The Happiest People in the World

by Brock Clarke

  “Well, it succeeds,” Mr. Korkmaz said. “I like it.”

  “You do?” Normally, Locs would have thought the person who would say such a thing too stupid to live. But Mr. Korkmaz had already lived such a long time. Plus, she really did like him, or would have, had she not been manipulating him and had there been more time. They were almost in Broomeville now: one mile to go. “Listen,” she said. “Suppose Søren has already killed the cartoonist?”

  Mr. Korkmaz shrugged again, still looking out the window. It was starting to gust: the trees were bending and bowing; the ground was still bare, but the air was getting thicker with snow, and little tornadoes of it were touching down here and there on the road. It got even colder in the car, even with the heater on high. It felt, atmospherically, like something big was about to happen.

  “Søren could not kill anyone with intention,” Mr. Korkmaz finally said. Locs thought he was probably right. On the other hand, she knew of several people who could definitely intentionally kill Søren. But she didn’t say that. The sign told Locs to turn left to get to downtown Broomeville. She did, driving through the narrow chute of trees and tenements and railroad tracks and railroad cars. The snow was now pouring through the narrow opening above; it was as though they were at the bottom of a mailbox and someone was dumping snow in the slot. But through the snow, Locs could see the town square up ahead. “I would shoot that hairy man if he had previously killed Søren,” Mr. Korkmaz said. “That would be the only reason.” And before Locs could respond to that, she saw Matthew and Kurt pull up outside the Lumber Lodge. Matty—wearing his Cornell hat, of course—got out of the passenger’s side; Kurt got out of the driver’s side. Kurt is old enough to drive, thought Locs. Oh, Matthew, we’ve wasted so much time. And while she was wasting time thinking this thought, Matty and Kurt walked into the Lumber Lodge.

  63

  As soon as Kurt had told Matty what he’d remembered about Henry, what he’d told his mother, Matty had insisted they go down to the Lumber Lodge immediately. He barely knew why himself. Matty just had some vague sense that if Ellen dumped Henry for lying to her, which Matty was sure she would do, then Matty needed to be around, the way Henry had been around when Ellen had dumped Matty. And Matty also had the vague sense that it’d be better if Kurt were there, too, so that Ellen could see the whole family to which she could be returning, not the broken Dane (Dane?) she should be leaving behind. But Matty didn’t know how to explain all this to Kurt, so instead he said, “We need to go to the Lumber Lodge.” And then, before Kurt could ask why, Matty added, “You can drive.”

  Kurt had, adequately. Now they were walking into the Lumber Lodge. The first thing Matty saw was the streamers. Some of them were sagging low, and Matty had to resist the mighty urge to tear them down. The next thing Matty saw was Ronald standing in the middle of the bar holding an enormous gun. Holding was perhaps the wrong verb. His left hand was on the trigger—if that’s what you called the firing mechanism on a gun that was as big and menacing as the one Ronald was holding, and Matty wasn’t at all sure that it was—and his right hand, his crippled hand, was kind of supporting the barrel. When Ronald noticed Matty and Kurt, the barrel slipped a little bit, but he caught it with his claw and raised it again. And only then did Matty look at where Ronald was pointing the gun. To the left of the bar, standing up against the wall, one hand in the air, the other in his coat pocket, was Dr. Vernon. Behind the bar was Ellen. Sitting on the other side of the bar was Henry. His back was to Ronald; he was sitting there, apparently eating chicken wings, like there was nothing else in the world to do.

  “Kurt!” Matty said. Because Kurt was walking across the room now. Past Ronald, at whom he nodded, and who nodded back, gun still trained, it was obvious, on Henry. Kurt walked past Henry, whom he smacked on the shoulder, as you’d do with anyone you knew who was eating wings at the bar. To his mother. He put his left arm over her shoulder and left it there. Had he ever done that before? Ellen wondered. Was this what stupid people meant when they said stupid things about all the good that came out of the bad? Meanwhile, Matty was standing across the room. He should have been over there, with her, with their son. But no, Matty was standing there on the far side of the room, paralyzed. I can’t believe I was ever married to him, Ellen thought, and then she thought, But then again, I kind of can’t believe that I’m still not.

  “I really am going to kill you now,” Ronald said. It was clear that Ronald was talking to Henry. But Henry didn’t turn around. “Guidance counselor!” Ronald shouted. And still, Henry just sat there, eating! Ellen started to itch all over. What is wrong with you? Ellen thought. Who are you? Don’t you know how much trouble you’re in? Is there anything more infuriating than someone who doesn’t seem to know he should be terrified? But then Ellen saw Henry’s barely raised eyes looking at the huge mirror behind the bar. Eating, eating, calmly, unimpressed, in his very Henry way, but also looking in the mirror, seemingly aware of everything going on behind him, and next to him, too. He glanced at her, raised the chicken wing to his mouth, smiled with his eyes, then returned them to the mirror. And wow, Ellen realized how much she loved him and always would. She loved him so much that she couldn’t believe that she wasn’t going to take him back, that she wasn’t going to forgive him for lying to her. It would be, she thought, something she would probably always regret. But. Ellen put her arm around Kurt, and together they walked across the room, toward Matty, whom Kurt was trying to command with his eyes.

  Go! Kurt was trying to tell his father as they walked toward him. Back up slowly, slowy, out the door, and go get help! But just then, through that door, came Kurt’s uncle Lawrence and Crystal, Crystal looking as though she’d really like to hurt someone, maybe his uncle Lawrence, who was going on in his usual way, not paying attention to the scene into which he was walking, talking about some other place, some other time, some other person—Kurt couldn’t really concentrate on the particulars, it was very difficult to concentrate when there was a gun in the room. Anyway, his uncle Lawrence, talking, talking, until he and Crystal reached the center of the barroom. And only then did he seem to notice Ronald and Ronald’s gun.

  “Well,” Lawrence said. Smile, he told himself, and then he did that—at Ronald, and then at Crystal, who had moved to the far left side of the room and whose right hand was in her coat pocket, and then back at Ronald, who was kind of turned, half his face toward Lawrence, but the rest of his face, and his whole body and gun, still trained on Henry. Relax, Lawrence was trying to say with his smile. Everything is going to be just fine. Thinking, I should have stayed in Beirut, Palermo, anywhere else. Looking at all these miserable, scared faces. Thinking, The world is full of happy people. Wondering, Why are all of you so, so unhappy? Thinking, But that’s a rhetorical question. Saying, “Ronald.”

  “I am going to kill him.”

  “Because he killed your sister,” Lawrence said. And only then did Henry swivel on his stool to face the rest of the room. He had his hand in his jacket pocket, too. Ronald looked to Henry’s left. That garish Dr. Vernon was standing there, his hand in his pocket. That made five armed people in the room. Out of them, one was a Dane, one was no doubt on narcotics, one had a crippled hand, and one was a borderline psychotic, although a borderline psychotic in Lawrence’s employ. And all he could think was, They are so lucky the other person with a gun is me. Everyone in this room is so lucky to have me. The world is so lucky to have me.

  “No,” Henry said, looking at Ronald, at Ellen, at everyone, everywhere.

  “He murdered the stranger as well.”

  “No!” Henry said.

  “Yes,” Ronald said, his gun still somewhat pointed at Henry, but his face somewhat pointed at Lawrence.

  “It’s a compelling theory,” Lawrence said. Just then, Doc came in the door, and in front of him Joseph in handcuffs. Joseph’s head was down, as though in preparation for its being lopped off. Doc steered him into the middle of the room, between where Lawrence and Crystal were stan
ding. “Compelling, but incorrect.” Doc patted Joseph on the back, and Joseph said, with his head still down, “It was me. I killed both of them.”

  Ronald dropped his gun to his side, holding it with his good hand. He was looking at Joseph, thinking, Who the hell are you? Aren’t you the school cop or something? Do you even have a name? To Ronald, this was the saddest thing yet: that his sister had been killed by a nameless nobody, a person so unimportant that Ronald hadn’t even considered him a suspect. It left him almost speechless. “You’re a coroner and also a cop,” Ronald finally said to Doc.

  “Deputized,” Doc said.

  Ronald raised his gun again, pointing it at Joseph now. “Why?” he said. “Why would you kill my sister? Why would you kill the stranger?”

  These were good questions. Lawrence hadn’t gotten so far as to come up with an answer that would explain Joseph’s guilt while not incriminating Lawrence himself. But before he could come up with an answer, he saw movement to his right. “Oh my,” he said. Because Locs had walked into the room, and next to her was an elderly gentleman of Middle Eastern descent. Turkish, Lawrence guessed, by the color of his skin, the secularity of his dress. Istanbul! he thought. “Locs,” he said. But Locs wasn’t looking at Lawrence. She was looking at Matty, who was standing with Ellen and Kurt. The happy family. Overhead, there were streamers. Oh God, it was a party. Probably a party for the happy family. Oh God, she was stupid. Matty was looking at her with a sick look on his face. It might have been love. But it was probably only apology. I’m sorry you’re so stupid, he was probably trying to tell her. I’m sorry you’re so stupid that you’re still wearing my stupid hat. She took it off her head and flung it toward him, but Ellen caught it and then immediately dropped it. Kurt bent over and picked it up, remembering now, from two years ago, the woman in the hat who had almost run over him and his cronies while they were looking at Henry’s cartoon, at the Danish word that meant “counter.” Here you are again, Kurt thought. But who are you? Whoever she was, he felt like an idiot holding her hat. He walked across the room, gave the woman her hat back, and then returned to where he’d been standing. Meanwhile, Ellen had sort of wandered into the middle of the room, moving in the general direction of the cartoonist. They both had dazed looks on their faces. He reached his hand out to Ellen; she seemed to be strongly considering taking it. Good: that gave Locs some hope. But then Matty opened his mouth to speak. Locs could almost see the words coming out of them: Ellen, he would say. I’m sorry for whatever. Please forgive me. And Ellen would. The idiot. Married forever to Matty, the idiot. Was everyone in this room (the fat guy in the ridiculous shirt, for instance, and the guy with the crippled hand and the big gun, and certainly Joseph, who looked like he was going to take the fall for something because he was too stupid not to take the fall for something, not to mention Capo, fucking Capo, and his Crystal and his Doc) too stupid to live? Was everyone in this town, this world, too stupid to live? Locs was sure they were. Might as well kill them all. Except . . . Matty didn’t say anything. He just looked at Locs, smiling sheepishly, as though to say, I think we’re really going to do this thing. And suddenly Locs could see the future: In it, Ellen really would marry Henry. Matty would marry Locs. Kurt would split his time between them. Capo would not kill her, would not have her killed. Because you did not kill your sister-in-law. Because you did not kill someone in love. Love, love: it does not make you stupid, it makes you invincible. Finally, Locs thought, I’m going to be happy; finally, everyone is going to be happy; finally, everything is going to be just fine.

  “Who is meant by ‘the stranger’?” Mr. Korkmaz asked. But he knew. Everyone knew. “Oh, Søren,” he said.

  “Oh no,” Locs said. But it was too late. Mr. Korkmaz took the gun out of his pocket. He pointed it at Joseph and then seemed to change his mind and pointed it at Henry, and when he did that, Ellen stepped in front of Henry, but by that point Henry had already taken out his gun and fired it at Mr. Korkmaz. The sound was so loud that it sort of scrambled everything, for everyone. It took a second for everyone’s normal way of seeing and thinking to return. When it did, Henry saw Ellen lying on the floor, Kurt kneeling down next to her, Matty standing, paralyzed, over both of them. Henry dropped his gun, put his face in his hands. “Please just kill me,” he thought and then also said, through his hands. Mr. Korkmaz once again trained his weapon on Henry. And then he and everyone else in the room who had a gun just started shooting.

  64

  Two days later. Henry had disappeared. Kurt had been shot, but just barely, and had already been released from the hospital in Utica. He’d be OK. Kurt’s father was still in the hospital. He would probably be OK. Uncle Lawrence was still in the hospital, too. He would definitely not be OK. He would die. Everyone else who’d been in the Lumber Lodge, including Kurt’s mother, was already dead. Now, Kurt was back in the hospital, in his uncle’s room, trying to find out why.

  “Why is this happening?” he asked his uncle Lawrence, and Uncle Lawrence told him. Uncle Lawrence told him every last thing he knew, which was a lot. It was a long story. By the end, Uncle Lawrence was gasping more than actually speaking. “What’s going to happen next?” Kurt asked him, and Uncle Lawrence told him that, too. “It is illegal for private citizens to buy, sell, or own firearms in Denmark, unless for the purposes of hunting or sport shooting, and only then on rare occasions, and with a hard-to-procure permit,” Uncle Lawrence said. It was like he was making a presentation in social studies or something. If there was anything more pathetic than an adult making a school presentation on his deathbed, then Kurt didn’t know what it was. “But just because it’s illegal to buy a gun doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

  Soon after that, Uncle Lawrence died. Several weeks after that, Kurt’s father was well enough to go home. By now, it was the second Sunday in November. Kurt got the woodstove going. He sat his father in the chair right by the stove, with a blanket over his lap. Kurt made his father a drink. They watched the late football game, mostly in silence. When it was over, Kurt turned off the TV and told his father that they were going to go find Henry. Jens. It didn’t really matter to Kurt what his real name was, as long as they found him and killed him for killing Kurt’s mom. Matty didn’t argue. The shooting had changed their relationship. Matty was forty-eight, and Kurt was sixteen, but they were already at the point in their lives where the son had become more capable than the father. “But where do you think he is?” Matty asked. “If you were him, where would you run?”

  Here, Kurt thought. “Home,” he said. And a week later they were on a plane from JFK to Copenhagen.

  PART EIGHT

  65

  Upon exiting the Copenhagen Airport, the first thing Matty asked Kurt was, “So where can we get a gun?” Matty had never owned, held, or fired a gun, let alone bought one, let alone bought one in another country. Except for Canada, which everyone knew didn’t count, Matty had never even been to another country before now. Neither had Kurt. But Matty knew that Kurt had done his homework, meaning that he’d probably just looked it up on the Internet before they’d left home.

  “It is illegal for private citizens to buy, sell, or own firearms in Denmark, unless for the purposes of hunting or sport shooting, and only then on rare occasions, and with a hard-to-procure permit,” Kurt began. It was like he was making a presentation in social studies or something. Oh, buddy, I love you so much, Matty thought. If there was something more guaranteed to make a parent love their child than watching that child make a presentation at school, then Matty didn’t know what it was. “But just because it’s illegal to buy a gun doesn’t mean it’s impossible. According to my research, the best place to buy a gun in Copenhagen is Nørrebro.” They took the train to Nørreport Station, then walked across one of the bridges that spanned one of the five lakes, about which Matty wanted to say, Wow, look at all the pretty lakes. Except that the lakes were really ponds and most of them were so choked with algae and who knows what else that even the swans were swimmin
g with care, trying not to drink, eat, or even touch anything that might make them throw up later on.

  Anyway, Matty and Kurt walked across Dronning Louises Bro and onto Nørrebrogade. Kurt knew where they were supposed to be going, so Kurt was in charge of the map, so Matty was able to look around. As far as he could see, Copenhagen was gloomy and beautiful. It was a very northern kind of beauty. Once in a while a shaft of sunlight would break free of the black clouds, and when it did, you could really appreciate how dark and gloomy everything was. They were walking through a neighborhood of churches. The churches looked prosperous but sooty. This is not to say they were dirty. Matty was pretty sure they’d been made to look that way. Even the stained-glass windows were black in the sun. If you didn’t find that kind of thing beautiful, then you might as well get out of Copenhagen. Matty thought it was the most beautiful place he’d ever been to. But then again, he’d only been to a few places, and regardless, he and Kurt were getting out of Copenhagen, just as soon as they managed to buy a gun.

  “Dad,” Kurt said, yelled actually. He was a block ahead. He flapped and then folded the map, then gave his father a look that said, Come on, old man, this gun isn’t going to buy itself. Matty had two questions: Who is responsible for turning my sixteen-year-old son from Broomeville, New York, into someone who knows how, and can’t wait, to buy a gun in Copenhagen? And, Are we really going to do this? But the first was only a rhetorical question. And it was too late to ask the second. He ran to catch up to his son, and then they continued north, north, toward Nørrebro.

  66

  Who do you buy your pot from?” Matty asked. They were in the heart of Nørrebro now. Or what Matty assumed was the heart. It was crowded, at least. On their right was an endless stretch of somewhat shabby three-story apartment buildings that at some point had been painted pink and yellow but now had gone mostly to grime. The buildings’ first floors were storefronts that still had their metal curtains pulled down. On Matty and Kurt’s left were card table after card table loaded with cassette tapes, CDs, books that had probably been lifted from a library, pipes you could smoke tobacco and drugs out of, pipes that were intended to make water flow in and out of your kitchen sink, kitchen appliances and utensils of all kinds. There was one table that featured only ceiling fans, a half-dozen ceiling fans, all of them with the wires sticking out. But mostly the tables were laden with blue jeans. Piles and piles of blue jeans, piles so tall that you wouldn’t be able to riffle through them to find your size without causing a huge mess. Where did all these blue jeans come from? Matty wondered. And who bought them? None of the people selling them were wearing jeans; they were wearing dashikis. That’s what Matty thought they were called, at least. And very few of the potential customers were wearing the jeans, either; they were mostly wearing dashikis, too. The only people wearing jeans were Matty and Kurt and most of the people riding their bikes and ringing their little bells as they streamed past in the bike lane. The bikers never yelled. If someone even looked like they might cross their path, the bikers just gently went ding, ding. And people actually got out of their way! It was incredible. The bike lane separated the tables and the street proper. Behind the tables was a ten-foot-high yellow wall, and the wall was periodically interrupted by enormous wrought-iron gates. Matty could see through the gates that on the other side of the wall was a cemetery. Matty wondered aloud what is was called and whether it was known for anything.