There is a delicate ironic touch--understatement-- which some novelists use in their thrillers and which I can’t label easily; call it elegant-elite. It’s subversive, it’s teasing, it is passion veiled by a distant, journalistic face. Nicholas Shakespeare, in The Dancer Upstairs, uses it; you should read the book if you value subtlety, wit and gut-bred, inbred excellence. Of course, I could be wrong.
Snort. As if.
I don’t remember the jacket blurbs for The Dancer Upstairs, but this is one comment from Booklist; “Nothing less than disturbing.” And from Library Journal Review, “...we descend into a world where the first casualty is reality.” I agree. Although the subject is Peru’s tragic battle with the rebels on The Shining Path, there’s no splatter, no obscenity except for the facts. I read in a dream of beauty and increasing involvement. It’s hard reading; really grim. But it’s told, as I say, with that delicate irony that makes it harsh--even its passionate love story.
The movie of the same name marked John Malkovich’s movie directorial debut. I bitterly regret (okay, I love to use hyperbole) that he hasn’t directed more of them, because he used the same delicate-elite touch I’m talking about. There’s a scene of official corruption in the film that I have remembered for years; just cars and trucks full of military police at a lovely, grassy intersection; no dialogue. It hurts; it makes you groan.
There are similarly powerful thrillers, of course; John LeCarre leaps to mind. Curious, disappointing thing: I can’t think of an American author with the same approach to a setting you on the edge of your seat. If you can, let me know, okay?
Here’s Chapter Six from Dead on Dutcher’s Mountain.
Dead on Dutcher's Mountain
Six
Brian was talking to Hillary through the bathroom wall while he shaved, and she was trying to catch some more sleep.
“I don’t know, I just can’t figure it. I mean, actually...” There was a pause. “...the guy might be the sonofabitch in the woods, but there’s something else wrong about him. Know what I mean?”
“Hunh-uh.”
“Well, there’s a feeling I get when I see he’s alone. It’s like he’s...” Another pause, a full stop. “It’s like he’s a piece of the undead, almost. Something creepy.”
Hillary half stirred. “Whaddaya mean?”
“He doesn’t do anything, not even blink. He’s not present. It’s like he’s a visitor from another dimension. Or another time.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you get that feeling?” Silence. “Hill?”
“No, Bri, I don’t get that feeling.”
“Well, what kind do you get from your new friend?”
Hillary unfocused eyes opened to clear, splendid dawn light. She moaned piteously. “Heat rash.”
“What?”
“Our South African friend gives me heat rash. And goose bumps.”
There was a disgusted grunt. “And, mon cher, a social disease, no doubt, at the first opportunity.”
“You’re being crude.”
“Merely clinical.”
“You always called me a daredevil; maybe I like a few kinks.”
There was a long silence. The dawn threatened to bring full day.
“Brian?”
“Uh.”
“Have you seen much of Earl lately?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s he like? Has he changed? I mean, since I left?”
“Not a lot. He’s busier. There’s less budget since timber and fishing died.” Hillary frowned and kicked her comforter into a tent. “Why?” Brian asked.
“Nothing. I just wondered.”
The bathroom door opened and Brian stuck his head around the door. He looked at his sister’s profile. She was ignoring him, concentrating on the tent.
“Lord, you’re a pretty woman,” he said. He dabbed at his chin with a towel. “But le petit McCoy; he’s still cooking for himself, if that’s encouraging.”
Hillary made a face. “I don’t know.”
Another dab. “Why?”
“He’s always been so...noble. I mean, that’s great and all, just what any woman wants...”
“He will fishes at Heller’s Hole.”
A new note was struck between brother and sister. Hillary chuckled. “Remember when Rosie and I caught you two guys skinny-dipping?”
“And you took our shoes?” Brian entered and sat on Hillary’s bed. “McCoy’s a good friend, a good, sound man,” he said.
Hillary studied her brother. Was a “good man” merely one with a local background? Could Brian and McCoy accept a man from outside their world, from her international one? Or would they unite to exclude Karl Voerst, make him a “visitor from another dimension?” Suddenly she declaimed, “Yea, they are all honorable men! But I woke to bury Earl McCoy, not to praise him...” Her vehement delivery brought her upright in bed.
“Really, Hill? It didn’t look that way last night.”
“That was before he used me for The Good Of The Force,” she said. “And before I got to know Karl.”
“Vous et absurd.”
“Maybe, but I’m Frank and Ernest.”
“And do you still remember our code?”
“Code?”
Brian was elaborately crestfallen. “I guess not.”
“Our code!! I forgot! Do you remember it, Bri?”
“Some. The vowels for sure. Karen started making one up yesterday, and a lot of ours came back to me.”
“What are they? The vowels?”
Brian’s finger began a soft tap against his sister’s wrist for want of a close table. She watched solemnly, concentrating. “Yeah,...yeah,...then the C, D, F. Yes.” She gave a broad smile. “I’m beginning to get it back.”
He quit tapping and grinned with her. There was a reminiscent silence.
Then, “Earl McCoy, huh?” Brian asked. Hillary half-grimaced and turned her head away. “Bad?”
“It felt like it. Maybe it was just that bad pat” Her fingers picked at a yarn tie on the comforter. She faced Brian, asking for assurance.
“Hill, McCoy never accepts invitations to parties, remember? He sends someone else, like a representative.” Silence. “You remember how he sent a car to the Halders’ party that time when you went with Clint, and he made Wally Kern sit outside for seven hours?”
Hillary brightened. “Jesus. Seven hours in a car with just a thermos of coffee. It was raining, too.”
“McCoy hasn’t changed about parties. When I asked him about last night, he waffled and muttered about dope and players on their home field. Then he headed for you.”
“He did?” Brian nodded. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” She whooped. She fell extravagantly back with the cover over her head.
“Oh, no you don’t! You’re getting up and having coffee!” Brian flipped the comforter to the floor and left, just ahead of her flung pillow.
###
Once alone, Hillary’s mood veered. Gail. Again. It rankled that she didn’t know the facts behind her sister-in-law’s disappearance. Like the ancient mining disaster, she worried it at odd moments. By the time Brian and Karen went for breakfast and Hillary headed toward the office, she had reached her familiar dead end on the subject and was coming awake.
Most of the frost was gone, but the porch rail outside the converted house was wet to her hand. The wood screen door slapped against her heels as she shoved open the heavy door. Altstock, standing over the desk, cocked a mock-roguish eyebrow and handed Rosalie a file. He smiled. “Good morning, Ms. Webster. I’m afraid I haven’t time right now for...”
Lord, he irritated her.
“That’s fine, Mr. Altstock. I was hoping to ask Rosalie for some background.”
Altstock looked dubious. “I’m sure she can be helpful. She has some last-minute things to complete, though.” He turned to Rosalie. “I mean those production forms for Dr. Jones, of course, and put copies in Mr. Voerst’s box, will you? Take your coffee break, naturally.” Back to Hillary, “I have to kick off a tour. We’re hosting a picnic higher up the mountain; too bad you’ll miss it.”
“Fine with me.”
He left the door open for Rosalie to close. The screen banged. “Schmuck,” Hillary muttered, and took in the office. High ceiling, sprigged wallpaper too pale for authenticity, vinyl tile floor in imitation parquetry, a white-painted, wrought-iron fireplace with dancing maidens in relief which surrounded a propane space heater. They were all reproductions, the sort a Sunday supplement would approve. The furniture was of oak, didoed and stenciled--essential to Contemporary Country. A table opposite Rosalie’s desk held a coffee maker and accessories arranged on imitation doilies. Rosalie, towering over Hillary in tight jeans and a silk tee, was so human and real she was retro.
“Don’t let him bother you,” she said, and shut the door.
“And Doctor Jones? Mister Voerst?”
Rosalie tossed the file into a basket and sat down. “Welcome back to the 19th Century, Hill.”
Hillary took a chair beside the desk. “You’re looking fit this morning, Ms. Project Administrator,” she began, “How’s your people perception?”
“Pretty poor.”
“Please provide the perceivable poop, then.”
“And a plenitude of particulars?”
“Perfect.”
Rosalie referred to a list of names Hillary had given her earlier and handed her a sheaf of resums and biographies. “Why did you include Gun’s name?”
“Aw, c’mon! The general manager’s friend, secretly a federal cop, at the U.S.’s most promising chromite mine?” She accepted coffee. “Also, I like him and Jessica. They’re melancholy, and I’m nosy.”
“Okay,” Rosalie said. She began to doodle on her desk calendar. “By the way, it’s ‘Gordon’ and ‘Rosalie’ when we’re alone. Gordon was just trying to impress the celebrity.” She dropped her pencil. “But: Gun’s gossip is that he has marital problems, and Mr. Altstock is less than sympathetic.”
She stopped short because the screen door squeaked. Gunderson stood in the doorway, dressed to hike. A lunch pack hung from his belt.
“Gordon here? Hi, Hillary.”
“Gone to start the tour,” Rosalie told him.
“Already? It doesn’t begin for half an hour.”
“Call him.”
“No, I’ll catch up.”
Jessica entered behind him. He flushed. “Looking for me?”
“You left your canteen,” she said, and offered it. “Hello, Hillary.”
Gunderson avoided his wife’s eyes. “Thanks.” He spent unnecessary time fumbling the canteen onto his belt, watching the operation closely and managing to touch Jessica twice. Still watching and fumbling he asked her, “I’m looking for Gordon. Have you seen him?”
“No.” Jessica put her hands into her skirt pockets and studied a corner of the room. Gunderson pecked at her cheek; he was gone.
Hillary and Rosalie traded a look. “Coffee, Jessica?” Rosalie offered.
“No. Thanks. I’d best get back to the house. Catch any phone calls from town.” She opened the door.
Rosalie rose and drew her back from the door. “You’re wound up so tight you’re about the snap. Sit.”
Jessica sat. She began to pleat her skirt with one hand, taking great care to match the stripes. She looked up to Hillary and back. There were tears. “You heard me with Gordon.”
“Yes,” Hillary admitted.
“He’s just an old friend.”
Rosalie said, “He doesn’t think so.” Jessica waved it off, drank coffee. Rosalie went on, “After a couple of days with you in his house, he was lovesick. Emphasis on the ‘sick.’”
Jessica shrugged. “I know.”
“I’d come in here and he’d be staring. Or if you showed up, he’d lose his train of thought and look tragic.”
“Yes.”
“He’s crazy about you.”
Jessica continued pleating. “Nevertheless.”
“That’s not what’s bothering you, then.”
A sigh, a minute examination of the ceiling tiles. “No; you’re right, and yes, I’m all wound up and I want this coffee.” She fetched and added sugar, becoming less pale as she did it. “Okay. Joshua is angry all the time.”
Hillary said, “Angry? That cow-eyed look just now was anger?”
At the same time Rosalie asked, “How? Physically? Does he hit you?”
Jessica looked surprised at the idea. “Joshua?”
“I guess not.”
Jessica said, “He doesn’t talk; he barks. Always before, we at least talked. Now he has nothing to say. It’s scary. And he’s so angry.”
“Not at you,” Hillary claimed.
“At me.”
“And you can’t guess what’s made him mad?” Rosalie drawled.
Jessica pulled a face. “Joshua ought to know how I feel about Gordon.”
Hillary interrupted again. “That’s not what I mean. Because if he’s angry at you, it certainly does not show. Just now he was as goofy as a teenager. He loves you. He’s crazy about you. He’s so proud of you he bragged to me about you when we first met. In town, before I got here for the party.”
Jessica waived that. She began to shred a tissue, thought better of it and used it on her eyes.
“Do you love him?” Rosalie asked.
Jessica brightened. “Oh, God. You have no idea.”
”Jess, I’ll bet anything that Gun is not angry with you.” Silent pause. “Hillary’s covered thousands of victims; you should listen to her.”
Jessica turned to Hillary. “Why?”
Hillary frowned at Rosalie but offered, “Gun’s jealousy of Altstock may have given him a--please excuse how new-age this sounds, Jessica--this jealousy may express old anger. Maybe about his hand. If you’re lucky it could pop and drain like a boil.”
Rosalie nodded, looking sincere and being helpful. “Hopefully you won’t be in his way when it does. But you ought to bring it up, Jess. Bull by the horns. That kind of thing.”
Jessica shook her head. “Well, you ladies were right about the other thing; I was about to snap.”
Rosalie wasn‘t finished. “I mean, he wasn’t like this when you met, right?”
“No. He was…” she was crying again. “He was a different person. Out-size. Bigger than life. Paul Bunyan. Joshua woke up singing and thumping his chest, ready to jump into everything, you know? Mornings he bounced around the kitchen making my breakfast, then worked outdoors ten or twelve hours and come home still bouncing. Singing. Making jokes, dancing, whirling me around. Now, leave me alone; too much confession is hard on the soul.”
Hillary and Rosalie watched through the windows as she headed for the house. Altstock was passing, in a hurry. She greeted him with a barely-courteous nod and walked on without speaking.
“I think there’s more to Gun’s situation than the past,” Rosalie said.
“Besides a secret mission, a crippled hand and a rocky marriage?”
“Yes. Seriously.” Rosalie used her long legs to swing her chair from side to side. “Gun’s been extra upset the last few days. Something new has happened.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Huh.” Hillary pulled a note pad and pencil from her camera bag. “What’s Altstock’s professional background?” She began framing the lead paragraph of a feature. “Rangy, casual, Gordon Altstock’s appearance belies the considerable weight he carries in this small community...”
Rosalie pulled his resume from the pile in Hillary’s lap. “Carpet bagger from M.I.T., old money, worked out of Reno until a couple of years ago. Mining gold. His bio says he wanted to relocate, but that’s no reason to sell a gold mine; it probably played out. Single, never married.”
Hillary nodded, scribbling. “Lewellyn Jones?”
“Welsh, worked in the Ruhr Valley until Dutcher’s hired him away. He invented the machinery for his electrowinning. Or maybe he adapted someone’s. Anyway, quite a brain, quite a man. Divorced a couple of years ago, drinks beer, recites dirty limericks.”
“Hot for you.”
Rosalie colored. “He wouldn’t even notice me, except I’m the only single woman up here.”
“Nonsense. How about Voerst?”
“Nothing but a press release he gave me yesterday. South African, advanced degrees in geology et cetera from Moscow, spent time in Germany when Llewellyn was there, very glad to make the U.S. his new home.”
A beat. Hillary raised both eyebrows. “What more can I say?”
“Nothing from the Dutcher’s home office?”
“There’s no dossier, no bio. Everyone else was covered and cleared before they even got up here. That’s all I know.”
“What does it mean?”
“Probably nothing. He’s got to be very good, of course.” Rosalie’s manner had become guarded; it became gossipy again. “I gather he didn’t start any fires under our Mr. Altstock. But since he was part of the original Board of Directors, he’s been with the company a long time. That probably brings more perks than Gordon likes.”
Hillary prepared to leave.
“Something about him is wrong, Hill,” Rosalie blurted. “Just a feeling.”
Hillary turned. Brian, Earl, and now Rosalie had vague warnings for her because a cosmopolitan stranger danced with her. “Why?” she asked.
“He’s odd. But more than that. I can’t put my finger on it. Be careful.”
No comments:
Post a Comment