Michael David Griffin, also known as Thaddeus, during his first Ashtanga series. At the Ashram of the False Guru. In this the seventh round of sun salutations, resistance in Michael David Griffin begins to fade blissfully away. He is perched in a corner of the ceiling, in some evolved yogi incarnation of himself, and he can see himself below. Thaddeus Griffin, in a silence of exertion, Thaddeus Griffin and the tidal movement of the breath.
He’s a beginner, understand, but the time has come for the Ashtanga series. The False Guru took aside Thaddeus Griffin on the way in to tell him of the excellent programs they have under way, like installing this indoor fountain and making available some synthetic yoga wear for the women who will want to sign up with Ford and Elite. Also there are harmoniums they have purchased for instructors. Wouldn’t Thaddeus like to be involved with the ashram in a more complete way? Wouldn’t Thaddeus like to be a part of the brochure of the False Guru, which elucidates the one true path to serenity and worldly abundance? His response was something bland and noncommittal regarding new program initiatives. He said, “Keep reminding me,” which he says when he is doing his best to forget everything just said. Thaddeus is unshaven, and his hair is standing on end, and he is in forearm stand, and his wife is in San Diego, most likely fucking that commercial director. Thaddeus works three months a year and then does a lot of interviews on prime-time newsmagazines. His movies give teenagers something to do.
The models around him, here at the ashram, move from their elaborate series of advanced bridge poses up onto their feet, then back over their heads into a handstand, as though they are made of pipe cleaners. He would like to fuck these models. He would like to fuck each and every one. He would like them, in bridge pose, to serve as coffee tables in his apartment. He is the minister of false consciousness. Why is it that he is always thinking about these things? Why is it that he experiences spiritual advancement only when next to the perfect ass? He is in bridge pose and he is arching toward the ceiling, and then he is down, and then he is up, and then he is down and then he is up. Just three more, the instructor says. Something in Thaddeus Griffin is shattering. Not literally, like when his friend Jorie popped her hip out of its socket during the Ashtanga series here at the Ashram of the False Guru. Sounded like a champagne cork ejecting. (She was taken out screaming.) No, it’s as if Griffin finds himself in the spin cycle of human souls. His mediocre career as a movie actor is colliding with the reality of the wife who is fucking a commercial director and this is colliding with the fact that he isn’t working and this is colliding with the fact that he isn’t producing films, either, which was his plan for escaping from the hustle of being a chump actor, which is colliding with the fact that even his young mistress will no longer put up with him. The twenty-eight-year-old mulatto genius won’t sleep with him, and now plank pose, and he can feel the extrusion of toxins from muscle tissue, dioxins, PCBs, the poisonous things in him, which are many. The instructor is quoting from the Sanskrit. The rich and the privileged come to perform the Ashtanga series so that they can learn justice, the instructor seems to be saying; this is where rich New York, which is primarily white New York, comes to learn compassion for that part which is brown, black, red, and yellow. This grotto, this ashram where the False Guru puts in his indoor fountain and names it serenity. Is the instructor saying this? Or is Thaddeus Griffin shearing apart? And is this shearing apart not a two- or three-times-a-week occurrence? Now the instructor is leading them in the chant of the guilty white liberal. The long low drones of the harmonium, with its bellows like the gritted exhalations of a chump movie actor. Michael David Griffin is beginning to sob again. It is good for actors to sob; it indicates serious craft. We would all do better / We would all do better / But we are on deadline / We are on deadline / We would all do better / We would all do better / We will do something for the poor and unfortunate when we get back / But we have compassion, we really do. The harmonium, and the Sanskrit, and another round of the full wheel, and the head of a model goes between her legs and her ankles drape over her shoulders.
His failures are so numerous, pouring from him during the Ashtanga series. Like when he seduced that development girl, Madison McDowell. He seduced her and then took her for a weekend to the track in Saratoga Springs, and he bet twenty thousand dollars on a filly and boy was that money gone fast. They had breakfast at the track, and he put Tabasco on the eggs, he ate the sprig of parsley, and he told Madison that her eyes were the bluest eyes he had ever seen, and then he bet twenty thousand dollars on a filly and lost. But her eyes were really closer to hazel. Then Madison took a call from that harpy Vanessa Meandro, and Madison cooked up an excuse to take the train back down the Hudson to the city. He’d rented the house on Union Avenue for a whole week. Then there was Jeanine Stampfel, Vanessa’s personal assistant. Few office assistants have been as miserable as Jeanine. Jeanine the self-immolator. Somewhere in the recesses of her apartment, which was actually her parents’ apartment when they were in town from Scottsdale, she was taking a common household lighter and she was applying it to her ivory skin. Here was Jeanine, in a pinafore, in her white bobby socks. Jeanine was on a fainting couch beside a leather globe that still listed Ceylon; she was taking an antique Zippo lighter out of a desk drawer and setting fire to herself. Her sharp intake of breath was like a chump-movie-actor attempt to do a standing split. Her forearm liquefied. He saw the scars.
“Excuse me,” a voice whispers next to him. A young woman in black leotard and leg warmers. Always the ones in leg warmers. “Excuse me.” He looks up to see where the spotter is. Across the room, by the bank of windows facing the theater across the street. The spotter is attending to someone’s hunched shoulders.
“Excuse me.”
Michael David Griffin says, “I’m trying to do my Ashtanga series, here. Can we talk later?”
She holds out a handkerchief. Folded perfectly, as if a secret message were contained within. Her ass is a temple. Greek city-states were founded on less. Michael David Griffin says nothing and wipes his eyes, and now his bodily fluids are on her handkerchief. She could have biological materials cloned from the weave of her handkerchief. Nervously, he hands back the handkerchief, smiles, tells her his name is Thaddeus.
“I know your name,” she says.
“Then I’m at a disadvantage.” In his inattentiveness he collapses onto his sticky mat. The smells coming off him are not covered in the Kyoto protocols.
“Nora.” She goes into a perfect split. “Don’t you want my number?”
Later, when he comes out of the changing room, hobbling, Nora is there. She extends her hand. Says she admires his work, which cannot be true. Does she like Single Bullet Theory? With its triple-digit body count? She’s wearing one of those Greek fisherman’s caps. She has elegant cheekbones. The babbling of the indoor fountain says: Your superficial goals are good, and you may pursue them at your leisure. Here comes the human moment. It’s always here. It’s the Ashtanga series that brings it out in him. Don’t think of her as an expanse of skin that could rub against your skin, don’t think of her as a bonbon. Think of her as a complexity to be respected, a person tortured during field hockey practice, the only Jewish kid at Christian summer camp, the girl who vomited in college every morning.
With all this in mind, Griffin allows himself to be pulled away by the mulatto genius. He pulls away from the gravitational field of Nora. The mulatto genius is waiting. He is late. When he pulls open the door of the bar across the street, he feels an uncoiling of gratitude, yards and yards of gratitude in him. He has extruded poisons; he has had a reasonable human interaction. In the bar, on a stool, the mulatto genius balances, one lanky leg stretched all the way to the floor, stabilizing. She’s like a switchblade. There are many unknown things about the mulatto genius, and he has to stop calling her that. She is dressed in black leather pants and a black V-neck sweater from Agnès B., neither smiling nor frowning. If it were in a script, it would say They kiss quickly, and he would have a hundred questions: What does her mouth taste like, and does she close her eyes, is she wearing perfume, and is it a car-crash kiss or is it like the soft rolling of tides over a salt marsh?
On the small stage on the far wall, a soundman, wearing baggy pants and a hooded sweatshirt, plugs a cable into an amplifier.
Griffin says to Annabel, “It came to me during the Ashtanga series. I went out to the men’s room, I blew chow, went back in, fought off a couple rabid fans, wept over the condition of my life, apologized to the instructor, and then I got it.”
“What did you get?”
“The idea.”
“Which idea?”
“About the missing treatment.”
The sweatshirt yells Check into the microphone. The barkeep pauses in front of them.
“Make the coverage up.”
“Make it up?”
“Right here and now.” He warms to the idea. “I already told her it was about dowsing, diviners. Make it up tonight, like you’d spin out a story of love. Make it up like storytellers around a campfire.” Did she have a pen? Did she have paper? Did they have a napkin? Could a treatment be written on a napkin in one of the bars of the city? It happened every night. Could coverage be spray-painted on the city itself, New York City, as if of the city itself?
“You think Vanessa will ever know? She’ll never know. She only gives a shit about this script because it’s leverage. You lose a script, you fucked up. She loses a script, who gives a shit, find another copy.”
Then he improvises his monologue, again, about how to write, which is really a monologue about the nature of self-improvement. It’s the monologue that got him the space with Vanessa, the monologue that launched a thousand temporary production gigs. The monologue about being outside of the empire, outside the establishment, the monologue about how creativity comes at the expense of conventional thinking, at the expense of formula, at the expense of abstract values like tradition and love. The monologue about creativity as revolt, as bloody insurrection.
“The problem is that all film needs to be written automatically. It needs to be written by your pussy. Modern movies, this is what I’m saying, need to be written by cocks and pussies. The problem with these action films, for example, is not enough cock and pussy. People need to get words like cock and pussy out into the atmosphere, they need to say cock a lot, the way they say sunrise, the way they say pang of regret, they need to see that pussy is the most beautiful word in the world and that every script in the world needs to be written with a pussy and a cock in it, needs to be written by a pussy and a cock. No other reason to write. We think that it’s about art or commerce, we think it’s about the art people over here, wearing black and smoking, or the commerce people over here, with their tit jobs and their spray-on tans, but that’s not what it’s about, it’s about pussies and cocks, and if your pussy was not wet, sweetheart, when you were writing about the wife of the Marquis de Sade, then you might as well just give up the job. You should be dripping when you write a story, and your stomach should be churning with the head-splitting climax at your end of the story, the one that gets you off. The one where all the differences in the world, like the difference between a pussy and a cock, are obliterated in the reprise of the come shot of creation, the big grand unified come shot that made the conditions that made you and me and art and commerce and religion. Fuck art and fuck commerce. Abandon the Marquis and his marquise. Come away with me, and I’ll take you places you’ve never seen before, because that’s where we’re going to write this coverage, tonight, and I’ll show you how to write a story, and then tomorrow, when the sun comes up, you can put it on Vanessa’s desk, and when she loves it, which she will, you can say you wrote it yourself and you can know that you wrote it with your pussy. You can know that your pussy made this masterpiece.”
The barkeep keeps the shot glasses full. Glasses from a rack tintinnabulate as the dishwasher brings them back.
“You’ve never written anything. What do you know about it?”
“I know enough to have the title.”
“How can you have a title?”
“The Diviners.”
She says, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What do you mean? It’s fabulous. What could be better? It’ll look great. It’s got the accent on the second syllable. Just the idea got me hard in the changing room at the ashram. I was straining against my warm-up pants. That’s all we need to know. Just try saying it!”
At which point the scene changes, because he has exercised his seduction skills, naturally, skills given to him by God, and the bar vanishes away. These are the gray tones of a limousine interior. There’s no connective tissue to attach the one scene to another scene, there’s just the mystery of the raconteur. The location scouts have already been working, advance men and women, and suddenly Thaddeus Griffin and Annabel Duffy are in Washington Mews, that stretch of housing for professors from the university nearby, each carriage house as small as a one-bedroom but as charming as a villa. They walk halfway across the block, toward Fifth Avenue, on the cobblestones, and he finds the door he’s looking for. As they close in, his arm around her waist, he raises a single gloved hand to knock, and then pauses:
“You’re wondering why. You’re wondering why a guy who didn’t finish his degree has you here, on a block of professors. Well, I’ll tell you why. Because a guy I used to play chess with in high school, Charles Ng, is working toward tenure here. In the Asian Studies Department. He’s an incredibly promising scholar, one who has been contacted occasionally by the State Department to be of service in espionage cases and so forth. And why we are here is because Charles is about to corroborate my story, the story I’m about to tell you, which begins, of course, with the Mongol hordes.”
“The Mongol hordes.”
Up the block, the wife of an absentminded professor closes her front door behind herself. A corgi leads her out. They head toward Washington Square Park.
“Driven off of the grassy plains for what reason? Driven out of their homeland of millennia for what reason? If it was so perfect there; if they could found a religion there, in a land of plenty, a culture of enlightenment that persists to the present day, why leave? Charles Ng will tell you. Drought. In those days there was a great drought in the East. The rivers dried up. Primitive efforts to irrigate had created salt deposits, rinds of salt, on the vast steppe. There was no snow in the mountains, and so the runoff of the snowcapped peaks that in spring and summer slaked the grasslands never came. The lakes were mud puddles, and Asian tigers lay in the tall grass waiting for any living thing. The way of life for the Mongolian nomads involved grave danger. These grasslands had sustained the yak, the lamb, the goat, the Asian antelope, and the brave clans who had dominion over them. These grasslands were home to great flocks of fowl and herds of game. And now these grasslands were burning in the massive fires of Mongol legend. There was no cheese, nor curds, nor yogurt, the provisions that had sustained those Mongol families around the campfire. There were no meats from domesticated animals that once had made the children strong. And the pelts that kept them warm during the bitter Mongolian winter? Charlie Ng has written a bunch of books about the decades of Mongol drought and he has written about the Mongolian rainmaker, Zoltan —”
“Are you joking? Zoltan?”
“We can work on the names later. You’ll see. Anyway, on the one side, the drought of the Mongolian plains. On the other side, the Roman Empire. The cradle of civilization, expanding northward with taxes, tributes, foreign tongues. It was a tinderbox, this historical moment, and Zoltan, peace lover, a man of shamanistic gods, it was he who renounced the plans of his second cousin Attila. Attila, who slaughtered Zoltan’s father in order to seize control of the nomadic clans, the very clans who now rally the Mongolian archers on their stallions, set the valleys of Mongolia aflame. It was a fire of such enormity that it made our southwestern wildfires look like a backyard barbecue. The riders, galloping down across the mountains and into the empire, were safe only because they were under Atilla’s control. Those who refused? They would be consumed by the fire. Get it? A valley of flames, two thousand years ago, and Attila is raping Roman women, burning villages. All the world is in flames, but Zoltan appears with the wall of flames behind him, and he’s walking through a valley in flames, in, in, I don’t know, in Uzbekistan, and he plucks up this forked stick, for this forked stick will be his crutch—I forgot this part—because he has a withered leg, and he says to his sidekick, the Moorish slave named Kiko, ‘This forked stick is the indication of the two paths down which we can journey, the path of good and the path of ill, and I, Zoltan, my family torn asunder by the Hun, resolve to use these two as one, the two—good and ill—make one, to forge our history, the result of which will be as water, from which all living things come. My name will be written in water, and down through all the ages there will be water for the descendants of Zoltan, until history rests from its labors, and my heirs will always know that the way of peace and magnanimity is the way of water.’ And from there Zoltan marches, alone, with forked stick and sidekick, into the ruins of what is now Europe.”
Thaddeus has long since plunged his gloved hand into the pocket of his black leather overcoat, though it looked splendid hovering at the door knocker on Washington Mews. He pauses for effect. And now he begins to walk up the street.
“So there’s no Charles Ng?” Annabel says. “No such person?”
“It’s a good name, though, right?”
The generations between Zoltan and his next important heir, Babu, are thirty generations, and the names are impossible to pronounce, and yet Thaddeus lists them while the two of them are walking down University. Here now is the multigenerational saga, with its epic sweep. Every twenty years, if not sooner, some cock finds a home in some pussy, and another infamous generation is spawned, and the peoples of Zoltan move back and forth across the borders, they’re ejected here, they turn up somewhere else, and in their sorrow and impermanence, they set their tents rocking, for no class of men and women has ever been more fertile than a refugee population. Thaddeus produces the flask from his coat, takes a long pull on it, hands it to Annabel, rhapsodizing. Here they are, before CBGB’s, where once hordes of rock-and-roll musicians gathered in leather jackets and torn jeans, feather boas and fishnets, where once there were Mohawks, body piercings, tattoos. They stand before it, Bowery and Bleecker, while kids spill in and out of the doorway. One youngster with bright blue hair remarks, “Hey, you’re, you’re, you’re . . .”
Thaddeus raises high his hands to put a stop to the interruption.
“Listen close.” He pauses for effect. “The two most hated groups of people in all Europe were the Gypsies and the Jews. Everywhere you went, the persecution of the Gypsies and the Jews. The Gypsies walked all the way from India, across a continent, with their inscrutable language, and when they met up with the Magyars, well, they were in the country of nomads. And that’s where the heirs of Zoltan, the first-ever diviner, intermingled with the Gypsies and produced the great, unbroken string of Gypsy diviners. These guys could find a spring at a hundred yards. It was through them that the Gypsy families of Hungary thrived. They’d go into town, dragoon a few Saxons and a few Slavs, whom the Gypsies believed were the best traders. A shiv at the throat. Separating Saxons from their purses, this was the best activity of all. The Gypsies thrived, and their leader, Andrós, decreed that no more magic was to be practiced publicly by the Gypsies of Hungary. They confined themselves to stealing loot from Jewish shopkeepers.”
A small throng from the club gathers around, skeptically, but Thaddeus rises to the story, as he always does. He gives himself over entirely to charm and he smiles, and when he smiles, things happen, regardless of the existence or nonexistence of conviction.
“It was Babu, son of Andrós, a young guy who grew up straight and true, who noticed Nurit, the daughter of a jeweler, and thereby brought close these two reviled races of men. Her hair was as black as coal, and her skin was like ivory, and she was shy, with enormous brown eyes. And Babu was so bewitched by her that he was still lingering in the shop long after his fraternity of thieves had run off with a brace of necklaces. So it’s Babu, the Gypsy at hand, who is set upon by a gang of Jewish shopkeepers. They tie him up and carry him back to the neighborhood where they live. And they threaten to cut off his fingers one by one unless he is willing to tell them where they can find the other thieves.
“You know what happens next, right? It’s what always happens next in Europe. A gang of men with staves and torches appears to drive the Jews out of the town and into the countryside. No time to dispense with Babu’s fingers, and his protestations that he’s a Gypsy, not a Jew, don’t impress the Magyars, who are the ones driving out the Jews. If there’s a Gypsy in the bunch, from their point of view, no matter. And just as Babu’s fingers aren’t detached from him, neither is Nurit, the hottie, the love interest, detached from him, and during the march out of the city and into arid fields, the two of them manage to have a few wanton kisses, and Babu caresses her bosom. That’s about the best he can do at the moment, and it seems amazing, the softness of her bosom, at least until they are in the scrub brush that is no man’s property at the end of that country. The elders among the Jewish men—dry-eyed and fatalistic—hold council and decide that it was Babu who led the Magyars to them. They decide that they have no choice but to kill him. There’s no other way to deal with it, even when Nurit pleads: ‘You can see from his eyes that his heart is true! He stole nothing from the shop!’ Her father tells her she’s an ignorant girl, ignorant in the ways of the world. The Jews have nothing but enemies and they are driven from one place to another, always dispossessed, and she says, ‘No! Babu loves me.’ And that’s when Babu tries his own way out of his bad spot. He boasts that he can find water for the families of this diaspora. He says, ‘Do not your families need water? Do not they need to drink? My people have supplied water from time immemorial. A little gold is nothing. The true coin of the realm is water. I’m a diviner and I can give you what you need.’”
A cop cruiser slows to a stop in front of CBGB’s. Some of the kids scatter or head back into the club, where a hard-core band is doing the same old thing. Of those remaining, one boy says, “But he doesn’t know how to find the water!” As though he’s the audience plant.
“Exactly right!” Thaddeus cries. Smiles at Annabel, who holds fast to his arm now. “Exactly right. He has no idea because his father, Andrós, has decreed that no magic shall be practiced among Gypsies. Babu has heard stories of it. He’s heard the stories. And in his head, he’s trying hard to know what he needs to know. Forked stick. Some kind of prayer or incantation. Is there an enchanted phrase or something? He has no idea.
“One of the elders whispers to another, ‘We let him find the water, then we kill him.’ They nod sadly. Babu makes a big production out of finding the stick. He goes searching through the low forest. Among hornbeam, alder, sycamore, yew, Serbian spruce. In the distance, the sound of wolves because, you know, it’s Central Europe. There are lots of wolves. A howling over the Danube. It’s just part of the whole thing. He wanders in the scrub and finally he finds a forked stick, birch, and he’s walking back toward the fire circle. There are babies crying, and the women are worried. And while he’s on his way back, he trips on something or something trips him, and he falls on his face, you know, in a thicket of briars. It’s like he’s been struck by whatever overpowering force controls the dowsing in the world, and when he gets up he can feel the forked stick trembling like the limbs of a woman in childbirth! The stick is leading him somewhere! And he follows the stick, and he knows. In an instant, he knows. ‘Dig here! Dig here! Here there is water for your people! Here!’ And some of the Jewish grave diggers, accomplished in their craft, dig in that spot, and down they go, six feet, and find a spring bubbling enthusiastically. Nurit kisses Babu, and there’s a cheer from all the dispossessed families there, and they take him into their family, as long as he promises to convert, and they only cut off two of his fingers, one for stealing the necklaces and one for seducing a Jewish woman.”
Scattered applause, very scattered, and then the limousine again pulls near to the curb, and its door opens for Thaddeus and Annabel as if they were born to it. And the driver says to him, “Sir, a call for you.”
Shit. His wife, Sabrina. Like she’s some kind of diviner herself. Like she can sense trouble across the planes of time and space. Whenever he’s somewhere he shouldn’t be, the call comes. She doesn’t need to say anything. The call is an antique envelope, perfumed, with a wax seal. Annabel climbs into the car with him, but once in, she gets fidgety, staring out the window at the Bobst Library, suicide jumper’s site of choice. Nearby, boys head into the park with their acoustic guitars. A pair of cops on horses.
The wife is saying that the commercial is going really well. She’s saying that they want her here for a couple more days. Sabrina is saying the weather in Southern California is just perfection. It’s all completely inoffensive. The goal of a marriage is deep and abiding intimacy, that’s something people say, but Thaddeus feels like marriage is deeper when it has deception in it. When his wife says, “The weather in Southern California is perfection,” that could mean a hundred things. There are many more layers to deception than there are to truth. Truth is a log cabin with a dirt floor. Deception is a house with hidden stairwells, dropped ceilings, and furtive butlers. When she says the weather is perfection, she means, “I enjoy the weather best when you are not in it.” Sabrina means, “You make the weather appalling.” She means that her life, outside of marriage, blows where it lists, like a sirocco. She means that the weather includes the half-clothed or entirely unclothed body of some studio executive guy with a shaved chest. She’s probably waxing his shoulders right now. When she says all these things, she means, “I know you are doing these things, too, because you are a failed movie actor who makes movies for teens in Kansas City. I don’t expect much. But I expect you not to make me look like an asshole.” He met his wife in Southern California. Later, his wife had a miscarriage in Southern California. And since then they’ve been too busy for pregnancy. This layer is never to be spoken of and never forgotten. She’s in Southern California, where his business is, and he’s in a limousine with a twenty-eight-year-old office assistant, spinning out drunken lies about Gypsies. They get stuck in traffic at the junction of West Fourth and Sixth Avenue.
“It needs more,” she says.
“You do some.” He pockets his cell phone.
“I’m doing it in my head. Where it’s quieter,” she says. “You need the Gobi Desert. It’s big, and it’s deserted, and it has Chinese mythology. What about a martial-arts sequence?”
He has the flask open again. “You can’t just skip right to the desert. You have to work your way up. Next should be Morocco, where Babu and Nurit have Sephardic babies, who are darkly hued, and from there, in exile, they cross the Mediterranean —”
“You’ve got your geography screwed up.”
“You think anyone cares about geography? Anyway, the Mediterranean gives you the opportunity for a lot of stuff about the Greeks. Poseidon, all of that. And then you get to the desert, and the desert is the Sahara. And it’s during the Crusades, see. Their grandson is Jewish, born during the Crusades, in the Holy Land, and he’s driven into the desert, where he becomes part of an Ethiopian sect. And after that, there’s a kid, next generation or the one after that or the one after that, who gets abducted, in West Africa.”
“You don’t want it to get too much like —”
“You want narrative sweep. It’s a multigenerational saga. You have to have the desert; you have to have slave traders. Did I ever tell you about Peter O’Toole and my stepmother? We were going to see Lawrence of Arabia at some repertory theater, back when they still had them. And my stepmother goes out of her way to say that probably Peter O’Toole was one of them, you know. Probably he was one of them, and you could tell by his —”
“I didn’t know you had a stepmother.”
The limousine is going up the West Side Highway. The ventilation chimney for the Holland Tunnel is before them. Jersey City like a malignancy on the opposite side of the Hudson.
“Then you have the slaves of the American South. You have the descendants of Zoltan and Babu and Kwame of what is now Senegal, and these descendants are now in the American South, and some of them are on the Underground Railroad, in the middle of the Civil War, digging for water in the frozen Cumberland Mountains while the noble troops of the Confederacy march to their deaths. It was a lost cause! But the men fought on!”
It’s almost eleven when they pull up on Riverside Drive. They’ve eaten only salty snack items. Thaddeus Griffin is drunk. The driver comes around the side, opens the door. Annabel climbs out first, and she takes Griffin’s hand, helps him out of the car. He is the American celebrity, drunken, immoral, and with an enlarged notion of his importance. He has a beautiful office assistant with him who he drunkenly believes will do almost anything. The driver, standing at attention, shuts the door of the limousine. The doorman stands at attention as the contagion of celebrity is loosed upon the world again.
“You figure out the ending,” he says, in front of his apartment door.
“No. Tell me.”
His voice, on the landing: “The story stops briefly at the Irish famine and then it goes, uh, from Ireland to Iceland. And from there we’re in the—it’s the Russian Revolution. Always the diviners are on the side of the oppressed and the downtrodden. Poland during the Second World War. The Holocaust. The Armenian genocide. The founding of Las Vegas. Very important. The whole last episode concerns the founding of Las Vegas. The descendant of Zoltan is the beautiful daughter of a mobster who’s concealing the fact that he’s partly black. Well, I mean, technically, he’s, uh, he’s Mongol, Gypsy, Jew, Tamil, mestizo, Khmer, Maori, whatever. She slips off with a tenor sax player for a romantic weekend, gets knocked up, dies of an overdose. Her daughter is raised to be a Las Vegas dancer, spurned by her, uh, illustrious mob family. And the daughter of this dancer is given up for adoption during the Nixon administration.”
Annabel, who according to her New England upbringing never betrays a strong feeling, leans against the wall by the door, her body stooped slightly, like a question mark. She begins to say how hard this is for her and abandons the thought. She begins to say what an awful day it’s been. And she begins to say what it’s like being with him. He can’t stop, however, and into the silence he drives himself; always the two things are together, the worst of him and the best of him. How beautiful she is, incandescent and full of promise. He has depleted her, he has depleted promise, he has fed on promise that is no longer his, he’s kept Annabel’s promise away from all other suitors, kept it away from people who might recognize it, has kept her promise in the vaults of hotel rooms, empty corridors, and stairwells, kept it in his arms, and so he tells her the ending one more time, because knowledge is aphrodisiac for the has-been or the once-was. So it seems in an empty hallway, in front of his door.
Because she’s the baby born in Las Vegas. In 1972.