The Shadow Knows Read online



  The Shadow Knows

  A Novel

  KENNETH ROSEN

  The Shadow Knows

  Kenneth Rosen

  Copyright Kenneth Rosen 2010

  While memory, however verifiable or unreliable it may have been, has played a role in this current endeavor, this is first and foremost a work of the imagination.

  For Roz—

  and for Mr. Ma Shiyi

  Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

  The Shadow knows.

  *Cambridge*

  He had done work for them before, when he was very young and then again, twice, when he was not so young, so the offer was not a complete surprise when it finally arrived. It was brought to him by one of his students as he relaxed one evening in the Free Press, a dark and pleasant neighborhood pub he’d found only a few days after settling into their Cambridge house. They had come to England for a year to break the monotony of their stateside routines, to see a little of the country they had so assiduously avoided until now as being too similar to their own, and he was thinking rather vaguely about the half dozen lectures he was to give during the coming year when the young man – whose name he could not immediately recall and whose features he remembered only in a general way from his initial meeting with his seminar the previous week – suddenly appeared at his side.

  “My apologies for the interruption, sir, but a gentleman was in earlier and asked me to give you this envelope when next you came by.”

  “Thank you -- sorry, I’ve forgotten your name -- but won’t you sit down and have a pint?”

  “Love to, but I’m due elsewhere in a few minutes, sir. Perhaps another time, if that suits? Cheers.”

  As he watched the retreating back some of the old habits began to dispel the evening’s mood of relaxed rumination. A gentleman -- what gentleman? When next I came by -- who’s interested enough to know I come here at all? Due elsewhere -- perhaps another time -- anything in any of that? He was tall, about six one or two, blue eyes, dark hair, full lower lip with small scar on chin, walked with an athlete’s pigeon-toed roll, well spoken -- the name Colin McCabe appears in the mind’s eye as the seminar attendance sheet fades. Enough. Probably just a nice King’s College chap who happens to frequent the same pub as one of his visiting professors.

  As he opened the envelope he noted how good he felt, how alert and focused his mind seemed to have become from just this simple break in the daily round of his life. The envelope was plain, unmarked, the kind available in any inexpensive stationery store. The letter itself was typed on plain white paper, no letterhead and no concluding signature. He noted the details and his initial instinct was that the document was genuine, a legitimate offer of employment which would, if accepted, change his world precipitously. He re-read the letter slowly after glancing again at his name on the envelope, typed as neatly and precisely as the letter itself.

  “Your previous part-time work for us on the Panamanian, Greek, and Chinese projects has been reviewed in detail. A permanent position with the same general responsibilities has recently become vacant and this is to inform you that the position is yours if you want it. Information concerning salary, employee benefit package (including, but not limited to, retirement, Blue Cross/Blue Shield, major medical and dental, with full participation and opportunities for all dependents), and specific responsibilities of the position may be obtained by telephoning the following number and identifying yourself to the switchboard operator who answers: 07-1-NEW YORK PRIVATE NET 33-212-8400. Please respond within ten days of this letter.”

  He finished his beer and settled back on the bench, thinking that the opportunity to make such a decision probably could not have come at a better time. He was, he knew, currently passing through those middle years of restlessness and reorganization so much in vogue as the subject of discussion these days, but he was more concerned with the fact that lately he had begun to feel that he was, in small ways, beginning to confuse reality and fantasy, truth and lies, what he actually did do in the past and what he fantasized or imagined he had done. His profession allowed him the luxury of reflection and contemplation, but in recent years he’d begun to wonder if such time for rumination was such an unalloyed benefit of his work. He found himself, as someone committed to the life of the mind, wondering about the ambiguous nature of such a life. With time to reflect on the past came an increasing realization of the elusiveness of whatever he defined as truth. Thinking back on those events of his earlier years was both pleasurable and disturbing; he could savor the unqualified successes, but the blurring of the line between fact and fiction, between reality and the imagination, led to questions he was having trouble answering these days.

  The letter seemed to trigger the need to order his thoughts, to deal with those questions that had even, of late, begun to disturb his sleep. Is it murder if you change yourself, make yourself over, deny or disguise your past? Is a life of the mind incompatible, in any profound way, with a life of action; can one live the examined life and the active life simultaneously, keeping the debilitating effects of any moral ambiguity to a minimum?

  He smiled inwardly at his thoughts. Give an American a single pint of real British beer and he’ll -- he’ll what? Bore you to tears with his newly fueled erudition? Perhaps, but sometimes what is real and what is not is of value and what is worthless can only be determined by concentrating on the details, the minutiae -- to look for the larger picture, the overall meaningful plan, is often to look in vain. Sometimes you’re better off settling for the small.

  “Half pint of bitter, please.”

  “Half of bitter it is, sir. Cheers.”