The 14th Day (11 page)

When it's over he lies there, clear-headed, drained. But he's happy. Lying there in the alien darkness, Vaniok is happy. “Ila,” he says aloud to the room.

“Look at the way that house is leaning; I'll bet a drunkard lives there.… Aren't those trees like an island in the middle of that field?… I think we should have turned back there.… No, no, this is the right way.… What did that sign say?… But we're supposed to be going east, not south.” The only words spoken in Ila's car are in the language of their past and Vaniok is light-headed, as if he's already had a few drinks from the bottle of amber-colored liquor they're planning to open when they actually have their picnic on the beach. He hasn't realized how much he's missed talking like this, the three of them arguing about directions, pointing out landmarks, reading the signs aloud, in the old words that change the shapes of what they see outside the car. He vaguely remembers some story from his childhood: angels were traveling the earth in disguise, trying to find their way back to heaven. That's it, he thinks; this is a earful of angels, passing among strangers. He could tell this to the others but spoken aloud it would sound silly. Still, he'd like to ask them. Can't you feel it, he'd say, how separated we are from everyone around us? After all, even the few countrymen in the area came here so long ago they don't remember the same place, their language is filled with words from here. Angels. Speeding along the highway.

Cigarette smoke, silver in the sunlight, dances in the rushing wind. “Another bridge,” Vaniok calls out, just for the sheer delight of running the words across his tongue. “Look at all that land.” He uses the older form of the word, favored by poets, a blunt syllable that can refer to the soil, the nation, even the grave. He wishes he were at the window, closer to the spacious countryside hurtling past, where he could feel the wind on his arm. It's the first time he's been this far from the university town and everything he's seeing is new. The size of the farms is impressive; the recently opened stretch of highway on which they're driving, the graceful bridges overhead—everything speaks of the bottomless wealth of this country. Out here, the hills have become less steep, with a gentle roll like the sea's, the horizons have been pushed into the distance, the cloudless sky is immense. At some point recently sand has begun to come up under the red earth, the soil itself changing as they move toward the ocean. Every minute or so another bridge soars over the car, dragging its shadow; a cluster of short trees rushes up, then gives way to broad green fields. The wide band of road curves before them, the three bodies inside the car lean, then the highway straightens, pointing toward the coast once more. Another clump of woods, more open fields, the world is racing by. Where are they going? Anywhere, everywhere.

That's something else he'd like to tell the other two: we're on our way to the future, a blank tablet unrolling before us, clean, unmarked, full of possibilities. But what does it matter whether or not he says everything he feels? The small talk, the cigarette smoke, Ila's swift, impatient driving—this is enough to make him happy. And if he isn't by the window he's at least seated beside his cousin, between her and Jory, who, thank God, seems to have come around in the last few days. He's still a bit stiff for Vaniok's taste, but he isn't a Laker, after all, he's from the capital; at least he's civil, he looks as if he might even consent to enjoy himself today. Smoking a cigarette, his hair blowing in the wind, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight, Jory might be anyone on his way to a picnic by the seashore. Even so, Vaniok can't help thinking of the shadow-stealer in the old story, a pale lanky creature who lived in the tall clock by the stairs, holding his breath all day behind the swinging pendulum, only to emerge at night when he crept through the house looking for the shadows of children who hadn't stayed in bed. “The shadow-stealer has come out in broad daylight,” Vaniok imagines himself saying to Ila, a thought that brings him pleasure. Some time when they're alone he'll tell her his fantasy about angels passing across the countryside too. He's glad he's the one sitting beside her, since it hasn't escaped his notice that Jory's improved disposition seems to have a lot to do with her. Still, Vaniok is determined not to be bothered by any of this, he intends to savor the moment, speeding along this highway, headed for the ocean with his countrymen.

A black car looms in the lane ahead of them, moving slowly, and it takes Ila only seconds to come up behind it, where they can see that it's occupied by a number of men in dark suits. A bumper sticker says something about Jesus, but before Vaniok has a chance to read it, Ila swings out and passes the car. She stays in the passing lane, going even faster now. “They looked like missionaries on their way to convert the savages,” Vaniok says. “You went by them so quickly I didn't get a chance to read what their sign said.”

Ila laughs. “Am I driving too fast for you?” Her voice is playful, taunting.

Vaniok doesn't have to look at the speedometer to know the car is traveling well over the speed limit. “No, no,” he raises his voice against the noise. “I don't care. This is a good road. You can go faster if you like.”

But even as he makes his declaration he realizes Ila isn't paying attention to him; she's turned toward Jory. For a time only the sound of the engine and the rush of the wind fills the car. Vaniok feels ignored, he waits with his cousin for Jory's answer. At last the other man looks at Ila with a faint smile. “How are your tires?” he asks. “Will they hold up under the speed?” His manner is cool and ironic and yet Vaniok can see that Jory isn't really so calm about Ila's driving: he holds a cigarette in one hand but the other, resting on his thigh, is curled into a loose fist, like that of a man who's debating whether or not to get into a fight. Look, Vaniok wants to tell Ila, can't you see? And yet it seems quite likely that she knows as well as he does how Jory feels, that, in fact, everyone in the car is aware that some kind of game is going on.

Ila is silent for a moment before answering Jory's question about her tires. “I don't know. I never checked them. Maybe we'll have to find out how good they are.”

“Ah,” Jory says with a mirthless laugh. “Then we may have a very short ride.” Would he ask her to slow down, Vaniok wonders, if someone else weren't there? He's amused by the situation, though it suddenly strikes him that Ila might even consider Jory braver for trying to hide his concern than a person like himself who isn't bothered at all by her speeding; and once more he can't help feeling that Jory has bested him in some way.

The road before them is straight and empty. Ila's response is to increase her speed. Vaniok watches the speedometer needle advance, he feels the pull of the car. “Is this all right for you, gentlemen?” Ila asks.

Jory looks straight ahead. “I trust our hostess.” Vaniok can hear the effort it costs him to seem calm. He looks from his countryman to Ila.

“But I want to be polite to my guests,” she says.

“And therefore you want us to get to the picnic more quickly,” Jory answers coolly.

“Exactly,” Vaniok adds, determined not to be left out of this conversation. “Maybe we could go a little faster.”

“I could go faster,” Ila makes it sound like a question. Again she looks toward Jory, waiting for a reaction. Jory shrugs, then inhales deeply on his cigarette as the car speeds on. Ila's hair is blowing in the wind.

Vaniok looks at Jory's loosely clenched fist. The man is stubborn: why doesn't he just admit he'd be more comfortable if Ila were driving more slowly; and why does Ila keep deferring to him?

But Jory only laughs quietly. “You must have been a terror on the roads around the Deep Lakes,” he says.

She responds with a wicked smile. “You should have seen me. Especially in the winter when there was a lot of snow on those narrow roads.”

“I pity the animals who were trying to cross them,” Jory says. “You must have taken your toll of rabbits and squirrels. I hope you didn't number any bison among your victims.”

Well, Vaniok thinks, give him his due: he hides his feelings well; let each person act the way he wants to. And, warmed by his own generosity, he smiles to himself. Why should he care about how Ila and Jory are behaving, after all? He's enjoying himself here in this car that's speeding eastward. Soon they'll be at the ocean, which he's been dreaming about since Ila announced her plans for the picnic. He closes his eyes and listens to the wind, he breathes in the cigarette smoke. In the darkness, to his surprise, he sees one of the narrow, snow-covered roads in the region of the Deep Lakes. How many times did he push his little car across roads like those in the winter, on his way to a lodge where a fire blazed in the fireplace, awaiting the fishermen who'd spent hours on the ice, peering into the slushed-over holes they'd cut, dangling their silver lures in the dark, cold water, dreaming the whole time they shivered of the warmth awaiting them on their return?

“Oh, oh,” he hears Ila say. Jolted out of his reverie, he opens his eyes, feels his own weight returning as the car slows suddenly. His first thought is that something has happened to the tires, just as Jory predicted. “What is it?” he asks.

He looks at Ila, then Jory: their faces have become serious. Ila is looking into the rear-view mirror and Vaniok swings his head around to see the flashing light. “My God,” he says aloud, “the police.” The hair on the back of his neck rises. Even after he's turned and is looking at the open highway ahead he can see the pulsing light, the powerful car, an armed man at the wheel. “The police,” he says again, his own voice sounding strange. “Go faster.” As he says the words, though, he knows that's a futile plan: the police car is certainly faster than Ila's; besides, there are no places to turn off this highway, they're trapped. Ila has already slowed down and she begins gently urging the car toward the shoulder. “No,” he shouts, lunging for the wheel; but before he can reach it Jory's hand encircles his wrist, he pulls Vaniok's arm away.

“That won't help,” he says firmly. Vaniok turns toward him as if he has something important to say, but he can't find the words. His hand is still being held as if he's a fugitive who's just been caught.

“It's all right.” Jory releases his grip on Vaniok's wrist. Vaniok looks at him, alert to something going on beneath his words.
The man is frightened,
Vaniok recognizes.
There's something he's afraid of
. The deliberate calm of Jory's voice doesn't cover it. Though he's looking directly at Vaniok, he isn't seeing him. His attention is elsewhere, as if he's working out a complex mathematical problem at great speed. “Remember, we're foreigners,” he flicks his eyes briefly toward Ila. “You have your license, I hope. Other papers?”

“In the glove compartment,” she indicates with her head as she swings the car onto the rougher surface of the shoulder. Jory reaches in, pulls out some papers and shows them to Ila, who nods in response. The two of them are communicating quickly, almost in shorthand, in a language of their own, and Vaniok feels excluded. And yet there's something going on that isn't being acknowledged.

In a few moments the car has pulled up onto the grass by the side of the wide highway. Ila turns off the engine. Smells from the outside enter the car with the spring warmth. A large truck rushes past and the three of them are buffeted by the wind of its passage. Ila's hands remain loosely on the wheel for a moment, then Jory gives her the papers he took from the glove compartment. Filled with shame, Vaniok watches the truck pass out of sight: if only he were on that truck, disappearing forever. He still feels the pressure of Jory's grip on his wrist. He senses rather than actually sees the police car pull up behind them, his body tenses in response. Nobody in the car is talking and Vaniok looks straight ahead into the bright sunny day: on the flat land beside the highway is a farmer's field covered with a thin layer of crops. What are those crops, he wonders. The metal roof of a barn glistens in the distance. They're far from the little university town. Nobody in this place knows that he's here, nobody knows his name. If he were to die on the spot, where would they bury him? Somewhere deep within the dread that's overtaken him he feels a terrible sense of defeat. He can't help remembering that he was the one who encouraged Ila to drive so fast, he's the one who's brought the police into their holiday.

Now there's a presence at Ila's window. Vaniok continues to look straight ahead, surprised by his heart's pounding. Deliberately he makes himself turn toward the man in the uniform, he sees the wide young face, the serious mouth under the sunglasses, the military style cap with the shiny badge. Vaniok looks at the man with an amiable expression but the policeman is directing his attention to Ila. The language of the country they're traveling through is being spoken in the car for the first time today. “Did you know … did you know … may I see …?” A minty smell of chewing gum accompanies his words.

“I very sorry, officer,” Ila says in a voice Vaniok has never heard before. He's startled to see his cousin transformed into a stranger before his eyes. “In my country …” she goes on, deliberately speaking the language haltingly, in a higher register, with an uncharacteristic note of helplessness. When she turns away for a moment Vaniok can see that her eyes are moist. But surely the man in the uniform will see through this ruse.

“It's all right.” The policeman raises a hand like an orchestra conductor regulating the volume of unruly horns. “Just be calm. Whose car is this?” he asks.

“It's mine, officer,” she answers. She takes a deep breath, looks into her lap for a moment, then gives him the papers.

“You just stay put, lady,” he says. “I'll be right back.” He leaves with the papers, returning to his car.