Far Far Away (18 page)

The night stretched long and hollow, and then—the clock had just struck twelve times—I saw something that I knew would make the villagers happy: greenish-gray smoke rising from the bakery’s tall brick chimney.

The following morning, a few minutes before six, Ginger rapped on the door of the bookstore. This was expected. What was not
expected was Conk Crinklaw’s red pickup truck parked in the street behind her, with Conk himself sitting sullenly behind the steering wheel.

“Zounds,” Ginger said, eyeing Jeremy’s shirt when he opened the bookstore. “That’s a blue you don’t see every day. Would you call it fluorescent?”

“How about calling it the only blue I had,” he said, then nodded toward the truck. “What’s Conk doing here?”

She glanced back. “Oh, him.” Her tone was merry and her breath smelled sweetly of cinnamon. “He’s our driver for the day.”

Conk cast a wooden look at them both. “No eating in the cab,” he said, then fixed his eyes on Jeremy. “And no talking to Martians, either.”

As they climbed into the truck (and I with them), Ginger said, “Martians couldn’t be any weirder than you, Conky. In fact, I’m not a hundred percent sure you aren’t one.”

He stared at her. “Well, I’m a hundred percent sure I’m about to lose a day that I’ll never get back.”

“Which is a real shame,” Ginger said, “because I know that a day in Conkopolis is a day chock-full of noble deeds and profound thinking.”

Conk shook his head and guided the truck away from the curb, but they were barely under way when Ginger pointed excitedly toward the chimney of the Green Oven Bakery. “Hey, take a look! Green smoke! We’ve got to stop! Prince Cake for the road!” She turned to Conk. “Got any money, Conky-poo?”

Conk did not say yes and did not say no. He simply kept driving. Ginger turned to stare as the truck passed the bakery. The kitchen lights were on, but the store in front was dark and the sign on the front door said
CLOSED
.

“Maybe he’ll save some for us,” Ginger said.

Conk stared forward, down Main Street. “Why would he do that?”

“Maybe because he thinks I’m a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.”

Conk gave her a quick sidelong look. “He said that?”

“Yep. Direct quote.”

Conk shook his head in disbelief and said in a low tone, “There’s something fundamentally wrong with that guy.”

A laugh burst from Ginger, and the sweet smell of cinnamon filled the cab. “Like what, Conky? Like what is fundamentally wrong with Mr. Blix?”

“Well, just for starters, he’s not from around here.”

“C’mon, Conky-poo.
Nobody
is from around here, except the Lakota.”

Conk shrugged and reached forward to turn on the radio.

As the truck approached the Twinkle Tub Laundry, Mrs. Truax could already be seen at her ironing board behind the front window. Ginger leaned past Jeremy and shouted, “Bye, Mrs. Truax!”

Mrs. Truax stared darkly in return.

In a bland voice, Conk said, “That’s one scary human being.”

Ginger grinned at him. “Scarier than the town baker?”

Conk considered it and said, “Too close to call.”

Ginger rode between the two boys and seemed not at all uneasy with the arrangement. Just the opposite, in fact. Once the truck was out on the highway, she extended an arm over the shoulder of each boy and said, “There. That’s more comfy.” Then, to Jeremy, “That shirt may be a freakish shade of blue, but it’s nice material. What is it?” She turned, pressed into him, and
folded back the collar to read a small tag stitched there. “One hundred percent cotton,” she said, finally leaning back. She smoothed her hand over the sleeve of Jeremy’s shirt and grinned at Conk, whose expression was as stone. “That’s why it’s so soft and nice to the touch, Conky,” she said. “It’s one hundred percent cotton.”

Conk drew a long, steady breath, then bent forward to look past Ginger toward Jeremy. “So I hear you talk German and about three other languages.”

“Sort of,” Jeremy said.

“Well,” Conk said, “maybe you could give us the German word for
she-wolf
.”

There seemed no real need to translate, for Ginger said, “While you’re at it, Jeremy, maybe you could give us the German for
warthog
.”

I did, and Jeremy repeated it:
“Warzenschwein.”

Jeremy and Ginger shared a small laugh over this; then she repeated the word,
“Warzenschwein,”
which set her off on another round of mirthful laughter.

Conk exhaled heavily and turned up the volume of the radio.

Many miles and minutes and fields and farms passed with the three young people talking very little while a great deal of loud, nerve-jangling music streamed from the radio. Ginger often knew the lyrics, and sang along happily, but the boys did not sing at all. As the sun rose in the sky, Conk pushed a button to lower the windows and air rushed into the truck. He was driving quite fast, and the gush of warm, summery, farm-scented air was so exhilarating that I was somewhat disappointed when we came upon a town and slowed down in order to search for a particular address on Bank Street.

“What’s there?” Jeremy asked.

Conk was incredulous. “What’s there? The TV studio is what’s there.”

“Why are we going to a TV studio?” Jeremy said.

Conk’s look of surprise moved from Jeremy to Ginger. “He doesn’t know why he’s here?”

“Why
who’s
where?” Jeremy said.

Ginger shifted slightly in her seat. For the first time all day, she seemed uneasy. “Look, Jeremy, I didn’t want you worrying about this.”

“Worrying about what?” Jeremy said.

“At this studio”—she pointed toward a building we were now approaching—“they’re doing an audition today for
Uncommon Knowledge
. That TV show where—”

“I
know
what it is,” Jeremy snapped. “But what am I doing here?”

“I told them about you—how you’re only fifteen and know a bunch of languages.”

“But I don’t!” Jeremy said, panic rising in his voice. “I just know a few words here and there.”

It took a moment to grasp the situation unfolding, but once I did, a prideful pleasure began to suffuse me.
But I speak thirteen languages, Jeremy
, I said.
I can help
.

“That would be cheating!” Jeremy blurted, and Ginger said, “What would be cheating?” and Jeremy, realizing he had just spoken out loud to me, was irrationally angry at Ginger! “I don’t want to do this!” he yelled. Then, less loudly but no less peevishly, he added, “I
told
you I don’t like surprises.”

Now it was Ginger’s turn for petulance. “You need money, Jeremy, and you can earn money on this show. Lots of money.”

Jeremy fell quiet as Conk guided the truck into a paved area filled with many other cars. An attendant in a small booth asked for two dollars, which Conk paid, but as he pulled ahead, he said, “I’d rather be shot right between the eyes than live in a town where you have to pay to park your truck.”

Ginger seemed relieved by the change of subject. “You’ve already been shot right between the eyes, metaphorically speaking,” she said.

Conk turned. “You know what? I don’t speak metafornically, or whatever it is, and the truth is, I don’t much care for those who do.”

This only enlivened Ginger’s spirits. “Uh-oh. Turbulence in Conkville! Conky, sweetie, how can I give the driver a nice big tip when he goes negative like that?”

Conk stared at her with the cold eyes of an unhappy god.

The building we were approaching was square and beige. Inside, we were directed to a large room filled with people sitting in metal chairs. The sour smell in the room, it soon became clear, was from nervous perspiration. All the people seated here appeared both anxious and miserable. Even though Ginger, Conk, and Jeremy were much younger than anyone else in the room, no one paid them any attention, and they found three chairs in the most distant corner.

There were only two doors in the room, the one through which we had entered and another one at the front of the room, painted blue, and standing closed.

After taking his seat, Conk looked around. “Man, this is worse than church. At least a church has got windows so you can at least look outside and imagine being there.”

“You said ‘at least’ twice,” Ginger said.

Conk looked at her evenly and said, “And I just might say it again.”

The three of them settled into the room’s uneasy silence. From time to time, the blue door at the front of the room opened, a large bald man came out and called a name, and the man or woman of that name walked somberly through the blue door, which quickly closed behind them.

“Cows going to slaughter,” Conk said. He turned to Jeremy. “Next time we see you, you’ll probably be shrink-wrapped and labeled extra-lean.”

Jeremy smiled a little nervously, and Ginger said, “Whereas, Conk, you’d probably go out to the meat counter as oaf loaf.”

“That’s a good one,” Conk said in a flat voice. “Oaf loaf.”

Another long silence stretched out. After a time, the woman sitting next to Conk turned to him and said, “What do you know about?”

“Not much.” He gestured toward Jeremy. “He’s the one with the weird abilities.”

The woman glanced at Jeremy but did not seem particularly interested in him. “I can name every bone in the body,” the woman said. “Also all the nerves and muscles. I can go head to toe or toe to head, either way, it don’t matter.”

Conk stared straight ahead and said, “Well, I’m sure your knowing that makes the world a better place.”

“I can also do them in alphabetical order,” the woman continued, and she began to recite them alphabetically in a tight, low voice, more to herself than to anyone else.

* * *

An hour passed, then another, and another. One by one, men and women went through the blue door; they did not come back. Finally, only a few people remained in the room. Still, after all this tedium, it was a bit of a jolt when the large bald man opened the blue door and said, “Jeremy Johnson Johnson?”

Jeremy rose and began to walk toward the blue door. Ginger and Conk followed, but at the door, the bald man said, “Which one’s Johnson?”

“I am,” Jeremy said, and the bald man looked at Conk and Ginger and said, “Sorry, prospective contestants only.”

A sensible rule, of course, but not one that applied to me.

Jeremy looked uncertainly at Ginger, who said, “It’s okay, Jeremy. We’ll wait out front.” She produced a smile. “Knock ’em dead, Jeremy Jeremy.”

This was an idiomatic expression I did not understand, but Jeremy seemed to take it as encouragement. He smiled wanly and allowed himself to be led away, the blue door closing behind us.

The room to which we were escorted was small. Two women sat at a long table, each positioned behind separate electronic devices with illuminated screens.

“Have a seat,” the bald man said, nodding toward a single
wooden chair situated opposite the women in the very center of the room.

Jeremy sat and looked around. “Where’s Milo Castle?” he asked. Milo Castle was the
höfliche
—you would say
debonaire
—master of the show who visited briefly with the contestants and then asked them the specialized questions composed by a panel of experts.

Neither of the women looked up, but the large bald man said, “Mr. Castle doesn’t come to the screenings.”

The bald man left the room. Overhead, several intensely bright lights snapped on and shone down on Jeremy, who blinked and brought up a hand to shield his eyes.

“Take a moment to adjust,” one of the women said, and the other woman leaned close to a recording device and said in a flat monotone, “Jeremy Johnson Johnson, Caucasian male, aged fifteen, claiming special knowledge in various languages.”

“Are you talking to me?” Jeremy said, squinting through the lights, and the first woman said, “We’ll start with something easy. Please say good morning in at least six languages other than English.”

This was no problem and I begin going through them one by one, with Jeremy reciting them afterward:
“Guten Morgen.” “Bonjour.” “Buenos días.”

“Hold it,” the first woman said. “Why are you pausing before each answer?”