The HAB Theory, page 25
…Marie has begun to sense the change in me. I find her studying me when she thinks I am unaware of it. She continues to probe in progressively less subtle ways, attempting to ascertain if any cause for my gloominess exists other than that of my obvious inability to become fired over any new creative project. I work hard and long, but we both know that the work being done, while necessary, is certainly more mechanical than creative. It is strange to me that I can on the one hand be so gloriously elevated by what has happened and yet at the same time be wallowing in a mire of depression on a different plane. I grow increasingly fearful that I may someday hurt Marie very badly, and I don’t want to do so. I do love her, but my love is not singularly channelized like hers. She has said that I am the absolute core of her universe, that her whole world revolves around me, and I know she would never be able to understand how I could love both her and A at the same time but in different ways.
Marie paused and sniffed, pulled a pale blue tissue from a box at hand, and dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose softly. The rims of her eyes and nostrils were red and she looked as if she were suffering from a cold, though she was not. John Grant knew her well indeed; it was incomprehensible to her that he could love another woman at the same time as he claimed to love her. She wadded the tissue into a small blue ball and dropped it into a wastebasket before resuming her reading of an entry which was dated almost a fortnight after the one she had just finished.
…Self-analysis is never a simple matter and it may be entirely impossible, but nevertheless I will embark here on what will be as close as I can get to it. I’m aware that it becomes only too easy to justify in your own mind those actions which may not be justifiable. To be of any value whatsoever, introspection must be logical, rational, extensive and, above all, thoroughly and unwaveringly honest. With these guidelines in mind at all times, I will begin. It could be argued, I suppose, that what I feel for A is no more than a sudden infatuation founded on a longtime desire for sex with someone different, or some sort of effort to recapture a youthfulness I no longer possess. In all honesty, I would flatly deny such argument. Of infatuation there is none, if my understanding of the meaning of the word is correct, as I believe it to be. Yet, I would be less than honest if I did not admit that a longing to be with someone different was not what led me into this situation to begin with, and that includes a sexual craving I didn’t realize I had but which developed after meeting A, rather than as a motivation for wandering. Further, I have never been consciously concerned about my age and never was subject to the “growing-old blues” which afflict many men when they reach forty or more. Still, I’m acutely aware of the difference in age between A and myself; I am, in actuality, old enough to be her father. The dominant motivation is love; of that there is no doubt in my mind. On the one hand my love for Marie dictates and demands that I pursue no course which might ultimately be of anguish to her. On the other hand, my love for A precludes any room for relinquishment. That is my quandary; the two loves are diametrically opposed. Above and beyond my love for Marie, there is my duty to her, and I know that in following my present course I am not living up to the requirements of such duty. Perhaps strength of character lies in having the resolve — no, not resolve, but rather the capacity — in having the capacity to fulfill such obligation as that which I have for Marie to the utmost degree. If such be true, then evidently my strength of character is hardly as flawless as I would like to believe, for my well-considered inclination is to say to hell with duty, responsibility, obligation, or whatever else one might care to call it. It would be pointless for me to try to justify what I am doing, or try to excuse myself for it. Yet, what do I do about living with myself? If I bow to the demands of obligation, how do I justify to myself livìng a life which is a charade, pretending a happiness and contentment externally which is absent inside? One might be able to fool others in this respect, but it is not so easy to fool one’s self. Thus, perhaps strength of character, if that’s what it is, is really more a psychological detriment than asset. How many people, I wonder, are living out their lives wholly unhappy inside because they are fulfilling an obligation to someone else? Doesn’t obligation to self count somewhere in there?
4
If anything, the world press became even more demanding of information regarding the assassination attempt on President Sanders following the death of Herbert Allen Boardman. Here was one of the most explosive stories of the century and yet, as far as dissemination of news to the press was concerned, there had been virtually nothing of substance released. Now, with Boardman’s death, supposedly through a heart attack, the newspapers, radio and television were expressing their agitation in blistering editorials.
“Why should it be,” queried the Manchester Guardian with controlled irritation, “that the Head of State of one of the most powerful nations on earth can be gunned down and then this notable event be followed by a deadly silence from authorities? Probably no other major news event in the past three decades or more has resulted in so many unanswered questions. Certainly we are aware that this is an internal matter affecting the United States, but as a token of courtesy to concerned people here and in other lands throughout the world, some degree of responsible information is expected from American authorities.”
That was perhaps the least forceful of the multitude of comments which appeared. With the absence of hard facts, dark speculations were rampant. Le Monde in Paris broadly hinted that perhaps President Sanders was still alive but no more than a vegetable because of brain damage from the gunshot wound. “Who, after all,” the editorial asked, “has really seen this American President since the attack? It is rumored that he has left Chicago and returned to his nation’s capital but is ‘resting in seclusion’ at Georgetown University Hospital. If the President is indeed well, then he has a moral obligation to his own countrymen to appear before them on television, from his hospital bed if necessary, to assure them of his well-being. If he is not well, as reported, then what forces are responsible for keeping this from the people?”
In Mecca, Saudi Arabia, Al Nadwa was not in the least subtle in its response to the news of Boardman’s death. “What fools do the Americans take the rest of the world to be? Can anyone with a degree of intelligence really believe that Herbert Boardman died of nothing more than an ordinary heart attack? Come now! Tell us, if you dare, who killed him? Who forever sealed the lips of the only man who could clear up so many mysteries?”
The Hungarian newspaper Estì Hirlap in Budapest skirted the same issue but from a different viewpoint. “The renowned American author, John Charles Grant, apparently was permitted a long period of time alone with the man identified as Herbert Boardman. Is it not well within the realm of possibility that this writer provided the gunman with the wherewithal to destroy himself?”
The popular James Sylvester editorial on The CBS Evening News was no more than a series of very pointed questions asked by Sylvester himself and reflecting the questions being raised by newsmen everywhere in the United States.
“Why is it,” the commentator asked in his familiar fatherly tones, “that presidential Press Secretary Steven Lace has adamantly refused to answer any questions regarding the President and Herbert Boardman? By whose order has he been so thoroughly muzzled? Where is the body of Boardman? Is it being autopsied, or has ìt already been hastily buried or cremated? What was the connection between author John Grant and a would-be ninety-four-year-old assassin, and why does Grant, who has always epitomized integrity in reporting in America, remain silent and out of touch? Is it not a strange coincidence that a man who allegedly sought to murder the President of the United States — and who also allegedly planned to fail in the attempt — should himself die of alleged ‘natural causes’ so quickly after his deed? Why has President Sanders made no statement? Failing that, why has Vice-President Barrington made no statement? Failing that, why has no responsible government authority stepped forward to tell the American people, as it is their right to know, just what is happening in their country these days? Is it not time that these and a multitude of other questions are answered by someone? Why is America being kept in the dark?”
5
In his room at Georgetown University Hospital, Robert Morton Sanders was eating a hearty breakfast of hotcakes and sausage. He sat at a small table, his forehead badly bruised, but looking quite fit despite this in his own garb of blue silk pajamas and maroon corduroy robe snugly belted at the waist. Comfortable old leather slippers were on his stockinged feet and his hair was neatly combed. Between healthy bites of the breakfast and cautious sips of steaming coffee, he was looking at the envelope of a thick letter he’d just received. The handwriting was precise and distinctive and he recognized it immediately as that of his friend Mark Shepard. It helped to erase the dour expression he had worn ever since putting down this morning’s Washington Post. He was smiling by the time he had it open. As he began to read, he noticed that it had been dated the day before the Chicago “incident.”
Istanbul, May 21
Dear Bob,
Yes, you old duffer, I’m still in the land of the Turks, which may surprise you since in the last letter — a couple of weeks ago, was it?— I told you I’d be heading for the good ol’ green hills of Wyoming in a day or two, then back to Columbia to continue molding young minds. The reason I didn’t leave as planned is simple; I’ve turned up some interesting charts here. Three, to be specific. The first (and by far least important) is an old copy of a Mercator — the original done in 1583 using the projections he (Gerhard Kremer, alias Gerhardus Mercator) developed — but the copy, not dated, is poorly rendered. Probably done by some Turkish navigator and valuable only for its age (I estimate around 1650) but important to me because it shows an interesting evolution in Mercator’s Projection from his first use of it fifteen years earlier. (And, in case you’re wondering, it has no real value in respect to the search I’ve been making for material dealing with my special and important study, which I’ve detailed to you in previous letters.)
The second and third charts are another matter entirely. Those — hold your hat! — show all the earmarks of being genuine Ptolemys! Let me backtrack a bit to fill you in in orderly progression.
As you’ll recall, my last letter was from Izmir, on the Aegean, where I’d had such high hopes of turning up something significant (something that finally would justify this sabbatical) but was horribly disappointed. The day after I wrote you, I started back toward Istanbul in, of all things, an old Ford (circa 1935) in surprisingly good running condition — a real museum piece that’d be worth plenty on the antique car market back home. Anyway, my driver (Dimitri something-or-other) was originally from Kutanya, a small city we had to pass through, about halfway to Istanbul (Incidentally, I was heading for Istanbul because I had a little more research to do there before folding my tent and moving on to Ankara for the final wrap-up, and then home.) I asked him — Dimitri — if there were any shops in Kutanya that sold old books or maps or whatever, and he lit up and said he’d take me to a very good old shop which (by marvelously convenient coincidence) was very near to where he was raised, and thus, while I looked around, he could visit with some of his relatives there. I figured it was a waste of time and he was putting me on in order to get into his old neighborhood for a visit, but I thought, Well, what the hell, it might be an interesting break in the long drive if nothing else.
To make a long story short, the shop was a real dustbin. Reminded me of the dilapidated so-called antique shops off the beaten path in the U.S. — you know, an incredible mass of pure junk that’s been discarded for God knows how long. After about half an hour of poking around, I was convinced there was nothing of any value there and was getting ready to leave when I happened to notice a big old trunk — the chest-type, with straps and latches and the upper lid bowed outward. It was off in a corner gathering dust and spiderwebs, full of gouges and scrapes and with the latches broken and the straps falling apart from dry rot, so it looked pretty disreputable. I really can’t say for sure what prompted me to take a closer look, but I raised the lid and looked inside. It was empty. The cloth lining of sides and bottom was downright grubby and ragged, but then I noticed that the cloth covering the underside of the lid was not of the same weave and somewhat cleaner — still very old, but newer than the rest.
The shopkeeper was at the door just then, yelling at some old woman (who was screaming back) and so, just on a sudden hunch, I got out my pocketknife and made a tiny slit in the newer cloth, pulled it back a little and nearly shit my pants when I saw about a half-inch of coastline! Had no idea what in the hell it was, but I didn ‘t want to arouse the shopkeeper’s suspicions by looking any further. Called him over and casually asked him how much he wanted for the trunk. He figured he had a live one nibbling and promptly said a thousand lira. I laughed and offered fifty. We haggled for a while and then I gave my “final” offer of 250 ($15) and when he shook his head, as I knew he would, I started walking out. He ran after me, also as I knew he would, and lectured me about taking advantage of a poor shopkeeper who had twenty kids to support (he was only about thirty himself, so they must start early over here) and that I was taking the bread out of their mouths, etc., etc. When I wouldn’t budge, he finally agreed to the figure. Although he tried to pretend he’d been rooked, it was obvious that it was probably two or three times more than he ever thought he’d make on it, but I let on that I thought I’d made a pretty fantastic deal (which wasn’t hard to do under the circumstances). My driver shook his head at my “foolish purchase,” but we loaded it into the back seat and got it to Istanbul all right.
Now for the climax. Behind locked door and closed drapes in my room, I carefully stripped away all of the cloth inside, and there were the charts, glued — glued, by God! — to the underside of the lid. The glue was old and cracked, so it didn’t turn out to be quite the trauma I’d imagined it would be getting them off, though I took my time and completely dismantled the lid in order to do so. Worked all night on it; first on getting the three charts, stuck together, off the lid, and then on separating them from each other. Fortunately, one was smaller and this had been glued in place first, face out, to the trunk lid. At this point I thought there were only two maps. The second, which extended beyond the first about two inches on each side of the width and twice that on each side of the length, was glued only where those overlapping edges met the wood, although there were a few areas where the glue had spread out and stuck the two charts together. I got them off the lid without damage and then separated them from each other with only one little damaged area in the smaller map, and that, happily, was in an ocean area where no writing or charting was involved. But the great surprise was finding, wholly unexpectedly, another chart, still smaller, nestled between the two but not attached to them. I now have temporary backings on them and they’re covered with clear acetate while I study them.
Bob, dammit, I’m so excited I could pop! I really believe at least one’s a Ptolemy original, and the other might be even more important a discovery than that. If so, they’re priceless, but I couldn’t care less about the monetary aspect. Their value to science is inestimable and, even more than that, they’re immeasurably important to the “project” you know all about that’s kept me researching for so many years.
I’ve gone on too long already, but I had to let you know about them, in view of your past interest. Remember how we used to sit and talk about finding “it” for hours? Well, this is it! I’ll keep you up to date on what I determine from them. I’m all inspired now, and all thought of going home until I absolutely have to has fled. Expect I’ll stay most of the summer now, checking them out against existing maps, and only come back when I have to in order to prepare for fall semester. Already think I’ve located sites for a couple of “digs” here which might be tremendous.
Hope you and Grace are in the best of health. Give the First Lady a kiss for me and tell her my bachelorhood remains intact (unlike my virginity), simply because the only girl I ever met that I might have been inclined to marry hooked up with some southpaw joker who became President!
Fondly,
Mark
P.S. Kee-ripes! I never even told you the scope of the charts. On one (the Ptolemy?) it’s primarily eastern Mediterranean, Aegean, and Black seas, westward as far as the Gulf of Sirte in Libya, and especially fine in the coastal areas of Greece and Turkey. The other is the strangest chart I’ve ever seen and if it turns out to be what I think it is, it’ll be one of the most important ancient documents ever found. More later. M.S.
President Sanders refolded Mark Shepard’s letter and slipped it back into its envelope, a grin still spreading his lips at Mark’s closing words. Continuing to think about his lifelong friend, he finished off the breakfast on his plate and poured himself another cup of coffee from the thermal pot on the table. He remembered their early years together and a warm feeling filled him.
Robert Sanders had a handful of very close friends, but Mark had always been closest, ever since they were boyhood pals in elementary and then high school. Even then Mark had been a map nut, hardly able to pass a service station without going inside to see if they had any maps he didn’t have yet. And his own ability at drawing them, even at that young age, was pronounced. Sanders still had the truly beautiful map Mark had drawn and given him as a Christmas gift when they were seniors at Lander High School — a finely executed map of Wyoming’s Fremont County, itself larger than the state of Massachusetts, with all the places marked where the two of them had had special experiences together: the place where Mark had fallen and broken his leg and Sanders had carried him four miles to Dick Titterington’s empty camp and made him comfortable before lighting out to get help; the places where each of them, on trips together, had bagged their first elk or moose or antelope or bighorn; the places where they’d caught, for them, record-sized trout. It was a memento Sanders treasured highly.
