The 14th Day (9 page)

He runs his fingers over the card knowing Vara touched it how long ago? The stiff, smooth paper he holds in his hand, the loops and curls forming words in the language of the homeland, these connect him to the pictured city he's never visited, and he remembers another place, where manners were brusque, the cafes smelled of chocolate and cinnamon, and bus riders held newspapers close to their faces. One day after he and Vara had made love in her cramped room, they went walking along the foggy banks of the river, where the fluid shapes of the city dissolved around them. They were cold, they shivered, they shared a bottle of cheap wine. Jory became a bit drunk and under the influence of the alcohol there surged forward a familiar sense of despair: the world all around him was an emptiness, an emptiness that threatened to drown him. Facing the looming insubstantiality of the cathedral on the other bank, he looked on that emptiness until, miraculously, his desperation turned inside out. He grabbed Vara's thin arms as though he meant to pull them off and he declared passionately, “Vara, we're young. We should never forget that. For everything that's happened to us, we're still young.” Yes, it was actually he who said that. Years ago.

Vara, thin, dark, living on the cigarettes that were always in her long, crooked mouth, brave, quick-stepped Vara with her wolf's eyes that would narrow in the middle of a conversation as if she'd suddenly become aware of voices in another room. Those voices led her to another river, equally dirty but less romantic. How that phrase conjures up all that is Vara. And he'd reminded her the two of them were young. His hands are trembling.

In moments he's at his desk, writing so swiftly he can barely read the words on the paper. “Dearest Vara, remember when the two of us walked along that dirty river filled with barges carrying railroad cars and, wonder of wonders, we saw that beautiful white bird? Remember how startling that was, how you took my arm and pointed to that magnificent creature perched on a piling, so out of place like ourselves? Remember how, just for us it seemed, the bird spread its great wings and we wouldn't have been surprised to see the whole scene transformed into a grassy marshland? Yes, you would be the one to see it, wouldn't you, to conjure it?” For a moment Jory is back in that place of exile. Even here he can recall how his heart lifted upon seeing that bird, how easy it was to recover hope completely. “Vara,” he writes, “thank you for giving me back something of myself. Thank you for reminding me that I'm not as old as I sometimes think I am.”

He looks at the nervous rush of his handwriting. The language of the homeland. What a luxury to be able to write it. Gazing at the shapes of words he hears the sounds of his earliest memories. He touches the paper as if those words have changed its very substance. Of course he won't mail this letter. He has no idea of where Vara is now—where would he send it? In the end he'll just crush the paper and throw it away. If someone from here were to find it, what he wrote would be as meaningless as random scratches on a wall. And maybe, he thinks, that's all they are. Still, even though nobody will read these words, it's strangely satisfying to have written them. And even if Vara never receives this message, if she's still alive somewhere, Jory is part of her story. The mystery of this fills him with wonder. His blood is racing. What else have you given me, Vara? he asks. Of course, it's the future. And the future here has green eyes that can see into this room where they've never been. We're still young, he told Vara. That remains true. After all that's happened it's true for him, and it's true for Ila as well. He has a sudden memory of running his ungloved hands through the cool dark loam this afternoon, releasing the rich smell of living things. His eyes sting with tears.

“See you, Van,” Royall calls.

Vaniok turns back toward his supervisor. “So long,” he answers, lingering a moment before leaving the warehouse. It's been a good day, he has a pleasant sense of accomplishment. He has a place here, people appreciate his work. In fact, as he basks in the late afternoon warmth his sense of well-being is so strong that he's in no hurry to get back home. On the spot, he decides to walk rather than take the bus and he sets out across the campus, moving at a stroller's pace. He can imagine himself a visitor, seeing the place for the first time: certainly that visitor would admire the monumental old library whose long flight of stone stairs reminds Vaniok of buildings back home. Then there are the newer libraries of brick and glass that have sprung up nearby. Beyond the library complex is the long sweep of the campus where handsome older buildings face each other across wide expanses of well-tended green grass. On the undulating red brick paths, students ahead of him bob like boats in water as they move in and out of bright patches of sunlight that dot the deep shade. There's a summery peace about the scene and the sounds are softened even after he leaves the enclosure of the campus for the street where the town has been stirred to a sudden hurry as it shifts from the workday to evening. At an hour like this it's not hard to imagine living here permanently.

He walks west along one of his favorite streets, continuing at a leisurely pace. His route takes him by the columned front of the inn run by the university, where Ila works; catching sight of an open window, he wonders about his cousin. He's felt a distance since Jory's arrival—no doubt the man has fascinated her—but in the bright warmth of late afternoon he feels a generosity toward everyone. He can't help smiling: Jory has brought a little excitement into his own life, he has to admit.

He crosses the street. Behind him cars and buses turning northward sweep by like phantoms. Just a couple of blocks from the campus, the thick trees that border the wide street absorb more of the sound, but the line between brightness and shadow is sharp. The sidewalk has given way here to hard-packed red earth, the path elevated above the roadway like a levee. On both sides of the street are large houses from another time and the homebound traffic has become a whisper. He's suddenly aware of the smell of the red dirt, dry from the rainlessness of the last few days, mixed with the scent of bush, flower, and tree. The muted rhythmic tread of his feet is like a heartbeat; he feels the blood moving through his swinging arms. Unconsciously, he's trying to mimic the loose-limbed movement of people here, so different from the manner of gesturing in the homeland—it's as if these people have all been raised outdoors. He, Jory, and Ila, even when they're animated, will keep their arms closer to their bodies. He supposes that someone coming his way could tell at once that he's a stranger here. Still, he congratulates himself on his decision to walk home this evening. He's in no hurry; he's content to look, to feel the sun on his arms, to take in the smells of growing things.

Vaniok is still deeply immersed in this state when he's jolted into consciousness by a blur of sound and sight: a cry, a flash of silver, a bicycle skidding, sliding, then the abrupt tumble and crash followed by a groan. It's only after it's over and a man in a white T-shirt is on the ground beside his bicycle that Vaniok can reconstruct the event: he sees again the bike's too quick descent down the sloping side street, the sudden loss of control, the futile attempt at balance and the swerve and sudden slam to the earth. The man lying on the dirt path not ten feet from him is blonde and stocky. At first glance he seems relatively unhurt except for the scraped elbow where blood is already mixing with dirt. For a few moments the unseated bicyclist looks directly at Vaniok with a determined cheerfulness, but after pulling himself up to his knees he can get no further, like a fallen boxer unsure whether or not he's ready to return to the contest, and his head turns downward, studying the earth beneath him.

“Are you all right?” Vaniok asks. He's aware of walkers on the other side of the street slowing their paces, stopping.

The fallen man turns toward Vaniok, his brow knit, and waves dismissively. “Nothing,” he says. His eyes are clear, a soft, pained smile is on his lips. He's in his thirties, to all appearances sane and competent, though he seems strangely at ease with his public embarrassment. When he tries to get up, though, he winces and stops abruptly. “I think I should wait a bit more,” he says, then waves jauntily to the halted walkers across the street. Seeing the gesture of reassurance, they resume their motion.

“Let me help you,” Vaniok leans toward him and offers a hand. The man takes it. Vaniok feels his full weight as he carefully pulls himself up, one foot curled back protectively.

“Ah,” the stranger sighs when Vaniok releases him, “thanks.” His black pants are hopelessly covered with dust, but he pats at them distractedly. Blood glistens under the dirt on his elbow. When he introduces himself, Vaniok doesn't hear the name at first and only gradually does he realize that he's just helped a priest. “I'm at the Catholic Center,” the man says. “Are you a student?”

Vaniok shakes his head, suddenly on his guard, as though there's some possibility this priest might ask him to confess his sins on the spot. The man keeps patting his trousers, then grins and shrugs like a comic actor after a pratfall—Vaniok can't help liking him. When Vaniok tells him his name and where he's from, the man's eyes narrow. “There's been a lot of trouble in your country, hasn't there?” he says, to which Vaniok nods. His first inclination is to tighten up, to refuse this stranger any more than the formal recognition of his country's calamity, since only someone to whom it happened can understand their people's singular plight. Still, the priest's acknowledgment of the homeland's sorrows warms Vaniok. For an instant he's even tempted to tell the man that he was raised Catholic though he hasn't been what anyone would regard as a good one for some years.

The priest, after gingerly testing the injured foot, says “I should probably give this ankle a little more rest. Thanks again. I'm going to have to learn to ride a bike or give up on the damned thing. Oh, sorry,” he says. “By the way, you don't have to be Catholic to come to the Center. Everybody's welcome. Not everything we do there is religious.” Then he smiles. “Actually, I'm still finding my way around. Like you, I'm new here.” He laughs.

“You sure you're all right?” Vaniok insists and for answer the priest does a brief cripple's dance: a couple of awkward half-steps that seem to verify that nothing is broken.

“A sprain,” the man declares. He shows no inclination to get back on the bike. “I think I'll walk this back,” he says. “Thanks for the help.”

“Wash that elbow right away,” Vaniok urges.

“I will. And remember the Center. Don't worry, we don't have any bikes inside.” He extends his hand and Vaniok takes it. “Remember,” he says, “Father Tom.”

“Sure thing,” Vaniok says, recognizing the seriousness beneath the man's humor: if you have anything important you want to talk about, his eyes seem to say, I'll listen—I'm not always crashing bikes. The man is a real priest, Vaniok realizes, and it makes him feel better.

Vaniok has always been drawn to priests. Not that he ever felt he had the vocation. But some of the strongest influences of his childhood were priests and among the numbers of them who were disappointments there were enough admirable men to make him respect the profession. Even these days he's occasionally seized by the desire to be a better person than he has been, exactly the way he used to feel as a boy when he attended retreats given by Father Nicol, a thin, bald cleric with deep-set eyes. At those highly charged sessions Vaniok pledged that he would always try to be that better person and for all that's happened since, he can be overwhelmed at the unlikeliest times by that desire. It's his own secret that in the last election back home he voted for some minor candidates of the Spiritus party, commonly known as the priests' party, a fringe group that never held more than a few seats in the parliament because their ideas were hopelessly old-fashioned and unattainable, though their representatives could never be accused of corruption and worldliness. Possibly he was remembering Father Nicol.

Who knows, Vaniok thinks, maybe I will visit the Catholic Center.

The encounter has excited him. It pleases him to think the priest may even be newer to this town than he; it makes him feel like a native. Vaniok suddenly doesn't want to be by himself, he leaves the residential area for the main commercial street, busy with people at this hour, and instead of going directly home he walks to the old brick mill that's been converted to a shopping center. There he stops in the natural foods store and buys himself a roll and a cool drink. He smiles to the salesperson and takes his food to one of the outdoor tables where he sits and contentedly watches the homebound workers passing by. He's a man with resources, a man with friends. However minimal his help may have been today to the fallen priest, his help was offered and accepted. In the old days, he realizes, that would be exactly the kind of incident that would have revived his dream of being that better person.

Vaniok and Jory sit beside each other in the university truck. Edward is at the wheel, intent on his driving. The other two are silent. On the wide front seat each of the men is separated by a few inches from the one next to him, as if Vaniok and Jory are hitchhikers Edward has picked up separately. In fact, they're going to the inn run by the university to transport some chairs to one of the libraries, where a conference is going to be held later in the week. The men watch the morning sky, ominously plum-colored above the pale brick of the university buildings crouching among the dark trees. Radio broadcasts have been interrupted for warnings of violent, potentially dangerous thunderstorms; the air is heavy, expectant. In the eerie light the pink stone campus theater stands out sharply, detached from its background, as if singled out for the fury to come. There's a sense of held breath: thunder growls in the distance, trees hiss.