Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour
PALADIN OF THE LOST HOUR
by HARLAN ELLISON
"Paladin of the Lost Hour" copyright 1985, 1986 by the KilimanjaroCorporation.
THIS WAS AN OLD MAN. Not an incredibly old man; obsolete, spavined;
not as worn as thesway-backed stone steps ascending the Pyramid of the
Sun to an ancient temple; not yet arelic. But even so, a very old man,
this old man perched on an antique shooting stick, itshandles open to form
a seat, its spike thrust at an angle into the soft ground and trimmedgrass
of the cemetery. Gray, thin rain misted down at almost the same, angle
as that atwhich the spike pierced the ground. The winter-barren trees lay
flat and black against analuminum sky, unmoving in the chill wind. An old
man sitting at the foot of a grave moundwhose headstone had tilted slightly
when the earth had settled; sitting in the rain andspeaking to someone
below.
"They tore it down, Minna.
"I tell you, they must have bought off a councilman.
"Came in with bulldozers at six o'clock in the morning, and you know
that's notlegal. There's a Municipal Code. Supposed to hold off till at
least seven on weekdays,eight on the weekend; but there they were at six,
even
before six, barely lightfor godsakes. Thought they'd sneak
in and do it before the neighborhood got wind of it andcall the landmarks
committee. Sneaks: they come on
holidays, can you imagine!
"But I was out there waiting for them, and I told them, 'You can't do
it, that'sCode number
91.03002, subsection
E,' and they lied and saidthey had special permission, so I said to the
big muckymuck in charge, 'Let's see yourwaiver permit,'and he said the
Code didn't apply in this case because it was supposed tobe only for grading,
and since they were demolishing and not grading, they could startwhenever
they felt like it. So I told him I'd call the police, then, because it
came underthe heading of Disturbing the Peace, and he said . . . well,
I know you hate that kind oflanguage, old girl, so I won't tell you what
he said, but you can imagine.
"So I called the police, and gave them my name, and of course they didn't
getthere till almost quarter after seven (which is what makes me think
they bought off acouncilman), and by then those 'dozers had leveled most
of it. Doesn't take long, you knowthat.
"And I don't suppose it's as great a loss as, maybe, say, the Great
Library ofAlexandria, but it was the last of the authentic Deco design
drive-ins, and the carhopsstill served you on roller skates, and it was
a landmark, and just about the only placeleft in the city where you could
still get a decent grilled cheese sandwich pressed veryflat on the grill
by one of those weights they used to use, made with real cheese and notthat
rancid plastic they cut into squares and call it 'cheese food.'
"Gone, old dear, gone and mourned. And I understand they plan to put
up anotherone of those mini-malls on the site, just ten blocks away from
one that's already there,and you know what's going to happen: this new
one will drain off the traffic from theolder one, and then that one will
fall the way they all do when the next one gets built,you'd think they'd
see some history in it; but no, they never learn, And you should haveseen
the crowd by seven-thirty. All ages, even some of those kids painted like
aborigines,with torn leather clothing. Even they came to protest. Terrible
language, but at leastthey were concerned. And nothing could stop it. They
just whammed it, and down it went.
"I do so miss you today, Minna. No more good grilled cheese." Said the
veryold
man to the ground. And now he was crying softly, and now the wind rose,
and the mistrain stippled his overcoat.
Nearby, yet at a distance, Billy Kinetta stared down at another grave.
He could see theold man over there off to his left, but he took no further
notice. The wind whipped thevent of his trenchcoat. His collar was up but
rain trickled down his neck. This was ayounger man, not yet thirty-five.
Unlike the old man, Billy Kinetta neither cried norspoke to memories of
someone who had once listened. He might have been a geomancer, sosilently
did he stand, eyes toward the ground.
One of these men was black; the other was white.
# # # #
Beyond the high, spiked-iron fence surrounding the cemetery two boys
crouched, staringthrough the bars, through the rain; at the men absorbed
by grave matters, by matters ofgraves. These were not really boys. They
were legally young men. One was nineteen, theother two months beyond twenty.
Both were legally old enough to vote, to drink alcoholicbeverages, to drive
a car. Neither would reach the age of Billy Kinetta.
One of them said, "Let's take the old man."
The other responded, "You think the guy in the trenchcoat'll get in
the way?"
The first one smiled; and a mean little laugh. "I sure as shit hope
so." Hewore, on his right hand, a leather carnaby glove with the fingers
cut off, small roundmetal studs in a pattern along the line of his knuckles.
He made a fist, flexed, did itagain.
They went under the spiked fence at a point where erosion had created
a shallow gully."Sonofabitch!" one of them said, as he slid through on
his stomach. It wasmuddy. The front of his sateen roadie jacket was filthy.
"Sonofabitch!" He wasspeaking in general of the fence, the sliding under,
the muddy ground, the universe intotal. And the old man, who would now
really
get the crap kicked out of him formaking this fine sateen roadie jacket
filthy.
They sneaked up on him from the left, as far from the young guy in the
trenchcoat asthey could. The first one kicked out the shooting stick with
a short, sharp, downwardmovement he had learned in his tae kwon do class.
It was called the
yup-chagi.The old man went over backward.
Then they were on him, the one with the filthy sonofabitch sateen roadie
jacketpunching at the old man's neck and the side of his face as he dragged
him around by thecollar of the overcoat. The other one began ransacking
the coat pockets, ripping thefabric to get his hand inside.
The old man commenced to scream. "Protect me! You've got to protect
me . . .it'snecessary to protect me!"
The one pillaging pockets froze momentarily. What the hell kind of thing
is that forthis old fucker to be saying? Who the hell does he think'll
protect him? Is he asking
usto protect him? I'll protect you, scumbag!
I'll kick in your fuckin' lung! "Shut'imup!" he whispered urgently to his
friend. "Stick a fist in his mouth!" Thenhis hand, wedged in an inside
jacket pocket, closed over something. He tried to get hishand loose, but
the jacket and coat and the old man's body had wound around his wrist."C'mon
loose, motherfuckah!" he said to the very old man, who was stillscreaming
for protection. The other young man was making huffing sounds, as dark
as mud,as he slapped at the rain-soaked hair of his victim. "I can't .
. . he's all twisted'round . . . getcher hand outta there so's I can .
. . " Screaming, the old man haddoubled under, locking their hands on his
person.
And then the pillager's fist came loose, and he was clutching for an
instant a gorgeouspocket watch.
What used to be called a turnip watch.
The dial face was
cloisonné, exquisite beyond the telling.
The case was of silver, so bright it seemed blue.
The hands, cast as arrows of time, were gold. They formed a shallow
V at preciselyeleven o'clock. This was happening at 3:45 in the afternoon,
with rain and wind.
The timepiece made no sound, no sound at all.
Then: there was space all around the watch, and in that space in the
palm of the hand,there was heat. Intense heat for just a moment, just long
enough for the hand to open.
The watch glided out of the boy's palm and levitated.
"Help me! You
must protect me!"
Billy Kinetta heard the shrieking, but did not see the pocket watch
floating in the airabove the astonished young man. It was silver, and it
was end-on toward him, and the rainwas silver and slanting; and he did
not see the watch hanging free in the air, even whenthe furious young man
disentangled himself and leaped for it. Billy did not see the watchrise
just so much, out of reach of the mugger.
Billy Kinetta saw two boys, two young men of ratpack age, beating someone
much older;and he went for them. Pow, like that!
Thrashing his legs, the old man twisted around -- over, under -- as
the boy holding himby the collar tried to land a punch to put him away.
Who would have thought the old man tohave had so much battle in him?
A flapping shape, screaming something unintelligible, hit the center
of the group atfull speed. The carnaby-gloved hand reaching for the watch
grasped at empty air onemoment, and the next was buried under its owner
as the boy was struck a crackback blockthat threw him face first into the
soggy ground. He tried to rise, but something stompedhim at the base of
his spine; something kicked him twice in the kidneys; something rolledover
him like a flash flood.
Twisting, twisting, the very old man put his thumb in the right eye
of the boyclutching his collar.
The great trenchcoated maelstrom that was Billy Kinetta whirled into
the boy as he letloose of the old man on the ground and, howling, slapped
a palm against his stinging eye.Billy locked his fingers and delivered
a roundhouse wallop that sent the boy reelingbackward to fall over Minna's
tilted headstone.
Billy's back was to the old man. He did not see the miraculous pocket
watch smoothlydescend through rain that did not touch it, to hover in front
of the old man. He did notsee the old man reach up, did not see the timepiece
snuggle into an arthritic hand, didnot see the old man return the turnip
to an inside jacket pocket.
Wind, rain and Billy Kinetta pummeled two young men of a legal age that
made themaccountable for their actions. There was no thought of the knife
stuck down in one boot,no chance to reach it, no moment when the wild thing
let them rise. So they crawled. Theyscrabbled across the muddy ground,
the slippery grass, over graves and out of his reach.They ran; falling,
rising, falling again; away, without looking back.
Billy Kinetta, breathing heavily, knees trembling, turned to help the
old man to hisfeet; and found him standing, brushing dirt from his overcoat,
snorting in anger andmumbling to himself.
"Are you all right?"
For a moment the old man's recitation of annoyance continued, then he
snapped his chindown sharply as if marking end to the situation, and looked
at his cavalry to the rescue."That was very good, young fella. Considerable
style you've got there."
Billy Kinetta stared at him wide-eyed. "Are you sure you're okay?" He
reachedover and flicked several blades of wet grass from the shoulder of
the old man's overcoat.
"I'm fine. I'm fine but I'm wet and I'm cranky. Let's go somewhere and
have a nicecup of Earl Grey."
There had been a look on Billy Kinetta's face as he stood with lowered
eyes, staring atthe grave he had come to visit. The emergency had removed
that look. Now it returned.
"No, thanks. If you're okay, I've got to do some things."
The old man felt himself all over, meticulously, as he replied, "I'm
onlysuperficially bruised. Now if I were an old woman, instead of a spunky
old man, same agethough, I'd have lost considerable of the calcium in my
bones, and those two would havedone me some mischief. Did you know that
women lose a considerable part of their calciumwhen they reach my age?
I read a report." Then he paused, and said shyly, "Comeon, why don't you
and I sit and chew the fat over a nice cup of tea?"
Billy shook his head with bemusement, smiling despite himself. "You're
somethingelse, Dad. I don't even know you."
"I like that."
"What: that I don't know you?"
"No, that you called me 'Dad' and not 'Pop.' I
hate 'Pop.' Always
makesme think the wise-apple wants to snap off my cap with a bottle opener.
Now
Dadhas a ring of respect to it. I like that right down
to the ground. Yes, I believe weshould find someplace warm and quiet to
sit and get to know each other. After all, yousaved my life. And you know
what that means in the Orient."
Billy was smiling continuously now. "In the first place, I doubt very
much I savedyour life. Your wallet, maybe. And in the second place, I don't
even know your name; whatwould we have to talk about?"
"Gaspar," he said, extending his hand. "That's a first name. Gaspar.Know
what it means?"
Billy shook his head.
"See, already we have something to talk about."
So Billy, still smiling, began walking Gaspar out of the cemetery. "Where
do youlive? I'll take you home."
They were on the street, approaching Billy Kinetta's 1979 Cutlass. "Where
I liveis too far for now. I'm beginning to feel a bit peaky. I'd like to
lie down for a minute.We can just go on over to your place, if that doesn't
bother you. For a few minutes. A cupof tea. Is that all right?"
He was standing beside the Cutlass, looking at Billy with an old man's
expectant smile,waiting for him to unlock the door and hold it for him
till he'd placed hisstill-calcium-rich but nonetheless old bones in the
passenger seat. Billy stared at him,trying to figure out what was at risk
if he unlocked that door. Then he snorted a tinylaugh, unlocked the door,
held it for Gaspar as he seated himself, slammed it and wentaround to unlock
the other side and get in. Gaspar reached across and thumbed up the doorlock
knob. And they drove off together in the rain.
Through all of this the timepiece made no sound, no sound at all.
# # # #
Like Gaspar, Billy Kinetta was alone in the world.
His three-room apartment was the vacuum in which he existed. It was
furnished, but ifone stepped out into the hallway and, for all the money
in all the numbered accounts inall the banks in Switzerland, one was asked
to describe those furnishings, one would comeaway no richer than before.
The apartment was charisma poor. It was a place to come whenall other possibilities
had been expended. Nothing green, nothing alive, existed in thoseboxes.
No eyes looked back from the walls. Neither warmth nor chill marked those
spaces.It was a place to wait.
Gaspar leaned his closed shooting stick, now a walking stick with handles,
against thebookcase. He studied the titles of the paperbacks stacked haphazardly
on the shelves.
From the kitchenette came the sound of water running into a metal pan.
Then tin on castiron. Then the hiss of gas and the flaring of a match as
it was struck; and the pop of thegas being lit.
"Many years ago," Gaspar said, taking out a copy of Moravia's
TheAdolescents
and thumbing it as he spoke, "I had a library of books, oh,thousands of
books -- never could bear to toss one out, not even the bad ones -- and
whenfolks would come to the house to visit they'd look around at all the
nooks and cranniesstuffed with books; and if they were the sort of folks
who don't snuggle with books,they'd always ask the same dumb question."
He waited a moment for a response and whennone was forthcoming (the sound
of china cups on sink tile), he said, "Guess what thequestion was."
From the kitchen, without much interest: "No idea."
"They'd always ask it with the kind of voice people use in the presence
of largesculptures in museums. They'd ask me, 'Have you read all these
books?'" He waitedagain, but Billy Kinetta was not playing the game. "Well,
young fella, after a whilethe same dumb question gets asked a million times,
you get sorta snappish about it. And itcame to annoy me more than a little
bit. Till I finally figured out the right answer.
"And you know what that answer was? Go ahead, take a guess." Billy appearedin
the kitchenette doorway.
"I suppose you told them you'd read a lot of them but not all of them."
Gaspar waved the guess away with a flapping hand. "Now what good would
that havedone? They wouldn't know they'd asked a dumb question, but I didn't
want to insult them,either. So when they'd ask if I'd read all those books,
I'd say, 'Hell, no. Who wants alibrary full of books you've already read?'"
Billy laughed despite himself. He scratched at his hair with idle pleasure,
and shookhis head at the old man's verve. "Gaspar, you are a wild old man.
You retired?"The old man walked carefully to the most comfortable chair
in the room, an overstuffedThirties-style lounger that had been reupholstered
many times before Billy Kinetta hadpurchased it at the American Cancer
Society Thrift Shop. He sank into it with a sigh."No sir, I am not by any
means retired. Still very active."
"Doing what, if I'm not prying?"
"Doing ombudsman."
"You mean, like a consumer advocate? Like Ralph Nader?"
"Exactly. I watch out for things. I listen, I pay some attention; and
if I do itright, sometimes I can even make a little difference. Yes, like
Mr. Nader. A very fineman."
"And you were at the cemetery to see a relative?"
Gaspar's face settled into an expression of loss. "My dear old girl.
My wife,Minna. She's been gone, well, it was twenty years in January. "
He sat silentlystaring inward for a while, then: "She was everything to
me. The nice part was that Iknew how important we were to each other; we
discussed, well, just
everything. Imiss that the most, telling her
what's going on.
"I go to see her every other day.
"I used to go every day. But. It. Hurt. Too much."
They had tea. Gaspar sipped and said it was very nice, but had Billy
ever tried EarlGrey? Billy said he didn't know what that was, and Gaspar
said he would bring him a tin,that it was splendid. And they chatted. Finally,
Gaspar asked, "And who were youvisiting?"
Billy pressed his lips together. "Just a friend." And would say no more.
Thenhe sighed and said, "Well, listen, I have to go to work.
"Oh? What do you do?"
The answer came slowly. As if Billy Kinetta wanted to be able to say
that he was incomputers, or owned his own business, or held a position
of import. "I'm nightmanager at a 7-Eleven."
"I'll bet you meet some fascinating people coming in late for milk or
one of thoseslushies," Gaspar said gently. He seemed to understand.
Billy smiled. He took the kindness as it was intended. "Yeah, the cream
of highsociety, That is, when they're not threatening to shoot me through
the head if I don'topen the safe."
"Let me ask you a favor," Gaspar said. "I'd like a little sanctuary,
ifyou think it's all right. just a little rest. I could lie down on the
sofa for a bit.Would that be all right? You trust me to stay here while
you're gone, young fella?"
Billy hesitated only a moment. The very old man seemed okay, not a crazy,
certainly nota thief. And what was there to steal? Some tea that wasn't
even Earl Grey?
"Sure. That'll be okay. But I won't be coming back till two A.M. So
just close thedoor behind you when you go; it'll lock automatically. "
They shook hands, Billy shrugged into his still-wet trenchcoat, and
he went to thedoor. He paused to look back at Gaspar sitting in the lengthening
shadows as evening cameon. "It was nice getting to know you, Gaspar."
"You can make that a mutual pleasure, Billy. You're a nice young fella."
And Billy went to work, alone as always.
# # # #
When he came home at two, prepared to open a can of Hormel chili, he
found the tableset for dinner, with the scent of an elegant beef stew enriching
the apartment. There werenew potatoes and stirfried carrots and zucchini
that had been lightly battered to delicatecrispness. And cupcakes. White
cake with chocolate frosting. From a bakery.
And in that way, as gently as that, Gaspar insinuated himself into Billy
Kinetta'sapartment and his life.
As they sat with tea and cupcakes, Billy said, "You don't have anyplace
to go, doyou?"
The old man smiled and made one of those deprecating movements of the
head. "Well,I'm not the sort of fella who can bear to be homeless, but
at the moment I'm whatvaudevillians used to call 'at liberty.'"
"If you want to stay on a time, that would be okay," Billy said. "It'snot
very roomy here, but we seem to get on all right."
"That's strongly kind of you, Billy. Yes, I'd like to be your roommate
for awhile. Won't be too long, though. My doctor tells me I'm not long
for this world." Hepaused, looked into the teacup, and said softly, "I
have to confess . . . I'm alittle frightened. To go. Having someone to
talk to would be a great comfort."
And Billy said, without preparation, "I was visiting the grave of a
man who was inmy rifle company in Vietnam. I go there sometimes." But there
was such pain in hiswords that Gaspar did not press him for details.
So the hours passed, as they will with or without permission, and when
Gaspar askedBilly if they could watch television, to catch an early newscast,
and Billy tuned in theold set just in time to pick up dire reports of another
aborted disarmament talk, andBilly shook his head and observed that it
wasn't only Gaspar who was frightened ofsomething like death, Gaspar chuckled,
patted Billy on the knee and said, withunassailable assurance, "Take my
word for it, Billy . . . it isn't going to happen.No nuclear holocaust.
Trust me, when I tell you this: it'll never happen. Never, never,not ever."
Billy smiled wanly. "And why not? What makes
you so sure . .
. got somespecial inside information?"
And Gaspar pulled out the magnificent timepiece, which Billy was seeing
for the firsttime, and he said, "It's not going to happen because it's
only eleven o'clock."
Billy stared at the watch, which read 11:00 precisely. He consulted
his wristwatch."Hate to tell you this, but your watch has stopped. It's
almost five-thirty."
Gaspar smiled his own certain smile. "No, it's eleven."
And they made up the sofa for the very old man, who placed his pocket
change and hisfountain pen and the sumptuous turnip watch on the now-silent
television set, and theywent to sleep.
# # # #
One day Billy went off while Gaspar was washing the lunch dishes, and
when he cameback, he had a large paper bag from Toys "R" Us.
Gaspar came out of the kitchenette rubbing a plate with a souvenir dish
towel fromNiagara Falls, New York. He stared at Billy and the bag. "What's
in the bag?"Billy inclined his head, and indicated the very old man should
join him in the middle ofthe room. Then he sat down crosslegged on the
floor, and dumped the contents of the bag.Gaspar stared with startlement,
and sat down beside him.
So for two hours they played with tiny cars that turned into robots
when the sectionswere unfolded.
Gaspar was excellent at figuring out all the permutations of the Transformers,Starriors
and CoBots. He played well.
And they went for a walk. "I'll treat you to a matinee," Gaspar said."But
no films with Karen Black, Sandy Dennis or Meryl Streep. They're always
crying.Their noses are always red. I can't stand that."
They started to cross the avenue. Stopped at the light was this year's
CadillacBrougham, vanity license plates, ten coats of acrylic lacquer and
two coats of clear (witha little retarder in the final "color coat" for
a slow dry) of a magenta hue sorich that it approximated the shade of light
shining through a decanter filled withChateau Lafite Rothschild 1945.
The man driving the Cadillac had no neck. His head sat thumped down
hard on theshoulders. He stared straight ahead, took one last deep pull
on the cigar, and threw itout the window. The still-smoking butt landed
directly in front of Gaspar as he passed thecar. The old man stopped, stared
down at this coprolitic metaphor, and then stared at thedriver. The eyes
behind the wheel, the eyes of a macaquc, did not waver from thestoplight's
red circle. just outside the window, someone was looking in, but the eyes
ofthe rhesus were on the red circle.
A line of cars stopped behind the Brougham.
Gaspar continued to stare at the man in the Cadillac for a moment, and
then, withcreaking difficulty, he bent and picked up the smoldering butt
of stogie.
The old man walked the two steps to the car -- as Billy watched in confusion
-- thrusthis face forward till it was mere inches from the driver's profile,
and said with extremesweetness, "I think you dropped this in our living
room."
And as the glazed simian eyes turned to stare directly into the pedestrian's
face,nearly nose to nose, Gaspar casually flipped the butt with its red
glowing tip, into theback seat of the Cadillac, where it began to burn
a hole in the fine Corinthian leather.
Three things happened simultaneously:
The driver let out a howl, tried to see the butt in his rearview mirror,
could not getthe angle, tried to look over his shoulder into the back seat
but without a neck could notperform that feat of agility, put the car into
neutral, opened his door and stormed intothe street trying to grab Gaspar.
"You fuckin' bastid, whaddaya think you're doin'tuh my car you asshole
bastid, I'll kill ya . . . "
Billy's hair stood on end as he saw what Gaspar was doing; he rushed
back the shortdistance in the crosswalk to grab the old man; Gaspar would
not be dragged away, stoodsmiling with unconcealed pleasure at the mad
bull rampaging and screaming of thehysterical driver. Billy yanked as hard
as he could and Gaspar began to move away, aroundthe front of the Cadillac,
toward the far curb. Still grinning with octogeneric charm.
The light changed.
These three things happened in the space of five seconds, abetted by
the impatienthonking of the cars behind the Brougham; as the light turned
green.
Screaming, dragging, honking, as the driver found he could not do three
things at once:he could not go after Gaspar while the traffic was clanging
at him; could not let go ofthe car door to crawl into the back seat from
which now came the stench of charringleather that could not be rectified
by an inexpensive Tijuana tuck-'n-roll; could not savehis back seat and
at the same time stave off the hostility of a dozen drivers cursing andhonking.
He trembled there, torn three ways, doing nothing.
Billy dragged Gaspar.
Out of the crosswalk. Out of the street. Onto the curb. Up the side
street. Into thealley. Through a backyard. To the next street from the
avenue.
Puffing with the exertion, Billy stopped at last, five houses up the
street. Gaspar wasstill grinning, chuckling softly with unconcealed pleasure
at his puckish ways. Billyturned on him with wild gesticulations and babble.
"You're
nuts!"
"How about that?" the old man said, giving Billy an affectionate poke
in thebicep.
"Nuts! Looney! That guy would've torn off your head! What the hell's
wrong withyou, old man? Are you out of your boots?"
"I'm not crazy. I'm responsible."
"Responsible!?! Re
sponsible, fer chrissakes? For what? For all
the buttsevery yotz throws into the street?"
The old man nodded. "For butts, and trash, and pollution, and toxic
waste dumpingin the dead of night; for bushes, and cactus, and the baobab
tree; for pippin apples andeven lima beans, which I despise. You show me
someone who'll eat lima beans without beingat gunpoint, I'll show you a
pervert!"
Billy was screaming. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm also responsible for dogs and cats and guppies and cockroaches
and thePresident of the United States and Jonas Salk and your mother and
the entire chorus lineat the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. Also their choreographer."
"Who do you think you are? God?"
"Don't be sacrilegious. I'm too old to wash your mouth out with laundry
soap. Ofcourse I'm not God. I'm just an old man.
But I'm responsible."
Gaspar started to walk away, toward the corner and the avenue and a
resumption of theirroute. Billy stood where the old man's words had pinned
him.
"Come on, young fella," Gaspar said, walking backward to speak to him,"we'll
miss the beginning of the movie. I hate that."
# # # #
Billy had finished eating, and they were sitting in the dimness of the
apartment, onlythe lamp in the corner lit. The old man had gone to the
County Art Museum and had boughtinexpensive prints -- Max Ernst, Gerome,
Richard Dadd, a subtle Feininger -- which he hadmounted in Insta-Frames,
They sat in silence for a time, relaxing; then murmuringtrivialities in
a pleasant undertone.
Finally, Gaspar said, "I've been thinking a lot about my dying. I like
what WoodyAllen said."
Billy slid to a more comfortable position in the lounger. "What was
that?"
"He said: I don't mind dying, I just don't want to be there when it
happens."
Billy snickered.
"I feel something like that, Billy. I'm not afraid to go, but I don't
want toleave Minna entirely. The times I spend with her, talking to her,
well, it gives me thefeeling we're still in touch. When I go, that's the
end of Minna. She'll be well and trulydead. We never had any children,
almost everyone who knew us is gone, no relatives. And wenever did anything
important that anyone would put in a record book, so that's the end ofus.
For me, I don't mind; but I wish there was someone who knew about Minna
. . .she was aremarkable person."
So Billy said, "Tell me. I'll remember for you."
# # # #
Memories in no particular order. Some as strong as ropes that could
pull the oceanashore. Some that shimmered and swayed in the faintest breeze
like spiderwebs. The entireperson, all the little movements, that dimple
that appeared when she was amused atsomething foolish he had said. Their
youth together, their love, the procession of theirdays toward middle age.
The small cheers and the pain of dreams never realized. So muchabout him,
as he spoke of her. His voice soft and warm and filled with a longing so
deepand true that he had to stop frequently because the words broke and
would not come outtill he had thought away some of the passion. He thought
of her and was glad. He hadgathered her together, all her dowry of love
and taking care of him, her clothes and theway she wore them, her favorite
knickknacks, a few clever remarks: and he packed it all upand delivered
it to a new repository.
The very old man gave Minna to Billy Kinetta for safekeeping.
# # # #
Dawn had come. The light filtering in through the blinds was saffron.
"Thank you,Dad," Billy said. He could not name the feeling that had taken
him hours earlier. Buthe said this: "I've never had to be responsible for
anything, or anyone, in my wholelife. I never belonged to anybody . . .
I don't know why. It didn't bother me, because Ididn't know any other way
to be."
Then his position changed, there in the lounger. He sat up in a way
that Gaspar thoughtwas important. As if Billy were about to open the secret
box buried at his center. AndBilly spoke so softly the old man had to strain
to hear him.
"I didn't even know him.
"We were defending the airfield at Danang. Did I tell you we were 1st
Battalion,9th Marines? Charlie was massing for a big push out of Quang
Ngai province, south of us.Looked as if they were going to try to take
the provincial capital. My rifle company wasassigned to protect the perimeter.
They kept sending in patrols to bite us. Every day we'dlose some poor bastard
who scratched his head when he shouldn't of. It was June, late inJune,
cold and a lot of rain. The foxholes were hip-deep in water.
"Flares first. Our howitzers started firing. Then the sky was full of
tracers, andI started to turn toward the bushes when I heard something
coming, and these twomain-force regulars in dark blue uniforms came toward
me. I could see them so clearly.Long black hair. All crouched over. And
they started firing. And that goddam carbineseized up, wouldn't fire; and
I pulled out the banana clip, tried to slap in another, butthey saw me
and just turned a couple of AK-47's on me . . . God, I remember everythingslowed
down . . . I looked at those things, seven-point-six-two-millimeter assault
riflesthey were . . . I got crazy for a second, tried to figure out in
my own mind if they wereRussian-made, or Chinese, or Czech, or North Korean.
And it was so bright from the flaresI could see them starting to squeeze
off the rounds, and then from out of nowhere thislance corporal jumped
out at them and yelled somedamnthing like, 'Hey, you VC fucks, lookahere!'
except it wasn't that . . . I never could recall what he said actually
. . . andthey turned to brace him . . . and they opened him up like a baggie
full of blood . . .and he was all over me, and the bushes, and oh god there
was pieces of him floating on thewater I was standing in . . . "
Billy was heaving breath with impossible weight. His hands moved in
the air before hisface without pattern or goal. He kept looking into far
corners of the dawn-lit room as ifspecial facts might present themselves
to fill out the reasons behind what he was saying.
"Aw, geezus, he was
floating on the water. . . aw, Christ,
he
got inmy boots!" Then a wail of pain so loud it blotted out the sound
of trafficbeyond the apartment; and he began to moan, but not cry; and
the moaning kept on; andGaspar came from the sofa and held him and said
such words as
it's all right, butthey might not have been those
words, or
any words.
And pressed against the old man's shoulder, Billy Kinetta ran on only
half sane:"He wasn't my friend, I never knew him, I'd never talked to him,
but I'd seen him, hewas just this guy, and there wasn't any reason to do
that, he didn't know whether I was agood guy or a shit or anything, so
why did he do that? He didn't need to do that. Theywouldn't of seen him.
He was dead before I killed them. He was gone already. I never gotto say
thank you or thank you or . . .
anything!
"Now he's in that grave, so I came here to live, so I can go there,
but I try andtry to say thank you, and he's dead, and he can't hear me,
he can't hear anything, he'sjust down there, down in the ground, and I
can't say thank you . . . oh, geezus, geezus,why don't he hear me, I just
want to say thanks . . . "
Billy Kinetta wanted to assume the responsibility for saying thanks,
but that waspossible only on a night that would never come again; and this
was the day.
Gaspar took him to the bedroom and put him down to sleep in exactly
the same way onewould soothe an old, sick dog.
Then he went to his sofa, and because it was the only thing he could
imagine saying, hemurmured, "He'll be all right, Minna. Really he will."
# # # #
When Billy left for the 7-Eleven the next evening, Gaspar was gone.
It was an alternateday, and that meant he was out at the cemetery. Billy
fretted that he shouldn't be therealone, but the old man had a way of taking
care of himself. Billy was not smiling as hethought of his friend, and
the word
friend echoed as he realized that, yes, thiswas his friend,
truly and really his friend. He wondered how old Gaspar was, and how soonBilly
Kinetta would be once again what he had always been: alone.
When he returned to the apartment at two-thirty, Gaspar was asleep,
cocooned in hisblanket on the sofa. Billy went in and tried to sleep, but
hours later, when sleep wouldnot come, when thoughts of murky water and
calcium night light on dark foliage kept himstaring at the bedroom ceiling,
he came out of the room for a drink of water. He wanderedaround the living
room, not wanting to be by himself even if the only companionship inthis
sleepless night was breathing heavily, himself in sleep.
He stared out the window. Clouds lay in chiffon strips across the sky.
The squealing oftires from the street.
Sighing, idle in his movement around the room, he saw the old man's
pocket watch lyingon the coffee table beside the sofa. He walked to the
table. If the watch was stillstopped at eleven o'clock, perhaps he would
borrow it and have it repaired. It would be anice thing to do for Gaspar.
He loved that beautiful timepiece.
Billy bent to pick it up.
The watch, stopped at the V of eleven precisely, levitated at an angle,
floating awayfrom him.
Billy Kinetta felt a shiver travel down his back to burrow in at the
base of his spine.He reached for the watch hanging in air before him. It
floated away just enough that hisfingers massaged empty space. He tried
to catch it. The watch eluded him, lazily turningaway like an opponent
who knows he is in no danger of being struck from behind.
Then Billy realized Gaspar was awake. Turned away from the sofa, nonetheless
he knewthe old man was observing him. And the blissful floating watch.
He looked at Gaspar.
They did not speak for a long time.
Then: "I'm going back to sleep," Billy said. Quietly.
"I think you have some questions," Gaspar replied.
"Questions? No, of course not, Dad. Why in the world would I have questions?
I'mstill asleep." But that was not the truth, because he had not been asleep
that night.
"Do you know what 'Gaspar' means? Do you remember the three wise men
of the Bible,the Magi?"
"I don't want any frankincense and myrrh. I'm going back to bed. I'm
going now.You see, I'm going right now."
"'Gaspar' means master of the treasure, keeper of the secrets, paladin
of thepalace." Billy was staring at him, not walking into the bedroom;
just staring at him.As the elegant timepiece floated to the old man, who
extended his hand palm-up to receiveit. The watch nestled in his hand,
unmoving, and it made no sound, no sound at all.
"You go back to bed. But will you go out to the cemetery with me tomorrow?
It'simportant."
"Why?"
"Because I believe I'll be dying tomorrow."
# # # #
It was a nice day, cool and clear. Not at all a day for dying, but neither
had beenmany such days in Southeast Asia, and death had not been deterred.
They stood at Minna's gravesite, and Gaspar opened his shooting stick
to form a seat,and he thrust the spike into the ground, and he settled
onto it, and sighed, and said toBilly Kinetta, "I'm growing cold as that
stone."
"Do you want my jacket?"
"No. I'm cold inside." He looked around at the sky, at the grass, at
the rowsof markers. "I've been responsible, for all of this, and more."
"You've said that before."
"Young fella, are you by any chance familiar, in your reading, with
an old novelby James Hilton called
Lost Horizon? Perhaps you saw
the movie. It was awonderful movie, actually much better than the book.
Mr. Capra's greatest achievement. Ahuman testament. Ronald Colman was superb.
Do you know the story?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember the High Lama, played by Sam Jaffe? His name was FatherPerrault?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember how he passed on the caretakership of that magical
hidden world,Shangri-La, to Ronald Colman?"
"Yes, I remember that. " Billy paused. "Then he died. He was very old,and
he died."
Gaspar smiled up at Billy. "Very good, Billy. I knew you were a good
boy. So now,if you remember all that, may I tell you a story? It's not
a very long story."
Billy nodded, smiling at his friend.
"In 1582 Pope Gregory XIII decreed that the civilized world would no
longerobserve the Julian calendar. October 4th, 1582 was followed, the
next day, by October15th. Eleven days vanished from the world. One hundred
and seventy days later, the BritishParliament followed suit, and September
2nd, 1752 was followed, the next day, by September14th. Why did he do that,
the Pope?"
Billy was bewildered by the conversation. "Because he was bringing it
into synchwith the real world. The solstices and equinoxes. When to plant,
when to harvest."
Gaspar waggled a finger at him with pleasure. "Excellent, young fella.
And you'recorrect when you say Gregory abolished the Julian calendar because
its error of one day inevery one hundred and twenty-eight years had moved
the vernal equinox to March 11th.That's what the history books say. It's
what
every history book says. But whatif?"
"What if
what? I don't know what you're talking about."
"What if: Pope Gregory had the knowledge revealed to him that he must
readjusttime in the minds of men? What if: the excess time in 1582. was
eleven days and one hour?What if: he accounted for those eleven days, vanished
those eleven days, but that one hourslipped free, was left loose to bounce
through eternity? A very special hour . . .an hourthat must
never
be used . . . an hour that must never toll. What if?"
Billy spread his hands. "What if, what if, what if! It's all just philosophy.
Itdoesn't mean anything. Hours aren't real, time isn't something that you
can bottle up. Sowhat if there is an hour out there somewhere that . .
. "
And he stopped.
He grew tense, and leaned down to the old man. "The watch. Your watch.
It doesn'twork. It's stopped."
Gaspar nodded. "At eleven o'clock. My watch works; it keeps very special
time, forone very special hour."
Billy touched Gaspar's shoulder. Carefully he asked, "Who are you, Dad?"
The old man did not smile as he said, "Gaspar. Keeper. Paladin. Guardian."
"Father Perrault was hundreds of years old."
Gaspar shook his head with a wistful expression on his old face. "I'm
eighty-sixyears old, Billy. You asked me if I thought I was God. Not God,
not Father Perrault, notan immortal, just an old man who will die too soon.
Are you Ronald Colman?"
Billy nervously touched his lower lip with a finger. He looked at Gaspar
as long as hecould, then turned away. He walked off a few paces, stared
at the barren trees. It seemedsuddenly much chillier here in this place
of entombed remembrances. From a distance hesaid, "But it's only ... what?
A chronological convenience. Like daylight savingtime; Spring forward,
Fall back. We don't actually lose an hour; we get it back."
Gaspar stared at Minna's grave. "At the end of April I lost an hour.
If I die now,I'll die an hour short in my life. I'll have been cheated
out of one hour I want,Billy." He swayed toward all he had left of Minna.
"One last hour I could havewith my old girl. That's what I'm afraid of,
Billy. I have that hour in my possession. I'mafraid I'll use it, god help
me, I want so much to use it."
Billy came to him. Tense, and chilled, he said "Why must that hour nevertoll?"
Gaspar drew a deep breath and tore his eyes away from the grave. His
gaze locked withBilly's. And he told him.
The years, all the days and hours, exist. As solid and as real as mountains
and oceansand men and women and the baobab tree. Look, he said, at the
lines in my face and denythat time is real. Consider these dead weeds that
were once alive and try to believe it'sall just vapor or the mutual agreement
of Popes and Caesars and young men like you.
"The lost hour must never come, Billy, for in that hour it all ends.
The light,the wind, the stars, this magnificent open place we call the
universe. It all ends, and inits place -- waiting, always waiting -- is
eternal darkness. No new beginnings, no worldwithout end, just the infinite
emptiness."
And he opened his hand, which had been lying in his lap, and there,
in his palm, restedthe watch, making no sound at all, and stopped dead
at eleven o'clock. "Should itstrike twelve, Billy, eternal night falls;
from which there is no recall."
There he sat, this very old man, just a perfectly normal old man. The
most recent inthe endless chain of keepers of the lost hour, descended
in possession from Caesar andPope Gregory XIII, down through the centuries
of men and women who had served ascaretakers of the excellent timepiece.
And now he was dying, and now he wanted to cling tolife as every man and
woman clings to life no matter how awful or painful or empty, evenif it
is for one more hour. The suicide, failing from the bridge, at the final
instant,tries to fly, tries to climb back up the sky. This weary old man,
who only wanted to stayone brief hour more with Minna. Who was afraid that
his love would cost the universe.
He looked at Billy, and he extended his hand with the watch waiting
for its nextpaladin. So softly Billy could barely hear him, knowing that
he was denying himself whathe most wanted at this last place in his life,
he whispered, "If I die withoutpassing it on . . . it will begin to tick."
"Not me," Billy said. "Why did you pick me? I'm no one special. I'm
notsomeone like you. I run an all-night service mart. There's nothing special
about me theway there is about you! I'm not Ronald Colman! I don't want
to be responsible, I've
neverbeen responsible!"
Gaspar smiled gently. "You've been responsible for me."
Billy's rage vanished. He looked wounded.
"Look at us, Billy. Look at what color you are; and look at what color
I am. Youtook me in as a friend. I think of you as worthy, Billy. Worthy."
They remained there that way, in silence, as the wind rose. And finally,
in a timelesstime, Billy nodded.
Then the young man said, "You won't be losing Minna, Dad. Now you'll
go to theplace where she's been waiting for you, just as she was when you
first met her. There's aplace where we find everything we've ever lost
through the years."
"That's good, Billy, that you tell me that. I'd like to believe it,
too. But I'm apragmatist. I believe what exists . . . like rain and Minna's
grave and the hours thatpass that we can't see, but they
are. I'm
afraid, Billy. I'm afraid this will bethe last time I can speak to her.
So I ask a favor. As payment, in return for my lifespent protecting the
watch.
"I ask for one minute of the hour, Billy. One minute to call her back,
so we canstand face-to-face and I can touch her and say goodbye. You'll
be the new protector ofthis watch, Billy, so I ask you please, just let
me steal one minute."
Billy could not speak. The look on Gaspar's face was without horizon,
empty as tundra,bottomless. The child left alone in darkness; the pain
of eternal waiting. He knew hecould never deny this old man, no matter
what he asked, and in the silence he heard avoice say: "
No!" And
it was his own.
He had spoken without conscious volition. Strong and determined, and
without theslightest room for reversal. If a part of his heart had been
swayed by compassion, thatpart had been instantly overridden. No. A final,
unshakable no.
For an instant Gaspar looked crestfallen. His eyes clouded with tears;
and Billy feltsomething twist and break within himself at the sight. He
knew he had hurt the old man.Quickly, but softly, he said urgently, "You
know that would be wrong, Dad. We mustn't. . . "
Gaspar said nothing. Then he reached out with his free hand and took
Billy's. It was anaffectionate touch. "That was the last test, young fella.
Oh, you know I've beentesting you, don't you? This important item couldn't
go to just anyone.
"And you passed the test, my friend: my last, best friend. When I said
I couldbring her back from where she's gone, here in this place we've both
come to so often, totalk to someone lost to us, I knew you would understand
that
anyone could bebrought back in that stolen minute. I knew you
wouldn't use it for yourself, no matter howmuch you wanted it; but I wasn't
sure that as much as you like me, it might not sway you.But you wouldn't
even give it to
me, Billy."
He smiled up at him, his eyes now clear and steady.
"I'm content, Billy. You needn't have worried. Minna and I don't need
that minute.But if you're to carry on for me, I think you do need it. You're
in pain, and that's nogood for someone who carries this watch. You've got
to heal, Billy.
"So I give you something you would never take for yourself. I give you
agoing-away present . . ."
And he started the watch, whose ticking was as loud and as clear as
a baby's firstsound; and the sweep-second hand began to move away from
eleven o'clock.
Then the wind rose, and the sky seemed to cloud over, and it grew colder,
with aremarkable silver-blue mist that rolled across the cemetery; and
though he did not see itemerge from that grave at a distance far to the
right, Billy Kinetta saw a shape movetoward him. A soldier in the uniform
of a day past, and his rank was Lance Corporal. Hecame toward Billy Kinetta,
and Billy went to meet him as Gaspar watched.
They stood together and Billy spoke to him. And the man whose name Billy
had neverknown when he was alive, answered. And then he faded, as the seconds
ticked away. Faded,and faded, and was gone. And the silver-blue mist rolled
through them, and past them, andwas gone; and the soldier was gone.
Billy stood alone.
When he turned back to look across the grounds to his friend, he saw
that Gaspar hadfallen from the shooting stick. He lay on the ground. Billy
rushed to him, and fell to hisknees and lifted him onto his lap. Gaspar
was still.
"Oh, god, Dad, you should have heard what he said. Oh, geez, he let
me go. He letme go so I didn't even have to say I was sorry. He told me
he didn't even
see mein that foxhole. He never knew he'd saved my
life. I said thank you and he said no, thank
you,that he hadn't
died for nothing. Oh, please, Dad, please don't be dead yet. I want to
tellyou . . . "
And, as it sometimes happens, rarely but wonderfully, sometimes they
come back for amoment, for an instant before they go, the old man, the
very old man, opened his eyes,just before going on his way, and he looked
through the dimming light at his friend, andhe said, "May I remember you
to my old girl, Billy?"
And his eyes closed again, after only a moment; and his caretakership
was at an end; ashis hand opened and the most excellent timepiece, now
stopped again at one minute pasteleven, floated from his palm and waited
till Billy Kinetta extended his hand; and then itfloated down and lay there
silently, making no sound, no sound at all. Safe. Protected.
There in the place where all lost things returned, the young man sat
on the coldground, rocking the body of his friend. And he was in no hurry
to leave. There was time.
# # # #
Like a wind crying endlessly through the universe, Timecarries away
the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. Andall that
we were, all that remains, is in the memories of those who caredwe came
this way for a brief moment.
A blessing of the 18th Egyptian Dynasty:
God be between you and harm in
all the empty places you walk.
Brought to you by
www.harlanellison.com
Harlan Ellison - Paladin of the Lost Hour
PALADIN OF THE LOST HOUR
by HARLAN ELLISON
"Paladin of the Lost Hour" copyright 1985, 1986 by the KilimanjaroCorporation.
THIS WAS AN OLD MAN. Not an incredibly old man; obsolete, spavined;
not as worn as thesway-backed stone steps ascending the Pyramid of the
Sun to an ancient temple; not yet arelic. But even so, a very old man,
this old man perched on an antique shooting stick, itshandles open to form
a seat, its spike thrust at an angle into the soft ground and trimmedgrass
of the cemetery. Gray, thin rain misted down at almost the same, angle
as that atwhich the spike pierced the ground. The winter-barren trees lay
flat and black against analuminum sky, unmoving in the chill wind. An old
man sitting at the foot of a grave moundwhose headstone had tilted slightly
when the earth had settled; sitting in the rain andspeaking to someone
below.
"They tore it down, Minna.
"I tell you, they must have bought off a councilman.
"Came in with bulldozers at six o'clock in the morning, and you know
that's notlegal. There's a Municipal Code. Supposed to hold off till at
least seven on weekdays,eight on the weekend; but there they were at six,
even
before six, barely lightfor godsakes. Thought they'd sneak
in and do it before the neighborhood got wind of it andcall the landmarks
committee. Sneaks: they come on
holidays, can you imagine!
"But I was out there waiting for them, and I told them, 'You can't do
it, that'sCode number
91.03002, subsection
E,' and they lied and saidthey had special permission, so I said to the
big muckymuck in charge, 'Let's see yourwaiver permit,'and he said the
Code didn't apply in this case because it was supposed tobe only for grading,
and since they were demolishing and not grading, they could startwhenever
they felt like it. So I told him I'd call the police, then, because it
came underthe heading of Disturbing the Peace, and he said . . . well,
I know you hate that kind oflanguage, old girl, so I won't tell you what
he said, but you can imagine.
"So I called the police, and gave them my name, and of course they didn't
getthere till almost quarter after seven (which is what makes me think
they bought off acouncilman), and by then those 'dozers had leveled most
of it. Doesn't take long, you knowthat.
"And I don't suppose it's as great a loss as, maybe, say, the Great
Library ofAlexandria, but it was the last of the authentic Deco design
drive-ins, and the carhopsstill served you on roller skates, and it was
a landmark, and just about the only placeleft in the city where you could
still get a decent grilled cheese sandwich pressed veryflat on the grill
by one of those weights they used to use, made with real cheese and notthat
rancid plastic they cut into squares and call it 'cheese food.'
"Gone, old dear, gone and mourned. And I understand they plan to put
up anotherone of those mini-malls on the site, just ten blocks away from
one that's already there,and you know what's going to happen: this new
one will drain off the traffic from theolder one, and then that one will
fall the way they all do when the next one gets built,you'd think they'd
see some history in it; but no, they never learn, And you should haveseen
the crowd by seven-thirty. All ages, even some of those kids painted like
aborigines,with torn leather clothing. Even they came to protest. Terrible
language, but at leastthey were concerned. And nothing could stop it. They
just whammed it, and down it went.
"I do so miss you today, Minna. No more good grilled cheese." Said the
veryold
man to the ground. And now he was crying softly, and now the wind rose,
and the mistrain stippled his overcoat.
Nearby, yet at a distance, Billy Kinetta stared down at another grave.
He could see theold man over there off to his left, but he took no further
notice. The wind whipped thevent of his trenchcoat. His collar was up but
rain trickled down his neck. This was ayounger man, not yet thirty-five.
Unlike the old man, Billy Kinetta neither cried norspoke to memories of
someone who had once listened. He might have been a geomancer, sosilently
did he stand, eyes toward the ground.
One of these men was black; the other was white.
# # # #
Beyond the high, spiked-iron fence surrounding the cemetery two boys
crouched, staringthrough the bars, through the rain; at the men absorbed
by grave matters, by matters ofgraves. These were not really boys. They
were legally young men. One was nineteen, theother two months beyond twenty.
Both were legally old enough to vote, to drink alcoholicbeverages, to drive
a car. Neither would reach the age of Billy Kinetta.
One of them said, "Let's take the old man."
The other responded, "You think the guy in the trenchcoat'll get in
the way?"
The first one smiled; and a mean little laugh. "I sure as shit hope
so." Hewore, on his right hand, a leather carnaby glove with the fingers
cut off, small roundmetal studs in a pattern along the line of his knuckles.
He made a fist, flexed, did itagain.
They went under the spiked fence at a point where erosion had created
a shallow gully."Sonofabitch!" one of them said, as he slid through on
his stomach. It wasmuddy. The front of his sateen roadie jacket was filthy.
"Sonofabitch!" He wasspeaking in general of the fence, the sliding under,
the muddy ground, the universe intotal. And the old man, who would now
really
get the crap kicked out of him formaking this fine sateen roadie jacket
filthy.
They sneaked up on him from the left, as far from the young guy in the
trenchcoat asthey could. The first one kicked out the shooting stick with
a short, sharp, downwardmovement he had learned in his tae kwon do class.
It was called the
yup-chagi.The old man went over backward.
Then they were on him, the one with the filthy sonofabitch sateen roadie
jacketpunching at the old man's neck and the side of his face as he dragged
him around by thecollar of the overcoat. The other one began ransacking
the coat pockets, ripping thefabric to get his hand inside.
The old man commenced to scream. "Protect me! You've got to protect
me . . .it'snecessary to protect me!"
The one pillaging pockets froze momentarily. What the hell kind of thing
is that forthis old fucker to be saying? Who the hell does he think'll
protect him? Is he asking
usto protect him? I'll protect you, scumbag!
I'll kick in your fuckin' lung! "Shut'imup!" he whispered urgently to his
friend. "Stick a fist in his mouth!" Thenhis hand, wedged in an inside
jacket pocket, closed over something. He tried to get hishand loose, but
the jacket and coat and the old man's body had wound around his wrist."C'mon
loose, motherfuckah!" he said to the very old man, who was stillscreaming
for protection. The other young man was making huffing sounds, as dark
as mud,as he slapped at the rain-soaked hair of his victim. "I can't .
. . he's all twisted'round . . . getcher hand outta there so's I can .
. . " Screaming, the old man haddoubled under, locking their hands on his
person.
And then the pillager's fist came loose, and he was clutching for an
instant a gorgeouspocket watch.
What used to be called a turnip watch.
The dial face was
cloisonné, exquisite beyond the telling.
The case was of silver, so bright it seemed blue.
The hands, cast as arrows of time, were gold. They formed a shallow
V at preciselyeleven o'clock. This was happening at 3:45 in the afternoon,
with rain and wind.
The timepiece made no sound, no sound at all.
Then: there was space all around the watch, and in that space in the
palm of the hand,there was heat. Intense heat for just a moment, just long
enough for the hand to open.
The watch glided out of the boy's palm and levitated.
"Help me! You
must protect me!"
Billy Kinetta heard the shrieking, but did not see the pocket watch
floating in the airabove the astonished young man. It was silver, and it
was end-on toward him, and the rainwas silver and slanting; and he did
not see the watch hanging free in the air, even whenthe furious young man
disentangled himself and leaped for it. Billy did not see the watchrise
just so much, out of reach of the mugger.
Billy Kinetta saw two boys, two young men of ratpack age, beating someone
much older;and he went for them. Pow, like that!
Thrashing his legs, the old man twisted around -- over, under -- as
the boy holding himby the collar tried to land a punch to put him away.
Who would have thought the old man tohave had so much battle in him?
A flapping shape, screaming something unintelligible, hit the center
of the group atfull speed. The carnaby-gloved hand reaching for the watch
grasped at empty air onemoment, and the next was buried under its owner
as the boy was struck a crackback blockthat threw him face first into the
soggy ground. He tried to rise, but something stompedhim at the base of
his spine; something kicked him twice in the kidneys; something rolledover
him like a flash flood.
Twisting, twisting, the very old man put his thumb in the right eye
of the boyclutching his collar.
The great trenchcoated maelstrom that was Billy Kinetta whirled into
the boy as he letloose of the old man on the ground and, howling, slapped
a palm against his stinging eye.Billy locked his fingers and delivered
a roundhouse wallop that sent the boy reelingbackward to fall over Minna's
tilted headstone.
Billy's back was to the old man. He did not see the miraculous pocket
watch smoothlydescend through rain that did not touch it, to hover in front
of the old man. He did notsee the old man reach up, did not see the timepiece
snuggle into an arthritic hand, didnot see the old man return the turnip
to an inside jacket pocket.
Wind, rain and Billy Kinetta pummeled two young men of a legal age that
made themaccountable for their actions. There was no thought of the knife
stuck down in one boot,no chance to reach it, no moment when the wild thing
let them rise. So they crawled. Theyscrabbled across the muddy ground,
the slippery grass, over graves and out of his reach.They ran; falling,
rising, falling again; away, without looking back.
Billy Kinetta, breathing heavily, knees trembling, turned to help the
old man to hisfeet; and found him standing, brushing dirt from his overcoat,
snorting in anger andmumbling to himself.
"Are you all right?"
For a moment the old man's recitation of annoyance continued, then he
snapped his chindown sharply as if marking end to the situation, and looked
at his cavalry to the rescue."That was very good, young fella. Considerable
style you've got there."
Billy Kinetta stared at him wide-eyed. "Are you sure you're okay?" He
reachedover and flicked several blades of wet grass from the shoulder of
the old man's overcoat.
"I'm fine. I'm fine but I'm wet and I'm cranky. Let's go somewhere and
have a nicecup of Earl Grey."
There had been a look on Billy Kinetta's face as he stood with lowered
eyes, staring atthe grave he had come to visit. The emergency had removed
that look. Now it returned.
"No, thanks. If you're okay, I've got to do some things."
The old man felt himself all over, meticulously, as he replied, "I'm
onlysuperficially bruised. Now if I were an old woman, instead of a spunky
old man, same agethough, I'd have lost considerable of the calcium in my
bones, and those two would havedone me some mischief. Did you know that
women lose a considerable part of their calciumwhen they reach my age?
I read a report." Then he paused, and said shyly, "Comeon, why don't you
and I sit and chew the fat over a nice cup of tea?"
Billy shook his head with bemusement, smiling despite himself. "You're
somethingelse, Dad. I don't even know you."
"I like that."
"What: that I don't know you?"
"No, that you called me 'Dad' and not 'Pop.' I
hate 'Pop.' Always
makesme think the wise-apple wants to snap off my cap with a bottle opener.
Now
Dadhas a ring of respect to it. I like that right down
to the ground. Yes, I believe weshould find someplace warm and quiet to
sit and get to know each other. After all, yousaved my life. And you know
what that means in the Orient."
Billy was smiling continuously now. "In the first place, I doubt very
much I savedyour life. Your wallet, maybe. And in the second place, I don't
even know your name; whatwould we have to talk about?"
"Gaspar," he said, extending his hand. "That's a first name. Gaspar.Know
what it means?"
Billy shook his head.
"See, already we have something to talk about."
So Billy, still smiling, began walking Gaspar out of the cemetery. "Where
do youlive? I'll take you home."
They were on the street, approaching Billy Kinetta's 1979 Cutlass. "Where
I liveis too far for now. I'm beginning to feel a bit peaky. I'd like to
lie down for a minute.We can just go on over to your place, if that doesn't
bother you. For a few minutes. A cupof tea. Is that all right?"
He was standing beside the Cutlass, looking at Billy with an old man's
expectant smile,waiting for him to unlock the door and hold it for him
till he'd placed hisstill-calcium-rich but nonetheless old bones in the
passenger seat. Billy stared at him,trying to figure out what was at risk
if he unlocked that door. Then he snorted a tinylaugh, unlocked the door,
held it for Gaspar as he seated himself, slammed it and wentaround to unlock
the other side and get in. Gaspar reached across and thumbed up the doorlock
knob. And they drove off together in the rain.
Through all of this the timepiece made no sound, no sound at all.
# # # #
Like Gaspar, Billy Kinetta was alone in the world.
His three-room apartment was the vacuum in which he existed. It was
furnished, but ifone stepped out into the hallway and, for all the money
in all the numbered accounts inall the banks in Switzerland, one was asked
to describe those furnishings, one would comeaway no richer than before.
The apartment was charisma poor. It was a place to come whenall other possibilities
had been expended. Nothing green, nothing alive, existed in thoseboxes.
No eyes looked back from the walls. Neither warmth nor chill marked those
spaces.It was a place to wait.
Gaspar leaned his closed shooting stick, now a walking stick with handles,
against thebookcase. He studied the titles of the paperbacks stacked haphazardly
on the shelves.
From the kitchenette came the sound of water running into a metal pan.
Then tin on castiron. Then the hiss of gas and the flaring of a match as
it was struck; and the pop of thegas being lit.
"Many years ago," Gaspar said, taking out a copy of Moravia's
TheAdolescents
and thumbing it as he spoke, "I had a library of books, oh,thousands of
books -- never could bear to toss one out, not even the bad ones -- and
whenfolks would come to the house to visit they'd look around at all the
nooks and cranniesstuffed with books; and if they were the sort of folks
who don't snuggle with books,they'd always ask the same dumb question."
He waited a moment for a response and whennone was forthcoming (the sound
of china cups on sink tile), he said, "Guess what thequestion was."
From the kitchen, without much interest: "No idea."
"They'd always ask it with the kind of voice people use in the presence
of largesculptures in museums. They'd ask me, 'Have you read all these
books?'" He waitedagain, but Billy Kinetta was not playing the game. "Well,
young fella, after a whilethe same dumb question gets asked a million times,
you get sorta snappish about it. And itcame to annoy me more than a little
bit. Till I finally figured out the right answer.
"And you know what that answer was? Go ahead, take a guess." Billy appearedin
the kitchenette doorway.
"I suppose you told them you'd read a lot of them but not all of them."
Gaspar waved the guess away with a flapping hand. "Now what good would
that havedone? They wouldn't know they'd asked a dumb question, but I didn't
want to insult them,either. So when they'd ask if I'd read all those books,
I'd say, 'Hell, no. Who wants alibrary full of books you've already read?'"
Billy laughed despite himself. He scratched at his hair with idle pleasure,
and shookhis head at the old man's verve. "Gaspar, you are a wild old man.
You retired?"The old man walked carefully to the most comfortable chair
in the room, an overstuffedThirties-style lounger that had been reupholstered
many times before Billy Kinetta hadpurchased it at the American Cancer
Society Thrift Shop. He sank into it with a sigh."No sir, I am not by any
means retired. Still very active."
"Doing what, if I'm not prying?"
"Doing ombudsman."
"You mean, like a consumer advocate? Like Ralph Nader?"
"Exactly. I watch out for things. I listen, I pay some attention; and
if I do itright, sometimes I can even make a little difference. Yes, like
Mr. Nader. A very fineman."
"And you were at the cemetery to see a relative?"
Gaspar's face settled into an expression of loss. "My dear old girl.
My wife,Minna. She's been gone, well, it was twenty years in January. "
He sat silentlystaring inward for a while, then: "She was everything to
me. The nice part was that Iknew how important we were to each other; we
discussed, well, just
everything. Imiss that the most, telling her
what's going on.
"I go to see her every other day.
"I used to go every day. But. It. Hurt. Too much."
They had tea. Gaspar sipped and said it was very nice, but had Billy
ever tried EarlGrey? Billy said he didn't know what that was, and Gaspar
said he would bring him a tin,that it was splendid. And they chatted. Finally,
Gaspar asked, "And who were youvisiting?"
Billy pressed his lips together. "Just a friend." And would say no more.
Thenhe sighed and said, "Well, listen, I have to go to work.
"Oh? What do you do?"
The answer came slowly. As if Billy Kinetta wanted to be able to say
that he was incomputers, or owned his own business, or held a position
of import. "I'm nightmanager at a 7-Eleven."
"I'll bet you meet some fascinating people coming in late for milk or
one of thoseslushies," Gaspar said gently. He seemed to understand.
Billy smiled. He took the kindness as it was intended. "Yeah, the cream
of highsociety, That is, when they're not threatening to shoot me through
the head if I don'topen the safe."
"Let me ask you a favor," Gaspar said. "I'd like a little sanctuary,
ifyou think it's all right. just a little rest. I could lie down on the
sofa for a bit.Would that be all right? You trust me to stay here while
you're gone, young fella?"
Billy hesitated only a moment. The very old man seemed okay, not a crazy,
certainly nota thief. And what was there to steal? Some tea that wasn't
even Earl Grey?
"Sure. That'll be okay. But I won't be coming back till two A.M. So
just close thedoor behind you when you go; it'll lock automatically. "
They shook hands, Billy shrugged into his still-wet trenchcoat, and
he went to thedoor. He paused to look back at Gaspar sitting in the lengthening
shadows as evening cameon. "It was nice getting to know you, Gaspar."
"You can make that a mutual pleasure, Billy. You're a nice young fella."
And Billy went to work, alone as always.
# # # #
When he came home at two, prepared to open a can of Hormel chili, he
found the tableset for dinner, with the scent of an elegant beef stew enriching
the apartment. There werenew potatoes and stirfried carrots and zucchini
that had been lightly battered to delicatecrispness. And cupcakes. White
cake with chocolate frosting. From a bakery.
And in that way, as gently as that, Gaspar insinuated himself into Billy
Kinetta'sapartment and his life.
As they sat with tea and cupcakes, Billy said, "You don't have anyplace
to go, doyou?"
The old man smiled and made one of those deprecating movements of the
head. "Well,I'm not the sort of fella who can bear to be homeless, but
at the moment I'm whatvaudevillians used to call 'at liberty.'"
"If you want to stay on a time, that would be okay," Billy said. "It'snot
very roomy here, but we seem to get on all right."
"That's strongly kind of you, Billy. Yes, I'd like to be your roommate
for awhile. Won't be too long, though. My doctor tells me I'm not long
for this world." Hepaused, looked into the teacup, and said softly, "I
have to confess . . . I'm alittle frightened. To go. Having someone to
talk to would be a great comfort."
And Billy said, without preparation, "I was visiting the grave of a
man who was inmy rifle company in Vietnam. I go there sometimes." But there
was such pain in hiswords that Gaspar did not press him for details.
So the hours passed, as they will with or without permission, and when
Gaspar askedBilly if they could watch television, to catch an early newscast,
and Billy tuned in theold set just in time to pick up dire reports of another
aborted disarmament talk, andBilly shook his head and observed that it
wasn't only Gaspar who was frightened ofsomething like death, Gaspar chuckled,
patted Billy on the knee and said, withunassailable assurance, "Take my
word for it, Billy . . . it isn't going to happen.No nuclear holocaust.
Trust me, when I tell you this: it'll never happen. Never, never,not ever."
Billy smiled wanly. "And why not? What makes
you so sure . .
. got somespecial inside information?"
And Gaspar pulled out the magnificent timepiece, which Billy was seeing
for the firsttime, and he said, "It's not going to happen because it's
only eleven o'clock."
Billy stared at the watch, which read 11:00 precisely. He consulted
his wristwatch."Hate to tell you this, but your watch has stopped. It's
almost five-thirty."
Gaspar smiled his own certain smile. "No, it's eleven."
And they made up the sofa for the very old man, who placed his pocket
change and hisfountain pen and the sumptuous turnip watch on the now-silent
television set, and theywent to sleep.
# # # #
One day Billy went off while Gaspar was washing the lunch dishes, and
when he cameback, he had a large paper bag from Toys "R" Us.
Gaspar came out of the kitchenette rubbing a plate with a souvenir dish
towel fromNiagara Falls, New York. He stared at Billy and the bag. "What's
in the bag?"Billy inclined his head, and indicated the very old man should
join him in the middle ofthe room. Then he sat down crosslegged on the
floor, and dumped the contents of the bag.Gaspar stared with startlement,
and sat down beside him.
So for two hours they played with tiny cars that turned into robots
when the sectionswere unfolded.
Gaspar was excellent at figuring out all the permutations of the Transformers,Starriors
and CoBots. He played well.
And they went for a walk. "I'll treat you to a matinee," Gaspar said."But
no films with Karen Black, Sandy Dennis or Meryl Streep. They're always
crying.Their noses are always red. I can't stand that."
They started to cross the avenue. Stopped at the light was this year's
CadillacBrougham, vanity license plates, ten coats of acrylic lacquer and
two coats of clear (witha little retarder in the final "color coat" for
a slow dry) of a magenta hue sorich that it approximated the shade of light
shining through a decanter filled withChateau Lafite Rothschild 1945.
The man driving the Cadillac had no neck. His head sat thumped down
hard on theshoulders. He stared straight ahead, took one last deep pull
on the cigar, and threw itout the window. The still-smoking butt landed
directly in front of Gaspar as he passed thecar. The old man stopped, stared
down at this coprolitic metaphor, and then stared at thedriver. The eyes
behind the wheel, the eyes of a macaquc, did not waver from thestoplight's
red circle. just outside the window, someone was looking in, but the eyes
ofthe rhesus were on the red circle.
A line of cars stopped behind the Brougham.
Gaspar continued to stare at the man in the Cadillac for a moment, and
then, withcreaking difficulty, he bent and picked up the smoldering butt
of stogie.
The old man walked the two steps to the car -- as Billy watched in confusion
-- thrusthis face forward till it was mere inches from the driver's profile,
and said with extremesweetness, "I think you dropped this in our living
room."
And as the glazed simian eyes turned to stare directly into the pedestrian's
face,nearly nose to nose, Gaspar casually flipped the butt with its red
glowing tip, into theback seat of the Cadillac, where it began to burn
a hole in the fine Corinthian leather.
Three things happened simultaneously:
The driver let out a howl, tried to see the butt in his rearview mirror,
could not getthe angle, tried to look over his shoulder into the back seat
but without a neck could notperform that feat of agility, put the car into
neutral, opened his door and stormed intothe street trying to grab Gaspar.
"You fuckin' bastid, whaddaya think you're doin'tuh my car you asshole
bastid, I'll kill ya . . . "
Billy's hair stood on end as he saw what Gaspar was doing; he rushed
back the shortdistance in the crosswalk to grab the old man; Gaspar would
not be dragged away, stoodsmiling with unconcealed pleasure at the mad
bull rampaging and screaming of thehysterical driver. Billy yanked as hard
as he could and Gaspar began to move away, aroundthe front of the Cadillac,
toward the far curb. Still grinning with octogeneric charm.
The light changed.
These three things happened in the space of five seconds, abetted by
the impatienthonking of the cars behind the Brougham; as the light turned
green.
Screaming, dragging, honking, as the driver found he could not do three
things at once:he could not go after Gaspar while the traffic was clanging
at him; could not let go ofthe car door to crawl into the back seat from
which now came the stench of charringleather that could not be rectified
by an inexpensive Tijuana tuck-'n-roll; could not savehis back seat and
at the same time stave off the hostility of a dozen drivers cursing andhonking.
He trembled there, torn three ways, doing nothing.
Billy dragged Gaspar.
Out of the crosswalk. Out of the street. Onto the curb. Up the side
street. Into thealley. Through a backyard. To the next street from the
avenue.
Puffing with the exertion, Billy stopped at last, five houses up the
street. Gaspar wasstill grinning, chuckling softly with unconcealed pleasure
at his puckish ways. Billyturned on him with wild gesticulations and babble.
"You're
nuts!"
"How about that?" the old man said, giving Billy an affectionate poke
in thebicep.
"Nuts! Looney! That guy would've torn off your head! What the hell's
wrong withyou, old man? Are you out of your boots?"
"I'm not crazy. I'm responsible."
"Responsible!?! Re
sponsible, fer chrissakes? For what? For all
the buttsevery yotz throws into the street?"
The old man nodded. "For butts, and trash, and pollution, and toxic
waste dumpingin the dead of night; for bushes, and cactus, and the baobab
tree; for pippin apples andeven lima beans, which I despise. You show me
someone who'll eat lima beans without beingat gunpoint, I'll show you a
pervert!"
Billy was screaming. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm also responsible for dogs and cats and guppies and cockroaches
and thePresident of the United States and Jonas Salk and your mother and
the entire chorus lineat the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. Also their choreographer."
"Who do you think you are? God?"
"Don't be sacrilegious. I'm too old to wash your mouth out with laundry
soap. Ofcourse I'm not God. I'm just an old man.
But I'm responsible."
Gaspar started to walk away, toward the corner and the avenue and a
resumption of theirroute. Billy stood where the old man's words had pinned
him.
"Come on, young fella," Gaspar said, walking backward to speak to him,"we'll
miss the beginning of the movie. I hate that."
# # # #
Billy had finished eating, and they were sitting in the dimness of the
apartment, onlythe lamp in the corner lit. The old man had gone to the
County Art Museum and had boughtinexpensive prints -- Max Ernst, Gerome,
Richard Dadd, a subtle Feininger -- which he hadmounted in Insta-Frames,
They sat in silence for a time, relaxing; then murmuringtrivialities in
a pleasant undertone.
Finally, Gaspar said, "I've been thinking a lot about my dying. I like
what WoodyAllen said."
Billy slid to a more comfortable position in the lounger. "What was
that?"
"He said: I don't mind dying, I just don't want to be there when it
happens."
Billy snickered.
"I feel something like that, Billy. I'm not afraid to go, but I don't
want toleave Minna entirely. The times I spend with her, talking to her,
well, it gives me thefeeling we're still in touch. When I go, that's the
end of Minna. She'll be well and trulydead. We never had any children,
almost everyone who knew us is gone, no relatives. And wenever did anything
important that anyone would put in a record book, so that's the end ofus.
For me, I don't mind; but I wish there was someone who knew about Minna
. . .she was aremarkable person."
So Billy said, "Tell me. I'll remember for you."
# # # #
Memories in no particular order. Some as strong as ropes that could
pull the oceanashore. Some that shimmered and swayed in the faintest breeze
like spiderwebs. The entireperson, all the little movements, that dimple
that appeared when she was amused atsomething foolish he had said. Their
youth together, their love, the procession of theirdays toward middle age.
The small cheers and the pain of dreams never realized. So muchabout him,
as he spoke of her. His voice soft and warm and filled with a longing so
deepand true that he had to stop frequently because the words broke and
would not come outtill he had thought away some of the passion. He thought
of her and was glad. He hadgathered her together, all her dowry of love
and taking care of him, her clothes and theway she wore them, her favorite
knickknacks, a few clever remarks: and he packed it all upand delivered
it to a new repository.
The very old man gave Minna to Billy Kinetta for safekeeping.
# # # #
Dawn had come. The light filtering in through the blinds was saffron.
"Thank you,Dad," Billy said. He could not name the feeling that had taken
him hours earlier. Buthe said this: "I've never had to be responsible for
anything, or anyone, in my wholelife. I never belonged to anybody . . .
I don't know why. It didn't bother me, because Ididn't know any other way
to be."
Then his position changed, there in the lounger. He sat up in a way
that Gaspar thoughtwas important. As if Billy were about to open the secret
box buried at his center. AndBilly spoke so softly the old man had to strain
to hear him.
"I didn't even know him.
"We were defending the airfield at Danang. Did I tell you we were 1st
Battalion,9th Marines? Charlie was massing for a big push out of Quang
Ngai province, south of us.Looked as if they were going to try to take
the provincial capital. My rifle company wasassigned to protect the perimeter.
They kept sending in patrols to bite us. Every day we'dlose some poor bastard
who scratched his head when he shouldn't of. It was June, late inJune,
cold and a lot of rain. The foxholes were hip-deep in water.
"Flares first. Our howitzers started firing. Then the sky was full of
tracers, andI started to turn toward the bushes when I heard something
coming, and these twomain-force regulars in dark blue uniforms came toward
me. I could see them so clearly.Long black hair. All crouched over. And
they started firing. And that goddam carbineseized up, wouldn't fire; and
I pulled out the banana clip, tried to slap in another, butthey saw me
and just turned a couple of AK-47's on me . . . God, I remember everythingslowed
down . . . I looked at those things, seven-point-six-two-millimeter assault
riflesthey were . . . I got crazy for a second, tried to figure out in
my own mind if they wereRussian-made, or Chinese, or Czech, or North Korean.
And it was so bright from the flaresI could see them starting to squeeze
off the rounds, and then from out of nowhere thislance corporal jumped
out at them and yelled somedamnthing like, 'Hey, you VC fucks, lookahere!'
except it wasn't that . . . I never could recall what he said actually
. . . andthey turned to brace him . . . and they opened him up like a baggie
full of blood . . .and he was all over me, and the bushes, and oh god there
was pieces of him floating on thewater I was standing in . . . "
Billy was heaving breath with impossible weight. His hands moved in
the air before hisface without pattern or goal. He kept looking into far
corners of the dawn-lit room as ifspecial facts might present themselves
to fill out the reasons behind what he was saying.
"Aw, geezus, he was
floating on the water. . . aw, Christ,
he
got inmy boots!" Then a wail of pain so loud it blotted out the sound
of trafficbeyond the apartment; and he began to moan, but not cry; and
the moaning kept on; andGaspar came from the sofa and held him and said
such words as
it's all right, butthey might not have been those
words, or
any words.
And pressed against the old man's shoulder, Billy Kinetta ran on only
half sane:"He wasn't my friend, I never knew him, I'd never talked to him,
but I'd seen him, hewas just this guy, and there wasn't any reason to do
that, he didn't know whether I was agood guy or a shit or anything, so
why did he do that? He didn't need to do that. Theywouldn't of seen him.
He was dead before I killed them. He was gone already. I never gotto say
thank you or thank you or . . .
anything!
"Now he's in that grave, so I came here to live, so I can go there,
but I try andtry to say thank you, and he's dead, and he can't hear me,
he can't hear anything, he'sjust down there, down in the ground, and I
can't say thank you . . . oh, geezus, geezus,why don't he hear me, I just
want to say thanks . . . "
Billy Kinetta wanted to assume the responsibility for saying thanks,
but that waspossible only on a night that would never come again; and this
was the day.
Gaspar took him to the bedroom and put him down to sleep in exactly
the same way onewould soothe an old, sick dog.
Then he went to his sofa, and because it was the only thing he could
imagine saying, hemurmured, "He'll be all right, Minna. Really he will."
# # # #
When Billy left for the 7-Eleven the next evening, Gaspar was gone.
It was an alternateday, and that meant he was out at the cemetery. Billy
fretted that he shouldn't be therealone, but the old man had a way of taking
care of himself. Billy was not smiling as hethought of his friend, and
the word
friend echoed as he realized that, yes, thiswas his friend,
truly and really his friend. He wondered how old Gaspar was, and how soonBilly
Kinetta would be once again what he had always been: alone.
When he returned to the apartment at two-thirty, Gaspar was asleep,
cocooned in hisblanket on the sofa. Billy went in and tried to sleep, but
hours later, when sleep wouldnot come, when thoughts of murky water and
calcium night light on dark foliage kept himstaring at the bedroom ceiling,
he came out of the room for a drink of water. He wanderedaround the living
room, not wanting to be by himself even if the only companionship inthis
sleepless night was breathing heavily, himself in sleep.
He stared out the window. Clouds lay in chiffon strips across the sky.
The squealing oftires from the street.
Sighing, idle in his movement around the room, he saw the old man's
pocket watch lyingon the coffee table beside the sofa. He walked to the
table. If the watch was stillstopped at eleven o'clock, perhaps he would
borrow it and have it repaired. It would be anice thing to do for Gaspar.
He loved that beautiful timepiece.
Billy bent to pick it up.
The watch, stopped at the V of eleven precisely, levitated at an angle,
floating awayfrom him.
Billy Kinetta felt a shiver travel down his back to burrow in at the
base of his spine.He reached for the watch hanging in air before him. It
floated away just enough that hisfingers massaged empty space. He tried
to catch it. The watch eluded him, lazily turningaway like an opponent
who knows he is in no danger of being struck from behind.
Then Billy realized Gaspar was awake. Turned away from the sofa, nonetheless
he knewthe old man was observing him. And the blissful floating watch.
He looked at Gaspar.
They did not speak for a long time.
Then: "I'm going back to sleep," Billy said. Quietly.
"I think you have some questions," Gaspar replied.
"Questions? No, of course not, Dad. Why in the world would I have questions?
I'mstill asleep." But that was not the truth, because he had not been asleep
that night.
"Do you know what 'Gaspar' means? Do you remember the three wise men
of the Bible,the Magi?"
"I don't want any frankincense and myrrh. I'm going back to bed. I'm
going now.You see, I'm going right now."
"'Gaspar' means master of the treasure, keeper of the secrets, paladin
of thepalace." Billy was staring at him, not walking into the bedroom;
just staring at him.As the elegant timepiece floated to the old man, who
extended his hand palm-up to receiveit. The watch nestled in his hand,
unmoving, and it made no sound, no sound at all.
"You go back to bed. But will you go out to the cemetery with me tomorrow?
It'simportant."
"Why?"
"Because I believe I'll be dying tomorrow."
# # # #
It was a nice day, cool and clear. Not at all a day for dying, but neither
had beenmany such days in Southeast Asia, and death had not been deterred.
They stood at Minna's gravesite, and Gaspar opened his shooting stick
to form a seat,and he thrust the spike into the ground, and he settled
onto it, and sighed, and said toBilly Kinetta, "I'm growing cold as that
stone."
"Do you want my jacket?"
"No. I'm cold inside." He looked around at the sky, at the grass, at
the rowsof markers. "I've been responsible, for all of this, and more."
"You've said that before."
"Young fella, are you by any chance familiar, in your reading, with
an old novelby James Hilton called
Lost Horizon? Perhaps you saw
the movie. It was awonderful movie, actually much better than the book.
Mr. Capra's greatest achievement. Ahuman testament. Ronald Colman was superb.
Do you know the story?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember the High Lama, played by Sam Jaffe? His name was FatherPerrault?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember how he passed on the caretakership of that magical
hidden world,Shangri-La, to Ronald Colman?"
"Yes, I remember that. " Billy paused. "Then he died. He was very old,and
he died."
Gaspar smiled up at Billy. "Very good, Billy. I knew you were a good
boy. So now,if you remember all that, may I tell you a story? It's not
a very long story."
Billy nodded, smiling at his friend.
"In 1582 Pope Gregory XIII decreed that the civilized world would no
longerobserve the Julian calendar. October 4th, 1582 was followed, the
next day, by October15th. Eleven days vanished from the world. One hundred
and seventy days later, the BritishParliament followed suit, and September
2nd, 1752 was followed, the next day, by September14th. Why did he do that,
the Pope?"
Billy was bewildered by the conversation. "Because he was bringing it
into synchwith the real world. The solstices and equinoxes. When to plant,
when to harvest."
Gaspar waggled a finger at him with pleasure. "Excellent, young fella.
And you'recorrect when you say Gregory abolished the Julian calendar because
its error of one day inevery one hundred and twenty-eight years had moved
the vernal equinox to March 11th.That's what the history books say. It's
what
every history book says. But whatif?"
"What if
what? I don't know what you're talking about."
"What if: Pope Gregory had the knowledge revealed to him that he must
readjusttime in the minds of men? What if: the excess time in 1582. was
eleven days and one hour?What if: he accounted for those eleven days, vanished
those eleven days, but that one hourslipped free, was left loose to bounce
through eternity? A very special hour . . .an hourthat must
never
be used . . . an hour that must never toll. What if?"
Billy spread his hands. "What if, what if, what if! It's all just philosophy.
Itdoesn't mean anything. Hours aren't real, time isn't something that you
can bottle up. Sowhat if there is an hour out there somewhere that . .
. "
And he stopped.
He grew tense, and leaned down to the old man. "The watch. Your watch.
It doesn'twork. It's stopped."
Gaspar nodded. "At eleven o'clock. My watch works; it keeps very special
time, forone very special hour."
Billy touched Gaspar's shoulder. Carefully he asked, "Who are you, Dad?"
The old man did not smile as he said, "Gaspar. Keeper. Paladin. Guardian."
"Father Perrault was hundreds of years old."
Gaspar shook his head with a wistful expression on his old face. "I'm
eighty-sixyears old, Billy. You asked me if I thought I was God. Not God,
not Father Perrault, notan immortal, just an old man who will die too soon.
Are you Ronald Colman?"
Billy nervously touched his lower lip with a finger. He looked at Gaspar
as long as hecould, then turned away. He walked off a few paces, stared
at the barren trees. It seemedsuddenly much chillier here in this place
of entombed remembrances. From a distance hesaid, "But it's only ... what?
A chronological convenience. Like daylight savingtime; Spring forward,
Fall back. We don't actually lose an hour; we get it back."
Gaspar stared at Minna's grave. "At the end of April I lost an hour.
If I die now,I'll die an hour short in my life. I'll have been cheated
out of one hour I want,Billy." He swayed toward all he had left of Minna.
"One last hour I could havewith my old girl. That's what I'm afraid of,
Billy. I have that hour in my possession. I'mafraid I'll use it, god help
me, I want so much to use it."
Billy came to him. Tense, and chilled, he said "Why must that hour nevertoll?"
Gaspar drew a deep breath and tore his eyes away from the grave. His
gaze locked withBilly's. And he told him.
The years, all the days and hours, exist. As solid and as real as mountains
and oceansand men and women and the baobab tree. Look, he said, at the
lines in my face and denythat time is real. Consider these dead weeds that
were once alive and try to believe it'sall just vapor or the mutual agreement
of Popes and Caesars and young men like you.
"The lost hour must never come, Billy, for in that hour it all ends.
The light,the wind, the stars, this magnificent open place we call the
universe. It all ends, and inits place -- waiting, always waiting -- is
eternal darkness. No new beginnings, no worldwithout end, just the infinite
emptiness."
And he opened his hand, which had been lying in his lap, and there,
in his palm, restedthe watch, making no sound at all, and stopped dead
at eleven o'clock. "Should itstrike twelve, Billy, eternal night falls;
from which there is no recall."
There he sat, this very old man, just a perfectly normal old man. The
most recent inthe endless chain of keepers of the lost hour, descended
in possession from Caesar andPope Gregory XIII, down through the centuries
of men and women who had served ascaretakers of the excellent timepiece.
And now he was dying, and now he wanted to cling tolife as every man and
woman clings to life no matter how awful or painful or empty, evenif it
is for one more hour. The suicide, failing from the bridge, at the final
instant,tries to fly, tries to climb back up the sky. This weary old man,
who only wanted to stayone brief hour more with Minna. Who was afraid that
his love would cost the universe.
He looked at Billy, and he extended his hand with the watch waiting
for its nextpaladin. So softly Billy could barely hear him, knowing that
he was denying himself whathe most wanted at this last place in his life,
he whispered, "If I die withoutpassing it on . . . it will begin to tick."
"Not me," Billy said. "Why did you pick me? I'm no one special. I'm
notsomeone like you. I run an all-night service mart. There's nothing special
about me theway there is about you! I'm not Ronald Colman! I don't want
to be responsible, I've
neverbeen responsible!"
Gaspar smiled gently. "You've been responsible for me."
Billy's rage vanished. He looked wounded.
"Look at us, Billy. Look at what color you are; and look at what color
I am. Youtook me in as a friend. I think of you as worthy, Billy. Worthy."
They remained there that way, in silence, as the wind rose. And finally,
in a timelesstime, Billy nodded.
Then the young man said, "You won't be losing Minna, Dad. Now you'll
go to theplace where she's been waiting for you, just as she was when you
first met her. There's aplace where we find everything we've ever lost
through the years."
"That's good, Billy, that you tell me that. I'd like to believe it,
too. But I'm apragmatist. I believe what exists . . . like rain and Minna's
grave and the hours thatpass that we can't see, but they
are. I'm
afraid, Billy. I'm afraid this will bethe last time I can speak to her.
So I ask a favor. As payment, in return for my lifespent protecting the
watch.
"I ask for one minute of the hour, Billy. One minute to call her back,
so we canstand face-to-face and I can touch her and say goodbye. You'll
be the new protector ofthis watch, Billy, so I ask you please, just let
me steal one minute."
Billy could not speak. The look on Gaspar's face was without horizon,
empty as tundra,bottomless. The child left alone in darkness; the pain
of eternal waiting. He knew hecould never deny this old man, no matter
what he asked, and in the silence he heard avoice say: "
No!" And
it was his own.
He had spoken without conscious volition. Strong and determined, and
without theslightest room for reversal. If a part of his heart had been
swayed by compassion, thatpart had been instantly overridden. No. A final,
unshakable no.
For an instant Gaspar looked crestfallen. His eyes clouded with tears;
and Billy feltsomething twist and break within himself at the sight. He
knew he had hurt the old man.Quickly, but softly, he said urgently, "You
know that would be wrong, Dad. We mustn't. . . "
Gaspar said nothing. Then he reached out with his free hand and took
Billy's. It was anaffectionate touch. "That was the last test, young fella.
Oh, you know I've beentesting you, don't you? This important item couldn't
go to just anyone.
"And you passed the test, my friend: my last, best friend. When I said
I couldbring her back from where she's gone, here in this place we've both
come to so often, totalk to someone lost to us, I knew you would understand
that
anyone could bebrought back in that stolen minute. I knew you
wouldn't use it for yourself, no matter howmuch you wanted it; but I wasn't
sure that as much as you like me, it might not sway you.But you wouldn't
even give it to
me, Billy."
He smiled up at him, his eyes now clear and steady.
"I'm content, Billy. You needn't have worried. Minna and I don't need
that minute.But if you're to carry on for me, I think you do need it. You're
in pain, and that's nogood for someone who carries this watch. You've got
to heal, Billy.
"So I give you something you would never take for yourself. I give you
agoing-away present . . ."
And he started the watch, whose ticking was as loud and as clear as
a baby's firstsound; and the sweep-second hand began to move away from
eleven o'clock.
Then the wind rose, and the sky seemed to cloud over, and it grew colder,
with aremarkable silver-blue mist that rolled across the cemetery; and
though he did not see itemerge from that grave at a distance far to the
right, Billy Kinetta saw a shape movetoward him. A soldier in the uniform
of a day past, and his rank was Lance Corporal. Hecame toward Billy Kinetta,
and Billy went to meet him as Gaspar watched.
They stood together and Billy spoke to him. And the man whose name Billy
had neverknown when he was alive, answered. And then he faded, as the seconds
ticked away. Faded,and faded, and was gone. And the silver-blue mist rolled
through them, and past them, andwas gone; and the soldier was gone.
Billy stood alone.
When he turned back to look across the grounds to his friend, he saw
that Gaspar hadfallen from the shooting stick. He lay on the ground. Billy
rushed to him, and fell to hisknees and lifted him onto his lap. Gaspar
was still.
"Oh, god, Dad, you should have heard what he said. Oh, geez, he let
me go. He letme go so I didn't even have to say I was sorry. He told me
he didn't even
see mein that foxhole. He never knew he'd saved my
life. I said thank you and he said no, thank
you,that he hadn't
died for nothing. Oh, please, Dad, please don't be dead yet. I want to
tellyou . . . "
And, as it sometimes happens, rarely but wonderfully, sometimes they
come back for amoment, for an instant before they go, the old man, the
very old man, opened his eyes,just before going on his way, and he looked
through the dimming light at his friend, andhe said, "May I remember you
to my old girl, Billy?"
And his eyes closed again, after only a moment; and his caretakership
was at an end; ashis hand opened and the most excellent timepiece, now
stopped again at one minute pasteleven, floated from his palm and waited
till Billy Kinetta extended his hand; and then itfloated down and lay there
silently, making no sound, no sound at all. Safe. Protected.
There in the place where all lost things returned, the young man sat
on the coldground, rocking the body of his friend. And he was in no hurry
to leave. There was time.
# # # #
Like a wind crying endlessly through the universe, Timecarries away
the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. Andall that
we were, all that remains, is in the memories of those who caredwe came
this way for a brief moment.
A blessing of the 18th Egyptian Dynasty:
God be between you and harm in
all the empty places you walk.
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