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R.A. Stewart
October 4th, 2017, 11:05 AM
It being October, perhaps a cozy little story with a frisson of strangeness will be in order.



A Place Off Lake Shore Drive


Part 1

The Cliff Dwellers! Really? Why, congratulations, that’s quite an honor. –Well, that would be most kind of you, of course. But don’t be hasty with something like that. Even if there is not a requirement that you be a member for some length of time, I don’t think it would be considered polite to invite someone else right away. I do thank you for thinking of it, I’m most gratified; keep the thought in mind for a year or two, would be my suggestion. Yes, I did once ask about joining, when I was young and knew no better; they were in their old quarters then, over Orchestra Hall; many years ago. I was politely told that a member would have to invite me—as obviously you know. Small chance of that, back then, and after that I put the notion out of my mind. Imagine belonging to a club of all things, anyway, in the 1970s.

And yet, before too many months had passed, fortune took one of those odd turns.

About the time I made my naïve overture to the Cliff Dwellers, the fancy took me to go to graduate school. I told you once about the two professors I fell in with, and the very odd Ph.D. program they cobbled together for me. More than once I reflected on my prospects with such a strange degree and wondered if I’d gone insane. But as things have turned out, I’ve had no cause for complaint. As they assured me. One of them smoked a pipe, with a peculiar acrid tobacco—I can still remember the white tins stacked on a shelf behind his desk—that I’m told is no longer made. I wonder what he smokes now, if he … ah, but I digress.

There were books I needed for my research that couldn’t always be found in libraries, even the great old collections. I found that one particular used-book store seemed, somehow, to have the things I needed, sometimes before I knew I would need them. “The Alkahest” it was called. Long gone, long gone, like so many other things. I don’t know who owned it, exactly; there were three or four people who seemed to take turns minding the place. A man a little older than I, with wire-rimmed glasses, extravagant bell-bottoms, and a great bushy beard; a gaunt middle-aged man who always wore black; those I remember; and a woman who must have been sixty or seventy, who wore long dark dresses and called me “Professor”; for some reason I thought of her as French, though if she had an accent it was not much of one. Might have been from Minnesota, for all I know. But to her I owe … well, this story, for one thing.


To be continued ...

R.A. Stewart
October 5th, 2017, 04:55 PM
Part 2

It was she who approached me one afternoon with a question. “Professor,” she asked, “would you be at all interested in a … well, an association of sorts—a club, you might call it?”

“A club?” I asked. “It would depend on what sort, I suppose.”

“It’s … difficult to know how to describe it. One might think of the Cliff Dwellers.” (I was taken aback at this, you may imagine.) “But more … specialized, you might say. More private.”

“Well,” I said, “I do appreciate your thinking of me. But I’m just a graduate student, as you know, and I hardly have money for dues.”

“We have no dues,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “And professional and social standing, all matters of that sort, are quite beside the point. We gather because we share certain interests, certain outlooks and approaches to life, one might say. We certainly have our traditions, but I think you would find us refreshingly informal. So would you be interested? You would? Excellent. Join us for dinner. Come to the store around six; I’ll take you.”

No, I’ve never mentioned any of this. “Private” she called it—that was an understatement. I’m bending the rules, harmlessly in your case, by revealing the club’s existence. To speak its name would be another matter altogether.

Well, at six I was at the store. The lady locked up (early for them), and we walked about a mile to Lake Shore Drive. A little south of Division she led me around a corner, opened a door set back so that one might well miss it hurrying by, and—you’re curious! But I’m confident you could search that neighborhood day and night for a year and never find the place. It’s strange that way.

Suffice it to say I was introduced, over a good dinner, to about a dozen men and women of profound, if peculiar, learning; we talked about my studies and other matters; and I know not how the decision was made, but by evening’s end I was one of their number.

The museum hired me soon afterward—my professors were right; it was, in fact, precisely the esoteric bent of my studies that got me the post. The club never became a second home, as it did for some—the museum has been that, over all these decades. But for many years, two or three times a week after work, I’d walk up the Drive for dinner or drinks, to linger in conversation—very singular conversations they were sometimes—with whoever else might be there; or just to spend the evening in the library. You’ve seen our library at the museum. Imagine a collection to which our most esoteric rarities would be an easy prelude. I’ve never seen the like of that library and am sure I never will.



To be concluded ...

R.A. Stewart
October 6th, 2017, 02:22 PM
Part 3

Yes, that remarkable place was part of my life for many, many happy years. Here is how it ended:

There was another peculiar feature of this club: a warren of rooms another flight up, monastic little rooms one could engage to sleep in for so much per night. One or two very old gentlemen—the oldest members were all men—seemed to retire up those stairs every night that I was there; I suppose that may have been all the home they had. But I was never up there but once. One night in late October—much like tonight—I had stayed later than usual, or the weather was raw, or I was just depressed at the prospect of a long train ride to my own shabby neighborhood—for whatever reason, I beckoned over the waiter and said, “Mr. Hend—” –but I suppose he ought to remain anonymous too—“I wonder if a room is available tonight?”

I thought he looked a little askance, but he said, cordially enough, “A room is almost always available, sir. Just tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll show you up.”

Well, I was ready then. I finished my drink and settled up for that and for the room, and followed him up the stairs, through a warren of corridors, to a room hardly bigger than that cubicle you work in. A bed, a dresser, a window—I could see a light blinking out on the lake, at the end of a breakwater—little more, but all clean and comfortable enough. Some necessities were provided, and I was soon asleep.

Presently I awoke to find that the club’s excellent ale, over which I’d lingered, was taking its natural course. The bathroom down the hall had a dim light over the door, but otherwise the darkness was complete; I made a wrong turn or two getting back to bed.

Later I awoke again, imagining I’d felt some movement. Sitting up, I saw a shape in the bed beside me. In the window’s dim glow it seemed to be an elderly man, fast asleep on his back. But should there be light on this cloudy night? I looked, and instead of the sky over Lake Michigan saw the lights of a nearby building. Confused in the dark, I’d entered the wrong room.

Mortified, I would have apologized and left, but I hated to waken the man. I must slip away and make my excuses later. This was not easy; the bed’s head and foot were so near the walls I had to ease myself over him to get out. By then my eyes were adjusted to the darkness, and I decided to get a better look so I’d know him in the morning. I recognized one of the old fellows who always came upstairs for the night. A closer look told me he was more than elderly, and more than asleep. He was dead, and had been for a long time.

Somehow I found my own room. Afraid to get lost again, I lay awake until dawn, then slipped downstairs and out. That was ten years ago. I’ve never returned.

Still a member? Yes … I suppose so. –Call? Sensible suggestion, but no, I couldn’t do that. I did hear a telephone ring and be answered, once or twice, always in some other room. And there was a little table in one corner of the library, where an old black instrument sat. It may have had, yes, I’m fairly sure it had a rotary dial. And on the label in the center of the dial there may have been a number in the old style—Mohawk something. But I never saw that telephone used and certainly never knew the number. Nor would I have any idea who to ask for, if I could call. I wonder how many of those old gentlemen are still alive … or should I say—

No, some evening I suppose I will finally want to know for good and all whether I am still one of that peculiar number, and here is what I shall do. I will lock my office door and walk up Lake Shore Drive; I will turn a certain corner; and there I will find an old familiar door—or I will not.

I’m not sure which of those I hope for.

An excellent dinner, don’t you think? I wouldn’t mind a little coffee before we go; it’s awfully good here. And then I have a long train ride home.