The 14th Day (31 page)

Passing shops and restaurants, Jory glances without interest at books, clothes, menus; but he stops before a rain-pocked window where shiny photos of houses are pasted above lines of text. Dimly he recalls having stood here at an earlier time. He studies the images of wide porches, slanted roofs set among shady trees, quaint gables, spacious lawns. Gradually he comes to realize that he did look at pictures like these once before, though he can't remember when—these could even be the same pictures. “A charmer,” he reads. “Old-fashioned elegance.” He's prepared to be amused by the predictable language but instead he's ambushed by a sudden sadness that he can't account for until it occurs to him that this is the business that Ila has chosen to pursue. He hears the words he's read spoken in her voice and the sounds are heavy with loss.

This isn't a time to be lamenting the loss of Ila, though; he has to bring his attention back to what Vaniok told him about Carl—at least that's a situation that calls for some response. The thought of the man transforms Jory's sadness into another emotion that he can almost convince himself is rage, except that he knows it contains a large element of fear. The curl of his co-worker's mouth as he spits out an order, the menace in his slow walk, the movement of his shoulders, his large hands hanging loosely at his side—they're all vividly present and Jory knows he has to settle his turbulent feelings. He's been able to deal with this situation until now. After all, he's come to expect daily insults from Carl, extra work that by rights he shouldn't have to do. He knows he can bear this; he knows that however much Carl insists on his doing, he'll be able to accomplish it without begging for mercy; and this has been his strength: he can withhold what Carl wants him to give, acknowledgement of his power. But the sense of vindication Jory feels is only momentary. There's something dark and threatful in what Vaniok told him: for Carl to go behind his back and run his past between his short, stubby fingers is more than just a challenge to his spirit.

Now Jory is walking again, more quickly this time, as if somebody were actually pursuing him. It seems ages ago that he was in the bar with Vaniok and yet he hasn't traveled very far from that spot. Before long, though, he's made his way past the town's small shopping area into its residential sections; he passes darkening lawns, houses set behind thick trees that stand silent, wet and heavy. The sky is still light but street lamps have come on, throwing yellow circles into the trees above them. The sight of these patches of light in the leaves moves him obscurely and like some character from a fairy tale he follows them, until before long, he's reached a neighborhood of more modest dwellings. These surroundings are more familiar, comfortable; he can think more clearly here. He has to get control of himself; he has to devise a plan to deal with this new situation. He reminds himself that no one knows whether Carl has actually followed through on what he talked about with Vaniok. Still, for the man to have spoken about it at all means it's possible. He feels a flash of anger toward Vaniok. Why did he have to tell him this?

“Jory?” When he looks up he sees a woman coming toward him. It takes him an instant to recognize that it's Ila, and that all his walking has brought him to the block where she lives. For long seconds he exists in a vacuum, without breath, without heartbeat; he lives only in his eyes, a spectator watching a film, he registers the familiar stride of the figure he's seeing, the tilt of her head, he recognizes the pale blue blouse—it's a film he's seen before and he watches with total attention. Then his trance-like state feels the prod of wonder: how did he manage to come here in his wayward wanderings, what ingenious route did he take to arrive at exactly this spot precisely at this moment? “What a surprise,” Ila says. Her words, like her eyes, are without inflection.

In an instant the scene fills in around him. He becomes aware of noises in the background, and the smell of wet vegetation: the two of them are in the same world now. “I was just walking,” he says, hearing the voice of a stranger. “And how are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” she answers. “A little rushed.” She's holding her keys in her hand and they glitter in the evening light.

“What weather.” He gestures to the wet streets. His breathing is quick.

“Yes,” she smiles, standing a few feet away from him. How quickly each of them would have bridged that gap not long ago. “And how are things with you?” she asks.

“Fine as well.” He's calmer now. In the brief seconds of their encounter he's been able to make the adjustment, to find the proper manner. The two of them have talked a few times since the day on the lake and they've developed a measured way of relating to each other.

“I'm going off to my class,” she says. Under her arm is a dark blue notebook.

Of course he would have known this, to the minute, without thinking about it. Even as he talked to Vaniok, as he watched the bartender walk past them to the door, as he heard the storm outside, some part of him was keeping track of Ila's whereabouts. “How is your class?” he asks.

“I like it.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” He smiles. “You'll be a rich woman one of these days.”

“That's what Vaniok says.” Her laugh is contained. “I'll be happy not to be a poor woman.”

“I saw Vaniok a little while ago,” Jory says. “We had a drink.”

Her eyes brighten. “And how was he?”

“He's fine. Vaniok manages pretty well.”

“Yes, he does.”

He has a sudden wish to ask her if she's ever been to The Willows but the time for that has passed. “I won't keep you,” he says.

“I wish we had more time,” she says. She gets into her old green car and drives off, trailing a plume of exhaust. As he watches the car move down the street, the numbing sense of loss he feels is entwined with a sense of wonder that in his blind rush across town he'd measured to the second Ila's movements so that the two of them intersected at last. The world is a very mysterious place indeed. She looked well, though, determined. He smiles to think it's actually possible she will become a rich woman. It was difficult to exchange the meaningless comments with her and not tell her how much his talk with Vaniok had upset him. But he isn't her business now, Jory reminds himself. This is his business alone.

And yet he wishes he hadn't run into her that way. The meeting stirred up too many painful feelings. In the midst of his sorrow he thinks of The Willows and it seems to him that this sadness would be easier to bear if he were standing near the ancient trees beside the river that flowed slowly by as it did in the days of the kings. But that haven is unavailable to him; very likely it will never be available again.

Jory consciously shuts out these memories but he doesn't know what to do next. He knows he's not returning to his apartment and he turns back in the direction he came from. In a few minutes he manages to find his way back to the bar where he met Vaniok. There are more people now, though it's still too early for crowds. A one-armed man wearing a baseball cap over his ponytail stands beside the bar, talking to the bartender; a middle-aged couple are playing pool. Though he has no appetite for it Jory gets a beer and goes to the booth where he sat with his countryman earlier in the evening, as though, he thinks, I want to find a familiar spot. It was here, after all, that he remembered the summer palace of the kings. But the presence of other people has changed things and the place no longer has the feel it had when he was here with Vaniok. He sips his tasteless beer. The pulsing blur of sound makes him aware of a faint throbbing in his head. It's oppressively warm in the bar; the air is stale. He puts the cool bottle against his flushed face. The wet curved shape is soothing but the heat returns as soon as he takes the bottle away, as does any sense of relief. He feels sluggish and heavy, his thoughts are scattered. He remembers his talks with Fotor and he wonders how his countryman is doing on his island. King Fotor, he thinks and his lips curl into a smile but his wish to feel amused doesn't drive away his sense that he's being hunted. He moves his hand along the sticky table. Everything that's happened this evening—the talk with Vaniok, his meeting with Ila—points in one direction: he has to do something.

Once more he thinks of his encounter with Ila, he hears her voice, reserved, confident, purposeful. They both knew from the beginning that their relationship wasn't likely to last; they both acted reasonably about its ending and he's told himself a thousand times he can accept it. All this is true but he hadn't been prepared for how desolate he'd felt when he watched her green car move down the street, leaving only a thin trail of exhaust that quickly dissipated. He smells that exhaust now, a sour unpleasant odor.

It isn't just Ila he's lost, though: when she drove away in that car she was carrying away everything he'd told her. And soon she'll be going even farther away, with his history, his memory. Taking them to the desert. Only she in this town knows about his quarrels with his father, about the moment in front of the orphanage when his mother sat silent in the car while her son's hand rested on the metal near the door in hopes his parents wouldn't drive away; only Ila knows about his long talks in his uncle Jory's study, the pipe, the tweed jacket, about the trip to the border with the silent Keslar at the wheel. Once more his nostrils twitch with the memory of the smell of her car's exhaust as she drove away, a smell that's become increasingly unpleasant.

He sits there in the booth, bent forward on the vinyl-covered bench, his arm resting on the damp formica table. He picks up his glass of beer but he realizes he doesn't want to drink it; he can't imagine how anyone could want to eat or drink anything. People around him talk loudly, they laugh. His head is heavy and there's a weight pressing against his stomach. He shifts position several times but it brings no relief. He looks around the bar. A man near the pool table raises a handful of popcorn to his mouth and Jory has to look away. He groans softly. A sour taste is rising in his throat and gradually he's become aware that as the pounding in his head has increased he's felt more and more queasy. Now he's flushed and uncomfortable, he wishes he were anywhere else. Even as he's thinking this, he realizes that he's nauseous, he's going to have to find a place to throw up. With sudden resolution he pushes his way out of the booth and gets to his feet shakily. Because he's closer to the street than to the men's room he moves quickly to the door and in seconds he's outside. Behind the evening coolness he can feel the waiting heat. He tries to appear normal though he's slightly hunched as he walks down the sloping street, hoping to get around the corner, away from the lights; but he only manages a few steps before he has to stop. He lurches to the curb where he drops to his knees, facing the street in a space between parked cars, bent over as if in prayer. The first convulsions bring nothing but shudders; then he feels the rush and he watches as the burning, stinking fluid is expelled from him into the stream of water flowing in the street. The air is cool on his face, the smell of vomit rises. And yet it's all happening to someone else. Once again something surges up, his insides buckle, he hears himself retching. At last, after a few more spasms he's quiet. His shirt is damp with sweat. A chill covers him but he's empty and clear.

Too exhausted for thought, he's dropped into the scene from his dream: on the bank of the river near the summer palace of the kings, the flat-bodied red fish with the face of an old woman moves its mouth. The creature's words are lost under the sound of Jory's panting and yet as he looks at his hands pressed down against the damp pavement he understands at last what the fish has told him: that he has the power to act, to do things.

I'm free,
he recognizes, and a surprising gust of elation blows through him.

He gets up, wet-eyed and light, and walks away from the smell to the corner of the now-dark street where he turns toward home. There's still a foul taste in his mouth but he knows that things have changed decisively.
It's in my power
. From a distance he remembers again the way his time in the cold country ended: in those last days the melancholy would settle on him and stay, growing heavier as the day progressed. He'd awaken to find it waiting for him in the morning darkness, a reminder that he might have to spend the rest of his days in that alien place. He was trapped, he had to get out, yet it seemed impossible. And then at last he found a way to do it. At first he thought it had all been an unfortunate accident, knocking the man down in the street; but as he's contemplated it more and more he's come to realize that, however tangled the sources of that deed, in the end he left the cold country because of something he did: he took action. Something was necessary to do and he did it. Something is necessary to do now. Here in the cool night of this southern town he knows he can do it again. Jory is happy.

From the moment he and Jory parted in the street Vaniok has known that things have changed decisively for his countryman.
He's going to have to do something now, he has no choice because of what I told him
. And there's only one direction in which Jory's actions can take him.
He's going to leave
. The idea has mass and weight; Vaniok can't get out from under its shadow.
They're going away, both of them, Ila and Jory. Leaving me
.

There was a large globe at the back of the room when he was in Sister Mercy's class. On that globe the homeland was a small rose-colored inkblot of a shape near the edge of a large land mass, and the lakes where he grew up were barely visible blue freckles, some distance from the black dot that signified the country's capital. “Who can find where we are?” the nun would ask in her harsh, billy-goat's voice and ten-year-old Vaniok would already have his hand up, eager to show he knew the answer to that question. If he were standing before that colored sphere today, he'd want to put his thumb on the homeland and spread his open hand toward the west: how many hand-widths would it take to span the blue ocean and reach the country from which Jory came here? Then he'd place his thumb in that country and swing his hand southward—it would take more than one set of outstretched fingers to reach this university town. Now Jory is going to move again. Vaniok can only guess how many more hand-widths it would take to reach the island he talked about.