“She knows those stories so well, she’s living them in dreams. The words she speaks in coma come sequentially in certain chapters.”
“Mrs. Joe,” Billy said, recalling his most recent visit to Barbara. “I’ve read that one. Joe Gargery’s wife, Pip’s sister, the bullying shrew. Pip calls her
‘Mrs. Joe.’”
“Great Expectations,” Valis confirmed. “Barbara lives all the books, but more often the lighter adventures, seldom the horrors of A Tale of Two Cities.”
“I didn’t realize…”
279
“She’s more likely to dream A Christmas Carol than the bloodiest moments of the French Revolution,” Valis assured him.
“I didn’t realize, but you did.”
“In any case, she knows no fear or pain because each adventure is a wellknown road, a pleasure and a comfort.”
Billy moved through the living room, to another bronze, then past it.
“She needs nothing you can give her,” Valis said, “and nothing more than what she has. She lives in Dickens, and she knows no fear.”
Intuiting what was wanted to bring the artist forth, Billy put down the revolver on an antique Shinto altar table to the left of the bedroom door. Then he retraced his steps to the middle of the living room and sat in an armchair.
280
Handsomer than the self-portrait in pencil that could be viewed on his Web site, Valis entered.
Smiling, he picked up the revolver from the altar table and examined it. Beside the armchair in which Billy sat, on a small table, stood another Japanese bronze from the Meiji period: a plump smiling dog held a turtle on a leash.
Valis approached with the handgun. Not unlike Ivy Elgin, he walked with a dancer’s grace and as if gravity were not quite able to force the soles of his shoes flat to the floor.
His thick, soot-black hair, dusted with ashes at the temples. His smile so engaging. His gray eyes luminous, pellucid, and direct.
He had the presence of a movie star. The self-assurance of a king. The serenity of a monk.
Standing in front of the armchair, he aimed the revolver at Billy’s face.
“This is the gun.”
“Yes,” Billy said.
“You shot your father with it.”
“Yes.”
“How did that feel?”
Staring into the muzzle, Billy said, “Terrifying.”
“And your mother, Billy?”
“Right.”
“It felt right to shoot her?”
“At the time, in the instant,” Billy said.
“And later?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
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“Wrong is right. Right is wrong. It’s all perspective, Billy.”
Billy said nothing. In order to arrive at what you are not, you must go through the way in which you are not.
Peering at him along the barrel of the gun, Valis said, “Who do you hate, Billy?”
“I don’t think anyone.”
“That’s good. That’s healthy. Hate and love exhaust the mind, inhibit clear thinking.”
“I like these bronzes very much,” Billy said.
“Aren’t they wonderful? You can enjoy the form, the texture, the immense skill of the artist, and yet not care a damn thing about the philosophy behind them.”
“Especially the fish,” Billy said.
“Why the fish in particular?”
“The illusion of movement. The appearance of speed. They look so free.”
“You’ve led a slow life, Billy. Maybe you’re ready for some movement. Are you ready for speed?”
