Ishmael

or eight, I guess.”

“Are you telling me that he’s… dead?”

“Dead is what he is, pardner.”

And I, the total egotist, had only vaguely registered the fact that he seemed a bit wan.

I looked around the vast gray lot, where here and there the wind raised clumps of paper trash and sometimes sent them tumbling, and felt one with it—empty, useless, choked with dust, a wasteland.

My ancient pardner waited, plainly interested to see what this friend of apes would do or say next.

“What did they do with him?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“What did they do with the body?”

“Oh. Called the county, I guess. Took him off to where they cremate the roadkills. You know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“No sweat.”

“All right if I take this stuff?”

From the look he gave me I could see I’d presented him with a new high–water mark in human lunacy, but all he said was, “Sure, why not? Just get dumped otherwise.”

I left the blankets, of course, but the rest all fit easily under one arm.

3

What was to be done? Stand for a moment with lowered gaze outside the county furnace where they cremate the roadkills? Someone else would have handled it differently, probably better, revealing a greater heart, a finer sensibility. Myself, I drove home.

Drove home, turned in the van, picked up my car, and went back to the apartment. It was empty in a new way, with a new degree of emptiness.

There was a telephone there on an end table, connecting me to a whole world of life and activity, but who could I call?

Oddly enough, I thought of someone, looked up a number, and dialed it. After three rings, a low, firm voice answered:

“Mrs. Sokolow’s residence.”

“Is this Mr. Partridge?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Partridge.”

I said, “This is the guy who visited you a couple weeks ago, trying to locate Rachel Sokolow.”

Partridge waited.

I said, “Ishmael is dead.”

After a pause: “I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“We could have saved him.”

Partridge thought about that for a while. “Are you sure he would have let us?”

I wasn’t sure, and said so.

4

It wasn’t till I got Ishmael’s poster to the framing shop that I discovered there were messages on both sides. I had it framed so that both can be seen. The message on one side is the one Ishmael displayed on the wall of his den:

WITH MAN GONE,

WILL THERE

BE HOPE

FOR GORILLA?

The message on the other side reads:

WITH GORILLA GONE,

WILL THERE

BE HOPE

FOR MAN?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Daniel Quinn, the author of Ishmael, was born in Omaha, Nebraska, in 1935, studied at St. Louis University, the University of Vienna in Austria, and Loyola University of Chicago. In 1975 he abandoned a long career in publishing to become a freelance writer.

The first version of the book that ultimately became Ishmael, his award–winning novel, was written in 1977 and was followed by six others before finding its final form, as a novel, in 1990. Quinn went on to explore the spiritual and experiential origins of Ishmael in a work of innovative autobiography, Providence: The Story of a Fifty Year Vision Quest.

Of his latest novel, Quinn writes: “For years I worried that I might never equal (much less surpass) what I achieved in Ishmael. This worry has been erased for me by The Story of B. Ishmael would definitely approve of this book.” The Story of B is now available from Bantam Books.