Nobody Knew They Were There

Wednesday, October 23

The town is full of young people.

They run the hotel, the shops, the restaurants, everything — part-time employees who did not come here to work. As a result, the service is poor everywhere. We pass each other on the windswept streets. They move swiftly and silently. They look much the same as they looked four years ago, two years ago. They dress as they did last year, when the Harvard Riots took place. But they are silent. Their voices have been stilled since then, and yet one expects them to converse at least, and they do not. One expects to find something still burning in their eyes, but instead there is only the sadness of vast disillusionment I am here to change that, and yet we have nothing to say to each other. We do not even smile at each other. They are serious and afraid, spiritless, defeated, numb. Yet even here, there is a seeming optimist. Scrawled on a gray fence surrounding a construction site, in huge letters, are the words BILL, ISN'T LIFE WONDERFUL? — signed in red as rich as blood, AMY.

Life is not wonderful, Amy.

You are mistaken.

At the sole car rental place in town, I almost tell the clerk my name is Arthur Sachs, and then remember that I must produce my driver’s license before they will let me have an automobile. I give him my real name, and tell him I will pay in cash. As I am initialing the little box that indicates I wish full insurance coverage, I realize that Arthur Sachs, unlike me, does not possess credit cards, or bank accounts, or keys to vaults and houses and automobiles, Arthur Sachs does not possess wife or family or even friends. Arthur Sachs is only a name.

(And yet, upon reflection, the name is my only real possession now.)

The countryside is burnished bright. I luxuriate in the drive, and almost forget why I am here. The road meanders through the foothills, running more or less parallel with the railroad tracks. The sky above is a bright blue, the air heady. I negotiate each turn as though I am driving the Alps. I remember my sons once telling me that I did not compare favorably with Italian drivers, this on the long tortuous stretch from Portofino to the French border. I had been showing off for them. I had been driving as expertly as I could — for them. And now I am about to commit murder — for them.

There is a deep ravine twelve miles west of the town. The highway clings relentlessly to the side of the mountain, but the railroad tracks take a more direct route here, crossing the ravine on an old steel bridge that hangs high above the cut. The train from California should come this way to enter the town.

There is no place to park the automobile. I realize that I shall have to call upon my assistant and come back tomorrow. That is the excuse I give myself.

The beer hall is thronged with noisy students who at least have the good grace not to sing rousing college songs. Photographs of yesteryear’s winning football teams, soccer teams, baseball teams, swimming teams line the walls, black-and-white reminders of fame’s fleeting touch. There are no waiters in the place. The bar is at the far end, serviced by two college students wearing aprons over their red striped shirts. Most of the patrons are drinking beer. Sara, too, says she would like beer. She advises me to order it by the pitcher, as it is cheaper that way. I am amused, but I do not smile.

“Do you really want beer?” I ask.

“Yes.” She hesitates. “Don’t you?”

“I think I would prefer scotch,” I tell her.

“I think I would prefer a whiskey sour,” she says.

“Then why did you say you wanted beer?”

“Because most college kids don’t have seven thousand dollars in their pocket.”

“We’re not supposed to refer to that.”

“Sorry,” she says, and shrugs elaborately. “I need cigarettes, too.”

I go for the drinks and the cigarettes. On the off-chance that she is watching me, I move with great style. At the bar, I turn for a quick look at the table, hoping to catch her unaware. She could not be less interested. She is, in fact, studying her fingernails. When I return, she looks up as though in discovery. She is all mannerisms tonight There is a look of pained disbelief on her face. It clearly states that something unspeakably vile has had the effrontery to die right here in a public place. She opens the cigarette package with calculated grace. She brushes gossamer hair away from her face as she leans forward to accept the light I proffer. She blows a stream of smoke ceilingward. She delicately lifts her glass and in clearly articulated tones, as though projecting for a jury, she says, “I suppose we should drink to the success of our little enterprise.”

“I suppose.”

“To a job well done,” she says, and clinks her glass lightly against mine. I am beginning to think she is a child. It is too bad, because I plan to take her to bed.

“To a job well done,” I repeat.

“A re you carrying the money with you?” she asks.

“Of course not.”

“Where is it?”

“Under my mattress.”

“Do you think it’s safe there?”

“I know it’s safe there because it isn’t there.”

“Then where is it?”

“I spent it all at Reidel’s the other night.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously, I kept five hundred dollars of it for expenses, and sent the rest to the American Cancer Society.”

“You didn’t”

“I did. As an anonymous contribution.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like cancer.”

“But if you’re not doing this for the money…”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you?”

“I just told you. I don’t like cancer.” The statement is phony and theatrical, and she recognizes it as such because she herself has been nothing but phony and theatrical all night long. But before she can dismiss it, I quickly say, “Why are you doing it?”

“I have nothing to lose,” she says, and shrugs.

“You may have a great deal to lose.”

“How?”

“You’re involved in an assassination plot. If I’m caught..

“If you’re caught, we knew nothing at all about your nefarious scheme. You presented yourself to us as a tractor salesman from Los Angeles. How were we to know what you were really up to?”

“I may have already written letters to be opened upon my death or capture.”

“But you haven’t.”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

“I know you haven’t. Besides, they’d be dismissed as the rantings of a lunatic. Assassins aren’t considered exactly stable people, you know.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“To increase your chances of survival.”

“By letting me know I'm surrounded by traitors?”

“Traitors only if you’re caught”

“And if I'm not?”

“Staunch admirers.”

“The distinction eludes me.”

“It’s a very real distinction, and it can only help you.”

“How?”

“By forcing you to realize that if you fail, you fail alone. No one will be there to mourn your death.”

“Except you,” I say suddenly.

“I never weep,” Sara says, and drains her glass. “I’d like another drink, please.”

She is only twenty-one, but she downs four whiskey sours in half an hour, draining her glass each time the conversation reaches a climactic point, as though she is ad-libbing a very long play in which she recites the curtain line at the end of each act. By ten o’clock, she has consumed six drinks, and I have learned, among other things:

That she’s a Capricorn. “You’re a Libra,” she says. “Capricorns and Libras definitely do not mix.”

That the wedding band she wears on the third finger of her left hand belonged to her grandmother. Gwen is constantly advising her to wear it on a chain around her neck because she feels it might scare people off this way. Sara insists she wants to scare people off. Gwen counters by saying she may scare off the wrong people. Sara tells her, “Most people are the wrong people.”

That the ring she wears on her right hand, a large fresh-water pearl surrounded by tiny seed pearls, was given to her by a Chicago writer to whom she was once engaged. The writer turned out to be suicidal, and she suspected his condition might prove detrimental to the longevity of their relationship. When she broke the engagement, he surprised her by not killing himself. Instead, he picked up a hooker on North Wells and stayed in bed with her for a week. When Sara tried to return the ring, he told her to shove it. “You’re not a writer, of course,” she says to me, “but I suspect you’re as suicidal as he was.”

That she bought the leather sombrero in Arizona where she spent last summer with a VISTA worker named Roger Harris, with whom she is madly in love, and whom she expects to marry as soon as she gets her law degree. He is coming to visit her on Thanksgiving, she hopes. “He grooves me,” she says, “he really does.”

That she is a straight-A student who was graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Northwestern. “I’m bored by most people because I’m smarter than they are,” she says. “Thank God, I can’t say that about you.”

I am beginning to suspect that the reason she’s not bored is because she has been holding an endlessly fascinating dialogue with no one but herself. I recognize with some regret that the only appealing thing about her is her youth, and I suddenly wonder why that alone should make her seem desirable. She must notice the look that crosses my face because she abruptly asks, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Have I been talking too much about myself?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I’m too polite.”

“Killers shouldn’t be so polite,” she says. “Anyway, I thought you were interested.”

“I’m terribly interested. Tell me more about your assorted boyfriends.”

“You’re married, aren’t you?” she asks. Straight for the jugular. I admire her finesse.

“Yes.”

“In which case, I can talk about my boyfriends if I like.”

“It hasn’t stopped you so far.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she says. “Do you want another drink, or shall we go?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“I won’t get drunk, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I never get drunk.”

“You never tell, you never weep, and you never get drunk.”

“What?”

“Total recall.”

“What?”

“Forget it. Do you want another drink?”

“What do you mean, total recall?”

“I am possessed of total recall.”

“Total recall is a curse,” she says with vehemence.

“Do you want another drink?”

“No, I want to leave.”

“Okay, let’s leave.”

“You're the one who called me, you know. I didn’t call you.”

“I know that.”

“Nobody asked you to. If you’re married, why'd you call me?”

“Because I need assistance. You told me you were here to lend assistance.”

“Not that kind of assistance.”

“How do you know what kind I need?”

“Let’s say I have an active imagination.”

This is another curtain line, and she rises dramatically on it I help her on with her coat. She strides out ahead of me, trailing me in her wake like the train of a royal garment. At the cigarette machine in the entrance alcove, she stops and says, “I’m out again. Would you?” I insert coins into the machine. She folds her arms and tucks her hands into the sleeves of her coat, like a Chinese mandarin. She is standing very close to me, ignoring me. I turn and kiss her. We look at each other. Her eyes reveal nothing; it must be the contact lenses.

“Mmmmm,” I say.

“Mmmmm, my ass,” she answers, and we go out into the street

It is very cold. A sharp penetrating wind is sweeping in off the mountains. We walk rapidly. Her hands are still tucked into her sleeves, and I hold her left elbow until my own hand is numb with the cold. I retrieve it and put it into my pocket, and we walk side by side without speaking or touching, as if we scarcely know each other. The truth is, we do not. October leaves rattle furiously along the street, like small scurrying animals.

Under the hotel marquee, I say, “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?”

“Yes,” she answers.

She knows the boy behind the desk; he is a law student like herself. Instead of avoiding him, she walks over and begins to chat, Hello, Ralph, what did you think of the quiz in Torts the other day, have you prepared the assignment due on Friday, and so on and so on. She shows no sign of embarrassment or discomfort, she behaves exactly like a practiced whore in a Sixth Avenue riding academy. In the elevator, she says, “What kind of assistance do you need?”

“I’ve found a bridge,” I say. “I need someone to drive me to it tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“There’s no place to leave a car. I want to make some sketches.”

“I have classes tomorrow.”

“Cut them.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Hester will fix it.”

“There are some things even Hester can’t fix. What time do you have to go?”

“Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“Where is this bridge?”

“Twelve miles outside of town.”

“The railroad bridge over Henderson Gap?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to blow it up?”

“Yes.”

“How terribly pedestrian.”

“Will you drive me or not?”

“I have a free hour at noon, and then classes until three o’clock. Can I drop you off and then come back for you?”

“Yes, that’d be fine.”

“I'll pick you up here at noon then.”

“Tine.”

The moment we are in the room, I kiss her again. She stands with her arms dangling and looks blankly into my face.

“What’s the sense of this?” she says.

“No sense.”

“Then why do it?”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m in love with someone,” she says.

“So am I.”

“This is stupid.”

“Then why’d you come up here?”

“Because you invited me for a drink.”

“And you believed me.”

“No, I didn’t believe you. I just wanted to see if you could really be this goddamn corny.”

“Yes, I am this goddamn corny. Take off your coat”

“Why?”

“Are you going to sit and drink with your coat on?”

“Are you going to offer me a drink?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.”

She takes off her coat, drapes it over the chair and then sits on it I begin pouring from the bottle on the dresser.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Scotch.”

“I abhor Scotch.”

“It’s all I have.”

“You’re not too terribly well-appointed, are you?”

“Has anyone ever told you that sometimes you sound phony as hell?”

“Sometimes I am phony as hell,” she says. “In fact, I’ve been phony as hell all night long. In fact, would you like to know something?”

“Yes, what?”

“You make me phony as hell.”

“How do I do that?”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“Jesus!”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s got everything to do with everything. Are you giving me a drink, or aren’t you?”

“All I’ve got is scotch.”

“With a little water, please. I hate scotch.”

I walk to where she is sitting, and I cup her face in my hands and very gently kiss her. She responds to the kiss, and then looks up at me blankly.

“Why don’t we just quit right now, okay?” she asks.

“No,” I say, and kiss her again.

“He was a good kisser, too,” she says.

“Who?”

“My writer in Chicago.”

“But suicidal.”

“Yes. So are you.”

“A good kisser?”

“Suicidal. This is suicidal. I’m in love with someone.”

“Yes, Roger Harris.”

“Yes.”

“Of VISTA fame.”

“Yes. The honest thing to do is get the hell out of here. Right now.”

“No.” I walk into the bathroom and add water from the tap to both glasses. When I hand one to her, she looks into it for a moment, and then says, “If you’re trying to get me drunk, forget it. I never get drunk.”

“I'm not trying to get you drunk.”

She extends the glass, smiles, and says, “Here’s to our little enterprise.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, Jesus, must you always do that? It gets very tiresome, really it does.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“All the little innuendoes. Can’t you please stop it? Everything you say doesn’t have to be directed toward just one thing, you know.”

“In the beginning, it does.”

“That’s all there’s going to be, is a beginning. So cut it out.” She gestures with the glass. “Do you want to drink to our little enterprise, or don’t you?”

“To our little enterprise,” I say, and we clink glasses.

“To the bridge,” she says.

“To the bridge,” I answer, and kiss her again.

“Stop it,” she says, “I haven’t had my drink yet. Besides, this doesn’t make sense.”

“The way you kiss me makes sense.”

“I can kiss you that way all night long, and it still wouldn’t make sense.” She nods emphatically. She stares at me. She keeps staring at me. Then she rises, swallows the scotch in her glass, says, “I hate scotch,” and puts the glass on the dresser. She half sits on the dresser and crosses one booted ankle over the other. We are still staring at each other. I move to her and kiss her again.

“Why are we doing this, would you please tell me?” she asks.

“Why don’t you just shut up?” I say.

“I don’t want to shut up. Why are we doing this?”

“Because I want to make love to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to make love to you,” she says. “I’m a virgin.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, nobody’s a virgin.”

“That’s true,” she admits. “But I’m not on the pill.”

“You are on the pill.”

“I’m not. I was on the pill last summer in Arizona, but I’m not on it now.”

I unzip her dress and lower it to her waist. I unclasp her brassierre and kiss her breasts.

“So goddamn stupid,” she says, and shrugs out of the dress and the brassiere and tosses both onto the chair with her coat She removes her headband and places it on the dresser. She is wearing only tights and boots now. Shaking her head, she moves to the chair and takes off the boots and then, without embarrassment, removes the tights. I go to the bed very quietly, and sit on its edge, and unobtrusively, so unobtrusively lest she change her mind, begin taking off my clothes. She is searching in her bag. She lifts from it a tiny white plastic container. There are four blue rhinestone chips in its lid, and a hole where a fifth one has fallen out. She takes off the lid and then carefully removes her contact lenses, first one, then the other, and puts them into the container. I have taken the bedspread off the bed, and she comes to me now and sits beside me and looks into my face again, searchingly this time. Her eyes are a paler green without the lenses. They appear slightly out of focus.

“I’m in love with someone,” she says in a whisper.

“Yes, I know.”

“I really am,” she says.

“Yes, yes.”

I ease her onto the pillow and begin kissing her. I kiss her mouth, and her closed eyes, and tip of her nose, and her ears, and her throat, and her breasts, and the wild tangle of her crotch. I touch her everywhere. She responds to me with genuine passion, though occasionally she sighs heavily and seems about to shake her head.

I talk to her all the while we are making love. I do not talk in bed with Abby, never, but with this girl, with this Sara, I am garrulous and lyrical. I tell her how I love to watch her move, the clean stride, the long swift look of her in boots and abbreviated skirt (I tell her that at the airport my first inclination was to run my hand up the inside of her leg to her crotch, that I had to use every effort of will to prevent myself from doing so and being arrested on the spot), the brown leather sombrero tilted wantonly over one eye, the long brown hair falling loose down her back, loose and free.

She listens while I cover her with kisses and conversation.

I tell her that I was furiously jealous last night when I called and found her line repeatedly busy, suspecting she was in deep and intimate conversation with sundry snotnosed college boys while I longed to hear her voice. I tell her that her voice excites me, even when she is being phony and haughty and precisely articulate. I tell her that I love the theatricality of her, the way she opens a package of cigarettes, or lifts a drink, or removes her contact lenses, the very dramatic way she has of performing unimportant tasks to make them somehow personally her own (had anyone ever really torn the red cellophane strip from a package of cigarettes before Sara pulled it free like the rip cord on a parachute?). I tell her I love the trappings of her, the leather headband that makes her look like a sullen Indian princess, her grandmother’s wedding band, the fresh-water pearl from the suicidal Chicago hack, the idiotic container for her contact lenses, with its single open eye socket where one of the blue rhinestones is missing. I tell her all this while we kiss and touch together, and she listens, and occasionally sighs as though in sorrow.

When I am inside her, when she is open to me, cradling me and enfolding me, intimate now I think, possessing her now I think, I whisper into her ear gutter talk of cunts and cocks and lustful fucking, and she listens quietly until at last we come not a heartbeat apart, and fall back against the pillows spent.

I kiss her often during the night. Her mouth is always there, receptive and responsive. She sleeps straddling my thigh, her legs scissored around me.

In the morning, when I awake, she is gone.

(Confirming my surmise that this is all a fantasy.)