Horace Afoot (11 page)

I refill my glass and offer to refill Mohr’s. He pauses to consider, then slides his tumbler across the table. “I don’t drink.”

“I’ll get you some water if you like.”

“No. The wine is,” he sips and smiles so that his face flushes red, “delicious.”

It is close to midnight. Mohr is asking me questions.

“You live here alone?”

I nod.

“I live alone too. Now …”

A pause hangs between what he has said and what he would like to say. He drinks. I imagine the secrets that are contained in his silence and decide not to pry them out into the open. My intuition will fill in the blanks, as his will have to fill in mine. It’s a civilized arrangement. I would never have settled for it on the telephone, that wonderful blunt instrument. But I can’t put aside my curiosity about his condition. His affliction.

“How much longer do you think you have?

Mohr thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. The doctors say it’s a miracle that I’m alive and that I can still take care of myself. I’ve had a place reserved in a hospice for months. But I can still get around on my own. So why hurry?”

“But what do
you
think?”

“I can’t say. I’ll just keep going for as long as I can, and then I simply won’t be anymore. If I were religious, maybe I’d think otherwise. Religious people are supposed to have a leg up on death. I guess it’s because of their faith that something exists beyond it. I think it’s exactly the opposite.”

“How so?”

“It’s their fear that inspires them. I believe that fear of death is an expression of a sort of contempt for the world, for nature.”

“How so?”

Mohr clears his throat and recites, “
And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defense / Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence
. And I never bred. So there.” A long pause ensues that features the battering of flying insects against the screen door. “I don’t believe in God—not the Christian one anyway.” He waves his hand to dismiss the topic, then sips more wine and continues in spite of himself. “Heaven, being saved, the afterlife, fear of death, danse macabre, and all that kind of thing. It’s medieval.” His mouth makes a clacking sound, a labial, dental, skeletal blend of noises as he talks. “In my humble opinion, the modern, scientific, atheistic sensibility is a great improvement over that squalid medieval frame of mind.” He pauses for a moment, then adds in a stuffy, stoic British accent, “It’s a damn shame we have to go. Rather a waste of time, don’t you think?” He pauses to drink, then resumes his normal voice. “Do you watch television?”

“No.”

“How we worship life and the body today!” Mohr grins. “You see these young, healthy, strong people leading young, healthy lives. No fear, no thought of the end. Just infinite, sunny optimism. A wonderful illusion, a world like that.”

“A banal world.”

Mohr waves away the remark, lifts his glass. “I love it. The illusion! Television! Especially the advertisements.” His head bobs slightly. “They promise everything, and they deliver. In
this
world,
here
, not some other. And it’s a wonderful, beautiful illusion.”

“What about all the violence?”

“Violence?” He laughs and waves with a theatrical flourish. “It’s all fake! Nobody dies. It’s a pageant. A danse macabre! A world riddled with corpses—and death is entirely absent from it.” He pauses for another grin. “I find it—wonderful! All illusions are wonderful.”

“Except the illusion that there is a God and life after death.”

“Exactly. That’s a dirty, rotten, nasty illusion.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“You want to know the difference between religion and television?”

“Is there one?”

“Television you can turn off.” He laughs.

I refill his glass. “I’ve never talked to a dying person,” I confess after another silence.

Mohr holds his glass in both hands, eyes alight with wine. “Nor have I,” he says. “Of course, there are all these groups you can join and therapies designed especially for people in my condition. But I don’t bother with any of it.”

“Why not?”

“Because dying is not a personal problem.”

“What is it if not personal?”

“I don’t know. But I am compiling a bibliography.”

“How practical! Of what?”

“Of death. I have over one thousand titles.”

“Sounds like therapy to me.”

Mohr shrugs. “It’s something to pass the time.”

“Will you publish it? As a form of transcendence, I mean.”

Mohr chuckles. “I hadn’t thought to. But I like the idea.” He tilts his glass and peers into it. “Tell me something, Quintus Horatius Flaccus.” He fixes his eyes straight on me. “How did
you
become such a morbid asshole?”

There are four Schroeders in the telephone book: E. C, Frank and Thelma, J., and Schroeder’s Shoes. Reflecting on the pros and cons, I decide to take Mohr’s advice to recover the notebook myself. It’s a matter of principle. Mohr convinced me of it last night before he passed out.

The foundation of a friendship seems to have been laid between Mohr and me, which is strange since neither of us seems much inclined toward making friends. “I was born a morbid asshole,” I told him. “I don’t know anything else.” He laughed until a bout of coughing overtook him. I opened another bottle, and the conversation veered toward the intimate—then crashed there and exploded into the quaintly restrained maudlin. “Don’t call me gay,” he said with put-on indignation. “I’m too old to be gay. I’m homosexual.” Then he told me that he had lived with someone in town for years, a man named Bill.

“What happened?”

“He moved to Chicago. We used to visit each other, but over the years we’ve drifted apart. He has his life and I have mine.”

“You aren’t sick with AIDS, are you?”

He shook his head. “No. Just good old-fashioned cancer. And a touch of emphysema. I used to chain smoke.”

“Why didn’t you go to Chicago with Bill?”

“I didn’t want to live in a big city, and I liked my job here.” Then,
71 a pause, “In spite of everything I am actually comfortable living here. I know it’s hard to believe. I’ve lived here twenty-five years.”

We went out on the front porch. I offered him the rocker, but he declined, so I took it. He walked to the far end of the porch, holding the almost empty wine bottle by the neck. With his wig askew and leaning against the corner post for support, he cut a quaintly pathetic figure. We didn’t speak. His happy delirium made words unnecessary. A short while later he staggered inside and collapsed on the sofa in the front room. “Don’t leave it to the cops,” he muttered before passing out. “Get the notebook back yourself. And give the boy a good thrashing.” I covered him with a blanket and left him to sleep. This morning when I came downstairs he was gone.

I dial the first Schroeder. Three rings. “Hello?” An old man.

“Is this the residence of E. C. Schroeder?”

“It is.”

“I’m looking for Tom.”

“Tom?”

“Tom Schroeder.”

“Don’t know him.”

“Are you any relation to Frank and Thelma?”

“Who?”

“Frank and Thelma Schroeder. On Ivy Street.”

“Never heard of ’em.”

“They’re listed in the phone book.”

“You trying to sell me something, mister?”

“No. I’m trying to locate somebody. Tom Schroeder.”

“Let me give you some advice, son.”

“What’s that?”

“You want Tom Schroeder? Call Tom Schroeder’s house. Listen to me, son. You want Thelma? Call Thelma. Did you say Fred?”

“Frank.”

“Call Frank. I’m Earl. Now, you want to talk to me, fine. I’ll talk to you all goddamn day long. But don’t go calling Earl when Tom’s the one you want to talk to.”

“Thanks, Earl.”

I dial Thelma and Frank. No answer.

Next I get a machine. “Hi. This is Jerry. Leave a message and I’ll call you riiiiiight back.”

I hang up. Schroeder’s Shoes is last on the list.

“Schroeder’s Shoes can I help you?”

“I’m trying to locate Tom Schroeder.”

“Tom?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not in today. You want to leave a message?”

“No. That’s all right. Will he be in tomorrow?”

“He’s usually here every day.”

“Oh? How long has he worked there?”

“He’s the owner.”

“The owner? How old is he?”

“Tom? I don’t know. I never asked him.”

“Does he have a son named Tom?”

“Who is this?”

“Never mind. Does he have a son named Tom?”

“Look, mister. I have a customer on the floor. I can’t talk.”

In the kitchen I fill a glass with water and go outside onto the porch to sit in the rocking chair. The morning sun has already pushed the temperature from comfortable to warm, and I am hung over. I close my eyes, feeling the seismic waves of headache at the back of my brain. Getting drunk with the head of the local library now feels a little unseemly, a prelude to future embarrassment.

I go inside for a second glass of water. The phone beckons to me from its cradle.

“You want the definition of illusion?”

“Just tell me what you think in your own words.”

“An illusion?”

“Yes.” I watch a fly bang against the window screen trying to get outside. The noise is like that of a poorly resonating harp string. Does it crash against the screen eye first? Is it trying to break through to the outside? Does it see the screen? I walk over for a closer look. Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I raise the screen. The fly sails out.

“An illusion is something that isn’t there, but you think it is.”

“Okay.”

“That all?”

“Go on if you like.”

“Who are you?”

“Horace.”

“Horace who?”

“Quintus Horatius Flaccus.”

“Very funny. Why did you call me?”

“To ask you a question. That’s all.”

“You don’t think it’s a little weird?”

“Weird?”

“Yes. Calling up complete strangers and asking what illusion means.”

“I ask other questions too.”

“How broad-minded of you.”

“And I didn’t ask what illusion means. I asked what you
think
an illusion is.”

“And I just told you. Something you think is there and isn’t. Wait a minute, I’ll go get the dictionary.”

I lower the screen and stand looking out the window into the back woods. The woman returns to the phone. “Here. It says, ‘illusion: (a) an erroneous perception of reality; (b) an erroneous concept or belief; 2. The condition of being deceived by a false perception or belief.’ Just like I said.”

“How can a belief be false?”

“What’s that?”

“A belief. How can it be false?”

“That’s a pretty dumb question.”

“Then tell me what a false belief is.”

“Something you think is true but isn’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like ghosts. You can believe in them all you want, but it doesn’t mean there are such things.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there just aren’t. Everybody knows there aren’t.”

“But if you believe in them and, say, something wakes you up in the middle of the night and you believe it was a ghost. What woke you up?”

“A noise. The cat maybe.”

“It wasn’t a noise. It was just a feeling. I was scared. Can a feeling be false?”

“Are you saying that if you believe in ghosts, then ghosts exist?”

“No.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m just wondering what a false belief is. Or a false feeling.”

“It’s an illusion. A false belief is an illusion.”

“A false feeling too?”

Sure.

“Is a dream an illusion?”

“Of course. They only exist in your head.”

“So an illusion is something that can only exist in your head?”

“Yes. And an illusion of
yours
sure can’t exist in
my
head.”

“Says who?”

“Listen, who’d you say you were again?”

“Quintus Horatius Flaccus. Horace.”

“Listen, whoever you are. Don’t you think you should get a little help?”

“Help?”

“Yes. You sound disturbed, bothered. Maybe you should go talk to somebody.”

“I’m talking to you.”

“I don’t mean calling people up and asking them stupid questions. I mean professional help.”

“Did I ask a stupid question?”

“No, it was a very interesting question. But I think you might have a problem.”

“You do?”

“Sure. Why else would you call up a perfect stranger?”

“You’re right about that. I do have a lot on my mind.”

“So you agree.”

“Agree to what?”

“That it’s a little weird calling people up to ask what an illusion is.”

“Sure it’s weird. But it’s interesting. Ever hear of the Oracle of Delphi?”

“What?”

“The Delphic Oracle.”

“No.”

“The ancient Greeks used to go to Delphi and ask the oracle questions.”

“And I’m the oracle?”

“No. The telephone is.”

“Oh, how fun. You’re weird, Horace. Get help, and good luck. I have a tennis game. Bye.”

She hangs up before I can ask what number I’d dialed. Too bad. I would have called her back. Despite the cheerful optimism that put her squarely in the camp of those sunny positivists I so despise, I would have liked to talk to her some more.