. And yet Stillman had not even blinked. On the other hand, if Stillman really did not recognize him, what did this mean? Was it possible for anyone to be so impervious to the things he saw?

The old man asked him who he was.

“My name is Peter Stillman,” said Quinn.

“That’s my name,” answered Stillman. “I’m Peter Stillman.”

“I’m the other Peter Stillman,” said Quinn.

“Oh. You mean my son. Yes, that’s possible. You look just like him. Of course, Peter is blond and you are dark. Not Henry Dark, but dark of hair. But people change, don’t they? One minute we’re one thing, and then another another.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve often wondered about you, Peter. Many times I’ve thought to myself, ‘I wonder how Peter is getting along.’ “

“I’m much better now, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Someone once told me you had died. It made me very sad.”

“No, I’ve made a complete recovery.”

“I can see that. Fit as a fiddle. And you speak so well, too.”

“All words are available to me now. Even the ones most people have trouble with. I can say them all.”

“I’m proud of you, Peter.”

“I owe it all to you.”

“Children are a great blessing. I’ve always said that. An incomparable blessing.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“As for me, I have my good days and my bad days. When the bad days come, I think of the ones that were good. Memory is a great blessing, Peter. The next best thing to death.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Of course, we must live in the present, too. For example, I am currently in New York. Tomorrow, I could be somewhere else. I travel a great deal, you see. Here today, gone tomorrow. It’s part of my work.”

“It must be stimulating.”

“Yes, I’m very stimulated. My mind never stops.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“The years weigh heavily, it’s true. But we have so much to be thankful for. Time makes us grow old, but it also gives us the day and the night. And when we die, there is always someone to take our place.”

“We all grow old.”

“When you’re old, perhaps you’ll have a son to comfort you.”

“I would like that.”

“Then you would be as fortunate as I have been. Remember, Peter, children are a great blessing.”

“I won’t forget.”

“And remember, too, that you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket. Conversely, don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

“No. I try to take things as they come.”

“Last of all, never say a thing you know in your heart is not true.”

“I won’t.”

“Lying is a bad thing. It makes you sorry you were ever born. And not to have been born is a curse. You are condemned to live outside time. And when you live outside time, there is no day and night. You don’t even get a chance to die.”

“I understand.”

“A lie can never be undone. Even the truth is not enough. I am a father, and I know about these things. Remember what happened to the father of our country. He chopped down the cherry tree, and then he said to his father, ‘I cannot tell a lie.’ Soon thereafter, he threw the coin across the river. These two stories are crucial events in American history. George Washington chopped down the tree, and then he threw away the money. Do you understand? He was telling us an essential truth. Namely, that money doesn’t grow on trees. This is what made our country great, Peter. Now George Washington’s picture is on every dollar bill. There is an important lesson to be learned from all this.”

“I agree with you.”

“Of course, it’s unfortunate that the tree was cut down. That tree was the Tree of Life, and it would have made us immune to death. Now we welcome death with open arms, especially when we are old. But the father of our country knew his duty. He could not do otherwise. That is the meaning of the phrase ‘Life is a bowl of cherries.’ If the tree had remained standing, we would have had eternal life.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

“I have many such ideas in my head. My mind never stops. You were always a clever boy, Peter, and I’m glad you understand.”

“I can follow you perfectly.”

“A father must always teach his son the lessons he has learned. In that way knowledge is passed down from generation to generation, and we grow wise.”

“I won’t forget what you’ve told me.”

“I’ll be able to die happily now, Peter.”

“I’m glad.”

“But you musn’t forget anything.”

“I won’t, father. I promise.”

The next morning, Quinn was in front of the hotel at his usual time. The weather had finally changed. After two weeks of resplendent skies, a drizzle now fell on New York, and the streets were filled with the sound of wet, moving tires. For an hour Quinn sat on the bench, protecting himself with a black umbrella, thinking Stillman would appear at any moment. He worked his way through his roll and coffee, read the account of the Mets’ Sunday loss, and still there was no sign of the old man. Patience, he said to himself, and began to tackle the rest of the paper. Forty minutes passed. He reached the financial section and was about to read an analysis of a corporate merger when the rain suddenly intensified. Reluctantly, he got up from his bench and removed himself to a doorway across the street from the hotel. He stood there in his clammy shoes for an hour and a half. Was Stillman sick? he wondered. Quinn tried to imagine him lying in his bed, sweating out a fever. Perhaps the old man had died during the night and his body had not yet been discovered. Such things happened, he told himself.

Today was to have been the crucial day, and Quinn had made elaborate and meticulous plans for it. Now his calculations were for naught. It disturbed him that he had not taken this contingency into account.

Still, he hesitated. He stood there under his umbrella, watching the rain slide off it in small, fine drops. By eleven o’clock he had begun to formulate a decision. Half an hour later he crossed the street, walked forty paces down the block, and entered Stillman’s hotel. The place stank of cockroach repellant and dead cigarettes. A few of the tenants, with nowhere to go in the rain, were sitting in the lobby, sprawled out on orange plastic chairs. The place seemed blank, a hell of stale thoughts.

A large black man sat behind the front desk with his sleeves rolled up. One elbow was on the counter, and his head was propped in his open hand. With his other hand he turned the pages of a tabloid newspaper, barely pausing to read the words. He looked bored enough to have been there all his life.

“I’d like to leave a message for one of your guests,” Quinn said.

The man looked up at him slowly, as if wishing him to disappear.

“I’d like to leave a message for one of your guests,” Quinn said again.

“No guests here,” said the man. “We call them residents.”

“For one of your residents, then. I’d like to leave a message.”

“And just who might that be, bub?”

“Stillman. Peter Stillman.”

The man pretended to think for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope. Can’t recall anyone by that name.”

“Don’t you have a register?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a book. But it’s in the safe.”

“The safe? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the book, bub. The boss likes to keep it locked up in the safe.”

“I don’t suppose you know the combination?”

“Sorry. The boss is the only one.”