Back to Wando Passo by David Payne (books to improve english txt) 📕

Guess who that makes you.

“Silly, Scar’s my real daddy….” Ransom suddenly realized his daughter was defending him against Claire’s preference. In Hope’s fantasy, the bad lion was supposed to win. And why? Because in real life, her daddy wasn’t.

Do you think Mufasa ever struggled before a three-way mirror? said the voice. Do you think it ever cost him any anguish to buy a pair of pants? Sure, you hit that poor schmo in Charleston, but he was just a stand-in—we know who you’d really like to give the old bangzoom. And if it felt that good with a stranger, Ran, think how good it would feel to give Marcel the TKO, to give both him and Claire a dose of the same hurt they’ve given you. Think how good it’s going to, when you finally do.

It was night now. The incoming wave broke, white as the evil lion’s teeth. Hsssssssss, it said, in just Scar’s tone of voice.

“A. H. D. with J., Wando Passo, Aug. 1865.” The thought popped suddenly into his head, and Ran said, “Holy shit.”

Starting to get it?

“Wait…You don’t mean…”

Yep, you’re very warm.

“Wait! It isn’t him? It isn’t Harlan in the grave?”

Took you long enough.

“Holy shit! So he came home after the war…”

Destitute and bitter, from a Northern prison…

“And found out…”

A. H. D. with J.

“She was having an affair?”

And Bingo was his name-o.

“So he caught them, right? Harlan caught them, and then…And then…What happened then?”

You know what happened then. What had to happen happened, just like it has to happen now, again.

“So he…?”

Say it.

“Wait, no, wait,” said Ransom, cradling his splitting head, having this highly animated two-way conversation, solo, on the beach.

Come on, Ransom, say it.

“No!”

You know you have to.

“All right, he killed them! He fucking killed them, okay?”

Huh, Good Got! Say it, say it again! the voice exulted, doing a mean James Brown.

“So what?” said Ransom, crying now. “So fucking what? Just because it happened then doesn’t mean it has to happen now.”

Of course not! it laughed. This all happened a long time ago.

“Over a hundred years!”

A hundred and forty, actually. What does any of it have to do with you? Or Claire? Or Marcel “Cell Phone” Jones?

“We’re talking murder here,” Ran said, pathetically imploring now. “Murder. This is me. Me.”

That’s the mistake, though, Ransom, don’t you see? the voice said, not without compassion. People think murder’s something high and hard and deep. It isn’t. How hard is it to pull the trigger of a gun? Any harder than, say, checking your wife’s underpants?

“Hey, I didn’t do that!”

You were close, though, weren’t you? All we’re talking here is capability. And you did knock down a total stranger because you didn’t like his tassel-loafers or his pants. If you ask me, a knuckle sandwich, a fist in someone’s face, flesh to flesh and bone to bone, is a good bit more up close and personal than a gun. And braver, too. Give yourself some credit. That was a pretty gutsy move. Your old homeboys at Bane and Depot would certainly approve. And you know why hitting him felt good?

“Why?”

Because it was the first true act you’ve taken in…How long has it been, Ran? Years?

“But it’s against everything I believe in.”

Come on, Ransom, face it, when you get down to it, you don’t really believe in all that much.

“It’s uncivilized,” he said.

So what? the voice replied. Civilization isn’t where it ends—you at least know that much, don’t you? Didn’t you just agree with Scar that Simba has to journey to the shadow place?

“That’s true, I did,” said Ran, impaled on his own point.

Beyond the border, past the defended gate, there’s a whole wild wilderness out there—in here. That’s where Simba had to go in order to become king. And you do, too, Ran. That’s where you’ll finally find the thing you’ve been seeking all these years.

“What’s that?” he asked, suddenly needing help remembering.

Your True Self, the voice obliged, remember? It’s waiting for you there. You know, and I know, you have to take the trip. It’s foreordained. You’re already on the path. There’s no way back, no way out but on.

“But, murder,” Ran protested. “Not murder, though. This can’t be where the journey leads. I’m not capable of that.”

Remember Chinatown? “Under the right circumstances, Mr. Gittes, a man is capable of anything.”

“Yeah, I remember. So, what’s your point?”

The same one Sneeden made this afternoon—if you’re so innocent and squeaky clean, why did it jerk your chain to be treated as a suspect? If you’re so confident you’re incapable of murder, THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU HIDE HARLAN’S GUN?

“I didn’t, though!” Ran protested. “Did I?”

Having reached an angry pitch, the voice maintained a contemptuous silence now.

“I really don’t remember!”

Yeah, right. And Buh Rabbit doesn’t remember the path out of the briar patch.

“You never believed in me,” Ran said, with a note of wounded, childlike petulance.

Au contraire. I’m the only one who ever did. It’s you who always undermine yourself, and me who has to go behind you cleaning up the mess.

Pondering this statement, Ran came to now, as he previously had before the creel of dirty clothes, and for the first time didn’t answer. In the quiet, he could hear his children laughing. Night had fallen on the beach. A wave came in. He stood.

“Who are you?” he said, aloud, but quietly, speaking toward the sea. The sudden bristling along his spine was like the ridge of hair that rises on a dog the moment it first senses an intruder, not yet seen. “Who the fuck are you?”

Me? I’m no one, Ransom. Isn’t that who you told Hope you were talking to?

“No one, as in…”

Pleased to meet you, can’t you guess my name?

“Nemo,” Ransom said.

The voice laughed. You can call me Captain, or mon capitaine. Just remember to salute.

Ransom, now, did not reply. Looking up, he saw the stars out in their billions, and it struck him that Van Gogh painting The Starry Night had not been rendering a visual conceit, but painting what he saw