Arc D'X (37 page)

Suddenly he heard her rise from the bed. There were only a few more moments in which he heard her rustling in the room, and then the door of the room opened and she paused to think about turning on the light to see him; and then he heard her footsteps hurry down the stairs. Where had she gone? How long would it be before she came back? He picked himself up from the floor and lay on the bed. His enervation, the way he felt as though he'd receded up into himself, was appalling. Everything had been fine until she said it. Even when he was in her mouth it had been fine.

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He was convinced he could have stopped himself before he lost control. But he'd had his first orgasm and now the only thing he kept telling himself was that it was dark and there were no witnesses, that even she wasn't a witness. Was the old man downstairs behind the front desk a witness? Would she tell the old man that Georgie had lost control? She wouldn't tell the old man, Georgie reassured himself. But none of this calmed him much because unfortunately there had been a witness and the witness was Georgie. There was no lying to Georgie about it. There had been a witness and the witness was Georgie and he saw himself now in the dark standing over him: the eyes of the birdwoman burned with accusation. It was not the fucking, it was the collapse of control and the indulgent expense of his essence. The solitude of the orgasm, the loneliness of it, was disgusting. Everything had been fine until she said it.

What had it meant, that at the height of his power over her and in the depths of his humiliation of her, she had said it and he'd lost everything? She'd said it like a magic word and immediately it had broken his power over her. The more he thought about this the more he knew he had to wait for her to come back so he could strip her and take her by the neck and hold her in the deathgrip of love and fuck her again in triumph without capitulation. She'd be disabused of any meaning she thought his orgasm might have had.

He waited in the dark for several hours and only after he decided he could bear to see himself did he get up and find a light and turn it on. He did this because he was seized by curiosity about her and wanted to find out what he could by rifling through her belongings and because he suddenly had this alarming idea that maybe she robbed him of the American's cassettes and the piece of the Wall.

But in the light he found on the floor, halfway between the door and the bed, the shirt with the objects wrapped in it.

He also found, to his great bewilderment, the room empty. There were no belongings. There were no clothes in the closet or drawers, nothing in the bathroom. It didn't take even Georgie long to understand the woman might not be coming back at all.

America, she'd said; but she wasn't American. He could tell on the phone she was German. He pulled out of his pants' pocket the American's wallet and began going through it looking for a name, STEVE E R I C K S O N • 239

perhaps scribbled on a tiny scrap of paper, but there was no name, there was no tiny scrap of paper; Georgie yelped in fury and frustration. For another hour he sat on the bed and then pulled on his pants, tied the American's shirt to his belt, and went downstairs.

The old man wasn't behind the desk now. During the time Georgie had been upstairs the old man had gone off his shift and now no one was behind the desk, and the hotel door was locked with no key to be found. I'm locked in the fucking hotel! Georgie thought to himself in disbelief. He kicked his foot through the door and glass came raining down in such an explosion he even startled himself, covering his face with his arms; with his bare elbow he knocked out the rest of the glass and stepped through. Animals howled in the distance. Now there will be witnesses, was all he could think; even more miserably he supposed that since he'd broken the glass he couldn't very well return the next night to ask the old man about the woman who had been in number twenty-eight.

Everything's fucked up now, Georgie thought disconsolately, looking at his bleeding arms.

The S-Bahn was closed. Georgie walked from Savignyplatz to the Ku'damm, where he might have been in the mood to vandalize a few of the stores if he hadn't had other things on his mind, and if he hadn't already been bleeding from broken glass. It had been some time since he'd been to the Ku'damm and now he noted how many of the stores were no longer there. Two stray taxis rolling up and down the boulevard refused to stop for him; for half a block he ran along the second one pounding on the side, swearing the Pale Flame's eternal revenge. By morning the taxi driver, having thought over the threat, would be halfway to Munich.

To avoid the Wittenbergplatz where most of the city's remaining cops were, Georgie headed to Zoo Station and then northeast through the Tiergarten, constantly on the alert for police and tigers. It was pretty obvious he couldn't allow himself to get picked up by cops with all the American's things. He thought of disposing of the wallet but he'd still have the passport, which was too valuable to cast aside, and Georgie wanted to go through the wallet one more time anyway in case he'd missed something. He had to get rid of the wallet carefully because if anyone found anything that they could connect with the body at Checkpoint Charlie, they A R C D'X • 240

might trace the American back to his hotel in the Savignyplatz; in modern day Berlin the police never went to that sort of trouble but this was an American, and maybe that made it different. Georgie found himself giving the various details of this particular murder more attention than usual, and was still thinking about it when he came upon a segment of the Neuwall standing completely isolated in a clearing of the park, gleaming in the moonlight through the trees. It had the impact of a white tomb. Before tonight Georgie would have attacked it mercilessly; now he shrank from it.

It was dawn by the time he reached his flat.

He bandaged his arms and sat up all day looking at the American's things. He burned the driver's license and social security card, and was surprised to find no credit cards; didn't all Americans have credit cards? This afternoon he'd take the passport over to Curt on the other side of Kreuzberg and put him to work on it.

Erickson wasn't a bad name; Georgie could make use of it. It could have been worse, Rodriguez or Tyrone Something, but on the other hand Georgie wouldn't have wasted his time with a fucking Rodriguez or Tyrone. Would a Rodriguez or Tyrone have this piece of the Wall? Georgie couldn't get enough of looking at the stone. He unfolded the cover of the American's book, tearing away the title and the author's name and everything else until all that was left was the picture of the buried city and the black cat in the white sand that glistened in the light of the huge white moon like the lump of Neuwall Georgie had seen in the Tiergarten a few hours before. In his flat he went over to where he'd pinned the seventy-seven cards of his American Tarot and stuck the picture of the buried city in the place of the missing seventy-eighth. For a while he played the American's cassettes.

He was not right. I'm not right today, Georgie said to himself, why not? Was he beginning to blur around the edges like everything else? Was he several seconds ahead of his moment like everything else? He couldn't stop thinking about her. He waited impatiently for the dark as though down the hall from his flat, outside in the street somewhere, a phone would ring with the arrival of night and she would have for him another hotel and another room number. He kept his eyes peeled for witnesses; he lay in bed with his hands on his chest and became transfixed, for STEVE ERICKSON • 241

the first time, not with the head of the birdwoman who walked from the flames, not with what dripped from her mouth, but her breasts. Their violation in his mind reduced them to the ornaments of pathetic degradation they were, and he sprang from his bed and prowled the flat as the animals used to do in the Tiergarten's cages, waiting for their release. The pupil of the night's eye dilated around him. He stood and gazed at his tarot and at the picture of the buried city that replaced the card he'd always missed; he went to his slab of Wall in the center of the flat and now it too took on the appearance of a tomb, much as had the Neuwall in the woods.

Georgie seized the spray can that sat on the floor and wrote the return OF the queen of wands. Then he sat on the floor in front of his new graffiti and waited.

He'd never watched the graffiti actually disappear before. He had no idea whether it vanished in the blink of an eye or faded away slowly, over the course of hours or only minutes: "This is a good time to figure this out," Georgie advised himself. He sat waiting, staring out of the dim floodlights of the flat at his new black message until he'd fixed his attention on it so long and so fiercely he finally drifted. He slumped on the floor and slipped into a dark room where he saw the bare outline of a woman. He recognized the slope of her back and the fullness of her breasts, he recognized the caress of being inside her even as he couldn't make out her face. When he woke he'd spilled his semen for the second time of his life, within twenty-four hours of the first. On his Wall the graffiti was gone.

Georgie stood gazing down at himself. He would have exchanged in a moment the shame of his semen for the honor of his own blood gurgling from a wound. Once again he glanced around as though someone might have seen him; he was also extremely annoyed that he'd fallen asleep on his graffiti watch. Once again the graffiti had slipped away into the Wall somewhere, through the slit of historical memory to which this piece of the Wall was the livid vulva, like all the graffiti since the first day the Wall came here and SONIC men, anonymous god had disappeared. Georgie cleaned himself of his semen, scrubbing himself until he was raw, and then stumbled back to the bed; once again, even in exhaustion—he hadn't slept since before he'd murdered the American—he A R C D'X • 242

thrashed his way through the night. Once again he got up and put on another cassette. Once again he returned to his blank Wall to take the spray can and telegraph another message into the void: the pursuit of happiness he wrote.

And now in the ultimate subversion of himself it was his graffiti that revolted him. Because suddenly the words lost all banality and history; they throbbed before his eyes and hinted at something he could neither resist nor understand, the Wall seething and the words shuddering with danger as he recoiled from them. He wanted them to disappear immediately. If at this moment Georgie had had the means he would have emasculated himself with the swipe of a blade and sprayed the pursuit of happiness with the blood of his amputated sex, until the whole Wall was the red of death's honor rather than the white of pleasure's shame.

The Queen of Wands is the card of passion. Her throne rises from the rubble of the fallen wall, and the sands of the American plain blow over her from the east. In this way her passion rises from the American earth; she's a thing of the earth and the passion's a thing of her. At her feet is a large black cat. A round white sphere rises behind her against a dark blue sky. The rod in her hand intimates magic but the magic's really in the hand and not the rod. Her brooding beauty cages the very breath of every man who lays eyes on her and blasts loose the underpinnings on which he's confidently and foolishly built a feeble life. She is without true malice. At her moments of greatest fury the rod may take on the appearance of a knife; that she always fails to use it isn't a sign of weakness but of a goodness she can't overcome.

Rather her powers of destruction lie not in hate but chaos, just as the antithesis to God is chaos; and her chaos blows across those in her realm like the sands that bury her throne. She's fickle and will betray, without reason or warning, the one who loves her most.

She's hungry for whatever love any man can give her and because she doesn't trust either love or herself she'll abuse both, and rush to the next man who might give her a love the previous man could STEVE E R I C K S O N • 243

not, in her search for the love that somehow raises her above her own throne, for which she has contempt. She doesn't believe in what she deserves and she deserves more than she'll ever know.

Though Georgie imagines her as fair and golden the Queen of Wands is dark, her beauty understands that white is not the color of illumination but emptiness and that black is not the color of the void but eternity. Though the rings of her regeneration grow paler in time the core of her memory becomes the glowing ebony of a collapsed star: in the American Tarot she's not the Queen of Wands at all but the Queen of Slaves.

Georgie doesn't know this since he's never seen her. The card's great presence for him lies in its absence, because the absence of a single card renders all other cards invalid. Since a year ago when he first stole the deck off an old Parisian Jew in Zoo Station, the meaning of his queen has in her absence grown only more magnificent. Now in the dark in his flat, just below the surface of the floodlights, in every fitful dream he sees just a little more of the woman in the dark yet not enough so that he can tell her hair is black and not gold, her eyes are the green of the sea and not the blue of the sky. She inches just a little further into view. She hovers just a little closer into the present. The shape of her becomes just a little more distinct. But Georgie doesn't know that the Queen of Wands, or the Queen of Slaves, is not the creature tattooed on his chest for instance. He's only figured out that his queen is waiting for him in a buried city, like the one in the picture that has replaced her on his wall, and that the buried city is not Berlin but somewhere in America at the future's farthest point of exhaustion, which means he has a long way to go and not long to get there before the big day arrives, the distance growing farther with every day that time grows shorter.

Nevertheless the black hollow of the Beichstag yawns before Georgie tonight. At this point the nights are running together: was it last night he killed the American, or the night before? Georgie hasn't gone to the Beichstag in a long time, frequenting when he does only that part of it controlled by the Pale Flame; he's never gone into the Beichstag basement. The Beichstag basement is ver-boten by Pale Flame law. But the nights are running together now and there's no sleep for Georgie from thinking about what happened to him in the dark of room twenty-eight at the Crystal Hotel.