The Longest Second (3 page)

Santini was following the doctor’s description carefully. He nodded his understanding. Minor continued, “The patient, here, received the main force of the blow across the trachea, nearly severing it, although it was still possible for him to receive some air through his wound. He could not have continued indefinitely to breathe in such a manner, but he would not asphyxiate immediately. The force of the blow deteriorated at the sides of his neck, but not without severing one laryngeal nerve completely and badly damaging the other. His immediate danger was from loss of blood resulting from the wounds in the carotid arteries. Local application of aid where he was found prevented his bleeding to death quickly, and when he arrived at the hospital immediate surgery was indicated and completed.”

“In other words,” said Santini, “if the blow had cut him just a little deeper, he’d have died right away. As it is, he can’t talk. Will he ever be able to?”

“Sometimes,” Minor replied, “patients can recover the use, or partial use, of damaged vocal cords, and through practice learn the use of other muscles for compensation. But it is never what may be termed normal speech.”

Santini began twisting the loose end of a cigarette, then put it in his mouth. “Maybe yes, maybe no, huh?” he remarked. Shrugging, he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and glanced at it carefully. It seemed to me that he was pretending, and that whatever was written on the slip, he already knew very well. However, he continued to look at it, his brows wrinkled as he concentrated, and finally he said to me, almost indifferently, “Well, we know who you are.”

I didn’t say anything; I couldn’t. It was Minor who asked, “Who?”

Santini went through the motions of reading from his report: “Name, Vic Pacific ... Victor, no-middle-name, Pacific. Age, thirty-six. Home, New York City, which is a lie.” Santini looked at me for a contradiction. I didn’t give it to him.

The doctor asked, “Where did you get the information?”

“The Army had his prints on file,” Santini replied. “Funny thing though, the ID was slow coming through and it was a little jumbled. We can’t find an address for him or, for that matter, much of anything else about him.”

At the back of my mind, an alarm went off signaling danger, but I didn’t know why.

“What information did the Army have?” Minor inquired. “Pacific claimed he was an orphan. The address he gave I checked on and find it is still occupied by some gas pipes off East River Drive.”

“Was he in the war?”

“Sure. World War II. Good record. Tanks ... Six hundred and fourth. In Africa. Master sergeant. Wounded, that’s where the scar in the back comes from. Hospitalized over there; discharged here.” Santini deliberately folded his paper and returned it to his pocket. “No relatives,” he continued, “and he wasn’t married. No police record either. After his discharge he drew his terminal pay and disappeared. Never applied for veteran benefits, medical attention, or anything else. He isn’t heard of again, until more than twelve years later with his throat cut.” He looked at me. It was a hard unpleasant look. “What the hell you been doing all this time?” I held up the palm of my hand. I didn’t know.

Santini asked the doctor when I would be able to leave the hospital, and Minor told him, “As soon as he’s able to eat comfortably. Probably in a week or so. He’s out of danger now, and is recovering his strength rapidly. His biggest problem is being able to eat and drink without pain. He’ll come around.”

Miss Pierson came into the room with another jar of glucose. She began to roll up my sleeve. Santini left, although Minor remained by the foot of my bed. He nodded in the direction Santini had gone. “Did Santini say anything which meant something to you?” he asked.

No.

“Perhaps it’ll begin to come back to you slowly,” the doctor continued. “Don’t try to work at it too hard, or force yourself too fast. I think you’ll find that little pieces of your past, here and there, will gradually return. One moment a certain key memory will return and everything else will fall into place.” He turned and left.

At least I had a few things to work on. A few more things each day. Minor, however, didn’t permit me to leave the hospital in a week. It was two weeks. During those two weeks I attempted desperately to recall the trouble I’d been in. Sometimes I could almost remember, it seemed, the night it happened. Mixed up in my memory was a dark room, a spot of light, and faces. Two faces in particular seemed to be present although I couldn’t see them plainly, and other faces, a number of them, in the background, But then, at this point, I’d think, am I really remembering this, or is it only part of my nightmare which I now take for reality? My mind would veer off at a tangent and I’d say to myself, “No!” What really happened was in a car. I can just about recall the car racing and twisting through the street and... ! Unfortunately, however, there was no reality to it and immediately I’d begin to think of something else—an alleyway, a short flight of metal stairs, a roaring elevated highway or bridge, a darkened office building. It made little difference what I recalled because there were no details connected with my unstable memories and, although for just a moment I might feel that I really was about to remember something important, my intelligence would contradict me. These memories were merely memories which anyone might have. They might be from my past somewhere, but they didn’t mean anything.

I felt that I couldn’t trust anything I tried to remember. What Santini told me about being an orphan, for example. For some deep, basic reason, some instinct, told me it wasn’t true. Obviously, I had also been lying about my address; it’s impossible to live in a gas pipe. Why did I lie? I didn’t know. I had to live somewhere. Where had I been living? Some forgotten touch of reason told me that recently I’d been living in New York. But where, and under what name, I didn’t know either.

At night though it was even worse because when I was only half asleep it was difficult, impossible, to differentiate between insignificant events, casual facts, wild fancies, and dreams. How could I sort out what I might have read somewhere at some time; what someone might have described to me; what was my own personal history, or someone else’s? I might have lived many places on the earth, or never stepped out of New York City. All the information in the world might belong to me, yet I didn’t know what information was my own.

I tried to compile lists of names in my mind. I studied faces and photographs in the newspapers and magazines. I belabored my mind, searching and probing to remember one solid, specific detail. All that I could discover, seemingly, was that beyond the day I awakened in the hospital I had no past. My name was Victor Pacific; I was thirty-six years old, had been in World War II, claimed I was an orphan, and lived in a gas pipe.

The day I was released from the hospital, Doctor Minor and Miss Pierson saw me off. It was in the early afternoon, after lunch, and by this time I was eating farina, soup, soft puddings, and milk. The hospital had furnished me with a suit of used clothes and bought me some linen. In my pocket sixty-three dollars remained ... all that was left of the thousand which had been found on me. The surgeon and hospital had taken the rest. Minor shook hands with me. “If you don’t feel right, come back to see me,” he said. I nodded, and he hurried away.

Miss Pierson asked, “Where are you going?”

I shook my head. I had no idea.

She walked beside me to the main entrance and then said good-by. Outside, looking up to the sky, I saw the heavy, semi-smoky haze which seems to hang over the afternoon skies of Manhattan. It doesn’t look like rain; it only appears that the air is heavy enough to shred with your fingers. I felt that I knew it well. Walking down the steps of the main entrance and reaching the sidewalk, I paused; attempting to decide what to do. It was obvious that I must find a place to stay for the night. Although I had no luggage, I did have sufficient money to pay for a room so there seemed no cause to be concerned. Cutting across the diagonally running street, on which the hospital was located, I reached Sixth Avenue. Turning south, I began to stroll slowly.

Passing a cigar store, I paused and stared at it wondering if I enjoyed smoking. I couldn’t remember and it had never occurred to me before. In the hospital I hadn’t missed tobacco. Walking into the tiny shop, I was assailed by the old familiar odor of tobacco, and pointing to a pack of cigarettes I purchased it. I lit one and permitted the smoke to trickle down my throat. It didn’t cause me to cough, although I received no pleasure from it, and once again there was a fleeting illusion of a moment when something similar had given me enjoyment. I decided that once I had smoked, but had since forgotten the sensation. Stuffing the pack into my pocket, I threw away the cigarette and continued down the street.

Several blocks farther I passed a bisecting street with the name of Parnell Place. It was only two blocks long. The name was familiar to me, and when I searched my memory, I remembered that Santini in one of his conversations with me had mentioned it as the street which connected to Newton Mews where Bianca Hill lived. The Hill woman had found me on her doorstep.

Abruptly it occurred to me that I would like to see her.

I did not feel grateful, in the least, to her for finding me, but I could pretend that I did, and have an opportunity to look at her. All that I could feel was a curiosity—a speculation concerning her not as a woman, but as the last link connecting me with my past.

Newton Mews was even shorter than Parnell Place— hardly a dozen feet wide, with very small, two-story, stone houses leaning heavily against each other. The street was paved with cobblestones, and a narrow sidewalk ran along each side of it in front of the houses. I walked slowly past reading the names on the mailboxes. One carried the name “Bianca Hill.” The house, just wide enough to accommodate two windows, in addition to a door, had been painted a light gray. The windows supported yellow shutters, and the door was a Chinese black. The single stone step was flanked on either side by a delicate piece of ironwork painted white.

After pressing the doorbell, I waited for several minutes before I heard footsteps hurrying to the front of the house. The door swung open, and for a space of time the woman stared at me before recognition reached her. Then her face lighted up, and she grasped my hand. Impulsively she said, “Why, yes! You’re the man who was hurt!”

I nodded. At this time I was forming the habit of carrying a small pad of paper and a pencil which I used to write messages. I wrote out my name and the single word “thanks.”

“You can’t talk?” she asked. I nodded. “What a pity! That’s terrible! Well, come in, come in, and we’ll have a drink. Can you drink?” Again I nodded.

She led the way into the house, past a tiny front living room with a carved marble mantel, into a considerably larger room which was both a kitchen and dining room. She seated me at a round baroque dining table and hurrying to the stove, removed a pot of coffee. “I was just stopping for my afternoon coffee-break,” she said lightly, “and I’m delighted to have company. Perhaps I’ll have a pony of brandy with it. How about you?”

I shook my head and wrote, “just brandy, please.” Coffee was too hot to drink as extreme heat still hurt my throat. However, I didn’t feel the necessity to do the extra writing to explain this.

Placing two ponies on the table, a bottle of brandy, and filling a cup with coffee, she joined me. As she had walked before me into the dining room, I had noticed that she was a small woman—not over five feet two or three, with a nice figure compact in a pair of toreador slacks. Now, as she seated herself, I realized, with surprise, that she was still very young—somewhere in her middle twenties. Possibly it had been her name which had misled me to conceive of her as an older woman. Or perhaps it had been Santini’s description of her as the “Hill woman” which had been responsible for my misconception.

Bianca Hill wore her hair straight back, and her hair was very black. At the back of her head was an elaborate silver ring through which her hair passed and it hung down well below her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, as dark nearly as her hair, and when she smiled, her teeth were very white. Her face was not beautiful, but it was striking ... and delicate, and in it I could read a ready sympathy and friendliness which someday would bring her unhappiness.

She lifted her cup to her lips, and her eyes smiled, curving upward almost into an Oriental cast. “Mr. Pacific,” she said, “that’s a lovely name. I’m glad you came to see me; I’ve wondered about you. Once I called the hospital, and they told me you were doing fine.”

Nodding, I tasted the brandy. Her hands caught my eye. They were red, with bums over them. They were not pretty and I turned my eyes away.

“Tell me,” she asked, “do you live in New York?”

I shook my head, then wrote out the fact that I had lost my memory completely. I had only my name, no family, no address.

She rose quickly from the table to refill her coffee cup. Then she asked slowly, “You have no place to go? None at all?”

No. I shook my head.

“Do you have any money?”

Reaching in my pocket, I removed the sixty-three dollars and placed it on the table. She understood, and I replaced the money in my pocket. Her eyes searched my face quietly, while she drank her coffee. Finally she said, “How perfectly awful! Is there anything at all you can do to earn a living? I mean ... do you remember any skill ... or job?”

I wrote “nothing.”

“Is there a chance that you will get better ... remember someday?”

“Possibly.”

The sudden whiteness of her smile animated her face, and her words began to tumble out eagerly. “I have an idea,” she explained. “Perhaps it’s a crazy one, and wouldn’t work out very long. But I think it’s terrible ... impossible ... for you to just wander out into the city! Not remembering anything, not having any help! What do you think?”

I didn’t think. I shrugged, but it didn’t lessen her enthusiasm.

“Everyone would say I’m foolish,” she continued, “not knowing you, or anything. However, I believe a person should help others, don’t you? Help each other ... mutually, that is. For a long time I’ve needed help here. Look! Look at these.” She held out her two hands—red and disfigured. “I haven’t been able to afford to pay enough to hire someone to help me.” She hesitated for a moment, then continued more slowly, her voice a little embarrassed, “Perhaps you’d like to work for me?”