Mysteries of Motion by Hortense Calisher

bedroom has a vast window, from which I can see the dish antennae that dot the Cape, giving its outline an extra blur of puzzlement. There is a pair of binoculars on the windowsill. But I have no further urge to enumerate surfaces or distinguish them. My mind has taken on the mnemonic position. From that moon-flat perspective I can see how foolish my last remark to Veronica was. Which will weigh more, the future or the past? Nothing will weigh the same from now on, certainly not time. Down here a duration, out there would it be more of a distance? As the human faces around one flattened or curved with speed, how would one make contact with the minds behind them? Based in bodies constantly bombarded, would the minds sharpen or drift? Or cling to performance, as the best grip on the moment-at-hand?
    This is exploration a priori. Of the first things. Into elements we are not adapted to. We are going backward, into anti-civilization. With everything of course mechanically provided for. Who can know what selves we will find?
    Good-bye Amerigo, Eric the Red—who merely knew what they were looking for.
    I passed an air-cooled hand over the pane, as if clearing a windshield that was clouding up. Good-bye my own, my native land, body, foot.
    On the desk behind me a tape recorder was provided. I had been encouraged to use it. I pressed the button for tape. The slow hiss came on.
    “I should have kissed the ground,” Gilpin said.

MULENBERG’S INTERVAL
    O N THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WALL a big man lies calmly face upward on the motel’s fine mohair bedspread, fully dressed even to his shoes. This indicates what he is in the main: a hotel traveler, first by trade, but in recent years from need—psychological, for he is very rich—and by now, from personality. Two of his residences, unlived in for years, are finally up for sale. We report on them from the real estate firm’s brochure—and on him.
Outstanding Private Retreat within Routt Nat’l Forest [which is in Colorado] some miles north of Steamboat Springs. Secluded in magnificent hidden mountain valley, 160-acre ranch in a setting of spruce, aspen, pines, lush grass and wildflowers crossed by trout-filled Reed Creek flowing through beaver ponds to lake. In this awe-inspiring forest setting comforts are twentieth-century. Beside picturesque pond, outstanding architect-built 10-room residence with huge glass areas, heated swimming pool, caretaker and guest houses, 2 original cabins and homestead, with professionally developed nurseries, plus stable and complement of maintenance buildings. Offered furnished and equipped at $1,750,000.
    The price is intentionally low. He’d held onto the homestead for his great-grandfather’s sake, the nurseries for his father’s, until sure that his heirs were no longer any more interested than he in those fragile interviews one holds with the dead.
    The second ad reads:
Chance of a Lifetime: 4920-cattle ranch in Oklahoma Panhandle. I-deal cow/calf operation for one man or family. Strong grasses, healthy climate. Cross-fenced into four pastures. Two good sets of working pens. Well watered with 10 windmills and 3 electric pumps. Good fall hunting with dove, quail, prairie chickens. The bonus on this ranch is a $500,000 Grecian mansion: fully carpeted, seven chandeliers, 4-car garage, central heating and cooling, large porch on three sides, enclosed atrium garden. Formerly used as retreat for corporate executives. Outbuildings for domestic and other help, offices or storage. This unique package ready to go at $2,000,000.
    Ditto on the low price. Bought for him as a corporate necessity and in place of some holding-company stock, the house wasn’t Grecian, the acres no longer a real panhandle. A prairie chicken might be good to eat but was a laugh to hunt. Quail there were not. He wouldn’t shoot dove. Windmills anywhere were a pleasure, but Oklahoma was not Colorado. All of which he’d known at point of purchase. Far as he knows, they were right