Eleanor Rigby (20 page)

A guy throwing a thrashing body in the trunk of a Chevy

A 747 the size and- shape of a hotel, flying to Jerusalem
,
with stacking chairs instead of seats

*    *    *

The police ultimately learned who it was who chopped the man in half in the
1970
s. It was the conductor, Ben, the one who’d been so upset about seeing the body—as well as the man who gave me a ride home from the PGE station. Who could possibly seem more innocent than the guy who found him? It was some sort of sex thing that went horribly wrong, but then with Ben it turned out things had gone horribly wrong with three other unlucky souls. He was serial material.

The reason Ben was so annoyed with me that afternoon, he confessed, is that he wanted the body to be a bit more far gone before it was discovered. Stupid man. If he wanted nobody to find the body, he should have carried the bits into the tunnel a quarter-mile or so away.

I thought of the body, and I thought of Jeremy when I first saw him in the hospital—the sense of miraculousness that coloured both experiences. I decided to visit the tracks again. Maybe the aura of the place would trigger something inside me, make me remember that night on the Roman roof. It couldn’t hurt.

I drove out to Horseshoe Bay—it was a gorgeous day—parked and then climbed up onto the railway tracks. They looked and smelled exactly as I remembered. I liked that timelessness. I picked a switch of baby alder, just like the one I used to probe the corpse. I walked to the spot where the corpse had been, but there was nothing there to mark the end of the man’s life, not even a sun-faded plastic daisy or two sticks made into a cross.

I walked along a bit further. The blackberries were out and the birds were making the most of them. There seemed to be less litter along the tracks than in the old days, but other than that, it could easily have been the
1970
s.

I tried, but no memories of that night in Rome came back to me. No gangbang. No molestation. I was as honest with myself as I could be; if I could deny an entire pregnancy, denying a rape might be equally as plausible. But no.

I heard a noise, which I knew was one of those tiny speeder cars the railway uses for small errands. I moved off the tracks and stood in a small patch of sun-baked plantain and native geranium. The speeder slowed down and the man driving it said something into his mobile communication device, and then said to me, “Hey, you can’t walk here. It’s private property.”

“Really?”

“Haven’t you heard of September eleventh?”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’ll call the cops.”

“You do that.”

We both knew this conversation was doomed. He left and I walked back to the car. Something about the exchange made me make up my mind. Here’s what I’m going to do: I’ve booked a flight to Vienna for tomorrow, via Frankfurt, first class—moneybags me. I’ve also forwarded my arrival time to Herr Bayer. My stomach feels fizzy; my head feels like mist. My heart is heavy, with either gold or lead—I can’t really tell which.

A final thought before I leave: A few years ago I decided that I was going to make a list of all the things I’m not very good at, and then stop doing them—fixing the paper jams in the office; trying to understand how my car works; the logic behind Miss America pageants. I thought this decision would streamline my life, make it better—and up to a point it did. But I realize now that by deciding not to do things, I’ve lost millions of threads of chance and opportunity to have new experiences, to meet new people—to be alive, really. So I’m going to start doing things I’m bad at again. Heck, I’m going to do things I’ve never even
tried.

*    *    *

Okay.

I’m writing these words from a German prison cell, located, I think, in the town of Morfelden, somewhere outside of Frankfurt. On the way here somebody opened the door of the van, and that’s what I saw on the road sign outside. I’ve spent the past three hours in solitary confinement, which must surely be some sort of cosmic joke, as I’ve spent most of my life in solitary confinement. How, one might ask, did this happen?

The prison isn’t as bad as I’d imagined prisons to be—no tattooed prisoners slashing their wrists and spritzing blood at guards, no squalid cell with built-up layers of puke, shit, pornography and razor blades. It’s actually white and spotless in here, maybe the size of my bedroom back home. There’s no easy way of knowing what time of day it is, and it’s wonderfully quiet. I can think of far worse punishments than a German solitary prison cell. Even the food isn’t too bad—three hours and they’ve already fed me cabbage, wurst, green vegetables—and the staff here are quite friendly to me.

I’ll here recount the steps to my prison cell. After I’d booked my flight to Vienna, calmness fell over my life, the kind that descends after making a huge decision, the calm that’s the opposite of remorse. The Dwarf and all the ditherers at the offices of Landover Communication Systems were offhandedly cheerful when I told them I was going to Austria. While I’ve only been gone a short while, I’m sure that my work cubicle has already been absorbed into all the others, leaving no traces of my existence there. Had my co-workers known the odd circumstances of my trip, about this Klaus Kertesz, the gossip factor would have been higher, but my secret was like my meteorite: sharing it with others would devalue it.

I also didn’t tell my family the true reason for my trip. Why would I? Me doing something out of the ordinary would be interesting to them for about two minutes and then be just another piece of noise in their lives. But my secret isn’t part of that noise—it’s all mine.

I’ll admit it, once the shock of buying my ticket subsided, I drove across town and spent a fair whack on an image makeover at one of the city’s more expensive salons. All to no good. Even as they saw me approach, I could tell they were scurrying into the back room, where they drew straws to see who would have to work on me. To their credit, they did try, but I am beauty-proof. My efforts at renovating my wardrobe years ago with Jeremy never went far; there’s just no point. I’m a nice, clean, well-shod, well-dressed blank. I’m not even someone in a crowd scene in a movie. The director would yell, “Stop! Haul that woman out of there! She’s too blank even for a crowd scene!”

I must also here comment on the difference between flying to Europe on a
747
charter in
1976
and flying there in
2004
in first class on Lufthansa’s craft the
Schleswig-Holstein. Me
, climbing up that little staircase into the bubble—endless leg room, delicious foods and a wide selection of film, TV and documentaries. I can see why the ruling class wants to keep the underclass far away. The proles would rampage if they saw how dishy life is up in the bubble. My one complaint is the little map they displayed overhead that showed us exactly where the plane was, the outside temperature, the estimated time of arrival. It made me feel like my life was in miniature. It was like watching the seconds tick by until, as Jeremy and Pink Floyd both pointed out to me, I was shorter of breath and one day closer to death. Or, as Jeremy said, “Well, at least when you sing it backwards, it’s one day closer to being born.”

*    *    *

A Ms. Greenaway from the Canadian government was just here, asking if conditions in the prison are adequate. She’s the only person I’ve been able to speak with so far.

“Adequate? I could happily live here.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Ms. Dunn. My job is to ensure you’re being treated properly.”

“I’m not being sarcastic. This place is okay.” I didn’t mention my lifelong belief that we, as humans, are a wretched species indeed, and deserving of harsh punishments for the crimes we casually get away with in our daily lives.

The quality of Ms. Greenaway’s silence assured me she knew I wasn’t joking. We were seated in a cubic white room with a window the size of a playing card, and I could tell it was night outside. I scanned the floor for scuffing or stains or anything remotely biological, but found nothing.

“Ms. Greenaway, could you please tell me why it is I’m in jail here?”

“Oh
please.”

“Really.”

Her eyes told me she considered me an idiot. “You don’t know?”

“No.”

After more telltale silence Ms. Greenaway said, “Well, I’m not going to be the one to tell you. It isn’t my role.”

“That’s okay.”

She was huffy. “You mean you
truly
have no idea why you’re here?”

“Do I have to repeat myself? No, I don’t.”

Ms. Greenaway was losing patience. “I need names of people to contact. Family. Friends.”

“I don’t have any friends.” I considered my family. If my family members were to be contacted, there’d be a scene, a bad one, one that could easily be prevented. “I have a brother, William. He travels for a living. Contact him on his cellphone. His wife is an idiot. Neither you nor I want her involved in this.” I gave her William’s number and asked her what happens next.

She shrugged. She was obviously considering her best interest here. “Someone will be here in the morning to work with you.”

“Will they tell me why I’m here?”

“I can’t say that.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ms. Greenaway, I’m not a pin-head. You know exactly what I went through in the terminal, and so does everybody there. There has to have been a good reason for it.”

“It’s not my place to discuss this. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” With Donna-like efficiency she vanished, and I’m happy to report I felt no fear or worry at her vanishing. To have all ifs and buts of life stripped away—to have everything thought out for you every day and minute of your life—prison is the opposite of freedom, and, as such, is almost as liberating. I can’t tell you.

Maybe it was that tiny patch of night sky I saw outside the window while speaking with Ms. Greenaway, but suddenly I’m sleepy. Good night.

*    *    *

I’m not emphasizing enough Jeremy’s worries about his visions leaving him. After he fell from the clouds and landed on my sofa, in between his fevers, we’d sing rock anthems backwards together—or we’d simply watch that wretched wasteland known as daytime TV.

Time was a touchy subject with Jeremy. Life is finite; Jeremy’s was simply more finite than most. If nothing else, you get used to being alive.

I sometimes think that having visions is a way of inserting yourself into the future you suspect you’re never going to have. People who see the world coming to an end are simply people who can’t imagine life after they die. If they have to go, they’re going to take the world along with them.

All that being said, the farmers did exercise their pull on me. One afternoon I visited the library and for Jeremy borrowed books on farming. A silly notion, but one that pleased Jeremy no end. “I was always stuck with farm families, but they never put me to work that way. Funny, because farming is something I might actually enjoy doing.”

“Really?”

“Oh
yeah.
A few acres—putting seeds in the ground—watching them grow, flower, bear fruit, turn to soil come fall—I could be so happy doing just that.”

“Would you miss the city?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You wouldn’t find it dull?”

“Nope. Plants make you think of next year. I think that’s why I see the farmers: they have no choice but to think of next year.”

I confess here that farming has always baffled me—its monotony, the fact that a good farm, properly maintained, ought really never to change from one century to the next. It’s like the opposite of time travel. And imagine going to all that work, work, work, and there’s never a moral to it. No plot. No
eureka!
Just food production and
days.
And weather.

Jeremy said, “Yup, I really want to be a farmer.”

I kept mum, remembering William at the family’s most recent Easter dinner. He was boozed up and discussing the future career paths of his two TV-soaked rats. “Only losers make decisions when things are bad. The time to rejig your life is the time when it’s seemingly smooth. Use your brief moments of calm to leverage yourself into a next place that’s just as good.” William obviously believes suffering doesn’t make people better, only different. I disagree, but kept my mouth shut.

*    *    *

I suppose it’s morning; I’ve no idea how long I slept. What a cruel wrinkle it is to stick a jet-lagged person into a time-proof room. I suppose I’ll have to figure out the time of day based on the sugar content of the meals they insert through my door. Extra sugar means morning.

As there’s nothing else to do, I’ll continue with my travel journal.

Okay: landing.

Everything seemed normal as we circled the airport. I found myself surprisingly giddy to be on the Continent again, and like most tourists arriving in Europe, I goose-necked out the windows to see the world beneath the wings. Unlike North American landscapes, European landscapes, viewed through an airplane window, resemble well-drawn maps.