The Impossibly

by Laird Hunt

  I must be.

  It is as if part of me falls into some great dark pit, though always only part of me.

  Incidentally, this conversation I was having was with someone wearing large, reflective sunglasses.

  Someone, I note again, who was tall and thin.

  These are all details.

  I am made nervous by events.

  Strange things happen at them.

  I took up a position in the kitchen. Then by the window. Then by my bed, for a moment, then by the door.

  Finally, they arrived.

  Hello, said Deau, very roundly breezing past me.

  Hello, she said.

  I brought her a drink and a plate of pickles and meats.

  You have to meet John, I said.

  Kiss me, she said.

  It was quite an event. To his credit, John had managed to dig up a huge number of participants. I brought up the subject of John’s excellent technique and pointed over toward him. John, cleaned up now, was spinning around in the center of a small group with one of my pillows on his head. We stood there by the door, each drinking what I had brought over and nibbling on the pickles and meats. Comfortable. In fact, wonderful. But she didn’t stay long.

  Later the next week, she said to me, after a certain point, and it is a very clear point, I cannot tolerate events, and that is why I left, but it was very nice to see your apartment and to meet John.

  That’s fine absolutely anything is fine, I said.

  I did not actually see them meet, but at one point John came over to me and said, okay, wow, then he went over to the kitchen, and a little after that is when he spilled wine on Deau, or vice-versa, and they laughed, and the two of them made the plan that the four of us should go away somewhere, perhaps to the country.

  Given the circumstances, it was a wonderful trip.

  There is always this question of circumstances.

  Just before she left the event, for example, we kissed, right next to the table where I had piled the food, which had, by this time, been thoroughly massacred. We kissed and kissed, and when we were finished she explained to me that part of the point of her initiating the kiss, at that moment, had been that she was about to leave, and that insofar as she had imagined the event before arriving, that imagining had involved a kiss, any kind of kiss at any moment involving me, and that the earlier kiss by the door when she arrived had been nice but insufficient, and that was the reason for it, if it needed a reason, and she was happy, even if she had not stayed long, that she had come.

  Yes, I said.

  Yes, I said again.

  Yes.

  John rented a car and the four of us drove off toward the country.

  On the drive the two of us fell easily into the habit of discussing objects and words. John and Deau did not participate in our discussions and did not appear, at any point, to have any interest in doing so, but that didn’t bother us, and as we stopped along the way, we made several acquisitions, which would appear, later, on her shelves.

  It was an excellent drive.

  I did, however, of course, still harbor one or two creeping fears, but I was not cringing, and there was no rain, it was sunny, the event was over, and I was the better for it. Speaking, however, about rain—the rain that day of the event. At the end of our lame conversation the tall, thin individual I was talking to invited me, quite firmly, to enter a nearby building and go upstairs.

  I do not know why I said yes to what they asked me to do when I got upstairs, I did not have to say yes, that had always been part of our agreement, but I did.

  That I had said yes was why I said to John, a couple of days after the event when we were recovered and were discussing travel plans, let’s go here.

  Why? said John.

  I’ve heard it’s beautiful, I said.

  John has never approved of my engagement with this world, a world for which he has always found me, rightly I suppose, ill-suited. Quite a number of years before, in fact, he had helped me to get started in another line, one that for various reasons I did not pursue.

  But we did go where I proposed because my lie, this particular lie at any rate, was not, or so I then thought, detected.

  Of course I knew you were lying, John later said.

  That week, before our trip to the country, I slept beautifully.

  And then we were driving up to the tops of the low round hills that occur on that drive and down them.

  At one point, as we had stopped the car at the top of one of these hills and were looking out over a vista of undulations, in the direction of the ocean, Deau announced that her tour had now begun, and that she was ecstatic that we were all with her, so at our next stop in a little town we toasted the beginning of her tour with a glass of wine, then lightly burned our mouths on some delicious stewed apples. Deau and John had a certain level of unusual gourmandise in common. It was Deau, for example, who had insisted we order the stewed apples. And this had endlessly charmed John, who had insisted the meal before that we select only the most colorful dishes available—borscht, pomegranate, horned melon, and candied plums.

  Stewed apples was, we agreed, an excellent word and concept, and before leaving the restaurant we acquired a handsome jar of it. So you can see that it was all going along very well.

  At that business meeting on that rainy day it was like this. I had never before met the woman I met that day and she was persuasive, strangely. I had met many other women and not-women in the course of my career, but not this one. She was one of the ones I had heard about, or perhaps the only one, it’s difficult to say.

  I think, probably, it was more than just her—that behind her, so to speak, were other women and not-women, with other cigars, in other rooms, who had other perhaps more important individuals than me doing projects for them. I do not of course mean to imply that if the woman with the cigar had superiors, or even just partners, that they were all smoking cigars and wearing gloves, etc.

  This seems unlikely. Boss types, it has been my experience, all have their own special stamp. In my previous place of residence, for example, I had worked for a person who had in his office a very complex model train system that was always in operation, at every meeting and otherwise.

  The organization that I was currently working for, by the way, was reputed to be immense and immensely effective, although largely staffed by part-timers like myself.

  Probably not much like myself.

  Or only maybe.

  At any rate, the woman with the cigar who I was standing in front of was definitely a boss. Perhaps there were more-unnerving-to-look-at bosses, perhaps there were not. Once, I had been told, someone at a meeting had seen an eyeball set on top of the model smokestack on the model train in my former boss’s office, but there are many such stories, actually.

  She sat there smoking the cigar, which is an endless thing in a meeting, never finished, and I was standing in front of her, and I could see myself reflected in miniature in her sunglasses, and it was a small room.

  Yes I’ll do it, I said.

  Also, however, she had a stutter, quite an intense one, and sometimes into the center of the stutter she would insert the cigar, and, the story of the eyeball on the model smokestack notwithstanding, I still have not seen or heard of anything quite as impressive as that.

  This is all about why I said yes.

  You’ll find I have precious little to say later about why I changed my mind.

  What? I said.

  She was speaking to me, not in the car anymore, we had left the car and were now, the four of us, installed in a hotel in a small city on the coast, and the two of us were in our room, and she had been speaking to me. Here is what she said:

  It is not the objects, not the objects at all. It is not the words either, although often they are lovely and the contrasts are surprising when you have one in your head shaped like a rectangle and then you have another in your head shaped like a square, for example. That is lovely, as is the sound of your voice saying the
m, when you say them, but it is not the fact of the objects or the fact of the words, really, it is the fact of establishing the correct establishments on which to place them, that is all.

  Each uncombined expression can mean one of these, she said, i.e., what, how large, what kind, related to what, where, when, how placed, in what state, acting, or suffering. See? For example, a woman may be five-foot six and a writer, a student of philosophy at her desk at midnight, sitting down and writing, and suffering from the cold.

  Substance, quantity, quality, relation, place, time, position, state, action, and affection, she said.

  I can’t do it, of course. I can’t say, again, what she said, not ever, not exactly. It is all there, inside me, is what I mean, but I can’t say it, not even for myself. It seems tragic that in matters of the heart one should have to suffer, even in discourse with one’s self, from this sort of aphasia.

  Lately, for example, I have been thinking of an instance in which, to say it in general terms, she came across the room toward me, and even though it was considerably more than this, it is only in these general terms that I am ever able to say it.

  She came across the room toward me.

  It was too many shelves, at the end of it. It was a hell of shelves. From where I sat that day, I kept losing count of them. Over and over I would count and then lose count, and then begin again.

  The next morning the four of us set out to visit the city. John and Deau were already walking with incredible synchronicity, and it was agreeable to follow them up the steps of that building and under the arches of this. She looks happy, she said. John’s happy too, I said. Old men limped along pulling carts and young women went by on scooters. We stopped at a flower shop where I bought her a daisy and a tulip and a rose and a carnation and a sunflower and a narcissus and a gladiolus and a lily and a tulip and a sunflower and a ranunculus and she said, they’re lovely, thank you. In one place, we drank tea poured from above the server’s head, and in another we ate fresh-made ice cream mashed green with pistachio nuts. Sometimes John would drop back and take my arm, and sometimes she would walk ahead and disappear with Deau. Once they disappeared for quite some time, and John and I sat down before steaming bowls at a table under a hideous bluish candelabra in a warm room that smelled of cinnamon and saffron, and, very powerfully, of what we were told was goat.

  John, I said.

  Tell all, he said.

  Nothing.

  We sat and sat and took care of another round of steaming bowls and talked. John talked about Deau and I talked about her and found I didn’t really have much to say. Then we paid and left and found them sometime later wearing completely different clothes.

  Actually, they found us. Sitting on the terrace of another establishment sipping yellow drinks and watching old men play a game with shiny steel balls.

  It was then that we walked down through the gently sloping streets of the warm city and saw the pair of monkeys, which made all of us, but especially her, and I do not know why especially her, laugh.

  Then we slept.

  I woke.

  You were shaking, she said.

  I was shouting? I said.

  Shaking, you were shaking, you are shaking, stop.

  I did stop, gradually, and then it was the second day in the small breeze-swept city on the coast.

  I have changed my mind.

  The personage sitting across the table from me, at a table with a view of the ocean and several rooftops belonging to the coastal city, did not blink, did not move, in fact never moved, not once, and after I had repeated myself twice more I left.

  Nobody interfered with me as I walked out, which is unusual. Part of me, to tell the truth, had been hoping for a little immediate interference, which is quite standard and would likely have encouraged me to undertake a course of action that could have significantly minimized the interference that followed.

  I thought of the woman with the cigar and of the cigar inserted into the center of her stutter all the way back to the hotel where they were sleeping in.

  I thought, also, of an old man I once saw smoking a small homemade cigar through a hole in his throat and how that man had only had one eye and something very wrong with one arm.

  That place was far away from anywhere anybody has ever known me.

  And I think that soon, very soon, I will go away, to such a place, to stay. Even if once I arrive I find myself obliged to sit in close quarters with just such an old man, smoking, in just such fashion, etc.

  Which is to say that, getting ahead of myself again, if you have never smelled it, then you should never have to smell it—the smell, I mean, of burning flesh.

  She was not sleeping in. She was sitting up in bed and looking across the room to the window, which had a view much like the one I had seen from the room I had just left. Here, however, there was a certain amount of that fine winter light that comes into such rooms at such times in such parts of the world, and it was falling across her knees and her bare arms wrapped around her knees, which were pulled close to her chest, and a line of light was running along one of her forearms, and she was smiling.

  It was stupid, really stupid, all things considered, to have agreed to it, and then to have changed my mind. It was even stupider not to have thought to smooth it out. While not necessarily encouraged, a certain amount of noncompliance is admitted by the organization, and it would have been straightforward enough both to have failed to carry out my assignment and to have mitigated the significant recrimination I could now look forward to. Of course I had thought about it. There was an easy way. Much about the business is actually quite easy once you’ve been at it a while. I could have, for example, picked up the phone, or at the very least double-checked the address of the package I had dropped in the mail on my way back from telling them that I had changed my mind. But there is in me a small speck of something hard, something stubborn, something immensely intractable, and I didn’t.

  There, in the center of the cigar smoke, she had used the word “important,” and I was to think of that word a little later, as I sat there, thinking of preposterous causalities and staring at those shelves.

  That afternoon the four of us drove away. We had been to the city I had suggested. Now we were going to the country.

  WE QUICKLY FOUND EXCELLENT LODGINGS. The old house, in which no one else was staying, had huge rooms, high ceilings, wide hallways, and one or two windowless staircases in addition to the regular one. I did not like these windowless staircases and generally avoided them. Once, though, late at night, in fact the last night, I woke and strayed and met an old man on one of the staircases, an old man I will more properly introduce later, who stood in what should have been absolute dark with what seemed to be a pale light falling onto and around him, and who said to me, listen, listen to what I have to say just a little more. Also, there were a rather unusual number of toilets in the house, some of them small and inexplicably dark even with the lights on, and one night walking by one of them I thought I heard someone praying, or at any rate mumbling rhythmically, on the other side of the door. The house did not have a garden, or rather had for its garden the whole countryside, so that lithe, dark trees seemed always to be waving in a soft evening wind. Our room, on the sunny side of the house, had a yellow door, a silver door handle, a pale blue dresser, darker yellow walls, white moldings, three large windows, those translucent curtains, dark green shutters, a washbasin, a hardwood floor that creaked in four spots, two lamps, two small tables, a silver candelabra, a long mirror slightly cracked in the top left corner, a desk with two drawers, two round floor rugs, a wastepaper basket, a vase that contained a quantity of dried flowers varied in shape and color and tone, one comfortable chair, one desk chair, a faded print in a chipped gilt frame that showed the proceedings of a circus, a huge bed with curtains hung around it, and two very slow old flies buzzing lowly. The circus. John, it seems to me, at some point had something to say about the circus, but about the gladiator-stick-you-with-large-forks-st
yle one, about some place one could visit where the old fork-style circuses had been held. This gladiator business has always seemed improbable to me. Once, as a boy, I put on a suit of plastic armor and took up a plastic lance or sword or club and was pummeled by my friends. That pummeling ended what had been a long-standing interest in the glory, not to mention effectiveness, of knights and their shining armor, and probably preempted any interest I might later have developed in gladiators. Anyway, I prefer the regular kind of circus, she said. As, I said, do I. What was the best thing you ever saw in the circus? I told her about an elephant. And also about some fleas. We both liked fleas. And clowns. Soon our room contained other things, some of which we had acquired on the drive, such as a funny pinwheel that had put her in mind of a strange story, some of which, like the row of insect wings, we had found in the course of our excursions in the fields near the house. In all, we only stayed four days in the country, but it was enough, it was like a year, it was the best time of all, though not really. Never really. At any rate. I was feeling rather giddy from my recent course of action, or nonaction, and so was an incredible amount of fun to be around, I was told. I am sometimes given to telling anecdotes when I am in high spirits and in the company of friends, and in the country I told anecdotes left and right. One of them was about a tree house I had loved to jump out of as a boy and the time I landed on my head. Another was about a bone collection I once had, and that I was made, upon its discovery, to soak with oil and to burn. Another was about an old woman I had heard of who lived alone in a house set off in a stand of trees and whom I visited and with whom I took tea. Despite her current appearance, she had told me, wiping a hand across her oily brow, she had been quite a beauty. Tell another, I was told. So I told an anecdote about a car I had owned, and it was an anecdote because I had stolen the car, but I had managed to do it, everyone agreed, quite interestingly. She said to me afterward, after a whole string of anecdotes, I didn’t know, and I said well there is / are more, and she said I hope so, and there was a little more. Things seemed to be progressing. In this vein there were, of course, several things I wished I could have asked her afterward. And still do. But at any rate, at our disposal was an enormous bathtub, of which we all made frequent use. Once, in fact, I walked in at a moment when the tub was being used quite spectacularly. The general effect was of something that might occur unquietly in the branches of a tree. It was almost warm enough at night to have the windows open in the bedroom, but it was also nice that it was cold enough to be able to breathe slowly on the glass and to make a light fog. We loved, also, to close the curtains around the bed. Sometimes, when we were behind the curtains, in the huge dark bed, we could hear John and Deau in the bedroom across the hall, and more than once it seemed clear that they could hear us. During the day, the four of us or the two of us would go walking through the olive groves. The trees smelled of something we all recognized, but couldn’t name. A soft wind blew. I have always been partial to soft winds. At one time, in fact, I entertained dreams of becoming the captain of a hot air balloon. I have still never been up in a hot air balloon, although I see them once in a while—off in the distance, drifting silently. Once, as we were walking along through the olive groves, through a soft wind, I walked with Deau. Deau was very happy. I am creating my itinerary, she said. In consultation with John, of course. He has made some dazzling recommendations. It is nice now to have finally started. It gives you this wonderful in-the-middle feeling, like you’ve left behind your beginning and you haven’t yet reached your end. I asked her how she would know she had reached her end. She said she didn’t know, hadn’t quite thought it through yet, but it was wonderful to feel so intransitive and yet so transitive, simultaneously. And I remember finding it strange but pleasing that she had used those words, and I remarked on this both to her and to John. Yeah, well, if you want to talk about strange, said John. What do you mean? I said. Words and objects, he said. And shelves, I said, don’t forget the shelves, you haven’t seen them all yet. I haven’t seen any of them yet. Well, you will. He did. He didn’t like the shelves. In fact he stood in the center of the room and said, ouch! but that was later. In the afternoons and evenings we walked among the olive trees. There were low stone walls and twisting paths and a blue sky behind the waving branches. Deau told us that she was a sun worshiper. That she belonged to some organization or other and had to pay dues. Every year, she said, each member was required to allow him / herself to be seriously burned by the sun. I found this quite funny, and generally, found her, Deau I mean, quite funny and nice, and certainly more than just a little pleasant to look at, so I don’t know why I snapped at her later. I will likely chalk it up to my nervousness, but I don’t think that’s quite right. Perhaps there was a hint, in my mind, of something sinister about her. Perhaps it was because there was no hint of something sinister about her, ever, and yet she was. Perhaps I did not like her. Perhaps I am a crumb. I am a crumb. But no real matter, and after all I did apologize. Sometimes on our walks we stopped for a picnic. We ate fresh apples and fresh cheeses and fresh meats and fresh breads, just like you are supposed to do in the country. More than once as we did those things I wondered why they did not come. Why no one came. Surely they would come. Wasn’t that, after all, what they did when someone fucked up? At any rate, at one of those picnics we had the idea that each of us should tell a story. To get things started, Deau told a story about a murder case involving a young woman who had been killed quite unpleasantly in the presence of the only witness, a small girl. There were several suspects, and a couple of what John appreciatively called back-foldings, and at the end of it we learned that the case had gone unsolved, as only the small girl had no alibi, beyond the fact of her size, which, we all agreed, surely exonerated her. There were many nice details in Deau’s telling of the story, one of which was that the young girl in question was known to have been in possession of a fine, red-maned rocking horse, and that, according to a relative’s testimony, she had been in the habit of riding it, at times, for hours, and that more than once she had been found to have ridden herself to sleep, and in fact was found, when the postmurder finding was done, in the saddle; covered with blood as she was, she, too, had initially been taken for dead. John then told a story about something the two of us had once done together, is the way he put it. I told a story about an old farmer living alone in the country who had dark, funny dreams and wished one day to be the pilot of a dirigible and to dock at the top of the tallest building in the world and would have accomplished it, except that by the time he arrived, the building was no longer the tallest. Then it was her turn. Taking John and Deau’s intervention as her lead, i.e., proposing to relate a factual account, she told a story about a house in which she had once lived and a man she had once seriously contemplated killing. When she was finished, no one said anything. Deau was smiling, John was not smiling, and I was not smiling and had a hot mouthful of dry cheese. So did you, in fact, end up killing him? I finally asked when I had gotten most of the cheese down. No, she said. He didn’t look like he’d get up anytime soon so I left. Was that true? I asked her that night as we lay in bed. Absolutely, she said. Which parts were true? Most of them. How about the part where you closed the door on his head? Let’s not get back into it right now. Fair enough. Okay, yeah, good one, better than your pal there with his farmer moo, baa, or whatever, said John when she had finished telling her story, which caused me to jump on him and start punching his arm. When I was done we moved on to talking about heroes—improbable things, heroes—and then about some guy who John said he’d once known. This, although he didn’t say it, was sort of a follow-up, or appendage if you like, to the story he’d told earlier about that thing we’d supposedly done together. Real hero, said John. I used to work for him. His daughter got bumped off in some bad deal, looked like an inside job. He did eight of his organic assets personally until he thought he’d found out who had done it, and in the meantime he had all twenty-six of us others at the ceremony even though they didn’t
have anything even approximating his daughter to put into the hole. We were all in black tie and he was in black tie and black hat and we stood in the rain and just fucking stood there. He liked model trains, I said. Who killed his daughter? said Deau. And then we kept on talking about heroes for a while. Later I asked her what she thought about heroes, and she said, nothing, and I said, no, really, and she said, sometimes when you look at some people you just want to cry. The next morning it was fine and bright again and I found myself walking along a little stretch of road with Deau. Let’s talk about her, said Deau. All right, I said. She really is wonderful, isn’t she, said Deau. I said yes I thought she really was. She is eccentric and wonderful and so funny. Yes, I agreed. For example, that story she told was so wonderfully over-the-top, said Deau. How do you mean? I mean she was lying about all of it. Ah, I said. Hah, said Deau, and by the way, your friend John is a tremendous fuck. This was exactly what she said. Yes, I said, yes I had heard once or twice before, though not put that way, that he was. And you saw him in action, saw us in action, in the bathroom, she said. I agreed that I had. Did you like what you saw? I’d rather not answer. Are you a tremendous fuck? Hardly. I bet you are. I bet I’m not. Take a look at these, she said, lifting her shirt. I will not. But I did. Did you and John really do that thing together? she continued, a little later, rather smugly. Did you, I answered, ever ride yourself to sleep on a red-maned rocking horse? I didn’t do it, she said, I was far too young. I didn’t say you did, I said. Then she smiled, not pleasantly, and, very slowly, repeated her question. Yes, we did, I said, also very slowly, and although I am not generally in favor of such elocutions, I very slowly added the words “you” and “big fat bitch” to my sentence, and, once she had slapped me, that was the end of that walk. For a moment, then, just for a moment, I found myself thinking again of the city, and of its river and bridges and trees. And also of the floor of my apartment. And of the ceiling. And of the small unsuccessful clouds. And even of the mushy papers for the washer / dryer. Just for a moment, though longingly. When I got back to our room with so many nice objects in it, she, and I am not referring to Deau, had her hand in my bag. I am not suspicious by nature, in fact, I am not very much at all, I have concluded, by nature, and while I do not have any great desire to put forward the notion that in this instance I was suspicious, it would be unfair to hide the fact that having seen her with her hand in my bag, and given the general set of circumstances I was in plus the interaction I had just had with Deau, I was. Actually, it would probably be considerably more accurate to say that while I would like very much to put forward the notion that in this instance I was suspicious, it would be unfair to mask the fact that even having seen her with her hand in my bag, I was not. But I was nervous. I do get nervous. I must already have said that. I moved toward her, rather quickly, and she stood up and said, oh fuck. By the way, what John and I did together that time wasn’t really doing anything together at all. Once, you see, as we were walking along in a park next to a very different sort of river from the one I have made mention of in this narrative, we, I or John, I can’t remember who first, saw a dead body floating in the water. It floated with its face and hands above water and its legs below, and its lips were orange, I’m not kidding, it was very dead. It had on a flowered skirt and a long black wig and it was moving along surprisingly quickly. It was not a pleasant speed. And I have since found, on far too many occasions, the impromptu memory of that speed quite troubling. Once in fact I almost stumbled. At remembering. John, in his telling of it, told it as if we should have called the authorities or something but hadn’t, as if that was why it had meant anything to us. According to John, we just walked along next to it, and it kept skimming along near the wall, and we passed a lot of people, but no one else saw it, and we just kept walking along as far as we could, which was a long way, and then the current took it out into deeper waters, and we did not see or hear of it again. If you call that doing something, you can. I call it doing nothing. The doing part of the business occurred some weeks before the time of John’s story about the river and the body and the flowered skirt, and it was an accident. Entirely. At any rate, that’s how we planned, if it became necessary, to explain it to the boss. I did not know what I thought I was going to do. I mean, just after she had said, oh fuck, and the oh fuck was unpleasantly repeating itself in my head, and I was moving toward her too quickly, out of nervousness and slight embarrassment at my outburst at Deau, and also the fact that maybe the whole story about the soup and the man and the cottage—not just part of it—had not been true, but mostly just the general nervousness, not suspicion, and then I had arrived in front of her. Hi, you have five seconds to explain yourself. Hi, I thought you were out walking with Deau. I was. And you’re back so soon. What were you doing in my stuff? Nothing. What the fuck were you doing? But then it turned out to be about a present she had been hoping to hide in my bag, a present which she, once I had taken a step away from her, immediately showed me. It was supposed to be a surprise, she said. What is it? I said. She was holding her hand out, cupped, with her fingers curled and pressed tightly together, as if to hold a small quantity of liquid. What does it look like it is? she said. I told her I was having trouble making it out. She held her hand out a little closer. I kind of leaned over. Don’t get too close, she said. I said maybe if I tried another angle. The other angle didn’t help. Well then I’d have to say it looks like nothing—is it nothing? No. What is it? She smiled. She said hold out your hand. I held out my hand. She said, here. I said, thanks, but here what? She smiled then went over and sat down on the bed. I held my hand up to the light. It’s not nothing is what you’re saying? I said holding my hand out just so, and moving it back and forth under the light. That’s right, she said. And I’m holding it? You are. Well, how about that. It’s beautiful, said John, later, when I showed it to him. It’s exquisite, agreed Deau. Can I put it in my pocket? I asked her, earlier again. She nodded. I put it in my pocket and said, look, I have to apologize—I just called your friend Deau a big fat bitch. I then went out and told John that I had called Deau a big fat bitch. Oh well, he said. I really should have told him about what I had done in the small city on the coast. That would have helped—John was always good at helping. But we were in the country and it was fairly pleasant, and there was still a chance for it to be extremely pleasant, I thought. So I didn’t. Dumb. And then the next day we left. Back to the city. At breakfast the next morning, she told us she was ready to leave. So we left. But other things happened before that. One of those things was that I apologized to Deau. No problem, she said. I’ve just been a little nervous, I said. In general, as a matter of fact, I find you, and especially in your current transitive / intransitive state, to be very pleasant. Hearing this pleased her, I told myself. Look at what she gave me, I said. It’s exquisite, said Deau. It is, isn’t it? I said. At any rate, she went away smiling. So that was patched up. Then I went and found John who told me to go away because he was busy thinking pleasant thoughts. Instead of going away, however, I asked him if he could quote something, something in the style of what he had quoted that time in the restaurant, or that time at the event. Go away, he said. I went away. But then, he called me back. How about this, he said, I just thought of this—nothing that hurts shall come with a new face. Good one, I said. Yeah, it’s pretty good, isn’t it? he said. It was, and in fact I was saying it to myself a few minutes later, when she came across the room toward me. Hi, I said. Hi, she said back. That afternoon we spent out in some nearby fields acquiring things. I did not know the words for any of these things, but that no longer mattered, I now think. Or perhaps it did matter, but it was no longer essential, and anyway, thinking about it now, I remember that in the cases where I did not know the words for things, way before we went out in the afternoon in the field, before even the event and the decision to take the trip, before all that and we were sitting in the park and it was warm and she professed interest in acquiring, for example, a quartz crystal, and I said I knew nei
ther the word for quartz nor for crystal, that did not stop her from managing to get one, and without finding out the word from anyone else. We collected a whole new shelf full of dead insects and dead insect parts especially wings, and who could, as one or both of us articulated, know all those words anyway? She tried to explain to me where she would put this new shelf, “this shelf of insects, etc.,” she called it, but I could not quite picture it. My memory of her apartment was a little confused, and to tell you the truth, even then, it was not a pleasant confusion. But perhaps I am misremembering and am subconsciously overlaying what it is I remember now onto what it was I remembered then. In fact, when I was still in the process, some years ago, of actively learning, or of actively acquiring knowledge, I once read that this overlaying process was not possible, I do not say difficult, I say not possible to avoid. We then set about collecting a shelf’s worth of vegetable matter, then one of moss and soil. Did you really plan on shooting that guy? I asked, scooping a handful of organic detritus into a small plastic bag. I did shoot that guy, she said, he just didn’t die. We had brought along a blanket, and even though it was a little cool and the ground bumpy, we, getting cozy, etc. Later, we lay on our backs looking up at the blue sky. I’m sorry I called Deau a big fat bitch, I said. Deau is a big fat bitch, she said, and incidentally, they’re fake. What are? And recent. How long have you known her? A couple of weeks. We lay there. Birds and clouds and insects went by. I think I’m in some trouble, I said. How so? she said. It would be interesting to know how she would have responded had I told her. I suddenly realize I have forgotten to relate something about the event. Something connected to earlier and / or later portions of this narrative. It involves a magician and a magician’s assistant John found in one of the apartments down the hall. He had knocked on the door to ask if he could borrow a can opener, and a woman in a green sequin-covered leotard with a tail of peacock feathers and bits of blue glitter around her eyes answered. Behind her, sitting on the edge of a couch in front of a coffee table was a not-too-handsome, very-earnest-appearing individual in an undershirt. The magician. To get the can opener John had to go through a trick. It was pretty good. The magician swished his hands around a few times, and the can opener appeared. The magician then asked John if he needed to borrow anything else. John told the magician that as a matter of fact he was short a hard-boiled egg. The magician turned around for a second, then turned back and pulled one out of his mouth. I mean out of his own mouth, not John’s. His assistant was definitely very exotic, even if she just sort of sat around on a chair. Obviously, they were invited to the event. They came late, from a job, and in full costume, which meant a black tuxedo and a mask for the magician and exactly the same outfit as before plus a mask for his assistant. Neither one of them, John later told me, said a word. They just kind of strolled around investigating the drinks table and having drinks. At some point, I don’t remember when exactly, John came over to where I was sitting in the corner with my eyes closed and whispered, the magician would like to do a trick. Sometimes, when I am very drunk, my eyes and my head do this funny thing—they don’t move. They were doing that funny thing when John came over and whispered, the magician would like to do a trick. The magician came over. Here, said John pointing at me, is the man of the event. The magician crouched down in front of me. He was holding a dove. He then, having made a show of putting the dove away, produced a hat and swished his hands around the way John, in his earlier description, had said he had and would if he came, and then—I saw this because of the funny thing my eyes were doing—he took the dove out of his coat, placed the hat over it, and then swished his hands some more, and then asked me to lift the hat. After a minute, as I hadn’t moved, he asked somebody else. The hat came up, the dove flew out, everybody clapped, and the assistant’s hand snapped out and ripped the dove out of the air. The two of them then went back to their strolling around and a few more drinks. Why did everybody clap? I asked John the next day. Because it was a trick. He made the bird appear. His hat was empty and then a bird flew out of it. That’s what’s called a trick. But all he did was take the dove out of his jacket pocket and put his hat over it. Well if he did, no one besides you saw him do it, so it’s still a trick. It was true that there had been a lot of hand swishing. And I did remember that at one point the swishing hand had flown up in the direction of the magician’s head. I suspected, and I was to give this further thought later, that the ascension of his hand coincided with his cleverly placing the dove on the floor and the hat over the dove. It’s a shame you missed that trick, I said to her as we lay there in the field. The trick with the dove? Deau told me about it the next day. Yes, it’s a shame, I said, as we lay there in the field, in the country, looking up at the sky and the occasional bird, with the wind off in the distance, way off in the distance moving the olive trees.