many are there supposed to
be?”
“Stay here in Chicago if you like,
it’s all the same to me. This neighborhood we’re in right now might suit you
perfectly, and I know I’ll never come here again.”
In an ignorance black as night, he
understood only that he had struck at her grievously, and that neither his
understanding nor his contrition would save them. By now he could not bear her
woundedness—the tears, through some desperate magic, kept gelid at her
lower lids, because she would not let them fall, not till he had left her
sight.
“Then I’ll look for a place here in
town, good suggestion Troth, thank you . . .
. ” But she had hailed a hansomcab, and climbed in without looking back,
and was quickly borne away.
Lew looked around. Was it still
Chicago? As he began again to walk, the first thing he noticed was how few of
the streets here followed the familiar grid pattern of the rest of
town—everything was on the skew, narrow lanes radiating starwise from
small plazas, tramlines with hairpin turns that carried passengers abruptly
back the way they’d been coming, increasing chances for traffic collisions, and
not a name he could recognize on any of the streetsigns, even those of
bettertraveled thoroughfares . . . foreign
languages, it seemed. Not for the first time, he experienced a kind of waking
swoon, which not so much propelled as allowed him entry into an urban
setting, like the world he had left but differing in particulars which
were not slow to reveal themselves.
Occasionally a street would open up
into a small plaza, or a convergence with other streets, where pitches had been
set up by puppeteers, music and dance acts, and vendors of
everything—divination books, grilled squabs on toast, ocarinas and
kazoos, roast ears of corn, summer caps and straw hats, lemonade and lemon ice,
something new everyplace he turned to look. In a small courtyard within a
courtyard, he came upon a group of men and women, engaged in slow ritual
movement, a country dance, almost—though Lew, pausing to watch, was not
sure what country. Soon they were gazing back, as if in some way they knew him,
and all about his troubles. When their business was done, they invited him over
to a table under an awning, where all at once, over root beer and Saratoga
chips, Lew found himself confessing “everything,” which in fact wasn’t
much—“What I need is some way to atone for whatever it is I’ve done. I
can’t keep on with this life . . . . ”
“We can teach you,” said one of them,
who seemed to be in charge, introducing himself only as Drave.
“Even if—”
“Remorse without an object is a
doorway to deliverance.”
“Sure, but I can’t pay you for it, I
don’t even have a place to live.”
“Pay for it!” The tableful of adepts
was amused at this. “Pay! Of course you can pay! Everyone can!”
“You will have to remain not only
until you learn the procedure,” Lew was informed, “but until we are sure of you as well. There is a
hotel close to here, the Esthonia, which penitents who come to us often make
use of. Mention us, they will give you a good discount.”
Lew went to register at the tall,
rickety Esthonia Hotel. The lobby clerks and the bellmen on duty all acted like
they’d been expecting him. The form he was given to fill out was unusually
long, particularly the section headed “Reasons for Extended Residence,” and the
questions quite personal, even intimate, yet he was urged to be as forthcoming
as possible—indeed, according to a legal notice in large type at the top
of the form, anything less than total confession would make him liable to
criminal penalties. He tried to answer honestly, despite a constant
struggle with the pen they insisted he use, which was leaving blotches and
smears all over the form.
When the application, having been
sent off to some invisible desk up the other end of a pneumatic housetube, at
length came thumping back handstamped “Approved,” Lew was
be?”
“Stay here in Chicago if you like,
it’s all the same to me. This neighborhood we’re in right now might suit you
perfectly, and I know I’ll never come here again.”
In an ignorance black as night, he
understood only that he had struck at her grievously, and that neither his
understanding nor his contrition would save them. By now he could not bear her
woundedness—the tears, through some desperate magic, kept gelid at her
lower lids, because she would not let them fall, not till he had left her
sight.
“Then I’ll look for a place here in
town, good suggestion Troth, thank you . . .
. ” But she had hailed a hansomcab, and climbed in without looking back,
and was quickly borne away.
Lew looked around. Was it still
Chicago? As he began again to walk, the first thing he noticed was how few of
the streets here followed the familiar grid pattern of the rest of
town—everything was on the skew, narrow lanes radiating starwise from
small plazas, tramlines with hairpin turns that carried passengers abruptly
back the way they’d been coming, increasing chances for traffic collisions, and
not a name he could recognize on any of the streetsigns, even those of
bettertraveled thoroughfares . . . foreign
languages, it seemed. Not for the first time, he experienced a kind of waking
swoon, which not so much propelled as allowed him entry into an urban
setting, like the world he had left but differing in particulars which
were not slow to reveal themselves.
Occasionally a street would open up
into a small plaza, or a convergence with other streets, where pitches had been
set up by puppeteers, music and dance acts, and vendors of
everything—divination books, grilled squabs on toast, ocarinas and
kazoos, roast ears of corn, summer caps and straw hats, lemonade and lemon ice,
something new everyplace he turned to look. In a small courtyard within a
courtyard, he came upon a group of men and women, engaged in slow ritual
movement, a country dance, almost—though Lew, pausing to watch, was not
sure what country. Soon they were gazing back, as if in some way they knew him,
and all about his troubles. When their business was done, they invited him over
to a table under an awning, where all at once, over root beer and Saratoga
chips, Lew found himself confessing “everything,” which in fact wasn’t
much—“What I need is some way to atone for whatever it is I’ve done. I
can’t keep on with this life . . . . ”
“We can teach you,” said one of them,
who seemed to be in charge, introducing himself only as Drave.
“Even if—”
“Remorse without an object is a
doorway to deliverance.”
“Sure, but I can’t pay you for it, I
don’t even have a place to live.”
“Pay for it!” The tableful of adepts
was amused at this. “Pay! Of course you can pay! Everyone can!”
“You will have to remain not only
until you learn the procedure,” Lew was informed, “but until we are sure of you as well. There is a
hotel close to here, the Esthonia, which penitents who come to us often make
use of. Mention us, they will give you a good discount.”
Lew went to register at the tall,
rickety Esthonia Hotel. The lobby clerks and the bellmen on duty all acted like
they’d been expecting him. The form he was given to fill out was unusually
long, particularly the section headed “Reasons for Extended Residence,” and the
questions quite personal, even intimate, yet he was urged to be as forthcoming
as possible—indeed, according to a legal notice in large type at the top
of the form, anything less than total confession would make him liable to
criminal penalties. He tried to answer honestly, despite a constant
struggle with the pen they insisted he use, which was leaving blotches and
smears all over the form.
When the application, having been
sent off to some invisible desk up the other end of a pneumatic housetube, at
length came thumping back handstamped “Approved,” Lew was
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