Queen of Angels (11 page)

head and read on. A letter from Yardley to Goldsmith: Your poetry shows you divided in culture and mind against your surroundings. You are successful, yet you say you are decaying; you are not abhorred, yet you feel out of place. Your people had their homes and families and languages and religions, all the poetry of a people, ripped from them and replaced by foreign domination and brutality. Your people were brought to the New World, and many were dropped off in Hispaniola, where the cruelty was beyond belief long into the twenty first century - . . No wonder you feel disjointed! When I first came to Haiti, I was made dizzy by the easy joy of a people who had known so much pain, whose history was an agony of betrayal and death. Pain soaks in to the germ plasm, passes from mother to son. So unfortunate that so many of the oppressors died before I could avenge their brutality. Obvious injustices made for easy history. And Yardley did not disguise his islands present economy and nature too thickly, not then when the United States of America gave him dollars and assignments worldwide. Goldsmiths poem at the end of the letters: With magidl would kill many raping cream fathers/Justified murder in time/ History cannot eRace. Applause from USA ever willing to self flagellate. Fame and more fortune. In some ways perhaps Colonel Sir John Yardley owed something to Goldsmith, a champion in well arranged words. A correspondence and mutual admiration bordering on love certainly from Goldsmiths point of view. Was Yardley Goldsmiths vision of the avenging angel come to scourge the world for sins of the long dead? Come to legitimate offspring of raping cream fathers? And what was Goldsmith to Yardley: apologist justifier or amanuensis, servus a manu? Were all the dead white? Martin looked up the LitVid reports and cross referenced. No. Among the identified were one fourth generation mixed oriental and one black as Goldsmith, his godson. Perhaps a blind and indiscriminate killing rage. Martin finished his exploration and extricated himself from the chair. A brass arbeiter awaited his instructions. Bring me an iced tea, please, he said. And tell Mr. Lascal Im ready to view Goldsmith. Not interview, but view. Goldsmith must not recognize Burke or Neuman or anyone else investigating his Country; that might be awkward.

How can you know me? Why so frantic to know me? My fame makes you a goat.

19

Richard Fettles eyes crossed with fatigue and he put down the pen. Blinking, wiping his sockets with the back of his hand, standing up from the bed, muscles cramped vision bleared joints popping fingers knotting, he felt like a man surfacing from the depths of binge yet he also knew an enormous relief, a worthiness, for he had written and what he had written was good. But he dared not confirm that by reading through the whole closecrabbed ten pages. Instead he made himself a cup of black coffee, thought of Goldsmiths old allusions to coffee and cream, smiled as he drank the coffee as if he were somehow absorbing blood and flesh of the poet. With words he had already done that. It felt good. He would soon wrap Goldsmith up in a tight little papule and squeeze him out, having embodied him through the ritual of writing. He walked around the apartment smiling fatuously, muse shot. A man who had finally shat himself clean or at least seeing the end of the filth. + What it took to break the bonds. Abuse. What was the product. Words. What was the sensation. Ecstasy. Where would it all lead. Perhaps publication. Would it be good to publish. + Yes. Goldsmith would serve him finally. He stretched and yawned and checked his watch: 1550. He had not eaten since the visit by the Selector. Mumbling scratching shaking like a wet dog, Richard writhed into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator inhaled the cool air searched for packets of farmfish spread and spears of once fresh vegetables in a bowl. He poured himself a glass of delact. + Goldsmith could not tolerate cream milk any dairy but delact + Black marks on white eRace back to white Richard paused. Scratched slowly. Twisted and cocked his head. Put the food on the counter. + What is it more important than food. Returned to the bedroom and picked up a sheet of paper, found the offending passage and blanked it by passing stat end of pencil over the sheet idly blew away congealed pencil flecks, rewrote. Added on. By 1650 he had fifteen henscratch pages. Richard stood, face reflecting his bodys protest real agony now, tried exercises to limber uncramp and restore, thought of a hot shower warm sun melting butter muscles but no technique would work. He stumbled into the living room. The apartment voice announced a visitor and he froze eyes wide. Tall shadow on front milky doorpane. Richard peered through the tired plastic optics of the doors peephole and saw a pd: the black transform woman Lieutenant Choy. He backed away hands flapping as if burned, indecision mixing with sudden cramps bending him over. +Jesus. I do not deserve this. When will it end. He opened the brass doorplate below the peephole. Voice high but firmly controlled: Hello? R Fettle, Mary Choy said. Our apologies for bothering you. May I ask a few more questions? Ive told you what I know... Yes, and youre certainly not under any suspicion now. But I need some background information. Impressions. She smiled that lovely unnatural smile white teeth small and fine behind full lips and smooth finely downed black skin. Her expression made him avert and gave his insides another knot. + She cannot be real none of this is real. May we talk inside? Richard backed away. Im not feeling very well, he said. I havent eaten all day. Im sorry. Id come back later, but my time is very limited. The department wants answers right away. You might save me a trip to Hispaniola. Richard could not conceal interest. He ordered the door to unlock and opened it. You think Emanuel, you think Goldsmiths gone there? Its possible. He bit his lip, slumping slightly. It was difficult for Richard not to be open and friendly even with this Nemesis. Softly, bone weary, be said, Come in. Im glad Im not a suspect. Its been another rough today. + Will not tell her about the Selector. She would not be around to protect me if word got out and the Selector returned. Do not desire even five seconds in a clamp. I apologize for how we treated you earlier. We were upset by what we found. Richard nodded. Its extraordinary, he said. + Meant to say horrible, dreadful, but the shock is past. Man is the animal who accepts even when it understands. We still havent found Goldsmith. But were reasonably sure hes the murderer. He wrote letters to Colonel Sir John Yardley. Did you know that? Richard nodded. How did you feel about that? Mary Choy asked, genuinely curious. Behind the skin and beauty she seemed real enough and capable of sympathy. Richard squinted trying to see his daughter behind that face, trying to imagine Gina an adult. + Would Gina have decided on a transform? Ultimate criticism of parental heritage. I dont know how I feel about anything now, much less about Emanuel, Richard said, settling slow, cranelike on the old worn couch and waggling his fingers for her to take a chair. She pulled a chair away from the dining room table and sat on it feminine and precise without doubt or obvious anxiety. + Wonderful to be like that. Mary inclined. + Light on face like phases of a black moon. Thats good. Write that down. Do you approve of Hispaniola? she asked. Not of what they do. What theyre alleged to do. No. But Goldsmith did. He called Yardley a purifier. Some of us were embarrassed by it. Had he visited Yardley in the last year or two? You must know that. We cant be sure. He might have traveled under another name. Not Emanuel. He was open. He didnt care about surveillance. Did he go to Hispaniola? I dont think so, no. Did he talk about Hispaniola as a retreat, a haven? Richard grinned and shook his head. + Been writing about his thoughts. Writers empathy through recreation. Feel as if I am him or know him. He thought the island itself was a disneyland. He appreciated that the people had enough to eat and were employed, but he didnt enjoy the tourist spots and resorts, no. But he went there once. 1 think thats when he... made up his mind. So you dont think hed go back there? I dont know. + But you do. Hed never go back. If he felt he was in danger, and Yardley would protect him? I suppose he might. I really cant say. Have you thought about what happened? I realize its been traumatic.. I havent thought about much else. I never thought hed do anything like this. . . If he did. + Emanuel is the poet who kills. They know. Theyve frozen the apartment. You know. What would make him do such a thing? His career fading? Frustration at society? Richard laughed. Youre in the shadows now, Lieutenant Choy. Frustration. He chuckled that word. But he wasnt in the shadows. He lived in East Comb One. He spent much of his time down here with us. With Madame de Roche. Until eight or nine months ago. Then he asked people to visit him. That was why you were visiting him, rather than meeting him at Madame de Roches? Yes. Why the change? Was he withdrawing? I didnt see a change. It was just a whim. Was he becoming more and more eccentric? Eccentricity is more than affectation to a poet. Its a necessity. Mary Choy smiled. But was he becoming bitter, disaffected? Disaffecting, perhaps. Not to me, but others. I suppose they felt jealousy. Envy. Even in the years of his fading popularity? When the old lion becomes threadbare, the young lions move in... + Is that the way it was? Not what you remember. Youre making fictions for Nemesis now. Trying to lead her astray? Actually, there wasnt that sort of rivalry. He visited Madame de Roche less the past couple of years, but kept in touch with her. I was.. He looked away, licking his lips. You were his most loyal friend. Other than the youngsters, the students and poets from the combs. He saw them frequently in his apartment. Never at Madame de Roches. He was putting together a new family, a new coterie, perhaps. But he did not stop seeing me. I mean, allowing me to visit. What did he like about the comb poets and students? Their vigor. Their lack of pretension. False, useless adult pretension, I mean. All young are pretentious. Its their job. + Her tone, her warmth. I almost do not see her as a transform. I start to see my daughter in her. Why would he kill them? Richard looked down at his folded hands. To save them, he said. He didnt foresee much of a future for us. He did not think we were going to survive this time of trials. You mean the binary millennium? He wasnt an apocalyptic, was he? No. He despised them. He specked that if we tried to purge all our evil, there would be nothing left, no spine, no backbone. Wed collapse. He told me we were trying to lift ourselves up by our bootstraps out of pimply adolescence into adulthood. All too quickly. He thought wed fail and fall back into a horrible technological dark age. Ignorance, philistinism, but technology rampant. You think perhaps he killed his friends to save them from such a collapse? + No. To save himself. I dont know. I really dont. I wish I could help you. Its possible Goldsmith just suffered a psychotic break, then? No reason or rationale, just a breakdown? I suppose that was it. I just dont see that happening, Mr. Fettle. It seems uncharacteristic. He was not a psychotic loner. He had reasonably strong relationships with people like yourself. Outside of changes we might ascribe to late middle age, outside of a few eccentric political views, we just cant find any reason for what he did. Then maybe he subdued the signs of a break. Thats not easy, but I suppose its possible, Mary Choy said. She observed him quietly for a few seconds. Richard fidgeted a rubber band with his fingers. There was more than one Emanuel Goldsmith, he said finally. He could be sweet and reasonable, and he could be aloof, sharp, cruel. More than just normal personality variation? Im just saying this to suggest something. I dont know. He wasnt a multiple, but sometimes he seemed very different. + Explain that to yourself. What are you doing? This is a fiction, too? You dont even know. Mary Choy stood, her black pd suit making a smooth sliding sound on forearms and knees. You suspect he didnt go to Hispaniola. I dont know one way or the other, Richard said, blushing suddenly.. He glanced at her, averted, fummed and stuttered. Id like to help. I really would. It would certainly be an act of friendship to let the pd get to Goldsmith before some Selector finds him. Weve learned that Selectors are hunting for him. Richards blush deepened. For a few seconds he could not speak or move, embedded amberfly in a deep and inexplicable rage. Yes, he managed. Yes. + She knows. Maybe pd is working with them. Bring it out. Tell her. Mary Choy watched him squirm, her face implacably serene. He felt her attention as might a child, felt that he had been evasive and to no purpose, that she was right; it would be a service for pd to take Emanuel, and not just to keep him from the Selectors. I wish III could help y-you. I really do. I feel so helpless and ignorant, really.. . He looked up, pain masked, pleading eloquently wordless. + Confess your weakness your inability. All that is written is wrong dead useless. Wasted an afternoon. Hopes of recovery dead. Show her the pages. Give it up and Thank you, Mary Choy said. I appreciate your candor. He stood and she went to the door, smiling at him almost saucily. Another gutknot, his feet frozen in place eyes wide head bowed servile. She closed the door quietly, clicking the catch with gentle force, departed panther smooth down the walkway. Richard fell back on the couch arms flopping palms up, an empty husk. A half hour passed and he did not move. Then with slow resolution he walked into his bedroom and picked up the fifteen handwritten pages, reading a tight packed line All that I am as a poet depended on this decision, how far I was wiUing to go, how far beyond the bounds of human decency and shredded the expensive atavistic paper sheets with the atavistic stat penmarks into tiny pieces, tears on his cheeks like sweat, making a little piggrunt as he threw the scraps into a corner. Stood like a log waiting to be felled, longfingered hands limp by his side, jaw slack. Then Richard amazed the fragments of his self. He took another few sheets of paper and the stat pen in hand, sat on the bed with pillows bunched behind him and wrote at the top of the first sheet:

It ended in biood and carved flesh, but it began with a realization of my humanity. The delemma (word crossed out) problem I had taken upon myself, the weight of pain and evil I could not 141 away with my art, could only be neutralized by becoming what I loathed.

Richard had three pages of this new draft under way and was beginning to feel all was not lost when the home manager announced that Nadine had returned.