The Names

The man's name was Avtar Singh. Owen suspected this was a pseudonym and was never able to convince himself that Singh was an Indian. The man was not only an impressive mimic but seemed to look different every time Owen saw him. An ascetic, streetcorner preacher, a subway bedlamite. His physiognomy changed, his features as aspect and character. Intelligent, vain, obsequious, cruel. He'd look lean and severe one day, a mystic in shabby robes; puffy the next, physically bloated, eyes heavy and drugged.The Greek cell had broken up and two of the members were here, recent arrivals. Emmerich was one, a man with an austere head and tight beard. The other was the woman, Bern, thick-lipped, broad, utterly silent for weeks now. She spent almost all her time sealed in one of the thatched silos.There were two other men but Owen had little contact with them. All he knew was that they'd been with Singh in Iran, that one of them was suffering frequent cycles of chills and high fever and that they were evidently Europeans. They did not speak Sanskrit as the others did, or tried to do, and it was this as much as the group's predominant mood which indicated to Owen that the cult was nearly dead.One day he squatted in the dust with Emmerich. They talked about Sanskrit, speaking the language itself as well as several others. Emmerich had the look of an intelligent convict, someone in for life, for murder, self-taught, self-willed, an expert on the tradecraft of a confined life, contemptuous of people who want to know what it is like-contemptuous even as he agrees to enlighten them. He is well settled in his life term, this kind of man. His crime, the largeness of it, furnishes endless material for speculation and self-knowledge. Everything he reads and learns is made to serve as a personal philosophy, an explanation, an enlargement of that brilliant single moment, a moment he has reworked, re-explained to himself, made use of. The murder has by this time become part of the dream pool of his self-analysis. The victim and the act are theory now. They form the philosophical base he relies on for his sense of self. They are what he uses to live."The Sanskrit word for knot," Emmerich said, "eventually took on the meaning of 'book.' Grantha. This is because of the manuscripts. The birch-bark and palm-leaf manuscripts were bound by a cord drawn through two holes and knotted.”An austere head, Owen kept saying to himself. His father used to laugh at the oversized straw hat he wore with his bib overalls. Passing the crossroads store. The canopy and Coca-Cola sign. The wood posts sunk in cinder block. His mother used to say, "I don't know more'n a monkey what you're talking about.”Emmerich's head was smallish, with eyes that maintained a grim distance, closely cut hair and beard. The two men squatted at angles to each other, as though delivering their remarks out into the desert."What is a book?" Emmerich said. "It's a box that you open. You know this, I think.”"What is inside the box?”"The Greek word puxos. Box-tree. This suggests wood, of course, and it's interesting that the word 'book' in English can be traced to the Middle Dutch boek, or beech, and to the Germanic boko, a beech staff on which runes were carved. What do we have? Book, box, alphabetic symbols incised in wood. The wooden ax shaft or knife handle on which was carved the owner's name in runic letters.”"Is this history?" Owen said."This is not history. This is precisely the opposite of history.An alphabet of utter stillness. We track static letters when we read. This is a logical paradox.”Bern appeared, walking once around the bin, re-entering. The bin, silo or granary. Owen would have to learn the local name. This he made his first task in new places, always."She will try to kill herself," Emmerich said. "She will starve herself. Already she's starting. Three, four days. It came to her like a sacred revelation. This is the perfect way. Starvation. Drawn-out, silent, losing the functions one by one. What is better in a place like India than starvation?”"Is this the end of it? Is there another group somewhere?”"To my knowledge this is the end of it. There are no more cells outside of this one. Maybe two or three individuals left, possibly in contact with each other, possibly not.”"Will you all die here?”"I don't think Singh will die. He will outfox it, out-talk it. Bern will die. The other two will probably die. I don't think I will die. I've learned too much about myself.”"Isn't this why people kill themselves?" Owen said."Because they've discovered who they are? I admit I've never thought of that. And you. Who are you?”"No one.”"What do you mean 'no one'?”"No one.”They squatted like Indians, close to the ground, arms draped over their knees."For a long time nothing happens," Emmerich said. "We begin to think we barely exist. People wander off, people die. Many differences appear among us. We lose purpose, suffer setbacks. There are differences in meaning, differences in words.”"She won't eat. Will she take water?”"So far she has taken it. This is to draw it out, to extend the silence. You know this. She is very doctrinaire. For such people, dying is a methodology.”"In Greece she was reluctant to talk to me.”"You aren't a member. It was only your training as an epigraphist that made you more or less welcome, your digs and travels. We saw you could be trusted. This was a quiet and scholarly and deeply intense interest. But not Bern. She didn't care. Things began to irk her in Greece. Someone stole her boots.”"What happened to the others who were with you?”"Scattered.”These bins were made of dung and earth. There were figures in the distant fields, stooped, moving. A dusty snake curved through the weeds. The one color. Formed and ordered. The high white sun."But there is still the program," Emmerich said. "Singh has found a man. We are waiting for him to approach Hawa Mandir. Let's face it, the most interesting thing we do is kill. Only a death can complete the program. You know this. It goes deep, this recognition. Beyond words.”These were not kites but sparrow hawks, he decided. No chaos, no waste."Sometimes I ask myself," Emmerich said. "What is the function of a murderer? Is he the person you go to in order to confess?”