"BR-R-R-R-R-INNGG!"

A bad dream, obviously. Surely no one would be so barbaric as to phone me at this ungodly hour.

"BR-R-R-R-R-INNGG!"

Let the answering machine handle it. It was set to pick up after two rings.

"BR-R-R-R-R-INNGG!"

Shit! I forgot that I'd taken the damn answering machine apart, trying to fix a design flaw. It seems that the manufacturer hadn't recognized the need to greet different callers differently, depending upon when they were phoning. For instance, my usual polite message was:

I know this is a bummer
But we're out or fast asleep
So leave your name and number
When you hear the bell tone beep.

This was sung to the tune of "When Irish Eyes are Smiling". But this same message greeted everyone, even jackasses who phoned me in the middle of the night. Like this one.

"BR-R-R-R-R-INNGG!"

I groaned at the horrible thought of having to wake up enough to answer this moron. Maybe he would give up?

"BR-R-R-R-R-INNGG!"

Of course not.

"BR-R-R-R-R-INNGG!"

I groped blindly at my bedside table, trying to pick up my phone. I grabbed it and put the mouthpiece in front of my face, spilling a glass of water off the table in the process.

"Fuck off!" I grunted, before slamming the receiver back onto its rest. Two seconds later I was unconscious again, hoping that I hadn't been too subtle in my instructions to the caller. Three seconds later, this futile hope was dashed.

"BR-R-R-R-R-INNGG!"

Grope. Grab. Phone to face.

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "What part of `Fuck off' did you not understand? Was it the `fuck' or the--"

"Colin? Is that you? It's me, Jim. Jim McGuire."

"Jim? Jesus, what time is it?"

"Six thirty. Sorry to phone you so early but--"

"Six thirty?" I echoed. "A.M.?"

"Yeah," came the answer.

"What day is it?"

"Saturday," the caller replied.

Hell, I didn't know Saturday's had a 6:30 A.M.

"Colin," the caller continued, "I need you to do me a favour. A big favour."

"Bigger than getting up at 6:30 A.M. on a Saturday morning?" I asked.

"Much. I need you to come to the house. Right now."

"I'm asleep right now."

And, apparently, having a nightmare about sleep deprivation torture.

"Colin, please, wake up. I need you. Here. Today. As soon as you can get here."

"Jim? McGuire?"

"Yeah. Me. Jim McGuire. You gotta get here as fast as you can."

"Are you still living in..."

Where the hell did he live again?

"Gopher Brook. Yes."

"Shit, Jim, that's eight hours from here."

"Not the way you drive, Ward. Six, seven max. Please, can you make it?"

"Yeah, sure, Jim. No problem."

"Thanks," Jim sighed emphatically. "Thanks a bunch. See ya soon."

I put the phone down and rolled over in bed to explain things to "the boss".

"Who was that?" my wife demanded.

"Do you remember me telling you about Jim McGuire?"

"No. Who's he?"

"Just an old friend."

"What does he want?"

"I gotta go see him. Sounds like he's in some kind of trouble. I'll tell you all about it when I get back."

Rising reluctantly from the bed, I reached down to discover that my clothes had been drenched by spilt water. Cursing under my breath, I picked out a change of clothes from the closet, dressed, kissed my wife good-bye, grabbed my address book and headed for the door.

"I'll phone you," I promised over my shoulder as I left the house. With luck, I might even remember to keep the promise. In this case it was unlikely to matter; she had already gone back to sleep.

As I sped down the highway, keeping one eye out for the police, memories of Jim and his grandfather flittered through my mind. Jim and I had met in college. He was studying journalism, I was a languages major. We roomed on the same dormitory floor.

I always knew there was something different about Jim. It wasn't that he would attract attention with outlandish behaviour or anything. Quite the opposite. In a collegiate world where all of us kids were desperately trying to attract attention Jim sought to avoid notice. All of us were trying to excel at something: studies, partying, games, whatever. Myself, I was a games player. Bridge, chess, poker. With varying degrees of success, I was trying to be the best player around. Others were busy trying to make the Dean's list. Many would have been happy just to be considered the biggest drinker on campus. The biggest man on campus. The biggest idiot on campus.

But not Jim. Jim always strove for average. Any mark higher or lower than a "C" worried him, causing him to adjust his effort accordingly. A "D" would send him scurrying to his books, a "B" would inspire an all-night drunk before the next test. At a party he would drink just enough to blend in, not enough to make a fool of himself.

Paradoxically, it was the fact that Jim was trying so desperately to avoid notice that caught my eye. It raised my suspicions. I knew why the rest of us were trying to prove that we were so extraordinary. We were trying to deny the simple fact that we were ordinary. Prosaic. Common. Yes, boring. Jim's prodigious efforts to demonstrate that he was ordinary succeeded only in convincing me that he was a very unusual guy.

This suspicion was confirmed when I met his grandfather. Meeting "Grandpa McGuire" also served to convince me that Jim had come by his peculiarity naturally. I had never met anyone like Jason McGuire before and haven't met anyone similar since. I still remember the meeting. It was the fall of 1971. The students were organizing an anti-war protest against the conflict in Viet Nam.

The situation in Viet Nam, as seen through the eyes of the assembled pacifists, was simple. Viet Nam was two countries then: the free-market South and the communist North. South Viet Nam had been taken over by some tin-pot dictator after some rigged elections. The South Vietnamese people revolted. Buddhist monks set fire to themselves in protest. Students took to the streets in protest. A number of countries sent soldiers to prop up this brute, thinking that this was a struggle for democracy. When it became clear that it was, in fact, a fight to support a warlord against his own people, all of these countries pulled their troops out. Except the U.S., of course. The United States had a lot of sweatshops in South Viet Nam. Besides, the American authorities were happy fighting against communism and didn't seem to care what they were fighting for. At least, that's how things were at first. By the late 1960's, however, polls showed that people in the States had changed their minds about the involvement. But, while they were now in agreement with every government in the world other than their own, the task of convincing the U.S. government to withdraw remained.

As one pundit said, "If you can imagine the Chinese government calling in U.S. troops to put down the student protests in Tianamen Square then you've got the Viet Nam war in a nutshell."

"Wars are started by idealists, waged by cynics and ended by pragmatists," Jason McGuire would explain later. As the students and Buddhist monks were martyred, far less humane organizers came to the fore: communists, nationalists and North Vietnamese regulars. Obscene atrocities were committed by both sides. A year after our demonstration, diplomats stepped forward to negotiate a settlement which would save face for the evacuating American side.

All of which brings us to our anti-war protest in 1971. We were gathered in the Student Union office, painting signs reading "Hell, no, I won't go!", "Yankee come home" and the like. I looked across and saw Jimbo finishing the lettering on his sign.

"Marching for a lasting piece!" it read. When we tried to correct his spelling he told us that we could march for what we wanted; he would be marching for what he wanted. I laughed myself hoarse until I became aware of Jim staring in horror over my shoulder and blushing deep crimson. I turned around to see a tall, distinguished old man, staring reproachfully back at Jim. The man was in his late fifties. Back then, that was considered "old". Nowadays, of course, we have sex symbols older than that.

It was an awkward scene. The two men exchanged words, but I couldn't understand what language they were speaking. Jim snapped up his sign and left. He missed the rally. In fact, I didn't see him for days.

The old man was crestfallen. I stood up, turned around and introduced myself.

"I apologize for my grandson," the old one spoke. "I don't think he understands what you're trying to do here."

"You're his grandfather?"

The man nodded glumly. Apparently, my timing had been bad. As a grandfather this was not his proudest moment. Nevertheless, he introduced himself as Jason McGuire, explaining that he had come to speak at our rally.

"Excellent!" I shouted, happy to have to chance to talk personally with one of the speakers. Shamelessly, I cornered the old man and started asking about his speech, the peace movement, everything. Jason McGuire answered all of my questions except when I asked him what language he had been speaking with Jim. Then he became very evasive, saying only that it was the language of his people. Considering my major, I was very disappointed with this rebuke.

The march ended in front of one of the government buildings downtown. Then the speakers took the podium. We had invited two of the Chicago Seven. Both had declined. It didn't matter. Grandpa McGuire was like a Chicago Thousand. First he waited until all the cheering and chanting died down. No, he didn't raise his arms or do anything else to command the crowds attention. He just waited. When all was quiet, he started.

"I had a student called Bobby Spencer," he began. "He and his family moved to Texas the year after he graduated. I kept in touch with them over the years. Bobby was a good kid. Bright. He looked a little like you," the old man observed, pointing to a student in the crowd.

"Or maybe a little like you," he added, pointing to a different student.

"Maybe a little like you," he continued, pointing to a third young man in the throng. It may be worth noting that the first student was Asian, the second was Caucasian and the third was of African descent.

"I really can't remember," he explained. "At my age the memory plays tricks. Anyway, a year ago Bobby told his parents that he wanted to enlist. They advised him against it. Begged him to reconsider. He refused. They asked him to at least wait until after college. But the boy was worried that the struggle might end before that. Said he didn't want to miss out.

"Bobby was a good boy. A good son. Had his parents refused to let him go he would have stayed here. But they didn't. Bobby enlisted. Went through boot camp. But it wasn't until he was over there for a few months that his attitude changed. His letters home didn't talk about adventure anymore. No more glory. No more politics. He just wanted to come home.

"Bobby got his wish last week. They sent him back. I just came from the funeral. The family was all gathered around. Friends. Everyone was talking about what a great kid Bobby had been. They all told stories about him. But it wasn't until everything was over that one of the cousins came up to Bobby's parents and asked them the question that was on a lot of people's minds. How could they have let him go?

"I remember Bobby's mother. Wonderful woman. She looked back at her cousin. Spoke very softly. Said that she could never have said no. Said that Bobby's journey was his own.

"Not everyone there understood. I hope you people will understand. And someday, I hope our leaders will."

At this point everyone in the crowd was crying. I even saw some misty-eyed media people. Hell, these guys used to spend all day sifting through clips of children having their skin burned off by napalm. Wouldn't even flinch. But this old man, standing alone on a platform, had pierced that armour. The rest of us felt like we'd lost our best friend. Then the old guy stepped off the stage to let the next speaker on. No one cheered. No one clapped. Nothing. It wasn't until our eyes cleared that we even knew that he was gone.

I tracked him down before he could leave and spent the rest of the day listening to him. I wouldn't flatter myself by saying that I knew him, but I would say that I'll never forget him. I'd also say that I learned more that one day with Jason McGuire than all the years I spent in college.

Things changed between Jim and I after that day. I kept badgering him about the language that he spoke with his grandfather. I even tried to drag him down to the linguistics department to make some tapes. He kept refusing until I promised to arrange a date for him with a girl I knew. Sarah Flint. Jim had a thing about Sarah from the first time he saw her. Maybe that was what we had in common, Jim and I. We were both obsessive. I was determined to learn about this language he called "LOOP". He was resolved to get to know Sarah.

Jim was a lot more successful than I in our respective pursuits. The LOOP tapes we made couldn't help us track down the language. We sent it to linguistic experts at universities all over the world. Some guy in Australia found a couple of similarities with certain aboriginal dialects, but nothing that couldn't be explained away as coincidence. Another authority, this one in Bombay, pointed out some vague parallels with ancient Sanskrit. But, again, there were no fundamental or systemic similarities. My own professor shrugged her shoulders. The only thing she could say was that this was a very old and sophisticated language-- conceivably the oldest and most complex language spoken by humankind. The notion that this might have been a variation of the language that our cave- dwelling ancestors spoke has fascinated me ever since.

Jim, meanwhile, went out with Sarah for almost a decade. In fact, the last time I saw him was at their wedding, ten years ago. Since then, we've done nothing more than exchange Christmas cards except for phone call from him when his grandfather died. That was when I learned about the divorce.

Jim and I were both right about the length of my trip. It took me exactly six hours to reach Gopher Brook. Two hours later, though, I still had not found proper directions to his house. Everyone I met steered me in a different direction. Everyone I asked responded with a question of their own. Why did I want to know? Some even asked me what I did for a living! What difference did that make?

My address book didn't help. It didn't record his phone number and Gladen Drive was not on either of the local maps I bought. I checked out the white pages but Jim's number was unlisted. My frustration grew. In the end, I broke down and used my phone card to call home.

"Honey? It's me."

"Colin? Where are you?"

"I'm in Bug Fucking Tussel!" I shouted, still exasperated by the runaround. I calmed down and apologized before continuing.

"Listen, I need you to reach into our telephone directory. You know, that white plastic thing that pops up? Yeah, set it to the `M's and open it up. Got it? Good. Now, can you give me Jim McGuire's number?"

"Colin? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay. Just a little lost, that's all."

"This isn't one of those mid-life crisis things, is it?"

"Hell, no, I just need that phone number."

She gave me the number. I wrote it down, thanked her profusely and promised to be home as soon as possible.

"Jim? It's me, Colin. I'm in town but I can't get decent directions to your place. Seems the locals are giving me the runaround."

"Oh, yeah. Seek not," Jim giggled. "Sorry, Col. I guess I should've told you before you left."

Jim told me how to get to his place. Fifteen minutes later I was there.

"Have a nice trip?" he chuckled as he opened the door.

The sight of him staggered me. This wasn't Jim; it was his ghost.

"Jesus, McGuire, you look like death warmed over! You don't need me, you need a fucking ambulance! What? Did you confuse my number with 911?"

"I'm okay...really, I'm okay. Come on in."

As I walked in the door Jim took my coat, sat me down on the couch in his living room and got me a coke from the refrigerator.

"You remembered!"

"Yeah," he said. "You don't drink."

"So, uh, Jim, what's the emergency?"

"I want you to write a book."

"What kind of book?"

"Fiction."

"Fiction? Me?"

"Yeah, you. You're a writer, aren't you?"

"A fiction writer? Jim, I wrote a few bridge articles and a chess column for a couple of years. That's it. I'm no Timothy Findlay."

"Don't worry. You can do it."

"So what's the rush? I mean, you phoned me up in the middle of the night--"

"--six thirty A.M.--" he interjected.

"--the middle of the night," I reiterated, "to write a story?"

"Exactly."

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

"This isn't revenge for introducing you to Sarah, is it?"

"Hell, no!" chuckled Jim. "But it's odd that you should mention Sarah. She and Margaret were here last weekend, en route back East."

"A reconciliation, maybe?"

Jim shook his head. He sighed and mumbled something about "dastakada". Later, I looked up the word. It meant "wonders unexplored, like gifts left unopened".

"Brother Robert came by last week," he said, changing the subject. "We talked. It went better than I thought it would."

"Who is he?"

"He's a seminary student. Well, graduate, now."

"Uh, Jimbo, about this book. Why me?"

"You'll see. You'll see. Can we get started?"

"Alright," I sighed, resigned to my fate.

Jim brought out a tape recorder and a stack of blank tapes. He plugged the machine in, inserted a tape and pressed record.

"Here you are again," he remarked, "taping me again."

With that he began telling me the entire story: how he'd been contacted, everything he'd been told and all about life with his grandfather. Indeed, he told me everything that I have related so far. He answered all of my questions. The session lasted until midnight. Then, with an air of finality, he produced a folder filled with loose leaf pages.

"I've written the final chapter myself," he told me.

"Good! That'll make my job a little easier."

Jim smiled. As I opened the folder and read the handwritten pages his smile widened to a huge coprophagic grin.

"LOOP?" I screamed. "You wrote the last chapter in LOOP?"

"Couldn't resist," he giggled, producing the LOOP grammar book and dictionary from beneath the coffee table. "I know how fascinated you were by the language. And you always were a cunning linguist."

I ignored his attempt at humour.

"You expect me to translate this stuff into English?"

Jim nodded.

It was revenge. I had guessed the wrong crime. Jim was extracting vengeance for my hounding him about LOOP.

"And what will you be doing while I'm deciphering this shit?"

"Sleeping."

Before I could object, Jim rose and handed me an envelope.

"When you get finished, read these instructions. Okay?"

"Sure."

"And promise me you'll follow them. To the letter. Promise?"

"Yeah, sure. What's this all about?"

"You'll see. Now, if you'll excuse me, I better be getting to bed now."

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

"You still don't look so good. How are you feeling?"

"Bre sakagata," he mumbled. Then he turned around and disappeared into his bedroom.

The folder could wait. First I looked up what "bre sakagata" meant. The first word, "bre", was easy. It meant "like", as in the beginning of a metaphor. "Sakagata" was tougher. The root word, "saka", meant water. "Sakaga", the passive voice, referred to still water. Of course, "sakakoi" would allude to rushing or running water. But what was that "ta" at the end of "sakagata" all about? The dictionary was no help. I switched over to the grammar book. Fifteen minutes later I got the idea of looking up the word "bre" in the dictionary again. The small printing below the definition said "introduces the metaphoric case". Back to the grammar tome. Look up the metaphoric case. Sure enough, this was identified by the addition of a "ta" to the base word. And what did "still water" in the metaphoric case mean? Unfortunately, these were not listed anywhere. My best guess, from all that I could dig up, is that "bre sakagata" meant "like water in a valley".

Of course, it made no sense to me. What was even more discouraging was the fact that two words had taken me twenty minutes to translate and I still wasn't sure of the precise meaning.

I opened the folder.

"Jesus," I thought, "six pages of this!"

My wife phoned twice as I ploughed through the translation. The first time she asked if I was going to be starting home soon. I said yes. It was a lie.

The second call came eight hours later. She demanded to know what I was doing. I told her.

"At the drop of a hat you drive hundreds of miles to translate a story from some wacko language into English? This, for a friend you say should be in an emergency ward."

"Yes."

"Colin, have you lost your mind?"

"No," I replied.

Another lie.

On to Chapter 20
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