Terraplane (14 page)

"Smallpox," he repeated, slowly. "He can just sit right there,
then. Those aren't patients in the back. Who're they?"

"Doctor Jake," said Doc, whose ease with plot impressed, "and
his-uh-nurse. Once a week he comes in to keep a eye on us,
sir.

"Make sure y'don't cut off th' wrong legs?"

Doe's grip wheelways, during his latest laughing fit, so tightened
that I thought he might snap it in two. "It's a tricky kinda situation,
officer. See, they both live in town here but they don't live together,
if you get my drift. "

"I get it."

"Well, they was celebratin' after they got off their shift, see, and I
think they celebrated more'n they intended-"

"Look like they was fuckin' in a swamp," he said. "What's their
problem?"

Doc leaned farther out, looking about as if the conspiracy was set
to blow "Blotto."

"That so?" the policeman said, keeping his light level on them.

As worded, pokerboy," said Jake. "Dim the blinder pronto." My
muscles seized, and I'm sure Doe's did as well; the policeman only
returned Doe's papers.

"He's had a lotta trouble with the wife, sir-"

"Get outta here 'fore I slap 'em in the drunk tank."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," said Doc, nodding as if thankful for
treats bestowed. He repocketed his essential before I could glimpse
it. "Have yourself a good evenin', sir."

Without warning the policeman clubbed the sideview; mirror
shards chimed onto the concrete as if tossed by the wind. "You'll
get a ticket for that," he laughed. "Better get it fixed."

"Thanks again," said Doc, liptight. Aglow with moment's satisfaction, the policeman returned to his car, heels clicking the
pavement, gun and club bumping like pendulous tumors against
his thickened hips. We slunk past the feeble barricade onto Fortysecond. Once distanced, Doc beat the door with his hand; his
voice roared into true range.

"Flatfoot mick motherfucker," he shouted, unmindful of listening ears. "Cost me ten bucks to fix that shit. Sonovabitch bastard."

"That was unreasoned action," I agreed.

"Unreason, hell. No reason. No fuckin' reason at all," he continued. "Goddamn mick cops. Ever' goddamn one of 'em on the
fuckin' take. All they do is give poor folks bullshit. Gets me
steamed. "

"Would a report be fileable?" I asked; ombudspeople lend dis traction if little else. Doc didn't answer. We rattled over Fortysecond's cobbled epidermis, banging across asphalt-bandaged lacerations. Streetlamps' blurred halos hung in the dark, showing as
angels' crowns, their wearers held frozen by proximity to earth. In
the centerlane ran streetcar rails, like those in Moscow or in the
Bronx, our Bronx; none hummed by before we turned north onto
Tenth. Doc swerved round a wooden-wheeled cart easing upstreet;
passing, I noted horsepower. The beast's splintered hooves, mired
full, supported its spine-sprung carcass; the cart it dragged bore
sidewalls armored with heavy, battered pans and pots, holding it
secure from informal assault. When we paused at a stop I looked
above two small shops with French names; two billboards hid the
building's flank. One said HO'T'EL PENNSYLVANIA/PE6-5000; the
other:

Opens August 17 at the Capitol Theatre

THE WIZARD OF OZ/starring/JUDY GARLAND/RAY BOLGER/
BERT LAHR

and

W. C. FIELDS as the Wizard.

When I looked again we'd driven on; it was gone.

"This is city of New York?" Oktobriana said, her voice startling
us all. Jake had removed his phones, and studied all with open eye.
He nodded, taking his hand from her face. As her sense returned,
Jake drew away from her as would a mimosa from fingertouch;
resettling, she pressed nearer as he inched off. When she'd sandwiched him between door and self she burrowed into his embrace;
his face waxed over with seeming unawareness.

"How you doing, miss?" Doc asked. "Khorosho?"

"Da," she said, acknowledging his dreadfully pronounced Russian. "I noted situation after occurrence. Mild concussion without
fracture or hemorrhage. No internal trauma. Swelling on left radia
infers possible bonecrack-"

"Miss, you're in shock," Doc said. "Where'd you learn to diagnose?" he asked, laughing.

"Moscow," she said. "Any fool could diagnose."

"Doc," I interrupted. "That paper you flashed. That's a flyer?"

"That's it," he said; his struggles to control unwise wording
showed plain. "You from Mars, man?" Depocketed once more, he
gave it over; unfolding, I read. His grace came on Interior Department letterhead: the paper was much finer than that used for our
cash; the Great Seal's engraving appeared drawn by master's hand,
such detail it held, unlike our government's standard design of
singleline eagle's profile.

Norman Quarles is to be allowed unhindered transit between the
state lines of New York and New Jersey from the period Nov 1
1938 to October 31 1939 in accordance with his profession as
doctor, by my order.

Undertext was the interior secretary's scrawl and the counterslash
of Vice President Knox. Such a document recalled to my mind the
old internal passports used between the martialized states in the
years following the Ebb, but the notes inscribed here sang a different song. I returned it.

"Say you're American," said Doc, avoiding a milk truck doubleparked on right; it looked to have been beaten out from tin. "You
say you never seen or heard of these? You a missionary kid or
something? Grew up somewhere else?"

"I'm irreligious," I said, wondering when and if to tell. At that
moment I could viz him pulling up to heave us pavementways,
having done with us all, and cruising back into an uninterrupted
life. Before I could run truth through unhearing ears, he voiced
anew

"One of the sons of darkness, huh?" he asked; I'd no idea what
was meant. "Look, I can't figure this out. I'm going to give you all
the medical help I can. But a lot of this jive just doesn't wash,
friend. Once I get you fixed up we're going to have to do some
serious talking if you want anything else. And I want straight
answers, get me?"

"None other," I said.

"Americans, my ass."

Tenth Avenue, unnoticed, became Amsterdam. As scenes
unwound before me in unending loop my head's throb redoubled,
but each sight fascinated so that I could do no other than to try
blinking away the pain as every vision passed. Long low blocks of
tenement drabness, unshattered by highthrown stone and glass
spears; taxi's lemon exoskeletons amidst hundreds of gray scuttlers
parked and mobile; fitfully illumined allnighters hawking crates of
produce, restaurants IDed with neon curls, newsstands safe behind
paper battlements; olive-hued mailboxes, enameled blue streetsigns, black iron lampposts and churches' stained glass; deadhour
strollers rambling under jacket, tie and hat, free of sweat's gel,
pacing night's walks as if en route to office: all bespoke a different
world's thrall, newmade flesh from history's dust. That we could
spend many unguided minutes here seemed unimaginable; doubtless the late hour sent optimism into coma. Doe's breath seemed to
be coming easier to him now; perhaps he'd calmed enough to talk
of other puzzlements.

"How're you familiared with Russian tongue?" I asked. "You've
been?"

"After the war," he said.

"Drafted?"

"We all enlisted, man. Thought we could prove ourselves that
way. Come out of it with some respect. Shit." His smile showed
nothing approximating happiness. "Kept the whole 369th over here
doing KP and maintenance whole damn time. Least I was in the
hospital unit even though half the time I didn't do nothing but
make sure the blood didn't get mixed, once we was allowed to give
blood. Even then I think they just used ours on the French." He
sighed; lit another cig. "Our commanders kept saying we'll go
soon, we'll go soon. Theirs kept saying not yet, not yet. Once
Armistice Day came, then we finally get shipped out."

`After war's end?"

He nodded. "Siberian Expeditionary Force," he said. "After the
Reds took over. Don't know to this day if anyone shooting at us was
a Bolshevik or not, one or two times anybody shot. We just camped
out in the middle of nothing, drinking potato juice and wishing we
was back home. Froze my goddamn ass off; they said what they gave us was winter gear but I don't think so. Lost three toes. Didn't
even feel 'em go. One day they packed us up. Sent us back, same as
before, except half of us died of exposure there and another third
caught the bug and were dead before we reached home port. Swear
to this day only reason we went was so they could get rid of as many
of us as they could without anybody noticing." His voice trailed
away, as if fading from spectrum range. "You used to be in the
service?"

"Retired," I said; the way he'd described the campaign wasn't as
I'd read of it, but then his would have been a prejudiced view.
"How'd it show?"

"Way you carry yourself," he said, turning onto 110th, heading
into Harlem. "Even the mud shines on your shoes. I can always
spot a military man."

"The uppers are glossed with Everglo-" I began, explaining
my polish; caught myself.

"Where were you stationed?" he asked, not noticing, or choosing
not to notice.

"All over."

"Oh." He smiled. "So you was in the service and you're going to
tell me that's why you don't know what flyers are? How long were
you in?"

"Twenty-three," I said. He didn't eye me directly before we
reached the next light. Something had faded the signals' dye; they
showed as blue and orange.

"In American service?" he asked; I shrugged. "How old are you?"

"Forty-seven. "

"I'm forty-nine," he said; from his face's line and sag I'd have
added ten. We turned onto Eighth in silence which thereafter
remained unbroken; perhaps fatigue outweighed suspicion.
Within minutes our evident destination showed; Doc pulled up on
the righthand side of the avenue, before a five-story brownstone
older than most of those surrounding. "I can park here till morning. This is it. "

Through the carwindow came, from basement's direction, manmade sound, blaring pure with percussion's blast, with horn's
entwining notes. Opening the cardoor I heard the music swallowed by unexpected roar; as it crescendoed I touched foot to sidewalk.
Black shutters curtained the sky; a slender metal tree burst through
the pavement near. An elevated ran atop Eighth; a train screeched
uptown.

"Let me unlock the front," Doc said, walking round the car,
opening the trunklid. "Follow me. Here's your bags, Luther. Jake,
let me give you a hand with Octoberana." To the entrance stoop's
left, from basement to sidewalk, ran an awning's long tunnel,
aimed out of the club from which the music issued; the club's name
was Abyssinia.

"Oktobriana," I corrected.

"Weighs more than she looks," Doc grunted, with Jake bearing
her upward. I lugged the bags. Beyond the entrance's twowindowed wooden door I vizzed a broad tilefloored hall lined with
plaster columns, rich with marble detail. A chandelier brightened
the gloom. Unlocking his office's door-his name thereupon was
stenciled in gold-with a key of medieval look, he walked across
the hall, unlocked the door facing and went inside.

"Wake up, Wanda," he cried. "Going to need a hand with some
patients I got here."

"Turn off the damn light," the other, louder voice replied.

"Put on your clothes and get out here. " He emerged, pulling the
door nearly closed, approached us, entered his office. "Toss the
bags in here for now," lie said, turning on two lamps. "Right down
over there." Oktobriana, conscious but groggy, leaned wallways,
kept from tipping by Jake. "Let me look her over first. You two
oughta be able to hold out awhile longer. Never seen anybody
laugh off a dislocation like you act like you're doing," he said to
Jake.

Doe's office was observably split into two large rooms, one to
receive, one to repair. Opening a window, he switched on a ceiling
fan, whirling hot air into eddies and pools roomwide. Jake carried
Oktobriana into the exam room and lay her on a padded table
covered with Japanese paper.

"Who's Wanda?" I asked.

"Me," came the loud contralto heard moments before. Wanda,
of medium height and solid girth, wore cola-colored skin. A mauve kerchief knotted round her head hid all but a few strands of
straightened hair. She strode through the room as across a boxing
ring, her pink robe sweeping the floor. "Who wants to know?"

"My wife and associate," Doc said, introducing.

"Nurse," she corrected. Her voice carried an unspecifiable
accent. "Bringin' in strays again, Norman?" she asked; her tone
lowered, thickened with menace as she eyed Jake and Oktobriana.
"We're treating their kind now? Mighty big of you."

"This is Luther," he said. "That's-"

"Oktobriana," said Jake.

"Who's the hokey-pokey man?" she asked, hearing his interruption, giving an updown over his muddy whites. "What's their
racket? Bootlegging?"

"That's Jake," he said. "They're just folks fell on hard times,
Wanda. Need some fixing up."

"Need an overhaul, they look like. Cat find 'em or you did?"

"Coming in from Jersey. Get me my bag, darlin'." To us: "You
two sit out there while I check her out. Read something. Catch up
on the news."

Jake and I, stuck with our own devices, took in all about his
reception room. We eyed oak furniture of unguessed tonnage,
deep-glossed woodwork, low-watt wall sconces, an ancient black
dial phone with unknotted cord. My look shifted over time's easierignored flotsam: a malachite lamp in nude woman's shape, an ash
wall clock, its filigreed hands pendulum driven; an ashtray where
cigs might be clutched by deco penguin beaks; a typewriter of
MOMA caliber. Desksided was a wastebasket hollowed from
recycled elephant's foot, whose descendants passed from their veldt
in my memory, leaving zoo-held stragglers to serve their species'
sentence. The details were all; to see such items in obvious use, not
hidden in owner's vast holdings, under museum glass or vizzed
momentslong in sets of films, lent unforeseen awe, the shock of
the old.