Illinoir

He rises to his knees, kneels, in front of what used to be in front of the altar. Thinks about praying, thinks about his mother praying, thinks about his mother, not able to find anything in his room. How would she feel now, here, in this world, where there was seemingly nothing left to find? Would it drive her mad? Nothing to organize, nothing to tidy, but at the same time, nothing to lose, nothing to be lost, nothing to create any sort of chaos. Somehow, the ultimate in orderliness had been created, and here Dot was, stuck in the middle of it, without any idea.

And so he does pray, kneeling there, in the dust, in the dirt, amidst the splinters and fragments of what used to be a church. It didn’t matter, he tells himself, that the church is no longer there. If God is anywhere, then God is everywhere. If God is anywhere. Dot has his doubts. Dot has all of his doubts, and wonds if they are the only thing that remain untouched. Like cockroaches and tax collectors, his doubts (and apparently himself) are the only things to survive the apocalypse.

He stops himself there. Was this the apocalypse? Has he decided that that’s what has happened? Had the ultimate battle between good and evil transpired as foretold in revelations? Certainly, the landscape looked scarred as if by battle, but why then was he the only one around? Who had won? If it was the apocalypse, did it matter if he prayed? If it wasn’t, did it matter anyway?

No matter, he thinks. No matter at all. I will pray anyway, and if God isn’t around, then the Devil can laugh at me. It would be refreshing to hear a different voice laughing at him, so used to hearing God’s laughter was he. So used to hearing God laugh.

So he prays. Prays for knowledge, understanding, strength and willpower. All the things he had ever prayed for in his life, leaving out his usual plea for world peace as the world seemed beyond that now. Seemed beyond praying for now. Seemed, somehow, at peace now anyhow. He thinks of other things to pray for. To pray about. His family? Who knows where they are? Who knows who they are? He throws them into the mix. His friends? Where are they now? He prays for his friends, a generic prayer, let them be well, or let them be at peace, let them be whoever they happen to be. Anything else? He can’t remember, he can’t decide, decides he is done with prayer. Forever? For today, at least. Done with prayer for today.

He rises to his feet, feels enclosed by the ghost of the church. Feels enclosed for the first time since. Since when? Since what? How long has he been as such? This question haunts him. This question will haunt him. How can he have no concept of time? He always felt that as long as he was alive that there would be time left and now it feels as if there is no time left. As if time has fled the world. And he checks his pocket watch and yes, it still works, is still measuring time, but it its own master, it ticks as it will, it does not determine time. It is possibly measuring imaginary time. It is probably measuring nothing.

“Cutter is important to this story, isn’t he?” Dot asks.

“Indubitably,” Decimal replies.

“Creating the system wasn’t enough.”

“Not by a long shot. You needed — we needed — his methods of cataloging in order to create a way for people to find the books they needed.”

“We couldn’t have done that on our own?”

“We were over our heads as it was. The system was simple, but there was more work than just you and I could do. Going to outside sources helped immensely but we were so focused upon the creation of a classification that could fit all current books while being open enough to allow for future publications. The world was changing — still is changing, I hope — and there was no way for us to foresee the advances in society and technology that would create entirely new subjects needing new branches in the system. We had to be open minded, forward-thinking, prognosticators if you will.”

“That was the beauty of it,” Dot says, allowing himself a moment of pride. “Numbers are infinite. Dots make everything possible. If you have enough of them, you can do anything.”

“Exactly,” Decimal replies. “And there are always plenty of dots to go around.”

Dui spotted a Kenyan book — though he used the term loosely: it was made up of sheets of paper fashioned from leaves, bound together with hempen string — and gestured to it. “May I?” he asked.

Cutter nodded. “Of course, sir. Only, be careful. That is one of but 6 copies of that work.”

Dui gingerly pulled the book from its shelf and opened it. The writing was all in strange figures and characters that he did not recognize.

“The Kenyan people have no written language. Theirs is an oral tradition. This was created at my request in an attempt to inscribe some of their stories and myths. Only I and 3 other people who accompanied me on the expedition know the true meaning of these symbols.”

“This is incredible. You have helped a civilization to start down the path of a written language?”

Cutter shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, and no. The books were produced, but there was a faction of the population who were opposed to their creation. Violently opposed.”

Dui looked up from the book. “Oh dear.”

“Yes, indeed. The men with whom we created the book and developed the language, the women who prepared the leaves, the children who spun the string. They were all rounded up and executed. Viciously, and publicly. Two of my fellow travelers were also branded as heretics and killed as well. I was lucky to escape with my life.”

“Did the other books survive?”

“We had an original run of 10. Three, I saw destroyed with my own eyes. I, myself managed to save three of them (two of which I gave away as gifts — one to President Lincoln, the other to the King of Prussia). My fellow compatriots each have one.”

Dui did the math. “That leaves one more.”

“Yes,” Cutter said gravely. “The location of the 10th book is unknown to me. Its disappearance is a most troublesome and disturbing mystery. I have spent many years in search of this book, but all my efforts have been for naught.”

“That must be a very consuming and involving task,” Dui supposed.

“Yes, it is, indeed. Much of my finances are tied up in the reacquisition of the book. I have men searching the globe for it, looking for any indication of its location, or any evidence that it even exists. They follow every rumor, every murmur, no matter how small or far-fetched. It has cost me dearly, this quest of mine.”

“Not just in money, I would imagine.”

“You are correct,” Cutter said, his voice revealing the pain of a man who has lost a great many things dear to him. “It cost me many friends, my wife, and very nearly my sanity.”

“You say it cost you your wife?” Dui asked, confused. “But Clarise is still with you, is she not?”

“She is,” Cutter said. “Rather, she is back with me. I didn’t always let others carry out the search on my behalf. I once traveled in service to the quest myself. She hated my constant absence, my sleepless nights, my furtive meetings with shadowy agents in the darkest corners of far flung lands. She couldn’t rest knowing that I might be in danger, that she had no way of knowing whether I was safely ensconced in my hotel or out tracking down some clue purchased with blood, sweat, tears, and a considerable amount of money from some shady, unseemly ruffian who would just as soon slit my throat as he would give me the time of day.”

“How did you convince her to return to you?”

“Well, as I said, I began to hire private detectives, agents who acted as my proxies. I now have a large network of men who act as my eyes and ears, and sometimes as my hands, all across the world. Only when there is a matter that requires my personal attention or intervention do I travel now. And always, I bring Clarise. These promises were what allowed me to convince my love to return to my arms.”

“Do you not feel trapped by that? Wouldn’t you rather be searching for the book yourself?”

“I admit that there is a part of me that wishes I was still out there, still on the hunt. It was terribly exciting, never knowing where the search would take me next. Never knowing what danger lurked around the next corner.” Cutter sighed wistfully. “But no, I am an old man now. I leave that business to the younger lads. And truthfully, without my Clarise, I’m no good to anyone. I told her I would forgo looking for the book, that I would forget about its very existence, if it meant that she would come back to me.”

“But you were able to compromise,” Dui said.

“Yes. And that’s the beauty of love, true love.” Cutter smiled, his face transformed with thoughts of his wife.

“I’m surprised you came back to Boston without her.”

“Well, she understands that it is important work that you and I are doing, and that her presence might simply be a distraction. Besides, it is frightfully cold here, and the children would be devastated if they couldn’t have their winter in Florida. Yes, I miss my dear love, but we work for the greater good, and that is of the utmost importance.”

“That’s an incredibly healthy attitude, I must say.”

“Needs must when the devil drives, Dewey. If the perfection of your classification system requires that I be apart from my wife, then so be it. It is of no great import in the grand scheme of things.”

“You were right,” Dot says.
“Of course I was,” Decimal replies.
“What do you mean, of course you were?” Dot asks, incredulous. “There were so many things about which you were wrong.”
“Like what?”
“Like the dot painting shit. The dot currency experiment. The dot weaponry.” Dot enumerates the items on his fingers. He searches his memory for more examples. “I could go on.”
“All of those were your ideas,” Decimal says.
“That can’t be possible. I remember….”
“Yes? What do you remember?”
“I’m not sure. But, we were partners, weren’t we?”
“Still are partners, so it seems.”
“Yes, once and future partners, we. So the failures are shared.”
“But the success was not.”
“How can you say that? Your name is in the title of the system we developed.”
“Nobody knows who I am. You don’t know who I am. I don’t even know who I am.”
“You’re Jonathan Decimal, facilitator, synergizer, catalyst for change.”
Decimal smiles wanly. “Yes, I am those things. And those things are indeed me. But where do I go when the sun goes down?”
“Where do you go when the — what are you talking about?”
“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I’m just a figment of your imagination?”
“Now you’ve truly gone off the deep end. If you’re a figment of my imagination, then — ” Dot trails off, blinks his eyes and looks about himself wildly, for Decimal had disappeared. “Jonathan? Jonathan, where the hell did you go?”

Dui’s anger rose yet again. “I am producing nothing? Sir, our failure is a team effort. You’ve failed with me every step of the way!”

“And I couldn’t have done it without you,” Decimal said.

“There’s that famous Decimal humor I’ve missed so much. Oh, what have I done without that?” Dui rose from his chair, stalked about the room, glaring at the books. He searched for one in particular, a book on humor written by the great philosopher Franzini in 1233. Unable to find it, he grabbed a book at random and flung it in Decimal’s direction. “I don’t know what book that was, but perhaps it will aide you in becoming more helpful to me.”

The book landed at Decimal’s feet. He picked it up and read the cover. “A Treatise on the Methodology and Practice of Bipedal Amputation. I’m not sure how that is relevant.”

“I’m not either. How about this?” Dui sent another book flying at Decimal.

“Steam Engines Analyzed and Discussed. Another miss, sir.”

Dui grew angrier and angrier, began throwing random books at Decimal, overturning great stacks, sending entire shelves to the floor. Decimal made no move to stop Dui, and did not flinch as heavy volumes came close to taking off his head. During Dui’s entire tantrum, he appeared as calm as could be, as if he had been expecting this all along, as if he had been hoping for it all along. Eventually there was but one book left on the shelf and Dui stopped, breathing heavily.

“Is that the one, Melvil?” Decimal asked. “Is that the book you were looking for?”

Dui glanced at the remaining volume and shook his head. “No, I must have missed it.”

“Ah well, it is no matter. I likely wouldn’t have gotten much use out of it anyhow.”

“No I can’t imagine that you would have.”

“Feel better?”

“I suppose. I certainly seemed to have worked out my anger on these books.” The poor books; they had never done anything to hurt Dui, and here he was inflicting great peril and harm upon them. “I’m just upset that I couldn’t find what I was looking for.”

“They must not have been very well organized,” Decimal offered.

“No, I suppose they weren’t,” Dui agreed. “And now I have to clean up this mess. I’d never live this down amongst the club members.”

“Perhaps, Melvil, we could consider this a great opportunity.”

“I’m sorry? I fail to see how the task of picking up all these books could possibly be an opportunity.”

“Well, there’s nothing that says that you have to put them back the same way you found them.”

“Don’t I know it!” Decimal said. “The whole situation makes about the same amount of sense. I mean, it’s not like it hasn’t happened to me before. There was the telegraph guy, the mathematician, the blind guy, the musician, the candy maker…. Each time, each time I received a note under my door with an address and a name and I went, and though I’d never met the man before, I knew him, knew his life, and knew what needed to happen in order for him to fulfill his destiny.”

“This is more shitfuck,” Dui said quietly. He still hadn’t quite got the hang of it.

“I assure you, I am telling the truth. I have had this same conversation a dozen times and each man has had the same reaction. The same responses. The same disbelief. So, each time I have tried a different tactic. Some have worked better than others. I will make a note that mysterious and cryptic is not the right tack to take. Maybe next time I’ll figure it out.”

“Who. The. Hell. Are. You?”

“My name is Jonathan Decimal. I’m a facilitator. A synergizer. A catalyst for change in a volatile environment. I help men find their goals, achieve their aims, reach new heights. Where great men are stuck, I am there to help.”

“And you are here to help me?”

“That is correct. I am here to help you. Together, we’ll make you a great man.”

Dui still didn’t fully trust Decimal, the story was so fantastic that it defied belief, but at least the man’s intentions seemed benign. “Well then, Decimal. What exactly are we going to do? Where does my future lie?”

“I don’t know exactly, Dewey,” Decimal admitted. “But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?” Dui asked.

“It’s going to have something to do with dots.”