Outer Banks (7 page)

—When this thing hits the media, he said to the Green Man as they strolled out to the dusty plain to hunt prairie chicken,—we'll be in! Every mother's son in the fucking country will be fighting on our side! Let Naomi Ruth
have
her minorities.
I'll
have the rest. Don't forget, these kids have never had a chance to fight for something they
believe
in! he reminded his cohort.

10.

That night, lying on his cot in his tent, the king had a dream which confused and troubled him. He dreamed he was the pilot of a fighter-bomber on a bombing mission over North Vietnam. Sweeping down on his target, a Standard Oil refinery operated by the enemy, he released his bombs and then suddenly realized he had overshot his target by about five miles. As he pulled the nose of the plane skyward, he glanced out the canopy to see what in fact he was bombing, and he saw three little boys standing in the middle of a clearing in the jungle. For an instant he saw their faces, recognizing them, and then they were gone. And then he heard the sickening sound of the bombs exploding in the clearing in the jungle. All the way back to the base in Laos, he roared with incoherent pain.

The Green Man, mercifully, woke him, but when he told the king that the army was ready to march on the city, the king began to sob uncontrollably.—No, no, this is
insane!
What are we
doing
? We're
killing
each other!

The Green Man gave him a couple of ten-milligram Librium capsules and got him calmed down again, so that, by sunrise, Egress was once more his hearty, unshakable self.

—I always have a nightmare the night before a big battle, he explained to the Green Man as they rode toward the city at the head of the motorcycle corps.

11.

Behind Egress, General Twit, the Green Man, and The Sons of the Pioneers, the Loyalist Army spread out like a gigantic cape all the way to the horizon. Most of the police and military, practically all professional groups, athletes, clergymen of all the more popular faiths, many clerk-typists and petty bureaucrats from the civil service, members of all the building trades unions, motorcycle gangs, automobile mechanics, miners, realistic novelists, coaches, and all the youth of the land who had been about to apprentice themselves to members of these groups (but who were, in actuality, probably attracted to the Loyalist cause by the presence of The Sons of the Pioneers) turned out to have remained loyal to the king. They seemed to have been waiting only for the proper opportunity to express that loyalty. There were, of course, legions of older men who had wanted to join the battle on the side of the king, but, because of their age, had been put to better use as medics, service personnel, councillors, etc. Stationed with them at the rear of the marching army and at the canyon headquarters, the numerous women who had joined the army had been put to good use making uniforms, bullets, tents, and victory banners.

12.

On the way into the city, there were a few isolated skirmishes, quick forays by small search-and-destroy units into farmhouses and crossroads hamlets where the inhabitants had tried to resist the king's army, not so much because they were loyal to his wife, but rather because they were out of touch with the conflict and thus had no loyalties at all. The sheer mass of the Loyalist Army overwhelmed them, and the raping, looting, and slaughter that followed barely delayed the army in its march. Like pebbles in the path of a river that has burst its dam, they were swallowed whole and caused not even a ripple of hesitation. But when the river reached its destination, the city, it created, then swirled, eddied, slowed, and finally ceased movement altogether, as if, blocked by a second dam, it had emptied into a new, unexpected basin, creating in a short time a huge, motionless lake of bewildered men.

The city was deserted, empty, and all the major buildings had been destroyed. The streets were filled with rubble, concrete, wrecked automobiles, buses, trains, mattresses, broken cases of food, furniture, clothing, and glass, as if there had been an earthquake and it had occurred at the one moment when everyone was out of town. Egress was at first astonished, and then, when he had begun to piece together what had happened, a process in which he was aided by the Green Man, he was deeply depressed. One might say broken.

1.

(A
T THE
A
IRPORT
)

 

He recognized her by the nape of her neck and his powerful attraction to it. She stood motionless in front of him, like Leda before the swan or Europa before the bull, waiting her turn to purchase a ticket, presumably for the next flight out. There were no longer any arriving flights; departing flights had been doubled.

Hungrily, he stared at the tendons on her neck, the fine strands of hair lifting like an Elizabethan tune toward the high, severe tail of her haircut. It was in the new style, he noticed, the one called the “French Barricade.” She curled her head forward as she drew a credit card from her purse and, handing it to the harried clerk, paid for her ticket. Egress ached to strum the taut muscles of her neck, the braid of tendons and sinews that ran like Greek bread from under her earlobes to her shoulders. He felt his hands open out, reaching like morning glories at dawn, his fingertips swarming with impatience for heat.

She accepted her ticket from the clerk, turned brusquely and saw him standing there behind her.—Oh! she said, clearly startled.—Surprise, eh?

—Ah … yes! Surprise-surprise-surprise-surprise-surprise, he said mockingly, cursing himself for it as he spoke:—Goddamn you, goddamn you, goddamn you …, he cursed.

—It's your turn, I believe. The man is waiting, Egress, she reminded him, inclining her head in the direction of the uniformed clerk at the counter. She seemed to have a sarcastic smile on her thin lips, as if she felt superior to her husband.

A short and exceedingly fat woman with a pair of long-legged, unhappy, teenaged sons stood in line as a group behind Egress. She kicked one of her large suitcases along the floor until it crashed into his heel, battering his Achilles tendon with it as she kept on kicking. Her arms, like meat-filled pillows, were folded pugnaciously across her huge breasts, and, while swinging at her suitcase with one stubby foot, she glared intolerantly at Egress and Naomi Ruth.

—
Next!
the clerk pointedly called out.

—They think they're in a movie, the fat woman muttered to her sons.

—Okay, okay, I'm next, Egress said, turning for a second to the clerk, saying to him,—One way, please, and when, a second later, he looked back, Naomi Ruth was gone.

—One way … to where, mister? the clerk impatiently asked him.

—Oh. Ah… Nevada. Reno, Nevada.

—First-class or tourist?

—Ah, tourist, tourist. Yes … tourist. He placed his credit card onto the counter in front of him and the clerk ran it through the machine and handed it, with the ticket, back to him.

Egress deftly stepped away and slipped into the crowd as if slipping into a broad, slow river, and let the current carry him. He said to himself, I've never felt so tired, so bone-weary. I feel a thousand years old. I wish I'd been born a member of a different race, one with more of a future. I almost wish I'd been born a woman.

Oh, but just the same, thinking that one over, he thought, I'm glad I don't have to be born again as
anything.
The risk isn't worth taking, he observed shrewdly. Maybe everything's only as decently worked out as possible. It's hard to run off and turn your back on the fact of your own manhood, when you are a man and have been one all your life. I mean, what the hell, an ego's an ego, and you sort of have to take it as it comes from where you get it. Right? he humbly asked himself.

Right, he declared with confidence, sliding forthrightly along with the crowd and keeping a sharp lookout for the proper boarding gate and any possibilities of Naomi Ruth.

2.

(O
N THE
B
EACH
)

 

Egress sat atop the smooth, sow-sized boulder, looking out to sea, diddling idly with memories of his childhood. The harsh cry of a gull caused him to look to his right, along the gray beach, and though he could see little more of the figure walking toward him than that it was a woman's, he knew immediately that it was Naomi Ruth's. The languorous yet sporty walk, that slow movement of muscles hardened leisurely by tennis, could belong to no other woman, certainly to no other woman in
his
life, which, at that exact moment, he realized, in terms of the number and kinds of women he had studied closely, had been rather oddly narrow. Was that
usual
? he wondered. Was he, then, therefore, lonelier than other men of similar means and abilities? Was this, the catastrophe of his middle age, his
own
fault?

She didn't give any sign of recognition until she had drawn near enough for her to speak to him, when she said simply,—I never thought of you as a sun-worshipper, Egress. She was wearing a tiny, cerise, two-piece bathing suit. He had on a rust-colored tanksuit made of wet-look nylon. They both had good tans, leathery brown and evenly distributed.

—Having a good time? he asked.

—Yes! And you? She sat down lightly beside him on the rock and looked out to sea.

Egress looked out to sea also.—Yes, I guess one
could
call it that.

—What?

—A “good” time.

—Oh.

—I mean, I've been “good” lately. Travel and most other forms of inactivity, as you know, produce in me a certain … “morality,” he said carefully.

—That's pretty decadent-sounding, Egress, she said, laughing.—You were many things, but I don't remember you as particularly decadent.

—I don't know. No, I don't think I was, not at all. Nowadays, though, well, maybe I am. After all, life has to go on,
n'est-ce pas?
“The old biological imperative,” as the Loon used to call it…

—The
Loon
! she sneered.

—Oh, you can't blame
him
, Naomi. Not for this. He was weak, that's all, and he knew it. For him, everything had to come down to that old biological imperative. His one ethic, his only possible morality, was survival, for god's sake. We shouldn't go off projecting our own alternatives onto him, not now. That's just too easy…

—I know, I know. It's just the associations. They're still very strong, you know. And painful.

—Sure, I understand. It's the same for me—though of course I'm temperamentally slightly more existential than you.

—That makes it easier, probably.

—Aw, please, Naomi, I happen to treasure this moment, so please, don't indulge in sarcasm. Not now.

—Sorry.

—As a matter of fact, just as you came walking up, I was sitting here wondering whether or not this whole thing was my fault completely. I mean,
completely.

—Completely?

—Yeah. Except for a few things, of course. All that destruction at the end, for instance. I mean, Jesus, Naomi, you could have just “left” me, you know. All those innocent people! he exclaimed compassionately.

—Nobody's “innocent,” she said grimly.—It's Greek, and that means everything's interlocked. When the House of Atreus finally collapses, the entire city has to collapse around it.
I
had nothing to do with all that destruction at the end, not personally, any more than you did. Not as much as you did, if you ask me, from what I heard. What were you doing when you went underground, anyhow? Working as some kind of secret double agent? No, I'm sorry, I don't mean that. I know you had nothing
personally
to do with all that violence and destruction of property at the end. It was just coincidence. Fate.

Egress sighed with evident relief.—If that's true, then maybe the whole thing wasn't my fault, not entirely. Right?

—Who cares about “right” now? she asked rhetorically, leaving the rock.—Good-bye, Egress. I'm glad you are having a good time, however decadent. I don't miss you, but I wonder lots of times how you are now.

—Same here, he said.—Are you “lonely”?

—Yes. But as I said, I don't miss you.

—Right. Same here, he said to her lithe back as she walked athletically away.

3.

(I
N THE
M
USEUM
)

 

He had stepped into the museum to get out of the rain, a sudden, unexpected shower that probably would not last. I never seem to have an umbrella when I need one, he thought, as he glanced into the adjacent roomful of midnight blue, very abstract paintings. The paintings, recent acquisitions, evidently, were all
about six feet square, covered completely with a smooth coat of midnight blue paint. The surface was so smooth that it seemed to have been applied with a large roller or spray gun. There were between twenty-five and thirty of the paintings hanging in the large room, distributed evenly along the walls and hung at exactly the same height. Egress found himself moved invitingly by the sight and went into the room for a closer look at them.

They were by an artist whose name he did not recognize, and they were entitled, “Composition A,” “Composition B,” and so on, in sequence, all the way, he discovered, to “Composition Z,” which brought him back to the door again. The exhibit gave him considerable peace of mind, and it was with pleasure and a kind of relief that he noticed, after having gone through the exhibit a second time to study each individual painting closely, that he was the only person in the room—until the moment when Naomi Ruth, in a lemon yellow dress and carrying a matching yellow umbrella, entered the room.

—Oh, she said, seeing him.—Well, we meet again. We can't go on meeting like this, she laughed, shaking her small, dark head provocatively.—Are you enjoying the paintings? she queried.

—Oh, yes, immensely. As a matter of fact, they have given me a great peace, a deep spiritual equilibrium which lately I seem to have lacked to a considerable degree. They've offered an order to my chaos.

—The artist is my present lover, she said in a flat voice.

—Ah? Ah, well … ahem, how shall I say it, then? How nice? Or, perhaps, congratulations? Or would it be more polite to admit a personal relation and hope he's like his paintings—that is, lucid, totally consistent, witty, and well-hung. He smiled coldly at her, pushed past and out the door, broke into a flagrant run and exited from the museum to the downpour outside.

4.

(A
T THE
C
AFÉ
)

 

—Actually, I'm all right now. Things are much better for me, he assured her.

—Are they? Good. I was worried, she said, motioning with one hand for the waiter. The waiter arrived, and Naomi Ruth ordered their drinks, in French, which impressed him, for her accent was quite good.

—Yes, I have a girl friend, a good woman who loves me well, he lied.—We share a nice little flat in a charming quarter of the city. Very comfortable place. A lot of Russian émigrés live in the district. We're very happy. She's a dancer. Quite young. Lovely. Smokes those Russian cigarettes. Young. A sparkling beauty. Tanya. She's Russian. A dancer. Quite young. She loves me.

—Ah, good. And you? Do you love her as well? The waiter brought their drinks, a martini for Naomi Ruth, Campari and soda for Egress.

—Oh, well, you know. As I said, she's quite young. Let's just say that I'm “fond” of her, and grateful. She's a marvelous dancer. Flying feet.

—How nice, said Naomi Ruth, nipping at her martini with pursed lips. Though she didn't believe a word he said, she judged him as she would if she had believed everything. The man's still a cad, she decided. Even his lies betray him. It's no use.—It's no use, she informed him.

—No?

—No, she said, getting up from the table.

—Must you rush off?

—Oh, I left long ago, Egress. If only I could get
you
to leave, I'd be a free woman, she declared, and she picked up her coat and walked hurriedly away.

He finished his drink slowly, thoughtfully, then, brightening, drained hers. He suddenly felt like celebrating.—
Garcon!
he called.—Bring me a double martini,
s'il vous plait
!

5.

(I
N THE
H
ANSOM
C
AB
)

 

—Where
my
money comes from, said Egress to Naomi Ruth, is not of much importance, you know that. After all, it doesn't matter to
me
where it comes from, so why should it matter to anyone else? Most of my economic theories are of the type used to describe other people's financial situations, not one's own, which happily places me in the grand tradition of modern economic theorists, and also leaves me free to take whatever I can get from wherever I can get it without offending the glorious abstract—letting the general principles freely transcend the particularities of my usually very complex finances. So, the answer to your question, What am I doing for money these days? is, casually, I get by. What about
you
, however? Since you happen to be a woman and thus have spent most of your life locked by the abstract into a very particularized and personal dependence on other individuals (first your father and then me) for your money—to the degree that your most important personal relations have been, as they must be, with whomever you have economic relations—What are
you
doing for money these days? Asking a woman about her financial life is not much different from asking her whom she's sleeping with, I know, and if you had not slept with me for twenty-five years or more, believe me, I would not feel entitled, as I do, to pry.

—I get by.

—We're quite a pair, Egress laughed, aren't we? It's a damned good thing nobody's counting on us to play big historical roles, to lead his revolution or put one down.

Naomi Ruth responded with a chuckle. Egress, leaning forward in the seat, called to the driver and instructed him to stop at the next corner, in front of the American Express office. Then, to Naomi Ruth, he said,—Well, I'll leave you here. It's been kind of you to share your ride with a walking-man, a member of the walking class, heh-heh. Seriously, though, thanks for the lift. I might've had to stand there for hours before convincing a cab to stop. The hansom cab stopped in front of the American Express office.—Well, here we are! Good old American Express, eh? By the way, if you're going to be here in the city for a few days, maybe we can get together for lunch…?