Way out in Washington, D. C. (Excerpt from a short novel)
Christ bearing Dove, wind-blown, sail
On, beyond the Flood's deep, to
Land. In nativity's bay,
Under the low sun rising,
Maria sinks, childbearing.
Between the Virgin and land,
Uprising from whale's belly,
She bears Jonah to the day.
As I drove on towards Washington, I became increasingly aware that a transition was taking place. I could not make my mind up as to what this transition involved. With each extra mile interposed between me and Rachel, the cynic in me increased his stock of munitions--excuse the atrocious mixture of metaphors--and the rooks of realism pecked at the soil where the seeds of love had been sown. The voice of doubt reminded me that romantic inclinations hardly ever survive in the desert of separation. And then there was the insuperable barrier of religion and tradition. Only the vague hope that there was something greater than all obstacles remained. Such hopes must bide their time.
I switched on the radio on passing the Maryland state boundary. I caught the end of the weather forecast. Winter was round the corner; there was already snow in the Virginian hills. I stopped at a garage to tank up. I had a snack in the adjoining cafeteria. It was there that a young man with a distinctly hippie appearance came to my table and asked whether I could give him a lift to Washington. I agreed if he accepted the risk of being driven in a car that seemed to be extremely prone to having breakdowns. Once we were on the road he told me something about himself and his background. Apparently he had been a. student at Berkeley before giving up all that” study crap" and discovering "what life was really all about." he had got caught up in the .Jesus Movement and shifted allegiance from one sectarian group to another until he decided to do his own thing and set up as a apostle of esoteric truth. He now had disciples in most major cities; in fact he was going to Washington to tell the saints "where it was at after new disclosures of the Heavenly Principle" .He went on to explain some of his religious theories. It all had something to- do with the coming of the last days, when the forces of God would finally overthrow Satan and his minions, these having shown their hand in ruling human affairs since the discovery of the ninth planet in 1930. This event was closely followed by Hitler's rise to power and the advent of the Plutonian age. The forces of Good had brought an end to the Nazi menace, but the means employed to achieve this-total war, nuclear weapons and the use of terror tactics—were playing into the Devil's hands. He could find his way back in via the tradesmen's entrance, .so to speak. Even men of good will had lost sight of the fact that God was the author of true peace. God's position had been usurped by the principle of terror, now considered the most reliable protector of world peace. For the apostle this was tantamount to allowing the Mafia or the Hell's Angels to supplant the police as the defenders of the law. The Devil was encouraging the indiscriminate use of computers and electronic surveillance in areas of government, finance And organization. In this connection, the apostle referred to a text in the Book of Revelation that foretold that the Devil would seek to rule the world by means of a number, the number six hundred and sixty-six. This would enable him, or rather his representative, the Beast, to vet all buying and selling. He explained that the powers of Evil were organized along much the same lines as the powers of Good, evidenced by a comparable tripartite structure. The Book of Revelation told of a triumvirate consisting of "the Dragon, the beast with ten horns and seven heads, one of which was healed of a mortal wound, and the Second Beast, in whose power it lay to make the image of the First Beast speak. The apostle inferred from this that the Second Beast would be some kind of media wizard, an adept in propaganda and the skill of controlling a police state--in short, a man in the tradition of a Joseph Goebbels.
Washington, D. C., the apostle continued, would be the scene of a final contest between the powers of Good and Evil. With its Capitol and Senate it shared with Moscow the distinction of being the modern manifestation of imperial Rome, the city established on seven hills. Being situated between Maryland and Virginia, the city laid an implicit claim to being the center of a new Messianic world order. It also incurred the risk of being taken over by opposition forces.
By now we were quite close to Washington, and I chipped in to ask if he could recommend a hotel in the medium price range. He handed me a card with the address of a place in Arlington. "I know the guy who runs the place," he said. "Jake Power's the name. Just say you're a friend of Dave Blake, and he'll give you a discount."
Jake was not exactly a believer, he confided, but he knew things. Basically, he was a normal, fun-loving sort of a guy--not like his brother Bill, a big shot in the Pentagon establishment, and most certainly not like his other brother, Harry. Dave had never met Harry personally, but by all accounts he was "way out."
Further than that, he had "strange habits." For the rest of the drive, my companion--thankfully--did not lay on the esoteric quite so thickly, though he made occasional mention of his mission to warn the world of impending disaster before it was too late. He gave me a few useful tips about what to do and see in Washington. He told me to visit the museums belonging to the Smithsonian Institute and not to miss Ford's Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln was shot. Just the other side of the river in Virginia, Mount Vernon, Washington's ancestral home, was well worth looking over.
It was an exciting moment seeing Washington's skyline for the first time with the dome of the Capitol glistening in the sunlight. I dropped him outside a drugstore in D Street. Before leaving he showed me how to get to Jake's place on street map and asked if I would like to contribute to "the work." I gave him three dollars.
Time presses on. At the moment of writing only a fortnight remains before my departure and we have reached the concluding episode of my story, the most fantastic. It began ordinarily enough though. The day I reached Washington was Monday, the 20th of November. First I drove to the downtown area and attended to a number of practical matters like cashing checks and gathering information as to the whereabouts of libraries and academic institutions. I bought some picture postcards showing Washington in cherry blossom time, and wrote greetings to friends and relatives as I enjoyed coffee in a snack bar. I entered into a conversation with a number of black Washingtonians who were discussing the question of emancipation. One of them, a student of law, located the source of present day conflicts in the naive assumption of early abolitionists that emancipation just meant release from slavery and the possession of the right to vote. This led to the ending of the Anti-Slavery movement in 1870 and the final note of optimism with which the leading campaigner, Wendell Phillips, dismissed its members when he said: "Today, therefore, the Anti-Slavery movement may fairly leave its client to the broad influences of civilization and society.” Another member of the group recited a few of the old songs dating back to the days of slavery, including one about a promise of manumission:
"My old Mistriss promise me,
W'en she died, she'd set me free,
She lived so long dat 'er head got bal',
An' she give out'n de notion a dyin' at all."
In the late afternoon, just as it was getting dark, I drove over the Potomac to Arlington, where the road led uphill to the gates of the Military Cemetery. After consulting my street plan, I found my way to Jake's motel without difficulty. At the reception desk I asked if I could see Mr. J. Power. I was told that he would be in the bar as from 9 o'clock. He liked to serve customers at the bar personally. I went to my room and had a lie down, as I was suffering from a headache.
When I entered the bar at just after nine, I found the bar empty except for couple of shady figures in an obscure corner and the bartender, who looked anything but the manager of a big motel. Almost as if he was expecting my arrival, the man greeted me with the words: "Mighty pleased to meet you, sir. I'm Jake Power and I run this place. I don't think I had the pleasure of meeting you before."
I introduced myself as a friend of Dave Blake.
"That madman!" Jake exclaimed, "I suppose he promised you a discount at my expense. Maybe I'll do that on account of you being an English gentleman. Anyhow, you can have one on the house. Try some of this stuff," he said, pointing at a bottle of bourbon.
"What I like about you Britishers," he remarked, "is you got tradition. I like that. In fact, my family goes way back, too, like--er--we're descended from the first Virginians--We're aristocrats with blue blood. Brother Harry can even prove that we're all descended from William the Conqueror."
Jake was much impressed when I told him that my surname originated with the Crusades, being derived from "Morte Mer," or the Dead Sea and the lords who took their name from it.
Treating me to a second bourbon, he told me about brother Bill, who held a position of responsibility in the Pentagon establishment where he was in charge of a project referred to unofficially as the Doomsday Machine. Jake, for his part, confessed to being a connoisseur of the good things of life--wine, women and song--while Bill had always been the serious type--straight, humorless, dedicated, ruthless both with himself and with others. Brother Harry was different again. He was certainly the least conventional of the three. No one, apparently, knew what he did or where he held out. Perhaps Bill knew, but, being either too secretive or loyal to let on, pretended not to know. Harry was always on "business missions," it was said. Some took him to be a cleric or the chief executive in a morticians' firm.
By the time he passed me a third drink I was beginning to feel rather dizzy.
"There's plenty to see this side of the river, you know," he continued. ''You must see the Kennedy Memorial in Arlington Cemetery, the Pentagon, and Mount Vernon. If the weather's fine tomorrow, I'd have a look at the country round about. You never know. A cold front is on its way."
I thanked him for the drinks and he told me not to worry about the discount, either. Finally he wished me a good trip.
Back in my room, my attention was drawn to two pictures hanging near the door that had escaped my attention before. Both depicted the figure of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, one showing him being followed by a swarm of rats, the other by the children of Hamelin. I recalled the lectures on Browning that I had attended at university. It was strange that the poet's most popular work hardly ever received a mention, and when it did, only in a disparaging tone. For some reason I associated the pictures with something else--the picture in that Haggadah I had looked at in New York. Perhaps I sensed a strange affinity between the Red Sea and the River Weser. If I remembered my Bible correctly, had not the plague of locusts ended when the west wind cast them into the Red Sea? Conversely, were the children of Hamelin not led to a joyous promised land if we are to believe the lame child's story? It was much too late in the night to pursue thoughts about the symbolism of water or biblical parallels. The last thing I can clearly remember of that night was how the sweet thought of Rachel came to me as I laid my head on the pillow a moment before sleep.
Next morning I enjoyed a full breakfast, again with lashings of coffee at no extra charge. I followed Jake's advice and drove to Mount Vernon. It was a beautiful, crisp autumnal day. The ancestral home proved well worth visiting with its splendid view of the Potomac River, its Georgian grace and the historic interest afforded by its furnishings and outside the gardens and outhouses where servants and slaves used to live and work. From there I drove inland as far as the hills and the enchanting caverns and grottoes illuminated by colored lights in the same vicinity. My car developed engine trouble on the way back but I managed to get back to the motel. Jake happened to be in the reception hall when I arrived. He told me not to worry about the car and all. Luckily there was a garage next to the motel, which always provided guests with a repairs service as soon as needed. They would see to the car tomorrow. Jake kindly offered to give me a lift into town at 9 o'clock. After a substantial meal l retired to my room. I flicked through the channels to see if there was anything worth watching. One of them was showing Richard the Third. Though normally an avid observer of Shakespearean theatre, tiredness got the better of me at the part where Clarence, immured in the Tower, recounts his nightmare dream vision of a drowning man. I slept fitfully that night. Perhaps the thought of Clarence and the butt of Malmsey had penetrated my subconscious. Even the coming of the morning brought little relief. The rising sun dispensed no feeling of renewal. As I looked out of the window in the direction of Washington, a dismal ghostly landscape, obscure in the morning fog, confronted me. Down at the breakfast table, even the coffee, my habitual morning consolation, tasted bitter, and a feeling vaguely akin to nausea put me off my food. Jake, when he appeared, didn't seem his usual friendly self, either. He beckoned me to hurry, it being past nine already. We hardly exchanged a word in the car. The waters of the Potomac, as we crossed, were Stygian in their grey sluggishness. The Lincoln Memorial, or rather its shadowy profile, took on the aspect of a massive headstone. Jake dropped me in Pennsylvania Avenue. Did I not detect a note of irony his parting words?
"Enjoy yourself, wontcher?"
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