Fugue State: stories

A Pursuit

For some days now, I have felt myself to be pursued by my second ex-wife. At first I believed the pursuer to be my third ex-wife, and perhaps for a time the two of them were working together — for all I know, they may still be. Indeed, though recent evidence has suggested the pursuer is my second ex-wife, evidence just a few days ago pointed to my third ex-wife.

Perhaps the two of them spell each other so as to stay fresh and alert, while I, alone, a solitary ex-husband, have only myself to rely on. Perhaps the second ex-wife drives while the third ex-wife sleeps, and vice versa. But is it always the same car that pursues me? I can no longer say. I try not to think too obsessively about my pursuers, but what else am I to think about?

They are behind me, watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake.

So far I have made no mistakes.

What, one might well ask, has become of my first ex-wife? Why, if the other two choose to pursue me, doesn’t she? Is it simply that, time having passed, she neither cares for me nor despises me as do my two more recent wives? Perhaps she is merely indifferent?

Until a few weeks ago, it had been years since I had word from a single one of my trinity of ex-wives. I was living, alone and isolated, in peace near the sea — white stone, blinding sun — when I received a letter from my first ex-wife. This letter was written in a hand that, although admittedly familiar, did not seem her hand. Had my first ex-wife not burnt all my possessions upon leaving me — believing as she did for no sane reason that I was having an affair with the woman who would become my second wife (and, later still, my second ex-wife) — I could have compared her handwriting to that found in the letter, which struck me as the work of a decidedly male hand. My first ex-wife had many faults, but she was by no stretch of the imagination manly in either person or voice. To see her name signed in a masculine script surprised me. No, to find an ex-wife who could be described, in the mildest of ways, as masculine, one would have to look to my third and most recent ex-wife, but even she wrote in only a marginally masculine hand, what one might call a hermaphroditic hand. But no, as to my first ex-wife, no. True, it was her name scrawled at the letter’s end. True, many of the letter’s turns of phrase were, if not definitively her own, not outside her habits of speech as I remembered them, but no, the hand, no: either this was not a letter from my first ex-wife or this was a letter dictated by her to an amanuensis.

As to the contents of the letter, those are hardly important. In any case now, having driven for so long, I can recall only a smattering of details: expressions of affection (perhaps mere formalities) slowly decaying into veiled insults and accusations. This was perhaps not so surprising a combination to find in a letter from one ex-spouse to another. What surprised me was that she had chosen to write at all. For a decade, I had had only silence from her. At the divorce proceedings — held with her manacled and wearing prison garb because of her incendiary spirit and the jail time it had earned her — she had voiced not a solitary word, nor had a word for me escaped her during the entire course of her prison sentence, nor indeed after her release. But now, suddenly, ten wordless years later, she posts an epistolary outpouring crammed with affection and hatred? And not in her own hand but in the hand of another, a hand decidedly male?

There was, as well, wedged between blandishments and attacks, a puzzling request; viz., that I stop persecuting her. Persecuting her? I wondered. I had had no contact with her for more than a decade. And, despite its conflagratory difficulties, I looked back on our time together, our marriage together, with a certain melancholy fondness. I had nothing but the kindest of feelings toward her, had no desire to cause her any pain or discomfort whatsoever. Just the opposite. Yet here was a letter whose deep, low voice told me, Stop persecuting me and leave me alone. It was such a baffling accusation, considering the facts, that I could read her words only against themselves, as a statement of an unconscious desire to be persecuted by me, as an appeal to see me again. This, coupled with the maleness of the handwriting, was enough to propel me immediately in search of her.

Yet now, pursued by my second ex-wife, unless it be my third ex-wife after all, I wonder if I read her veiled request correctly. True, were it only a question of one ex-wife operating in a vacuum, I would have been, undoubtedly, correct, but when you add a second and then a third ex-wife into the equation, particularly when one or both of the latter pair seem to be pursuing you, the psychology at work becomes a decidedly murky affair. People clustered in twos or threes or fours, I have come to believe, both constitute creatures in and of themselves and, together as tandems or triunes or packs, form another sort of myriad-minded creature whose actions are far from predictable. Thus, I find myself exponentially more shaken thinking that I might be simultaneously pursued by a pair of ex-wives than I would knowing myself pursued by either one alone, and much more shaken by the combination of my first ex-wife with the male hand in which her letter is inscribed — which suggests a second, shadowy presence — than I would be by the same letter inscribed in her own feminine hand.

But I am losing myself. I intended merely to say that once I had realized I was being pursued, I began to realize the situation was perhaps more complicated than I had initially supposed. Initially, I merely thought that perhaps my first ex-wife was being persecuted in my name but by some other party, or else that she had simply gone insane.

I set out to find my ex-wife, planning to question her face-to-face about the letter and to determine if it had actually been from her and, if so, to discover either who had transcribed the letter for her or how it was that her hand had become so masculine since I had last seen her. My intentions were, it should be clear, innocent. I simply wanted to verify, clarify, confirm.

I had no expectation of a long journey. I packed only a small overnight bag, which I placed on the seat beside me, where it still remains. I drove the car along a winding road up from the sea and into a series of rocky hills described in the better guidebooks as picturesque, twisting and turning through them until they gave way to mountains. I slid from one nation into another, and from there soon passed into a third. I passed through a squalid metropolis, made a steep ascent to the alpine town inscribed as the return address on my first ex-wife’s envelope. I spent the night there, in a strangely dreamless sleep at a small makeshift guesthouse, with no guest register and a shared bathroom, and woke up refreshed. From there it was easy work, after deploying a few well-placed questions gleaned from a pocket Berlitz, to follow a narrow gravel road edging across the mountainside perhaps thirty meters above the town itself, a road that dead-ended at my first ex-wife’s residence.

In the town I had bought, I will admit, flowers — but not from any intention to renew our intimacy. No, these were simply a peace offering, a device to render her more tractable, to forestall any burning. I climbed out of the car, carrying the flowers in their cone of paper, and approached the front door. There was no bell. I knocked, received no response. I knocked again. Still receiving no reply, I depressed the poignet. It levered down gently and the door slid open. I saw no reason not to enter.

Inside, the house was brightly lit, a generator slowly humming just behind a rear wall. Beside the sink was a bucket of silty water and into this I placed the flowers. The cone of paper I removed and smoothed flat, intending to use it to write a note, and this I would have done had I not noticed, just then, the line of blood trailing from the fireplace grate to the bedroom door. I approached it and prodded it with the tip of my shoe. It was mostly dry, but somehow that did not reassure me.

At times one wants to assert one’s connection to one’s ex-wives, at other times one reminds oneself they are ex-wives for good reason.

I am by inclination a curious man but have learned through the years, plagued by three wives in turn, to squelch this curiosity. Perhaps my first ex-wife was lying dying on the other side of the door, or perhaps she was already dead. Perhaps this was not her blood at all but the blood of another and she was there beside the cold corpse of the man (assuming it was a man) she had killed. Perhaps it was the same man who had written the letter. To find out, all I had to do was step across the room, perhaps four modest strides in all, and open the bedroom door.

But I could think of no scenario whereby I stood to gain anything by opening the door. I had read in my impressionable youth too many crime novels not to know that these things always go awry, that certain doors one should never open. So I left, stuffing the paper cone into my pocket, wiping the poignet free of my fingerprints on the way out, leaving my first ex-wife, dead or living, to her fate.

In subsequent days, driving, I have had a great deal of time to consider my actions. In one respect I was correct to remain in ignorance, to avoid precipitating myself into a difficult situation. Yet in another respect, had I opened that door, I would at least know what was on the other side, might at least have some vague sense of why I am now being pursued. As it stands, my first ex-wife, like Schrödinger’s famous and long-suffering cat, seems a creature flickering between life and death, neither alive nor dead — which is to say at once both alive and dead. She is the worst kind of ghost. I would be lying if I did not confess to feeling haunted by her, feeling her presence close to me, almost just over my shoulder sometimes, as I drive. Taking that into account, you might say that, yes, perhaps, in a manner of speaking, I am being pursued by all three of my ex-wives.

I did not open the door. Instead, I fled. I would, I thought, just clamber into my car and regain my seaside town as quickly as possible. The sooner I fled, the less chance I would have, so my reasoning went, of being implicated in whatever had happened behind the door. There were, admittedly, the several villagers to whom I had spoken in order to get directions, but there was nothing I could do about them. And I should explain — and would in fact have explained at the outset were it not that the strain and exhaustion of being subject to pursuit have made me less methodical than I habitually am — that I had taken steps upon my initial contact with these villagers to misdirect them: a slightly altered appearance, a bit of mud smeared to obscure the license number and throw into doubt the car’s nation of origin.

Perhaps you, sitting beside me as I drive, feel you deserve an explanation. But no, wait, I look beside me and see not a flesh-and-blood human but only my overnight bag: no one sits beside me. I am, as the French say, parlant tout seul, speaking all alone. No explanation is needed. Suffice it to say that after three wives I have become a careful man. Knowing my first ex-wife capable, quite frankly, of virtually anything, and my other two ex-wives cut of equally ruthless cloth, I would have been a fool not to take every precaution. Though I shall be the first to admit that these actions may strike others, at least those not privy to my life-experience, as an indication of culpability. But culpable of having done what? What, in fact, actually happened? And isn’t anything, cast in the wrong light, an indication of culpability?

Would it help if I were to swear to you, by the deceased individual of your choice, that I had nothing to do with my first ex-wife’s demise, assuming she is in fact dead?

No, it would not help, because you do not exist. I am speaking only to myself. I am speaking all alone.

One becomes so easily distracted. A part of oneself must watch the road, follow its twists and turns. What is left of one’s mind, stripped of sleep, half-taken with paying attention to the car behind, the pursuing car, when there is a pursuing car, is prone to follow its own path. I have smoked a cigarette, a Dunhill, a favorite of my second wife, one of six cigarettes remaining to me, and feel now slightly light-headed but a little better, a little more focused. This feeling, surely, will not last for long.

But for the moment here we are in the past again, leaving my first ex-wife’s house for the first time, driving as quickly as we can without drawing attention to ourselves — same muddied license plate, same altered appearance, perhaps just a bit of panic, perhaps even the vague desire to turn around and go back, to open the bedroom door, consequences be damned. We have left, or rather I have left, the alpine town, am beginning to wend my way homeward, when I catch a brief glister in my rearview mirror. At first I pay no attention, then it comes again, flashing across my eye, and then yet again, until at last, forced to take a closer look, I see sunlight glinting off the hood of a car. I adjust my mirror and think no more of it — I am after all on a road, cars are to be expected. Yet when after a number of divagations and turnings and accelerations it is still with me, I begin to pay it more heed. Can it be that I am being followed? I slow to allow the car to pass and it does so, barreling perilously around me on a curve, the sun slung upon its side window in such fashion that I cannot catch a glimpse of its driver. And then it is gone.

Enough of the present tense. The car was gone. I relaxed. I crossed the border. Anything to declare? No, nothing to declare. I continued my route down toward the next border, the next country.

I had been driving for some time when I realized, of a sudden, that a car was behind me and that it had in fact been behind me for quite some time. Was this the same car? Perhaps. Or perhaps the same color but a slightly different model. What had the other car been? I had already forgotten — once it had passed me, there seemed no reason to keep it in mind. Was the color really the same after all or merely similar? Or was it the same color but simply cast slightly differently in the declining sun? Perhaps, I told myself, I should take a circuitous route, just to be safe.

I turned down a smaller road, followed it. The other car followed me at first, but as my route became increasingly convoluted, it disappeared. So, not followed after all. I was relieved, but also, as it turned out, lost.

At first I thought it would be easy to get back to something I would recognize. Indeed, though I had engaged in more and more erratic maneuvers to shake my imagined (so I believed at the time) pursuers, I had also carefully noted landmarks — a fountain, a hotel sign, the name of a restaurant reminiscent of my second wife’s pet name, and so forth. Yet as I tried to make my way free of a drab little neighborhood without streetlights that bordered on what appeared to be an industrial wasteland, I had difficulty sorting the landmarks back into a coherent pattern. Thus I knew that, yes, somewhere I had passed that hotel with a stylized goose upon its sign, but not what to look for next nor where to go to find it. The darkness, too, impeded me, and by the time I decided it would be better to stop at the goose inn and spend the night, begin again by morning light, I could not find it. In the end, nearly out of fuel, I pulled up beside a well-manicured hedge, turned off the car, and slept.

Shall I tell you my dreams? Surely they had some effect on me, perhaps at the very least can account for the fact that I awoke more exhausted than I had been when I went to sleep, my back and neck sore, my eyes feeling as if someone had attempted to dig them out with a rusty spoon. There were dreams, of course, of pursuit, the activities of the day simply continuing into my sleep, dreams of constantly staring into the rearview mirror, depressing the gas pedal, turning, turning. There were dreams, too, in which I watched a hand, clearly male, compose the letter putatively from my wife — again no surprise there, and nothing extraordinary: hardly worth mentioning. The third dream, too, I realize now, is of the same sort, but since I have begun and since it was both the least recurrent and the most vivid of the three, I shall share it with you.

Here I am back in my wife’s cabin once again, but this time I obey my curiosity and move toward the door, pursuing the line of nearly dried blood. My hand moves out to open the door, I push down the poignet, the door swings back, and what do I see inside but myself?

I awoke to the sun beryling off the windshield, a round, gouged circle of light. I felt a little shaken, tired, ready to return home. Clambering out, I urinated into the hedge, then washed my hands and face with water from a bottle taken from my overnight bag. I stretched and only then did I notice the car parked several dozen meters behind me, a car identical, more or less, to the car I thought had been following me the day before. There seemed a figure in the driver’s seat, or if not a figure perhaps only a raised headrest, the sun glinting off the dirty windshield making it difficult to see anything with certainty.

I climb into the car and begin to drive. The other car at first is not with me and then it is, unless it is another, similar car. It is there, then it is gone, then it is there again. I stop for fuel and see no car but then, once I am driving again, there it is, behind me. From time to time it becomes easy to believe I am not being followed, the pursuit being, I have now come to believe, extremely subtle, invisible more often than visible. The car sometimes freshly washed, sometimes covered with mud, the paint such that it catches the light differently at different times of the day, making me always think, Could that possibly be the car? Aren’t I mistaken? I keep changing my route, doubling back, the result being that by the time darkness falls I find myself farther from home than I was before.

I stop at a service station, fill the tank, buy a half-dozen bottles of water, bags of so-called crisps, foreign candy bars consisting of an unidentifiable sugary chewable drenched in chocolate, and, as an afterthought, a packet of cigarettes. These for the next several days will be my only nourishment. I drive that evening until I can barely stay awake. Sometimes there are headlights behind me, sometimes not. Sometimes the hair on the back of my neck tingles and stands up, like an animal, as if I am being pursued; sometimes the same hair lies still, like a dead animal. I stop finally on a small road, wheels edged against a ditch, and sleep.

Awake again. Is the car behind me? No, there is no car behind me. I drive for a few hours, beginning at last to relax. Is the car behind me? Yes, the car is behind me. Twist, turn, evade. Is there a car behind me? No. But yes, later, a few minutes, a few hours, who knows, there it is again. What is it waiting for? Perhaps for me to reveal where I am now living. Solution: do not return home until you are certain you are no longer being followed.

But how, I begin to wonder after a few days of this constant circling, traveling from country to country, never stopping except to sleep briefly in the car before going on again, my mind increasingly distracted, nerves increasingly unstrung, how can one ever be certain of anything? Once you start driving, how can you ever stop?

This accursed present tense. It keeps squirming into my discourse until I feel that everything that has already happened is happening all over again and all at once. Each turn I have already made I am about to make again, each moment of looking up to see the car following me again has both occurred and is about to occur. The car is weighted down with all these past selves threatening to push their way into the present, with the myriad tribe of selves plaguing me like ghosts until I do not know if it is me turning off this wide modern street and onto that narrow cobbled one or if it is one of them. And as I sit here parlant tout seul, I wonder if I really am speaking only to myself or if I am speaking to the ghost of someone who has been or will be in the seat beside. So there is perhaps hope for you after all. And perhaps, too, the self who speaks and the self who drives are not the same, and I myself serve as my own ghost.

I have smoked all my remaining cigarettes, lighting each off its predecessor, a chronologically arranged progression of tiny lives. I no longer feel so in flux, but am instead slightly giddy and nervous, but more focused as well.

Not much remains. I kept driving, but each time I thought I’d effected an escape, each time I felt I could risk returning home, each time I began to relax, the hair on the back of my neck would stand up again. The pursuing car would reappear. I slept only when I had to, and only in fits and starts, and by day became more and more haggard, less and less human. My back, from my having sat for hours in the same position, vacillated between experiencing a dull ache and feeling shooting, sharp pains. Once, it became so painful that I had to pull the car over onto the shoulder and lie flat in the gravel as one hundred meters behind and just out of sight my pursuer surely idled, waited. I lived on bags of artificially preserved bonbons and tins of anchovies and whatever else I could find without getting far from my car: bottles of water, sticks or rounds of bread.

In what must have been only a few days, I had lost any sense of how long I had been driving. The date slipped away from me, as did the proper day of the week. Days shaded into weeks at some point, but I could not say when. Nor can I say how many days had passed before I gathered the identity of my pursuer. One day, early afternoon, I crossed lanes rather abruptly and watched my pursuer make the same maneuver but with a certain fillip: she turned on the turn signal in the wrong direction, and before darting left drifted right, as if the driver had cocked the wheel slightly before forcing it left. Both of these were characteristic of my third wife’s ineptitude. A few hours later, I executed a similar change of lanes and watched the same pattern repeated behind me. Perhaps the car had been doing the same thing all along and I, thinking only to avoid it, had simply paid it no mind.

Such ephemerae hardly amount to an identity, yet once I had noticed them I could not ignore them. And indeed the car itself seemed to respond to my gaze, giving me as time wore on more and more proofs that my pursuer was my third ex-wife. Never one to accept the evidence of my senses, I tested these proofs, engaged my own car in certain gestures intended to solicit certain reactions from her, and indeed these reactions were consistently provoked. I became more certain and also more confident. Now that I had assigned a name to my pursuer, I could develop a scheme to shake her.

My third ex-wife must have sensed my growing awareness, for she raised her pursuit to another level. She began, somehow, to employ different cars. At first I thought, not having seen her car for the course of an entire day, that I had shaken her. I became so confident as to direct my car in the direction I thought must be home, but when I noticed that another car — deep burgundy and of what I presumed must be Eastern European make — had stayed quite near to me for some time, I became suspicious. I engaged in a few tentative maneuvers and was not surprised to find the car reacting as if it were driven by my third ex-wife. Which, in fact, I concluded, it must be.

But, not content, she ratcheted the game up another notch. Or I should say they. For there came a moment when I was driving and there appeared a car behind me and I thought, somewhat smugly, here she is, here is my third ex-wife, and downshifted and pursued a maneuver intended to make her reveal herself, but no, she was not revealed. Not her, I thought, nor her car, and thus, I thought, not my pursuer. Yet this car stayed with me. Hours later, it was with me still. I wriggled around back roads through sleepy and airless towns, and lost it. Several hours later, it found me again. So I tried to draw her out again, with another maneuver, another enticement, and this time too there was nothing to suggest my third ex-wife, though the car did something that disturbed me — a jerky movement as if the driver had pressed too hard on the brakes and then quickly stepped on the accelerator. A gesture characteristic of my second ex-wife, and one of the multitude of irritations that had precipitated the collapse of our marriage.

Can I be wrong? I wondered. Is my pursuer in fact not my third ex-wife but my second?

The next hours were spent testing this theory to my satisfaction, putting the car behind me through a series of proofs that slowly dissolved the image of my third ex-wife in my mind and replaced it with an image of my second ex-wife. How, I wondered, could I ever have thought the pursuer was my third ex-wife? For now everything suggested ex-wife number two.

Only slowly did another possibility creep over me. Perhaps it wasn’t so simple as my having been mistaken. Perhaps, indeed, I had been correct then and yet was still correct now. Perhaps I was being pursued by two of my ex-wives at once.

A man might be capable of standing up to one ex-wife, but two ex-wives is something no ex-husband wants to consider, and if the ex-husband is exhausted, slightly deranged from driving, unshaven, unwashed, it is too much for him. Indeed it was too much for me. I had to pull over and switch off the car and press my forehead against the leather-wrapped steering wheel and breathe deeply.

And was there not, I wondered, a possibility — nay, even a likelihood — that my first ex-wife was involved as well? Indeed, the fact that the beginning of the pursuit coincided with my visit to her house suggested as much. An individual ex-wife could be outflanked, backed into a corner, subdued, dismissed. But against a triad of ex-wives, a solitary ex-husband has no hope.

I tried to calm myself. I tried to focus. After a moment I lifted my forehead from the steering wheel and turned and looked out the rear window. Was there a car behind me? Were two of my ex-wives gloating in tandem a few hundred yards behind me? No, there was no car there. Then why did I still feel their presence? And what did I smell?

But no, surely, I thought, I was imagining things, the smell was only my own unwashed body, the sweat had dried and then grown damp and sour, and then dried again and so on. I was calm, there was no reason not to be calm, no reason at all.

I regarded myself in the rearview mirror, the red-rimmed eyes, the matted hair, the ratty beard. Where in all of this, I asked myself, was the man who had beaten three marriages in turn and gone on to live solitary and content only a stone’s throw from the sea? How had I become the ghost of that man, hardly alive, living an existence that consisted of nothing but shuttling back and forth in a car, subject to the whims of ex-wives? You, I told myself, have allowed them to make you neither alive nor dead, a half-living thing.

It would not go on, I vowed to myself. I would stop at the first hotel. I would purchase a room and shower and sleep and shave. I would open my overnight bag and remove the clean garments that, days ago, weeks ago perhaps, I had tucked into it, and put them on. And then, refreshed, and with dignity, I would face defeat at the hands of my ex-wives.

And had circumstances been only slightly different, it might well have happened in that way. I did stop at the first hotel and, with my overnight bag slung over my shoulder, went in. The concierge was, admittedly, a little reluctant to sign me in, thinking me a vagrant perhaps, but a generous remuneration finally persuaded him. I was assigned a room. All that remained, as it was a hotel that took pride in old traditions, nestled in a country imbued with a similar pride, was to sign the guest register.

And here, my dear, nonexistent friend, is where I betrayed myself. I had been so careful with myself, I had made no mistakes, and might very well have entered the hotel room and emerged a new man. Perhaps even, after awaiting the confrontation with my ex-wives, a confrontation that could never come, I might even have abandoned my car and climbed aboard a train. I might even have convinced myself that the reason for my action was that they could not follow me without revealing themselves, the cost of a car being very little compared to my own peace of mind.

But no, as I was handed the pen, a part of me wondered, as if innocently, Wouldn’t it be better to sign the register in another name? Yes, I thought, why not, better to be cautious, I had always believed as much — having faced three wives in turn, I had learned to be cautious. And wouldn’t it, suggested this same part of me, be better to disguise one’s handwriting? Having accepted the first premise, I could not but accept the second, and so, as I was given the pen, I shifted it to my left hand.

Awkwardly, I wrote a false name, a false town of origin, a false destination. When the register asked me to define the purpose of my trip, I wrote, For my own pleasure, which was certainly a lie. Then, after recapping the pen, I handed it back and made the mistake of appraising the results to see how well I had hidden myself.

Would it surprise you, my dear, nonexistent friend, were I to tell you that what I saw inscribed there filled me with fear? For I recognized the hand, a decidedly male hand, decidedly familiar: the same hand that had written the letter putatively from my first ex-wife.

What would you have done? Would you have had the sangfroid to shower and sleep and then, refreshed, bring yourself to look deep into yourself and sort out who you were and what exactly you had done? Or would you, like me, filled with confusion, unable to face what you had seen, have simply turned and climbed back into the car and once again driven away?

And this perhaps is where the story truly begins, for despite how quickly I fled the hotel, despite all the miles I have traveled since, I am filled with the unsettling feeling that had I at any moment stopped and stepped out of my car and walked back to the car pursuing me, if there had ever been in fact a car pursuing me, I would find slumped over its wheel the rotting carcass of my second ex-wife, the corpse of my third ex-wife, perhaps slightly fresher, lying curled on the seat beside her. And then, were I to leave their car behind and walk back to my own, were I to open my trunk, I would find them there again, my first wife having joined them now, all three corpses carefully tucked in around one another like the pieces of a puzzle.

But no, for now, I simply, as perhaps I did earlier, perhaps almost without knowing what I had done, climb back into the car and continue to drive. How long can I keep this up, my ex-wives neither alive nor dead, both alive and dead, and myself perhaps in the same state? How long can I keep driving?

With a little luck, a part of me, as if innocently, wants to suggest, perhaps forever.