Man in the Dark (4 page)

The dishes?

Right near the end. Gabin tells the German woman that he loves her, that he’ll come back for her and her daughter when the war is over, but the troops are closing in now, and he and Dalio have to try to cross the border into Switzerland before it’s too late. The four of them have a last meal together, and then the moment comes to say good-bye. It’s all very moving, of course. Gabin and the woman standing in the doorway, the possibility that they’ll never see each other again, the woman’s tears as the men vanish into the night. Renoir then cuts to Gabin and Dalio running through the woods, and I’d bet money that every other director in the world would have stayed with them until the end of the film. But not Renoir. He has the genius—and when I say
genius,
I mean the understanding, the depth of heart, the compassion—to go back to the woman and her little daughter, this young widow who has already lost her husband to the madness of war, and what does she have to do? She has to go back into the house and confront the dining room table and the dirty dishes from the meal they’ve just eaten. The men are gone now, and because they’re gone, those dishes have been transformed into a sign of their absence, the lonely suffering of women when men go off to war, and one by one, without saying a word, she picks up the dishes and clears the table. How long does the scene last? Ten seconds? Fifteen seconds? No time at all, but it takes your breath away, doesn’t it? It just knocks the stuffing out of you.

You’re a brave girl, I said, suddenly thinking about Titus.

Stop it, Grandpa. I don’t want to talk about him. Some other time, maybe, but not now. Okay?

Okay. Let’s stick to the movies. There’s still one to go. The Indian film. I think it’s the one I liked best.

That’s because it’s about a writer, Katya said, cracking a brief, ironic smile.

Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t good.

I wouldn’t have chosen it unless it was good. No junk. That’s the rule, remember? All sorts of movies, from the wacky to the sublime, but no junk.

Agreed. But where’s the inanimate object in
Apu
?

Think.

I don’t want to think. It’s your theory, so you tell me.

The curtains and the hairpin. A transition from one life into another, the turning point of the story. Apu has gone to the country to attend his friend’s cousin’s wedding. A traditional arranged marriage, and when the bridegroom shows up, he turns out to be an idiot, a blithering numskull. The wedding is called off, and the friend’s cousin’s parents begin to panic, afraid their daughter will be cursed for life if she doesn’t get married that afternoon. Apu is asleep somewhere under the trees, not a care in the world, happy to be out of the city for a few days. The girl’s family approaches him. They explain that he’s the only available unmarried man, that he’s the only one who can solve the problem for them. Apu is appalled. He thinks they’re nuts, a bunch of superstitious country bumpkins, and refuses to go along. But then he mulls it over for a while and decides to do it. As a good deed, as an altruistic gesture, but he has no intention of taking the girl back to Calcutta with him. After the wedding ceremony, when they’re finally alone together for the first time, Apu learns that this meek young woman is a lot tougher than he thought she was. I’m poor, he says, I want to be a writer, I have nothing to offer you. I know, she says, but that makes no difference, she’s determined to go with him. Exasperated, flummoxed, but also moved by her resolve, Apu reluctantly gives in. Cut to the city. A carriage pulls up in front of the ramshackle building where Apu lives, and he and his bride step out. All the neighbors come to gawk at the beautiful girl as Apu leads her up the stairs to his squalid little garret. A moment later, he’s called away by someone and leaves. The camera stays on the girl, alone in this strange room, this strange city, married to a man she hardly knows. Eventually, she walks to the window, which has a cruddy piece of burlap hanging over it instead of a real curtain. There’s a hole in the burlap, and she looks through the hole into the backyard, where a baby in diapers is toddling along through the dust and debris. The camera angle reverses, and we see her eye through the hole. Tears are falling from that eye, and who can blame her for feeling overwrought, scared, lost? Apu reenters the room and asks her what’s wrong. Nothing, she says, shaking her head, nothing at all. Then we fade to black, and the big question is: what next? What’s in store for this unlikely couple who wound up marrying each other by pure accident? With a few deft and decisive strokes, everything is revealed to us in less than a minute. Object number one: the window. We fade in, it’s early morning, and the first thing we see is the window the girl was looking through in the previous scene. But the ratty burlap is gone, replaced by a pair of clean checkered curtains. The camera pulls back a little, and there’s object number two: potted flowers on the windowsill. These are encouraging signs, but we can’t be sure what they mean yet. Domesticity, homeyness, a woman’s touch, but this is what wives are supposed to do, and just because Apu’s wife has carried out her duties well doesn’t prove that she cares for him. The camera continues pulling back, and we see the two of them asleep in bed. The alarm clock rings, and the wife climbs out of bed as Apu groans and buries his head in the pillow. Object number three: her sari. After she gets out of bed and starts walking off, she suddenly can’t move—because her clothes are tied to Apu’s. Very odd. Who could have done this—and why? The expression on her face is both peeved and amused, and we instantly know that Apu was responsible. She returns to the bed, thwacks him gently on the butt, and then unties the knot. What does this moment say to me? That they’re having good sex, that a sense of playfulness has developed between them, that they’re really married. But what about love? They seem to be contented, but how strong are their feelings for each other? That’s when object number four appears: the hairpin. The wife leaves the frame to prepare breakfast, and the camera closes in on Apu. He finally manages to open his eyes, and as he yawns and stretches and rolls around in bed, he sees something in the crevice between the two pillows. He reaches in and pulls out one of his wife’s hairpins. That’s the crowning moment. He holds up the hairpin and studies it, and when you look at Apu’s eyes, the tenderness and adoration in those eyes, you know beyond a doubt that he’s madly in love with her, that she’s the woman of his life. And Ray makes it happen without using a single word of dialogue.

Same with the dishes, I said. Same with the bundle of sheets. No words.

No words needed, Katya replied. Not when you know what you’re doing.

There’s another thing about those three scenes. I wasn’t aware of it while we were watching the films, but listening to you describe them now, it jumped right out at me.

What?

They’re all about women. How women are the ones who carry the world. They take care of the real business while their hapless men stumble around making a hash of things. Or else just lie around doing nothing. That’s what happens after the hairpin. Apu looks across the room at his wife, who’s crouching down over a pot making breakfast, and he doesn’t make a move to help her. In the same way the Italian guy doesn’t notice how hard it is for his wife to carry those water buckets.

At last, Katya said, giving me a small poke in the ribs. A man who gets it.

Let’s not exaggerate. I’m just adding a footnote to your theory. Your very astute theory, I might add.

And what kind of husband were you, Grandpa?

Just as distracted and lazy as the jokers in those films. Your grandmother did everything.

That’s not true.

Yes, it is. When you were with us, I was always on my best behavior. You should have seen us when we were alone.

I pause for a moment to shift my position in bed, to adjust the pillow, to take a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table. I don’t want to start thinking about Sonia. It’s still too early, and if I let myself go now, I’ll wind up brooding about her for hours. Stick to the story. That’s the only solution. Stick to the story, and then see what happens if I make it to the end.

Owen Brick. Owen Brick on his way to the city of Wellington, in which state he doesn’t know, in which part of the country he doesn’t know, but because of the dampness and chill in the air, he suspects that he’s in the north, perhaps New England, perhaps New York State, perhaps somewhere in the Upper Midwest, and then, remembering Sarge Serge’s talk about a civil war, he wonders what the fighting is about and who is fighting whom. Is it North against South again? East against West? Red against Blue? White against Black? Whatever caused the war, he tells himself, and whatever issues or ideas happen to be at stake, none of it makes any sense. How can this be America if Tobak knows nothing about Iraq? Utterly at a loss, Brick reverts to his earlier speculation that he is trapped in a dream, that in spite of the physical evidence around him, he is lying next to Flora in his bed at home.

Visibility is poor, but through the fog Brick can dimly apprehend that he is flanked by woods on both sides, that there are no houses or buildings anywhere in sight, no telephone poles, no traffic signs, no indication of human presence except the road itself, a badly paved stretch of tar and asphalt with numerous cracks and potholes, no doubt unrepaired for years. He walks on for a mile, then another mile, and still no cars drive past, no people emerge from the emptiness. Finally, after twenty minutes or so, he hears something approaching him, a clanking, whooshing sound that he is at pains to identify. Out of the fog, a man on a bicycle comes pedaling toward him. Brick raises his hand to catch the man’s attention, calls out
Hello, Please, Sir,
but the cyclist ignores him and scoots on past. After a while, more people on bicycles start showing up, some riding in one direction, some in the other, but for all the notice they pay to Brick as he urges them to stop, he might as well be invisible.

Five or six miles farther down the road, signs of life begin to appear—or rather signs of former life: burned-out houses, collapsed food markets, a dead dog, several exploded cars. An old woman dressed in tattered clothes and pushing a shopping cart filled with her possessions suddenly looms up in front of him.

Excuse me, Brick says. Could you tell me if this is the road to Wellington?

The woman stops and looks at Brick with uncomprehending eyes. He notes a small tuft of whiskers sprouting from her chin, her wrinkled mouth, her gnarled, arthritic hands. Wellington? she says. Who asked you?

No one asked me, Brick says. I’m asking you.

Me? What do I have to do with it? I don’t even know you.

And I don’t know you. All I’m asking is if this is the road to Wellington.

The woman scrutinizes Brick for a moment and says, It’ll cost you five bucks.

Five bucks for a yes or no? You must be crazy.

Everyone’s crazy around here. Are you trying to tell me you’re not?

I’m not trying to tell you anything. I just want to know where I am.

You’re standing on a road, nitwit.

Yes, fine, I’m standing on a road, but what I want to know is if this road leads to Wellington.

Ten bucks.

Ten bucks?

Twenty bucks.

Forget it, Brick says, by now at the limit of his patience. I’ll figure it out for myself.

Figure out what? the woman asks.

Instead of answering her, Brick starts walking again, and as he strides off through the fog, he hears the woman burst out laughing behind him, as if someone has just told her a good joke . . .

The streets of Wellington. It’s past noon by the time he enters the city, exhausted and hungry, his feet aching from the rigors of the long trek. The sun has burned off the early morning fog, and as he wanders around in the fine, sixty-degree weather, Brick is heartened to discover that the place is still more or less intact, not some bombed-out war zone heaped with rubble and the bodies of dead civilians. He sees a number of destroyed buildings, some cratered streets, a few demolished barricades, but otherwise Wellington appears to be a functioning city, with pedestrians walking to and fro, people going in and out of shops, and no imminent threat hanging in the air. The only thing that distinguishes it from your normal American metropolis is the fact that there are no cars, trucks, or buses. Nearly everyone is moving around on foot, and those who aren’t walking are mounted on bicycles. It’s impossible for Brick to know yet if this is a result of a gasoline shortage or municipal policy, but he has to admit that the quiet has a pleasant effect, that he prefers it to the clamor and chaos of the streets in New York. Beyond that, however, Wellington has little to recommend it. It’s a shabby, down-at-the-heels kind of place, with ugly, poorly constructed buildings, nary a tree in sight, and mounds of uncollected garbage littering the sidewalks. A glum burg, perhaps, but not the out-and-out hellhole Brick was expecting.

His first order of business is to fill his stomach, but restaurants seem to be scarce in Wellington, and he prowls around for some time before spotting a small diner on a side street off one of the main avenues. It’s almost three o’clock, long past lunch hour, and the place is empty when he walks in. To his left is a counter with six vacant stools in front of it; to his right, running along the opposite wall, are four narrow booths, also vacant. Brick decides to sit at the counter. A few seconds after he settles onto one of the stools, a young woman emerges from the kitchen and slaps down a menu in front of him. She’s in her mid- to late twenties, a thin, pale blonde with a weary look in her eyes and the hint of a smile on her lips.

What’s good today? Brick asks, not bothering to open the menu.

More like, what do we
have
today, the waitress replies.

Oh? Well, what are the choices?

Tuna salad, chicken salad, and eggs. The tuna’s from yesterday, the chicken’s from two days ago, and the eggs came in this morning. We’ll cook them any way you like. Fried, scrambled, poached. Hard, medium, soft. Whatever, however.