Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
on them! You seem restless – here, take the wicker. It’s more comfortable.”
“I’m fine,” he says, crossing his legs. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“You don’t really want to talk about me.”
“I need to understand how you two fit together, your influence on him.”
“Well, all right – if you insist.” I am starting to feel better. “For starters, let me say I surprised a lot of people when I left Berkeley, but it made perfect sense. For me this is where the world started. Not here, precisely – down past Portland and Kennebunkport, all the way to Boston. Southie to be precise.” I look out across the water. “Here,” I say, handing him my binoculars. “Have a look. That’s where the sun comes up, over the shoulder of Cadillac mountain across there.”
“Quite a hill,” he says, looking through the binoculars.
“Hill! You try climbing that hill! I used to do it every week until my knees gave out. First comes the aura then the sun appears over the ridge. You can’t always count on seeing it, what with the fog we have, but it’ll be clear tomorrow. Five-thirty should about do it.”
“Five-thirty! You’re joking.”
“Best part of the day, Jon. But if you walk the shore, take a flashlight – those steps can be slick. On a hook inside the back door, can’t miss it.”
“Actually I prefer Jonathan.”
“You don’t impress me as a Jonathan, but as you wish. You’re doing one of those long articles, I take it, four parts?”
“Three, but we may go to four now.”
“What’s your deadline?”
“Everything’s in flux at the moment, and as you said I’ve got to work around what happened. That makes you even more crucial. By the way what should I call you?”
“Professor Flynn will do, or Gus – I answer to either. By the way, we need to cut it short tonight – Pedro goes against the Yankees. They’d be your team, I take it.”
“Hardly. I grew up in College Point, next to Shea.”
“Ah. We have an unhappy history there as well.”
“People forget there was a Game Seven. I was there with my father.”
“I beg your pardon, some of us remember,” I say. “But I often wonder, what would happen if we ever won it all? That delicious frustration, it’s kept our brotherhood of misery warm for many winters. Well, enough. Tomorrow we begin. As I believe I mentioned, my memory is a finely tuned instrument, so when you leave here, Jonathan, you’ll have Paul Bernard’s story, in his words, just as he told it.”
PART ONE
FAITH AND WORKS
1. Patriotism: An End, A Beginning
“THERE’S A LOT IN THOSE PAPERS,” Jonathan says. “You did quite a job pulling it all together.”
“I’ve only been doing it for fifty years,” I say. As I lift the desk blotter several papers sail to the floor, but at least the key’s where it belongs. Sliding the drawer open I pull out a folder and extract several papers from it. The first, on heavy bond, is a letter in blue ink, in a regular hand. “Here,” I say, passing it over, “take a look.”
August 7, 2000
My Dear Gus,
I’m finally sorting through this pile of junk you’ve been nagging me for. If things continue as they are with Latimer I may soon have a lot more time for you. I admit my journal-keeping wasn’t up to par so I’ve had to create a narrative to tie things together. If I come anywhere close to the mark you can thank my powers of recall, which for some unaccountable reason have always been exceptional.
You’re right, of course, I should have been more systematic. Ironic, a man of words spending so few of them on himself, though at least I was consistent, in abandoning the written word for the wonderful world of television.
Only my regard for you leads me to undertake this effort which will take many months, with no sure outcome other than the pain it will cause me and, may I dare to hope, certain others. At any event, here’s the first batch.
As always,
Paul
“Anything else?”
“Here’s another one, barely a year later but a world apart.”
Everyman TeleVision Network
419 West 13th Street
New York City, NY 10014
September 17, 2001
Gus,
You cannot believe what it’s like here. Television can’t even come close. This is not about aluminum and plastic and paper, Gus, these were human beings! Alive one minute, vaporized the next.
Grasping for straws, let me say, terrible as it is, could it be something has finally shaken up this tired, selfish old country? Perhaps we’ll learn from it and come back strong, but that will all be about leadership, which I fear we sorely lack. We have plenty of leaders but they’re all the wrong kind. Giuliani’s the same old publicity hound. Any mayor or governor with half an ounce of humanity could do what he’s doing or better. Picking up the pieces is the easy part. Putting them back together will be the trick. As for George Bush, what can I say?
Obviously our project is on hold, my part of it, but I’ve given you enough to get started. I’ll pick it up again when I can. Susan is very good, she’ll give you a hand. I’m around for now, but for a change my time is limited.
I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t felt so exhilarated in years. In the morning I hit the floor running. This is one hell of a story and I am privileged to be able to report it. Yes, I said report – I’m back in the field. I’ll be in the studio more than I want, but mostly I’ll be out there where I belong. I hope my rusty craft is up to the task. If the American people don’t get the story from the likes of us they won’t get it at all. Powerful forces would like nothing better. Sad experience tells us that.
God bless you, Gus. Keep me in your prayers.
Paul
Jonathan nods. “Good,” he says, giving me back the letters.
I go around to my big table and take a seat behind a stack of papers. “Strong enough for you?” I ask, raising my cup.
“Just the way I like it.” He looks out the window. “Where’d all this rain come from?”
“The weatherman really failed me this summer.” I hand him a stack of papers, the first of Paul’s papers. “All right,” I say, “let’s get started. Take a look at this – it’s from the first journal Paul put together for me.”
* * * * * * *
ALL RIGHT, AUGUSTUS, WHERE TO BEGIN? It’s appropriate, isn’t it, my first memory is of a military scene. I had other fragments, of course, my brother’s face, our front yard, but my first full recollection is that scorching Sunday, the cicadas so loud you could practically see their song in the heat rising from the pavement. The year was 1945, I learned later, and I was three going on four. Needless to say others contributed some of this detail to my memory, and I filled in some later, like with the rest of what I’ll be giving you.
At the head of my block several streets met to form a broad asphalt square. The turnaround, as we called it, was next to a weedy field with a big rock at one end.