A Voice in the Night Page 7

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yes. Openings analysis. There’s a great deal happening in the game these days. As I think I explained to my colleague, Dr. Case, I’m editing a collection of medieval poetry, and that must take precedence. I’m afraid I was distracted, thinking about Chaucer, you see. Took my mind off the game and failed to give our young friend adequate competition. I do apologize, Mr. Morphy.”

  “We have nine more to play,” said Paul.

  “Of course. We will, never worry about that. And I’ll try to demonstrate more effectively than I did this evening why an attack like the one you showed me just now is really rather premature. I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.”

  He shut himself down.

  Paul’s operational lamps went scarlet. “He’s doing it to me again,” he said.

  “No, Paul. It’s over. You’ve beaten him.”

  “It isn’t over, Harold. Listen, it happened this way in London, too. We played a couple of consultation games. But everyone knew it was him against me. I won those games. But it meant nothing. I need to beat him beyond any question of doubt, to hear him admit the difference between us.”

  I stared at the lamps. “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll talk to him.”

  William Jennings Bryan was a better man than either of these idiot chessplayers. Little men like Staunton never bothered him. And he would never have run from someone like Morphy. He could not have won. He never won. But that’s why he was magnificent. He never won, and he never compromised.

  It was several days before Staunton would even respond. And when he finally did, it was only to protest. “I’d really like to be of assistance. But surely you, Dr. Case, recognize the priorities of these things. How can I, in good conscience, put my work aside to play a game?”

  “Surely the match would not take that much of your time, sir.”

  “Of course not. But I would be unable to give it my concentration. That would be unfair to all involved. Please try to explain to Mr. Morphy.”

  “Mr. Staunton, you agreed to a match.”

  “And I shall play it. Somehow. In the meantime, you may inform your associate that I will endeavor to compensate his patience by providing some personal instruction on those aspects of his game which clearly need attention. He’s quite talented, you know. With proper guidance, he should be able to compete reasonably well in the front rank of European players.

  “Mr. Staunton—.”

  His amber lamp went out, and I was alone.

  After that, Paul would not talk to me. And night after night I drifted to sleep among the bleakest, darkest landscapes of Bach, DeBussy, and Schoenberg.

  I’d made a mistake reconstructing Staunton. I should have gone for Freud. Why wasn’t either of them more like Bryan? And while Paul’s gloomy symphonies echoed through the house, the name that was on my lips was Bryan.

  Bryan, Bryan, Bryan.

  I couldn’t infuse Paul’s character with a generous helping of the old crusader without losing the Morphy persona. But there was another possibility.

  Historians of the latter half of the nineteenth century are in and out all the time now to talk to Paul. Usually, they want to check some detail of daily life in the South, or perhaps gain an insight into the perspective of a man who lived through it all.

  Other projects, based on my results, are underway. One researcher in Los Angeles claims to have used Napoleon’s tactics to reconstruct his psyche. And a team in Seattle is working on Caesar.

  In the meantime, Paul seems quite happy. There is a problem, though. Morphy would like to give up chess, just as he did once before. But challenges come from around the world, and Staunton continues to press him for “one more game,” explaining how much he would enjoy showing Paul how his game could be improved. But unfortunately something always gets in the way.

  IT’S A LONG WAY

  TO ALPHA CENTAURI

  “Charlie, if I never hear another stock ticker, I’ll be happy. I’ve quit.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I never kid.” Jake raised his beer. “I am out of here. I am going to leave. Vamoose. Bail out. In fact, I told them today.” Jake always looked as if life was going well. He had a big smile and bright brown eyes and an attitude that always seemed bulletproof against life’s challenges.

  “Not a good idea, Jake.”

  “I told McIntyre where to head in at. Burned my bridges, I did.”

  “Well, congratulations. I guess.”

  “There’s more.”

  Charlie was looking around for their waitress. “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to the South Seas.” Charlie blinked. He was an easy guy to startle. “I’m going to set up on an island. Find a place with beautiful women and night music and just lie on the beach and throw coconut shells into the ocean.”

  “I believe,” said Charlie, “I’ve heard this before.”

  “This time I mean it.”

  Charlie’s gaze dropped to the table. Jake became aware of pieces of conversation around him: an older couple haggling over money, three young executive-types laughing at the antics of an absent colleague, a middle-aged woman complaining about incompatible computer systems.

  “You should always leave an escape hatch,” Charlie said. “If you change your mind, Baxter will cut you off at the pass. You’ll have trouble getting work anywhere.”

  “The problem with escape hatches is that you always wind up using them. No: I’ve begun to think about what really counts in this world. And hanging around Philly in a job that just goes on and on: that isn’t it.”

  “You sound like a beer commercial.”

  Jake grinned. “Yeah. I know.”

  “Jake.” Charlie’s eyes fastened on him. “You’ll go nuts out there. There’s nothing to do.”

  “Sure there is. They have great luaus.”

  “I’m talking about a job, Jake. And then, you know, a reason to exist.”

  “Don’t need it, Charlie. Loaf of bread. Jug of wine. Couple of women. That’ll be enough.”

  Charlie looked unhappy. “Who are you going to play poker with?”

  “I’ll find someone.” Jake’s expression softened. “I was wondering if you’d like to come?”

  “Me?”

  “Why not? Hell, it’d be a great way to get away from the rat race. What do you say?”

  Charlie’s brow furrowed. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is my home, Jake. Always has been.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to stay here. What’s holding you? Your kids are grown. You don’t like your job—”

  “—But I’m only ten years from retirement.”

  “Ten years. Charlie, that’s a lifetime. That job will kill you. You really going to stay that long with something you don’t like just because you have an investment in the pension fund? Come on—”

  They paid up and walked out of the bar. The mall was jammed with Christmas shoppers. They stopped at Rollie’s newsstand to pick up a copy of Sports Illustrated. Jake remembered the times when he and Charlie and the rest of the Tasker Tornadoes, dragging bats and gloves and catcher’s equipment, had stopped here coming back from games in West Philly and Frankfurt. That was before they owned cars and had to ride the subways and elevated to get around. A lot of years ago.

  Just ahead, Jake spotted a travel office tucked away in an alcove. “That’s new,” he said.

  Posters of Asian and European city scenes covered the glass and the interior walls. Jake saw desert sunsets and jungle ruins and moonlit oceans. And a framed photograph of part of an orange disk was mounted in the center of the window. Bright silver fountains obscured the edges of the disk, and a black sky filled with stars was set behind it. “It’s the sun,” said Jake.

  “I don’t think so.” Charlie leaned closer. “It looks like a photo.”

  “Why isn’t it the sun?”

  “Look down here.” He pointed at a quarter-sized sphere of bright gold
en light. “That’s a second star. No other stars around here.”

  “That’s really clever.” Jake squinted. “You’re right.”

  Inside, a small man in gray trousers and a white shirt sat at a desk behind an office-length counter. He was bent over a computer. His black hair had begun to thin, and he wore a red tie and bifocals. There was something basically prissy in his expression.

  Jake pushed open the door.

  The man with the bifocals continued to peer at the computer. Then without having seemed aware of their presence, he glanced up. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

  A rubber plant dominated his work table. On the wall behind the plant, Jake saw a photograph of an aircraft with filamented wings flying over a rough sea. The plane looked like one of those 1912 experiments that always went wrong. But this one appeared to be riding out a storm.

  “Just looking around,” Jake said. There were several other pictures mounted on the walls, shots of landscapes and cities. “What kind of plane is that?”

  “Name’s Kirby.” The man smiled weakly and offered his hand.

  “Jake Cashman. This is Charlie Halvik.”

  “And that,” Kirby indicated the aircraft, “is a Wyndsurf 18.”

  “New kind of plane?”

  “An old one.” Kirby adjusted his bifocals. “They’re only used now for sightseeing.” He looked toward Charlie and back at Jake. “May I be of assistance?”

  Jake nodded. “Do you have information on the South Seas?”

  “You mean traveling there? Of course.” He tilted his head in a way that seemed almost birdlike. “Would you be interested in a winter vacation possibly? We could plan an excellent one for you.”

  “Well, I’d just like to get an idea what’s available. What the rates are. One-way.”

  Kirby reacted with surprise. “One-way? You’re planning on a permanent move?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  “How many people would be traveling?”

  “One,” Charlie said. Jake did not miss the reproach in his tone.

  Kirby’s eyes moved from Jake to Charlie. “Please wait a moment.” He turned away, back to his keyboard.

  Jake and Charlie looked at each other. “Don’t make any commitments now,” said Charlie.

  “I won’t. I just want to start getting a feel for things.”

  Kirby peered into his screen. “Best current fare into Truk, that’s in Micronesia, would be just under a thousand dollars. One way.”

  “Not cheap,” said Charlie. “Why don’t you try Atlantic City?”

  “On the other hand, Mr. Cashman, I can suggest a destination you might find interesting. And the price is right.”

  “Where?” Jake asked.

  “Just a moment.” Kirby opened a cabinet and produced a photo album. He glanced inside it, nodded to himself, turned it around, and opened it in the middle.

  A single photograph, about the size of a sheet of stationery, was mounted in the center of the page. There was a beach in the foreground, a few pieces of driftwood, a line of waves, and an oddly-twisted seashell. Twin peaks dominated the skyline, one towering over thick black forest, the other rising out of the ocean. They were gray and polished, their tops snow-covered. It was late afternoon on a day somber with approaching rain. Jake could almost smell salt air.

  “I think I’ve seen that somewhere,” said Charlie. “Is it in Maine?”

  “It’s Coeli-namar. Sea Mount in English.”

  A finger of mist curled up out of the forest. Streaks of sunlight fell across cold rock. Just below the snowline, Jake could make out a silver span connecting the two mountains. Maybe a thousand feet up. “What is that?”

  Kirby twisted around to get a look. “A bridge,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “A bridge?” There was no support, and the thing had to be two miles long.

  “Yes.” Kirby nodded. “Isn’t it magnificent?” He started to turn the page.

  “Just a minute.” Jake did not feel that he was looking at a photo. It might almost have been a living landscape.

  Kirby adjusted his collar. “It lies somewhat beyond the routes of the commercial airlines.” Another photo revealed a house on stilts rising out of a moonlit lake, in which three crescents floated in the black polished water. The house appeared to be constructed of brass and fronds. Circular windows glowed along its upper level. Lanterns lined its decks. Jake could see several shadowy forms stretched out in chairs.

  “Arboghast,” said Kirby. “This lake is almost two thousand feet above sea level.”

  “I never heard of it,” said Charlie.

  “Would you like to visit it?”

  “Yes,” said Jake. “I would.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Cashman.” He rubbed his hands together and turned another page. “I’m in a position to offer you a voyage of unusual dimensions.”

  Kirby turned the book to provide a better view. A domed city stood on a snow-covered plain. Fur-covered elephantine beasts grazed beneath a brilliant white sun. They cast two shadows.

  “The journey of a lifetime,” Kirby said.

  “Where are these places?” asked Jake.

  “Very far.” Kirby looked directly into his eyes. “Centaurus.”

  Charlie laughed. “That’s in Ohio, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s considerably farther. If you really want to get away, Mister Cashman, if you are indeed serious, this is your chance. In spades.”

  The overhead lights dimmed.

  Kirby glanced at Charlie. “The offer is open to you both.”

  “To do what?” asked Charlie.

  “To come and live among us. Transport, I should add, will be taken care of at no cost to you.”

  The look of sublime control that was usually visible in Jake’s eyes faded.

  “Oh, come on,” said Charlie. “What the hell is this about anyway?”

  “Be aware,” said Kirby, “that our coverage of expenses is for the outbound flight only.”

  Jake’s eyes closed momentarily. “All right,” he said. “I’m in.”

  Kirby produced a ticket and handed it to Jake, who felt the touch of a chill.

  “Not me,” said Charlie. “I don’t care if you guys don’t charge for the flight. I’m not going anywhere. I’m particularly not going to—where is that? Alpha Centauri?”

  Jake stared at his ticket. DAWNSTAR LAUNCH/FLIGHT 111. It was dated for that night. “I’d have liked to have a little time to think about it.”

  “Yeah,” said Charlie. “Well, I don’t think he wants you to back out. This is crazy, Jake.” Jake pushed the ticket into his pocket. “You don’t know anything about them.”

  They left the travel office and turned onto Seventeenth Street. A bus passed, spraying water and slush.

  “If I don’t go,” Jake said, “I’ll always regret it.”

  “Jake, I rarely give you advice—”

  “You always give me advice.”

  They entered the parking lot. Charlie’s elderly Plymouth was jammed between a pickup and a station wagon. “Jake, don’t do this,” he said.

  “Charlie, I feel nineteen years old.”

  Jake tried to contact his daughter, but she didn’t answer. It didn’t really matter. She knew how he felt. He sent an email:

  Hi, Love

  Everything here is yours. There’s a letter in the desk drawer with banking and property info. It should be enough to get what I own safely into your hands. It explains where I’m going. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be happy. I probably won’t be back.

  You’ve been a marvelous daughter.

  Love,

  Dad

  He had two suitcases and a garment bag at his disposal, into which to pack clean clothes and toothpaste and the necessaries for a lifetime. What would the climate be like where he was going? And he added the assorted debris of fifty years: pictures of Mary and Jennifer; his collection of CDs which he might not be able to play. He wished he didn’t have to leave his bow
ling trophy, or the framed photo of the Tornadoes, twelve kids with old-fashioned baseball gloves and those ill-fitting cotton uniforms. He and Charlie stood on either side of Will Koestner, who had kept in touch for years before a long-time bad heart got him. And he’d miss his 2021 Eagles program—a championship year—signed by Norm Brockmaier and Chuck Cantnor.

  His wedding ring didn’t fit anymore, but he would never have left that behind.

  Books.

  They’d become more important recently. He’d found himself settling in during long winter evenings with Dickens, Tolstoy, and Emerson. He was still trying to catch up with his old college reading list. But the bags were packed tight, and he knew now he would never finish the effort.

  The stars were hard and bright when Jake left the house. A sliver of moon drifted in the west, and he wondered on the way to the airport whether Alpha Centauri was visible.

  The cab driver wanted to talk about the Sixers. Jake was vaguely surprised: he would have expected such a conversation to seem trivial on a night like this. But he listened eagerly, agreeing that the rebounding needed shoring up, though they could run and shoot with anybody.

  The cabby fell silent as they crossed the Penrose Ferry Bridge. Jake could make out the lights of Center City to the north. Nice town. Sports reporters and made-up stories had given it a bad reputation. Jake thought about the old tea party tale: that the British ship headed for Boston in 1775 had docked first in Philadelphia, where a crowd of local patriots had gathered on the dock and booed.

  In the dark, in the back of the cab, he smiled. He loved this city—

  He got out at the International Terminal, found a skycap to take charge of his bags, and went inside.

  The DAWNSTAR service counter was located at the far end of the complex in a corner just this side of the international corridor. It was of modest size: he would have missed it had the skycap not pointed it out.