Robert Stone - A Flag for Sunrise

“With all due respect and up to a point that’s a true thing about her,” Negus said. Then he looked over his shoulder from the chair and lowered his voice. “He goes, don’t he? Afterwards?”

“I’m not without principles,” Callahan said. “I propose to do my duty by the world and the international shipping lanes. He goes.”

“And Deedee knows that?”

“She knows.”

“Just so we’re clear on that,” Negus said. “Because she’s soft on him in a way. Taking care of him, you know, that could mean anything to her.”

“I know what it means to her, Freddy, and so do you. Soft on him isn’t quite the word, is it? Dee isn’t sentimental in the least.”

“No, hell no. She ain’t sentimental. She’s … like we know she is.”

“Perverse.”

“However you want to say it.”

“She likes edges. She thinks he’s a stud. He’s got shit between his toes and he’s going to be dead tomorrow. That’s what she likes.”

“Yep,” Negus said. “That’s the way I see it. That would be her way of looking at it.”

“Me, I think she’s splendid. One-of-a-kind kid. She suits me.”

“Yep,” Freddy Negus said, “she does. You and her — you’re adapted to each other naturally.”

“Not exactly made in heaven,” Callahan said. “But we like it. Edge players as we are. You suppose he could possibly figure out why she’s breathing on him?”

Negus laughed. “Well, I couldn’t if I was him. And I think I seen about everything.”

“But what’s right and what’s wrong, eh, Fred? You can’t have sex without mortality. That’s a biological fact.”

He began to pour himself another drink. Negus lifted the glass from his hand.

“No more, boss. Not until afterwards.”

Callahan watched Negus throw the full glass over the side.

“Right,” he said “It’s getting time to darken ship and get on triple zero. Another couple of minutes.”

“I’ll be on the forepeak when we go in. We ought to check on Dee from time to time.”

“She’ll handle it,” Callahan said. “She has a gun. Let me do the checking, Freddy. It’ll work out better.”

“Sure,” Negus said. “That’d be more your job than mine.”

“You know,” Father Egan said, “I’m reminded here of another city.” He uttered a reflective clerical chuckle. “When I was preparing to be whatever it is I’ve become I was sent to work in a hospital. Comfort the dying. I remember the mortuary there — it was very Victorian. Neo-Renaissance. In the foyer there was an inscription in Latin. ‘Let smiles cease,’ it said, ‘let laughter flee. This is the place where the dead help the living.’ ”

The older man in the group got to his feet muttering.

“Bummer!” he shouted at Egan. His heavy face grew red with anger; he raised cupped hands to amplify his voice, and screamed. “Bummer!”

“I’ll describe a picture to you,” Egan told his congregation. “I’m sure you’re familiar with it. A group of men are standing over a pile of corpses. They’re smiling and they have guns. Some of them have tied handkerchiefs across their faces but not to give themselves the raffish air of banditti — because of the smell.” His eyes went vacant. “What are they looking for in that pile? Has one of them dropped his watch? Never mind.”

The priest wiped his mouth with his sleeve and took a cautious step forward. “That’s the big picture, children. That’s how it is now. That’s why you see that picture every week in all the magazines. You know — there are variations, the people and the uniforms come in different colors, but it’s always the same picture.”

Around them the silences and the darkness deepened. Ramon nuts pattered to the ground through a web of leafy branches, making a sound like soft rain.

“Now why,” Egan asked, “are we made to see this picture week after week until it’s imprinted on the backs of our eyes and we have it before us dreaming and waking? Is it that we’re meant to see it? Is it the cunning of dice play, children? Is there, in short, a message for us?”

No one answered him.

“Will those dead help the living?” he asked. “Are we to seek the living among the dead? What does it mean?”

A youth with a full dark beard who was sitting cross-legged on a waterproof poncho roused himself.

“The Holy One is among the dead,” the young man declared.

The girl who had started the fire turned and stared at him.

“Oh, no,” she said softly.

Egan stood with his hands clasped under his chin, his face uplifted, his eyes closed.

“And yet,” he said, “and yet — where, eh?” he opened his eyes and peered at them across the firelight. “Because you can stare into faces of the dead — I’ve been doing it for years, I ought to know — and you won’t see anything. Anything more than plain death, I mean. You can look as sharp as you like, you can pray for a sign, for something, for the slightest hint of something … more. Not forthcoming.”

He sighed and shook his head.

“You can look into the dead face of the world, try to catch it unawares — no good. You keep looking, you tell yourself you’ve seen something, some little intimation, you know, of something … living. The Living. Or the Holy One, whatever. But it’s no good. You won’t. It won’t reveal itself that way.”

He had been standing, swaying, dangerously close to the fire. The heat warned him away.

“I mean — you look outward. To the stars, to the farthest nebulae. Not a sign. Or you look in. Do it!” he told them. “Look in! Close your eyes and look down from the outside in and what have you got? Blisters. Skin, eh? Flesh, parasites, sour guts and a little concupiscence. Then we’re down among our several intoxications and delusions and we find our minds, the little devils, the devious protean things. Anything more? A glimmer?”

Some of them sat with their eyes closed looking in. Others stared at Egan or into the fire.

“Maybe yes,” Egan said. “Maybe, eh? Who knows down in that mess? But maybe there is something. A little shard of light. What is it?”

“An anchovy,” the drunk said. “An undigested bit of beef.” He turned and walked off toward the dark tree line, carrying a box of Kleenex.

“Marley’s ghost,” he said as he went. “The ghost of Christmas future.” Egan never seemed to hear.

“It’s the why and wherefore,” the priest said, “that little radiant thing. I’ve never seen it, you know, but it has to be there. It’s the life. The Life. There’s all this death and this dying and it’s the only difference. It’s the only difference things make,” he told them.

“There aren’t angels,” Egan said. “There’s none of that. Thrones. Dominions. All that business — it’s rubbish. But there’s life. There’s the Living among the dead. I mean, you can’t ever quite see it, can you? You’d hardly know it was there but it has to be, doesn’t it? It’s only mislaid.”

He was dizzy, his chest felt hollow. He steadied himself against the stone again.

“Because it’s there — everything’s all right.”

He tried to see each of them among the shadows and flickering light.

“That’s the Holy One among the dead, son,” he told the dark-bearded youth. His eye fell on the strange blond man, something made him look away.

“You have to try and find it, see?” Egan said. “If you can’t find it you have to believe in it. If you can’t believe in it you have to hope you will. If you can’t hope then all you can do is love the idea of it. Love it at a distance if that’s the best you can do, children. Love it like a secret lover.”

He seemed perplexed by their silence. He walked around the fire into the semicircle they had formed.