Jonathan Carroll - Voice of our Shadow

"I'll be out in a minute, Joe!"

"Take your time. I'm fine out here."

I was about to get up and look in some of the other boxes when I heard the door open. She stuck her head out, and I caught a second's flash of black underwear before I met her eyes.

"Joe, would you mind waiting a little longer? I feel all dirty and gritty from this morning and I'd like to take a quick shower. Is that okay?"

A picture of her standing naked in the shower, shining wet, made me hesitate before I answered. "Sure, of course. Go ahead."

I thought of the film Summer of '42, where the beautiful young woman seduces the boy after she's learned her husband has been killed in the war. I heard the first spit of the shower and felt a full erection growing thick and randy down the inside of my thigh. It made me feel perverse and guilty.

I stepped over to a smaller box filled with all sorts of letters and bills, an empty green checkbook, and a number of fountain pens. I picked up a handful. Paul would only use fountain pens, and holding them, I realized I wanted one as a keepsake — don't ask me why. Then a strange thing happened: I was afraid if I asked India she would say no, so I decided to just take one and say nothing about it. I'm not really a thief by nature, but this time I did it without hesitation. There was a fat black and gold one. It looked old and sedate, and on the cap it said Montblanc Meisterstьck No. 149. There were two others like it in the box, so I assumed that even if India was planning on keeping them she'd never miss this one. I slid it into my pocket and walked over to the window.

The shower stopped, and I listened carefully to the small distant sounds that followed. I tried to imagine what India was doing: toweling her hair dry or dusting powder onto her arms, her shoulders, her breasts.

A woman in a window across the courtyard saw me and waved. I waved back; she waved again. I wondered if she thought I was Paul. What a chilling, uneasy thought. She kept waving slowly like a sea fan under water. I didn't know what to do, so I turned around and went back to the couch.

"Joe, I thought of what I want to do."

"Okay."

"You're going to hate it."

I looked at the closed door and wondered if she could do anything I would hate.

She came out of the bedroom a few minutes later wearing a hooded gray sweatshirt, old Levi's, and a pair of sneakers. She wanted to go jogging down by the river. She said I didn't have to go with her unless I wanted to — she felt better now. She wanted to "clean a few miles" out of her system. It made perfect sense, and I told her I'd go to keep her company. We walked from their place down to the path beside the Danube Canal, which was long and straight and perfect for running. I had a book with me, and I sat down on a wooden bench while she padded off. There were scattered mobs of seagulls diving and floating over the fast-flowing water. A few old men were fishing from the banks; once in a while a couple with a baby carriage walked slowly past. All of us were playing hooky from the day.

I knew India would probably be gone for at least half an hour, so I looked at the water and wondered what was going to happen now. How long would she remain in Vienna? If she left, would she want me to go with her? Would I want to go with her?

Until I'd met the Tates I'd been so comfortable here. I didn't know exactly how happy I was, but by the time I had adjusted my rhythm and pace to that of the city, I fully realized how lucky I was to have that.

In a couple of months what would she want to do? Where would she want to go? As appealing as she was, India was a restless woman, and her sense of wonder needed constant refueling from new stimuli for her to be happy. What if she wanted me with her, but in Morocco or Milan? Would I go? Would I pack up my life and move it at her whim?

I chided myself for being so sure of things. Also, the way I had already dismissed Paul from both our lives was obscene.

I reached into my pocket and brought out his fountain pen. I held it up in front of me. If I'd dusted it for fingerprints, his would be on it somewhere. All of his left thumb perhaps, or the right-hand pinkie. I held it up to the paling sun and saw ink in it. Ink he'd put in. Dear Paul — A few days after you fill this pen you'll be dead. I undid the cap and frowned at the ornately engraved gold and silver point. How old was this thing? Had I stupidly taken an antique that was worth a fortune? I knew nothing about pens. Guiltily I screwed the cap back on and closed my hand over it, hiding it from the world.

The tapping of India's sneakers came up on one side; I had just enough time to put the pen away before she was there. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing hard through her mouth. I turned to meet her and was surprised when she came right up to me and put both hands on my shoulders.

"How long was that?"

I looked at my watch and told her twenty-three minutes.

"Good. I don't feel any better, but at least I'm exhausted now, and that helps."

She looked at the sky, putting her hands on her hips. She walked off a little and stood panting. "Joey? I know we're probably thinking about the same things now, right? But could we please not talk about anything for a while at least?"

"India, there's no hurry."

"I know, and you know, but tell the little gremlin inside me who keeps saying I've got to get everything together now and settled now so I can start right in on a new life. Tell him that. It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I know. I'm going to try and ignore it the best I can. Hey, why should I care if things are settled? What am I, crazy? My husband just died! Here I am, trying to make everything right again on the same day they buried him!"

She turned halfway around and ran one hand through her hair. I felt totally helpless.

After it snows in the mountains, the roads are in charge. There is nothing you can do about this but follow their whim. You drive slowly and hope the next turn will be friendly — that the trucks will already have passed through and there will be gravel spread over the surface like cinnamon or chocolate sprinkles on a cone. But this is wishful thinking; too often the snow glistens and is packed tight — it's been waiting for you in its nastiest mood. The car begins to slip and drift in a slow dream of danger.

Although I was trying to drive well and carefully, I was petrified. India had been giggling only a moment before.

"What are you laughing at?"

"I like this, Joey. I like driving on these roads with you."

"What? This stuff is dangerous as hell!"

"I know, but I like that, too. I like it when we whish back and forth."

"Whish, huh?" I turned and looked at her as if she was nuts. She laughed.

We were twenty kilometers from our gasthaus, and the sun that had been so bright and friendly that morning when we'd gone out for the drive had dropped behind the mountains. It had taken its yellow cheer with it, and in a moment things everywhere were a sudden, melancholy blue.

What if we broke down out here? The last person we'd seen was a child standing with a sled by the side of the road. He stared stupidly at us as if he'd never seen a car before. He probably hadn't. They probably didn't have cars this far out in the hinterlands.

She reached over and squeezed my knee. "Are you really all that worried?"

"No, of course not. I just don't know where we are, and I'm hungry, and these damned roads give me the willies."

Still smiling, she stretched luxuriously and yawned.

We passed a road sign that said BIMPLITZ — 4 KILOMETERS. It looked tiny against the backdrop of the mountains. I silently wished we were staying in Bimplitz, no matter how ghastly it was.

"Did I ever tell you about the time we saw the bear in Yugoslavia?"