The Impossibly

by Laird Hunt

  I had been in love with someone, someone I had walked with through a white mist.

  I had, at some point, been to the boss’s office, had seen the train set and had a gun held to my head.

  I had been to the crime scene before the crime, had followed a well-dressed individual into the poorly lit alley, had watched him knock on then disappear through the green metal door, had myself gone through the door, where, in the dark, I saw machines.

  As I lay there, stray images of my childhood came to me, years ago, years before, of myself lying dreaming in an attic room, light on the ceiling, mist in the yard. Then of a conversation with a stranger, a traveler, dead bees in his pocket, butterfly net.

  Then a memory of a beautiful face set into a smile, gazing at me.

  Then, again, the boss’s office—lying amid the train sets, standing up, being forced up, Ms. Green being brought in. The name Lyla seemed, for a moment, to correspond to her. She had been badly beaten, couldn’t stand. Her beautiful face was set into a smile, gazing at me. There was a gun at my head. The boss, who up until that moment had been hidden in the gloom, came forward, caressed her cheek, then ….

  At any rate, it was the thought that I had been in love with someone before whatever had happened to me, this perplexing and galvanizing premise, that caused me at last, as I remember it, the pain in my neck notwithstanding, to stir and, eventually, one or two more trains having passed through me, to rise.

  Then I walked along the tracks, through dark tunnels lit occasionally by train lights and yellow soot-covered lanterns. Every few hundred yards the tunnels opened onto platforms where people, collapsed into chairs, slumped against walls, leaning on painted girders, waited in a kind of daze. They were strangely attractive to me these people waiting for trains beneath the surface of the earth, and once or twice as I walked I stopped and considered them. Mostly though I walked, and walked and walked, and stopped walking and rested with my cold feet in a puddle, which held some special appeal for the rats. The rats, intent upon their puddle, which probably had a little oil or meat in it, paid me very little attention, although one or two of them attempted, in desultory fashion, and with no luck at all, to bite my ankles.

  The city was as intricately articulated below its surface as it was above, and it was not at all unpleasant to walk along, at best a pale blur, and think about love. Or about being in love. At first it troubled me greatly that I could call no further details to mind, and that, in fact, some of what I was sure I had remembered, had already slipped my mind. But this feeling passed quickly enough.

  I love you, I said, and the words both warmed and chilled me as if they were some strange food or drug. I walked and walked and the words hand in hand accompanied me, as did the words I love so that after a time, when I began to rise up off the tracks, through the damp ceiling, and back onto the dark streets, I was not surprised. Nor was I surprised when, still walking, still wrapped in similar thoughts, my mouth making the shape of similar words, I floated up the sides of several buildings and once a water tower, where, as the cold wind blew both through and around me, I could just make out the gray-blue light of the approaching dawn.

  I’m not sure how I made it home.

  I’m not sure, either, how, once home, I managed to turn my thoughts away from love—I had been having visions of horned melon and strange berries and rare truffles—and back to the case, which clearly, if what I had remembered had any validity at all, related to me and Ms. Green.

  It was perhaps the growing pain in my neck, which was now radiating down my throat and out along my shoulders, that helped me to make the transition. It occurred to me, in the face of this pain, that even if I was, as Ms. Green had assured me already, like she was, dead, that I might be dying again; and I have to say that the prospect held no appeal, not least because I had no idea how it would affect my handling of the investigation, which was already problematic enough. I wished I could consult Ms. Green. In fact, I wished very much that I could see Ms. Green. Very much indeed. Perhaps together, if we could think clearly and speak frankly, it would be possible to make some progress. I was of course beginning to have my own theories, but they seemed woefully inadequate, even if one subscribed to the theory that in complex cases, even partial or compromised solutions are acceptable. No doubt, when my client came to ask for an accounting I wouldn’t be able to offer him much. First thing in the morning, after I had fired my secretary, I would look into contacting Ms. Green. Maybe before firing him I would ask him to try to contact her. In fact, there were several appointments he could make for me.

  I’m sorry, he said when I came into the office the next day. I don’t know what came over me.

  Neither the fuck do I, I said.

  Having passed the remainder of the night fitfully (it is true that I seemed no longer able to sleep), I had breakfasted on toast, soft-boiled eggs, pickles, and oranges, then made my way over to the office. It had been a very pleasant walk. My neck seemed to hurt less and the sun lit the buildings and the people brilliantly. It was probably this brilliance coupled with the fact of my large and interesting breakfast, and my decision taken during the night not to worry too much, if I could help it, about whether or not I was dying again, that made my step seem firmer and my head more clear. It was certainly this feeling of solidity (no matter how illusory) that made my thoughts sharper, and I took advantage of the situation to review the case and to try, even if only in speculative fashion, to make sense of its latest developments.

  I had known Ms. Green intimately, I thought as I walked along through the bright sunlight and clean, cool air. That was part of the case. As was John’s involvement in it. Clearly, I would have to pay another visit to the boss.

  I did (I imagined).

  So you’ve come, he said. You could hear a faint electric whirring. See the occasional electric flash.

  I’ve come about Ms. Green, I said. In relation to the case.

  The case? he said.

  I have been engaged.

  By who?

  By you.

  Was it me?

  Yes, I believe it was you.

  Look at my train.

  Yes, I see your train. There were others in his office. There were always others. John was there. But John wasn’t important, not at this moment; at this moment the boss was important. Ms. Green, Lyla Green, was important.

  Tell me about your relationship with Ms. Green, Mr. Smith, I said.

  Are you calling me Mr. Smith?

  I am.

  Good, very good. I sent her to see you, he said.

  Which time?

  He laughed. He stepped out into the light beside a small mountain just as the silver train swept by.

  Each time, he said.

  I’ve been shot, I said.

  I know.

  Is he here too?

  The boss gestured. The individual with the cracked tooth came forward. He smiled. He lifted a finger to his mouth and blew on it.

  It was you I followed, I said, speaking to the boss, Mr. Smith. You were my first client’s husband. I followed you to a house, your home.

  The boss, Mr. Smith, nodded (I speculated).

  I had reached my office.

  My secretary greeted me with donuts and bandages. I accepted a donut but not the bandages.

  Bandages are no good, I said.

  Well then let me clean it, he said.

  I allowed him to daub my neck with iodine.

  This hurt.

  They paid me too well not to go along with them, he said.

  Who paid you?

  They paid me too well to tell you.

  Has Ms. Green been here this morning?

  No.

  Please call her.

  Certainly.

  Please also call John.

  Why John?

  It occurs to me that John may have killed me.

  But of course John hadn’t killed me. Or so he said when he came into my office a little later.

  Come on, would I hit my b
est friend repeatedly on the head with a blunt instrument?

  I was almost at my office and I wasn’t thinking quite as clearly. My cognitive powers were fading. The pain in my neck was reasserting itself. Aware that whatever reprieve I had been granted was ending, I redoubled my efforts—this time focusing my speculations on the missing part of the evening I tailed my first client’s husband.

  He had knocked on the green metal door and had entered. A moment later I had followed. It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and for my mind to accept the chaos of ruined machines and sickly blinking lights. When I could both see and make sense, or some sense, of what I was seeing, I made my way through the machines (I had no idea what they were for) to a point of great light, an emanation within the darkness, a lamp-lit clearing at the center of the machines. Within that emanation (I stayed outside of it, neatly hidden, or so I thought, behind an enormous coil of wire) I perceived, and the sight was horrifying … but even speculation couldn’t take me that far.

  Now, of course, I can see quite clearly what I couldn’t even imagine then. But now it doesn’t particularly help me to do so. Nothing, in fact, particularly helps me, so it is not at all surprising that I have so much trouble in carrying out even the smallest tasks.

  Take for instance my latest assignment, which, with the aid of charts and texts, is to peer into a telescope pointed up into the night sky, and to make notes on what I see. It is information for an equation, I am told, but I have not been told what the equation is for. The equation is part of another equation, being the only explanation I have yet received. Be that as it may, I am unable, I am told, even to correctly fulfill this task. Just as, all those years ago, I was unable to correctly solve my case and later, when I joined the other organization, this organization, having been forced to leave the transactions firm, to carry out what should have been the simplest of assignments.

  I have just recently had my legs broken and set. This event has sparked my thinking on this subject, these subjects.

  I am recuperating. My hours in the observatory, while I do so, have been cut back. I am allowed to lie in my bed and look out the window. It is winter again. My bed has been pulled back far enough away from the window so that, lying here, I cannot see the people below on the street, though I can hear them. They are always speaking, these people, there is always sound. When I am here I am connected to several machines, which blink dully. I am not, of course, connected to any machines when I am in the observatory. Unless you count my oxygen canister. But that is a contraption, not a machine. Incidentally, all those who have not had the benefit of cool oxygen from a canister should indulge themselves. I sit by the telescope and peer into it and make my notations and, cannister on a stand beside me, breathe. I am not, you see, entirely sure what it is I am looking for, what I am meant to detect. This despite many explanations and threats of further punishment.

  It is not as though I have never spent time looking at the stars. I used to spend whole evenings lying in the yard. We had dogs then. Or a dog. The dog would lie in the dirt beside me. It was as I was lying there in the dirt beside the dog looking up at the stars that they first, they claimed, found me keening. Any excuse would do. I mean for the accusations, not for the keening. I couldn’t move, this was true. I couldn’t speak, this was true. But I didn’t keen. And my immobility was due only to the fact that I had ceased to be able to recognize what was spread above me as the night sky filled with stars. There were no stars. No sky. There was some black with imprecise white marks on it. White smudges. Nothing moved, nothing gleamed. It was as if the entire night sky had died. Or as if I had died. Am I dead? I was finally, when the sky began to seem to move again, able to ask them. Which no doubt contributed, once this remark had circulated, to the rumors.

  What I am discussing now is context, clearly. Dirt and immobility and stars.

  Mr. Smith, I said.

  He was waiting for me on one of the chairs in my secretary’s little room.

  I have come, he said, to see what progress you have made on the case.

  Quite a bit, in fact, I said. I’ve just been engaged in the most fruitful speculations. Let’s go into my office and discuss it.

  I ushered Mr. Smith into my office and shot my secretary, who was all smiles and insistent gestures of contrition, a meaningful look. Meaning, don’t move, I’m going to come back out of this office and fire you.

  Mr. Smith took his seat and I took mine and we both smiled at each other.

  Shall I begin? I said.

  Please do, he said.

  But before I could begin talking, he had begun talking.

  I see, I said. After a certain interval I said this again.

  Now you, he said.

  What should I tell you?

  Anything you like.

  So I told him about the years I had spent on the farm after my father had died, about the small bedroom in the attic, about the books, about the basement, about the blue jay that used to screech in the fruit trees.

  How often did they put you in the basement?

  At the end it was almost every day.

  Mr. Smith spoke again for a time.

  He had never been, so to speak, in the basement, but he had been buried when a building collapsed. This had been in a city built on the side of a mountain. He had been buried, along with many others, when the building had slid down the mountain in a river of mud.

  Is that true, Mr. Smith?

  My name’s not Smith.

  But the card you left …

  Belonged to another, an associate, a certain individual with an orange hat and a cracked tooth. I wanted to let you know he was coming, to give you a heads-up.

  Thanks. He already came.

  I know he did.

  We looked at each other.

  He smiled.

  It was too bad about the lips, but he had those gorgeous choppers.

  Tell me about the progress you’ve made on the case.

  I told him.

  It was not, in the telling, massively impressive, and I found myself, absurdly, adding embellishments—a chance meeting with an eyewitness as I had wandered below the streets, an interesting interaction with a mysterious blond woman at a hotel bar.

  But none of it seemed out of order to him, and when I had finished, he wrote me another check. Before he gave it to me, however, he said, so you haven’t spoken to Ms. Green yet?

  I wasn’t sure why I had omitted my interaction with Ms. Green from the account I had given of my case-related activities. After all, he was the one who had given me her name in the first place. And he was such a pleasant client, with such gracious manners, thought-provoking stories, and gorgeous eyes. Still, my recent revelation regarding Ms. Green, Lyla, and my love for her, coupled with my speculation regarding my client’s true identity (he had encouraged me, when I mentioned it, to pursue this line of inquiry), his overlap with my boss at the transactions firm and all the concomitant sinister possibility, not to mention his unexplained connection with the nefarious individual with the cracked tooth, contributed to my withholding.

  So you think I should speak to this Ms. Green? I said.

  Absolutely. I think she can and will furnish you with significant information regarding the case.

  All right.

  But now you’ll have to locate her because she’s no longer at the number I gave you earlier.

  And you don’t know where she’s gone?

  No. Although you might ask Mr. Smith. I left one of his cards with her as well.

  What exactly, if you don’t mind my asking, is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Smith? I asked, but unfortunately my client was no longer there.

  In his place sat my secretary.

  You asked me to come in, he said.

  Yes, I said.

  For a moment I couldn’t remember why I had done so.

  The poor guy.

  He was a good-enough secretary after all. It was true that certain aspects of his personality, not t
o mention the issue of his loyalty, left something to be desired, but I really wasn’t paying him very well. And how much hygiene and loyalty could you expect for a sucker’s salary every month?

  Cash this check and go to the dentist, I said.

  Then I’m not fired?

  No, you’re not fired.

  Thanks, Boss.

  Before he left I had him make a couple of phone calls. One was to Ms. Green. My client appeared to be right—the line had been disconnected. The other was to my first client, the one with the husband troubles. Once my secretary had placed the call, I got on the line and charmed my way through her perhaps only feigned surprise at hearing from me into an appointment for drinks the next day.

  Then I went over to the transactions firm.

  It was late evening when I arrived and most of the employees had been given their assignments and had set off for the night. It was with little hope of gratification then that I entered the copy room in search of information, and perhaps even a drink; as it happened, I got both.

  Mr. Smith, I said.

  I’m not called Mr. Smith when I’m here, he said. I’m called Max.

  Max, I said.

  Sport, he said.

  He grinned and held up a bottle.

  I grinned and began backing toward the door.

  But he told me there was no need. What had to occur elsewhere, under other circumstances, was entirely unrelated to what would and had to occur here.

  So have a drink, he said.

  I have a gun, I said.

  I had the gun in my hand and, as a precaution, was now holding it against the front of his cranium.

  A gun is a weapon that fires a bullet, a shell, or some other missile, I said. Most guns fire by the force of a gas created by the rapid burning of gunpowder. The shells in this gun contain gunpowder, which, I said, can quite easily be encouraged to create gas.