Refiner's Fire (34 page)

They wound in and out of moods as if they were running a river with bends. Al said, “You work all your life playing by the rules, honest and fair, trying to be good and to achieve excellence. Then a law is made and the whole damn thing turns upside down and you have to turn around and start upward again, from the bottom.”

“It strengthens you,” said Marshall, straining.

“Or kills you.”

“No.
Strengthens
you. I'm not going down on that, never. The bastards can swivel the glass a hundred times and I'll start up again, by my rules, for what I love.” He was hoarse.
“Nothing is
going to keep me down,
nothing.
" He pulled at an enormous spilling carcass, tears in his eyes, sweat coursing down his temples, an expression of horror, fighting, and live battle on his face. “Not until I'm still in the grave, not until there isn't a breath left, not until I'm dark dock dead—
damn.”

It is hard to imagine how thin they became, how gaunt, and how ridiculous. They could never understand why night continued on, why the stars and furnace were unceasing and unbending. Nor could they always fathom
Monroe,
or heed his advice. Sometimes they did think of the ones they loved. And then it was a blazing pain, as if the cows they butchered were themselves. Al almost quivered at the thought of Wendy, sweet and tall, far away in another world. The ride west over the same land that he and Lydia had used to forge themselves together had caused in Marshall a sudden and almost frightening upwelling of her image. He was shaken and surprised, and he dreamed of her, frustrated and angry that he had never seen her as an adult. When they thought of those they loved, it almost killed them, and they entered a band of numbness, doing their work with only the hope that they would survive.

“If I could pick up my father and hold him in the air, and pinch Alexa until she attacked, I'd be so happy,” said Al. “This is a mean trick in time.”

Marshall could only agree. Lydia was too distant for anything other than deep memory. But in the cries of the cows, in blasts of fire, in the thundering doors which rolled open to reveal a winking black sky, in defiance and tension, in blood and reduction, in lack of time, in Mow roes slow gentle talk, in the brightly colored flags Marshall sometimes imagined that he saw, and angels descending to comfort the cows, in the inescapable flatness of plains and sky through which time skipped and pivoted without control, skidding across the countryside, in the elements of the place, and in his exposed memory and heart as if he too had been torn and opened to the air in the high, giddy, beam-filled shed—he found that he loved Lydia (even if he could only imagine what she had become), that he was directed to her, and that his resolution in the station would be the backbone of his life, as steady and sure as a steel rail. America was spread about, round like a compass rose, and though it was winter, spring was somewhere. In his anonymity among the steaming carcasses Marshall thought that spring would come to shatter the prison.
Monroe
had said in his slow speech, “Never talk down the power of gentle things. They come from underneath and open up the earth, like shoots and flowers.”

A
FTER WHAT
seemed like several lifetimes,
Monroe
came and called them to the furnace, where he stood next to the open door. “It's half over,” he said, “and now you can go outside and walk on the snow. The top is frozen and will hold you.”

“But why?” they asked.

“Simple,” he answered. “Your time here is half over, and you have something to show for it. It's like a clock. They turned the furnaces outward so the air above the ice won't be cold. Don't stay long, but climb the little hill and look to see spring. This is the night it makes itself known in the mountains. I think you should see.”

They started to put on their sweatshirts, but he stopped them, saying, “Look. Look at the furnaces.” He took them to the door, from which they saw an orange glow over the factory grounds. Manifolds had been directed to the outside, and currents of warm air flew about the courtyards. They found it delightful as they walked slowly in the dark toward a small hill. Looking back, they saw the factory, which stretched for miles. They had not imagined its great size. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of chimneys steadily gave off smoke. At their bases were licking rondels of beating flame. The line of these lights stretched to picket half the horizon. Black and silver towers were just visible against the sky because they blocked out stars. It remained busy; the fires burned with a pounding noise.

Having turned from the factory, they continued to the hill and arrived at its top. A flat plain fled for hundreds of miles, interrupted only by the factory. As if they had been in the center of a round card, they saw around them a perfect circle. Along the entire perimeter were low mountains, jagged and full of visible angles, like the mountains of Mars. Across their peaks, in a full circle, rose-colored fire was strung in lines of spark. It appeared as if the world's rim had caught in warm flame. Garlands of it made the mountains glow.

The turbulent breezes which crossed and folded above seemed also to be mild, despite the clarity of the air. Had they closed their eyes, they could easily have imagined palms. They had never realized that spring announced itself by running rings of lapping fire. It was half over, and they slid down the hill and began their walk to the factory.

They expected to resume the slaughter. But
Monroe
came to them and said, “Tonight they stopped it. You can wash in the baths, and go see the whores. Are you tired? You see, I told you. Some times, they go to the whores two times, or three times, or none at all. You can go once.” He smiled, and padded away. Then he turned, saying, “C'mon, I'll take you to the baths.”

They came to a little wooden door at the end of a walk which wound between the giant buildings.
Mor
noe opened it. It seemed as if no one had been there in a long time, though it smelled quite fresh. He groped around looking for the lights. They thought that they were at a workmens bathhouse, with gritty floors, missing shower heads, and forty-five seconds of almost hot water. “Here it is,” he said, flicking a switch.

A hundred and fifty heavy floodlights positioned around a vast ceiling of Finnish arches and cedar beams projected thick penetrating rays throughout the baths. A central rectangular pool of bright blue water took up most of the room.
Mor
noe said that it was 200 feet long and 100 feet wide, and that at one end it was seventy feet deep. Around its edges were smaller pools—a thrashing whitewater mechanico, a little blue ice cube over which vapors condensed, a mineral hot spring, warm and shallow rivers interconnecting the static bodies to feed and refresh. At one end of the main sea stood a permanent scaffolding of heavy aromatic beams, on which were staggered diving platforms ranging to seventy-five feet, chutes leading into the water, tilted trampolines, ropes and trapezes on which to swing out and let go, and a wire on which one could glide by hand trolley high above the pool, choosing when to drop. Waterfalls and fountains poured into the main and small rafts had drifted to its edges. Gymnasts rings and a high bar were suspended over the far end.

Mon
roe went to a great armoire to fetch a load of supplies, which he set down before him. “This one's for you,” he said, “and this for you,” handing them green velvet towels, soft, new, and blanket-sized. Then he handed each of them a piece of soap as big as a melon.

“What's that?” asked Marshall.
Monroe
squinted at him, as if Marshall were crazy or from another civilization.

“That's soap. Ain't you ever seen soap?” Marshall looked at the turkey-sized mass in his arms, which weighed at least fifty pounds, and said nothing. “What influences you?” asked
Monroe
of a sudden. It surprised them.

“What influences us?” echoed Al.

“Yeah, what influences you? Don't bother to answer, 'cause I already know. Now you can stay here for a time, and then you can go to the bus, and the bus will take you to town.”

“How long can we stay?” asked Marshall. “This place looks better than whores to me.”

“You can stay for a time. You come again before you get paid, to wash up. So only stay for a time. You have to be clean for the whores. Disease. Use the soap to wash. I'll be back in some time.” He left, carefully closing the door behind him.

First they had endless showers, wrestling with the soap. Then when they were clean they put on bathing suits that
Monroe
had left for them, and began to work on the amusements. What a delight it was to sail through the air and crash into the clean water, to climb the beams, to fly on the trapeze and then release, traveling like a dolphin into a broken front of white wave. Finally they were so tired that they fell asleep on rafts, only to be awakened by
Monroe,
who stood at the side of the pool and tapped a gourd. They dressed in black pants and white shirts which were baggy and did not fit, so that they looked like Russians. They were apprehensive, for they had never been with whores and did not want to be; but it had been an eternity without women, so they went to a little bus full of other workers in ill-fitting clothes, and sped to town. Behind them the factory was lit like a crown of flames.

The bus let them off in front of a bar. Inside was an enormous purple room, in the center of which hung an electric sign which read: ST. LOUIS. Music and light were so profuse, and the atmosphere so wild and deep with sex that Marshall had the overwhelming feeling of being on a rock in the midst of fast-running, breaking, thunderous rapids; with trees being felled and cliffs collapsing; houses, cars, and logs sweeping by; and the observers stolid in the middle. Light smoke coursed through the room, rising in eddies like mist from the rushing river.

It was filled with whores of sex, who sat blinking in satin draped over their revealed bodies. A thousand-lensed sphere turned above, tapping out interruptive rays. The color violet and the flashing lights began to defeat Marshall's will. He hoped that any convulsion or battering would come later, upstairs, or wherever they would take him. He was ripe for the taking. In a minute he was glossy and gone.

Sensing deep ecstatic breathing, a purple sister glided across the darkness smooth and iridescent as a shark. She sat down at their table and stared at Marshall's eyes. Al was negotiating a treaty with a long-legged black beauty. The woman of flashing lights stared Marshall into liquefaction. She seemed just loose and lithe enough, and her face was lit with the intelligence of sex. He could not see if she were in any way beautiful, because he was too moved by her other elements. Normally, he linked love with love. But lost in the revolving ultraviolet of that bat cave, he said what the hell, and when she took her breasts in her hands, stretched her neck upward, closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and said, “I want to be sucked,” there was simply nothing to do but stagger after her to the far end of the room, where they mounted a circular staircase to the second story. A small chamber had a floor of glass bricks through which purple light from the room downstairs came darkly and thick. She unhooked and dropped all her shiny satin in a moment and lay on the bed, moving. “The ocean is coming up here,” she said, pointing to the end of the bed. Marshall had always loved the ocean.

O
N THE
way back to the factory, heaters puffing over limp, exhausted men heading once more into endless night and work, Marshall had a luminous memory and, like an old man, was overcome with affection and love for a moment in his past. Remembering it, he understood that nothing vanishes, that between the mirrors of heart and mind is a meditation long standing, infinite, and full, that Jamaica still lay hot and lush, as green as a bird of green feathers, slow-moving like Jamaican speech. He had it precisely, a locking incision. Dash's kiss tasted like apricots. Even Farrell's death and the arrival of the constable had not altered the bloom of his rosy trust. From High View he could see that ships were shearing across a blur
as
green water hissed through the reefs.

When they arrived, the other workers left for their stations, but Al and Marshall were told to go inside and see
Mor
noe. They expected the worst, for it was said that after the first visit to the whores, a new man was sent to the killing chamber, there to bludgeon the steers. Inside the cathedral room they approached the old men, one of whom said, “I suppose you came to see
Mor
noe."

“That's what we were told to do,” said Marshall.

“Okay, I'll get him.” He hopped up and walked to the fire. “He's in the fire again.
Monroel Momoel
Come outa there!”
Monroe.
appeared.

“Oh,” he said, “it's you. You been gone for some time.”

“That's right,” answered Al. “We've been gone for some time.
Mor
noe, some times its irritating to listen to you, since you have no idea of time.”

“Do
you
have an idea of time?” questioned
Mor
noe.

“More or less.”

“Then how long you been gone?”

“About ten or twelve hours,” answered Al.

“Ten or twelve hours!” Marshall said in astonishment. “It was no more than forty-five minutes.”

“I haven't seen you boys for some time,” said
Mor
noe. “That's all I can say.” He looked around, and then said, almost under his breath, “You boys interested in a short card game?”

“Short!” said Al. “You see!”

“What you mean?” asked
Mor
noe, genuinely puzzled, taking a stubby deck of cards out of his overalls. “We plays with short cards.” He held one up. “You can get a credit of two hundred and fifty dollars on your pay for the card game. You want to play?” The old men were poised on the edges of their boxes and rockers.