Mortals (84 page)

“Do you want to sing something? Go right ahead.”

Ray thought of doing “Carrickfergus,” and then of doing the national anthem. He had to make a quick choice, if he was going to do something so antic. There was a feeling of sacrilege about the proposition of doing one of the songs he had actually sung when Iris was on the pot. “Greensleeves” was one of them. Singing it had been a jocular sort of choice, a sequel to conversations they’d had about whether that was the most beautiful song in the world or whether “Amazing Grace,” Iris’s choice, was, or whether “Down by the Salley Gardens,” his candidate, was. All at once any impulse to sing was gone. There was nothing he could think of that would help, that would get him anything, in this situation, his wife’s lover on the pot.

Morel was straining. Briefly Ray wondered if a flight-or-fight reaction had played some part in Morel’s urgency, the urge to evacuate being one of the accompaniments of the physical mobilization for panic flight. I would like to think that, so it’s probably wrong, Ray thought.

Humanly, he felt for Morel. Doctors hated to be sick. A holistic doctor
would hate to be constipated. No, he couldn’t sing. That was out. But he could recite something. Almost anything would do.

“I can’t sing, but I’ll recite something. I don’t feel like singing.”

Morel grunted something Ray chose to take as positive.

“I’m not going to sing. But you might be interested to know that her choice for the most beautiful song of all time is ‘Amazing Grace.’ We love that song. It might be the kind of thing you want to know, for the future. Anyway.”

He cleared his throat and waited for the right piece to recite to suggest itself. It should be one of her favorites. In fact, it should be her all-time favorite, “Dover Beach.” The poem could still move her toward tears. Or at least it had, the last time he had read it to her, which had been when? It had been pretty long ago, maybe as long ago as their vacation in the San Juans. “Dover Beach” was the perfect choice.

He began. “ ‘Dover Beach.’

He paused. He was shaky on the next segments. He plunged through them anyway, raising his voice even higher. There had been errors. He didn’t care.

This last part he knew cold. He would make it as close to song as he could. He had tears in his eyes, he was interested to note. He wondered if this poem had ever been set to music. Take this, he thought.

That was it. That was it. That was her favorite poem and what had she
done
and what had
he
, the man at stool, to use a good English Literature archaism, done, and what was that man thinking right now, this minute? Ray thanked English Literature for what, for being or giving him a weapon.

Now, stupidly, he wanted something from Morel.

He said, “That was her favorite poem.”

Morel said something indeterminate.

“Still
is
, I assume,” Ray said.

There was an outburst, Morel saying, “
Oh shut the fuck up
. You’re an idiot. Would you consider shutting up?”

Ray knew why it was happening. “Dover Beach” was about fidelity. So reciting it had been a form of rubbing it in. Still, it was what had come to him and in fact it
was
her favorite poem.

“Sorry. I was trying to be helpful.”

“You never shut up, is the problem. You’re an idiot.”

This would pass. Morel was forgetting who was the injured party and who wasn’t.

Ray waited while Morel finished up and reorganized himself.

“I only used half the paper,” Morel said, pushing the unused paper into its previous crack in the wall.

“Thanks.”

“You’re not an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“I am an idiot. I beg to differ.”

“And by the way, My Bowels shall sound as an Harp isn’t Coleridge.”

“Yes it is. It’s in the
Notebooks.”

“It may be, but it comes from the Bible. Isaiah. That’s where he got it.”

It was a small thing, but Ray hated it anyway. He felt shown-up at the professional level. He was an idiot.

“I won’t argue with you.”

“I’m right, believe me.”

Sounds of glass breaking came from the direction of the main building. It was possible it meant nothing. There was no sequel.

Morel placed himself against the wall, leaning on it a little, his arms crossed on his chest. Ray sat against the opposite wall, on his pallet. He wanted to be in a standing position for what was coming, but the prospect of finally getting the truth had made his knees weak, as in the cliché. He would get up when he could.

“I’m sorry about that,” Morel said, gesturing toward the bucket. There was no need. It was the way it was.

Morel said, “One way we could go with this would be for you to tell me just how you know about Iris and me. You say you already know. That would save a lot of time. And I’d be interested.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“I see. And why would that be? Because it would reveal, what do you call it, ‘sources and methods’?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because I was lying. I knew you’d think I had tapes or videos. That’s why I said it. I sort of regret it. But when I said I knew, it wasn’t that. It was signs and indicators I kept trying to put together to mean anything else and they didn’t, I couldn’t. It was partly a literary exercise, in a way. The only story that made sense was the painful one. I don’t know what to say to you. I had a premonition about this and she agreed to an insane compact with me. She was going to tell me if she was going to cheat, or if she was tempted, warn me so I could do what, something. But the horse was halfway out of the barn by then and when she agreed to it she was already halfway into being in bed with you, dreaming in that direction anyway. But she thought she was in good faith, I don’t doubt it for a minute. She was in the rapids and she didn’t know it.”

He had to stop. His eyes were filling with tears. It was unusual. It was philosophical. It was a generic sorrow for human beings caught in situations like theirs, the three of them, humans making declarations they meant at the time and that got undone and swept away by perverse events, the perversity of the future as it arrived so clumsily, giantly, smashing things. That was what it was. Except for the part that was about self-pity, that was what it was.

He said, “Say something.”

“I can’t.” Morel was barely audible.

Ray said, “Look at it from my standpoint. I know the truth. You know I know. Do me the favor of letting me live in the world I have to face,
once we get back, assuming we do. I am going to have to deal with this in detail. I need help to prepare. Because there is going to be an ending, a … what … an uprooting worse than anything I ever dreamed could happen to me. Arm me for that. Or if I die let me die in possession of the truth, in reality, as I go. Not to be too dramatic about it, but you see my point.

“And look, if you think I’m going to try to torture every minute particular out of you, don’t think it. All I need from you is confirmation that I’m in my right mind, so I can proceed. We all need to be in our right minds, am I correct? That’s your motto. People are drowning in false narratives, thus empire thus the papacy thus this and that, world wars, evil empires good empires, all the shit of history.

“Because I’ll tell you, the details are unimportant in comparison to the general fact of the thing and what that means. The details can’t make it worse.

“And also I’ll tell you this, I know the situation you’re in. I know what she told you.
Don’t tell him
, in the name of God, don’t. I can hear her. She said that whatever you do don’t tell him, it will
kill
him. I know what she said. She said she had to be the one to handle it, it was her right to handle it. She was fierce. I know her. I know how she would put it.

“Of course her problem was that she was giving a lying task to the wrong person, tasking someone to lie who wouldn’t lie. We both understand why she had no choice but to send you, but of course she was working from a bad model, myself, the person she formerly loved, a liar in several ways, a model that led her to expect something from you that shouldn’t have been expected. Because I was involved in an established lie, occupationally, my work, part of my work, and of course from that flowed other lies, white lies, which is probably what we should call them, in Africa. But that’s another story, another part of the forest …

“So, no
of course
she wanted to manage this with me herself. I would too. You would. And she’ll be furious for a while when she finds out. But she’ll get over it and forgive. She forgives people she loves. She forgave me for years. She forgave me as long as she could, which is all we should ask for, am I right?

“Don’t make my life impossible.”

Ray was thinking how impossible it would be, say, if he confronted Iris and she denied it and he had gotten nothing concrete out of Morel except his circumstantial silence. Where would he be then? Or, supposing for the sake of argument that she had done it with Morel and since then changed her mind and decided to creep back and reinstate with him
because, because … for any reason, something unsatisfactory in the doctor, old acquaintance, fear of the less known, remorse, any old thing. And he would be in his normal position, weak, weak before her, unarmed, because of utter love, alas.

He had no regrets about his love for her up to now. She was on the verge of the change of life. So the idea that she was going for Morel so she could have a shot at motherhood was unlikely, taking a shot at his medical powers giving her motherhood. He was creating things in his mind that meant nothing. He had to stop. It was adieu.

He felt he had enough strength in his legs to stand up, even though his knee was still throbbing. He had to be upright for the finishing kick.

I will get my unholy grail, he thought.

He said, “Tell me now. Be me. Be me, asking.” He was willing the truth to come out of Morel.

He could feel Morel composing himself.

Morel said, “Okay then. It’s true, I love her. We are lovers, yes. So okay.” It was clear he had spoken slowly to keep his tone under control.

“I can’t believe it,” Ray heard himself say. He would have to explain why he had said it. It had to sound bad to Davis. It sounded bad to him. It made him sound to himself as though he had made everything up and then used it to trick Morel. But it wasn’t that way. It had been an expression about the point they had come to. He didn’t want to be misunderstood.

There was a feeling of hollowness around him. His voice rang oddly. He had the fleeting conviction that elements of his surroundings, the walls, the floor, were hollow.

Morel said, “She’ll hate me for this. She wanted to tell you herself. She insisted that that was the way it had to be. I agreed with her. She may never forgive me.”

“Yes she will.”

“I don’t know.”

“She forgives you if she loves you. Don’t worry. I’ll explain why it happened.”

Morel was worried. It was ridiculous, but he didn’t want him to worry.

“Don’t worry about it. I said I’d explain it.”

“You’re lovers, that’s all I have to know. I’m satisfied. I don’t care who moved first or any of that. I told you.

“That’s all. I guess my last question is about your intentions, going forward from here. Well, and her intentions, which she’ll tell me. She’s not here to speak, so …

“No, but your intentions. I mean, you want to have her, take her. That is, you’re looking at this as serious, a permanent thing.”

“That’s what
I
want,” Morel said.

It was difficult to keep talking. He made himself go on.

“You’d marry her, you’d like to. Once I’m on the other side of the horizon.”

“You know, we haven’t advanced to that. I don’t want to flatter myself and say I know more about what she wants than I really do. But, yes, of course I would, of course.”

“So you don’t have philosophical objections to marriage.”

“I thought I did. I thought I wouldn’t ever marry again and I thought I’d, I don’t know, reached conclusions about marriage, coming out of that. Let’s put it this way. I’m prepared to be inconsistent. I want to marry her. I think she has more questions about marriage as a concept than I do, at this point, to tell you the absolute truth.”

That hurts, Ray thought. He wanted the sickly lightness afflicting him to go away. Certain remarks of Morel’s seemed to make it worse.

Morel said, “I do have to say to you that I absolutely love your wife. It’s like nothing ever before, with me.”

Ray said, “So, well, good. This is what it is, I guess.”

Morel said, “I’m sorry.”

Ray said, “I don’t want to discuss this, the three of us sitting around a table, ever, please. It has to be between me and Iris, and then, if we need to, between you and me.”