“Which is?” the PI presses after a moment.
Borges looks him in the eye. “It is that fictional characters in one world might be as real as their author in another. In short, you and me. It is a natural outgrowth of the premise. Infinite worlds, infinite possibilities. However, you must see that for either the Church or the State, such an idea is blasphemy, punishable by death. It is chaos and seeming disorder itself. Hence, the gunshot in the park and, now, the shadowy figure outside my house.”
“I am no mere fiction,” the PI objects, standing from behind the desk. “I am not your ‘creation.’ I am flesh and blood.”
“In this world that is so.”
The PI laughs. “You are not my ‘author,’ Señor Borges.”
“That is true, here and now. But in a multiplicity of universes, I have written you into existence, and you have done the same for me,” Borges continues. “In some, we’ve been written into existence by someone else altogether, and in others we are no one’s literary creation but are simply real, as we seem to be here and now.”
The PI is silent.
“As one whose imagination allows for the use of forbidden, ancient languages and geometry to predict the location of a murderer, you must be open to such wonders,” Borges implores.
The PI is taken aback. How does the librarian know the details of his other, current case? “It’s true that I have a map and a compass from which I have been making calculations regarding the murder of a rabbi and others. And it’s also true that I’ve told no one about these actions, so you demonstrate knowledge whose source is at once disturbing and fascinating. But that is a different case, my dear Señor Borges.”
Borges shakes his head. “It is all one.”
“I refuse to be distracted from the matter at hand by your aggravating, if accurate, speculations about my work, Señor Borges,” the PI expostulates. “Is my method for investigating the rabbi’s murder complex? Yes. However, in considering your dilemma, which is what you’ve paid me to do, I believe complexity may be a misstep. For you, the simplest explanation is likely best. Thus, I reassert that, for all the metaphysical fireworks you have attempted to launch here in my office, whoever is shadowing you simply wants to obtain this priceless manuscript, handwritten by the most famous consulting detective ever to live. It is a treasure. All else is simply your overactive imagination.”
Borges shakes his head. “Occam’s razor does not always slice straight. The universe is a labyrinth.”
The PI returns to his swiveling desk chair and sits. He takes a deep, cleansing breath and, with a gesture of his hand, indicates for Borges to return to the wooden chair across the desk to take a seat too.
Borges obliges.
“I base my assertions on my own sensibilities, Señor Borges. You see, I would be willing to kill simply to obtain the manuscript, disregarding its philosophical implications altogether. It’s worth a fortune. So why wouldn’t some other actor be willing to do the same?”
Borges holds up his index finger, like a schoolteacher correcting a well-intentioned but wrongheaded student. “What you say about yourself is not so. Of this I am quite certain because I know your character, having created it elsewhere. You are, above all things, honest.”
“But what of the variations that distinguish one universe from another?” the PI presses.
Borges considers, but has no answer.
“Perhaps I am only almost the same as the character you wrote, Señor Borges, granting that your dream truly was a window into another existence. Doesn’t the word ‘alternate’ suggest variation, either large or small? So, working from your imaginative premise, I may be nearly the same as your fictional creation, but not quite. Indeed, perhaps I am different at the core of my heart, which happens to be the place that matters most.” The PI slides open his desk drawer.
Borges holds up his palm. “I appreciate the opportunity to drink to our honest debate, but I cannot handle more fernet at this hour.”
It is not a bottle of fernet that the PI withdraws from the drawer.
This time, it is a handgun.
“You see, Señor Borges, I am willing to kill to obtain the manuscript.” He aims the weapon.
Borges’s eyes fix on the gun.
“I am not a collector of such artifacts myself, but I know some who are,” the PI continues. “And they will pay handsomely.”
After a moment Borges manages words: “But you can’t just shoot me. Someone will hear.”
The PI shrugs. “It’s after two o’clock in the morning. And this is Palermo. One gunshot? Nothing. Besides, I have friends on the police force. And higher up. And they will believe any story I tell them. What a world, no? Perhaps you’d prefer an alternate one. But I’m afraid this is what you get, here and now.”
Borges raises his palms to shoulder level. “Wait, you’re my creation. Don’t you understand? What are you without me?”
“Wealthy,” the PI answers as he pulls the trigger.
The shot rings in the night.
The PI sits for a moment, listening for the return of silence. When it comes, it remains unbroken. He glances at the dead man in the chair across from him before replacing the handgun in his drawer. He will make a phone call to get help disposing of the body. But first he picks up the manuscript, his bounty. It is so light in his hands. He pushes back from the desk and stands, walking past the slumped librarian to the window to confirm that the sound of the gunshot has drawn no attention.
There is no traffic on the street. All is deserted.
He glances across to the Jardines de Palermo, which, likewise, is still. The trees cast shadows. Is that a movement in the park? A tall blond man steps out from behind a jacaranda, his gaze directed up toward the PI’s window.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gordon McAlpine is the author of the Edgar® Award–nominated Woman with a Blue Pencil, which Joyce Carol Oates described as “a brilliantly structured labyrinth of a novel . . . one that Kafka, Borges, and Nabokov, as well as Dashiell Hammett, would have appreciated.” He is also the author of the critically acclaimed novels Hammett Unwritten, Mystery Box, The Persistence of Memory, and Joy in Mudville, as well as the award-winning trilogy for middle grade readers, The Misadventures of Edgar and Allan Poe. He lives with his wife, Julie, in Southern California.
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