For the young prince will become a poor printer, the bright lights will be those of searching beams, bomb sounds will follow sirens, and sometimes screams will even precede. But he, Joey the Joseph, will have no actual past; he will be safely out of the stream of consequences: I was not here, I was not there, I was not noticed anywhere.
So: was Miss Moss seeking safety from the Major by fleeing to the imaginary welfare of his arms, or was it revenge that motivated this menacing greeting — but for what sort of oversight or failure? — for forgetting, when he left the library, to free her from her dungeon room and restore her like a deposed queen to her rightful place at the front desk, next to the day’s overdues? How could he have accomplished that? And the scurrilous verse — he guessed it was — what was he to make of such words and their worse thoughts? that Miss Moss was a witch, too, like the Major and Miss Spike? Hawkins, she said it was … Hazel Hawkins.
How long had it been since he’d worked in the library, since he’d sat like a young squirt in front of the Major and worshipped the whirl of her hair and the swirl of her laughter, too? Thirty years? Good grief, none of these ladies might be alive. Yet here he had a note from the eldest of the trio. Joey had thought of her as old when he was fetching wounded volumes to receive her ministrations in the basement of the Carnegie. Good grief, the library might be gone as well, torn down, its contents scattered to the six winds, though the winds of heaven were unlikely. People, nowadays, liked old brick. They might have stolen its walls to pave their patios. The town itself might have slid into the river. But he had heard of things going on down there … faint aromas had floated up the map … a person passing through from that direction who reported a severe season of bird flock or leaf fall. Yes … signs that said they were there … as we were here … and the world was still at war.
Professor Skizzen disliked mystery even more than Joey, especially mysteries whose clearing up could not be kind, like clouds that part to reveal rain. Was he also old by now? old in an old house, practicing an old trade — not in the teaching of music but in the arts of deception. Was he older then than his mother? Fear-filled will be his nights, when his curtains blow the way they do in the movies, accompanied by gasps from terrified strings. Skizzen, sheet drawn to his chin, shall lie stiff as a stick in fear of the denunciation that his father foretold and his mother described: darkly dressed creatures, caped and cowled, uttering imprecations while they form a hounding circle around him. Fake. The word could not be hissed. Fake. Fake. Evenly spaced. Tock. Tock. Tock. Until he heard his alarm. At which time, his accusers would flap their cloaks and fly through the window. Good grief, Joey admonished Joey, I now remember rightly: the Urichstown library was not built of brick, it was built of stone.
What to do about this billet-dure, this piece of poisoned pen? He remembered Maurice. If you were waiting for the worm to turn, Maurice would keep you waiting until you walked off arm in arm with your impatience, whereupon, leaves eaten, the twig to which his freshly finished cocoon was fastened would sway a little in the wind. A moment ago Maurice had barely had a name. Marjorie marched into view, looking mad. For practice in screaming, she screamed. Sheets of music were hidden in Mr. Hirk’s piano’s seat. On the cover of one song a woman in a widespread dress stood by a bicycle composed of one huge front wheel. A silly thing to wear, he always thought, when cycling — a widespread dress — especially if you were a woman with only one song. How did Maurice arrive to trouble Joey’s consciousness? Not by bicycle. Even standing stock-still, Maurice sidled — sidled in a circle — as if searching for the center of the sky. You have a fake social security number. No, sir. My number works for my taxes and is busy being genuine in the bursar’s office. You have a fake license plate. No, sir. I no longer own a car. I no longer drive. My sister’s husband drives my mother about now, and to the farm to see the child … occasionally … once in a while he does it … all right — only too often. To see—
— his first steps in the making of a duplicitous self … Wrapped like Gandhi in nothing but a diaper, the kid totters toward his mommy with enough glee on his face to cover toast. Debbie wears her pride like a pullover and the fingers that beckon her son are so full of eagerness as to take years off the age of her wedding ring. She is cheering for her team again. She kneels as if ready to spring up, as she will when her son reaches her arms: yes … there … the feat has been accomplished, and up the child rises as gleeful as any victor. Good-oh, Joey cries, clapping his hands hard enough to sting. I picked my way through rubble, he thinks. I brought back pieces of broken homes and watched them get flung away as foreign to our ruins. For my first steps — well, they weren’t my first exactly — there was no applause.
You do not have any advanced degrees, Rector Luthardt said. I have publications that identify me as a Ph.D. Fake. You fake! The word could not be qualified, just multiplied. What difference does it make? A fraud occurs when a fake is used to mislead. You fraud! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! The words could not be qualified, only multiplied. You don’t like Schoenberg. I do so, and with great determination. Your enthusiasms, your loyalties, are pretenses. Anyway, his early work is okay. Nice of you to admit that much, but what a condescending thing to say. A lie too, by the way. His painted self is your bogeyman. He fumbled his own faiths the same way you have … fumbled them. No, I admired, I longed to imitate, that change of heart. You are accustomed to your dodges after so many years, with every day and every lie, the same old lie, repeatedly woven like a friendly sweater. The maestro led us all astray. Would you say: like shaven sheep on a midsummer’s day? Well, that’s what you might pray to the God your mother worships. But you would be … A Fraud! I put in a good word for Alban Berg. Your life is a lie from earth to sky. I am better at my business, though you call me a fraud, than my colleagues, whom you call genuine. You are a cartoon. I believe in what I say. Cartoons do. I don’t really mislead for gain. Repetition is your reality. I try to give the right change. You think you are Professor Skizzen? My students all address me in that way. Your students are frauds, too. That’s right. The furies — for whom this voice is a spokesperson — give you frights. That’s right. You don’t know a damn thing about music. In all things necessary, I know how to get by. That’s demonstrable, I admit, you are right. I played it smart. That’s right. I took no part in affairs of the heart. That’s right. But now, obnoxious noise, did you notice? “right” is on my side. You are an infant Adam all the same and can only complain of fate and your mistake. In a song composed for my piano? In a stolen key.