Mao II - Don Delillo [13]
“There are no landmarks,” he said. “But we do it after dark, yes.”
“Now that I’m here it’s hard to talk for very long about anything but him. I feel there’s something at my shoulder and I can’t help thinking I should refer to it now and then. Many people have tried to find him, I’m sure.”
“Nobody’s gotten this far. There have been media forays that we’ve heard about, intrepid teams with telephoto lenses. And his publisher forwards mail from people who are setting out to find him, who send word of their progress, who think they know where he is, who’ve heard rumors, who simply want to meet him and tell him what his books have meant to them and ask the usual questions, fairly ordinary people actually who just want to look at his face.”
“Where is he?” she said.
“Upstairs hiding. But don’t worry. Tomorrow you get your pictures. ”
“It’s an important shoot for me.”
“Maybe it will ease the pressure on Bill. Getting some pictures out. He’s felt lately that they’re moving in, getting closer all the time.”
“All those fairly ordinary people.”
“Someone sent him a severed finger in the mail. But that was in the sixties.”
Scott showed her a room off the kitchen where some of Bill’s papers were kept. Seven metal cabinets stood against the walls. He opened a number of drawers and itemized the contents, which included publishing correspondence, contracts and royalty statements, notebooks, old mail from readers—hundreds of sepia-edged envelopes bound in twine. He narrated matter-of-factly. There were old handwritten manuscripts, printer’s typescripts, master galleys. There were reviews of Bill’s novels, interviews with former colleagues and acquaintances. There were stacks of magazines and journals containing articles about Bill’s work and about his disappearance, his concealment, his retirement, his alleged change of identity, his rumored suicide, his return to work, his work-in-progress, his death, his rumored return. Scott read excerpts from some of these pieces. Then they carried their wineglasses out along the hall where there were shelves filled with booklength studies of Bill’s work and of work about his work. Scott pointed out special issues of a number of quarterlies, devoted solely to Bill. They went into another small room and here were Bill’s two books in every domestic and foreign edition, hardcover and soft, and Brita went along the shelves studying cover designs, looking at texts in obscure languages, moving softly, not inclined to speak. They went to the basement, where Bill’s work-in-progress was stored in hard black binders, each marked with a code number and a date for fairly easy retrieval and all set on freestanding shelves against the concrete walls, maybe two hundred thick binders representing drafts, corrected drafts, notes, fragments, recorrections, throwaways, updates, tentative revisions, final revisions. The slit windows high on the walls were shaded with dark material and there were two large dehumidifiers, one at each end of the room. She waited for Scott to call this room the bunker. He never did. And no hint of ironic inflection anywhere in his comments. But she sensed his pride of stewardship easily enough, the satisfaction he took in being part of this epic preservation, the neatly amassed evidence of driven art. This was the holy place, the inner book, long rows of typewriter bond buried in a cellar in the bleak hills.
There was a back stairway from the kitchen to the second-storey hall and they took Brita’s jacket and bag and equipment case and went up that way. She glimpsed pantry shelves set into the wall and more of Bill’s reader mail, thick boxed files labeled by month and year. She followed Scott through the door and across the hall. This was Brita’s room.
In the bedroom downstairs Karen sat up watching TV. Scott came in and began undressing.
“Long day,” she said.
“Let me tell you.”
“All that driving, you must be really.”
He put on pajamas and got into bed and she reached