Kings of Infinite Space: A Novel (12 page)

“Pardon me?” Paul glowered back at J.J.

“Forgive our friend’s choler.” The Colonel reached around the table and squeezed J.J.’s bicep manfully. “It’s his way of showing fellowship. Isn’t that right, J.J.?” He squeezed a little harder, and J.J. winced and said, “Sorry.”

“Sure.” Paul felt his face get hot, and he took a big bite of his sandwich.

Bob Wier said, “I was just saying what a
blessing
the Duke’s example was to the American man. A paragon of strength”—Bob Wier balled up his fist—“and tenderness.” He opened his hand. It was as if he were gesturing for the benefit of the parishioners in the pews all the way in the back. “Why, even my wife, Barb,” Bob went on, “was a fan of the Duke.”

The Colonel and J.J. froze and glared at Bob Wier, J.J. crushing his burger, the Colonel squeezing his chopsticks so tightly that a pink fleck of sushi shot across the table. Even Paul froze, involuntarily, his gaze shifting back and forth as he clutched his sandwich halfway to his lips.

“Bob,” warned J.J.

“Time to move on, son,” intoned the Colonel.

“Right.” Bob Wier’s face drained of color, and he dropped his gaze to the Tupperware dish before him. He rolled a fat little carrot between thumb and forefinger. “Of course. You’re absolutely right.”

Still watching Bob Wier, J.J. slowly fed the burger into his mouth. The Colonel dipped his chopsticks into his lunch box. Paul took a cautious bite of his cheese sandwich.

Bob Wier drew a deep, shuddering breath and soldiered on. “It’s just that when I think of how John Wayne bore Natalie Wood up in his arms at the end of
The Searchers—”

“Fuuuuck,” said J.J. in a dismissive diminuendo.

Bob Wier widened his eyes. “No?” he said.

“Well, I don’t fucking get it!” whined J.J. “Check out her eyebrows, for chrissake! You ever see an Indian with lipstick and blush?”

“The Lord’s name, J.J.,” said Bob Wier, smiling ferociously.

“Okay, sorry, but Jesus, Bob, what about that other guy, whatshisname, the bad guy, the evil Comanche—”

“Scar,” said Paul, without thinking. What am I doing? he thought. He was still wondering what had just happened.

“Yeah,
Scar.”
J.J. rolled his eyes. “Fucker had five o’clock shadow, for cry yi. He was sucking in his gut for the whole movie.”

“Gentlemen, please.” The Colonel laughed, reaching to either side to grasp the wrists of Bob Wier and J.J. “A little decorum, if you please. Our guest here will think we’re savages ourselves.”

Paul wondered if it was too late to get up and sit somewhere else. Meanwhile, Bob Wier squeezed his eyes shut and moved his lips in silent prayer. Across the table J.J. sighed and dropped his sullen gaze to his paper plate.

“All I was trying to say,” Bob Wier said, opening his eyes, “was what a splendid role model the Duke was. Especially as he got older.” He poked a celery stick at the tabletop for emphasis. “The very picture of a man aging gracefully.” He
crunched off the end of the celery stick. “In great movies like
Big Jake
and
Cahill: U.S. Marshall.”

“The Sons of Katie Elder,”
mumbled J.J. through a mouthful of french fries.

“Yes! Praise Jesus!” Bob Wier crunched his celery and lifted his eyes to heaven. “What’s that wonderful line from
Chisum?”

“Jism?” said J.J. with a glint in his eye.

“Knock it off, son,” warned the Colonel.

Bob Wier ignored them both. “Somebody asks him . . .”
Crunch, crunch
. “Oh yes, somebody says, ‘Where are you going, John?’ and he says—” Swallowing his celery, Bob Wier threw his shoulders back and essayed the lurching rhythms of a pretty fair John Wayne imitation. “ ‘Somethin’ I shoulda done thirty years ago.’ ”

“That’s not what he says!” protested J.J., his mouth full.

“So let me get this straight.” Paul was astonished to hear himself weighing in. “We admire John Wayne because he’s a procrastinator?”

Bob Wier broadened his smile at Paul, unsure whether Paul was joking or not. The Colonel’s gaze drilled into him from across the table. J.J. shot an angry glance at the Colonel, as if to say,
I told you so
.

This was a mistake, Paul thought, I shouldn’t have sat down here. He was aware of the Colonel’s gaze on him.

“Jism,” snorted J.J. again, in case no one had heard him the first time.

“I don’t think the professor agrees with you, Bob,” said the Colonel, ignoring him. He had finished his exquisite little lunch and was closing up the enameled box. He dabbed at the corners of his lips with a creamy linen napkin.

“Really!” said Bob Wier, a little too enthusiastically. He folded his hands and peered at Paul earnestly. “It’d be a blessing to hear your thoughts on the subject.”

Paul held up a finger; he was chewing.

“I think what the professor wants to say,” said the Colonel, carefully folding his napkin, “is that in the later movies—pardon me, the later
films
—of Marion Morrison, what we see is
not a role model, not a moral paragon, but an
actor
. And not just an actor, but a vain old movie star in a wig and a corset who let his stuntman do everything but the close-ups.” The Colonel smiled across the table. “I think the professor here prefers the dark, neurotic John Wayne of
Red River
, the—how shall I put it?” He placed his hands on either side of his Japanese lunch box. “The Nixonesque John Wayne, John Wayne as King Lear, if you will. And do you know, gentlemen? He’s right.” He held up his creased palm. Bob Wier nodded earnestly, while J.J. glared at Paul and shoved a limp bundle of fries into his mouth.

“Those earlier films of Mr. Morrison’s,” the Colonel continued, “are the work of a mature artist, a man at the peak of his powers as a professional
and
as a man. With all due respect to you, Bob, those earlier films convey more of the richness and complexity of
life
than do the more, shall we say, self-indulgent work of his waning years.”

“Hm.” Bob Wier rubbed his chin.

“A corset,” said J.J., chewing slowly. “Fuck.”

“Now,” The Colonel leveled his gaze at Paul “Is that a fair assessment of your position?”

Paul swallowed his mouthful of cheese sandwich. What he wanted to say was, John
Wayne?
Hell, I don’t even like westerns. The only John Wayne movie he remembered really enjoying was a boneheaded epic (he couldn’t recall the name) where Wayne, in heavy makeup, played Genghis Khan. But if he had given the Duke’s
oove
any thought over the years, then, well yes, he’d have to admit, grudgingly, that he preferred
Red River
to Wayne’s later films. But only, he would have hastened to add, because it was the work of a great filmmaker like Howard Hawks, not because of
John Wayne
, for chrissakes.

“Well, okay, yes,” he began, but before he could qualify his answer, the Colonel said, “Outstanding. I thought as much. Now, gentlemen.” The Colonel emphatically clapped his hands together, once. “Topic B: The welcome, if brief return to our midst of the redoubtable Stanley Tulendij. What are we to make of this unexpected visit?”

Paul took another bite of his sandwich. Bob Wier was snapping the lid of his Tupperware, and J.J. was rubbing his lips with a wad of paper napkin, but both men swiveled their gazes in Paul’s direction. Even the Colonel narrowed his eyes from across the table.

His mouth full, his sandwich clutched between his hands, Paul glanced from J.J. to the Colonel to Bob Wier. He forced himself to swallow. “You’re asking me?”

The three men watched him intently. They did not say a word.

Paul felt his face get warm again. “I, uh, only just met the guy . . .”

“But you’ve heard the story,” said J.J. “Everybody’s heard the story.”

“The layoffs,” said Bob Wier. “His defiance.”

“A man at the peak of his personal and professional powers,” said the Colonel, “cut down in his prime.”

“Sacrificing himself for his men,” said Bob Wier.

“He faced his enemies,” said the Colonel, “and drew a line in the sand.”

“Cross
that
, motherfucker,” said J.J., flinging down his wadded-up napkin.

“The fateful bus trip,” said Bob Wier.

“That fucking storm,” said J.J.

“The
sinkhole,”
intoned the Colonel, leaning across the table and folding his hands while gravely fixing Paul with his gaze.

“I, uh,” stammered Paul, “I think somebody might have mentioned it to me . . .”

“The man stood up, Paul.” The Colonel’s voice was tight with emotion. “He did what a man should.”

Paul squeezed his sandwich. They would not stop looking at him. “Well,” he said at last, “good for him.”

A glance passed between his three companions. They seemed to withdraw the tiniest increment from him, as if he had failed some test.

“Amen,” said Bob Wier, burping his Tupperware.

“Yeah, right.” J.J. glanced around the room.

The Colonel banked his gaze and silently ground his palms together.

“Nolene told me.” Paul was at once foolishly eager not to disappoint these guys and furious at himself for his eagerness. “About Stanley Tulendij.” Shut up! he told himself.

“Nolene. Ah, yes.” The Colonel frowned at the tabletop.

What’s going on here? Paul wondered. What are they trying to get me to say?

“ ‘I will leave you in the desert,’ ” Bob Wier said. “Ezekiel twenty-nine, five.” He lifted up his hands, playing to the back pews again. “ ‘Then all who live in Egypt will know that I am the Lord.’ Twenty-nine, six.”

“There’s a Rashomon aspect to the situation, Professor.” The Colonel peered significantly at Paul. “You may have heard one version of what happened to Stanley Tulendij, but you have not heard the
truth.”

“Amen,” breathed Bob Wier.

You’ve got it wrong, Paul wanted to say. The point of
Rashomon
is not that one of the stories is true and the others are lies, it’s that no one will ever be able to tell. There is no truth, you overbearing son of a bitch. That’s what it means to invoke
Rashomon
. And stop calling me professor. . . .

“Paul.” Bob Wier clasped his hands together on the table-top. He almost looked as if he might cry. “It’s a real blessing to have you join the team. I just wanted to say that.”

“Nuff said.” J.J. repressed a belch and pushed himself back from the table. Bob Wier stood also.

“Actually, Bob,” Paul said, “I’ve been—”

“I think what our good friend Paul is trying to say,” said the Colonel, “is that he’s already been on the team for a good—what is it?—a good six weeks now.” He made no move to get up from the table. “Isn’t that right, Paul?”

Paul simply stared at the Colonel as J.J. slouched off and Bob Wier swung away. The Colonel leaned back and folded his fingers over his belt buckle.

“I
know
what I wanted to say.” Paul kept his voice low. The rumble of the lunchroom was diminishing behind him. He
heard the scrape of chairs as other people stood to return to work.

The Colonel lifted his palm. “I should have let you speak for yourself. I know our luncheon conversation is a little overwhelming for a newcomer. The cut and thrust. The attack and parry. I know you want to contribute—I could see it in your eyes, son—but your time will come, don’t worry.” He watched Paul with a hint of a smile. “I apologize.”

Paul smiled tightly and said, “No harm done.”

“My two compatriots are both of them fine men,” said the Colonel, placing his hands on the table edge. He let his gaze drift past Paul’s shoulder to where J.J. and Bob Wier were threading their way out of the room. “Bob’s a simple man, but godly. And J.J.’s youthful enthusiasm . . . well, I see myself, thirty years ago.” He focused on Paul again. “But there’s no culture in them, Professor. Not like there is in you and I.” He smiled. “Perhaps even a bit of the
artiste
, no?”

Paul simply stared at him.

“But that’s a conversation for another time.” The Colonel pushed himself to his feet and slid his chair up to the table. He lifted his glossy lunch box. “You’re onto something extraordinary here, son, but you just don’t know it yet. In the weeks and months to come, you will look back on yesterday afternoon and say,
‘That
was the day I first met Stanley Tulendij.’ ” He glanced across the lunchroom and lowered his voice. “I think you’ll come to find our luncheon repartee the high point of your day. Infinitely more interesting, say, than napping in the toilet.”

Paul glanced quickly over his shoulder. The lunchroom was nearly empty; only a few people, one or two to a table, still sat chewing and staring blankly into space. Paul turned back to the Colonel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Not to worry, Professor.” The Colonel put a finger to his lips. “Our little secret.” He winked at Paul.
“A demain, mon frère
.”

Paul, astonished to speechlessness, turned and watched the Colonel stride, stiff-backed, gut first, between the tables of the empty lunchroom towards the door.

A
FTER LUNCH
, Paul sulked in his cube for an hour and a half. What was the big deal with Stanley Tulendij? The Colonel and his coterie talked about him like he was . . . what? A general beloved of his troops? A captain who went down with his ship? A titan in fleet management? As far as Paul could tell, the man was not only a disgraced, pensioned-off old buzzard with an unsavory whiff of decay about him, but a man at least indirectly responsible for the disappearance, and possibly death, of a busload of unemployed men. But more importantly, Paul wondered, how did the Colonel find out about my midmorning naps in the men’s room? Do they have a camera in there, God forbid? Paul resisted the urge to glance at the ceiling over his head.

How did the Colonel know, Paul fumed, that I prefer
Red River
to
Chisum?
Paul hated it when anybody read him that easily. He further resented the Colonel’s presumption of a commonality of taste and interest. Fellow intellectuals, indeed. Back at Midwest, in his grad school days, he’d known undergraduates, for cry yi, who’d have made that pompous autodidact look
like . . . look like . . . well, they’d have reduced him to a cinder, that’s what.
Artiste
, my ass.