James Morrow - This Is the Way the World Ends

‘So tell me, my good man, why is a raven like a writing desk?’ A British accent, precise, aristocratic.

George stumbled free of the congested clothing like a jungle explorer breaking into a clearing. ‘What?’

Behind the counter sat the most disturbingly comic person he had ever seen. The salesman was beetle-browed, sharp-nosed, rabbit-toothed, and small. Polka dots speckled his large four-in-hand tie. Wild red hair escaped from beneath his top hat.

‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’ the salesman said again. He rushed forward, rubbing his hands together as if lathering a bar of soap. He was on the downward side of middle age, yet his voice and movements had a robust, rat-a-tat quality. ‘A vulture then.’ He issued a chuckle that might have come from a jack-in-the-box. ‘Why is a vulture like a writing desk?’

‘I’m not here for riddles.’

‘I can tell you why a vulture is like a raven, but the answer is distasteful, involving carrion and bad table manners.’ The squeal of automobile brakes suddenly penetrated the shop from Moonburn Alley, conjuring up images of narrowly averted death. ‘The human body is an egg. “Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall: Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall. All the King’s horses and—” Now why in the world would anybody expect horses to be able to put an egg back together? People were naive in those days.’

‘I’m looking for Professor Carter.’

The salesman pulled off his top hat, and his hair spilled out like released champagne. ‘Also known as the Tailor of Thermonuclear Terror. Also known as the Sartor of the Second Strike. Also known as the MAD Hatter.’

Now we’re getting somewhere, George told himself, although he sensed that this situation would not endure.

‘But if I am the Mutual Assured Destruction Hatter,’ Theophilus trilled, ‘then where is the Mutual Assured Destruction Tea Party? In Geneva, of course. Entry number three in the Strategic, Tactical, and Anti-Ballistic Limitation and Equalization talks – STABLE III to you. The Soviets and the Americans sit down at the STABLE table, and the Soviets say, “We don’t like that MAD Hatter you’ve got sitting over there. Nobody mutually assures Mother Russia’s destruction.” And the Americans reply, “Then meet the MARCH Hare, named for our new war-fighting strategy, Modulated Attacks in Response to Counterforce Hostilities. MARCH puts the fun back in nuclear war – you can actually do MARCH.”’

‘I really don’t want to hear about this, Professor Carter.’

‘Quiet, sir! So the MARCH Hare comes bounding in, and Alice says, “Now that Russia’s forces are the same as America’s, both sides will make reductions.” And the Hare says, “Russia’s forces are not the same as America’s, they are equivalent, which means you’ll get reductions when Frosty the Snowman conquers hell.”’

‘Professor Carter, I am losing patience,’ George snapped.

‘Hold your tongue, sir! “And don’t forget,” says the Hare, “they are equivalent because the Soviets began matching the American buildup necessitated by the early sixties missile gap that did not exist.”’

‘I am George Paxton,’ the tomb inscriber stated calmly, deliberately, ‘and I would appreciate it if you would let me speak. Nadine Covington said you have a scopas suit for my daughter. If she was mistaken, then—’

‘Mistaken? No, I’m the one who’s mistaken. It’s the mercury we use to cure our felt. Makes me mistaken. Crazy as well. The doctors say there’s no cure, because I’ve used it on the felt, but I feel cured, I really do, never cured more felt or felt more cured. Mrs Covington, did you say? Oh, yes, a sterling woman, sterling. You could serve tea off her. The old girl and I have a lot in common. One nose. Two eyes. Black blood. We have always been with you, waiting to get in. Of course I have a suit for you, George. Let me dig it out. Meanwhile, have some wine.’

‘I don’t see any wine.’

‘There isn’t any.’

The MAD Hatter vanished behind velvet drapes, returning almost instantaneously with a child-size scopas suit, one unlike any George had ever seen.

The material was golden, silky, and phosphorescent, bathing the shop in a bright, boiling-butter glow. The boots and gloves suggested vulcanized jade. George pulled off his mitten and touched a sleeve. Warm milk.

‘This is the only one I shall ever make,’ said the Hatter. ‘I raised the caterpillars myself – fed them on vitriol and metal shavings so they’d put out tough silk. It takes a hefty fabric to get through a thermonuclear exchange, George. They were marvelous caterpillars. They smoked hookahs and sat on mushroom clouds.’

When Theophilus flopped the luminous invention on the counter, George thought he saw golden sparks.

‘Is it as good as an Eschatological?’ he asked warily.

‘Better. It actually works.’

‘Then why don’t you make more?’

‘That will be obvious once you read the contract.’

‘I thought it was free!’

‘If you want the suit, you must sign the sales contract.’ The Hatter reached behind the counter, drawing out a crisp, rattly sheaf of printed paper and a fountain pen. ‘Here,’ he said, sliding the paper toward George. ‘Put your John Hancock, or the founding father of your choice, on the line.’

BY AFFIXING MY NAME to this agreement, which entitles me to receive one scopas suit free of charge, I hereby confess to my complicity in the nuclear arms race.

I, THE SIGNATORY, AM FULLY AWARE that the prevalence of these suits emboldens our society’s leaders to pursue a policy of nuclear brinksmanship.

I AM FURTHERMORE AWARE that these suits are a public opiate, numbing our society to the dangers inherent in the following: the failure of the STABLE agreements to constrain meaningfully the arsenals of the superpowers; the ongoing refinement of the MARCH Plan for waging a limited nuclear war; the refusal of the current administration to adopt a no-first-use policy regarding theater nuclear forces; and the continued deployment by the United States and the Soviet Union of first-strike intercontinental ballistic missiles with multiple warheads.

‘I don’t understand this,’ said George.

‘Just sign it.’

‘“Complicity.” That means…?’

‘Partnership in wrongdoing.’

‘Sounds like I could go to jail .’

‘Well, you might go to jail anyway. I mean, suppose you woke up tomorrow morning and murdered somebody. They’d surely put you in jail.’

‘STABLE agreements. You said they were the Strategic, Tactical, and… Anti-something.’

‘Anti-Ballistic Limitation and Equalization. Hey, George, if you don’t want the suit, I’ll give it to somebody who does.’

‘MARCH Plan. Moderate Attacks—’

‘ Modulated Attacks in Response to Counterforce Hostilities. Just another war-winning strategy. Old wine in new bottles. Don’t worry about it. Sign.’

‘“No-first-use,” it says.’

‘As opposed to no-second-use, no-third-use, no-seventeenth-use… Have you forgotten how to write your name?’

George picked up the pen. When Holly was born, the first words out of his mouth were, ‘I don’t ever want anything bad to happen to her.’ He signed. The minors recorded his deed. The mannequins fixed him with their plasticine stares, whispering among themselves.

He took the warm, soft suit in his arms. He felt as if he were hugging Holly. Her incandescence poured through him.

‘This is her Christmas present,’ he said.

The Hatter picked up the sales contract with a carefulness he might have accorded a china figurine. Taking off his top hat, he stuffed the paper inside.