The Zero: A Novel

by Jess Walter

  April was dancing with her eyes closed, her body snapping like a stiff whip, her head nodding as if she were being forced, over and over, to agree with something she found distasteful. When did I forget how to dance? Remy thought. When did I lose track of music and what you’re supposed to do with it? “Let’s get a drink!” he yelled, but her eyes didn’t open, so he did the mother bird and yelled in her ear. “Drink!” and she opened her eyes and grabbed his arm, shaking her head no.

  “I’m going to get one,” he said and pointed to the stairs.

  He read her lips. “No. Stay here. Dance. Unless your back’s bothering you?”

  “My back is fine,” he yelled. And so they danced for more than an hour, until Remy’s back did ache, and his head swam with the unceasing drums, and finally he couldn’t dance anymore and he just stood in the middle of all those swirling young bodies, watching as April—eyes closed—snapped her body over and over, from her tight leather pants to the tendrils of black hair that lashed her face unmercifully.

  MORNING AND Remy sat up cold and naked in the hotel bed, all the covers wrapped around April, who slept peacefully facing away from him. He looked around the bright room. Two empty wine bottles sat on the table with two red-rimmed wineglasses and their new clothes were strewn around the floor in front of the bed.

  There was a light knock at the door. “Housekeeping.”

  Remy looked at the clock. It was 9:45. “Can you come back later?”

  “Chure,” the man said. “I comb back.”

  Remy padded off to the shower and after a minute she joined him and soaped him into making love, and when they were done they went back to bed.

  It was two in the afternoon before they made it out of the hotel room. They had gyros at a little Greek stand that April said reminded her of her father’s cooking. They bought more new clothes—April got a tiny denim skirt and high boots, and she even talked Remy into loosening up and he got a shirt with wild cuffs and jeans with manufactured rips in the thighs, and when he said he felt stupid in them, she took him to a bar and made him down three whiskeys in quick succession and, he was forced to admit, he didn’t feel stupid any longer.

  “Where you folks from?” asked the female bartender.

  “British Columbia,” answered April. “A little town in the Rockies at the foot of this glacier. We hike up and carry buckets of ice down for our drinking water. There’s no electricity or phone service and Dustin here has to cut logs for us to burn in our woodstove to cook and keep us warm.”

  “Maggie makes all our clothes,” Remy said. “We eat only roots. In the summer we’re always naked. I have a pet moose.”

  “Wow,” the bartender said. “How’d you end up there?”

  “Dustin was a draft dodger,” April said. “Conscientious objector. He moved up to Canada and I went and joined him. Fucking government, you know? We just got so sick of America we couldn’t take it any more. At some point, a place loses enough of itself that you have no choice but to abandon it.” She leaned in as if sharing a secret. “And frankly, I think it’s gotten worse.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” the bartender said as she loaded glasses in the dishwasher. But then she looked up at the couple and Remy could see that she was calculating their ages.

  “You went up there to avoid serving in Vietnam?” the bartender asked.

  “No,” April said. “Panama.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Sure.”

  On the advice of the bartender, they took the train to the baseball stadium and walked to a nearby pier, where they found a man with striking gray beard renting kayaks and wetsuits from a huge shipping container. The man asked if they had experience with sea kayaks.

  “Not specifically,” April said, “but I was a river guide in the Grand Canyon the summer after I got out of the Peace Corps, and Toody here rowed crew at Princeton.”

  “JV,” he said.

  “Still,” the kayak guy said, “you should have no trouble.”

  They set out awkwardly from the pier, where the water was still, and quickly figured out the balance required. Remy loved the way the edge of his paddle disappeared in the dark water and the way he could thrust the boat forward, the muscles in his arms and shoulders burning from the work. They developed a quick rhythm, April in front, digging with her paddle, her little shoulders beginning to quake with the effort, and when Remy tried to slow down, for her sake, she just pushed harder, and so he did too, their leans and pushes working together until they got going so fast that it felt as if they were carving the water, as if their wake might go for miles, across the bay to the rest of the world. And only then did April stop and look around, at the diffuse clouds battered by light blue sky.

  “Why did you ask me about Derek?” she said without turning.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “He was from here,” she said. “From San Francisco. Did you know that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe it was wrong to come here. But I haven’t been thinking about him…if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “I’m not. It’s fine.”

  She didn’t say anything else. They drifted around the point and out into the heart of the bay, into heavier chop, the spray stinging their eyes as the wind pushed them toward deeper water and the shadows of sailboats glided past, bending on the waves like shimmering apparitions.

  “Goddamn it,” she said.

  IN DREAMS, at least in this dream, Remy’s eyesight was perfect, the world clear and crisp and devoid of the static that he’d grown accustomed to. And even asleep, he noted to himself that he hadn’t been dreaming very much since…

  He looked around, amazed by the clarity and the quiet of everything he saw. He was standing outside Edgar’s old primary school, waiting for the boy to get out of school, watching the stream of familiar faces as they came out of the building: Edgar’s old babysitter, followed by Guterak, and then Billy Joel, who became the gyro guy who used to set up outside Midtown and then the gyro guy from San Francisco and finally April’s father, who stood shaking his head disapprovingly. But while the buildings and trees and everything within his vision was clear, when he looked up Remy could see flashers and floaters in the sky, which was a gray slate, clouds of ash and dust flowing overhead like a river of debris, and when Remy looked down, the flecks came down to the world, too. Edgar’s school had become 1 Police Plaza—police headquarters—and Remy was standing outside the barricade as cops ran out of 1PP in a panic, and now Remy was terrified for Edgar, who must still be inside. He could hear someone crying and then Remy was jerked awake, sat up and opened his eyes. April was sitting at the end of the bed, still wearing the little denim skirt, but nothing else. She was sobbing, her eyes dark, wet swaths worn along her cheeks. Remy stirred to come toward her but she held up her hand to keep him from coming any closer.

  “I went along with everything, didn’t I?” she asked. “We were having a good time, right? And even when you acted all crazy and paranoid, I just pretended it was normal.”

  “April—”

  “But then you had to ask about Derek.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She turned. “If I tell you…everything, will you promise you’ll never ask about it again? Promise that we’ll never have to talk about it.”

  “Okay,” Remy said. “I’ll try.”

  She stood and walked to the window, opened the curtain and looked out on the dark street. He could see the glow from the streetlights on her pale skin like a halo.

  “We talked all that weekend and we went to dinner that Monday night,” she said to the window, “and I let him spend the night…and he even went to work Tuesday in the same clothes. He thought that was so funny…and it felt so natural, like before he left. I kissed him goodbye at the door of our apartment. And I think that’s the first time I really allowed myself to realize how much I missed him, and to think that we might be back where we were.” She turned back
to face Remy and it reminded him of the way she’d kept paddling the kayak, her shoulders straining with the effort. “It was after Derek walked out the door that I saw his cell phone on the bookshelf, with the message light blinking. So I listened—”

  “The woman from his office,” Remy said.

  “March.” She spit the name as if it had been caught in her throat, her voice cracking. April turned away again and seemed to realize for the first time that she was naked above the waist. She pulled a towel off the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. “March was the woman he—”

  “Ah Jesus,” Remy said.

  April smiled sickly. “I had talked to her on Monday…and I told her that Derek was coming over…that we were thinking of reconciling. She was so quiet. And I thought—” She laughed bitterly. “I thought she was just worried about me, worried that I would get hurt. So I told her not to worry about it, that Derek was a different man. And that I knew what I was doing.”

  April seemed unaware that tears were streaking her cheeks. “She and Derek had always had this…flirtation. I always thought it was aimed at me…you know, the way sisters try to make each other feel off balance? Jealous? But as soon as I heard her voice on his phone I knew. I knew. I wanted to throw the phone across the room. I wanted to hang up. But I couldn’t. I just listened.”

  Remy asked what the message had said.

  “She was rambling, freaking out. She wanted to know if it was true that Derek was thinking of getting back together with me…she said that he’d lied to her. And she felt awful. She never would have slept with him if she’d known he still had feelings for me. She said she’d been vulnerable because of her breakup with the married guy and Derek had taken advantage of that, and I don’t know—” April laughed again. “She said that if Derek hurt me, she would kill him. If he hurt me…do you believe that? Goddamn her.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I called her at work. I yelled at her.”

  “That morning?” It was as if the ground gave way beneath Remy’s feet. “You called her? That morning?”

  —March taking the phone call, crying at her desk—

  “I told her she was a whore and that she wasn’t my sister and I never wanted to talk to her again. I told her that I was going to tell Dad she was a whore.” April shook her head. “March said I had it wrong, that it only happened once, that they were drunk, whatever…She kept trying to whisper, I guess because she was at work.” April slumped back into her chair. “And that pissed me off, that she could still be thinking about what people thought of her. I hung up the phone…listened to the message again and then I called her desk. But she was gone. So I called Derek’s office and…” April twitched. “…March was there. In his office. That was the worst part: that she was there with him. I was all alone in my apartment and they were twenty blocks away, in another room. Together. Forever, as it turned out.”

  “Was Derek’s office on the same floor?” Remy asked quietly.

  “No. Four floors above.”

  —March, agitated, hanging up the phone, running to the elevator—

  “I knew she was there. He was talking, telling me to settle down, but there was…nothing. I just felt totally empty. Like I’d been hollowed out.”

  She stared past him for a long time and then laughed bitterly. “So…I hung up. I wanted to say something clever. Or mean. But I just took the phone off the hook and went back to bed. I didn’t go to work. And it was an hour later…I heard people screaming in my building and…I turned on the TV and saw—” April began to buckle but caught herself. “I think of them…up there at the end…together…and I hate them most of all for that…that at the end, they had each other.”

  She was right, Remy thought.

  They could’ve just lived in this hotel room forever.

  Everything a person needed was in a hotel room.

  It was the peak of civilization, a culmination of fire and the wheel and digital cable radio. It was all here.

  If he’d just never mentioned Derek they could’ve just kept at this for years, making love and buying new clothes, eating in restaurants and kayaking around the bay, changing their names every few days.

  “I’m sorry,” Remy whispered.

  She covered her face with her hands and the towel fell away and she shook with sobs again. Remy stood up, brought her back to bed and curled up around her tiny back until the shuddering stopped and she was breathing easily.

  “Do you know…” She caught her breath. “What I kept thinking?” She looked back over her shoulder and met his eyes. She smiled. “For months afterward, I kept thinking: Wouldn’t this make a fucking great portrait in grief?”

  “HOUSEKEEPING.”

  Remy started. He looked back at the door of the hotel room and then at the clock on the nightstand. It was seven-thirty and April was sleeping more heavily than he’d ever seen. He kissed her lightly on the crown of her head, rose and got dressed, and walked to the door.

  Markham’s smooth smiling face filled the doorway. “Hi, Brian.”

  Remy edged out and closed the door behind him.

  “You ready to go?” Markham was wearing a sportcoat and blue oxford shirt and carrying his thin brown briefcase. He did an exaggerated double take on Remy’s new shoes.

  “Wow! Look at the kicks!” Markham said. “Are those new? They have to be new. Look at you, Mr. Hipster. You know, I can’t wear sweet kicks like that, those big square-toe clunkers. And I’m a shoe guy. But my feet are so long I’d look like Frankenstein in those.” Markham took on his standup comic voice. “In fact, I’d look like a gay Frankenstein, like Frankenstein on his way to get a pedicure and meet his boyfriend the Wolfman for a caramel half-caff at Starbucks. Metrostein or something. Right, right?”

  Remy felt beaten. “How’d you find me?”

  “Housekeeping,” Markham said again. “‘Chure, I comb back.’ Hey, I’m sorry about the cell phone. You were right to pitch it and lose me for a few days. I could’ve blown your cover. I get impatient. It was stupid of me. Especially with us being so close.”

  Remy looked back at the door to the hotel room.

  “So…did the change of scenery work? You get anything new?”

  “Look, I don’t want to do this anymore,” Remy said. “Whatever…this is—I’m done. I’m just going to go back into this hotel room and…”

  “Oh, I know what you mean. I’ve been jet-lagging since we got here.” He leaned in closer. “Have you taken a dump? Because I haven’t. Goddamn airplane food. Like eating paste.”

  “Look,” Remy said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t even think March is alive.”

  Markham nodded. “Yeah…the whole March thing looks like a dead end. Excuse the pun. But no, you were right all along. March probably is dead. Unless old Bishir is a tougher cut of steak than he looks.”

  Remy couldn’t help his curiosity. “You found Bishir?”

  “Well…yeah. What do you think we’ve been doing here? Sightseeing?”

  “And you talked to him?”

  “Yeah, while you worked the girl, I thought we’d pick Bishir up and spend a couple of days softening him up before—”

  “No…please.” Remy put a hand out. He thought of the blood on his shoes, and of Assan, and of the photo of March’s dead lunch date, al-Zamir. “Don’t…soften anyone else up.”

  Markham smiled like a kid who has gotten into his parents’ booze. “Oops,” he smiled. “My bad.”

  “Jesus, what did you do?” Remy asked.

  “Actually,” Markham began, “that’s kind of a funny story.”

  A HEALTHY chunk of pecan encrusted sole rested on the tines of a fork inches from Bishir Madain’s open mouth. “Unbelievable,” he said, and slid the fork into his mouth. “Mmmph,” he said, and when he could talk again, “You were absolutely right. This is great. You wouldn’t think it would be so flaky and moist. And the pecans!”

  “What’d I say? Huh? What did I tell you?” asked Markham, who wor
e a blue cloth apron with salt-and-pepper shakers stitched on the pocket. “Nutty but light. So often you incorporate walnuts or pecans and you have to use something to bind it that makes it sweet or syrupy and it ruins the fish. But this is perfectly balanced. That’s what I like about it. You can see why we went this direction.” Markham held his spatula like a wand. “It’s really a nice recipe.”

  They were in a huge hotel suite, with motorized curtains and colonial furniture, Bishir sitting in a fluffy white robe in a high-backed chair, over a plate of pecan encrusted sole, buttery green beans, and what looked to Remy liked mashed sweet potatoes. In the small kitchen Markham had two stainless frying pans sizzling and the oven door hanging open, wafting sweet fish.

  “You sure you don’t want some, Brian?” Bishir asked.

  “No,” Remy said. He was done, unable to make sense of anything anymore. He looked around the room for the bar.

  “You want to know the secret to the whole thing?” Markham asked Bishir.

  “Mmm,” Bishir said through a mouthful.

  “Tell him, Brian,” Markham said.

  No matter what he did, it seemed to Remy, this insanity was going to grind along and take him with it. He wandered around the room, looking on every flat surface for a key to the honor bar. “Honey,” he said. “The secret is honey.”

  “Bullshit. Honey?” Bishir asked and took another bite. He had a precise, cultured manner that Remy found surprising. He nodded, as if…yes, now that Markham mentioned it…honey. He finished chewing, his fork near his temple. “I wonder…”

  “What?” Markham asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “No,” said Markham. “What?”

  “I was just wondering if a person could substitute corn syrup.”

  “Fair question.” Markham pointed at Bishir with his spatula. “Bri?”

  Remy had gotten the honor bar open and was crouched in front of it, rifling through the small bottles. He looked back over his shoulder. “Too syrupy. The honey cooks off better. Leaves a glaze without gumming it up.”