Apocalypse for Beginners (20 page)

“You know him?”

“I met him. A charming man.”

They exchanged a brief, knowing smile.

“At that time, Levy was publishing the
Crosswords Weekly
, a collection of puzzles and word games. He included a very abridged version of my text in the puzzle section. Readers who decoded the secret message were eligible to win a 1980 Ford Mustang.”

“But there was no coded message and no Ford Mustang.”

He nodded.

“The text achieved some notoriety. Readers began to make photocopies or even to copy it by hand. Homemade editions were sold in taverns and on street corners. Public readings were held. Such a success was unhoped for. Frankly, I began to feel somewhat anxious. I was losing control of the situation.”

He loosened his necktie a little.

“Things deteriorated when Levy decided to publish a complete, authorized edition. I found myself with hundreds of thousands of readers. Many of them were not willing to settle for just a prophecy—they needed a piece of prophet as well. They converged on Seattle and …”

“And your camouflage couldn’t hold up.”

He sighed.

“This went on for two years. Then, fearing that the whole business would draw too much attention, my superiors repatriated me to Tokyo.”

Kamajii seemed to become aware once again of the cigarette between his lips. He grabbed it, looked at it as though it had just emerged from an interdimensional gap, and put it back in its package, which he then slipped into his jacket pocket.

On the field, the baseball game had broken up into little groups, and some boys began to collect their equipment. But Kamajii had barely hit his stride. Visibly pleased to practise his French, he had launched into a tirade about the uneasy relationship that Tokyo residents maintained with the end of the world.

“You know, many of us believe the apocalypse must begin here.”

Hope sipped on her now flat Star Cola.

“First time I’ve ever considered the end of the world from a local perspective.”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“The Japanese read too many mangas.”

Kamajii looked at his watch with an air of detachment.

“In fact, this is a rather ancient sentiment. Several theories exist on this subject. Some, for example, see the influence of Buddhism. Others point to the successive destructions of Tokyo—earthquakes, typhoons, bombardments. In this regard, our town planners have greatly contributed to distorting the collective psyche. Finally, there are those who believe that it is simply one facet of nationalism—the vain belief that the apocalypse must begin on Japanese soil.”

His tone became reassuring.

“But, you know, not all of us share this point of view.”

Kamajii vanished without any warning. He announced that he would be gone for a minute, walked down the bleachers and went into the chemical toilet that had been left behind after the stadium’s construction. He never came out.

After ten minutes, Hope began to worry and went to knock on the door.

“Monsieur Kamajii?”

No answer. The toilet door opened a crack and Hope saw that there was no one inside. Yet not for an instant had she let the latrine out of her sight. The mysterious man had just evaporated—a unique ability that Mekiddo employees perhaps acquired through their repeated unexpected moves.

Hope imagined the process of his disappearance: first the feet, then the legs, the upper body, and finally the face, with the lopsided smile lingering for a few seconds in the twilight.

The sun was going down, and there was a warm wind blowing across the city. Hope consulted her
Rough Planet
and estimated that a mere 20 kilometres stood between her and the Jaffa, about three hours on foot. She decided to walk.

As she walked through the door of the Jaffa, Hope had the fleeting, reassuring impression of coming home. A dozen students were drinking beer in a corner, a cassette tape of Hebrew dub played softly, and Merriam sat at the counter, finishing a bowl of soup.

“A small dose, comrade?”

Hope accepted, and almost instantly a steaming bowl materialized under her nose. As she waited for the broth to cool down, she absentmindedly trailed her chopsticks among the freeze-dried flakes of chives. Meanwhile, Merriam drained her bowl.

“So, you’re late tonight.”

“I just walked from Gilo.”

Whistle of admiration. Hope affected an air of modesty.

“It’s just 20 kilometres.”

Hope swallowed some broth, wondering whether she should mention her meeting with Hayao Kamajii. She decided against it. She had completed her Mission and there was nothing left to say.

She took off her Tony Lamas, which, toward the end of her hike, had felt uncomfortable. The left heel was starting to come loose and several seams had given out. Hope had put an inordinate amount of kilometres on the boots since arriving in Tokyo. They made hardly a sound as they
dropped into the wastebasket behind the bar. Hope wiggled her toes in the air with a sense of relief.

Merriam glanced at the boots: two pieces of smoking leather.

“Can you imagine how people saw the world before the invention of the automobile?”

Hope sucked up a scalding braid of noodles. She had no specific opinion on the subject, except that, in light of her recent experience, everything must have appeared considerably farther away.

“Yes, of course. But it’s more complicated than that. These days, everyone moves at roughly the same speed. Back then, it varied a lot, so, as a result, the perceived distance varied as well.”

She took out her pack of No. 9 and lit herself a cigarette.

“In a region like Palestine, for example, someone on horseback could cover 65 kilometres a day. A single individual on foot, about 40. A well-disciplined army could rarely do better than 30 kilometres. And if you added a herd of goats, the distance was reduced even further.”

She looked around for an ashtray and finally dropped her ashes in the sink.

“Nothing travelled more slowly than a family. If you were burdened with people who were old or lame, young children or, still worse, pregnant women, the average speed dropped below 15 kilometres a day. Under normal
conditions that would not make a huge difference …”

Puff of cigarette.

“On the other hand, if you were fleeing from a threat—Pharaoh’s army, an infestation of the living dead, or the almighty wrath of Yahweh—well, that changed everything.”

Another puff.

“Doesn’t that throw an interesting light on the New Testament? The story begins with a pregnant woman riding a donkey toward Bethlehem. The very picture of vulnerability. Troubled times, dangerous roads—but the woman is in no hurry. She knows things that the reader doesn’t. She knows that there are still seven hundred pages to go before the Apocalypse.”

She doused her cigarette in the sink.

“Impressive, don’t you think?”

Hope sat there without speaking or moving, but only stared into empty space holding her chopsticks in mid-air.

“
Hé, camarade, ça va?
”

Hope roused herself and seemed to come back down to earth. Merriam poured her a large glass of mineral water, adding three sections of lemon.

“You’re dehydrated. What an idea, walking 20 kilometres in the middle of a heat wave! Here, drink this.”

Hope shook her head.

“No, I’m okay. I was just thinking of something. Old memories.”

Merriam’s frown was both menacing and maternal, and Hope meekly drained her mineral water. Satisfied, Merriam wiped down the steel countertop, unfolded her copy of
Ha’aretz
and went to work on the daily crossword.

Hope finished her noodles without saying another word and slipped away via the secret stairway. Once on the roof, she took a long look at Tokyo burning—tens of thousands of light bulbs, neon lights, fluorescents, sodium lampposts. Billions of kilolemons per second.

At last she felt safe.

August 1989. Route 185 was baking under a Sinai sun. Behind the spruce trees, an army of peat harvesters raised a cumulonimbus of reddish dust that was visible for kilometres in every direction.

On the shoulder of the road sat Ann Randall’s deceased Lada, hood half-raised, all windows down. An uninterrupted stream of traffic brushed past the carcass without even slowing down: Winnebagos, top-heavy cars, aluminum rowboats perched on trailers. A whole nation of vacationers returning from the Atlantic provinces, totally satiated, totally unaware that the end of the world was due to take place any day.

While her mother discussed transmissions and carburetors with the tow-truck driver, Hope paced up and down next to the car. She kicked the door and, leaning on the roof, eyed the inside of the vehicle with a look of annoyance.

Now, in the middle of the day, she saw the interior in a different light.

She looked at the seats overflowing with bags, clothes, provisions, canned goods, the bottles of ketchup and relish stacked on the floor, the jars of pickles, the bags of salt and flour, the rubber boots, the umbrella wedged under the handbrake, the two enormous bags of rice piled on the front passenger seat, the tuque and gloves, the heaps of ramen packages, the bibles, the twelve dust masks and three flashlights.

And amid the chaos, in the corner of the back seat, Hope’s minuscule space—barely enough room for a young girl.

A young girl, or an extra case of ramen.

The moon was rising over Rivière-du-Loup. A freight train trundled by on the other side of the street—two tiers of assorted containers: Maersk, Hapag-Lloyd, Hanjin and China Shipping. The usual parade. The locomotive was already far down the track, and one could hear
the screeching of the rails and the occasional whistle of a poorly sealed compressed-air duct.

It was dead calm at the Ophir. A Dalai Lama was dozing at the counter with his nose in a bowl of pretzels, under the maternal eye of Ann Randall. In a corner—surprise!—the TV was tuned to BBC with the volume turned down. I imagined Hope nestled in the shadows, holding the remote control.

“Hey there, Mickey! Long time no see!”

I half waved and installed myself at the counter. My work clothes were shedding particles of cement. Ann Randall, who had obviously read my mind, set down a frosty mug of pale ale in front of me.

“It’s on the house, honey!”

I raised my glass to her health and took a gulp. Countless alcohol molecules instantly exploded in my brain, a thousand magnesium flashbulbs going off together. Dozens of tiny knots loosened at the core of my tender muscles. Proletarian drinking habits suddenly appeared to make sense.

We talked for a while. A scattered exchange without any specific goal: It’s been a while, the bar’s pretty quiet, how about this heat wave, they say it’s hard on the farmers.

From time to time, I glanced distractedly at the screen. There were shots of an Israeli military airport, where the airlift of fifteen thousand Ethiopian Jews was
being completed—an exploit that had required only thirty-odd airplanes.

“These people,” an Israeli journalist exclaimed, “are ending a three-thousand-year voyage.”

The muted whine of the dishwasher could be heard, or perhaps it was the snoring of a Dalai Lama—the distinction was not easy to make. I took another swig of beer. “Do you want to watch something else?” Ann Randall asked, offering me the remote control. I declined.

Standing in front of a jet engine nozzle, the BBC reporter talked about the climate of instability in the Somali Peninsula, repeated that Israel had just smashed a number of records with this exceptional resettlement. The servicemen had even removed the seats from some of the 747s in order to squeeze in more passengers. The journalist noted in conclusion that several women had apparently given birth during the flight.

I whistled. To be born in an overcrowded Boeing—now there was an omen of an exceptional future, right? Ann Randall smiled politely—she had not really been listening.

The report ended with images of refugees kissing the tarmac. This was followed by an update from Iraq, and I turned my attention away from the screen. Ann Randall was pouring herself a small cognac.

“Have you heard any news from Hope?”

She gave me an inquiring look and put the bottle back without corking it.

“Me? No. Why do you ask?”

I toyed with my beer mug, somewhat nervous, after all, about venturing onto such private territory. Ann had evidently not even noticed that Hope had left town.

“Left? Where?”

“Japan.”

She raised her eyebrows, as if to say “well that would explain a lot of things,” and took another sip of cognac.

“How long ago?”

“Four months. Five, pretty soon. I thought you knew. She hasn’t called you?”

“No.”

On the TV screen, Hans Blix was commenting on the UN inspections in Iraq. Saddam Hussein had agreed to abandon his weapons of mass destruction, to suspend his chemical, biological and nuclear arms programs, to destroy his long-range missiles and to no longer allow children to play with penknives and matches. The West had nothing more to worry about.

A minute went by in almost total silence. Each of us drank without saying anything. The Dalai Lama turned over onto his left side. A few pretzel crumbs fell from his hair.

I didn’t dare ask the questions that were nagging me: Why had Hope gone away? Why the radio silence? Only
a Randall could have answered those questions, but I doubted that Ann would be able to recall what was going on inside her own head the night she decamped from Yarmouth, nearly leaving her daughter behind.

Rather than putting the questions to her directly, I announced that Hope had found her date.

“Which date?”

“The date of the end of the world.”

“Oh?”

There was an awkward silence. Maybe I hadn’t been specific enough.

“According to her, it will happen on July 17, 2001.”

Ann Randall appeared to be analyzing this new data, like a teacher evaluating her student’s work.