What was his name? Do you know?
Stanley shrugs. Everybody called him Hunky, he says. I never met him.
Hmm, Welles says. Then I suppose you got it—let’s see—third-hand, at the very least. Here, I’ll read it to you. Dear Alan—ah, good, I see I misspelled that—I salute your naked courage. Yours respectfully, Adrian Welles.
Oh, Stanley says.
I gave it to a poet who came through town two summers ago. A young self-styled visionary. Blake, by way of Whitman. Larry Lipton, I think, had invited him to come down from San Francisco. During the reading he had an altercation with someone from the crowd, and to demonstrate—something, his sincerity, his commitment, I don’t know what—he disrobed completely. It struck me at the time as a rather impressive gesture.
Welles closes the book, sits to open a drawer. You know, he says, this copy is rather the worse for wear. I’ve got one here in my desk that’s essentially untouched. Let me replace—
Stanley puts a quick protective hand on the book. If it’s all the same to you, he says, I’d just as soon keep the one I got.
Welles’s eyes track up Stanley’s arm to his face. Something in them seems slightly wounded. Then he smiles.
When he rises, he’s holding a metal ruler. He sets it down, fishes a razorblade from the top drawer. Opening the book again, he slips the ruler inside and cuts out the inscribed page with a single swift motion. Stanley tenses for an instant, about to spring, to seize Welles’s arm. Then he realizes that he doesn’t care. He’d rather be rid of it.
Welles flips to the preceding page, uncaps his pen again. As the nib scrapes the paper, Stanley’s eyes drift across the room: the mountains of books, the arsenal desk, the great barred door. After a moment Welles blows across the ink to dry it and puts the open book in Stanley’s hand. I tried to be more forgiving with my penmanship this time, he says. Can you read it?
Sure, Stanley says. Most of it.
It’s a quotation from Roger Bacon, the Thirteenth-Century English magus.
Okay. What’s it mean?
Welles caps the pen, turns off the lamp. It means I’m glad I met you, he says. Very glad indeed.
Welles picks up his pipe and steps toward the french door again, but Stanley doesn’t follow him. He stands next to the desk, holding the book, staring into space. Thanks for everything, Mister Welles, he says. Really. But it’s time for me to go.
Back downstairs, as he’s pulling on his jacket, Synn?ve does her best to get him to stay—there’s a murphy bed in my studio, she says; I promise it’s quite comfortable—but he exits as quickly as he can, accepting a peck on the cheek, giving her an awkward hug. Wait! she says. Did you want to take your fish-buckets?
Oh, Stanley says, those aren’t actually mine.
Welles walks him down the path to the gate. What shall I tell your friend when he and Cynthia return? he says.
He’ll know where I am. You don’t need to worry yourself.
Welles offers his hand. Stanley takes it, and Welles pulls him into an embrace. Stanley is suspended for a moment, his ear against the man’s chest, breathing in his spicy smoke, hearing the roar and rumble of his chambered interior. Then Welles releases him.
As he steps from the curb, Stanley turns. Oh, Mister Welles? he calls.
Yes?
When we first met on the beach, a couple nights ago, you said something to me. What was it?
Welles walks away slowly until he reaches the stoop. Then he turns and leans against a wooden column. I don’t think I recall, he says.
It was in another language, Stanley says. You said it twice.
Welles is a featureless silhouette against the open door. His wife stands behind him, looking sleepy and sad. Two points of light appear in his spectacles. Stanley can’t tell where that light is coming from.
I’m sorry, Welles says. I must have enunciated so poorly that whatever I said sounded foreign. I’m sure I spoke only English. And that badly, it seems. My apologies.
Stanley nods. Okay, he says. Goodnight, Mister Welles.
Goodnight, Stanley.
On the way to the boardwalk, maybe two lots down, Stanley passes an overgrown yard with a cat in it. The cat has something in its mouth: a sandy fishhead, trailing scraps of viscera. It watches him with glassy green eyes.
Stanley clenches his jaw, aims a kick at the cat’s skull, then pulls it at the last second. The cat hunches, flattens its ears, and tears off through the grass, darting under the porch. Stanley’s vision is blurring again; a tremor gathers in his throat, and his breath comes heavily.
He looks over his shoulder at Welles’s deck, just visible through a spearpoint row of juniper trees. There’s a dark shape on the rail that must be Welles, though Stanley can’t tell if he’s watching or not.
You’re a lying sack of shit, Stanley hisses through his teeth.
46