Robert Stone - Dog Soldiers

“That’s a story,” Kjell said. “It’s called El Incarnaçion del Verbo . It was a Jesuit house in the mission times — then the Mexicans passed a law against Jesuits so the priests buried all their gold and left. Then it got to be part of the Martinson ranch. We go out — me and Dieter — we go out with the metal detector sometimes to look for the gold. We found a whole lot of great stuff. But no gold.”

“How’d Dieter get it?”

“I guess Mom gave it to him. Her name used to be Martinson.”

“Well,” Marge said. “How nice for him.”

She dressed and sauntered into the front room looking for Hicks.

“He’s asleep,” Dieter said. He offered her a beer and she took it. “Couple of hours he’ll be up and hustling and you’ll be on your way.”

“I thought we were on our way here.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with the heroin.”

“I must have it wrong then. I thought you were somehow in the business.”

“You have it wrong.” He sipped his wine and watched her in what she considered to be a rather proprietary way. “How much are you shooting?”

“I don’t really know,” she said. “There’s so much of it.”

“If it’s Vietnamese and you keep shooting it, you’ll end up with a hell of a habit. You may have a habit already.”

“We think it may be all in my head.”

“How long has it been?”

“Not so long.”

“Good,” Dieter said. “Then you can quit if you want to. I can help you.”

“Can you really?”

“Don’t be scornful,” he said. “It’s ugly.”

Marge stretched. She bore him no ill will.

“Please don’t give me hippie sermons, Mr. Natural. I’m not part of your parish.”

He fixed his small gray eyes on her.

“How important is the money to you? Do you really want .him doing this?”

“I don’t give a shit about the money.”

“Good. Throw it over the drop and we’ll go fishing.”

“Talk to him about that.”

He fell silent, sitting with his wine on the bottom step of the altar as though he were trying to gather strength.

“I like you,” he said after a while. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“How nice of you to say so.”

“Has he told you about what we did here?”

“He said you were a roshi who freaked out I don’t really know what that means.”

Dieter took a deep drink of his wine.

“Years ago,” he said gravely, “something very special was happening up here.”

“Was it something profound?”

“As a matter of fact, it was something profound. But rather difficult to verbalize.”

“I knew it would be. Did it have to do with your being God?”

Dieter sighed.

“I am not now — nor have I ever been — God. In any ordinary meaning of the word. I made certain statements for political reasons. In my opinion they were what the times demanded. If things had worked out everything would have been clear in the end.”

Marge laughed.

“You’re like my father — he’s a Communist.” She wiped the mellow smack tears from her eyes and shook her head.

“So many people have it all figured out and they’re all full of shit. It’s sad.”

“Listen,” Dieter announced, “a hippie sermon — When the soul leaves the body it approaches the void and there it is assailed by temptations. In its first temptation it encounters two people fucking — naturally what remains of its prurient interest is aroused. It draws closer and closer until it’s drawn in. It has been visualizing its own conception. It goes back the way it came and that’s the end of liberation. Well, that’s what happened to us,” Dieter said. “I suppose it was the dope that stopped us. We were drawn in because it was so much fun. As a junkie, you should understand that.”

“Absolutely,” Marge said. She closed her eyes. “It’s too bad, it really is. It’s too bad we can’t get out of this shit into something better. If there was a way to do it, I’d say — I’d say — let’s do it.”

“Let’s do it,” Dieter said. “Get him to stay.”

Content within the vaults of the drug, Marge laughed.

“If I could pray,” she said smiling, “I would pray that God would cause the bomb to fall on all of us — on us and on our children and wipe the whole lot of us out. So we could stop needing this and needing that. Needing dope and needing love and needing each other’s dirty asses and each other’s stupid fucked-up riffs.

“That’s the answer,” she said placidly. “The final solution.”

Dieter drew himself up in a magisterial fashion.

“Foolish girl,” he said softly. “That’s the problem, it can’t be the answer. When you say that, it’s cheap junkie pessimism. If you spend your time making holes in yourself and tripping on the cracks in the wall — how else can you think?

“You begin from there,” he shouted at her — “life belongs to the strong!”

“The strong?” Marge asked incredulously, “The strong?

Who the hell is that supposed to be? Superman? Socialist man?” She stood up wearily and leaned against the wall.

“You’re an asshole,” she said to Dieter. “You’re a Fascist. Where were you during the Second World War?”

Laughing to herself, she staggered out of the room and went down the corridor to the cell where Hicks was sleeping. The bag was beside him; she pulled it out and opened it and spent a long time staring at it with wonder. Her hand absently caressed the outer covering in a ridiculous manner and the notion came to her that it was like a child but less trouble. It was a stupid thought and she was not amused. She got up and went out again to the garden where the stream was and sat beside it with her head in her hands. When she looked up she saw Dieter standing in the doorway.

“It doesn’t get better,” he said.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told him. “Mind your business.”

When she looked up again he was still there. “If I didn’t have it now, I’d be out of my mind. Things are crazy and it’s been horrible. It’s like I haven’t slept for a week.”

He smiled with his thick hairy lips in a way that she thought at first was extremely cruel but when she had stared at him for a few moments she was no longer sure that it was cruelty she saw there.

“But you’re all right,” he said. “You have it.”

CONVERSE AND HIS COMPANIONS SPENT THE FIRST EVENING of their journey at a hotel called the Fremont. It was in the mountains, across the road from a yellow slope on which Herefords grazed.

As soon as Converse determined that it was not the last day of his life, he began to drink in celebration. He drank Bacardi because that was what Danskin liked.

Danskin and Smitty sat on the bed playing chess with a portable set that had tiny plastic pins for pieces. In play, Danskin was imperturbable; he slumped motionless over his own belly, his shoulders hunched, his feet on the floor. His breathing was always audible; for all his size and apparent strength, he did not seem to be very healthy. Smitty hummed and tapped his foot and licked his lips frequently.

“Check…” Danskin said wearily. “And mate.”

Smitty’s eyes narrowed in panic. He removed his king from its fatal position and surveyed the board.

“Where the fuck did that come from? I never seen it.”

“Checkmate,” Danskin said.

He watched Smitty move the king from one square to another, and finally replace it in the trap.

“You got me,” Smitty said.

Danskin sighed.

When they stood up, he struck Smitty across the mouth with his fist — a lightning right cross from nowhere that had the whole weight of his trunk behind it. Smitty caught it fiat-footed; he had not even tried to duck. The blow stood him on tiptoes and he staggered backward and caught himself against the wall. He felt his lip, spat blood, and walked into the bathroom. Danskin followed him stolidly.