John Gardner - October Light

There was a Jewish girl with a bad cold, shy and lightly moustached, thick glasses on her nose — not flattering to her red and swollen eyes — a scratchy woven bag drooping down from her shoulder and, peeking from the top, along with other college books, a Russian novel. Beside her sat a man in a shabby raincoat. He had a large, long-nostrilled nose and tiny eyes, a black hat with a pinkish purple band and feather. His hands were pushed down in the raincoat pockets, and for an instant Sally thought, in alarm, that he was going to expose himself. She watched with distaste and fascination, but the man did nothing, merely stared with an expression of storekeeper-annoyance at the rabbi’s huge ears, then at length turned his head and watched, as he would a potential shoplifter, the street.

The picture had been as sharp as a vision all this time — it was like a conscious and intentional dream — but now it dimmed, and she was seeing, just as clearly, as if it came from the same queer back room of her mind, an image of the crowd of Mexicans at Captain Fist’s trial, and Dancer with his machine gun.

Abruptly, Sally stooped for the book. She put the applecore on the dresser, found the place where she’d left off, and, pursing her lips with disapproval, began walking back and forth between the window and the door to the attic, continuing her reading.

Meanwhile on Lost Souls’ Rock, the vast crowd — all but invisible in smoke, a cloud of marijuana as thick as London fog — was deliberating on the case of Captain Fist, though he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they assumed he’d show up, in time; perhaps, high as the moon, they saw the case as academic.

“He’s an eloquent speaker,” Santisillia said, sprawled on the ground, laboring to keep his eyes open. Slowly he brought out, “Be a shame to kill a man who can orate like that, even though we know it’s all bullshit. Captain’s an artist.”

“I say blow him away,” Dancer said, smiling and wagging both hands. “That’s what we had this trial for, isn’t it?”

Peter Wagner sighed.

“Man, what’s the difference?” Dancer said. “Everybody knocks off, sooner or later. That’s the thing none of you dudes will face. The ultimate death rate of the human animal is fantastic.”

Jane said, “You know what? I’m tired of this, I don’t know about you people. Anyway, we’ve got to hang around all day. Why can’t we decide it later? Let’s ball.” She relit her pipe and unfastened the top buttons of her shirt. Mr. Goodman watched her, thought about things, and then relit his pipe too. “Do unto others — that’s what I say,” he said. The eyes of the Mexicans came to life and they all relit their pipes, though most of them were still going. Children and toothless old women, smiling, passed through the crowd with torches.

Dr. Alkahest opened his eyes for an instant, smiled, tongue lolling, and fainted. His moneybelt and all his moneybags were empty. Except Dr. Alkahest, who’d already experienced it, everyone in the crowd was rich.

The volcano basin filled still more thickly with smoke. There was laughter and lovemaking on every hand, everyone doing what he liked to do. Some were having knife fights. Peter Wagner, profoundly at peace, gazed inward, savoring images of poison-bottles, hanging-ropes, knives, guns, razors, vats of acid. He saw golden-winged angels, all female. Vaguely, though it seemed to him his mind was clear, he mused on the Captain’s speech. It was a queer thing that the Captain, vicious as he was, could express such wonderful sentiments. One of the angels pressed her cool, wet lips on Peter Wagner’s, then pushed her tongue into his mouth.

Santisillia recited dramatically:

When I consider Life, ’tis all a Cheat;

Yet, Fool’d by Hope, men favour the Deceit,

Trust on, and think Tomorrow will repay!

Tomorrow’s falser than the former Day …

It was that instant that the earthquake broke loose in earnest. Peter Wagner rolled blindly, a fissure opening directly underneath him, sending up a roar from the earth’s twisted guts. He snatched Jane’s slick, naked body and rolled her with him — he wasn’t even sure that the body was Jane’s — instinctively driving toward what ought to be the safety of the cave and the basin’s only exit. Lizards flew back and forth crazily, flopping and hissing like snakes.

“Stay down! Stay down!” Santisillia yelled. He slammed himself over them, locking them cruelly to the shuddering, booming floor. In a split second they realized why. Dancer was firing the machine gun crazily; they were never to know what it was that set him off. The Indian, hit in the stomach and enraged, seized the barrel — more bullets now slamming into his chest — and tore the weapon from Dancer’s hands. “I’m sorry!” Dancer howled, making out at last, through the thick smoke, who he’d shot. The Indian, staggering, was turning the gun around to let loose at Dancer, steamy blood gushing out of his belly and chest, but by the time he had his hand on the trigger he was blind, in fact dead, though still standing, and it was into the legs and belly of old Dr. Alkahest that he emptied the gun. Dr. Alkahest opened his eyes in stark terror, suddenly cold sober, and bawled like a goat.

Despite the roar, the trembling and cracking and grinding of the rocks, despite the smoke and now billowing steam, the leaping, spinning, stampeding lizards, the Mexicans made out that the gringos were shooting, and in terror for their lives snatched out pistols and rifles and started firing. Dancer screamed, flesh flying from his hip, then his chest, and then the side of his head. Mr. Goodman, buck naked, ran six feet, yelling, before his arms flew out sideways with a mechanical jerk, his back arched sharply, and he slammed down face first into the lizards and lay still as a rock. “Not me! Please, not me!” Mr. Nit screamed, covering his face with his left hand, his penis with his right. Something knocked his head off, hand and all, and he fell backward, twitching.

“Don’t move,” Santisillia kept whispering, soothing as a parent: “Don’t move!”

Old Alkahest screeched above the roar of the earthquake, the Mexicans’ guns, “I’m a cripple! Please, I’m innocent! I’m a cripple!” But they understood no English. Volley after volley they emptied into him, the old man screaming till they shot out his throat, his wheelchair bucking and spinning with every hit.

The Mexicans had now all run past Santisillia, Peter Wagner, and Jane, pouring toward the cave and the exit. “This way — quick!” Santisillia said urgently, pulling Peter Wagner and the girl to their feet, Jane naked except for her patriotic cap, and dragging them away from the cave toward the cracking outer wall: “It’s our only chance!” They reached the wall unseen and scrambled upward toward the blood-red sky, the Mexicans’ screams of terror and confusion echoing behind them. All at once the screams stopped. The cave roof had fallen.

The sky became redder now, less filtered by marijuana smoke. As they climbed still higher, the smoke and the sick-sweet smell dropped away entirely. They reached the top, the rim of the basin, the thin shelf jarring and jumping with each shudder of the earthquake. Behind them the basin was a hell of fire and smoke. Ahead of them … They gasped and flinched back, dizzy.

“Dead end,” Santisillia whispered. “We’re finished!”

The rock wall fell straight as a plumbline, impossible to scale, for a thousand feet.

Peter Wagner stood up on the narrow rim and helped Jane up beside him, protectively clamping his arm around her naked waist. Santisillia, a few feet to their left, stood up too. Like Peter Wagner, he had on only his shirt and shoes.

Then they saw the planes. The whole northeast was full of them, like an invasion force. They stared in disbelief.