Sleeping in Flame (30 page)

thought it was only my tostada going down the wrong way, but when the walls cracked and the front window blew out I knew we were in for it.

What do you think about when you're watching your own death? Phil kept saying "This isn't a movie! This is _not_ a movie!" Good old Strayhorn. I froze but he pulled me out of there in time. We stood in the parking lot feeling the ground do the hula under our feet. We looked at each other. What the hell else can you do?

To make a sad story short, both of our houses slid into the canyon and along with them everything important we owned. So what? We're still alive while too many people out here aren't. Too many friends disappeared and haven't shown up yet. We're assuming the worst, Goddamn it.

God. That's one funny creature, isn't He? Especially when you see all this suffering and loss. Did I tell you that I used to be a regular church-goer? I was.

Naturally things have changed. My perspective is very different. Being a famous movie mogul looks absurd in this context. So no matter what happens, I have decided that when I can square away what's left here, I'm going to flee this ruin (parts of it are that bad) and travel. Appropriately enough, our studio withstood the quake. Most of the studios did. Ain't it perfect for

Hollywood? That means I'm obligated to finish _Wonderful_, but that shouldn't take long.

After it's done I'm taking the salary they gave me and travel on it.

Strayhorn says I should buy a new house, but I don't want to be around here now. Maybe not ever again. We'll see. All this verbal diarrhea is only to say that sooner or later I'd like to come through Vienna and see you, if that's okay. I'm starting out in New York so I can catch up on news with my friend

Cullen James (remember her, Maris? Your lookalike?), then on to Europe. I don't know what the schedule is precisely, but I'll keep you posted. I want to keep a clean dance card in terms of obligations to either clock or calendar.

Why this letter? Because I realized after all the trouble here that I liked you both very much. When you see the shine on the reaper's blade up close, you realize it's important to be with people who make you feel good to be alive. Both of you did that for me and I'm grateful. I hope a little of it is mutual. I'll be in touch. Don't leave Vienna!

My love, Weber

Dear Maris and Walker, With you in the hospital and me out of luck here in broken L.A., it seems that we younger Yorks could use a good dose of luck right now. As I told you over the phone, I'm physically okay, but not mentally.

Glenn's death burned a hole through the middle of everything I am. I pray you never have to experience what it's like to watch someone you love die. No matter how brave or strong you think you are, their loss puts a layer of ash over everything that once mattered. His clothes, his motorcycle that made too much noise, his half-finished pack of cigarettes in the rubble call my name and there's no way of covering my ears. You know me -- I used to be too distant and amused by life to let it sink its teeth into much of me, but I realize now that Glenn's being allowed me that distance. He compensated for it with his total involvement in everything we knew together. I miss his banging in the door and up the stairs to
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tell me about the bag lady on Hollywood

Boulevard who gave him a chocolate-chip cookie. Best of all, he wouldn't go on about how sweet it was of her to do that. Only how great the cookie tasted on a hot afternoon.

I hope you and Walker are well, notwithstanding the hospital thing. I never said much about it when you were here, but I like your new man very much. I'm only sorry we didn't have more time together. Have his dreams/magic either smoothed out or explained themselves? My experience over the years with people who've been touched by the miraculous is that if they're decent and caring, they will prevail. Many of them prevail _and_ use that power to good ends. I don't know what I could do for you here but if there is anything, please let me know.

The earthquake destroyed our house, so all I've been doing recently is going through the ruins for anything that can be salvaged. There isn't much.

I'm staying with a friend until I can find another place. But that can wait.

No house this time, though. Houses are for more than one person. Alone, there's too much empty room. Empty rooms are never good company.

Not much else to tell. Californians can't believe this has happened. For years people talked about the coming earthquake, but no one really believed it would come. Everyone had a few extra flashlights and canned food stored in a closet, but we were even embarrassed to admit to those precautions. One of the ironies was Glenn's total paranoia about it. We fought more than once about earthquakes. A week before it happened, he said he was seriously thinking of moving out of the state because the possibility scared him more the longer he lived here.

"How can you move out of California when you're so successful?"

"Because you can't be successful when you're dead, Ingram."

Call me if you need anything -- the number is below. I miss you and am happy for the Easterlings and the coming child. The hospital is only for a while, Maris. I'm sure of that. The rest, the good things, will be waiting for you when you get home and have all the rest of your lives to enjoy them.

I love you, Ingram

She looked up with tears in her eyes. "The poor guy. What can we do for him?"

"Make a tape and send it to him."

"Something more than _that_. His whole life is gone, Walker. The closest I ever came to that feeling was when Luc chased me around Munich. It's misery every day. Being in here is dreamy compared to that."

"In your tape tell him to call a guy named Michael Billa. I'll give you the number."

"Who's Michael Billa?"

"A man I know out there. They'll like each other."

"How do you know he didn't get killed in the earthquake?"

"I . . . talked to him the other day. Believe me, Maris. They're right for each other."

"Hmm. You're not telling me something. Your mouth is too flat. It always gets flat when you have a secret."

I kissed her forehead and smiled like a politician.

"I know you, Walker. You're holding lots of things back from me these days. Aren't you?"

"Not so many."

"Enough. What's happening with the bicycle nut? Did you find out anything new?"

"I think he's lying low. Wants me to think about that Mr. Pencil bit awhile."

"What about your dreams? Anything new happening there?"

"Nope."

"Your mouth is tight again."

"Maris, you've got enough to think about now. I'm not holding back anything I can't handle.

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Sure, the dreams are continuing, and I worry about the bicycle man, but that's not new. You're my greatest concern. You and our child are most important. If you want to help me, take care of yourself.

Ingram's letter says it right. Our earthquake was your getting sick. But _we've_ still got a chance to beat it. I'm not trying to sound patronizing, but if you can hold on and keep steady till you're well, then we're going to be able to say 'Fuck you, earthquake. Our lives are our own, not yours.'"

I knew no one named Michael Billa. His name and telephone number slid into my mind the way

"fist to chin" slid in the day at the train station. I only knew that when Billa and Ingram York got together they would fall in love.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm looking for the children's section."

"Two aisles down on the right. Is there anything special I can help with?"

"I'd like to see whatever editions of _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ you have."

"There are a few there. I'm sure of it."

I walked down past the fiction. The new Stephen King novel, _Flash and Blood_ (translated as _Schmerz_ in German) stopped me and I thought to buy it.

But reading the German title (_Pain_) reminded me of how far off translations can be. In homage to King, I decided to wait until the English version arrived in town.

The children's section was small but loaded with those tall, thin, mostly picture books that cost so much and give a kid so little after one or two reads. Ten dollars for eleven words on each page about a lost ball that finds its way home.

Cramped in next to them here and there were standard editions of the classics. Hans Christian Andersen, Perrault, Wilhelm Busch's _Max und Moritz_.

As a child I didn't read much, but the books I remembered were these and other oldies that gave you real worlds, rather than long pages, bright colors, and tepid climaxes.

There were two copies of Grimms: one for little readers and the other a no-frills/no-pictures copy printed in the old German script. I chose the second. Remembering Buck's story about the definitive edition found in the

Ölenberg Monastery, I turned to the front of the book to see if this was one of them.

"This is what you're looking for."

I turned, knowing the voice. He had trimmed his beard and was wearing a dark blue double-breasted suit that was the twin to one I owned.

"Nice suit."

He looked pleased. "I thought so too after I saw you in yours. Like son, like father."

"Why are you regular size now?"

"Change. Something different. A new perspective. Do you want this book or not? I bought it for you, so you might as well take it. I already know the story." When he smiled, his teeth were white and straight.

"New teeth too?"

"Don't you like them?" He curled his hand into a fist, a familiar fist, and put it to his chin. When he smiled again his teeth and mouth were the brown graveyard I remembered. "Better?"

"Why are you here?"

"You keep wanting to talk to me, Walter. I thought I'd let you do it once." He shot his cuff and looked at a gold wristwatch. "You have five minutes."

"That's not enough, it's too fast. You should give me time to think of what I want to ask you."

"I don't have to give you _shit_, son. You want to talk to me? Do it now."

"Did you make Maris bleed?"

"Yes."

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"Why?"

"To remind you of certain things."

"Will you leave her alone if I go with you?"

"I'll leave both her _and_ the child alone. It's a boy, in case you were wondering. He'll look more like her than you, if he ever grows up."

"Why would you hurt them? What's the point?"

"Why would you hurt me, boy? That's a better point. I've given you every chance in the world.

But this is the first time you've ever known exactly what's happening, so this time it's the finale.

"You stay and try to be human, then I stop you. If you come back to me, you'll leave a happy widow and child. Your son will grow up thinking lovely thoughts about his dead daddy, and your wife will never remarry. She's very much in love with you. This time you chose well. Not like the Greek woman."

"Did you do that to Lillis?"

"Yes. You have a minute and a half."

"What if I go with you?"

"First you die here. We get out of this world and take you back where you belong. Then I'll have to show you again how to become your real self. The self you should be."

"You said in one of the dreams that our place _is_ Vienna!"

"Another Vienna, Walter. A city you've forgotten. You've been back here so many times. Every life you've felt a pull to live here, but never once have you understood why. Vienna is your father's city. One more question."

"What if I say no?"

"You won't. You love Maris too much. That's one of the good parts in you. Once you realize there's no choice, you'll come home."

"What will happen if I don't?"

"Maris will die and I'll take the child. There'll be nothing you can do about it, either. Bye-bye.

"No, don't touch me! Until you know my name, your magic only works on them. Sometimes.

That once in my room when I couldn't see you was a joke.

Don't take it as any sign. That's why I want you to come home. I want to teach you all the things you've forgotten." He touched my shoulder gently. "The first lesson will be to find out what Papa's name is."

"How long do I have?"

"A month."

"Will you leave us alone until then? Completely alone. No tricks, no spying . . ."

He looked at me. "Yes, that's fair. I'll leave you completely alone. No, I'll give you until your birthday. That's twenty-six days. I'll give you twenty-six days alone to say good bye. That should be long enough."

I carried the new monitor into the living room and connected it to the computer. I went through the box of discs looking for the word-processing one again. I hoped that turning it on wouldn't bring a repeat of what had happened the last time.

The names of the computer programs sounded like buzz words on the Starship Enterprise: "V-Ram." "Copy Star." "Signum."

"_I_ think we should put up the V-Ram shields, Mr. Spock. We're coming to Signum_."

"_It's only a copy star, sir. Nothing to worry about._"

In the middle of these space names appeared "DEGAS."

"'DEGAS'? What are you doing here?"

I fed the disc into the computer and turned it on. It was one of Maris's art programs. After much fiddling around I managed to bring up from its memory drawings of buildings and cities she'd done.

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What talent she had! Talent and humor and a truly distinctive way of interpreting the world. She didn't like to show work that wasn't finished and would have been angry if she knew I was snooping in her files. But I excused myself on the spot and continued looking.

I had never asked if she wished she were an architect and not a visionary in miniature. You always come up with questions to ask when the person isn't around to answer. She believed in magic and she believed in God.

But what did she think of heaven and hell? Did she want a boy or a girl for her first child? What things did I do that got on her nerves but she never told me about? What could I do to make it better?

There was a drawing for a clown museum in the form of a magician's hat, a villa by the sea shaped like a woman's hand opening toward the water.