Subterranean gallery, p.21
Subterranean Gallery, page 21
“Stoke made his own decision.”
“But you could probably have…”
“Jesus Christ, Terry,” he started, cutting her off. “We went through all that five years ago. I didn’t come back here to rehash it all again. We can’t change anything now.” He turned away from her, looked out toward the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a dull orange, bleak in the mist, yet beautiful still.
Stoke. He wondered what Stoke had looked like in battle fatigues—a strong, wiry kid running through the jungle with music in his ears, pumped up with the shit they gave you out there, especially on night patrols. Light up your eyes, fire up your ears, hype up your brain before they fried it. Rheinhardt hadn’t touched drugs once since his discharge, but sometimes his vision still lit up on him, flared out the back of his eyes all on its own. Well, Stoke wouldn’t have to worry about that now.
“So, what is it?” Terry asked after a long silence. “Why you haven’t been able to work all this time.”
What is it? Just what he had been asking himself for five years. “I feel paralyzed,” Rheinhardt finally said.
“By what?”
“By the world.”
“The world.”
He nodded, then shook his head. “I know what that sounds like, but it’s the closest I’ve come to it. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, trying to understand just what the hell is shutting me down.” He clenched his fists, wrapped his arms around his chest. “Everything is so fucked up, people are so fucked up…I feel overwhelmed by my own pessimism, and I can’t shake it. I haven’t done a thing since ‘The Winter Gantry.’ I don’t know. Paralyzed by the world, by a sense of utter futility.”
They clambered over the granite blocks and down into a hollow formed by two stone benches and three walls of the blocks, sheltered from the wind; rubber-rimmed tips of several Wave Organ pipes jutted up from the rock, like periscopes. Rheinhardt felt all his pent-up frustrations and anger begin to surface, surge through his gut, pressuring for release. Terry sat on one of the benches, but he remained standing, tensed.
He paced back and forth in front of Terry, and though he opened his mouth several times, he was unable to speak. His hands began to tremble, only slightly at first, then more violently until they shook so much he could not control them. He stopped pacing, faced Terry, held out his shaking hands.
“This,” he managed to say. “This is what happens to me, I try to sit at a table with a block of clay, or outside with metal and welder, and my god damn hands shake so much I can’t do a thing. I can’t handle the flame or hold the metal still, I can’t even work with a block of clay without dropping it.”
Terry was staring at his hands, and he stared at them with her as they shook and shook without stopping. His throat was dry, and he was only barely able to speak.
“I sit there,” he said, “and I keep thinking, what’s the point? What is the fucking point?”
He turned away from her and jammed his hands into his pockets where they could hardly move. His arms continued to tremble as he stared out at the gray, overcast bay.
“I think I understand how you feel,” Terry said.
The cold mist felt comforting on his face, and he looked out toward Alcatraz, remembering Gollancz. It looked different; the buildings were almost completely gone now, little more than rubble.
“The worst of it is,” he continued, still without looking at her, “I haven’t even tried in the last two years. I haven’t even tried.”
“I do understand,” Terry said again. “I’ve been feeling that way myself.”
“The Warehouse?” He turned back to her. His arms had finally ceased trembling.
She nodded. “It’s gotten pretty bad.”
“It was bad five years ago, Terry. You just couldn’t see it. Why I moved out of there when I did,” he said. “I was drowning in there, the place was sinking down a hole. Shit, the work people were putting out…” He sat beside her, looked down at a tiny green and black crab scuttling along the rocks at the water’s edge. “It was choking me, and I had to get out. So I did. But it was too late, or it wasn’t enough, I don’t know. I barely managed to get ‘The Winter Gantry’ done, and that was it. I stopped working. I tried, actually, I really tried back then, but I couldn’t do shit. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I couldn’t, not at all. I felt like I was dying here, and I had to get out, hope I could get started again somewhere else. So I just took off.” He paused. “Went to Alaska.” Shrugged. “It didn’t do any good.”
They were silent, gazing out onto gray, choppy water. A single gull bobbed with the swells.
“But you’ve come back.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
They walked back by way of the lagoon in front of the Palace of Fine Arts, and as they walked, Terry watched his movements, the way he carried himself, listened to the way he talked. Now that she observed more closely, it seemed to her that he’d grown thinner, though he looked physically stronger at the same time, muscle delineated beneath fatless skin. There were dark areas under his eyes, and several places in his hair where gray was starting to appear, not quite matching the color of the bleached tail. Up close, he looked older than his age; it was disconcerting, and Terry wondered if she looked older, too.
Rheinhardt waved toward the old Exploratorium building, now just barely visible through the trees. “I went by there this morning,” he said. “When did it close down?”
“About two years ago.”
“Money?”
“Money.”
He slowly shook his head. “Things just keep getting worse, don’t they?”
“Seems that way.” As soon as she’d said it, Terry wished she hadn’t; admitting it aloud added extra weight, extra certainty. They kept on, leaving the Exploratorium behind them. “I should tell you about Deever,” she said. “He disappeared, almost a year ago.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes. He was having problems with his place, cops closing him down, confiscating artwork from the walls, videotapes from the tube-rooms. He’d get arrested, get out on bail, then charges would be dropped. He was pretty sick a lot of the time, which didn’t help. Liver. About ten, eleven months ago he was closed down again, arrested. I heard he was out on bail, was going to be arraigned, but next thing I saw his building had been boarded up, order of the city. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Hasn’t anyone seen him?”
Terry shook her head. “No one. No one knows whether or not he’s still alive.”
Rheinhardt stopped walking, closed his eyes, and Terry watched him in silence, his breath deep and regular. He opened his eyes, but didn’t look at her.
“I wonder if it was a mistake, coming back,” he said.
There was such sadness, such hopelessness in his voice that Terry, too, felt almost overwhelmed by despair. She’d gradually lost more and more hope during the years he’d been gone, though not because he was gone, and now his return was making it worse. Look at us, she thought. Two cases of terminal pessimism. Terminal futility. There was a part of him slowly dying, she could see that. Was there a part of her dying as well?
Probably. She almost didn’t care anymore.
No, that wasn’t true. She did care, and even if Rheinhardt had given up (and she didn’t believe he completely had), she had not. Not yet. Not quite yet.
Terry put her arm through his, tugged slightly, and they resumed walking. She had no destination in mind, but soon Rheinhardt was leading the way, across Richardson, then a short ways to a small, run-down motel just off Lombard.
“I got a room here this morning,” Rheinhardt said. They walked up a flight of cement steps to the second floor, down past a couple of rooms, then stopped in front of a brown door, the paint peeling badly from it. Rheinhardt unlocked the door, and they stepped in.
Terry stopped just inside the room, looked around at the gray walls, the worn green carpet, the sagging bed.
“You going to stay here?” she asked.
“For a while.”
She nodded. She pulled the drapes closed, and the room darkened. Rheinhardt switched on the nightstand lamp; it cast dim orange light and pale shadows through the room. He lay back on top of the bed, looking at her. Terry sat in the chair by the window. The room was already stuffy, and she reached behind the drape, opened the window. A cool breeze blew in, billowed the drape for a moment. She wanted to go back out into the cold, damp air, walk along a deserted beach or across the clifftops above the sea.
“What are you thinking of?” Rheinhardt asked.
“Stoke.”
A slight pause, then, “It’s not my fault he’s dead.”
Terry looked at him, nodded. “I know. But seeing you again makes me think of him.” She sighed once. “Seeing you again. Christ.” Her hands had clenched into fists, and, surprised at the sudden rush of anger, she banged her right fist against the table beside the chair, then banged it twice more, harder each time. She continued to stare at Rheinhardt, breathing rapidly.
“You never wrote, god damn it! Never wrote, never called, not once in all these five fucking years.” She pounded her fist again on the table, wincing. “Why, damn you? Why?”
Rheinhardt sat up, and she watched him, waiting. Twice his mouth moved, and it looked like he was about to say something, but neither time did he say a word, and eventually he just slowly shook his head.
Terry nodded. She pulled off her sweater, unbuttoned her shirt. After a slight pause, she took off her shoes, then stood and unbuckled her belt. By the time she’d removed her jeans, Rheinhardt was sitting on the edge of the bed, undressing.
Neither spoke. Naked, they crawled in between the cool sheets, sinking into the lumpy mattress. They lay still, barely touching, and Terry listened to Rheinhardt’s regular breathing.
He reached for her, she closed her eyes, and he pulled her tight against him. His breath was warm on her neck, but his fingers were rough, hesitant, and unsure on her skin. She could hear the rain outside, pouring now, and she pressed her hips into his, not knowing what else to do.
They moved together in the dim orange light, almost struggling, intense but out of synch with one another. Under layers of sheet and blankets the heat increased, and soon Terry was sweating, her skin slick against Rheinhardt’s. He raised himself on his hands, she slid beneath him. When he entered her she opened her eyes to see his tensed face in the shadows above her.
A gust of wind billowed the drape, caught her glance, and for some reason made her think of shrouds. She shuddered as the drape fell back.
“What is it?” Rheinhardt asked.
“Nothing.” Terry pulled him tightly into her, and closed her eyes. The rain was loud and persistent on the window, and neither of them spoke again.
Rheinhardt lay on the bed and watched Terry dress. It had not gone well. Too many years, too many things still unresolved, they’d been too awkward and desperate. Now, they probably wouldn’t try again for a long time. Perhaps it was better that way.
Terry wrote on a small card, dropped it on the bed. “My address, case you’ve forgotten it. I’m still at the same apartment, still with Ann. But I’ve got no phone. Damn phone company’s cut off my line.”
“Why?”
“The Warehouse. I really don’t want to run it all right now, but there’s a lot of pressure for us to get out, vacate the building. They want to close it down.”
“Who? Solinex?”
She nodded. “Their building, their land. Look, Rheinhardt, like I said, I don’t want to talk about it now. Later, maybe. Things look bad for the Warehouse, in every damn way you can think of, and that’s all I’m going to say.” She leaned against the wall, pulled the drape aside and gazed out. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.”
“Looking for something?”
“No.” She let the drape fall and turned back to him. “We’ll talk later, Rheinhardt. I’ve got to get to work, I’m already hours late.”
“Still with Monterey House?”
“Yes.” She opened the door. Cold and rain gusted inside. “Good-bye, Rheinhardt. I think I’m glad you’re back.”
“I’ll see you, Terry.”
She stepped out, closed the door behind her.
The room was quiet and cold. Rheinhardt got out of bed, pulled on his black jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He lay back across the bed and gazed silently at the ceiling, listening to the loud rain falling outside.
Terry walked to the bus stop at one of the Presidio gates, stood in front of a slatted wooden bench, thinking about what had just happened.
She felt uncomfortable, sticky between the legs. It had been stupid, in a way, as well as awkward. She had always been so careful, and so had Rheinhardt, and this time neither of them had done a damn thing. Working at Monterey House all these years, she knew as well as anyone that it only took once to get pregnant. Given the time of month, it wasn’t likely. Still. Stupid. She wanted to take a shower. Maybe she could squeeze one in at the House if things were slow.
Rheinhardt was back. She still didn’t know what exactly she felt about it, besides confused, didn’t know what, if anything, she wanted from him. Time, she told herself. It had been too many years, it would take a while.
Terry put her foot on the bench seat, turned it slowly from side to side, then pushed back with it, an ache rising in her chest. She sat on the bench and waited for a bus to come.
A sharp knocking sounded at the door. Rheinhardt jerked slightly, half asleep, sat up on the bed with bits of strange, half-waking dreams scattering. The knocking sounded again.
“Yeah?”
The door knob rattled, wouldn’t turn. Rheinhardt stood, still disoriented, walked to the door and opened it, expecting Terry. Justinian stood in front of him, grinning and dripping from the rain.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Rheinhardt asked.
The short old man pushed past Rheinhardt and into the room. “Close the door, damn it, it’s cold out there.”
Rheinhardt closed the door. Justinian sat in the window chair, unraveled his thick, wet scarf and laid it over the chair arm. “Got a cigarette?” he asked.
Rheinhardt went to his rucksack, dug out cigarettes and matches. After lighting a cigarette for himself, he sat on the edge of the bed and tossed matches and cigarettes to Justinian.
“You following me, or what?” Rheinhardt asked.
Justinian dragged deeply on his cigarette. Two or three days growth of beard stubbled his face, most of the whiskers white. His skin was a carpet of deep, mottled wrinkles. He’d aged a lot in five years.
“Yes,” Justinian said. “No. Depends on your perspective. I’ve been with you, not following. Important distinction.”
“With me.”
“Yes. I am your dwarf.”
“You’re not a dwarf, Justinian. A little short, but not a dwarf.”
Justinian inhaled, blew a slow, large smoke ring, popped a smaller one through it. “Didn’t say I was a dwarf. I am your dwarf. Another important distinction.”
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Not for me to explain. It’s for you to learn.”
“Christ.”
“I have been the dwarf for others before you, and I will be the dwarf for others after. Don’t start thinking it means you’re something special.”
“You’re a god damn lunatic, Justinian.” He pointed to the door with his cigarette. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Justinian took one final drag, then crushed out the cigarette on the windowsill. “You need an ashtray in here.” He stood. “I can leave this room, but I won’t be leaving you, Rheinhardt. It’s not that easy.”
“Out.”
The old man wrapped his scarf carefully around his neck. He opened the door, again letting in the rain and the cold.
“It’s not hopeless,” Justinian said.
Rheinhardt didn’t respond. He sat motionless on the bed, watching the old man. Justinian finally nodded, stepped outside, and pulled the door shut.
Rheinhardt remained on the edge of the bed and finished his cigarette.
Three
Dusk was falling, dark with heavy clouds overhead, but there was no rain. Rheinhardt came around the corner, slowed as he looked across the street at Deever’s building. The front door and ground-floor windows were boarded or grilled over, and two NO TRESPASSING signs were posted in the yard, one tilting on its post. The front doors on the ground and third floors were both boarded over, doorknobs covered with police security seals.
The streetlights were on, the few in the neighborhood that still worked, and window lights were on in other buildings, but Deever’s place was quiet and dark. Rheinhardt crossed the street, went to the side of the building, climbed over the tall fence and dropped into the narrow alley. It was darker than out on the street, and he slowly worked his way by feel through the empty garbage cans and wooden crates.
In the backyard he could see a little better. Two of the back windows were broken and partially covered by cracked wooden slats, but the door, though locked, wasn’t boarded over or sealed. Rheinhardt crouched behind the wooden steps leading to the second and third floors, reached up under the third step, felt for the small ring of keys hanging on a nail. He found them, stood, walked around the stairs to the back door. The keys still worked, and he unlocked the knob and both dead bolts, slipped inside and quickly shut the door.
Inside was even darker than the alley. Rheinhardt took out the needle light Justinian had given him, flicked it on. He swept the narrow beam slowly back and forth across the back room, creating thin moving shadows. The stage was empty, the open floor cluttered with tipped-over folding chairs, crumpled sheets of paper, a few broken beer bottles.
He went into the front room, where little seemed to be disturbed. Tables and chairs, covered with a thick layer of dust, were upright, but the walls were all blank, empty—no artwork hung from them, no paintings or photographs or drawings.
Rheinhardt started up the stairs to the second floor, and was halfway up when he realized something else was wrong. He backed up to the railing and ran the light beam over the wall running up to the second floor. It, too, was blank, where before it had been covered with layers of artwork in acrylics, watercolors, oils, felt markers. Roller strokes were visible. Someone had come in and painted over all the artwork.
