When Parsifal climbed back out, he was exhausted. He spread his sleeping bag out there and then, alongside the pit, built a small fire, and, still clutching that rotting, formerly so-pointed stick, fell straight asleep.
That night Parsifal dreamed he bit into a fortune cookie that was full of blood.
Encouraged by the discovery of the pit, Parsifal woke, put out his fire, ate another energy bar — a fig and peanut variety — and began his search anew, springing up hills and bounding down them again, rapidly intending to conform to the following plan:
The forest raced by in a whirl of brown and green, tree trunks and leaves, bushes and grassy patches, and little creeks filled with rocks, and crawfish and tadpoles and newts. He didn’t know what Misty had put in those energy bars, but they packed a wallop, and it wasn’t until a couple of hours had passed that he realized that not only did he have no idea where he was, he couldn’t even tell if he had already searched the section he was presently occupying. Whatever that was.
He scanned the ground, hoping to find another pit, but found none, not even the hole he had slept alongside.
At lunchtime, even though he wasn’t particularly hungry, Parsifal made a small fire in a clearing and brewed a cup of tea in order to get his bearings. It is just for this reason — and also because it’s light and easy to pack — that tea is one of the most essential items for any backpacker. He was glad to have remembered it. Sipping his tea, he took stock of his situation: On one hand he had three — no, four — energy bars left, but on the other hand, he was still completely lost. He finished his tea and felt calmer. Above him the same bird, or birdlike creature, was still circling, or maybe spiraling, down and back up again.
Then Parsifal had an idea — not a logical plan, certainly, but what good had logic done him anyway? None at all, was the answer. So — and even he had to admit this was a reach — if his eyes had failed to produce the desired effects, what would happen if he continued his search without them, if only for a while? Suppose, he wondered, he blindfolded himself and walked around for a bit? He thought of the blind men in his neighborhood. Without the distraction of sight would some deeper sense take over — smell, or hearing, or even taste? Well, possibly not hearing. Would he somehow be transported back to some earlier, wiser, childhood-self? There was only one way to know, and though it was slightly dangerous, true, it was also less dangerous than, say, crossing a busy street in the city without looking to the right and to the left, blindfolded or not. And after all, he could always take the blindfold off at any time.
He cut himself a stick so he could feel his way before him and wrapped a bandana around his eyes. Okay, Parsifal, he told himself, go forward, but be careful. You don’t want to fall into a pit like that second man you found when you were young, not so many days before — come to think of it — the disastrous forest fire where you left your mother, Pearl, behind forever, as she stood there coughing and bravely waving good-bye.
Misty + Black Dog + Cody =?!
Despite his scar, or possibly because of it, you might be surprised how many people, once they get over their initial shock at his appearance, ask him, “Parsifal, in your opinion what is the best pen for me?”
“Ha, ha,” Parsifal usually laughs to put them at ease. Then he continues: “Well, that’s a difficult question, and one that demands more information than what you’ve provided me. In other words, outside my firm belief of the superiority of a pen which draws in its ink supply by means of a piston, and that preferably also has a window to view the ink supply through, the question of which is the pen for you depends largely on what sort of writing you actually do. Also your favorite color. Here, by the way, I am putting aside the question of what is the most comfortable size and weight of a pen, which I advise you to discover for yourself by cutting several dowels of varying width and experimenting not only with how they feel in your hand but also by tying small weights (ordinary fishing sinkers will do nicely) on to them to find what is most enjoyable.
“Once you know what size is good for you, the rest depends on the sort of nib you prefer much more than the actual pen. Nibs run from fine (and extrafine) to broad and extrabroad. If you are an accountant, for example, and require neatness and the ability to squeeze several numbers into a relatively small space, then you might prefer an extrafine. On the other hand, if you are a high-powered executive who spends many hours of the day signing various documents, you may well enjoy a broad nib, one that will make a bold impression and say, Yes, I have signed this and I have a whole raft of high-priced lawyers at my beck and call who are all waiting to sue your ass off. That is, unless the document is of an incriminating sort, in which case you should probably borrow someone else’s pen.”
At this point usually one of two things will happen. Either the person Parsifal is instructing will pull out a piece of paper and take feverish notes or he or she will turn slowly away, so as not to alarm Parsifal by any sudden movements, and leave. The second is the choice that most make.
If they do stay, however, sooner or later Parsifal will add that one of the other benefits of being a fountain pen user is that not only does a person have a greater variety of tips to choose from in terms of line width, but he or she also has a choice between round-tipped, oblique (as with Misty’s Waterman), and stub, a nib that is exactly like it sounds, cut off at the end to make a sort of spade, a satisfying nib to write with for the workmanlike slap it makes against the page, even though it may well be less agile than the traditional rounded tip. “Nibs,” he is sure to add at this point in the conversation, “also vary from flexible, meaning those that produce a greater line variation, to firm or stiff. In addition, you can find them in steel, gold, and titanium — even glass — although, the most popular is gold.”
This isn’t word for word what Parsifal will answer each and every time, but it’s fairly close.
A pit to catch an animal. A deer, for example.
“In my experience,” Parsifal tells those who ask, “there are two kinds of people: those who enjoy complications and subtlety, and those who do not. If you are not the sort of person who enjoys complications and subtlety, then a fountain pen is not for you.”
A pit.
His own.
A life in ruins, he thinks.
X
when you think of fire,” Joe asked Parsifal one day, “what comes into your mind?” “Warmth,” Parsifal said. “Light. Small birds roasting on a spit. Flame. Burning logs (does that count?). Orange. Screams. Red. Ouch. Mother. Why do you want to know?”
Joe lifted a paperweight from his desk, tossed it into the air, and caught it several times. It was nothing more than a black stone — a piece of lava or something — but the therapist seemed to find it comforting because he kept on playing with it.
Then Joe picked up his yellow legal pad and wrote something down. He got up. “Excuse me,” he said, “I need to use the bathroom.”