Part 20 (1/2)

For as he had believed in no G.o.d...

No G.o.d believed in him.

The Time of the Eye

IN THE THIRD year of my death, I met Piretta. Purely by chance, for she occupied a room on the second floor, while I was given free walk of the first floor and the sunny gardens. And it seemed so strange, that first and most important time, that we met at all, for she had been there since she had gone blind in 1958, while I was one of the old men with young faces who had dissolved after being in the Nam.

The Place wasn't too unpleasant, of course, despite the high, flat-stone walls and the patronizing air of Mrs. Gondy, for I knew one day my fog would pa.s.s, and I would feel the need to speak to someone again, and then I could leave the Place.

But that was in the future.

I neither looked forward to that day, nor sought refuge in my stable life at the Place. I was in a limbo life between caring and exertion. I was sick; I had been told that; and no matter what I knew-I was dead. So what sense was there in caring?

But Piretta was something else.

Her delicate little face was porcelain, with eyes the flat blue of shallow waters, and hands that were quick to do nothing important.

I met her-as I say-by chance. She had grown restless, during what she called ”the time of the eye,”

and had managed to give her Miss Hazelet the slip.

I was walking with head bowed and hands locked behind my bathrobe, through the lower corridor, when she came down the great winding stairway.

On many an occasion I had stopped at that stairway, watching the drab-faced women who scrubbed down each level, each riser. It was like watching them go to h.e.l.l. They started at the top, and washed their way down. Their hair was always white, always lank, always like old hay. They scrubbed with methodical ferocity, for this was the last occupation left to them before the grave, and they clung to it with soap and suds. And I had watched them go down to h.e.l.l, step by step.

But this time there were no drudges on their knees.

I heard her walking close to the wall, her humble fingertips brus.h.i.+ng the wainscotting as she descended, and I realized immediately that she was blind.

That blindness deeper than lack of sight.

There was something to her; something ephemeral that struck instantly to the dead heart in me. I watched her come down with stately slowness, as though she tripped to silent music, until I was drawn to her in spirit.

”May I be of service?” I heard myself politely inquiring, from a distance. She paused there and her head came up with field mouse awareness.

”No, thank you,” she said, most congenially. ”I am quite able to care for myself, thank you.

Something that person,” she twitched her head in the direction of upstairs, ”cannot seem to fathom.”

She came the remainder of the steps to the napless winecolored rug. She stood there and exhaled deeply, as though she had just put a satisfactory finis to an immense project.

”My name is-” I began, but she cut me off with a sharp snort and, ”Name's the same.” She giggled prettily.

”Names ring of little consequence, don't you agree?” and there was such conviction in her voice, I could hardly disagree.

So I said, ”I suppose that's so.”

She snickered softly and patted her auburn hair, bed-disarrayed. ”Indeed,” she said with finality, ”that is so; very much so.”

This was most peculiar to me, for several reasons.

First, she was talking with a rather complicated incoherence that seemed perfectly rational at the time, and second, she was the first person I had spoken to since I had been admitted to the Place, two years and three months before.

I felt an affinity for this girl, and hastened to strengthen our flimsy tie ”And yet,” I ventured, ”one must have something by which to know another person.” I became most bold and went on, ”Besides-” gulping, ”if one likes someone...”

She considered this for a long second, one hand still on the wall, the other at her white throat. ”If you insist,” she replied, after deliberation, and added, ”you may call me Piretta.”

”Is that your name?” I asked. ”No,” she answered, so I knew we were to be friends.

”Then you can call me Sidney Carton.” I released a secret desire of long sublimation.

”That is a fine name, should any name be considered fine,” she admitted, and I nodded. Then, realizing she could not hear a nod, I added a monosyllable to indicate her pleasure was also mine.

”Would you care to see the gardens?” I asked chivalrously.

”That would be most kind of you,” she said, adding with a touch of irony, ''as you see...I'm quite blind.”

Since it was a game we were playing I said, ”Oh, truly? I really hadn't noticed.”

Then she took my arm, and we went down the corridor toward the garden French doors. I heard someone coming down the staircase, and she stiffened on my arm. ”Miss Hazelet,” she gasped. ”Oh, please!”

I knew what she was trying to say. Her attendant. I knew then that she was not allowed downstairs, that she was now being sought by her nurse. But I could not allow her to be returned to her room, after I had just found her.

”Trust me,” I whispered, leading her into a side corridor.

I found the mop closet, and gently ushered her before me, into its cool, dark recess. I closed the door softly and stood there, very close to her. I could hear her breathing, and it was shallow, quick. It made me remember those hours before dawn in Viet Nam, even when we were full asleep; when we sensed what was coming, with fear and trepidation. She was frightened. I held her close, without meaning to do so, and her arm went around my waist. We were very near, and for the first time in over two years I felt emotions stirring in me; how foolish of me to consider love. But I waited there with her, adrift in a sarga.s.so of conflicting feelings, while her Miss Hazelet paced outside.

Finally, after what seemed a time too short, we heard those same precise steps mounting the stairs- annoyed, prissy, fl.u.s.tered.

”She's gone. Now we can see the gardens,” I said, and wanted to bite my tongue. She could see nothing; but I did not rectify my error. Let her think I took her infirmity casually. It was far better that way.

I opened the door cautiously, and peered out. No one but old Bauer, shuffling along down the hall, his back to us. I led her out, and as though nothing had happened, she took my arm once more.

”How sweet of you,” she said, and squeezed my bicep.

We walked back to the French doors, and went outside.

The air was musky with the scent of fall, and the crackling of leaves underfoot seemed a proper thing. It was not too chilly, and yet she clung to me with a soft desperation more need than inclination. I didn't think it was because of her blindness; I was certain she could walk through the garden without any help if she so desired.

We moved down the walk, winding out of sight of the Place in a few seconds, s.h.i.+elded and screened by the high, neatly pruned hedges. Oddly enough, for that time of day, no attendants were slithering through the chinaberry and hedges, no other ”guests” were taking their blank-eyed pleasure on the turf or on the bypaths.

I glanced sidewise at her profile, and was pleased by her chiseled features. Her chin was a bit too sharp and thrust-forward, but it was offset by high cheekbones and long eyelashes that gave her a rather Asiatic expression. Her lips were full, and her nose was a cla.s.sic yet short sweep.

I had the strangest feeling I had seen her somewhere before, though that was patently impossible.

Yet the feeling persisted.

I remembered another girl...but that had been before the Nam...before the sound of a metallic shriek down the night sky...and someone standing beside my bed at Walter Reed. That had been in another life, before I had died, and been sent to this Place.