The Rapist (7 page)

Just think. If you were the one to assist your fellow doomed prisoner in such an endeavor, they would first punish you by delaying your execution date for at least another six months or so while they try you on the new charge. Imagine! Six additional months of listening to Mr. Timex! If only they would realize that no one in a sane state of mind would risk such a fate!

I dream. I dream, and out of my dream comes a plan of genius. I was once able to fly.

Before you laugh, listen. When I am done, tell me that in all rectitude you have not done the same thing, or, if you be as honest with yourself as you claim to be, tell me that somewhere in your own illusions you do not remember doing as I have done. We shall see, by and by.

When I was a child, we lived for the space of a few months in another house that was situated in a kind of housing project, dozens of ticky-tacky houses, one like the next, in row after row of pastel-colored boxes, each exactly a copy of its neighbor. Some repairs were being done to our own home, I believe, which required we live in this dwelling. Each block of the project was on a hillside; that is, the house at the head of the block was higher than the last house on the opposite end. The front yards slanted evenly throughout, but the back yards, ah, the back yards! Here is where the project architect snuck in some creativity. Each lot had a steep drop to the next, like steps in the Great Pyramid. What of it, you say? Well, it was because of this physical anomaly that I discovered I could aviate. One day, around the age of six, I jumped from my back yard down into that of our neighbor’s. Purely by chance, I found myself not falling, as had always been the case before, but rather, I
floated
. Agitated beyond belief at this discovery, I attempted the feat again, this time with negative results. Rather than pass it off as a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, I strained again and again to reconstruct the elements of the event, failing miserably in my goal each time. All I succeeded in accomplishing was to become exhausted and discouraged. The many attempts had numbed me, both physically and emotionally, by the time I made my final attempt, and it was on this final leap that I again experienced the elation I had on the first chance victory over gravity. I floated! I was euphoric, elated, beside myself! The secret, I discovered at that precise moment, was not in any particular body position, wind currents, or air temperatures, but came strictly from a mindset. It was a combination of the way I arranged my thoughts and a form of breath control that enabled me to ignore the physical law of gravity, allowing me to float above the ground for so long as I desired. I simply used my will to make my body a collection of cells lighter than air and held my breath, or nearly so; I could allow tiny amounts of oxygen to pass back and forth, enough to sustain life. That was but part of the trick. It is complicated, but I will try to explain how I did it so that you might understand. To be successful at floating, all superfluous thought had to be expunged from my mind. I could think, but with another part of my brain. In essence, I had to split my brain into two parts. The central part, or part I was used to using, had to be sent into a sort of suspension where no thought, no electrical impulses could occur, and a new part of my brain, which before now I hadn’t known existed, came into use, and with this new part I could do anything, think anything, break physical and chemical laws at will. At first, I used it solely to direct my flight, soaring higher and loftier as my confidence in these abilities grew.

Initially, I could only hover for a few seconds at best, but as I learned to harness my new power, the length of my flights increased as did the distances I was able to rise to. I began jumping off higher and higher hills and then one day found I was able to rise into the air while standing on level ground.

This continued until the age of eleven when I suddenly lost the power. I forget the occasion, it obviously has been suppressed by my subconscious, but I do know the reason I could no longer fly. When I placed myself into this state, a kind of self-hypnosis I imagine, I also put myself at risk with my environment, the chief enemy becoming other human beings. To wit: I began to realize that if my concentration were broken while aloft, I would plummet to the ground. From the first, that fear was present in the back of my thoughts, and as I became more and more adept and skilled at wingless flight and therefore more able to open my mind up to more and diverse mental activity, the realization of my danger became more and more apparent. This would prove to be the death-knell of my new ability. In short, I learned to fear. And wingless flight by a human is completely dependent upon the total absence of fear. Once that element is introduced into the mind, then further flight is impossible.

As I say, I don’t recall the exact instance that ended my floating adventures. It may have been that someone saw me while being borne aloft and frightened me by shouting, or it may have been something else, such as the discovery of a new interest that captured my interest and imagination, such as one in the opposite sex, but whatever the cause, I lost the power. And the longer I went before attempting to exercise it, the more the power atrophied. First, I lost the ability to take off from a flat spot, and then I could no longer remain airborne when leaping from a hill, and I became as stuck to the planet as everyone else.

Oh, I knew there was a way back, rather, I vaguely realized what it would take to regain my magic, but I also knew I was no longer capable of doing what was required. For the power insists on suspension of all fears and laying yourself open to the actions of others. Pure trust and utter guilelessness must be achieved, and I felt that to be impossible any longer, for I had passed into a terrible state wherein that was no longer feasible. I had become an adult.

I suspect that is what Christ is mystically saying when he tells the Pharisee he must become as a “little child” again.

There was another power I possessed as a child, recently recalled as well, and that was the ability to leave my body and hover above it. I only did this at night, when everyone was asleep and not likely to walk in and disturb me whilst unconnected to my body. I knew from the beginning that such an interruption would prove fatal and that I would either perish outright or forever be estranged from my flesh, a prospect that terrified me. I believe I ceased leaving my body at about the same time I ceased flying and for exactly the same reasons. I am sure I was eleven years old at this time. About to turn twelve. Unlike Christ at the same age, I felt no call to proselytize, my main activity at this period becoming an intense desire to satisfy my carnal nature. I self-abused my flesh, incessantly.

I grow skittish. Do you know the sensation? It is the feeling you get when you imbibe caffeine to excess or stay up studying for final exams and consume handfuls of NoDoze or other stimulants, or perhaps
you
feel skittish at moments of crisis. Could that be the culprit in this case? Now, I mean, for me, in this situation? Just because I sit here calmly and think that things are the same as always, does part of my brain see my impending execution as a kind of predicament and therefore produce excess adrenaline?

Here is what I have thought in the last moment. Note this, for I feel it important: the difference between Europeans and Americans is that Americans think in terms of dialogue; Europeans, especially the Gauls, are the only ones capable of linear thought (Germans don’t count—they think in terms of machines, in terms of monologue).
 
Do you see? That thought is totally unrelated to what we have been talking about. It’s like when the husband rushes to the hospital to see his wife whom he’s just learned has been struck by an automobile; he dashes to her bedside and stands there, coat still on, face red from exertion and emotion, lungs heaving, and perspiration drying on his reddened forehead as he gazes at her still, unconscious form, bandages covering everything but one dark aperture where her left eye should be, and his mind can only come up with one image. All he can think of is the advertisement he saw in passing in yesterday’s newspaper, offering green peas for only thirty-nine cents per can. He cannot rid his mind of that tableau, which is doubly preposterous since he detests peas and never eats them. He feels as though he should rush out and buy a can of those peas quickly, or something dire will transpire. And then new moisture forms on his brow, and it is not the honest sweat of running to catch a broken wife, but the salty liquid of a guilty man’s skin when he thinks God is snooping into his thoughts and will sentence him to Hell for not thinking of his wife at this crisis, instead daydreaming of a fatuous tin of vegetables. It is as though a choice must be made, right now, and he is being pulled against his will to make the wrong one. He is beside himself with worry now and cannot erase the image of the peas. It grows stronger the more he tries to shake it; now he can even smell them and more; he can taste their odious flavor, and God’s heavy breath is hot on his neck, and he looks at his wife, eyes unblinking in a panic because suddenly he cannot now remember her first name.

Where were we? Oh yes, the details of my crime…

I was brought to this prison straightway. The authorities said they feared for my life. A lynching by my fellow townspeople was mentioned. There was some big talk in the village square and at Joe’s Tavern that hanging was too good for me. Several favored castration. I suppose so that I couldn’t rape anyone in the next life if I went into it with this equipment. They aren’t very intelligent, my neighbors, and if the authorities had only consulted with me they would have learned that put together there isn’t half a man with the nerve to do what they proposed while alcohol moved their tongues. They are all gas and wind and of no substance whatsoever. A brisk wind would have knocked down all their sails. One stout policeman would have dispersed them like minnows before a bloodthirsty pickerel.

It mattered very little to me. In truth, I preferred it here to that tiny lean-to they choose to call a jail in New Haven. Here, at the prison, I have room to stretch my limbs and a library (scantily stocked, but still with a book or two) to browse about in; I have a turnkey who tells me the time and fetches me coffee-swill when I order it; in truth, my existence is that of a royal prince compared to what I received at the jail in New Haven.

I had been here one day short of a week when the chief warder had me brought to his office. It was a room like him. They say that dogs and their masters begin to resemble each other after a time; this man and his room had come to the same situation. It was a musty green, olive in tone, with dusty books lying about in a haphazard fashion. After I got to know Lars (the warden), I learned that his mind was equally disorderly. He had some semblance of intelligence, and he had read a book or two, though virtually none I would consider worthy of more than a flip through. Except one or two authors. Who? Well, you know that he is my jailer—that should be clue enough to tell you what Russian he was enamored of and what French novelist whose name begins with a G he also invested his leisure time in.

Physically, he was fuzzy, his voice thick and slurred, and furry, like a 78 record played at 33 1/3 speed, and his face was indistinct, out-of-focus. He reminded me of the cinema star, Brian Keith. He put me on edge with his manner of speaking, slowly and deliberately, as if each word that passed his lips was an aircraft carrier he was launching. I wanted to finish his sentences for him, and I had the uneasy feeling that time was speeding by and we were falling into another dimension. He created the sensation Dorothy must have felt at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz when she begins her journey.

“Truman Pinter,” he started, when I had seated myself. I observed the chair I was sitting in to be the same color as my mother’s rocking chair; his also, a detail that set my stomach aboil.

“I see by your file that you were educated at Princeton.” What this had to do with my incarceration and sentence escaped me. Did he suppose I was the first graduate from that distinguished center of study to run afoul of the law? I remained silent, waiting for something meaty to respond to. Idle conversation is not my suit. I saw no advantage nor good use of my time in parroting confirmation of a fact he had in indisputable black and white before him.

“I, too, graduated from that university.”

I was supposed to be impressed? Many thousands have graduated from Princeton, although I suspect not many of them have become prison wardens. I wondered what those who care about such things thought about his choice of careers.

“Some of my officers think that’s humorous.”

“Do you think that as well?” I asked. I couldn’t stop the smile that came to my lips.

“I think … ” He half-rose, his voice a storm erupting. “I think… you’re an animal, but more than an animal. You’re the worst kind of animal. A highly educated man who has no morals. You know, we have all kinds of criminals in here, but what almost all of them have in common is a deprived background of one form or another. When I see someone like yourself, who has had the best of everything, I find I have very little regard for that person. While nothing can forgive criminality, at least these other men have something of an excuse. What I think is that the time can’t pass quickly enough before the world is rid of your kind.”

He settled back down into his chair and seemed to gain some sort of control over himself. It was obvious it took some effort. He spoke again after a moment or two, which time he spent picking up various papers from the piles on his desk and rearranging them into other piles.

“I am, however, fascinated by several parts of your crime, although my instincts are to avoid your loathsome presence. I find I have another motive in doing so in that I feel death to be too little a punishment for what you have done and for the sort of monster you are. Considering your advantages.”

He paused again, clasped his hands together on the desk and smiled at me.

“So what I’ve decided to do, since you don’t seem to be affected by the threat of death, is do what little I can to make your remaining days… shall we say, less comfortable?” His smile turned into an outright grin.