It took me a while, but in the subbasement I found Yulia’s book, Gender Dander: Reproductive Strategies of Extinct Pollens. I read the first paragraph, and though the writing was certainly stimulating on an intellectual level, the words lacked voice and rhythm, that ineffable thing I referred to as “it.” Of course, it must be noted that English was her adopted language. On the back flap I found the author photo. Here was a Yulia from many years ago, a bit fresher of face perhaps, but no more beautiful than today. In the picture, she leaned against a giant Russian computer, tape reels spinning. Her hair was trimmed in a wild bob, the frizz of which stood nearly sideways. Her neck shone sleeker with shorter hair, more articulate, and her eye shadow was perestroika-blue. I’ve never been much of a breast man, but one couldn’t help being impressed with the way they were outlined by the casual drape of her lab coat.
I affirm here my great respect for books, research materials, and libraries, yet I had no choice but to tear that photo out and slip it in my pocket.
Rummaging further through the stacks, I made, by chance, a surprise discovery: a copy of The Depletionists stared down from a high shelf. A wave of panic ran through me. Only the most obscure research libraries had purchased editions of my book, which meant this copy had to have been a donation from someone who’d attended my one local book-signing, held years ago in the annex of USSD’s audiovisual department. But who had pawned my book upon the prison library? Who had abandoned my words to criminals? If inside there was an inscription to my father or a label that read Ex Libris Peabody, I wouldn’t be able to go on.
I opened the spine, which complained all the way. The loan card was blank — never been checked out. On the title page, there was an inscription. In my own handwriting, it read, “Laura — may this humble tale of the indomitable spirit of humanity inspire you to chase your own dreams, whatever size they may be.” In a script both bold and flourished, I’d signed it “Yours, yours, yours — Hank ‘The King of Spades’ Hannah.”
Still, the book was a rare find. Few were printed, and too, too few made it into the hands of the general public, exactly the people who needed it. The common people were the readers I dreamed of when I wrote the thing, people who’d talk about it at their local coffee shops and town-hall forums. I wondered, how many times did the blind of the Dakotas get to hear works read by their authors? Who else could fully interpret the nuances and inflections of my prose? Who else knew the thesis of the sequel? What other reader had twenty-seven boxes of supplementary material to the books they aired?
Book in hand, photo in pocket, I stopped by the Warden’s Residence on the way back to the dorm. Discovering The Depletionists had inspired me to try a little flint-knapping, and I remembered all the mineral samples here. I had some time to kill until Farley cleared up the legal mess surrounding the ridiculous charges against me. By making a few spear points, at least I could pretend I was still a scientist. Kicking around in the snow for a nice piece of chert, I found a hunk about the size of a melon. Using everything I had in me, I hefted a meteorite high above my head, and if you ever want to feel the engine of the universe, send a meteor smashing down on a chert core, the slivers of which you’ll later chip into razor-sharp Stone Age knives.
When I reached my dorm room, a strange visitor was waiting. He wore pleated khakis and a mint-green turtleneck, probably cashmere, over which he sported a fleece jacket. His hair was trimmed in a crisp buzz cut, and his feet were clad in flashy new tennis shoes. I had a strange feeling he was a former student. I confess I didn’t always read my students’ final projects, so I was nervous whenever they approached me — often they wanted to talk about lame papers from years ago. I walked past this young person, as if to grab a glass of water. When he followed me into the common area, I knew he’d been a student. He caught me at the sink and delivered this cryptic message:
“They’ve opened the other one,” he said.
At the sound of his voice, I was sure I knew him. I looked at his watch, which was pretty sharp, one of those titanium self-winding models, and I studied the small hoop in his ear. But they didn’t strike any notes of recognition. I noticed his fingernails were speckled white from mineral deficiencies. His jaw was clean-shaven, his eyeglasses were new and hip, but his skin was weathered, and no barber can trim off ringworm.
“Eggers?” I asked. “Is that you?”
Eggers did a slow turn to show himself off.
“What do you think, Dr. Hannah?” he asked. “I mean, check me out.” He hopped on one foot, to show me a sneaker. “Nikes, my man. These are freakin’ Nikes. I’m walking on pillows here. I’m strolling through clouds. No more broken toes. Goodbye, festering nails.”
More than just the clothes had changed. His whole demeanor was different, as if he’d traded in cool and capable for cocky and posturing. I tried to remember that quiet, earnest kid who once sat in the back of my classes, asking no questions. Where was the solemn young man who, in the doorway of my office one afternoon, looked more as if he wanted to propose Jesus to me than living on Paleolithic technology for a year?
“My word,” I told him, “I can’t believe it’s you.”
“Watch this,” Eggers said. He jogged in place to demonstrate his sneakers. “You can’t believe the instep on these things. My arches are singing.”
In the face of absurdity, practicality took hold. I said, “You aren’t going to wear those in the snow, are you? You’ll freeze your feet off.”
“You thought those leather booties were warm?” he asked. “The doc says they’re why I don’t exactly feel my extremities so well. That and a minor case of rickets. Let’s see him find sources of vitamin C in the winter. Compared with my dentist’s to-do list, though, the rickets is small potatoes. All that orthodontia, all those years in braces — shot to hell.”
“Who are they,” I asked Eggers, “and what have they opened?”
Eggers checked his watch. “Okay,” he said, “more about the dentist later. Now it’s time to turn on the TV.”
He grabbed the remote control and hopped over the back of the couch, landing on a stack of cushions. Sprawled so, he flipped through the channels. With a haircut and a trip to the dentist, this could be Keno, I thought. In my lectures, I tried to impart a sense of connection to the peoples of antiquity, a sense of the humanity that underlies the very notion of anthropology. But there’s no substitute for direct observation. It was clear that, given a polo shirt and a pair of sunglasses, Keno could ride the Dragon at Glacier Days, throw some blackjack at the Thunderbird, then book a flight for Florida and just slip away into America.