The Letter Killers Club (16 page)

“Perhaps you're right,” Fev nodded, “we do tend, I don't know why, to move from white squares to black ones, rather than the reverse. Our thematic resolutions are sad because … they're sad. But since it's come to that, I'll show you that I can also sail against the wind. It won't take long: I'll push my theme into a grave, to the very bottom; then I'll ask you to watch it scramble up out of the pit, to life.”

“Well, well, we're listening,” smiled Zez, edging his chair closer to Fev's. “Go ahead.”

Fev threw his head back as though struggling to recall something, violet glints sprang from the ceiling onto the swollen bubbles of his cheeks.

This conception began to stir in me years ago. I was then both more vigorous and more curious; I still felt the pull of distant spaces and often traveled. It happened this way: on one of my visits to Venice, walking down a scorching morning
calle
or
vicoletto
[2]
, I turned—wanting to make water—into one of those marble bastions that obtrude from most every wall and smell of ammonia. From small gaudy squares of paper pasted to the wall around the drain, the addresses of venereologists leapt out at me. And off to one side, protected by a narrow black border, its decorous black-on-white letters surmounted by a small black cross, a striking
avviso
[3]
inquired,

HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN TO PRAY FOR THE 100,000 WHO WILL DIE
TODAY
?

This was a trifle, of course, a dry statistic deftly caught by that black square, a polite reminder—only a reminder.

I did not pray for the hundred thousand souls led away to death, but when I stepped out from the wall's shadow into the bright sun, thousands upon thousands of agonies prevented me from seeing the day: the thousands perishing today crowded around me, thousands of suns tumbled down into the darkness; I saw a multitude of wax-like, sharp-featured faces with bulging white eyes; a sweetish decay threading my nostrils to my brain would not let me think or live. I remember it pierced me almost physically. I sat down at a little sidewalk table, the waiter brought me a place setting and at just that moment I saw thousands of them—lying on tables, mouths slack, slowly growing cold, helpless and frightening, banished from today to never. I did not eat my slowly cooling minestrone; my mind was feverishly trying to step out of that accursed black square. Then suddenly to the rescue came my theme. It flooded me all at once. In its grip, I remember, I rose mechanically, quickly paid the …

Here Fev—followed by the others—turned his head at the sound of a chair being pushed back. To my surprise I saw Rar stepping out of the circle of conceivers; in his hand he held the key that only a moment ago had lain on the mantelpiece.

“I'm leaving,” he said curtly.

The key clicked metallically, the door jerked open, and Rar's steps broke off with a muffled slam somewhere below.

There followed an exchange of astonished looks.

“What has gotten into him?” Mov half rose, as if he meant to go after Rar.

“Order!” Zez's cold voice rang out. “Sit down. Or if you're up, close the door. Skip it. Fev will continue.”

“No, Fev has finished,” Fev retorted, angrily blowing out his cheeks.

“Because he left?” stammered Zez.

“No. Because my theme—if you can imagine it—left with him.”

“You, evidently, want to out-Rar Rar. Fine. We'll consider this meeting adjourned. But let's agree on the program for next Saturday. It will be Mov's turn. I suggest he jump off the springboard set up by Fev. Let him—do you hear me, Mov?—see himself by that wall, before the notice inside the black border, let him rethink—after Fev—the myriad agonies in one ‘today,' and then jump: from black to white.”

Mov flicked the stubborn forelock from his brow.

“I'll do it. What's more, I'll take a running start up to the springboard—as you call it—through the first theme from today's meeting. Let it be a sack race. I have a week. With any luck I'll make it.”

[1]
Free will. (
Lat.
)

[2]
Very narrow street or alley. (
Ital
.)

[3]
Notice. (
Ital.
)

T
HE CLOSER
each day brought me to the next Saturday, the more entangled I became in my own guesses and conjectures. How was one to take Rar's “I'm leaving”? Was it a simple display aimed at Fev, or a protest hitting much harder and farther? A firm decision, or a momentary whim? What was Rar shunning—a hundred thousand or six? I recalled his pale, inward-gazing face, his erratic retreating step. Perhaps he needed my help? I no longer wondered whether to go or not to go. Besides, the pull of those Saturdays, the vortex of the blank shelves, the black temptation of booklessness, had begun to affect even me.

Having waited till the day and hour, I was nearing the Letter Killers Club. The first hazy warmth of spring hovered above the tamped-down snow, the icicles pendant from roofs wept, beating a tattoo with their tears on the pavement. When the door admitted me to the meeting room, the first thing I saw was Rar's empty chair. They had all come—except him.

As always, the key clicked once then again, as though separating the room of black shelves from the world. I felt a short, warm jolt to my brain.

Mov, who was to speak, cast several anxious glances at the place minus a person. Then Zez gave the sign—and Mov, turning to face the dark pit of the fireplace (the incipient spring had extinguished it), made an effort to concentrate and began.

Mark Licinius Sept was found by the door of the dimly lit tablinum:
*
he lay dead, among unfurled scrolls.

The late Sept's slaves, Manlius and old lame Aesidius, carried the body to the stone bench in the tablinum, hurriedly dressed it in the best toga, with a red border, washed the bloody foam off the face and mouth, forced apart the clenched teeth, and, having inserted a copper obol,
*
began preparations for the funeral.

Two old professional mourners, having nosed out the deceased, were already banging the bronze knocker on the back door; there, in the little courtyard by the lispily splashing fountain, Aesidius argued with their high-pitched voices, trying to bargain them down at least ten or twenty sesterces:
*
the late Mark Sept had been poor—he had had to make do.

Manlius ran off to order the bier, buy incense, make arrangements with the torchbearers, and inform the deceased's two or three friends. Mark Sept had lived a poor and lonely life among papyruses and waxed tablets, avoiding close friendships. Manlius meant to finish his errands before sunset.

But the body could not be left unattended: evil larvae
*
and wandering shades might profit.

“Fabia, hey! Fabia, where are you? In the street again, naughty child. Come here. Take this stool and sit by the master's feet. Don't be frightened because he is pale and does not stir—the master has died. Well, you're not old enough to understand: sit here quietly until Aesidius has finished with the old women. I'll be back soon.”

Six-year-old Fabia had important business of her own, and if her father had not been so strict with her she would never have stayed in that dimly lit room; outside, around the corner, a hawker stood with his tray of sugared dates, raisins, and figs: the sight alone was bliss. Whereas here …

Fabia tucked her legs under the stool and began to listen. The tablinum was quiet; a large blue fly droned and fell silent; but even through the wall she could hear the hawker's cries: “Dates, dates—one obol a bunch. Buy sweet dates—one obol—only one obol …”

“Oh, if only,” her little heart began to pound, and she licked her crimson lips.

Mark Licinius Sept lay still, clenching the obol between hardening lips, and also listened. Drifting with his death-honed hearing through the mourners' voices, the hawker's cries; and on—through the clatter and clamor in the street; and on—through the earth's babel, he clearly discerned the distant plash of Charon's oar and the sad whispers of shades calling him to the black waters of Acheron. The dead Sept could hear both the steps of the stars, treading their distant orbits, and the rustle of letters, fidgeting in the scrolls still scattered about the floor; also distinct were the broodings of Hades
*
and the thoughts of little Fabia, his slave's daughter, sitting here beside him. In his glassy pupils—through the murk—the child's bright eyes, fringed with fluttering lashes, shone blue: life. Now his pupils began to be sucked in by the gloom.

Charon's oar plashed closer.

“Sweet dates, dried dates—for one obol, only one obol.”

“O, Juno,
*
Queen of the Gods, if I had …” Fabia whispered.

With a terrible last exertion of his hardening muscles Licinius Sept unclenched his teeth (the exertion caused the mist around his eyes to thicken—veiling the child, the walls, and the whole earth); the new copper obol slipped out, rolled across the floor, and came to rest with a soft tinkle by the feet of the wide-eyed Fabia. She tucked her legs high up under her seat, breathing hard. All was quiet. The motionless master was smiling affectionately at her with his limpid white face. Fabia reached down for the obol.

The dates were delicious. Mark Licinius Sept was buried as is, without the obol: an oversight.

Sept's time had come. Risen up over the earth, he glided among softly moaning shades toward the dwelling place of the dead. Behind him were the shrill shrieks and rhythmic cries of the still haggling mourners, ahead the waves of the Acheron lapping black.

Here was the riverbank. The sound of oars—hark! Coming closer. Closer still. A bark bumped against the bank. Tottering shades hastened to the noise: and with them Sept. Old Charon planted one foot on the shore. In flashes of blood-red lightening his face flared and faded: the jutting jaw, the matted gray beard, the rapacious glint in the eyes. With a trembling hand, Charon fumbled the dead men's mouths in quick succession as a jingling stream of obols tumbled into the leathern pouch at his hip. His bony fingers grazed Sept's lips.

“The obol,” said the ferryman. “Where's your obol for the crossing?”

Sept was silent. Charon pushed off with his oar; the skiff full of shades floated away. Sept was left on the deserted shore of Death.

On earth: day followed night followed day followed night followed day. But by the black waters of Acheron: night followed night followed night. No daybreak, no midday, no twilight. Thousands of times the ferryman's skiff made fast, thousands of times it cast off, and Mark Sept was still alone—between life and death. Every time he heard the skiff's plash, he went to the water's edge, and every time the miserly Charon pushed him aside. Thus Sept, who had brought no obol, went on wandering by the black waters: gone from life and refused by death.

He asked the hastening shades about his obol, but they only clenched their fare for the Land of Hades more firmly between their frozen lips and flew past. The darkness closed in behind them. Sept knew that his pleas were in vain. Turning to face the earth, he began to wait, years and years, for the little girl to whom he had given his Obol of the Dead.

The dates were sweet—but life is bitter and joyless. After her master's sudden death, Fabia the slave's daughter was resold four times. When she became a beautiful blue-eyed woman, men kissed her lips and caressed her body. Thus she passed from hand to paw, from paw to tentacle. Sorrow crept into her blue eyes and never left her unsold soul. Time rolled on from year to year, like a worn obol dropped on the ground. Her body's last master, the old proconsul Gaius Rigidius Priscus, was generous to his concubine; Fabia slept on a marble couch amid incense and waving fans, but three times she was visited by a strange, persistent dream: the lapping of a black river; a familiar and very dear face, its rigid mouth forced painfully open; a sad whisper calling from far away: the obol—give me back my obol—my Obol of the Dead.

Fabia gave away whole fistfuls of obols to the poor and to the church: but the vision would not fade.

Proconsul Rigidius died. Fabia would go to his heir, as part of the inventory. When the heir's servants came to her door, there was no answer from behind the purple curtain. They went inside: Fabia lay on her marble couch, her motionless arms outstretched as if for an embrace. The thing listed in the inventory as No. 5 had, upon completion of the necessary formalities, to be crossed out: the cemetery for suicides accepted the new corpse.

Mark Sept recognized the approaching shade: it glided along in the file of the dead, head thrown back, limpid white arms open, as if for an embrace; between pale lips the semicircle of an obol gleamed. The skiff appeared. Sept barred Fabia's way.

“Do you recognize me?”

“Yes.”

“I've been waiting here—for years and years—between death and life. Give me back my obol, my Obol of the Dead.”

Then …

The story suddenly stopped, as if its way too had been barred.

“And then,” Mov repeated, languidly surveying his circle of listeners, “what should one do with that ‘then,' for instance, Hig?”

Hig looked surprised for no more than a second; confronting the question with his elbows and chin thrust out, he began pressing one word to the next. “For your ‘then' one needn't look for a ‘when.' It's useless. You have led your theme into a mystical fog in which it's easier to lose the beginning than to find the end. Find your own way out. I won't go near your Acheron.”

“What about you, Das?” Mov went on, and you couldn't tell if he was joking or in earnest.

Das wagged his round lenses. “My good Moov—beg pardon, Mov—I would dispose of your shades as follows: one obol for two. That's better than nothing. Thus paid, Charon lets Fabia and Sept on the skiff. But halfway across the Acheron, between the two shores, death and life, the divine miser says to them: ‘You paid me half the fare.' Your heroes, over whom the infernal ferryman's dreadful oar is already looming, are forced to get off—and go straight to the famous, divinely croaking Acheron frogs hymned by Euripides and Aristophanes.
*
That's where they belong.”