I can remember just one other incident. Gwen snorted something about Hitler’s having been a great dancer, which, she explained, was a line from Mel Brooks’ movie The Producers. I had not seen it, nor had Wallace. But he took exception to Gwen’s insouciance. Indifferent to him, Gwen was hitting her usual cutting stride and was swaggering full tilt, certainly by the end of that long evening. I was, as I noted, reassured. And yes, Roger, I believe, did finally get to Gwen, at least he annoyed her, but I cannot remember how. Perhaps it is true, as Gwen often asserted, that I never remember the truly vicious moments. If so, I am a lucky man. Indeed today I am content. Human beings have no real memory of physical pain, I believe, yet psychical pain can plague one. Perhaps I am one of those happy few who can wipe clean from my fleshy slate even traces of nonphysical, verbal abuse.
I finish my notes of regret, and call again for Yannis, who takes them from me with a brazen nonchalance. I refuse to acknowledge his disrespect and ask him to hand-deliver them. Letters of regret — though what’s being regretted I’m not sure. No one will care. Had there been a party there could have been regret. There could have been all manner of trouble, given that confluence and cast of characters. It will come, the party, its stickiness, its aftermath; but it will not have come now or when it was expected to have come. It will have been delayed. The future perfect — plus perfect? — is an interesting condition, a tense little delved into. The future is not of course perfect. And in the notes I haven’t let on what I’m about to do; I have let that hang mysteriously — they would expect as much from me, I am famous for this kind of thing. It’s all in character, they will say. I have written that I will reschedule the party and, indeed, I will, when I return. No one will care. Perhaps Alicia will. She’ll be most curious. But I don’t have time to visit her to explain. And besides, John is ensconced in her house and I cannot possibly let him know my plan, for surely he’ll want to accompany me, even though Gwen said he cares not a fig about Helen. I don’t entirely believe Gwen, or rather, I am not certain that her interpretation of John, or his interpretation of Helen, is accurate. I am in fact entirely suspicious and dubious. He could have been pillow-talking.
The truth, the ugly truth, is that one can only surmise and approximate, without any exactitude, what even one’s very best friend bases his or her analyses upon. Conversation is the least propitious way to discover the truth. It is uncontrollable. Why do we do it? Why do I do it? One says it’s only talk, but in fact I think talk is dangerous. vernacularly speaking, I get into more trouble talking than by doing anything else. Others have great adventures; I merely speak. That’s the long and short of it, as my father would say. He was, conversationally, the short of it. Linguists theorize about the human need to communicate, the creativity of human beings in daily speech and language, and about the inventiveness of language, all of which clarifies and elaborates upon the idiom “talking for the sake of talking.” Talk is neither simple nor obvious. Human beings are perverse and complex. We can lie. We can be mistaken. One would never accuse an ape of being mistaken. Sometimes, when I am in the midst of one of those human inventions, I cannot imagine what it is that is being communicated. Although I can well believe that it has all been created on the spot. It cannot be controlled, can it?
Several papers spill off the bed and onto the floor — I have small bundles of paper as well as books at the foot of my bed, but I can assure one and all that I am not deranged and horribly messy like the eccentric Collier brothers. A lone sheet finds its way from its obscure position under the pile to the top, to visibility; it is something I wrote which I haven’t looked at in a long time.
Roger is an uncontrollable character. His ability to concoct, to invent, ought to become legend, for nothing else about him will live on. Or I suppose that might be said about me. Yet at least I’ve published more than one book, even if under a pseudonym. We like to say — Alicia and I — that he is a parvenu who pooped. I will make Roger known (isn’t this the rationale authors always offer to their “subjects” when they commit them to print?), but I will not give him feats of daring and derring-do. I will present him as he is, warts and all, just as Chaucer presented the Wife of Bath.
It is astonishing — appalling — to me that I could have written such nonsense. What was I thinking about? Still, I like the coincidence of its appearance, as its theme, about what can be controlled, aligns with my present contemplations. But I must cease contemplating, if that is what I may name these idlings, and get started. As usual I am temporizing. May I permit myself, with good humor, of course, an allusion to Hamlet?
I have to tell Yannis what I intend to do and why I am venturing off. He will never understand. Should I ask him to accompany me? How can I explain my trip to him? I think I should ask him to come. He can say no, but at least he’ll have been invited. I haven’t been attentive to him lately and that is wrong. Last night he sat nearby, in his usual position, but seemed more aggrieved than ever. Roger and he cast each other the occasional furious glance. I don’t want to hurt Yannis. But in truth, I don’t want him with me. I need to be alone. It is something I must do by myself.
I get out of bed and move around the room in a flurry of impotent activity. I am confused. I am enormously excited and anxious. I feel happy. Eager and expectant, like a young bride, I am about to go where I’ve never traveled before, and truly it seems like an adventure of the sort a young person might embark upon. This may seem silly but, for an instant, as I prance about the room, I remind myself of Alastair Sim playing Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. The Scrooge who has renounced his mean ways. I feel alive in a way I haven’t in years, even more filled with vitality than I was when I went to Helen’s house the other day. Was it just the other day?
There are things to do. I have a mission. I march to my desk to make a list. Food, clothes, money, the necessities, I write these words down with a flourish, with determination. And as if doing automatic writing a sentence occurs to me, and I write it as well, for it may come in handy for Stan Green, if not for me: Curiosity and fear are partners in crime.
And then yet another thought rushes in, as if to fill the space vacated by the previous thought, which, once written down, can be forgotten. But this set of words is more complicated and not merely a decent or provocative sentence. Why it comes to me, I don’t know. Gwen may have told me it: In 1896, when dyslexia was discovered, the disease was called word blindness.
I write word blindness in capital letters. It seems to have something to do with my peculiar dream, whose oblique effects have not completely left me. Household Gods is to be in four parts, and I could not read some of the words in the dream. I may be suffering from word blindness. If one is dyslexic, one has difficulty reading, because one flips letters upside down or reads backward, and so on. Perhaps my book is back to front. Perhaps the last comes first. More generally, of course, it could mean that I am not seeing something I ought to see. Some speak of spiritual blindness, I could be afflicted with word blindness. Didn’t I emit the words, My word! My word! to Roger when he came up to Gwen and me? How does that fit? The dream was definitely ominous. Perhaps I oughtn’t drive to the south. Practically speaking, what if I can’t read the road signs? I add to my list: sunglasses! At least my humor is intact.