meaning, then time is moving, and the timelines of the Apocalyptic Calendar are moving as well. All the routes and capitals of chaos on the Calendar are constantly, imperceptibly rearranging themselves in relation to each other … do you understand—?”
“Let’s pretend I do.”
“Which means the Calendar is always … out of whack. You know? Too static on the walls to accommodate, you know, shifts in perspective. Like an ancient starwatcher who always watched the sky from the same place and assumed the stars were moving, only because he hadn’t learned to take into account that it was the earth he was standing on that was moving.” Still on his knees, he touched the hinge of her thighs, and in the dark she could see him looking up at her. “It’s not there.”
“What’s not there?” she said.
“The place. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“It sounds like physics and physics was never my strong suit.”
“It’s not physics,” he said, “it has nothing to do with physics. It’s far beyond the meaning of physics. The Twentieth Century spent far too much time paying attention to physicists. It has to do with … For the calendar of modern apocalypse to be accurate, its nihilistic center—floating in Year Seventeen between the twenty-third of April and the fifth of May 1985—needs to move in relation to the timelines of chaos.”
“Yes?”
He found a spot above her spleen, and his eyes shone in the dark: “ There ,” he whispered, in that same whisper in which he had spoken since the first day she met him. Even in the dark, she thought she saw him smile; it was the first time since that first day and she shuddered. “Right there.” Right above her spleen in black ink he marked the spot, the twenty-ninth of April 1985— 29.4.85— in the Year Seventeen of the Secret Millennium, and then he stood on his feet and stepped back and kept staring at her, his eyes still shining with such a crazed look that he frightened her more now than he ever had before. He grabbed her by her wrists. “No,” she said.
He pushed her to the wall, and then to the floor.
“No.”
“There are no noes between us,” he hissed, “you know that. No noes, no maybes. Only yeses. You know that.” He lowered her to the floor and fucked her not far from the assassination of an Indian prime minister by her bodyguard (Year Seventeen: 31 October 1984) and the murder of a Sixties soul singer by his father (Year Sixteen: 1 April 1984), his black-and-white beard in her face, rapture displacing grief. Now he had her so as to shoot himself into the vortex of chaos rather than simply empty himself of memory; and she had a hundred dreams in a single climax, until she thought she couldn’t stand one more revelation.
Her body became part of the Calendar, the traveling center of apocalypse. Over the course of the following days and weeks, he positioned her everywhere, studying how the dates shifted in accordance, how the timelines rearranged themselves in relation to her. He had her walk the room in circles for hours, from one corner to the other, in the light cast through the papered window or the shadow beyond the light. He perched her high on ladders and lay her facedown on the floor; he pinned her against the wall and placed her outside the room in the hallway or on the stairs. He took her outside the house to the base of the hillside below, posing her naked where he could see her in relation to this year or that, through a peephole he cut in the Calendar in some frivolous, expendable date; astonished drivers nearly drove off the road. He set her on the next hill over, far out of sight and beyond the range of what even he could see, and finally took her to Black Clock Park, standing her at the grave of his time-capsule in an old long blue coat he gave her, with a stopwatch and instructions that at an exact designated moment, after enough time for him to return to his house and his room and his calendar, she would drop
“Let’s pretend I do.”
“Which means the Calendar is always … out of whack. You know? Too static on the walls to accommodate, you know, shifts in perspective. Like an ancient starwatcher who always watched the sky from the same place and assumed the stars were moving, only because he hadn’t learned to take into account that it was the earth he was standing on that was moving.” Still on his knees, he touched the hinge of her thighs, and in the dark she could see him looking up at her. “It’s not there.”
“What’s not there?” she said.
“The place. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“It sounds like physics and physics was never my strong suit.”
“It’s not physics,” he said, “it has nothing to do with physics. It’s far beyond the meaning of physics. The Twentieth Century spent far too much time paying attention to physicists. It has to do with … For the calendar of modern apocalypse to be accurate, its nihilistic center—floating in Year Seventeen between the twenty-third of April and the fifth of May 1985—needs to move in relation to the timelines of chaos.”
“Yes?”
He found a spot above her spleen, and his eyes shone in the dark: “ There ,” he whispered, in that same whisper in which he had spoken since the first day she met him. Even in the dark, she thought she saw him smile; it was the first time since that first day and she shuddered. “Right there.” Right above her spleen in black ink he marked the spot, the twenty-ninth of April 1985— 29.4.85— in the Year Seventeen of the Secret Millennium, and then he stood on his feet and stepped back and kept staring at her, his eyes still shining with such a crazed look that he frightened her more now than he ever had before. He grabbed her by her wrists. “No,” she said.
He pushed her to the wall, and then to the floor.
“No.”
“There are no noes between us,” he hissed, “you know that. No noes, no maybes. Only yeses. You know that.” He lowered her to the floor and fucked her not far from the assassination of an Indian prime minister by her bodyguard (Year Seventeen: 31 October 1984) and the murder of a Sixties soul singer by his father (Year Sixteen: 1 April 1984), his black-and-white beard in her face, rapture displacing grief. Now he had her so as to shoot himself into the vortex of chaos rather than simply empty himself of memory; and she had a hundred dreams in a single climax, until she thought she couldn’t stand one more revelation.
Her body became part of the Calendar, the traveling center of apocalypse. Over the course of the following days and weeks, he positioned her everywhere, studying how the dates shifted in accordance, how the timelines rearranged themselves in relation to her. He had her walk the room in circles for hours, from one corner to the other, in the light cast through the papered window or the shadow beyond the light. He perched her high on ladders and lay her facedown on the floor; he pinned her against the wall and placed her outside the room in the hallway or on the stairs. He took her outside the house to the base of the hillside below, posing her naked where he could see her in relation to this year or that, through a peephole he cut in the Calendar in some frivolous, expendable date; astonished drivers nearly drove off the road. He set her on the next hill over, far out of sight and beyond the range of what even he could see, and finally took her to Black Clock Park, standing her at the grave of his time-capsule in an old long blue coat he gave her, with a stopwatch and instructions that at an exact designated moment, after enough time for him to return to his house and his room and his calendar, she would drop
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