After Dachau (19 page)

“I can’t imagine,” I said, and went on to fill her in on Uncle Harry.

As it turned out, Harry wasn’t alone. He was followed in by a dour, muscular person roughly my age, whom he introduced simply as Clay. Clay nodded, then took in the surroundings with the detached manner of a bodyguard checking for sniper nests.

Uncle Harry ignored the room entirely. Even before an introduction could be made, he had sized up Mallory and decided how she would be played: not as a nonentity (as he might have done if it suited his purpose), but as a welcome addition to the Tull inner circle. This meant he judged she could be used as an ally in whatever venture he was engaged in here.

“Nice place,” he said, finally pretending to be interested in our suite. “Haven’t visited the Escorial in ages. What’s that you’re having?”

I poured two more brandies and invited them to sit down.

I couldn’t remember a time when I’d seen Uncle Harry outside the environment of the Tull citadel. What struck me was that he seemed as much at home here as he did there. He’d walked into our suite and effortlessly made it his own.

He was briskly interrogating Mallory about her background and history, and she was as briskly feeding him whatever lies came to hand. Suddenly realizing that she was
twitting him, he roared with laughter and gave me a wink as if congratulating me on having acquired a nimble-witted girl instead of a dunce.

It was an odd scene, made sinister by the very geniality of Harry’s performance. Mallory seemed less intimidated than I was, behaving as if men like Harry were an old story to her. I found myself becoming rather irritated with them both. Presumably Harry was there to talk to me, so why the devil wasn’t he getting on with it?

“So,” he said after a bit, “how did you two meet?”

“We met at a gallery showing of my work,” Mallory said.

“I see. So you’re what—a painter?”

“That’s right.”

“Interesting,” he said, glancing at me. “I somehow formed the impression you had something to do with Jason’s work with the Resurrection Institute.”

“The what?”

Now he seemed to have hit on the idea of playing the fool.

“Harry means the Reincarnation Institute,” I explained.

“Actually, that’s the case,” Mallory said cheerfully. “I’m the reincarnation of a black whore who was hunted down and murdered in this city a few years after the glorious triumph at Dachau.”

It was the first time I’d ever seen Uncle Harry take a hit from anybody. Shaken, he visibly searched for a chuckle but couldn’t seem to find one anywhere.

“Jason,” Mallory said, “Harry’s glass is empty.”

And so it was. So were most of them, in fact, except for Clay’s, who was dutifully abstaining. I filled glasses, taking my time.

Harry settled back in his chair and crossed his legs, as if in preparation for a long stay. “I’m always glad to learn,” he said after taking a sip of brandy. By now once again in command of himself, he gave Mallory an appreciative nod. “You’ve taught me something, and very economically too.”

Mallory nodded back coolly.

“This young woman knows who she is,” he said, turning to me.

“Mmmm,” I said in agreement.

“Do you know who
you
are?”

Unprepared for such a question, I answered rather lamely. “I think so.”

“I think
not
,” he said.

“Excuse me, Uncle Harry,” I said, wrapping myself in as much dignity as I could assemble about myself, “but it’s getting late. Would you mind explaining why you’re here?”

“I’m here to find out if you know who you are.”

I shook my head in frustration.

“You think I’m trying to embarrass you in front of your girl,” Harry said, reading my mind with total accuracy, “but in fact I’m here to spare you embarrassment.”

“Explain how that works, Uncle Harry,” I replied bitterly.

“I’ve known you since you were a toddler, Jason. And ever since I’ve known you, I’ve known that your greatest problem in life would be discovering who you are. This isn’t something unique to you. The sons of men like Jason Tull always have difficulty discovering who they are—aside from being the junior version of their fathers. I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about, Jason. Being the junior version gets you the headwaiter’s attention. It gets you a pair of seats at the opera when there are no seats. It gets you a respectful
warning instead of a speeding ticket. You like getting all those things, but you know you don’t get them because of who you are but because of who your father is. Being the junior version lets you move around like a prince, but it never lets you find out who you are in yourself. This is very much behind your interest in reincarnation, you know.”

“Is it, now! What makes you think so?”

“Isn’t it obvious? All the tales of reincarnation you’ve told us over the years are about people who have found out
who they are
—something you’d very much like to do for yourself. They’re all your proxies in discovery. Like them, you’d love to wake up one morning and be someone else entirely. If you were no longer just a junior version of Jason Tull, then of course you’d
have
to know who you are.”

“There’s something in what you say, Harry—God knows there is—but I don’t see why it’s something that needs to be discussed on this particular night.”

Harry looked at Mallory, who held his gaze for a moment then looked away. Turning back to me, he said, “This particular night is precisely when it needs to be discussed.”

“Why?”

“If you had a better idea of who you are, then you’d know why.”

“That’s very clever, Harry, but I don’t think it’s more than that.”

Again he looked at Mallory, as if expecting some kind of support from her. Again she looked away, but I could see she had something on her mind. Finally she gave me her eyes and said, “Jason, I think you’ve got to try and put this together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why is Harry here
tonight?
”

I looked at Harry, and he looked back, with suddenly ferocious intensity. “Who
are
you?” he said, as if genuinely in the dark and genuinely curious.

“Christ,” I said, actually a little scared, “I don’t know what the hell you’re getting at.”

“Who
are
you?” he insisted.

Feeling trapped, I staggered to my feet. “What the hell is he talking about, Mallory? Do you know?”

“I think he’s trying to make you see why he’s here
tonight
, Jason.”

“Why
is
he here tonight?”

The two of them exchanged another glance.

“Harry’s telling the truth, Jason. He’s here tonight because you don’t know who you are.”

“This is bullshit,” I said, meaning approximately, “Why are you two ganging up on me?”

Clay chose this moment to excuse himself, mumbling something about finding a bathroom.

I stood there glaring from Harry to Mallory and back again. Suddenly I felt
they
were the strangers, and it was I who should be asking
who are you?

“What’s going on here? What do you want from me?”

Turning to Mallory, Harry said, “I think Jason would rather hear this from you than from me.”

“Sit down, Jason, please.” I sat down. “I noticed this myself earlier, but I didn’t think it was any of my business. It didn’t even occur to me to mention it.”

“Mention what?”

“That you’re acting as if you don’t exist. You spent the whole day doing it.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re acting as if you were a piece of clear glass that everyone just looks straight through. You’re acting as if you’re invisible—as if you don’t exist. And this is why Harry’s here tonight. I saw it as soon as he started asking, ‘Who are you?’ ”

“I wish
I
saw it. When was I acting like this?”

She sent a doubtful look Harry’s way.

“Jason,” he said, taking up the refrain, “the first person to whom you must become visible is you. You can’t guide yourself using Mallory’s eyes or my eyes. You have to see for yourself where you are. It does no good to use another’s vision for this purpose.”

“Riddles,” I said, without conviction.

Clay chose that moment to return, letting the boss know with a nod that he was ready to resume his duties. Harry rose and reached for his topcoat, which had been slung over the back of a sofa.

“You’re
leaving?
” I’m not sure which feeling was more predominant in me, relief or frustration.

“We’re leaving, yes,” Uncle Harry agreed.

“So nice of you to drop by,” I told him, “though it isn’t for me to say, strictly speaking.”

He replied with a small, troubled shake of the head. Then he turned to Mallory and took her hand gravely for a moment before departing.

I didn’t know
what to make of or do about the awkwardness that was now loomingly in place between Mallory and me. I didn’t want to go home in a huff, though it was certainly an option. The light touch seemed a better one, if I could manage it.

“Personally,” I said, pouring us another pair of drinks, “I think we had a better time on the ladder.”

She smiled, valiantly but not wholeheartedly.

I could think of several things I would’ve liked to hear her say, but none of them seemed to occur to her. She was stuck for a solid two minutes.

Then she said, “Let’s not talk.”

I hadn’t thought of that one.

I woke at
three in the morning, as I sometimes do, too full of ideas and plans to sleep. Reading for a while usually helps, so I pawed around for the books I’d parked on the night table on returning from Dial’s bookstore. The Stein book was there but not the other two. Thinking they might have been knocked off onto the floor, I slid out of bed and checked. They weren’t on the floor.

“What is it?” Mallory asked, turning over sleepily.

“Two of the books I bought today are gone.”

Sitting up, she asked, “How could they be?”

“I don’t know, but they’re not here.”

“Could you have taken them into the living room?”

“I could have, but I didn’t.”

“Why don’t you check, just to be sure.”

I checked. On returning, I said, “Harry’s adjutant took them. That was what he did when he excused himself to go to the bathroom.”

I could see that she’d already come to the same conclusion.

“Why did he do that?” I asked. “What’s the point?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered, hardly above a whisper.

I stood there frowning down at her, feeling for the first time ever that she was lying to me. Maybe she didn’t literally
know
, but she had a guess, and she wasn’t sharing it with me.

“Both books can be replaced,” I went on, “so what’s the use of taking them?”

This time she said nothing.

“Give me a hint.”

After thinking a while, she said, “You don’t
take
hints, Jason. I’ve never known anyone worse at taking hints.”

“Why did he take two and not all three?”

Mallory gazed up at me steadily without answering.

THE NEXT MORNING
I was approaching the entrance to the Times Building when I heard my name called. It was Clay, by golly—Uncle Harry’s attaché—standing by the open door of a black limousine.

“Dr. Whitaker would like a word with you,” he said as I approached.

I started to get in, then backed out when I saw that Harry wasn’t inside. “I’ve got an appointment here,” I explained.

“It’s all right,” he told me. “You won’t be late.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I said, after checking my watch. “Can Dr. Whitaker stop time?”

“Dr. Whitaker can do most anything,” Clay said with the ghost of a smile. Then, as he saw me hesitating, he added, “It’s important.”

He followed me in, and the driver pulled away from the curb.

“Would you mind taking off your jacket?” Clay asked. Since the temperature was in the sixties, I hadn’t bothered with a topcoat.

“Why should I do that?”

“Because I have to give you a shot.” He produced a leather case, which he unzipped to reveal two vials and a hypodermic syringe.

“What the hell is that?”

“What did I just say, Mr. Tull? I have to give you a shot.”

“A shot of what?”

Clay sighed. “Dr. Whitaker said you’d probably ask that. Here’s what he told me to tell you: ‘This will make you visible.’ ”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, well, he said you’d probably say that too.”

We inched our way through three or four stoplights.

“The way I understand it,” Clay said at last, “Dr. Whitaker is an old friend of the Tull family.”

“That’s right.”

“But you think he might do you an injury. Is that right?”

“Not exactly.”

Clay laughed. “You know, I didn’t get all that stuff he was saying last night about you not knowing who you are. But I’m beginning to.”

“How wonderful for you.”

“I tell you what.” He reached into a back pocket and pulled out a billfold. After examining the contents, he looked up at me and said, “In this job, I have to carry a lot of cash—or what’s a lot of cash for me.” He counted out four hundreds,
eight fifties, and eight twenties, and put them on the seat between us. “I’ll bet you this thousand—which I’ll have to replace out of my own pocket if I lose it—that within five minutes of having this shot, you’ll know who you are.”