Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(69)

And, of course, there’re his books. Halfway to Marx, Walking with Xu Xing, and the famous Rousseau’s Children, in at least a dozen languages: French, Italian, Greek, Chinese. (Or Japanese, I can’t tell. Can’t be Korean because I didn’t see those little circles.) I noticed a lot of Rousseau’s works were intermixed with various volumes of his book, as if they were buddies who got published at the same time.

At one point I thought I’d hit pay dirt when, going through the larger coffee table books, I came across the title Vanishing Cultures of Southern Africa. I thought I might, at least, get some helpful tips from the pictures. I didn’t. It turned out just to be “white man’s porn”; a lot of voluptuous, topless, or totally naked women dancing and jiggling in various indigenous ceremonies. Okay, so maybe these are culturally accurate photos, and maybe I’m projecting too much from memories of my “Colonialism and Male Sexuality” class at Penn, but Reinhardt’s the exact age to have collected National Geographic the way later generations “read” Playboy for the “articles.” And besides, the picture on the spine above the title should have been a giveaway. It showed a beaded G-string between a woman’s legs.

There was one section though, which I almost missed. It was of a young woman during a coming-of-age ceremony carrying what looked like a hybrid sword/spear. I say “hybrid” because the shaft was shorter than I’d ever seen (barely three feet), while the blade was longer (about a foot and a half). The caption underneath described the weapon as an “Iklwa,” which made me skip to the index for a closer look.

It’s a Zulu weapon, invented by a guy named Shaka, which “revolutionized Bantu warfare.” Unlike earlier throwing spears, which could be knocked away by the other side’s shield, the Iklwa was meant for “close combat.” The wielder would get right up into the face of his enemy, knock the shield away with his own, then stab the short spear’s long blade under the man’s armpit. That’s where the name comes from. The sucking sound of pulling it out of the dead man’s heart and lungs. “Iklwa.”

Gross, yes, and horrifying to think of whole armies fighting this way. But I couldn’t help being fascinated by the book’s comparison to Roman legionnaires who fought in a similar way. Different places, different ages, completely different cultures, and yet they came up with similar weapons and tactics. Is there something about how we’re wired, something universally human? That was my last fuzzy thought before I finally nodded off.

The comfortable chair, Reinhardt’s rhythmic breathing.

I didn’t know what happened until my head suddenly jerked up to a dark sky with Reinhardt coming out of the entryway bathroom. Must have been the flushing that woke me. After half a couple disoriented seconds, I realized that Reinhardt was supporting himself against the wall. I jumped up to help him but he waved me away with, “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

He clearly wasn’t. Even as I struggled to get him back onto the couch, I could see how pale his lips were. I asked if he was hungry and he nodded weakly. I remember thinking that must be a good thing. Don’t really sick people lose their appetites?

There wasn’t much, at least when it came to frozen diet meals. But I did find plenty of “secret goodies,” little packets of gummies and candies squirreled away. He must have hidden them all upstairs, like the ice cream, when I came over to catalog his food. Now they were everywhere, stuffed into drawers and cabinets all over the kitchen. It actually gave me a little bit of sympathy to see all those caches. I’d hid more than a few Twix bites from Mom.

Shame.

I didn’t feel too sorry for him though, not when I asked if there was anything he could and couldn’t eat in his condition. I got a feeble, “Anything is fine, I guess.”

You guess? Aren’t you supposed to know if you have a heart condition? Lord knows his library isn’t much help.

Hey, Flaubert, what can’t a heart attack victim eat?

I settled on his second to last packet of insta-waffle. The kind you eat from a cup. Just add water, stir, and nuke. I tried not to keep reflexively checking the windows, or note that there were no kitchen knives to be seen. The man has probably never cooked anything in his life, or has had people do it for him.

Amazing how your perception of a space can change so quickly. If I’d been invited into Reinhardt’s kitchen two weeks ago, I might have just thought about the décor (or lack thereof). Then, when I came in with Dan a few days ago, all I could think about was what there was to eat. Now all I could think about was what I could use to defend myself. Same room, different priorities.

The microwave chirped and I stuck a spoon in the expanded, muffin-looking thing. Reinhardt was sitting up now and swallowing with obvious delight. “No sugar?” I told him it looked like it already had plenty but his “aw, c’mon” shrug sent me back to the kitchen. “Some salt too…” I heard him call from the living room (with what sounded like a full mouth) and then, after probably realizing his tone, he added, “Please?”

I grabbed the salt shaker off the counter, the box of white sugar from the pantry, and returned to discover that he’d practically finished.

The world-famous scholar looked up at me like a ten-year-old boy. “Couldn’t wait.”

Something rattled. I jumped and spun. My eyes flicked to the source of the noise. It was the kitchen door, the cracked glass rattling in its fixture.