“I told him it was hurtful that he didn’t believe me, accusing without real evidence like he didn’t want to believe me. I said it was plain insulting that my word wasn’t good enough for my own husband, and then I hung up. Kenji, I hung up on my husband.” She said she’d called me immediately, shivering everywhere.
Pacing in front of the couch, I said, “Martin being obtuse and jumping to conclusions is old news.”
“I’ve warned you time and again about his radar—”
“Martin being Martin don’t mean nothing. And if you want a solution—”
“Time and again you ignore me. On account of Aetna Simmons and some you-gotta-do-it feeling—”
“This thing you have about my work, it’s ridiculous. Nothing in the world would stand a chance of coming between us if you weren’t hellbent on letting it.”
“Yeah, well, what about that woman?”
“What woman?”
“That woman in St. George’s. Iesha said she saw you with some shiny black thing outside of Gojo’s. Shorts all up to here. Tight little somethin-some up there.”
“That was Doreen Trimm. I told you, she and I were discussing Aetna’s—”
“There you go again. Because of Aetna, you and Gavin put Martin on high alert. Because of Aetna, you’re traipsing round St. George’s with some little so-and-so come out of nowhere. Iesha said she gave you hungry looks.”
I burst out laughing. Not because anything was funny but because it was horrifying. Everything seemed to melt out from under me like unwanted ice cream, and I had to sit down right where I was on the carpet. Nabi folded her arms. We’d arrived at the heart of the matter.
“You think I’m cheating on you because of how some stranger looked? Meanwhile you and Martin get to have your cake and eat it too while I sit by the phone and wait for you to need a ride?” Nabi tried to get a word in to calm me, but I was already waspish and getting loud: “How is it that you can get on my case about chasing ghosts when you spend more than half the time being openly unfaithful? At least the ghost won’t do that.”
She dropped to the floor and grasped my shoulders. “This is what I worry about, Kenji. This is what scares me more than anything, I’m serious. That you might refuse to let go of this woman till she leads you all the way to the end of her road.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“No, I’m not. Kenji, you think it’s all roses having both you lot to worry about?”
“Get a divorce,” I said. “If you want to be married, marry me.”
Should’ve asked her long ago. And not like that. It took a death and the destruction of all I’d worked for. That’s how scared I was.
The only explanation I have for that untimely adjuration happening in that disastrous way is the change in the falling question. The question that pumped my heart and breath had in a way always been Nabi, but it was also a state. Modal, ontological, whatever you want to call it. A state of suspension. But if What are we had no answer, the suspension had no resolution, and so the pumping question morphed into How long can I bear it? And when a question breaks out in those terms, How long can I, like breaking out in sweat, it already means you can’t hold out for very long. I had cried out for a dead woman.
You don’t get it. You can’t. You’ve never had to be it. Terrified and stupid and to such extremes. And Nabi looking at me—tears gathered in her eyes but she just looked at me, didn’t say a word. Then I knew I was going to start shivering, and that got me off the carpet, heading for the library. It no longer seemed to matter that Nabi’d blow a gasket when she found out about Hardy; I just knew I was in pain, pain in my very foundation, and that’s what painkillers are for.
Nabi followed me. I had no idea until the thing was in my hands. She touched me, she touched my back, really a hint of a touch, almost a frightened poke, but I nearly dropped the book. I shoved it into place with Desperate Remedies and Jude the Obscure, I spun around and grabbed her.
I’m okay now. Not really. I am jammed. I am rad. I am full hot and a fool.
Now, where was I. Oh yeah. Untimely and disastrous.
I didn’t grasp the extent of things. I still don’t. Midnight passed too quickly. Nabi wanted to get dressed and talk a bit before I took her home. We had tea on the balcony with thousands of bright stars as the ocean breathed against the sleeping bay. We spoke in whispers as though we feared to wake the liquid giant that had us surrounded.
Nabi said she was under strain. I knew that. I knew she still wasn’t giving me the whole story. I worried. Nabi isn’t one to keep a bunch of dark secrets scattered about her person. Not like me, in other words.
She wanted to make a deal. If you’ll permit me, I’ll set down her exact words. I’ll do my best to convey their tone. Just as they are seared into my memory for life.
“I will start thinking. About how I can. Rearrange my position. With regard to. To Martin. If you seriously look for another project. Something that’s not Aetna Simmons. Or you know, self-destruction. You have to promise me.”
There’s this thing about hope. Hope hits back as hard as despair lashes out. The blows from both sides rain on the tired, mortal heart stuck in the middle, which at some point has to crawl into one corner or the other.
I said yes, it’s more than fair, and like a black eye part of me puffed up with hope. I would get high on that hope. (Higher, that is, harhar.) Though Nabi must’ve expected it to peter out and be forgotten, I couldn’t help myself. Even though I knew I couldn’t keep my side of the bargain either. I had to find something to use against UnDoreen: Aetna, my darling, it all comes back to you. Meanwhile, Nabi dreaded her lack of a prenup. She spoke at length on logistical inconveniences associated with Martin’s excision from her life—lawyers, family, the church, and so on—basically to demonstrate that what she asked of me wasn’t half as much as what the deal required of her.
She didn’t even mention my proposal. If I didn’t know that Nabi didn’t know enough to know better, I’d think she’d wanted me to think I’d hallucinated it, yessai.
Once upon a time, Nabi and I were on our boat. It was a fine spring day, the ocean was relaxed, and the Ethelberta, our small but plucky vessel, was in top form. Nabi was at the helm; we stopped a few miles off South Shore where we snorkeled with flying fishes. When we came up, we danced to Bob Marley and watched the longtails fluttering in playful pairs. They were beautiful and funny. We laughed at everything. When Marley’s album ended, the water serenaded us and kissed Ethelberta’s bottom. Nabi spread some blankets out on deck. I turned to the cooler for a Coke. Acegirl started hollering, “Kenji, come here, come quick!” I thought she’d found a cockroach. I went armed with paper towel. But she was pointing out to sea.
I looked and there it was. Puff of water like an oceanic firework. The hump with the blowhole, the fin—a hundred meters from us, maybe less—and then the tail, the expressionistic fluke of the humpback. He didn’t do anything fancy, just came up to breathe and went back down to his esoteric underworld. Nabi and I stood there holding hands.
Why is it so amazing to see a humpback whale? Old Japanese: isana, brave fish. That’s a whale.
Nabi was jubilant. She’d never seen a humpback in real life. I told her I see them all the time from my balcony; she should spend more time up there with me, forget Harbour Road. But she thought I was making it up, mistaking a rock or broken wave for one of those incomprehensible submariners. We stood watching the water, hoping the whale would come back.
“I saw him twice, Kenji. I saw the top of his nose.”
“Wow, you did?”
“And then he breathed and we got to see the rest of him together.”
She put her arms around my neck. May twenty-third. Next day was Bermuda Day, a Friday and a public holiday. So I was surprised she’d taken the afternoon off. She stood on tiptoe to whisper something.
I th
ought it was time. I thought she was going to say it, Baby, I’ve left my husband. Whales are supposed to be good omens.
But she said Martin had left that afternoon for a conference in Washington. He’d be gone until Wednesday. We had six days, counting the twenty-third of May. I laughed and swept her up into my arms and jumped into the water. Everything was blue and sparkling; everything we said was wonderful. But that night, anchored near One Tree Island, the two of us lying in the pointy end of the boat, Nabi said she thought I had something on my mind.
The sky was bright. We didn’t need a lantern. My phone’s got a star chart. We found every constellation. Nabi said she wanted me to be honest.
I said, “Have you ever thought about living where you couldn’t breathe? Like the whale?”
“Why would I? If we couldn’t breathe, we’d die. Baby, what’s the matter?”
I turned to her with something squeezing tight around my heart. “That’s how I live all the time,” I said. “Waiting for you.”
My breath permanently held. Hope is the rare chance to come up for air until the weight of the water drags me back into the dark.
No, you know what? That’s not right. Hope is like that terrible Russian substitute for heroin, krokodil. One hit and you’re addicted. Even as the stuff corrodes your flesh down to the bone. It’s the kind of habit that has no cure except death. The bravest would give up.
He won’t tell me what he’s done, what he’s seen, I got scared & acted like a jealous bimbo, nothing between the ears except 2 men & what they might do, where Kenji might go running off to next now that I’ve hurt him.
Kenji asked me something, sort of. I wanted I don’t know. Lord Jesus, why now? It’s too late, I have a husband who loves me, & he’s the power & beauty in my Faith. I love him. I love Kenji, my best friend for always, & he is afraid, a monster chases him at night, an obsession he won’t let me understand even though he needs a friend to pull him out of its dark maze. I need to stop him. I didn’t lie to him, I can’t lose him. Who would I talk to, who would inspire me & love me all the way thru & make me feel like the only star in the universe? But I did lie. I can’t leave Martin. Giving up on him would be like giving up on Jesus, & I can’t do that, He is part of me.
Lord have mercy. It’s too late. It’s too late now, Baby! If I had to say that to him, I would I don’t know. Thinking about it makes me want to run after him, screaming every promise I can think of. I’ll tell you everything, you can keep a secret, just let’s be the way we were, the 3 of us, & don’t tell Martin, Martin has to stay the way he is, but I love you, we’ll be OK. But I can’t.
If K adds any more to his conspiracy theory, it’ll end up looking like that house in California where the poor lady kept adding staircase after staircase even though there was nowhere for them to go up or down to. I mean, 10 suicide notes (!) + the philosophy, psychology, whatever. Fine. Then + the insurance company + his momma + her “minions” + my husband! He’s about to + me, thinking I’m trying to steer his bumper car away from the top-secret mission Martin’s puttering off to in his own bumper car. Next it’ll be + Dunkley’s Dairy + Bermuda Bookstore + the guy who sells the cedar stuff down Barnes Corner. I know Baby’s a genius, no one knows that better than me, but come on now! You can’t file your own W-2, your boss has to do it for you, which would mean, if K’s “hypothesis” was right, the evil insurance company knew what was going on & sent the evidence to the US government, & that makes no sense, but it’s no use telling him cuz he in’t listening.
Lord Jesus, Lord of lords, You know the 2 Kenjis, I pray for them every day. One thinks too much of himself to not wear designer clothes, but the other thinks the total opposite. If You made him walk the line between genius & crazy, what would happen to that 2nd one? I’d never forgive You, I’m telling You right now as Your biggest fan & Martin’s too. Help Kenji. You know the way he sees it. To him, this business with the suicide notes isn’t about money. It’s about being misunderstood forever & ever, & Baby’s had to put up with that all his life, so maybe he’s made up these poor misunderstood dead people so he can feel them reaching out to him. I don’t know what’s worse, letting him run with this foolishness till all those nightmares make him ill or hurting him by trying to make him stop. Not that I’ve had any luck. He’s not giving me the full story cuz he’s just like the other one. They’re the fancy butterflies with their big flapping wings, & they think the little worker bee won’t be able to keep up. The man don’t listen! Either of them!
Gotta quit crying & get changed. I smell Kenji everywhere, I feel him everywhere in the burn inside my body, & Martin will be home any second. Iesha faked a late-night cocktail party with her managers so M got smug cuz he was already suspicious & said he might as well work late too. So I might as well go to my bed. Martin isn’t gonna want to talk, he’ll just keep on with the cold shoulder or “take up his cross” & pretend our “misunderstanding” never happened. K will go to bed & wake up screaming like something’s eating him alive, & I can’t think about it or I’ll get all up a tree again.
I was determined to spend all weekend in bed and medicated. I watched the Saw movies. All of them. Without a break. Couldn’t stop laughing. I scoured the Internet for a way to Oscar-nominate them retrospectively. So wacked I couldn’t eat a thing. I mean, three or four Zos at once could kill a guy; dat’s why der vicked, don. I didn’t take them all at once. I did start to plan a trip to my supplier in Boston.
My phones rang. I ignored them. My brother, several times. And a persistent somebody on the business phone. The latter left a message finally, pining for the girl with the green eyes.
And Nabi. Well, Nabi didn’t call.
It was Tony Trent. You remember Tony. Big mouth, Paragon Re, likes to use my services to butter up choice slices of the reinsurance industry. Anyway, he was desperate. He thought some of his personal supply had been stolen.
Nothing of even slightly lesser magnitude could’ve budged me from my bed. By Saturday night I was in bad shape. Oblivious to everything except, in a handful of waking moments, a cozy separation between myself and everything else. Including my own body. I seemed to be in some kind of attic at a picture window streaked with old rain, looking at gray fog which I found greatly entertaining for its absolute lack of features. I drank disproportionately dark Dark ’n’ Stormies. Very bad idea, alcohol and too much Zo. But I think I was going for a kind of balance. So the schlep on one side of the fog would be just as miserable as the lowlife on the other. I’d made good headway when Tony interrupted me.
Pompano Beach Club. Dark corner of the lounge. I’d told him I was sick. He said, “Man, you weren’t kidding, you look like shit.”
“Fuck you.” And I told him if he wanted to see that green-eyed lass ever again, he’d tell me how he’d contrived this “theft,” omitting no detail, no name or circumstance. He’d also make a perfect recitation of the fine print and pay a premium for dragging me out of bed in my precarious condition. And if I was in any way dissatisfied with his accounting or if I learned that he’d taken it upon himself to make a franchise out of me, I’d call my police contact: “And I hope you like the tennis courts at Her Majesty’s Prison.”
“Okay, I get it. Shit. What the hell makes you want to play it like that, man? What about customer loyalty and all that shit? All those referrals I’ve done for you over the years. Name one time, one time, when I’ve even come close to looking like I’d fuck you over. Never, right? Jesus, it was just bad luck. You know me.”
All my clients think they’re my friends. I let them think that. It’s part of the service. We’re not friends. I made him recite the fine print. Tony’s been with me so long my boy knows it word-for-word by heart.
Now his “accounting.” I’m going to distill it. When he finished, I went home and threw up on the staircase. Puke on my hundred-dollar shirt.
A week before Pom
pano Beach, Tony and some cronies were at some swankish bar. All of them noticed the woman. Surrounded by admirers, she was unfamiliar, but Tony recognized every face in her retinue. They were all insurance people.
Confident he could “outplay all of them, any day of the week” (Tony, with his gaudy array of American idioms, is happily divorced), my boy sidled up and proceeded to do just that. The woman had a “supermodel” smile of an enigmatic kind that wasn’t actually a smile, and Tony found it irresistible. Her body was “aw man.” She was American, visiting Bermuda to “get the lay of the land” on behalf of her company. Tony never found out what she meant by that. “Could’ve been anything from reinsurance to asset management to, hell, investigative services,” all of which fell within her alleged purview. You see, she introduced herself thusly:
“Vice President of Risk Management, Clocktower Insurance.”
She asked intelligent questions about Bermuda’s corporate scene. Her all-male assembly inundated her with gossip and inflated but well-intentioned data. She wanted to know what kind of “opportunities” Bermuda had to offer Clocktower.
Now, I could not grab Tony by the throat and demand to know why he hadn’t told me this before. Not that I didn’t want to, but it would’ve been counterproductive; there’s no way he could’ve known of my interest in Clocktower. The woman hinted that she’d encouraged her company to pursue Bermuda’s “opportunities” because she herself had recently concluded a successful venture of some kind involving CAM. Gossip ensued concerning CAM, Masami, and Barrington. The VP of Risk Management offhandedly remarked that Masami had mentioned two sons, one who worked at CAM and another, more mysterious; at which point Tony, my devoted champion, seized the advantage by stepping forward with my name, adding, “I know him well.” Thus Tony whittled down the congregation, so when he leaned over and murmured, “If you like to party, I know how,” or something just as tasteless, he and the woman were alone. To enhance his credibility, Tony attributed his expedient know-how to his and the woman’s almost-mutual acquaintance: me.
Drafts of a Suicide Note Page 23