The Accursed. Joyce Carol Oates

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СКАЧАТЬ Point he would soon learn that marching in uniform was deeply boring, so too Josiah had learned at Princeton that any effort that reached no higher than the height of his classmates had not the power to engage him for very long.

      To please his father, he’d persevered at Princeton until after several years he was granted a B.A. degree. The sheepskin diploma he hid away at once, and may have lost.

      Such independence filled him with a reckless sort of elation—but then, he felt such a reaction of melancholy, he could not bear to be alone. And so he sought out his most sympathetic instructor, Pearce van Dyck, who had always welcomed him into his commodious office with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather chairs and sofa, and a view, through leaded-glass windows, of the university “chapel”—large and impressive as any church.

      Josiah thought Professor van Dyck will speak frankly. Of all persons I know.

      So it happened, Josiah knocked on the opened door of van Dyck’s office, and was invited inside; Pyne Hall was agreeably bustling, and populated by undergraduates hurrying to lectures, or departing lectures in thunderous herds on the stairs, and no one took notice of Josiah in his worn tweed “blazer” and gabardine trousers, who might have been one of them, except for his furrowed brow and a more mature intensity in his eyes. “Josiah, hello! This is a very pleasant surprise.”

      Between the philosophy professor and the young man there had long existed a relaxed and companionable relationship, for their families were acquainted, and van Dyck had known Josiah since earliest childhood. In his classes, Josiah was enough of a good student to merit high grades; at times, even a brilliant and capricious student, but not one subject to troubling moods, or at least not in van Dyck’s company. The professor, a specialist in Kantian idealism, was middle-aged at this time, taciturn by nature, scholarly and earnest rather than “popular” with his students; Josiah did not feel nearly so comfortable with his own father, as he did with Pearce van Dyck.

      The great value of philosophy is, one cuts through subterfuge at once; one “goes for the jugular.” And so Josiah said, with no preamble, before he’d even taken a seat in van Dyck’s office, “Professor, what do you make of this?”—holding out for van Dyck to see, in both his hands, a gathering of broken and bruised lily petals, and a few stems and leaves, badly desiccated and pungent-smelling.

      Van Dyck stared at the lily-remnants, that seemed, in the unsparing sunshine that slanted through a tall window, to be rather a simulacrum of lilies than the actual flowers.

      “I think these are ‘calla lilies’—it’s hard to tell, they are so rotted. Where did you get them?”

      “I found them.”

      “ ‘Found them’—? Where?”

      “Beneath my feet, where I happened to be walking. I looked down—and there they were.”

      Josiah did not explain that he’d stepped on the calla lily petals when he’d left the Craven house, after the Sunday visit. Glancing down, and he’d seen the desiccated petals, and felt a shiver of recognition.

      The dead girl left these behind. The dead child is making a claim on us.

      Josiah’s motive for coming to Professor van Dyck was more than merely personal: for van Dyck was known, in addition to his scholarly pursuits, for his extensive amateur’s knowledge of botany and horticulture; the van Dyck garden, behind the family’s house at 87 Hodge Road, was one of the glories of Princeton’s West End.

      “I don’t recall where I found these, Professor van Dyck. But I wondered what you thought of them. How you would identify them.”

      Josiah spoke slowly, like one who is weighing his words with care.

      Van Dyck had spread the bruised petals, the broken stems and leaves, out on his desk. He peered at them, frowning. “The blooms seem aged—very old. Not an ordinary sort of decomposition but something else . . .” He lowered his head to smell, and recoiled at once with a look of consternation. “Why, the odor is vile.”

      “A sort of chemical odor, I thought. Not organic.”

      “Why, look! They are visibly decomposing . . .”

      Josiah and Pearce van Dyck observed the desiccated lilies crumbling to pieces, and then to dust. A few dried wisps of leaf remained, a single calyx, a near-nauseating odor of rot.

      “It must be the reaction of the strong sunlight on the lilies. Some sort of accelerated chemical process . . .”

      Van Dyck’s effort to explain the eerie phenomenon seemed to Josiah the very essence of the philosophical temperament: to wrench some sort of sense out of senselessness; to determine logic where there is none. Like the rhyming of poetry, such an effort gives an illusion of comfort.

      “Yes. A ‘chemical process.’ I think that must be so.”

      “But where did you say you found these? ‘Underfoot’?”

      “It was at the Craven house, Professor. On Sunday.”

      As Pearce van Dyck and his wife had been at the house also, it was natural for Josiah to explain; but, a moment later, he regretted having said these words, that had the effect of intriguing van Dyck, and whetting his curiosity.

      “But—no one had ‘funeral’ lilies there, I’m certain? And these are so aged . . .”

      “I was just wondering—what you might think. Since you are a horticulturalist.”

      Josiah, restless, was on his feet. In his face was an expression of excitement and fatigue—as if he had not slept well the previous night, but had been “tossing and turning” in the grip of Paradox.

      A predatory bird with a great sharp beak and vicious talons—Paradox. To be in its grip is to suffer, yet so exquisitely, one might mistake the experience for a kind of ecstasy.

      Josiah shook his head, to rid it of such cobwebs of thought. Ah, he was not himself this morning! He had not been “himself”—to a degree—since the episode at the old Craven house, when Grover Cleveland had collapsed; and Annabel had confided in him that the Clevelands’ dead child had come to her in dreams, and had beckoned to her.

      “Josiah, why don’t you sit down, please? You are in no hurry to leave, I assume?”

      Josiah, who hadn’t been aware that he was on his feet, and pacing about the office, could not think how to reply. Was he in a hurry? But to arrive—where?

      “There’s a sort of beating pulse in my head, Professor. If I become very still, it is more noticeable, and distracting.”

      Van Dyck squinted at him. He had been stooped over his desk, examining the crumbled remains of the calla lilies, and now looked up at Josiah, concerned.

      “I hope it wasn’t the smell of these flowers that has made you ill, Josiah. It’s fading now, but it doesn’t seem a natural smell . . .”

      “Well, Professor! Thank you! You have been very helpful and now—now—I’ll say good-bye.”

      “My dear Josiah,” van Dyck protested, “you aren’t leaving so soon, are you? Why don’t you sit down—we can talk about that extraordinary episode on Sunday—poor Grover Cleveland, quite raving, and out of his mind . . СКАЧАТЬ