The Names

This time it was Owen who interrupted, breaking off the narrative to reach down for the booklet I'd left propped against the copper tray, the primer on Kharoshthi. He returned it to its place in the tray. Gradations of brown and gray. Light retreating toward the far wall. A certain number of objects, a certain placing. He sat looking into his hands."What does Singh mean by 'the world'?" I said."Everything, everybody, whatever is said or can be said. Although not these exactly. The thing that encompasses these. Maybe that's it.”"What happened next?”"I'm tired, James.”"Try to go on.”"It's important to get it right, to tell it correctly. Being precise is all that's left. But I don't think I can manage it now.”"You were with them. Did you learn their name?”He looked up."This knowledge has managed to elude me, although I tried my damnedest to pry it out of them, wheedle it out by whatever means. Even after Singh told me I was a member, he wouldn't tell me the name of the cult.”"He was taunting.”"Yes, he began to seek me out to amuse himself, fortify himself. I was their strength in an odd way and also their observer and tacit critic, the first they'd ever had, which was another indication they were near the end.”I told Owen about the time I'd spent in the Mani, my meeting with Andahl. I told him about the massive rock on which two words had been painted, then tarred over. Andahl had painted the words, I said. It was his way of breaking clear. I told Owen I thought these words were the cult's name."What words were they?”"Ta Onómata.”Looking at me with curious wonder. "Damn it. Damn it, James." Beginning to laugh. "You may be right. I think you could be right. It makes an eerie kind of sense, doesn't it? The Names.”"I've been consistently right about the cult. Andahl, the name, the pattern. And I found them almost as soon as I entered the Mani, although I didn't know it at first. It scares hell out of me, Owen. My life is going by and I can't get a grip on it. It eludes me, it defeats me. My family is on the other side of the world. Nothing adds up. The cult is the only thing I seem to connect with. It's the only thing I've been right about.”"Are you a serious man?”The question stopped me cold. I told him I didn't understand what he meant."I'm not a serious man," he said. "If you wanted to compose a mighty Homeric text on my life and fortunes, I might suggest a suitable first line. 'This is the story of a man who was not serious.' “"You're the most serious man I know.”He laughed at me and made a gesture of dismissal. But I wasn't ready to let it go just yet."What do you mean then? Do you think I'm not serious because I've written insignificant things, miscellaneous things, because I work for a sprawling corporation?”"You know that's not what I mean.”"It's important for me to have an ordinary job. Paperwork. A desk and daily tasks. In my curious way I try to cling to people and to work. I try to assert a basic right or need.”"Of course," he said. "I didn't mean the question as a challenge. I'm sorry. Forgive me, James.”We fell into a silence."Do you realize what we're doing?" I said finally. "We're submerging your narrative in commentary. We're spending more time on the interruptions than on the story.”He poured water from the jug."I feel like someone in that mob of yours," I told him. "The mob that grows impatient with the professional teller of tales. Let's go on with it. Where are the people in the story?”"It gets harder as we approach the end. I want to delay. I don't want to get on with it at all.”"Show us their faces, tell us what they said.”