White Apples (21 page)

Isabelle stared with the awed, frightened face of a young child watching a fireworks display for the first time. Coco left her alone to absorb what had happened and what she had seen. When sufficient time had passed she said, "Walk around the room and look at the tiles. Look at them carefully. Then I'll tell you more in a minute." Isabelle looked, she touched, she peered under and over. People in the bar looked at her but paid no more attention after a glance or two. It was as if she were walking through the room to go to the toilet. At first she was hesitant to touch or get too close to any of the tiles but that hesitation passed. Because after that first look around, she realized something new about the tiles: every one was slowly changing form and color. And as it happened, all of them— starting with the most distant—began moving back toward the table again.

She saw a transparent square change into an orange starfish as it drifted back toward Coco's table. A wooden Scrabble letter trans•formed into a gleaming metallic silver circle. The fingers of an open blue hand closed and that fist became a white apple. Some tiles transformed from a solid hue to a swirling combination of colors.

Others went from swirl to solid. The only constant was all of them changed shape and color as they moved.

Captivated, Isabelle walked through the room. Tiles were every•where and passed through her whenever she got in their way. She lifted a hand and two floated through it like fish through water. Turning around to look behind, she opened her mouth and a brown pinecone-shaped one sailed in. She felt nothing in her throat. Turn•ing again, she saw the tile traveling in the same direction as all the others. It was changing from brown to electric pink and into another shape.

Coco said something and all of the tiles stopped. But their colors and shapes continued to metamorphose as they hung in the air.

"What?"

"Do you know anything about the big bang theory?"

"Sure. How they say the universe began. Fourteen billion years ago." Isabelle could barely tear her eyes away from the frozen bliz•zard of color and shapes surrounding her. It was magnificent.

"Isabelle, sit down and listen to me. This is what you wanted to know; this is what it's all about. The big bang is no theory—it's the truth. Mankind is only just beginning to understand the concept. But it isn't the universe that began with a bang—
God
did. Period•ically God breaks apart like you just saw the mosaic do. In one huuuuge explosion, parts of Him scatter to every corner of the... well, room. Like what just happened to the mosaic here."

"But why?"

Coco took a tile out of the air and held it out. "Did you notice how all of them are changing color and form while they're out there?"

Isabelle nodded, baffled.

"Then watch." In an instant, the blizzard came together to form a new mosaic right in front of her. But it was entirely different from the one she had created earlier. It was beautiful and elaborate and she started moving in to take a closer look. But as she did, it blew apart again and the countless pieces, the tiles of this new construct, went flying away.

But this time Isabelle didn't watch them. She turned instead to Coco and in a low exasperated voice said, "I do not understand."

"Every person adds their tile, their life, to the mosaic. And the mosaic is God. This happens with everything that has ever lived in the universe. That's what purgatory is for—to teach you about the mosaic and your place in it. When all the tiles have joined, they are thrown out again. Again and again and again, world without end.

They travel a certain distance, stop, and return. But
while
they're returning they change into completely different things. So that when they are joined again, the mosaic is of course different—God is different."

"You mean there have been several
different
Gods?" Although she was saying them, Isabelle couldn't believe what these words meant.

"More
than several."

"How long does this process take?"

Coco shook her head. "You can't put it in a time frame. It's eons, unimaginable, it's forever. But eventually all of the tiles do return. Like your life—thirty years ago you were sent out into this world and now you are returning, a different person. Who knows how long it will take for you to return? But the beauty of it is there will always a place for you in the mosaic, no matter what you have become. Always a specific place in the design where you belong and where you are needed, no matter what form you've taken. You saw what it looked like without that one black tile. You are necessary, and always will be."

"No matter what kind of life I've lived?" "Exactly. That's exactly right."

"How long does it take for these mosaics to be completed? For a new God to be formed? If I die now you're saying I may have to wait ten trillion years for this one to be finished?"

"Possibly, but once you're part of the mosaic you'll never think about that. Because you will be too busy experiencing the lives and insights of all the others already there. And as more and more tiles are added, you'll share their experience and knowledge too."

Isabelle's arms remained crossed tightly over her chest and the look on her face remained blank, so Coco went on. "Imagine you must go to a dinner party where you'll know no one. It's in an apartment you've never been before.

You don't want to go. But when the door opens you're greeted by the most delicious aromas you've ever smelled. And everyone you meet at the party is brilliant, funny, good-looking, and most of all interesting. Wits and scientists, artists and adventurers, great beauties ... on and on and on. Within half an hour you realize this is the most remarkable crowd you've ever encountered. Even better, they're all fascinating and are fascinated by you. This guy recently came back from Mau•ritania, where he was writing an article on white slavery for the
New York Times.
The woman he's with is a photographer and vulcanologist who's been studying the recent eruptions on Mount Etna. You love volcanoes and her stories alone would hold you spellbound all eve•ning. But every person at the party is like her. And as the night goes on, more and more fascinating people come in. Then the meal is served and it's the most incredible food ever! So you don't know whether to eat or talk or listen or lust after all the handsome men in the room. Or even just look at the room itself which is fur•nished—

"I get the point." Although her arms stayed crossed, a small smile rose onto Isabelle's face.

"If you went to a party like that, you'd never look at your watch to see when you could leave." "Especially not when the man on your right is from Mars."

The rat reappeared after Ettrich had dropped off his son at Kitty's house and returned to the taxi. It was sitting in the front passenger's seat. But the driver didn't know that because the animal was invisible to everyone but Vincent Ettrich. A sixty-one-pound talking rat. Its name was Alan Wales.

They had met for the first time in the hospital elevator. It was pitch-black in there because the lights went out when the car stopped. So Ettrich didn't know he was talking to a rodent. He thought he was talking to his dead self. Which in fact he was, but what he didn't know was dead selves return in surprising guises— like giant rats that call themselves Alan Wales.

Now the beast had reappeared and asked, "What are you going to do?"

Ettrich looked at the back of the cab driver's head. "Are you sure that guy can't hear us?"

Alan Wales sniffed because Ettrich had already asked that ques•tion three times since they met.
"Yes,
I'm sure.

Since I'm you, it's as if our conversations are going on in your head and not in public." The rat had turned completely around in its seat so that its back was to the windshield and its paws were perched on the top of the worn Naugahyde seat. It had black eyes the size of cherries and long silvery whiskers that looked like bicycle spokes.

Ettrich gave the driver instructions to the diner where he'd abandoned his car the night before. Then he asked the rat, "Why do you call yourself Alan Wales?"

The rat responded in an irritated voice, "Don't ask stupid ques•tions. You know perfectly well why."

And Ettrich did: "Alan Wales" was the alias he used whenever registering at hotels with women not his wife. Mr. & Mrs. Alan Wales. He made the name up years before. It sounded British and wonderfully phony, as if it belonged to a mediocre 1940s actor with a razor-thin moustache who invariably played either the sap or the cad.

The first time the rat spoke to him in the elevator, the voice in the dark had said, "You're not going to like what you see when the lights come on. So be prepared."

Remembering the ghostly fingers sliding sinuously up his legs moments before, Ettrich tried to sound composed. "I'm going to see myself, right? That's what you said you are—the dead me."

"You
are
going to see yourself. You're going to see yourself as you see yourself these days."

Ettrich was about to say
what?
when the elevator light blinked back on and he saw a huge rat sitting in the opposite corner. It was mud-brown. It was looking at him. It was a motherfucking
rat.

And then it spoke again in Ettrich's own voice. "If a soul must come back here, it takes the shape of the person's self-image."

Forgetting his shock, Ettrich spat out, "I don't think I'm a rat!"

"That's true—when I arrived earlier you thought you were a piece of shit. Would you prefer that? I can change if you'd like."

Now from the back of the taxicab Ettrich said, "I'm going to go pick up my car. When I was running away from you last night I had to leave it behind. Remember?"

Alan Wales only stared at him. Ettrich didn't know what was more unsettling—a silent rat, or one who spoke in your own voice.

"You keep mistaking me for Death, Vincent, but I'm not. I'm you, dead."

Ettrich waved a dismissive hand to indicate there was no dif•ference. "Why are you here?" "I told you—I've come to convince you to return with me. You don't belong here anymore."

Neither spoke for a while after that. When the silence held, the rat turned to face front. Ettrich watched the back of its large head and saw its long whiskers twitch. He had no reason to doubt what it had said. In the world where he now existed there were no rules. Or if there were he didn't know them. What was most gro•tesque about it was everything seemed normal most of the time. Until these mad occurrences snapped open like a switchblade knife and slashed "normal" into pieces.

"Has anyone told you about the mosaic yet?"

Because the animal had its back to him, Ettrich barely heard the question. He slid forward on the seat. "What? Have I heard about
what?"

Speaking over its shoulder the rat said, "Have you learned about the mosaic yet?" "Mosaic? No, what's that?"

While their taxi moved through traffic, Alan Wales told Ettrich some of the same things Coco had told Isabelle earlier. But Ettrich was so rattled and confused by the events of the day that he kept inter•rupting with
"What?" or
"Huh? I don't understand that." Or "What do you mean, we're all tiles?" Furthermore, Coco had her pocketful of colorful tiles and 3-D visual aids to demonstrate the mosaic to Isabelle.

Inside the taxi, Alan Wales had only his words and furry paws to draw pictures and diagrams in the air for his confused student. Try drawing an invisible picture of God with a paw.

To make matters worse, the Pakistani taxi driver began talking. Now Ettrich had to decipher what he was saying and listen to the rat at the same time.

Five minutes later when they stopped at a traffic light, the door on Ettrich's side of the car flew open. Someone grabbed his arm. "Get out. Pay the guy and let's go."

He heard the words before he saw Coco standing there. The rat said, "Close the door!"

The driver said, "What is going on?"

Ettrich said, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Behind them a horn honked. The light had turned green. Before he had a chance to think, Ettrich was jerked with tremendous strength out of the cab. Coco said, "Pay him and let's go."

While reaching into his pocket for money, Ettrich saw her bend down next to the passenger's window. She looked directly at the rat and then back over her shoulder at him. "Give me the money." She took his ten-dollar bill and, reaching across Alan Wales, handed it to the cab driver. A horn honked again, this time joined by two more. Coco grabbed the rat by the snout and, putting her head very close, spoke to it in a language that never did and never will exist in human history. Then she pushed its head away and said to Ettrich, "Let's go."

He followed her like a little brother, wanting to pull on her jeans jacket and say, "Wait, wait—how did you know I was here?" And "You saw him? How could you see him? He said only I could see him." And "What did you say to him? I didn't understand what you were saying."

But she wasn't waiting around. She walked four cars back to a beautiful green Austin-Healey convertible and gestured for Vincent to get in. The driver of the car behind hers honk honk honked his horn. He stuck his head out the window and whined, "What the hell you doing, lady?"

Coco gave him a warm smile and waved like a movie star recognized. Sliding in behind the wheel of her car, she pointed at the other seat and said to Ettrich, "Please get in now. I'm blocking traffic."

What else could he do? He looked back at his taxi but it had already driven off carrying the Pakistani and the invisible rat. Ettrich got in and Coco tore off the moment his door slammed shut.

"I have to get my car." She didn't respond.

"I said I have to get my car."

"I know, Vincent. We're going to get it but we have to make one other stop first."

"You saw it just now, didn't you, the rat?" Coco snorted. "Is that what you saw, a rat?" "Well, yes. He said his name was Alan Wales."

"A
rat
named Alan Wales. And you believed that, Vincent? You didn't for a minute think that there might just be a little something wrong with that picture?"