The Rise & Fall of Great Powers (28 page)

“You’re saying I’m past my peak,” he said, amused.

“That’s exactly what she just said,” Bridget affirmed, clapping.

“Except, except, except,” Tooly interrupted, “you’re actually even weirder, because you believe all the best stuff happened in a period you didn’t even live in.”

“Come on—you’re way worse,” he said. “At least I embrace the techy zeitgeist. You own a frickin’ bookshop, my dear. Do you even have a computer there? Are you familiar with these newfangled machines?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have one. And now I’ve got that cellphone you lent me.”

“You have a tablet yet?”

“I’m waiting till the stone ones come out, the ones that come with a chisel.”

“My point exactly.”

“No, you’re right in a way,” she acknowledged. “I don’t feel involved in a lot of what’s going on. But that’s always been true for me.” So much of her childhood had revolved around the lessons of the Soviet Empire and World War II that, once Tooly set out on her own, she’d needed a while to acclimatize to the present. It wasn’t 9/11 that did it so much as the Iraq War; sometime around 2003, the twenty-first century seemed to detach from the twentieth. “And I’m still not sure which century I fit in. Maybe neither.”

“That’s such a cop-out. We’re the same age, pretty much. You’ve been part of the same period I have. Secretly, you’re a declinist like me. You just don’t want to sound negative. Any period is
not
as good as any other, just like any place is not as good as any other.”

“You could rank times and places?”

“Easily.”

“Then you’d have to admit that this time and place are pretty
good,” she said. “No chance of war breaking out in Darien, Connecticut. You’re well-off, educated, healthy. Your kids take filmmaking and modern dance at day camp. They’ll live long and happy lives. So everything is in decline?”

He shook his head, annoyed—her summary failed to explain why everything was so irritating nowadays. “Missing the point,” he said.

He was right to notice something missing. She had not stated her fundamental view: that, for Duncan, time and place, fortune and misfortune, had only a glancing impact. He was temperamentally condemned to embitterment and would revert to that condition regardless of circumstances, just as lottery winners, after the euphoria, ended up as morose or cheerful as they’d ever been. People did not see the world for what it was but for what they were.

All fell quiet, except the background chatter of a peppy news anchor: “…  from the back of the bus—and the front of it, too!—with a story up close and personal, a no-holds-barred look at the success of Michele Bachmann’s bus tour. Stick with us, for the last word in fair and …”

He turned off the television. “All these people should be put in jail,” he said. “Not just any jail but some nightmare place where they get beaten around the clock.”

“I’m putting the kids to bed,” Bridget said.

Tooly excused herself, too. “I need a good sleep tonight.”

Duncan remained, staring at the black screen. The rant had quenched nothing. He awoke his two phones, each bright and ready to behave, just as the outside world never would.

I
N THE COMING
days, Humphrey’s mood varied—talkative one visit, distant the next. Overnight, he stumbled around his room, restless but afraid to venture outside, even to use the shared toilets. By morning, his late-night activities were evident in the piles of toppled books, bedcovers strewn with documents, food on the floor.

Yelena came early to ensure that no disasters had befallen him,
made breakfast, washed him. Tooly took over around midday, occasionally crossing paths with the Russian woman’s son, Garry, an engineering student who was trying to resolve Humphrey’s problems with the television remote.

Once everyone else had gone, Tooly turned off the blaring TV and posed questions about his accent and about their past. But each query distressed Humphrey—he wanted to help, but failed to summon what she wanted. A few times, he snapped at her. At other times, he was endearing, such as when he offered her a bunch of cherries that Yelena had left.

“Grapes,” Tooly corrected him. “Thank you. I’ll have a few.”

Whenever she succeeded in dipping into his memory, it was his childhood, not hers, that came out—climbing a statue, or milking a cow, or throwing an apricot pit and fearing he’d blinded a girl. They were reminiscences she already knew, but he insisted on recounting each to the end. Occasionally, an unfamiliar anecdote emerged, such as when he recalled, as a very little boy, lying atop his mother while she did read-throughs of plays and falling asleep to the flip of pages.

“She was involved in the theater? But you never say your parents’ names, do you, Humph. Where did all this happen?”

“I lay there and heard pages turning.”

“Does it feel,” she asked, “when you’re telling these stories, does it feel like it’s you? Or does it feel like a different person back then?”

“I’m the same as I was,” he said. “Only later.”

After a minute, she asked, “Would you like a walk down to Emmons Avenue? We can go slowly. You set the pace.”

But he never wanted to leave his room, just sat in his armchair, staring toward the window. Tooly settled on his bed, leafing through books, yet struggled to concentrate. When leaving for the day, she closed the door after herself and stood in the hallway, often for more than a minute. Felt abominable to leave. She arrived back in Connecticut later and later. The McGrorys stopped expecting her for dinner.

Besides Yelena and Tooly, he had no visitors. But phone calls came often, always from medical-bill collectors, badgering him over a small fortune owed for a hernia procedure several years earlier. Humphrey believed he had paid, so Tooly asked them to send an itemized bill. The invoice was four pages and incomprehensible. Nobody—least of all those demanding the money—could explain what anything was for, only that the bill
was
correct. Pool your family resources, they told her, and pay (including for inexplicable items, such as $12,184 for “Assorted”). The cost would have been less—though still unaffordable for Humphrey—had he been enrolled in Medicare. But nobody could find any document attesting to his identity, citizenship, even his right to be in this country. The medical-bill pestering made him refuse further checkups, including those he needed on his eyes, hearing, and memory. He kept pill bottles—for high blood pressure, cholesterol, memory acuity, glaucoma, a vitamin deficiency—under the cushion of his armchair and claimed he took his doses in her absence, though she disbelieved him.

This was proving to be a disaster. Venn would know what to do about it—he’d even know how to handle those bill collectors. “Do you remember
anything
about where he went?”

“Those lights,” Humphrey responded. “What are those lights?”

She followed his sight line to the switched-off TV. “Nothing. A reflection.”

“Is it time for dinner?”

“Look. Bright outside.” She pointed out the window, then at the wall clock. “See, twelve-fifteen
P.M.
”

“You take its word over mine?”

Two weeks passed, and her scheduled return to Wales neared. She had understood nothing here. The mystery of his accent remained, as did the puzzle of Venn’s disappearance, and all the questions about her abduction. She tried not to think of her impending return, and would not have, had it not been for a call from Fogg. Mr. and Mrs. Minton—the academics who’d founded World’s End Books and still
owned the property—were raising her rent. Trouble in the stock market had halved their retirement savings; they couldn’t afford to rent at a loss any longer. Nor could Tooly afford to pay more.

World’s End Books would last perhaps three months. She could keep employing Fogg that long, but no more. He needed to find employment elsewhere. Perhaps this was better for him—the shop had been too cozy a niche. She freed him of any obligation to keep it going till her return. After all, it wasn’t even certain when she’d be back.

“Wait, you’re staying? I thought he wasn’t telling you anything.”

“He’s not. But I can’t leave right now,” she said. “I’m sorry, Fogg. You’ll have a great reference from me.”

“Ah, well,” he said, quiet a moment. “Shame, really.”

He’d grown up in that shop. There was no other bookstore in the village. But he might apply for another kind of service job—at the minimarket, perhaps.

For two days, Tooly felt nauseated by all this. But she reminded herself that one mustn’t get attached. Thereafter, if Fogg called with work questions she kept the conversations short. When he asked after Humphrey, she conveyed little, withdrawing her private life from public view again. His calls stopped. The bookshop—indeed, Caergenog itself—faded from reality. The McGrorys were delighted to learn that she was extending her stay. It spared them finding a new driver for Mac.

Among Humphrey’s books, Tooly kept returning to her old copy of
Nicholas Nickleby
, the same bashed-up paperback she had when they first met. The smell of it recalled so powerfully Mr. Priddles’s vile classroom, where she’d hidden in these pages.

“Can I read you a bit?” she asked Humphrey. “I know you don’t like made-up stories, but this one is nice. You won’t have to worry about your eyes. Just close them and listen. Okay?” Before he could refuse, she began:

There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one Mr. Godfrey Nickleby: a worthy gentleman,
who, taking it into his head rather late in life that he must get married, and not being young enough or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded an old flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for the same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money, sometimes sit down to a quiet game for love.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Eyes closed, Humphrey nodded gravely. She went on, her attention only half on the text, the remainder contemplating her old friend. To her knowledge, he had achieved nothing to outlast his life—no offspring, no legacy. Nor had he believed in anything more than this existence. No afterlife, in the religious sense of harp-strumming on clouds, nor in the secular sense of worldly accomplishment.

What he had done with eighty-odd years was absorb the cleverest minds to translate themselves into print; he’d played chess; he’d pondered. And why
not
just use life as one pleased? Why spend an existence tormented by alarm clocks? Or did his failure to produce anything amount to tragedy, a waste of the fact that his particular consciousness, among the infinite possible variations, had popped into being?

If he had achieved little, this resembled Tooly’s own path to date. Her twenties had rushed by. Now her thirties were well upon her. She had the sense of never completing any stage, of failing to grab any single year and take hold. In teen years, people yearned to be liked; in their twenties, to be impressive; in their thirties, to be needed. But she had jumbled it, some phases too early, others not at all.

“I like that man,” Humphrey interrupted as she read on. “What’s his name?”

“That character? He’s called Newman Noggs.”

“You feel that you could see him! With the thing about his buttons.”

Before much else could be learned of Mr. Noggs and his buttons, Humphrey was snoring. After an hour, she readied his macaroni-and-cheese
dinner on the counter, sticking a sign on the microwave in giant capitals to explain again how it worked. She hesitated in the hallway. The night before, he had dropped his dinner and eaten only a few bites salvaged from the floor. She sighed to picture him on his knees, reaching shakily under the bed for a chunk of dusty chicken.

On her way out, Tooly gazed down the empty staircase. If Venn walked up these steps (she looked to where he’d stand, and she smiled, seeing him grin at her), he could explain everything. Not just the muddle of her past but the muddle of her present, too—what to do now, where, and with whom.

Tooly had no further commitments that evening. No children to drive, no one expecting her anywhere on earth. She walked to the Brighton Beach boardwalk as dusk fell, sat on a bench there; a blustery summer evening. Yelena’s son, who had finally fixed Humphrey’s TV remote, happened to be walking past, an Eastpack day bag slung over his shoulder. She wondered whether to say his name, and if it would carry through the wind.

He noticed her. “Yo,” Garry said. “You’re the daughter of that old man.”

“So they say.”

He asked what she was doing there, just sitting, as if this were an insufficient activity. “The Starbucks is open late, if you’re looking for one.”

She was not. He wouldn’t believe there wasn’t some object she required.

Relenting, she said, “I wouldn’t hate a drink.”

He contemplated this, then snapped his fingers badly. “You won’t like this place—I can show you.”

It was the sort of terrible suggestion that immediately won her over.

She realized as they approached the bar that Garry hadn’t intended to deposit her at its door (in which case she planned to sneak off to the subway) but to join her. The sign promised: “Russian & American nightclub: Live music and dancing every night starting 9
P.M.
”

“We’re early for the dancing,” she said.

He opened the door. Eastern European pop music blared, the bartender chanting along. Garry ordered for them, switching impressively to his native Russian—“
BOДK
a!”—voice deepening as he did so. A carafe of vodka arrived. He waved away Tooly’s attempts to pay for her share.

“Are you supposed to sip each shot?” she asked. “Or down it in one gulp?”

He was inconclusive, so she tried both ways, alcohol seeping into her, pushing back the day.

Would Humphrey be sleeping still? Or plodding around, discovering her note on the microwave, unable to find his glasses. Strange to think of him, so near yet following his own story line, separate from hers.

No point badgering him with questions anymore, she decided. He had no answers for her. Time to erase this. All that matters is now. Nothing before. Stop thinking. Stop.