"The food hasn't come!"
"Eat mine. Here. This'll cover it."
"You're a strange boy, Walker. Going home to write? Don't forget my cut."
Out on the street there were no taxis. I stood there feeling as though I was going to piss in my pants. When I couldn't stand it anymore, I went looking for a phone booth. There was one a couple of blocks down. I called Maris's room at the hospital. She was eating lunch. She felt fine. Said the food there was so good she was sure she'd put on weight. That did nothing to stop my worrying.
Hearing her voice cooled some of the fire in my stomach, but I knew it was only temporary. Would he hurt her? Was that what he meant by "losing his patience"? Look at what he'd done to Lillis Benedikt. Did he get madder and more vengeful every life I lived?
I had to move, go somewhere. Stepping out of the phone booth, I looked around and saw the Sudbahnhof standing gray and wet in the mist. I'd go over there and take a train somewhere. To Rax and look at the mountains. Yes, an hour train ride where I could sit, look out the window, and think about this newest nightmare.
The traffic was heavy, and it took time to cross it and reach the building. Inside, hundreds of people in various stages of their trips bustled by. Two American kids with pastel knapsacks and Mount Everest hiking boots ran for the two o'clock train to Villach. A group of old men with thin rubber briefcases conferred under the arrival/departure board. Turkish and Yugoslavian families with many cheap suitcases and boxes wrapped with heavy cord sat disconsolately on them waiting for their train south.
There was no train to Rax, so I decided to take the two o'clock, get off at Wiener Neustadt, and walk around there a while. Good, let's go. I ran up the stairs behind the knapsack kids, enjoying their excited, familiar-sounding voices.
"We'll stay in Villach overnight then catch the morning train to Trieste."
"What's in Villach?"
"I don't know. Mountains. Come on."
Ambling down the stairs toward us was a crowd of football rowdies dressed in the violet and white colors of the Austria Memphis soccer team. There was quite a bunch of them and they all looked drunk.
"Hey, Phyllis, I want a hat like that. Think I can find one in Villach?" The American boy was middle-sized but weighted down by the sack he was carrying.
"Amerika! Hey, fucking Amerika!"
"Don't say anything. Just walk by them."
The kids looked at me, surprised to hear their own language.
"What'd you say?"
"Ignore these guys. Don't say anything to them."
It was too late. The giant of the group, who looked like a young Hermann Goering, moved over to block our way. His friends smiled and looked at each other knowingly.
"Hey, Amis! I speak English. Talk to me."
"Buzz off, Bozo."
The giant looked at the girl and leered. "Boat-zo? Was Boat-zo?"
"Just get out of our way."
He exaggeratedly sidestepped, but when the girl moved by him he grabbed her arm. Pulling her close, he licked her face.
Her friend, gallant and stupid, moved up. "Cut it out, man."
The rowdy gave him a hard fast push and the kid fell flailing backward down the stairs.
While he was laughing, I took two steps up and stuck my fingers in the fat guy's eyes. He screamed. Letting go of the girl, he slapped his hands to his face.
"I'm blind!"
Shocked at what had happened, his gang stood where they were an instant, then came for me.
With no thought at all, none, I curled my hand into a fist with the fingers covering the thumb. Then I put it instinctively to my chin. All of the men were wearing long violet and white scarves. As one, the scarves blew up into their faces and already burning, began melting onto their skin.
Screams, black smoke, the smell of cooking meat.
I don't know what I did.
The American boy was standing again.
"Go! Run!"
They went one way, I the other: back toward Vienna, Maris, my father.
At the entrance to the station, I stood a moment to catch up with myself.
A taxi pulled in a slow circle until it was in front of me. It was so close that I had to look. Papa was driving.
"Out of breath? Not you, boy. I told you you still had your magic."
He pulled away with a screech. I ran after him but the closer I got, the faster the taxi moved. As he drove into traffic, he stuck his head out the window.
"Tell me my name, Walter!"
Orlando leaped into my lap when I got home. I put a hand on his head and stroked his warm fur. He purred. Not looking at him, I made my other hand into a fist, covering the thumb. Putting it to my chin, I tried to remember everything that had gone through my head. I felt the cat's soft paw batting at my arm. Looking down, I saw that his eyes had returned. He could see again.
3.
Dear Maris and Walker,
I'll assume you heard about our earthquake. I once went through a few horrid seconds of one in Peru, but nothing compared to this baby. Strayhorn and I were at the Taco Bell near Beverly Center when it hit. At first I thought it was only my tostada going down the wrong way, but when the walls cracked and the front window blew out I knew we were in for it.
What do you think about when you're watching your own death? Phil kept saying "This isn't a movie! This is not a movie!" Good old Strayhorn. I froze but he pulled me out of there in time. We stood in the parking lot feeling the ground do the hula under our feet. We looked at each other. What the hell else can you do?
To make a sad story short, both of our houses slid into the canyon and along with them everything important we owned. So what? We're still alive while too many people out here aren't. Too many friends disappeared and haven't shown up yet. We're assuming the worst, Goddamn it.
God. That's one funny creature, isn't He? Especially when you see all this suffering and loss. Did I tell you that I used to be a regular church-goer? I was.
Naturally things have changed. My perspective is very different. Being a famous movie mogul looks absurd in this context. So no matter what happens, I have decided that when I can square away what's left here, I'm going to flee this ruin (parts of it are that bad) and travel. Appropriately enough, our studio withstood the quake. Most of the studios did. Ain't it perfect for Hollywood? That means I'm obligated to finish Wonderful, but that shouldn't take long.
After it's done I'm taking the salary they gave me and travel on it. Strayhorn says I should buy a new house, but I don't want to be around here now. Maybe not ever again. We'll see. All this verbal diarrhea is only to say that sooner or later I'd like to come through Vienna and see you, if that's okay. I'm starting out in New York so I can catch up on news with my friend Cullen James (remember her, Maris? Your lookalike?), then on to Europe. I don't know what the schedule is precisely, but I'll keep you posted. I want to keep a clean dance card in terms of obligations to either clock or calendar.
Why this letter? Because I realized after all the trouble here that I liked you both very much. When you see the shine on the reaper's blade up close, you realize it's important to be with people who make you feel good to be alive. Both of you did that for me and I'm grateful. I hope a little of it is mutual. I'll be in touch. Don't leave Vienna!
My love,
Weber
Dear Maris and Walker,
With you in the hospital and me out of luck here in broken L.A., it seems that we younger Yorks could use a good dose of luck right now. As I told you over the phone, I'm physically okay, but not mentally.
Glenn's death burned a hole through the middle of everything I am. I pray you never have to experience what it's like to watch someone you love die. No matter how brave or strong you think you are, their loss puts a layer of ash over everything that once mattered. His clothes, his motorcycle that made too much noise, his half-finished pack of cigarettes in the rubble call my name and there's no way of covering my ears. You know me – I used to be too distant and amused by life to let it sink its teeth into much of me, but I realize now that Glenn's being allowed me that distance. He compensated for it with his total involvement in everything we knew together. I miss his banging in the door and up the stairs to tell me about the bag lady on Hollywood Boulevard who gave him a chocolate-chip cookie. Best of all, he wouldn't go on about how sweet it was of her to do that. Only how great the cookie tasted on a hot afternoon.