The Second Law of Dying

By Geoff Laundy

Long ago his mother had routinely cleaned the windows of the family home to invisibility. But the glass had shut him away nevertheless, a fading print of a boy, a creature as flat and boneless as the paper animals taped on the plaster. The symptoms of chronic disease had excluded him from the world outside-and the world inside, created from books piled high in the sickroom provided small compensation for his expected death. Only the vast histories of human conflict were a consolation. His reading and rereading of them intensified the enmity that nourished his remaining strength. Or that's what he chose to remember as he looked down on the quiet street below.

In The Second Law of Dying, the ghostly presence of Nobel laureate Dr. Albert Schweitzer lays out the map of moral choices for Dr. Hugo Haultain as he grinds his way through the abyss of degradation that poisons his life. Across several continents and ending in Schweitzer's remote African hospital, varying and inevitable circumstances give the notorious and depleted Dr. Haultain the daily option of turning violently on the world-or not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 19, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595807703

Geoff Laundy

Geoff Laundy was born in Victoria, BC, and lived for years in the northern wilderness of Canada. Geoff currently divides his time between Victoria and San Diego, California.

Book preview

Chapter II

Ghost

On his way across the town to locate his estranged Uncle Korrolus, the former and determined Dr. Haultain appreciated the fact that trees along the boulevard had the intense green of leaves newly unfurled: fresh, young, and themselves feeling immortal, as does all life at the heart of the continent when spring comes and the thought of next winter is unbearable. He drove beneath these well-nourished trees until his own hunger was a grating discomfort; then, with a newspaper tucked under his arm he marched into the first restaurant on the block.

The place specialized in Salisbury steak. He ordered one and checked the Rooms section of the classifieds. Nothing appealed to him so he walked down the street to stretch his legs. The wind picked up—or more accurately, it resumed its usual pace over the flat land, and with this pressure retarding his progress he had the feeling that something else might give him a better sense of his own bearings. He passed a bookstore and glanced at a cover showing villages in Tuscany. A block down he looked into the window of a store that sold Bibles. On the door was a small bulletin board and on it a card that said, Room to let. Good Christian gentleman. Non smoker. He stamped out his cigarette, bought a map of the city, and went to the listed address.

I’ve studied some theology, he said. Then you’ll be suitable, replied the lady whose mottled skin closely matched the doilies on her velveteen furniture, and let him have the room for a reasonable price. When he went to take his leather case into the hallway, he noticed a portrait of Dr. Albert Schweitzer on the end wall.

How do you know about this man? he asked the landlady.

I contribute to charity and do what I can for the hospital in Africa. One day I’ll have read all his writings, you know. On your way out the front door you can read the quotation I’ve hung there.

When he left the house for the first time, Hugo stood in front of the plaque with his feet together, his hands stiffly by his side in the posture of military attention, and read the words engraved on the brass:

Greco-Oriental piety, Plato, the mystery religions and the Gnostics, all alike say to man: Free thyself from the world! Jesus says: Get free from the world in order to work in this world in the spirit and in the love of God, till God transplants you into another, more perfect world." [Christianity, p. 15]

What does this mean, madame? he said loudly down the hall to where Phyllis was baking in the kitchen.

It means do your duty, Mr. Haultain.

The next day he looked in the phone book and found a gym close by. The young woman at the counter of Fulbright’s Muscle Mecca offered him a free pass. You look like you’re in pretty good shape, she said. You won’t need much instruction to get started.

Hugo leaned on the counter. I’ve been hard at for a little while. Haven’t had much to drink in weeks. A healthy life improves appearances, don’t you think?

She pointed at his arms. You’ve been at it for more than six months.

A bit longer, perhaps...did you say your name was Mary?

I didn’t say what my name was.

That’s right, you didn’t. May I ask what it is?

Dido.

He took the enrollment card from her and completed it. I was going to start today, Dido, but I have things to do. You’re quite right by the way, he said after setting the pen down. Like the brain, muscle grows slowly. The truth is, I’ve been at it since I was a baby in diapers and had tiny little weights in the crib. The young woman shook her head and giggled.

On the third day following this visit, Hugo went to Fulbright’s gym and settled into the monotonous rhythms of lifting. The boredom of exercise was a thing he had always felt comfortable with because it provided him the longest uninterrupted time to think about his direction. On this occasion, he felt content with the altered journey. Books in the sickroom had taught him that excitement grew in unexpected places. He looked through the window, at the flatness of the land with only sky to see and a thin wedge of earth underneath, less in every way than his boyhood home on the terraced mountain that rose abruptly from the incomparable ocean. Yet he thought that the wisdom of books notwithstanding, it would be unlikely that this dull place offered him a diversion other than a sweep of dry, level ground.

Lowering the barbell gently onto the mat, he looked in the mirror, at his mouth, which was temporarily shut. It was a certainty to him that outspokenness was a trait inherited from his father. His mother, Corrine, although beautiful, had been a quiet person who seldom spoke out of turn or did much else to escape the heavy burden of Herr Muir’s company. Hugo looked away from the mirror. Dido sat on a red vinyl bench and watched him. She held a clipboard, made marks on a sheet, and said, You never finished telling me the reason you started to work out at such a young age, being a baby with dumbbells in the crib—a story I don’t believe, by the way.

Hugo didn’t answer, but picked up a towel from the bench and wiped his brow. He faced the row of mirrors and circled his arms up and over his head. The large blood vessels of his arms and shoulders pressed through the skin. My apologies for the delay in answering your skeptical question, Dido. But the warm-up had to come first. Then the talk. He put his head up in an attitude of contemplation. My tutor taught me that little snippet. ‘When confronted with labor, with a challenge, or some grave danger,’ he would often say, ‘always prepare yourself first. This effort must include your brain as well...and all must be announced with a smile.’ My tutor seldom had a pleasant look on his own mug but insisted that smiling was a potent weapon.

Why did you have a tutor? she asked.

Because I didn’t go to school.

Why?

Hugo looked at her with no impatience in his manner for her prying queries. I was a wheezing runt, a sickly child. Nothing in my body worked. I couldn’t leave the bed for years, and when I eventually did, I was so weak I’d groan just lifting the lid on the piano bench. That always gave Conrad an opportunity to laugh.

Conrad was your tutor?

Yes. Conrad Muir was his name. I had, and still have, a grudging admiration for him. Only once did he claim to be my father. At first my mother frowned at that but later nodded her assent. I took that to mean he was at least a close relative, perhaps my father, because one never knows. There was never a discussion concerning the family tree.

With Dido watching, Hugo completed two more sets, put the dumbbells on the rack and wiped the sweat off his shoulders. But I had no doubts about his person, he said, sitting next to her. His teeth were crumbling and black with rot. It was bearable if he’d just had a puff outside before entering the sickroom. The smoke that reeked in his clothes would then cover up the stench. If he didn’t I made sure to breathe through my mouth, which made things worse for my condition. Conrad said it was a miracle I was alive but would probably die soon. He took a drink of water from a bottle and looked at her.

She frowned back. How could anyone say that to a little kid?

Oh, I wasn’t little, really. More like a wizened old man.There’s nothing to be pitied here. Even a cripple can accept death as a struggle with the devil.

Dido changed her frown to a half smile, shook her head, and said, This is all bullshit, of course.

Of course, but it’s sincere.

How can you have ‘sincere’ bullshit?

Hugo removed a large bar from the upright rack, slid some plates onto it and shrugged his shoulders. Good question. But never mind. Conrad taught me that the greatest asset one can have is the gift of entertaining people with a good story.

Dido hung her head down so that Hugo wouldn’t see her laughing. He looked at her seriously and continued. Did I say your name right? ‘Dido.’ Let me see, that has significance. The well-informed old Muir would say, ‘North Africa. Dido, Queen of Carthage. Killed herself when jilted by a prince.’ It’s always the princes that get the action don’t you think? Royalty are privileged in that respect. Anyway, Conrad Muir wasn’t royalty but he seemed a well-connected man. But you were asking, ‘Why did I work out?’You were skeptical just now of my claims concerning childhood.

Hugo did two more sets of presses in silence, then replaced the plates on the stand and the bar on the rack. He breathed deeply and shook his head. I don’t think I can say anymore today, Dido. It gives me a churning feeling in my stomach to contemplate the past. But tomorrow when I come back and register full time in your gym, we’ll have to resume our conversation.

Outside the building, Hugo stood for a time watching the clouds scatter along the line of the horizon. He thought the flatness gave the illusion of freedom, or at least the absence of barriers. On the plains there were no rocks to buttress the seawater. There was no seawater. Conrad, if he were here, would be asking the question of why he was on the wrong side of the window, still pretending to be the aristocratic Prince Eugene from the second chapter of War and Peace...a difficult task with the sickroom door ajar, admitting the smell of turnips and corned beef cooked by his lonely, neglected mother. Hugo steadied himself on the fender of his old green car and thought that with the barren plains providing no restraints to anything, he better be getting on with his existence.

At the Catholic home he took out the phone book and turned to the K’s but found no Allan Korrolus. He turned to Chandlery in the yellow pages, found Korrolus’ Boat Yard and wrote down the address. He dressed and had the meal prepared by Phyllis, who, he noticed, had a sour smell to her. But he admired her conciliatory attitude, as if she was comfortable with her limitations.

Do you read much, Hugo? she asked.

Not much, Phyllis. But I have my favorites. One issue of Sports Illustrated I’ve read one hundred and ninety-four times now.

Doesn’t it get boring?

Not in the least. I’m just now beginning to appreciate the 1958 championship game, the sideline passes Johnny Unitas threw to Raymond Berry to stop the clock, then Alan Ameche sliding off tackle for the ten-yard run that won the game for the Colts. I never get bored reading that.

I’d have thought being a Christian man you’d be reading your Bible.

Once a year I read it all the way through. Only takes me a day or two.

Really. You must be a fast reader.

I took the sped reading course.

You mean ‘speed’ reading?

Yes, but in the past tense, like ‘I sped through the Bible last year, like I sped through it the year before and the year before that’. Phyllis hurriedly cleared away the dishes and went into the front room to vacuum. Hugo went to his car.

It was always a comfort for Hugo to slide into the front seat of his 1950 Pontiac and get it rolling down the road. On this afternoon, however, it was not a matter of silly, adolescent cruising through any of a dozen former neighborhoods, looking for women. He had to get on with locating Allan Korrolus. The river and the boatyards had just showed through the boulevard trees when a loud grinding caused him to pull over to the side of the road with a flat tire. He got out, opened the trunk, and stared in.

Next to a tire that resembled a swollen piece of intestine were four cases of beer, boxes full of books, and his leather case, items he believed were appropriate decor for a future home. He looked at the volume on the top of the first box: Sayonara. He liked the word. Loosely translated it meant good-bye or possibly piss off, being sentiments that Dido would express to him soon enough. He dug underneath the first layer and pulled out All Quiet on the Western Front. Feeling in no hurry, he read again the first page and reconsidered the First Great War, the impossible scope of killing and enormous brutality. He thought what fun the planet must have been then, and most likely still was, when you take into account the red-rose color of blood and violent world events. Then he felt a troublesome prod that he should continue looking for the captain’s chandlery shop. The numbers on the buildings suggested he might be close, but that in turn reminded him to look for a jack and a wheel wrench because his car was still only half off the road. He emptied the trunk and found neither.

The Pontiac was stopped behind a tall fence. On the other side he could see masts showing above the top rail and smell lead paint and epoxy. He walked down a short macadam drive. The dampness of the adjacent river cooled his skin. The water level was low and the shoreline had a dozen boats held up with cradles of beams and wedges. He took twenty minutes to walk to the south end of the yard and back. He saw no one. On the street side, one shop had no sign and windows grimy with dust. He wiped a clean patch, then put his face to the glass. Inside was nothing recognizable except a board printed with the words Korrolus’ Boat Yard, and on the wall opposite a framed portrait of a man with white hair and a bushy moustache.

The door was locked so he went back towards the river, weaving amongst the hulls that were being stripped and repainted, recalling as he went that Muir never tired of describing the boatyard in Magdala next to the Sea of Galilee and in it the young shipwright Jesus, who was so skilled with his hands that the boats he built never leaked a drop. He had never gotten the gist of the story beyond the obvious, and this time made no attempt to square the motives of Jesus, Prince of Honesty, with his own clear intentions of stealing what he needed if a human being didn’t soon show his or her face.

After much pacing, he stopped to look at one particular boat. On its stern was the word Penelope and he thought that it was an idiot indeed who would give such a majestic-looking craft a mincing name like that. The boat appeared to be about forty feet in length, larger than most of the others. As he walked around it, he noted how the differences in perspective changed the contours of the hull. He could imagine the ribs like human ribs but bigger, providing shape for the flesh of planking and different profiles, some long and sleek like destroyers or short and squat like tugs pulling chip scows. He imagined how the frame seemed like a plot in War and Peace and the wood skin a tale of hopeless human affection, shrunk and shriveled out of water or splintered on reefs of ill-use, and there would be no shrimp boats to return and women left weeping. He smiled to think how fertile the brain was to invent such nonsense, the best of it being that each mind was quarantined from all the others so he could without qualm contemplate his seduction of Dido.

A pair of shoes moved slightly under the massive keel. Hugo walked around to the other side to see whose feet they were, and found they belonged to a man who appeared of the preceding generation, but not as old as Muir. He had curly gray hair and was lying on his back on a blanket with legs capped on the ends with scruffy boots. The legs were tanned and muscular but the right one had a sizeable chunk torn out of it. The flesh had sunk into the hole like a grotesque pucker. The worker looked up briefly at Hugo, who had a sudden thought that the man knew more than he appeared to know. He would have to be on his guard. When the boatman sat up, his smile of greeting was marred by a disfiguration of his upper lip giving the hint of a sneer.

Good day, Allan. I’m sure you’ll remember me, Hugo Haultain, who you’ve not seen since I was a child. Anyway, the first thing I need to do on this visit to your boatyard is to borrow a wheel wrench and a jack. I’ve got a flat tire...the car is just up there, on the side of the road.

The man nodded, lay back down, and continued to do something to the bottom of the boat. Some minutes went by. Hugo thought that he must not get impatient because the man was probably thinking about the request for a wheel wrench and where he might find his own. After a short time, he felt a tingle of irritation and thought that he might speed the car repairs along by alerting his pseudo-uncle to the risk of Hugo’s pulling out one of the stays—not an impossible task, like Samson pulling down the pillars—which would cause the boat to fall over in a splat of mud with the captain underneath. But, of course, in the interests of harmony, he would be sure to take the edge off this threat with the qualifying remark that none of this would happen—if he got the required tools in a timely manner.

Pondering what else he might say, he paced up the long length of the vessel. On his return, he announced, Don’t be worrying yourself about my car being half on the road and a danger to others, Captain. I’ve learned to tolerate neglect. Conrad’s favorite lesson related to the benefits of restraint. In fact, from early childhood he drilled into me the idea that, in the eyes of the priest, impatience is an evil.

The doctor took a step back, expecting his remarks might result in an invitation to quit the boatworks minus the required tools, because he knew he had not seen or heard from Allan Korrolus in many years. But nothing happened. The man still played with the bottom of the hull. Hugo watched the boat repairer, marveled at his equanimity, and continued his chatter.

This talk of religion, Uncle Allan, has put me in mind of my tutor and your friend, Conrad Muir. Although you two were close, don’t you think he’s been a big disappointment? Throughout our long years of association, I waited in vain for him to write the formula for success on the blackboard. But all I got was a droning old bore roaming around the wasteland of my sickroom. I came to loathe his presence...and not because he was a slob. I could see that beneath the ravages of dissipation he was not a bad-looking man. No, I disliked him because he had no talent for translating the simple profundities of life, like how to go out and make a decent living at something you like to do.

Hugo continued to pace the length of the boat with the fleeting hope that this inflammatory history might rouse the captain. The man moved his body a few feet to the stern of the boat. Hugo shuffled in that direction with him, but felt no more annoyed than when he had arrived. Anticipating a response in due time, he began to wonder if Allan’s voice still sounded musical. With a snake-like wiggle the man squeezed from beneath the keel, sat up, and spoke. His voice had a deep, rough edge to it.

Can’t say I’m glad to re-make your acquaintance, Hugo. I haven’t seen you in a few years, but already have the displeasure of knowing too much, certainly more than Conrad has told me. But I’m sure that had he cared, he would have mentioned that you were likely to say anything that popped into your head.

He wiped his fingers on a rag soaked in solvent and they shook hands. Hugo had the impression that Allan Korrolus had shaken thousands of hands and asked, One question, Uncle Allan: how did you know my name?

You told me.

Hugo frowned. I did, come to think of it.You must have the effect of putting me on edge. I usually don’t forget the smallest detail of life.

"You talk too much. That’s why you don’t remember what you’ve said. Too busy being the idiot. In fact that’s probably how Muir would have announced your arrival here, ‘Be forewarned, Allan. Now that he’s a man with a degree or two, Hugo comes across as a bit of an asshole.’

Hugo shrugged his shoulders and took one step back. Others might take offense at that remark, Captain.be tempted to take their revenge.

But not you, mate, said Korrolus. Muir would have included the information that you’re a bluffer—a tough bloke perhaps, but still a bluffer. Anyway, after we’ve had a cold beer, if you still feel cocky we can have a go. This will re-warm you for the hard labor I’ll require as payment for using my tools.

Hugo nodded and squeezed out his lower lip. The beer is a fair offer, Allan. Of course I meant to be offensive. I intentionally provoke people.

Korrolus smiled, his mouth curling into a sneer. No offense taken, he said. I only get provoked by people I take seriously.

The captain got to his feet and fetched his cane. As they walked towards the tool crib, Hugo said, Don’t get me wrong, Allan, in regards to Conrad and you being close friends. Despite my comments, he’s not altogether as repulsive as I’ve said. He has taught me a few useful things.

He’s your father and deserves respect.

He does indeed.You know him well, don’t you?

Not really. I met him in North Africa during the war. My visits to your home were infrequent if you recall.

I’m thinking that you were one of the military men in a photograph I once found stuffed in a book. Mother liked that picture but Conrad tried to destroy it.

Korrolus stopped by the door of the chandlery. No doubt. If it’s the photo I’m remembering, it wasn’t a flattering shot of anyone. Your mother knew a couple of the people in that picture: Dring—the surgeon—and Lieutenant Birks.Your father would never have mentioned the others.

Hugo watched the crippled man stagger into the small shed. For a moment he could make no connection, even at twice removes, between this adventurer and his mother, who was so refined. Perhaps there was no connection at all, and his confusion was a product of the high fever that often distorted his memory. He could still hear an echo of Corrine’s soprano-like voice saying, Go practice your Greig, Hugo, but don’t exert your little self. If you do, I won’t allow you to sail with our hero, the captain.This recollection gave him the urge to go up to his car, dig out Tolstoy, and read the book to the British captain as a gesture of obsequiousness. But, whatever the nature of past connections, Allan Korrolus seemed no threat now, and came back with a small bottle jack and a star wrench.

Like most you buy today, it’s made from pot metal, he said. If it breaks I’ve got machined sockets. And don’t round off the nuts. When you’ve done your work we can have a drink.

Hugo ran to the Pontiac, changed the tire, and brought the tools back. Korrolus exchanged them for a cold bottle of beer. They sat quietly on a saw-horse at the edge of the docks, and Hugo felt no compulsion to say anything more. He felt tired in the growing afternoon heat. The sky was a deep blue, the breeze just right to cool him. The water was open like the open door of his boyhood home, which led to the rutted track, to the forest and the swamp hidden in the mountain canyon where he would have gathered weapons to use against the girls, had his health allowed. But with the doors now open and him free, there was no need to burrow like a mole to get away. Korrolus had made peace with the tools and the beer and put him under no obligation.

One more thing, Allan. That picture of Albert Schweitzer in your shop—what significance does this man have for you?

Korrolus sat without speaking and finished his beer. After fiddling with his cane, he said, I should be asking the question of why you came here of all places. But I haven’t the time really, or the interest. Other chores await.

He got up and walked towards the shop, being sure the tip of his cane didn’t penetrate too deeply into the mud. He said nothing else to the visitor.

A few days later Hugo went to the gym in the morning, when there were fewer people. Dido looked surprised to see him. I didn’t think you’d come back.

I wonder why? Hugo said. But I already know the answer. When I said, ‘I will come back and register in your well-equipped gym,’ you thought, ‘This is bullshit, of course,’ and assumed that was the last you’d see of me. Many people are led to the same conclusion. And I don’t blame them. It’s always a pleasant surprise to me when I keep a promise.

Instead of replying, Dido sold him a two-month membership. He was halfway through his workout when she wandered over to his area with a cleaning towel and a bottle of liquid soap. Just keep going, she said. I have to earn my money with chores. She started to wipe the benches and the mirrors. You never finished your funny story. Is the churning gone from your stomach?

Entirely. I feel well up to conversation today, although it’s a chore for me as well to plough through the necessary illusions. But where was I?

Your sickly youth. Or was it dumbbells in place of teddy bears?

Yes. What was the background of that tale? Hugo squinted and scratched his chin. The fact is that I passed many years with my runny nose pressed to the window of the sickroom—when the other kids were outside, passing the time as kids do: playing their childish games by running around and jumping over things. It was not approved that I be allowed to run around, ever. So I was tutored instead and put to sleep with mother tinkling lullabies on the piano—’little sonatas,’ Muir called them. To compensate for the lack of friends I had a make-believe visitor. Most children invent playmates, but this was different. I modeled my companion after a character my mother once described, whose name was Albert. But I never asked or cared who the real Albert was. He was my friend and always thoughtful to drop in when I was running a high fever or otherwise on my last legs.

Dido smiled and made notations on the cleaning log. Hugo did another set of curls, watching himself in the mirror. Tell me, how come when you have pictures of your childhood floating in your mind the sky is always blue, especially when the kids are outdoors and you’re in the sickroom? And the other side of the coin is that when the street is bare of the little devils, it’s always raining. Why is that?

Because kids don’t like to play in the rain, stupid.

"Is that it, Dido, fear of the ocean rain, aversion to the cold and dank with the forest dripping and uncomfortable, a fear of getting sick or being washed away? You don’t have a clue in this flat place...to have water streaming down the open ditches and the moms keeping their little buggers safe inside. I always thought it was God torturing me, you know, the bright sunny weather adequate for an invalid to convalesce and me confined to barracks. And only on the foul days was I like everyone else, inside with a cup of hot choc against the inclement weather and being tortured by the learning and the books.

At any rate, one day the medical men say, ‘The little nipper is well enough for some activity.’ I thought they meant out in the fresh air and I put on my pants, gearing up for life. But that was a hideous dream. At the insistence of my tutor, mother plunked me down on the piano bench so that only my extremities would get the exercise. She was shocked when my fingers couldn’t reach the keys, so she gets Conrad to place some of his precious books on the bench and sits me up on them. And voila, I’m right up there. The top one I remember was War and Peace.Then underneath, Gray’s Anatomyand underneath that, All Quiet on the Western Front, followed by Robinson Crusoe and books on the Second Great War, all owned by my alleged father and placed ceremoniously with his varicosed hands. I could see all of this quite clearly. My brain wasn’t wizened and useless like my arms and legs.

Hugo sniffed, exhaled some air, and continued with curling the dumbbells. Halfway through the set he let the weights fall to the mat. The kicker was this, Dido. My mother could see I was still an inch or two short of the mark and quietly put a small book at the bottom. As she placed it there, I could see a picture of an old goat on it with a moustache and white hair, looking more like my imaginary friend than the god my mother had described him to be. I asked Muir about it later, because it was one of few books I had never set eyes on. He dismissed it as being of no importance.

Hugo lay on the bench and began doing flys with fifty-pound dumbbells. Between breaths he continued, And so it was that the slim volume at the bottom—a compendium of Albert Schweitzer—got me high enough to perform. Now who was Tolstoy? Remarque? Dafoe and the others? Muir knew them all. But I suspect from Mother’s winks that despite his protest, he also knew who Schweitzer was—and that he was more than just a preacher.

Dido said, It sounds like your old man was nasty to you. Did he beat you or anything?

Hugo put the weights down and sat up. No, he pushed me to perform. But he was gentle. Mother was timid but she would have ferociously opposed abuse. But never mind that, the problem being for me was this: now that I was tall enough to spread my fingers over the keyboard, I also had a clear view of my friends playing outside on the street and in the field under the blue sky and the mountain all from a new perspective, which became a double dose of torture.

The young woman stared blankly at him. He picked up the weights for his last set and closed his eyes. He could feel the center of his spine running from skull to tailbone and the contraction of all the individual muscles extending out from it. He was aware of how they held his wide shoulders securely, uniformly, exactly even and balanced on both sides. It was a sensation so relaxing that he imagined his body was like smoke spreading in still air from Muir’s cigarettes, or his own smokes now that he had the same habit. He didn’t notice that Dido had gone back to the front desk.

Luozi, Congo-Leopoldville, August 30,1965.

The duration of recall for these events was irrelevant and therefore not calculated in the scheme of Hugo’s present life. Responsibility for time, for the welfare of anyone or anything seemed a triviality. Only Mintou’s threats put demands on him. While he waited for the completion of repairs to the ferry that would take them across the Congo River, he saw less of the Portuguese trader and more of the sergeant, who displayed a knack for listening, for gathering and remembering evidence in the fashion of a man who is deprived the security of records. Mintou walked from the direction of the ferry and sat beside him a few feet above the level of the river.

You’re thinking that you could escape by swimming across, aren’t you?

Hugo glanced at him. Not likely, Sergeant. Even twenty feet of water is too much for my ability. Anyway, if I wanted to escape I’d just walk into the bush.

Hugo took an offered cigarette. The sergeant pointed with the shaft of his own smoke to the far bank of the river. That’s the way you would go, he said. Because the bush leads only to starvation and more bush, with animals and many hazards. Across the water is not too far for a desperate man and leads to towns, to the capital. But then I don’t believe anything you say, monsieur, because I can never tell what you’re thinking or what you might do. You read and mumble to yourself. You’re a prisoner and happy to be one, like a drunken man who pretends that he needs a wife to prepare food and dress him. I know you for a few days only. Already I feel like your house girl.

They both turned their eyes to the river. A piece of driftwood floated past and around the ferry’s steel hull. When it had disappeared, Hugo said, Since I can’t give you more money just yet, what is it that I can do for you, Mintou?

The soldier smirked. Very little happens in the Luozi territory, no fights, no battles. And since you have nothing else I can take, I want you to entertain me. You have books, monsieur, for that purpose. I’ve heard you talking to the trader.

Hugo shrugged his shoulders. I can tell you any story you’d like to hear. The problem is—they may or may not be true, like the parables mission priests tell your children.

I don’t have children or a wife to bear them. So I don’t care about that. Make up your stories as you go along. If they’re about yourself and not true, how will I know?

So in the quiet murmuring of the river’s presence, Hugo told the soldier a story he thought appropriate. "I’m telling you this tale to put your mind at ease, Sergeant. It relates both to water and your fears that you might lose your excuse to see the capital. So here it is...There was a time recently when I was inspired to become a boat-builder like Christ himself so I could be near and on the blessed water. With this in mind I went to the boatyard of a relative with the hope of receiving the position of apprentice. It was late afternoon when I arrived hoping my uncle, whose name was Allan, might still be there in his desire to escape the heat of midday. I found him underneath a boat.

‘What exactly are you doing there, Allan?’ I asked.

‘Caulking.’

‘I take it that caulking is necessary to the proper maintenance of a boat.’

‘You assume correctly, mate,’ he answered.

‘Hugo is the name.... in case you were confused as to my identity.’

‘Not confused at all,’ he said in an unfriendly manner. ‘Few people in life confuse me less, at least as to their identity. And few people cause me such acute desire to be rid of them.’

Mintou frowned. Your uncle didn’t like you?

"At first not much. But as you’ll find out, things changed. My uncle wriggled out from under the keel and I said to him, ‘I’m here for a reason, Allan, trying to make the connection between you and Conrad Muir.’

‘We met in North Africa,’ he replied.

‘Yes, you said that before.’

‘I did, mate. So let’s cut the chitchat and let me get back to work,’ he answered. His rudeness wasn’t a bother and I was just interested in helping, so I replied that I should be repaying him for the use of the tools to fix my car, nothing permanent, just an hour or two of skilled labor. And he answered that the lending of the tools was a favor not requiring repayment, but that my presence there was a nuisance and a waste of his time. As I said before, Mintou, I’m never bothered by insults so I sat and happily watched my uncle until he had finished caulking a seam halfway up the port side. Then I said to him, ‘If you’re thirsty after all this work, Allan, I can offer to buy you a drink, as a favor to an esteemed uncle that likewise doesn’t require repayment.’

‘You must be at loose ends,’ he sneered. ‘Not much to do, eh, now that you’ve thrown in the towel?’

Mintou frowned.

"A figure of speech, Sergeant, which means to give up, to surrender. You see I had just quit my job because I disliked it, something you can’t do. But I didn’t give up my thirst for liquor. Nor had my uncle, who continued his talk. ‘If you insist on buying, I’ll oblige,’ he said. ‘It’s hot and I’m dry.’

When we arrived at the hotel bar for our drink, he insisted we sit well off the main aisle with our backs to the wall. ‘In respect of the entertainment,’ he explained. It was not a nice place. The room stank of smoke. The carpets had gone musty with the spilt beer and the walls were coated with a slurry of dust and cigarette tar. After we had consumed much liquor, events turned nasty. For some reason a small man near the bar hit the man next to him. Out of revenge, the waiter and other men hit the small man very hard. His head was cut to the bone and soon blood ran from his nose. People cheered. I told my uncle that as a military man he should order the men to stop. But he said he had no intention of soiling himself with brawlers and asked me to do it. I was already drunk, you see, and could only stagger over to the group and plead to the waiter that he show mercy. But he shoved me into the bar and said rude things as a challenge.

Mintou frowned and ran his fingers over his head. Did that make you angry, monsieur?

"Oh, I was prepared, my friend, as you are prepared to see that justice is done, which might result in violence and many deaths. Another man lunged at me, so I hit him with a right jab and he collapsed to the floor. An arm went round my neck but soon let go when my uncle stabbed his cane into the owner’s ear. Then life became the fun it was meant to be. The room erupted in all corners with fighting patrons and drunks eager for revenge, for fun, or vanity, until a smiling moi, with my clothes torn and stained with blood, threw a table through the front window.

Like trumpets blowing down the walls of Jericho,’ I explained to the gloomy man who was trying to avoid the glass, most of which shattered outwards onto the empty sidewalk. As the police came in the door, I crouched out of sight. Across the street I could see my uncle straightening his shirt, oblivious to the officers who were about to trap him against the river. So I went around to the other side of the forest to lure them away. Taking the bait they shouted and gave chase. In a few moments they were on me. I threw the stick at them, leaped in, and struggled through the water with my lungs aching. Even as a youth I was never a swimmer, but had no idea how bad. As I drifted downstream, the far bank appeared no closer. Each time I got my head above the water I could see no lights, hear no voices, no sound of traffic. I could do nothing but imitate the paddling of a goat until I felt the ground on the opposite shore. A pair of hands helped me out followed by a whisper in my ear, ‘You ain’t much of a swimmer, mate. I had no trouble following you along, what with the thrashing around and your gasping for air. I didn’t mean for you to drown on my behalf.

Mintou smiled and threw his smoke into the water. Hugo nodded his head.

He spoke the truth, Sergeant. Sacrifice for mom and the kids is one thing, but to die for an insolent uncle would be a waste in my opinion, although the pleasure of mocking God is always appealing. Hugo threw the stone he had been juggling into the river’s current, then looked at the soldier. The truth of it is this, Mintou: I learned to fear water as a thing I would have to avoid like the plague. On the other hand, men like you are merely a nuisance.

The sergeant giggled and threw another stone into the water. You were right to help your uncle, monsieur, even if he is bad. Relatives are your duty, water or no water. And me, well, I will become more than a nuisance, you’ll see. With a slurred remark concerning other responsibilities, the ranking soldier of Four Group, Bakongo Corps marched in the direction of the barracks.

The next evening, after his meal with Benoit Marse, Hugo resumed his vigil by the river. A short time later Mintou marched towards him at the head of a half-dozen soldiers.They boarded the ferry and Hugo was pleased to hear bitter protests from the mechanics. He had not moved when Mintou appeared and with a grunt seated himself on the riverbank. The ferry will cross tomorrow morning, he said. Hugo chuckled. Then tomorrow will be a good day, Mintou, even better than yesterday.

The sergeant sneered and lit a cigarette. You laugh now. But soon those under my command will take their duty to me seriously.

Of course they will, so be patient. They’ll learn. It’s a bad habit they’ve gotten into. They think they have responsibility only to relatives, less to the others in their village, and none to those outside.You, on the other hand, should know that we’re obliged to consider a wider world, have a duty that flows outwards like ripples in a pond. Because sooner or later, when time stops, we have to deal with spirits greater than our ancestors, some with good ju-ju and others with an evil intent.

Mintou nodded then began softly hitting his swagger stick into the palm of his hand. Say what is on your mind, monsieur. I’m prepared for stories of evil. I would be happy to know you have as much to fear as I do.

Hugo lit two more smokes, threw one to the sergeant, and began talking. "Pay close attention, Mintou, and you will find out that sometimes fear brings rewards. On a memorable Sunday morning, at my uncle’s request, I found my way back to the boatyard. The summer sun had not yet moderated the general dampness of the riverside. The mud was still soft with the night rain when I walked over to the Penelope. Uncle Korrolus was underneath but gestured to me. ‘Over there is another canvas for you to lie on,’ he said. ‘Next to it is a bucket of oakum for the seams and you can put your mind at complete ease for the day or the week by helping me re-caulk this vessel.’

"I walked over to the container and looked at the hairy coils of stuffing, at the Penelope, then lay on the canvas and began to imitate my uncle in his winding and stuffing movement. After an hour had gone, I reached into my satchel and brought out two bottles of beer. Korrolus took immediate notice and eased himself out to sit on a sawhorse and drink. The alcohol focused my mind on the altered circumstances, giving me the notion that re-caulking a large vessel was the thing I should be doing in life, having a duty to make it shipshape so Allan wouldn’t have my fear of drowning. We were both silent for a time and I became aware of the shifting of the shadows and the utter perfection of the changing angles, the multiple shades of color, the evolution of smell, and the various quantities of matter that touched my skin. It’s good to notice things, Mintou. In fact it’s your duty if you wish to survive. Sitting with my uncle, I sensed the presence of deep water but also the sacred sky above it. I also sensed that it was my duty to get over my dislike for him, although he didn’t seem to be my father’s close friend or a relative at all, merely a distant comrade from the wars.

"We’ve almost exhausted the supply of oakum,’ he said and asked that I walk over and get some more. Being a little tipsy from the beer I sauntered along the flats and up to the old shop. I hadn’t been in it, or near it, since first peering in and seeing the framed picture on the far wall, of a man you would know if you could read books and through them know more of the world’s history. The room was hot and smelt musty, greasy. Sweat ran into my eyes. The portrait of Albert Schweitzer hung impassively. His eyes were dots of charcoal on the paper. I breathed slowly and stuffed oakum into a sack. When I turned to leave, I saw the white hair of a man sitting behind paint barrels, his head bowed as if in prayer.

I stopped, and with no attempt to mask my amazement, said to him, ‘It’s been a few easy years, Albert. Once I attained the status of adulthood, I’d given up ever seeing you around, and never so near a place that has your picture hanging on the wall. So forgive my surprise at seeing you worshipping in such disrespectful circumstances.’

"No place is disrespectful on a Sunday,’ he replied. ‘The believer prays where he must. It’s only important that he give thanks.’

‘In the generally bad scheme of things, what have any of us to be thankful for?’

‘For yourself,’ he answered, ‘for your rather luxurious life. Show gratitude that God saw you taken care of to a point where you have the option of being a fool.’

‘That’s a bit cheeky for a man of your stature.’

‘No stature at all, Hugo. I do what I must. It’s sufficient for me to know the world requires my services, and for you to know that I oblige.’

‘Well, my stature depends at the moment on delivering this important shipbuilding material to my new employer, who is waiting patiently for it. Can’t stay and chat, although at this point in history we could have a fruitful chin wag on issues, I’m sure. We’ve been denied that opportunity far too long.’

"The old man hummed softly to himself and shuffled pages of sheet music I could see was titled with the name, JS Bach. I stopped filling the sack and said, ‘You must miss your time as the savant, Albert, a life filled with music, philosophy, the memories of Mulhausen and Strasbourg, the privilege of occupying number 36, the Old Fish Market, once home to the inimitable Goethe. Imagine the privilege of hearing Wagner at Bayreuth in the last century and being a friend to his widow. I mean, you’ve been around the block, old man, and even to Paris. I was envious that you learned piano theory from Marie Jaell-Trautman, who taught that to create an organic unity the finger touching the key must be conscious of itself. Muir could never quite grasp the concept.’

"You treat history as if you were a schoolboy reciting his verse,’ he answered. ‘It can be no surprise to anybody that I miss episodes from my past no more or less than you appreciate your origins. In the meantime, I’ve had other employment, other enterprises greater than these.’

"He slipped away from the grimy barrel and came over to me. ‘Forget the past, Hugo.You have other considerations now. Since you seem willing to do some work, I have a job for you.’

‘As I said before, my services are engaged at the moment.’

‘This job can wait until you’ve finished repairing your friend’s boat.’

‘The thing is, I’m not looking for work, not now or in the future,’ I answered.

‘Work, however, is looking for you,’ Albert pressed. ‘In this case a skillful job, with prestige attached. In this respect you are indispensable.’

‘I can have fame, money, power, and perks in the world of business.’

‘Mine is a better offer.’

‘The indispensable details of which are.?’

‘Humility and sweat. Your return on investment is a chance at a treasure that at present you could not imagine.’

‘I can imagine most things.’

‘You cannot conceive of love.’

"I scoffed at him, Sergeant Mintou. I put the greatest ridicule into my tone, because he was offering me what? The great treasure of love?

You’re really quite adept, Albert,’ I replied, ‘offering me the elusive, weepy feeling a dad has for the kiddies or a mother for her dying child as he fades away under the watchful eye of the family doc. Or do you refer to the scent of romance that spices up an otherwise dull day? Best you don’t offer me any-thing.You’ve already given me a few laughs, a few good quotes via my father. Let me see if he quoted you correctly: Men must learn by the book of example, or they’ll not learn anything."

The white head nodded, then Albert grinned at me. ‘It’s funny how men glow with pride when others repeat what they’ve said. I’m no different. I can puff myself up like a peacock. However, I thought that particular epigram a bit overwrought.’

"I completed filling the bag with oakum and slung it over my shoulder. At the door I said, ‘You know, Conrad said nothing of you directly. He was a poor example for me to follow, as I would be an even worse example for others. But don’t fret; a few educated men will remember your written works, because Albert Schweitzer is an icon men revere. The problem is, who besides God could rise to the level of your example?’

‘You, for one,’ he answered. ‘Instead of glorifying yourself with self-pity, you could cultivate a consistent sympathy for those who despair of their pain. And as for love? We can only guess what the love of a woman would do for you, especially if you were moved to reciprocate.’

‘Perhaps a woman I know already? Just tell me her name and I’ll give her a ring.’

‘You’ve had affairs with too many women.’

‘There can never be enough,’ I said.

"The old man looked out the window to the boats and the river. Without turning he said, ‘Remember this one trite but appalling little saying, Hugo, from the least of mouths: In each life there is time only for one true love, and one adventure.’

"He got back onto his knees with his hands clenched together, elbows resting on the grease barrel. The portrait on the wall shrank behind the glass, the air packed close around me, and the smell was sour. I grasped the heavy sack of oakum, opened the door, and ran into the clean air. When I was back underneath the Penelope I said to my uncle, ‘There’s a man in your shop.’

"He finished caulking a seam to the end, taking him some minutes before replying, ‘You said that when you first arrived. But I suppose it’s not every sod who notices Albert hanging there.’

‘I thought only dead spirits had the right to haunt.’

‘Not haunting at all, mate, just a good likeness. Anyway, his picture is of no concern to us. Our job is with the caulking and, before we get too thirsty, to enjoy our beer."

When Hugo had said nothing for a full minute, Sergeant Mintou hit the swagger stick into his hand with a final thump.

You have an advantage over me, monsieur. I understand very little of what you say, not being able to read books. And I don’t understand why you say all these things except to show that you’re better than me. But I like you anyway. I might keep you alive for a while, even feed you some of your own food and cigarettes. You seem to respect your uncle, or whoever he is, and that is good. And you seem to fear the spirit of the ju-ju doctor like you fear water. If you have any more to say on him, I’ll listen. As I said before, it gives me pleasure to hear of things that scare you. The sergeant grunted and smiled. And when we reach Lufungula, he concluded, you’ll see things that will do more than scare you.

His eyes were large when he marched from the riverbank and Hugo could hear the grinding of boots on the pathway. He woke the soldier who was his constant escort and took him closer to the ferry slip and listened to the mechanics’ increasing activity echo from the trees. It was going dark. In the kerosene lights, the glistening mud of the river appeared like the mud of all rivers he’d seen and, therefore, was a reminder of similarities, conjunctions, comparisons, and the false value that comparisons have in illustrating a man’s connection to the world. Because even Hugo’s finely cut detail of personal history could change none of it. Later that night, lying under the netting in Benoit Marse’ house, he recounted his mastering the art of twisting the oakum strips into the seams of the Penelope. He recalled that the enormous effort of the job took his mind off Albert’s exhortations. It was also a relief from the tedious, futile penance he did each morning at the plaque in the Christian house, with the small, white face of the dead girl overwhelming the fancy brass letters.

Chapter III

Music and Memoir

Two days later the trader said, Have another beer.

The sentry who accompanied the prisoner wherever he went accepted with a bow and a smile. In an hour he was drunk and lying in the dirt. After a squad of the Bakongo Corps removed the man to the barracks, Hugo used the trader’s supplies to clean the soldier’s rifle and surround himself with a sense of security by shooting fifty rounds at an effigy of Sergeant Mintou formed by the crumbling bark of a dead tree.

The next morning, as the huts of Luozi receded to the north, Hugo tried to further pacify his misgivings by ignoring the sergeant and noting instead the counterclockwise direction of the whorls of water that spun down the side of the ferry, putting that turbulence into a category with other rivers and man-made pools in which he imagined himself drowning. In contrast, the leader of Number Four Group watched his captive with unwavering attention. From the manner of this scrutiny, Hugo was confirmed in his suspicions that Leon Mintou was a murderous double-dealer and as big a liar as he had once been. With the south shore of the Congo River drifting closer, he contemplated the security that might result from striking a preemptive blow. Setting aside speculation on the resulting pleasure, he would have to decide if Mintou’s death would give him less or greater opportunity to hear from Martin Birks. He glanced at the shrunken face of Benoit Marse, who looked dead already, a self-made corpse on its ill-tempered way to the capital to secure an obedient virgin to replace the willful and aging house girl. The thought crept into Hugo’s mind that he had much less reason than the trader for his journey to Leopoldville. As the men of the army had already told him, to risk death for the advice of a condemned man was an act of madness.

The road leading from the ferry landing at Matadi towards the prison followed the arc of sun that rose in the east and dropped perpendicular in the west. It was going dark, therefore, when the men of Four Group, Bakongo

Corps, accompanied by the trader, the sergeant and his prisoner, stopped in Mbanza and climbed the stairs to a vulgar second-floor dancehall. After a few drinks, all the men removed their boots and began a two-step shuffle with an earnest rhythm. For hours they went up, down, and across the rough wood floor in circular repeating patterns, bearing the weight of their soiled uniforms with grace, clutching voluptuous women wearing bright skirts and silver earrings.

Servants lit the lanterns. Hugo drank his beer next to a sweating Sergeant Mintou and removed the bandage from his left hand, massaged the numbness in his fingers, and decided that he would not join the dancers. Instead, he looked through the spaced openings in the wall that served as windows and recalled specific items from his memoirs. The most trivial was the image he recorded of a waltzing Irishman who had wept openly to say how sorry he’d been at the news that his countryman Brendan Behan had died. Hugo thought it fitting that the man’s only recollection of Irish culture was the playwright’s warning that a man should drink no more than twice a day—when he was thirsty and when he was not. But Hugo also knew that Behan was an old man when he expired at forty-one and looked more at death like the Portuguese trader squirming rat-like on the dance floor in contrast to the army of bush people glad to have escaped captivity, their bare feet making a thunderous drumming on