After the First Death Page 2

  I also knew the nature of his profession but not its details. Psychological stuff, behavior intervention, whatever that means. I ran across an old university journal in which he wrote out his theories and although the stuff was mostly double-talk to me, I noted the introduction in which he was described as a pioneer in his field, worthy perhaps of a Nobel Prize someday. To complete the portrait: my father was a professor at New England University in Boston before he accepted the commission and took my mother and me to Fort Delta when I was, like, three years old.

  Anyway. I sat in the office and my father began to address me. Not talk to me but address me. As if I were not his son but a stranger who had suddenly become important to him. I hadn’t connected my visit to the office with the bridge and the hostages until he began to talk. As he talked, I felt a drop of perspiration roll down from my armpit like a small cold marble. But at the same time I was happy and excited. Scared, too, of course, but somehow happy, knowing that I was suddenly a part of the secret life of my father.

  No more room on this particular postcard.

  Call it amnesia.

  Emotional amnesia, maybe.

  Or whatever the hell you wish.

  Who the hell are you anyway, out there looking over my shoulder as I write this?

  I feel you there, watching, waiting to get in.

  Or is anybody there?

  I once read the shortest horror story in the world. I don’t know who wrote it.

  It went something like this:

  The last person on earth sat in a room.

  There came a knock at the door.

  Who will knock at my door?

  When he arrives, will my father be wearing his uniform? Check One: Yes ____ No ____ Unsure ____

  Will I be able to look him in the eye? Check One: Yes ____ No ____ Unsure ____

  Will he be able to look me in the eye? Check One: No ____ No ____ No ____

  Maybe I should make another and final trip to Brimmler’s Bridge before he arrives.

  And take that sweet plummet into nothingness as the wind whistles through the tunnel in my chest and the hole in my heart.

  part

  2

  Miro’s assignment was to kill the driver.

  Without hesitation. As soon as the bus arrived at the bridge. Everyone must know without any delay that the takeover of the bus was critical, and that sudden death was fact not probability. When Miro was handed the revolver by Artkin, it felt heavy in his hand, although he had used the small automatic weapon countless times in target practice. But always a cardboard target. Now the target would be a human being. Miro swallowed with difficulty as he squeezed the barrel of the gun. The smell of the weapon, that peculiar slippery smell of oil, agitated his nostrils. He almost sneezed.

  “You’re pale,” Artkin taunted.

  Which Miro expected. Artkin had always taunted him, and Miro had learned to absorb the taunts without comment. Perhaps he would not have been able to answer, anyway. His throat was tight, constricted. He was afraid that if he tried to talk he would not be able to gather enough saliva and would somehow choke.

  “You’ll be all right,” Artkin assured him, his voice suddenly kind. That was Artkin—abrasive one moment, gentle the next. He had also killed three people in Miro’s presence in the past two years, each of them in cold blood. And now it was Miro’s turn to follow Artkin’s example.

  Artkin smiled. But now contempt edged the smile. “After all, you are sixteen.”

  Miro tried not to show his anger. He tightened his lips, kept his cheeks taut. He was furious that Artkin should think that killing someone—who? a bus driver? a nothing?—should bother him. Or perhaps Artkin was taunting him again to keep him keen, on edge, sharp. Either way, Miro was angry. He was not a child anymore. And inflicting death did not bother him. Neither did the contemplation of the act. He had been waiting for four, almost five years now. How else could he justify his existence, make his life meaningful before it was taken from him? His brother, Aniel, had died too soon, before making his mark, before fulfilling his promise. No, Miro was not apprehensive about the delivery of death; he worried only that he would not do a professional job.

  “Let us review the plan,” Artkin said, formal and precise, but the sneer always close to his lips. Like Elvis Presley when he sang certain songs. Miro allowed his eyelids to half close now, not really listening to Artkin rehearse the plan yet again. Miro had learned the trick of humming silently, running a song through his mind, and he did this now, an old Presley song without the sneer in it, “Love Me Tender,” not like some of Presley’s more raucous songs. Artkin did not like distractions, particularly when he was outlining plans. He liked to review plans the way other people like to play cards. And he did not approve of foolishness like Miro’s fondness for Presley’s music or other American diversions: those television cartoons, for instance, that Miro lost himself in every Saturday morning if a television set was at hand. Miro continued to hum soundlessly as he listened to Artkin review the plan. Overtaking the bus, driving to the bridge, killing the driver, waiting for the first message to be delivered. Suddenly, Miro thought: What is the driver doing this minute? Did he have any premonition of his death? Did he know that tomorrow at this time he would be mute, silent, still forever?

  Silence fell in the small room as Artkin completed his recitation. Miro looked out at the sleepy street below. Main Street. Hallowell, Massachusetts. United States of America. So far from his homeland. But we have no homeland, Artkin always said, and this was true. Still, Miro was gripped by a clutch of lonesomeness that was so intense his stomach lurched and he turned from the window. He wished this small cramped room that smelled of urine and grease and gun oil contained at least a television set. For diversion at moments like this, sudden moments when homesickness came without warning.

  “We are forever homesick,” Artkin had once said in a rare moment of tenderness, “because our land does not exist anymore, gobbled up and occupied by others.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Miro.”

  “No, your real name.”

  “Miro Shantas.”

  “No, not this name, not this fake name you have taken. But your real one.”

  “I have not taken a fake name. My name is Miro Shantas.”

  “Look, this is not an exercise. I am not testing you. I wish for you to say your real name.”

  Miro slitted his eyes, studying Artkin, trying to determine if Artkin were really serious about his name or whether he was playing some kind of game. He had to admit that Artkin’s face was dark and intense, his eyes brooding; there was nothing playful in his attitude. Miro looked away, toward the jukebox where someone was studying the selections. The restaurant was small; barely a restaurant, more like a quick-lunch diner, a place for truck drivers, transients. Like us, Artkin said. We never stay, and where we linger even for a moment, we must never rest or let down.

  Miro’s coffee was cold as he sipped it. He wished the fellow at the jukebox would slip in the coin and start the music. Something by the Bee Gees, maybe. Or Elvis.

  “So,” Artkin said, patient, waiting, the most patient man in the world. “Tell me your real name.”

  Miro decided to make his own test, play his own game, for once.

  “But you know my real name,” Miro said.

  “If I knew it, would I ask you to say it?” Artkin said.

  “Yes,” Miro said.

  “And why would I ask you something that I already know?”

  “Because you are Artkin and anything is possible with you.”

  Artkin did not really smile, but the angles of his face altered. Something danced in his eyes, not anything resembling laughter but a lightness. He wondered how old Artkin was. Thirty? Forty? It was impossible to tell. Sometimes in the early morning, before dawn, waiting in a car somewhere—like that time in Philadelphia when they could not return to the room because of the police—Artkin’s flesh would look pale and gray, his eyes like burned-out lamps. H
e would look one hundred years old, a thousand. Other times, outlining one of his plans or waiting for that moment when action would begin, he seemed youthful, ageless, eyes lit up by an inner source. But these moments came and went swiftly. Most of the time, he was Artkin: emotionless, a machine capable of sudden startling deeds. Now, the light still danced in his eyes, and Miro realized that Artkin was enjoying himself. A rare moment.

  “If you know me so well, then you must know that when I ask your real name, I expect you to tell me,” Artkin said. His hands were on the table—and what remained of his fingers. The middle fingers of his left hand were stubs of varying lengths, the result of a bomb that had detonated too soon. “It’s good you are right-handed,” Miro had said once, watching Artkin deftly manipulating a knife with his right hand. Artkin had replied: “I was left-handed.”

  My real name, Miro thought now. He had not thought of his real name for such a long time that he had to dig back into his memory for it. Do not simply forget your name but bury it, the instructor had said. Bury it so that it never betrays you. Choose a name that is unlike your own or even the place of your origin. You must carry nothing with you that may betray you and that includes your name most of all.

  Miro wondered: What is Artkin’s real name?

  The waitress approached, a thin girl of eighteen or so with a terrible complexion, her face like the surface of the moon.

  “Anything else?” she asked, pencil poised to total their check.

  “That will be all, Myra,” Artkin said.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I said, ‘That will be all, Myra.’ ”

  “My name’s not Myra,” the girl said.

  Artkin smiled at her. “Of course it isn’t,” he said. But his voice suggested the opposite, his voice and his smile. They hinted wickedly of deep secrets.

  “Well, it isn’t,” she said. “My name’s Bonnie. And not a nickname either. I was baptized Bonnie although the priest didn’t like it because there’s no Saint Bonnie.”

  “Please give us the check, Myra,” Artkin said, voice cold now, uninterested.

  “I said my name’s not Myra,” she muttered as she totaled up the bill.

  “Myra’s a nice name. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Artkin said.

  Her face reddened, accentuating the acne, the pimples and small scabs. Artkin could do that to people, intimidate them, draw them into conversations they did not want to be drawn into, force them into confrontations.

  “Think about it, Myra. How old were you when you were baptized? Two weeks, two months? Do you remember being baptized with the name Bonnie? Of course not. It’s what people have told you. Have you ever seen your birth certificate? Not the thing they give you when you go to City Hall for a copy, but the original? The one that says your name is Myra. You’ve never seen it, have you? But that doesn’t mean it does not exist. You have never seen me before but I exist. I have existed all this time. I might have been there when you were baptized. Myra.”

  She stood there for a moment, the check in her hand, hesitant, doubtful, her eyes wary, and Miro knew that this was what Artkin had worked to do: create this split second of doubt and hesitation. He knew that he had reached his mark, drawn blood. Then the moment vanished. The girl flung the check on the table.

  “You’re nuts,” she said, and turned away, shaking her head at all the strange people loose in the world.

  Artkin looked at Miro. He smiled. As much of a smile as he ever allowed himself.

  Miro leaned across the table toward him and almost upset his cup and saucer.

  “My name,” he said, slowly and distinctly, “is Miro. Miro Shantas. My real and only name.”

  Music burst from the jukebox, a song Miro didn’t recognize but it was loud and upbeat, disco, the kind of music Artkin despised.

  Again Artkin’s face altered, and this time there was almost admiration in his eyes. “I salute you, Miro Shantas,” he said.

  Artkin seldom gave praise. Miro felt a flush of warmth as he basked in that praise, content suddenly. He let himself be carried by the music.

  The next morning, they waited in the brown and beige van at the intersection of Water Street and Vinton Avenue. The bus was late, but this did not disturb Artkin or Miro or the others. Artkin had studied the situation for weeks. He knew the bus schedule was erratic, depending on how long the bus had to wait at the home of each child. There was no central gathering point for the children; they were picked up individually at their homes. Some streaked out to the bus, others dallied. They were young: all under six, babies, really. The bus took them to a day camp near a placid pond in Hallowell, where they frolicked and swam and did all the things children did, until late in the afternoon. There were sixteen children. Artkin said he was prepared to kill at least two of them. Perhaps more, depending.

  Miro stood at the back of the van, watching the morning activity on Water Street. There was not much activity. A boy rode by on a bicycle trying to balance a fishing line across the handlebars. A dog sniffed at some bushes and then lifted his leg and urinated. Miro did not know what kind of dog or what kind of bushes. He watched the dog go off. He considered all the things he did not know, how his schooling had been intense and narrow, with no diversions, no time to identify flowers and bushes. Besides, the bushes and trees and other growths in his homeland—ah, but he had no homeland—were different. Just as the people were different. And the food. In the matter of food, Miro felt himself a traitor; he was enchanted by American food, hamburgers and hot dogs and potato chips. He watched the television commercials for McDonald’s and Burger King and others with pleasure. He told no one about these small pleasures. Anyway, who was there to tell?

  Miro glanced at his watch: almost nine. They were waiting for the orange bus to pull up and then for a blond, plump child to dash from the house to the bus. The last child. Miro was impatient. He wanted to act. He thought how long he had waited for this moment, the long rehearsal that had been his entire life about to be over.

  Artkin said: “They are always late. With children, you must play it loose and be patient.”

  No one commented. Artkin was in the passenger seat; actually there were no seats, they had been removed to provide room for the four of them plus the equipment. Stroll, the black, was in the driver’s position, hands loose on the steering wheel. He drove a car or any vehicle as if he were conducting a symphony. Miro had seen him careen through the streets of Brooklyn after the post office explosion as if he were on holiday, without a care in the world. He was usually silent and sullen and came alive only when there was driving to be done. The other man was Antibbe, heavy, middle-aged, at least forty. His grimace could be like thunder rumbling, his frown an earthquake. He lumbered through life like a freight car on the loose, shouldering his way through exits and entrances. He seldom spoke and when he did, his words came out in hoarse grunts.

  Miro felt for the warmth of the weapon against his chest, inside the jacket. The morning was hot: late August, although Miro was frequently confused about the seasons; too many of them in one brief year, not like his homeland. Looking out the rear window, he saw a young girl walking on the sidewalk, her arms swinging at her sides, black hair sparkling, her full white blouse bright in the sun. American girls: he could not become accustomed to their blunt sexuality, the clinging jeans, the tight sweaters, the frankness of their faces holding few secrets. In his homeland, sexuality was implied, hinted at, not exactly concealed but delicately veiled. He had been in the United States for almost three years and was still both fascinated and repelled by so much of what he saw. So much that was brazen, hectic, loud, raw, and coarse. But then suddenly tender. Like Presley’s music. He wished Artkin allowed him to take his transistor on operations.

  Miro watched the girl coming nearer, nearer, involved in her own affairs, late for works perhaps, her blouse moving pleasantly in the sunshine, not knowing the effect her body had on people. A year ago, Artkin, noticing Miro’s discomfort in the presence o
f females, said: “I will obtain one for you.” Miro had replied angrily: “Don’t bother.” He did not want Artkin or anyone procuring a female for him. He was not like those people who gathered in theaters where girls and women danced without clothes. He hated Times Square in New York City, where everything was cheap and loud. He could wait. But, wait for what? The law of averages would settle the question; he knew that he would be dead before he reached twenty or twenty-one. His brother had died at seventeen, in the Detroit confrontation.

  The girl passed by, went out of his sight, and Miro resisted touching himself. He turned red-faced from the window and touched his gun in consolation.

  “The bus comes,” Artkin said.

  Miro heard the slow screech of brakes as the bus stopped farther up the street. He craned his neck to look through the windshield and saw the orange vehicle a hundred yards away. He glanced at his watch. They would overtake the bus in seven minutes on a deserted stretch of road outside the town. In another twenty minutes, they would be at the bridge. Fifteen and seven were twenty-two. Allow three minutes for unexpected events. (Always allow, Artkin said repeatedly.) So, within twenty-five minutes, I will have killed my first man. A man will have died because of me.