The War Against the Assholes Read online

  From my bed, my dream of the concrete pool draining away, I watched Alabama. I admit it. Her skin looked fragile. Bruise-blue hollows under her eyes. I watched Hob. He grinned in his sleep. I thought about how to explain her presence to my parents. Hob they would not object to. I’d never brought a girl home before to spend the night. What the theurgists tell us requires study and paraphernalia requires only courage and will, said Mr. Stone. I hefted Alabama’s gun. Rubber bands corrugated its butt. I quick-drew three times, into my mirror. “You talking to me,” I said. Dark circles under my eyes. Inexplicable bruises along my ribs.

  The nature of war, said Mr. Stone, was simply the tyrannical nature of the majority making itself known. He bore no grudge against the theurgists, he called them slaves only because they were. Slaves of what? Call their masters what you like. His pet rats kept stone-still as he spoke. Since the Treaty of Constantinople, he said, when, perhaps, the theurgists realized for the first time what an advantage they had in numbers, this war against their freer compatriots had been unceasing. Mass exiles. Mass killings. The crushing under the heel of the most innocent and helpless. Those who wished merely to save their families. To grow crops. To protect their wives and children. Those who wished to fly unaided. Without rods or staves. Without incantations. In the smoke I saw images. A long, gray line of oxcarts snaking across a far horizon, between the green grass and the blue sky. A man dressed in red robes, carrying a crosier in one hand and a dagger in the other, limping toward the naked throat of a young woman chained to an oak board. Her head shaved, her legs spread, her arms bound, her irises slate blue, her mouth clenched in anger or pride.

  My head still ached. I crept into the hall. My mother still snored. My father was already awake. Not a catastrophe. He had no reason to be suspicious of anything. “Morning, professor,” he said, “more wind sprints last night?” I told him yes. “Well, it’s not so much me but your mother gets worried,” he said. “She’s still asleep,” I said. “She fell asleep pretty early, too, not even one,” he said. My mother’s deep sleeping had served as a joke of long standing between us. “Sawing logs,” I said.

  Mr. Stone himself was a victim. Before the Second World War he had been a mathematician in Berlin. In the field of harmonic analysis. He told me when I asked what it was that he could not explain concisely. I told him that was all right: I never pretended to be a genius at math. He was no genius either, he said, just a humble observer. As such he could not explain the events of that war, he said, other than as Hitler’s search for Froch, or rather von Sebottendorf’s search for Froch, who managed to elude him, who managed to escape, said Mr. Stone, into the arms of an obscure and sordid death. This search had claimed as incidental casualties Mr. Stone’s wife and child, his promising career. His life. Mr. Stone’s wife and child had been named Helen and Gerhard. He’d wanted the boy to have a German name, to avoid the kicks and insults he had suffered due to the alien nature, he said, of his own name. At that time he had not even known who Froch was, he was innocent of any expertise, he had only discovered Froch’s work in the Mauthausen concentration camp, when a fellow prisoner named Weisbrod introduced him to it. This fellow prisoner was soon executed for being unable to work. He died in a ditch, shot at the base of his skull, his face submerged in a shallow, muddy pool. Mr. Stone had taken his book, and thus taken the first step on the unpredictable path that led him to this redoubt, he said, beneath the streets. At Mauthausen he’d seen one of Sebottendorf’s minions saw a woman in half. Not as an illusion. In order, he said, to provide enough blood and agony to appease the powers he believed he served. Mountjoy House, he said, was not of course Mauthausen. Yet the fundamental nature of man does not change, and a murderous slave is still a slave. Verner Potash was a Jew. He was not suggesting anything to the contrary. Nonetheless you might see in the events of the Second World War a logical end to the activities of the theurgists. The great trample the little and the strong trample the weak. That, said Mr. Stone, was the method of the human world.

  “Got any big plans for break,” said my father. “Nothing special,” I said, “there’s really not a lot going on. I mean other than Christmas.” “Your grandmother is coming,” said my father, “so we’ll have to hide the liquor.” As long as Hob and Alabama stayed in my room, I’d be fine, I calculated. I didn’t trust either of them to do so, was the problem. I could just see Alabama waltzing out into the living room to thank my parents for their hospitality. Gun and all. Hob they wouldn’t mind, although I’d heard them express the opinion, once, that both he and Vincent were weirdos, as were their parents, Padraig (“He changed the spelling of his name, for Christ’s sake,” as my father put it) and Laura. My father wore his tennis clothes: a crimson tracksuit and white shoes, which he cleaned every Sunday with a toothbrush, and a yellow sweatband across his forehead. He was gulping water. He advocated early-­in-the-day hydration as a cure-all. He seemed to be correct. I can’t remember him ever being sick. I removed a glass from the prongs of the dishwasher, to fill it. “What’s that on your arm,” he said, “is that a tattoo?” I looked. I saw. I crowed out a laugh. I’d managed to forget it happened. Compared to the rest of the night it was a minor event.

  Hob was already mostly unconscious when I got inked. “Good night, sweetheart, weeeeeel, it’s time to go, ba-da-dum-da-duuum,” he crooned. Seconds later: deep breaths. As a result I had to sit stiffly on the edge of my bed, avoiding staring at Alabama, who was leafing through my biology textbook. Each page made a loud, precise crack as she turned it. We had my desk lamp for light. Nothing else. Alabama kept yawning, and she spun my chair around—the mechanism squealed—and lurched over toward me, grinning, her eyelids half-down. My pulse started to race. I started to reach for her. She grabbed my right arm. Her fingers dug in hard under the bracelet of fortune. She pushed up my sleeve and placed her index finger against my forearm. “Ready,” she said. I nodded. I was. For anything. She made a few quick, firm, curving strokes against my skin. Tongue extruded in concentration. She didn’t speak while she was tracing these lines and she didn’t look at me, she looked at my inner forearm. She passed out in my desk chair right afterward and I hadn’t bothered to examine her work. I saw now: It was the symbol. From Mr. Stone’s green door. The schematic outline of an open eye. Neatly, blackly inked into my skin halfway between elbow and wrist. I scrubbed at it. No pain. Nothing.

  “It’s a team thing,” I said to my father, “it’s just for football.” “You better hope it’s temporary,” said my father.

  10

  The eel was staring at me. Looking at me with an intent you can’t find among animals. Its eyes vibrant. “I think you’ll agree that my presence would be creepy,” said Vincent, “especially if the kids are your age.” “I concur,” said Alabama. “We’re still going,” said Hob.

  I didn’t object. As I said, I like parties. This one, said Hob, wouldn’t really get going for a while. I didn’t object. I like the aimless hours before parties. For me they meant, once: drinking and bullshitting with Simon Canary or one of the other social actors in my life. What it meant now, I had no idea. An eel looking at me. One element, at least, of the new preparty regime. “I can’t come anyway,” said Vincent. “What do you have like a date,” said Hob. “Just an appointment,” said Vincent. “Play another round at least,” said Hob, “we got interrupted in the subway.”

  Hob’s warm-up: muted compared to his brother’s. Vincent yelped, swung his arms. Snapped the fresh deck open in a fan. Snapped it shut. He unknotted his tie. Knotted it back up. I knew the maneuvers. You see similar rituals in locker rooms. All Hob did was crack his knuckles, twice. “You ready,” said Vincent. A card-throwing contest. The latest installment of what I gathered was an eternal fight between Hob and Vincent. In which they fared about the same. That’s fraternal life. Or so I’m told. I have no siblings. Only children have to wonder if their status is an implied insult. Their targeting rule was simpler, this time. You had to hit this one lighter
brick up high on the wall. I failed and failed to do so as Hob and Vincent racked up points. “Jank,” said Vincent. Alabama didn’t join. “Hey, sub in for me,” I called over to her. “Nope,” she said. “Playing against her is boring,” said Vincent. “What do you mean,” I said. “You want to show him,” said Hob. “I always knew you were a voyeur, Wood,” she said, “look at your eyes hanging out of your head.” Went back to her violin. “What’s the kid’s name again,” I said. I meant who was throwing the party. “I don’t know the host’s name but there’s this guy there I need to talk to,” said Hob. “There’s this guy there you need to talk to. What are you, like a professional of some kind, now? Who is it,” said Vincent, over the violin. Alabama was playing as we threw cards. Sad, strict music. “This kid named Quinn. Quinn Klayman. You don’t know him. You never met him,” said Hob. When I asked Alabama what the music was she did not speak. Her closed eyelids fluttered. Alabama’s bow arm moved, rapid and certain. I saw the mark on the inner forearm, same as mine. I wondered who had done hers. “It’s the chaconne,” she said when she finished and opened her eyes, “from J. S. Bach’s violin partita in D minor. Don’t stare at me.” I was staring. She had that effect on me. “I thought that was pretty sensational,” said Hob. Vincent applauded with just his fingertips. We all drank. The music unspooled and unspooled in my head. One of the perils of being illiterate about the arts is that you can’t just shrug a piece of music or a painting off as X or Y classification. You have no framework to imprison them in. You have to confront them as is.

  A holiday mood. No other way to describe it. Charthouse was gone. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me,” he had said as left, “but I must go see a man about a dog.” He had a suitcase with him in Karasarkissian’s basement. Brown leather, seamed with age. He wore a black suit and a white shirt, glowing against the pointed high lapels. Instead of a necktie an aquamarine scarf, folded into a fist-sized knot. “Later, captain,” said Alabama. That’s just what she called him. He held no official rank. “Where you going,” said Vincent. “Why do you even ask that question,” said Charthouse. We all lifted our glass goblets, our plastic cups, the fake skull Vincent preferred to drink out of. ET IN ARCADIA EGO carved into its truncated brow. “Alabama, you know how to get in touch. Merry Christmas and happy Hanukkah to our Jewish friends,” he said. We all echoed his double farewell. He climbed up the ladder and closed the hatch. His cane-aided, three-beat steps echoed. And then we were, basically, alone. Hob brought everyone refills. He wanted all of us to be welcome. Or be at the same level of intoxication.

  It didn’t affect Hob’s play. Didn’t affect his brother’s. Mine: possibly. When the card-throwing ended, the score stood at eleven to Vincent, twelve to Hob, and precisely zero to me. “Well,” said Vincent, “I believe etiquette says you are in the catbird seat now.” “You don’t have to order me around,” said Hob. The sleight Hob showed us is called THE FOUR WINDS. He cut the deck and fanned it open, two halves, and spread the cards on the table at the feet of the bottles, to show us it was complete and intact. “Everybody take an ace,” he said, “and, Alabama, as a woman, I insist you take the extra.” “Insist shit,” she said. She took two, though. The brilliant-blue eels in the whiskey blinked their golden eyes. “What are they,” I blurted out. “They belong to Chart­house,” said Vincent, “he says they brighten up the place.” He refilled the skull cup. “Mark the cards,” said Hob, “don’t lose focus.” I made an X. Vincent drew a pentagram. Alabama wrote EAT ME on one and HOB on the other. “Hand them over,” said Hob. He shuffled the deck, made the cards jet between his hands in a bending arc. Then he said, “Check your wallets.” My ace, the club, I found between two one-­dollar bills. Alabama found her two: spade and heart. The writing had been changed. IN YOUR DREAMS, said the spade. SUCKER, said the heart. Vincent pulled his out and said, “I admit that’s well-done, Hob.” Instead of an ace, he had a joker. Instead of the regular joker, he had a double-headed drawing of a stick-waving fool in blue and red motley: his own face and a gaping skull. The eels, or legless sala­manders, or sea serpents, circled and circled in the carboys. “Quinn,” said Vincent, “definitely a van rapist.” Hob said, “It’s not a date. I just need to see him. It’s not even a thing.” “Well, don’t get van raped,” said Vincent. “Rape jokes aren’t funny,” said Alabama. She was hooting with laughter as she spoke.

  “Since you opened your mouth, the burden falls to you. You know the rules,” said Vincent. He handed her the deck. “I’m not your trained monkey,” she said. “It’s for Wood. It’s educative. Besides, he’s been staring at you since he got here,” said Vincent. Alabama sighed. She shut her eyes. She took the top card between the index and middle fingers of her shooting hand. Flung it. No warm-up. No knuckle-­cracking. Blind. The card, the eight of clubs, hit the lighter brick Hob and Vincent had aimed at. She took two cards. Handed me the deck. Repeated the maneuver, two-handed. They both hit the brick. “Ninth rung of the ladder,” she said. Turned her back. Threw the card over her shoulder, still blind. It hit the ninth rung. “You didn’t say from the top or bottom,” said Vincent. “The third doorknob, then,” said Alabama, “from the right. Okay?” Eyes shut, back turned. She used her left hand. It hit the doorknob. Hard enough to make the metal ring. I never knew cards could do that. “Hob,” she said. “And this is the thanks I get for being the perfect gentleman,” said Hob. She took two cards in each hand. “It’s payment for those aces,” she said as she hurled them. They all hit him, at the same time, in the face. He leaped back. “That hurt, seriously,” he said. “It never fails to annoy me,” said Vincent, “that you can do that.” “I think that satisfies your bullshit requirement,” she said to Vincent.

  He already had a book in his hands. ELEMENTARY BOTANY, said the spine. He flipped it to a page and showed us: a plate illustration of a sunflower. “Nothing up my sleeves,” he said, “nothing in my hands. Well, other than this book.” He shut his eyes. He balanced the book on his palms and then flipped it upside down. A torrent of sunflower petals poured out of it. Bright yellow. Golden yellow. Vincent was gritting his teeth. When the torrent stopped his shoes were covered, his cuffs. A yellow carpet spread around him. Reached almost to our feet. I lifted a petal. “No counterfeits here,” he said, “right, my athletic friend? And don’t miss part two.” It was real. Warm as though it had just arrived from a spring night. I cupped it in my fist. Vincent closed the book, hurled it onto the green couch, and spread his hands above the petals. Long white fingers trembling. “He overdoes the gestures,” whispered Hob as his brother raised his spread hands ceilingward. The air hummed. Or not hummed. Thrummed. Your hand on the hood of a running car. With a grassy, murmuring rustle, the sunflower petals rushed together, green spots appeared, spread, stretched, the rushing rustle grew and grew, and sunflowers rose up from the high yellow carpet of petals, or the petals became sunflowers, forcing themselves higher, their green stalks lengthening and thickening and the centers darkening, shoots curling down into the cracks of the floor. Leaves springing erect. Until Vincent was obscured by the growing grove. He cried out. In triumph and pain. He stumbled back into view. His forehead sheeted with sweat and his face empty of blood. “Sterling,” said Hob, “one hundred percent.” His brother swayed. “I’m okay, thanks for asking,” he said. He clutched at his stomach. The sunflowers waved on their green stalks. Above us the streets. On the streets filthy snow.

  My heart pounded. In gratitude. My hands and fingertips hummed. Then I saw everyone looking at me. The way you look at a guy who’s waiting too long. “Uh, I think it’s your turn,” panted Vincent. “What do you mean,” I said. “Do I really have to explain,” he said. “You’ve already done the hard stuff,” said Hob. Alabama was fiddling with the pegs at the end of her violin. “You mean just,” I said. “We mean just,” said Vincent. He had a cigarette screwed in now. Ribbons of blue smoke curdled and floated. I had no plan. With pickup games or a gym, instrumental purposes leap out at you. The obje
cts here lacked that family resemblance. On one shelf: four plastic army men, a small metal model of the solar system, a jagged thumb of amethyst, a postcard with Mao Tse-tung’s face surrounded by a sunburst. The silence stretched. Alabama tested the tone of a string on her violin. Above her, an age-dimmed mirror set in a frame of blue metal. Openwork. In the mirror, I saw Hob grinning. Right at me. And that’s when I had my idea. Nothing to it. A simple reaction. I took the mirror from its rusted hook. I looked into it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Hob, “allow me to introduce the Master of Enigmas, Michael Wood.” He gestured at me. Doffed a top hat he wasn’t wearing. Swept a cloak that didn’t exist through the air. He hadn’t given anyone else an introduction. I lucked out, I thought. I brought the mirror to eye level. I kept breaking into a grin. I had no idea what to say or do. I felt Hob’s bright eyes on the back of my neck. So I said the first words that bubbled into my empty head. “Maggie Ravapinto.” I spoke to the faded glass. Nothing happened. My heartbeat was slowing. That’s all. “Maggie Ravapinto,” I said. Voice low and strained. The mirror’s surface flickered. Reminded me of a television screen, an old cathode-powered one, warming up. The metal thrummed. A single high note. “Maggie Ravapinto,” I whispered. I’m not a pervert. It was just the first thing that occurred to me. The screen flickered again, the metal hummed higher, and the glass flared into life. A white, circular blaze. It hit my face like sun.