After Silence

by Jonathan Carroll

  “It’s hard to tell it’s a restaurant. No big, uh, fanfare or anything.”

  “Well, you should have seen it last month! No face is better than what we had. Wait’ll you meet Ibrahim. Come on.”

  The parking attendant jogged back to us and I saw he was Oriental. Lily said something in what sounded like the same language she’d used earlier at the museum. The two of them smiled.

  “Max, this is Ky.”

  “Hi, Ky.”

  “Hello, Paper Clip. Hello, Max Fish-ah.”

  “You know me?”

  “Ky knows everyone famous in L.A. That’s his way of studying to be an American. Right, Ky?”

  “This is right. I do not understand your cartoon but you are famous, so it must be very good. Congratulations.” He bowed deeply and took my car without another word.

  “What’s with him?” We walked toward the restaurant.

  “Just what I said. Ky’s Vietnamese and wants the green card here. He thinks America will like him more if he memorizes its famous people.”

  “That’s the oddest thing I’ve heard today.”

  “Not so odd. What’s more important in America than being famous? Famous is best, notorious is second best. Come on.”

  The moment she opened the door, the voice spat out like a zap of static electricity, sharp and crackling with speed and random inflections.

  “You think you’re a skyscraper, Ibrahim. You think you got a World Trade Center imagination. Forget it. You’ve got one floor, ace. A molehill. You’ve got a strong antenna, Ib, but all the stations’re coming in jammed. What you’ve got is enthusiasm and money; they can only buy you material. Popcorn and oil, but no heat to cook it up. Gays are supposed to have taste, man. Arabs have money, gays have taste! Thank God you’ve got me.”

  The speaker was short, dark, and handsome. He might’ve been an actor in an ethnic movie about Brooklyn neighborhoods or Italian immigrants. But because he was so short and spoke so fast he also sounded like a stand-up comic who told cruel funny stories about his family and himself. He was scolding another dark man, much taller and rounder, with an unmistakably Arab face. This bigger one wore a wonderful expression—a combination of love and shame and enjoyment in one. He listened carefully. By the look in his eye some of what was said registered, but mostly he was just happy to be near his haranguer.

  “Oh, Gus, put a cap on it,” Lily said, and walked straight up to them. The little guy swiveled on his heel like he’d been challenged to a gunfight. The Arab stood where he was but his face glowed even more happily.

  “Hollow, Lily! It is your day off. Why are you here?”

  “Hi, Ibrahim. I brought a friend to see the place. Max Fischer, this is my boss, Ibrahim Safid, and his partner, Gus Duveen.”

  Ibrahim threw both arms up over his head. “Hollow, Mox!”

  Gus scowled and said disgustedly, “Max, not Mox. How are we ever going to get the fucking camel out of you? How’re you doing, Max? Hi, Lil, Finky Linky.”

  Lincoln stepped forward and took Gus’s hand. “We went to the museum and saw a car accident.”

  “Probably a happening in the museum and some art school geek got a goddamned grant to do it.”

  Lincoln looked puzzled. “Whaaaat?”

  “Forget it. Lily, guess what. Ibrahim wants to re-dec-o-rate.” He turned to me. “My partner is passionate about two things—me and this restaurant. Once he knew he had me, he started wooing this place into becoming famous. He gives it whatever it wants—face lifts, hair transplants, tummy tucks… In the last two years it has had three entirely different decors, but now we have reached the end.

  “I promise you, Ibrahim, if you change this restaurant again I’m leaving. I will not share a bathroom mirror any longer with a man who has no faith in his own judgments. I don’t care if you can afford it.” Narrowing his eyes, Gus gave his lover a look that would have made Medusa look away.

  “Stop it, Ignaz. Fight when you’re at home.”

  Later, Lily told me she called them Ignaz and Krazy Kat because they were both so much like the characters in the famous comic strip: Duveen never stopped throwing “bricks,” while Ibrahim never stopped looking at him with love or, when he was really mad at the other, absolute affection.

  Luckily there weren’t many people in the restaurant, so Gus’s blast wasn’t heard by many. Those who did looked up and calmly down. I got the feeling they’d heard it before but paid it no mind.

  “Who’s cooking today, Ibrahim?”

  “Foof.”

  “Oh good! You can eat anything, Max. Foof is cooking.”

  “Foof? Great. Who’s Foof?”

  “Ky’s girlfriend. They met at the Immigration Bureau and have been living together ever since. She alternates cooking with Mabdean.”

  “Mabdean?”

  “Mabdean Kessack. He’s from Cameroon.”

  “Very good at vegetables. But he does not like meat, so it is a bad idea to order it on a day he is in the kitchen,” said Ibrahim, hirer and boss of meat-hating Mabdean.

  Mabdean lived with Alberta Band, one of two waitresses at Crowds and Power. The other being her sister Sullivan, who, in her off-hours, performed with the infamous theater group Swift Swigger. Want more? These Band women were the daughters of none other than Vincent Band, the revolutionary/suspected murderer/bank robber extraordinaire of the 1960s, who is serving out his life sentences in San Quentin prison but may be due for parole any day now. According to the Bands, Father would eat the world alive if and when he ever got out.

  We finally ate lunch, but what did we have? What was said at the table? Did I speak? The restaurant was a fire storm of energy, tempers, goings-on. Customers knew each other, food came when you weren’t expecting it. Foof the cook appeared wearing a chef’s hat and a T-shirt saying “Butthole Surfers.” It pictured two circus clowns giving the finger.

  Generally speaking, people either loved this restaurant or never came back after one invariably raucous meal there. The food was delicious, the rest depended on one’s sense of theater or, too often, theater of the absurd.

  Ibrahim Safid came to L.A. years before as an exchange student from Saru, one of those small Middle Eastern countries that have a hundred times more oil than citizens. He came to study economics with the intention of returning home one day and injecting some Western know-how into a land rich in natural resources and old wisdom but not much twentieth century. Instead, he became addicted to everything California and stayed. His father was rich and indulgent, so when his only son said he wanted to live in America and open a men’s clothing store, Dad supplied the money. The store did well but Ibrahim grew bored and sold it. About this time he met Gus, who was working as a waiter at a swank restaurant in Beverly Hills. After they’d been together some time they decided to open their own place.

  From the beginning it had been called Crowds and Power, and whatever else you might say about the restaurant, the food was good. Ibrahim had a knack for hiring cooks. He was also a neophiliac. Neo, not necro: things constantly had to be new. Paint the place, change the furniture, the cuisine. The most dreaded word off his lips was “redecorate” and the people who worked there heard it very often. Not that he was looking to improve or refine either. It didn’t matter to him if the avocado soup was perfect, the walls a wonderful blue, or that the strange high-tech cutlery made people smile and heft the pieces in their hands like delighted children with new toys. Out with the old. Out! Out! Out! What was exasperating was that the man was often right. Los Angelenos love change. The more Ibrahim changed the style, the look, the dishes at Crowds and Power, the more people came. Lily contended her boss knew what he was doing, no matter how flutter-brained his decisions appeared. Gus insisted his lover had only been lucky. One day he’d change everything again and suddenly they’d be empty “as a nun’s cunt” and it would stay that way because even the best customers finally grow tired of never knowing what the hell they’re coming to. Krazy Kat Ibrahim listened to Gus and smiled full of lov
e but continued to do it his way.

  Lily managed to manage the place. I got the feeling it was because she had the ability to stand back from this melee at the right moments. She wasn’t a particularly patient woman, but in her job she knew how to wait till all the information was in before making a judgment.

  Everyone there liked and appreciated her, even the misanthropic Gus. You could see in the way people looked at her or asked her opinion that she was special to them, a valued spirit and arbiter who could see all sides and was generally fair with her assessments.

  All this in one day. After lunch I walked out into the trombone blast of heat and light and was momentarily stunned. But was it because of what I’d walked into or out of? I had her address and telephone number written in nervous script on the inside of a pack of matches from the restaurant.

  When Ky brought my car around, Cobb the greyhound was sitting next to him in the passenger’s seat.

  “Does he always do that?”

  “No! He’s very good dog, but sometimes there is a car he likes and he just do it.”

  “Don’t people mind?”

  “Yes! Many hate it. Then Ibrahim give them a free meal.”

  I climbed in and looked at the old boy, who had yet to move, although Ky had opened the door on the other side and was calling for him to come out.

  “I have to go home now—if that’s okay with you?”

  He didn’t look at me. I was about to pat his head but remembered Lily saying he didn’t like to be touched. After some more time he yawned enormously and slowly stepped down and out.

  I drove home with good new smells in the car—greyhound, hope, excitement.

  My friend Mary Poe is the hardest-hearted human being I know. She is a private investigator who specializes in divorce cases. She’s also a great fan of “Paper Clip” and on more than one occasion has told me stories from her working life that I’ve been able to use in the strip. That night while I was working and still basking in the events of the day, she called.

  “Max? I’ve got one for you. I don’t know if you can use it but it’s funny as hell anyway. This cop I know told me they got a call from a woman who just moved into some ritzy new apartment up off Sunset. Said she was coming out of her place and heard someone calling for help. But the weird thing was, this ‘help’ was real quiet, you know? Not like HELLLLP! But ‘help,’ in small letters. So they shoot a squad car over and the woman shows them the apartment. Sure enough, they put their ears to the door and hear it too—a little quiet ‘helllp.’

  “Bang! They break down the door and charge in. The caller follows them in to see what’s up. Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the kitchen. Bingo! Guess what’s in the bedroom. A totally naked woman tied down on a brass bed. S&M time, right? Even better, down on the floor next to her is a guy in a Batman suit and he’s not moving. Looks like he’s maybe dead.

  “The skinny is, it turns out these two lovebirds are married. The only thing that gets them hot is for him to tie her down, then get dressed in his Batman costume, climb up on the dresser next to the bed, and jump down on her, screaming ‘BAAAATMAAAAN!’ Only this time Mr. Romantic missed and cracked his skull on one of the bedposts. He’s been lying on the floor more than an hour and wifey’s scared he’s dead, but embarrassed about being where she is, so all she’s been doing is calling, ‘Help,’ but real quietly, hoping only the right kind of person will hear and come.”

  “Was Batman dead?”

  “Nope, only a concussion.”

  “I like it, Mary, but it ain’t for the strip. Listen, something else. Do you know a restaurant named Crowds and Power?”

  “No.”

  “Do you owe me a favor?”

  “No, Max. You owe me two.”

  “Oh. How about making it three?”

  She sighed. “I’ll get a pen and paper.”

  “No need. I only want you to find out about that restaurant.”

  “Anyone in particular there?”

  “Just a kind of general look-see.”

  “How come?”

  I considered lying to her but what was the point? “I met someone who works there and I want to know—”

  “Very romantic, Max. You meet a woman and immediately want them investigated. What’s her name?”

  “Lily—No, look, you’re right. It’s terrible. Forget it. Forget I asked.”

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong—it’s not such a bad idea these days. Isn’t love wonderful now? You meet someone and get excited, but you can’t sleep together because they might have AIDS, and you can’t marry them because every other marriage breaks up, and who’s supposed to give who flowers now that we’re all liberated?… Tell me if you do want me to look into it. I always like it when you owe me favors.”

  “I will. How’s Frank?”

  “Frank’s Frank. He’s wrestling this weekend. You wanna go?”

  Mary’s husband was none other than Frank Cornish, better known as “Tackhead,” onetime world wrestling champion. One of Mary’s favorite pastimes was going to his matches, sitting ringside and booing him. I’d gone along a few times and spent most of the evenings pulling her back into her seat. One memorable night Tackhead leaned over the ropes, pointed a menacing finger at his wife, and growled, “Dance on my dick, Rat Queen!” At home they watched Preston Sturges films, read science fiction novels, and she bossed him around. Not that he paid any attention. I never fathomed the dynamics of their marriage although we spent a good deal of time together. They fought constantly and openly, and even when they were at peace, it was like the loaded pause between lightning and its slow husband, thunder. Any second now…

  I had an idea. “Can I have two tickets?”

  “Two? Ah-hah, you want to bring Ms. Restaurant?”

  “Why not? You can’t get more romantic than heavyweight wrestling for a first date.”

  “It’s clever, Max. She’ll either be impressed or run screaming. Let’s hope she doesn’t turn out to be another Norah.”

  “Amen to that.”

  My last girlfriend, Norah Silver, was a brilliant, nervous woman who worked as an illustrator for medical textbooks. She loved to travel and we went many places I never would have gone without her. She had surprising stories—she’d gotten close to Mecca; an old boyfriend’s pet python got loose in her car and hid somewhere in the dashboard for five days. She was funny and had kept the most endearing child’s sense of wonder. Both of which helped her over a natural pessimism about things and the belief life was only a series of atoms and events bumping randomly into each other. I got used to her dark moods and it appeared she got used to my unintended aloofness. For a time, for a few months, we felt the light of the world had fallen on us as a couple and we were readying ourselves for a life together. Or so I thought.

  Then one night she admitted she’d started seeing a man who flew airplanes. That was how she described him the first time. “He flies airplanes.” As if his profession was enough to justify her betrayal. We were in bed, ten minutes beyond love in that drifting no-man’s-land where truth has a tendency to float up like mist off the sweat and pleasant emptiness of the act.

  Why is sex so often both the beginning and the end of a relationship? What is there about it that gives it such range and versatility? Whether Norah was afraid of getting further involved with me, or her Airplane Man had irresistible qualities I didn’t, I honestly couldn’t fathom her action, decision, choice… whatever it was.

  Mary Poe was sure she knew the cause. “She fucked the other guy to see how you’d react. Simple as that. Max, I’ve known you most of my life and love you, but you act like getting married is the same as lining a plane up to land on an aircraft carrier. Not until everything’s perfect can you start going in. But that boat’s on water and it’s rocking back and forth, man! You can’t keep dillydallying, or adjusting your flaps and waiting for the perfect moment before you start down. You’ve got to do what you can, then go in hoping God and vision will do the rest.”

&n
bsp; “I believe in sticking to something once you’ve begun.”

  “Maybe Norah didn’t think you’d begun yet.”

  “Baloney! There’s loyalty and there’s trust. We all know what they mean.”

  Mary put her hand on my head and slid it slowly down to my hot cheek. “I agree, sweetie. It depresses the hell out of me every day in my job. Seeing these greedy people sneaking around, grabbing for as much as they can, but when they get their hands caught in the cookie jar, they start screaming like six-year-olds, ‘It wasn’t me! I didn’t do anything! Wa-wa!’ That’s what I like about Frank—he’s dumb, but he’s good and I can trust him. The only other women he sees throw tomatoes at him.”

  My relationship with Norah spiraled down into two dogs barking at each other through a chain-link fence. It was hopeless. The last time we slept together was the best it had been in months. We talked about that, sadly, until her telephone rang. She grabbed the receiver before the answering machine took it. Listening, she said, “I’ll call you back,” then chuckled when she heard the other’s answer. I got dressed and left. A month later I received a postcard from the Robin Hood Museum in Nottingham, England. On the back was a quote written in her flawless script: “She would’ve been a good woman… if there had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”

  Before I had a chance to invite Lily Aaron to the wrestling matches, she invited me to a birthday party, Lincoln’s tenth, to be held at his mother’s restaurant. When I asked what sort of present he would like, she said, “A monster. Buy Lincoln any kind of monster and he’ll be a happy man.”

  This was one man I most definitely wanted to be happy, so I set out to find the ne plus ultra monster in the city of Los Angeles. I began by going to toy stores and saw attempts that were dumb or only disgusting, but nothing that would bring any genuine delight or surprise to a ten-year-old. A friend tipped me to a place downtown that sold only Japanese robots and monsters. I went and was momentarily tempted to buy a six-foot-tall blowup Godzilla, but that was taking a chance—what if the birthday boy already had a six-foot-tall blowup Godzilla? I could imagine the scene at the restaurant: right in the middle of opening his presents he’d either have to pretend to be pleased or, more like a kid, tell me he already had one. Disaster! This was a strategic purchase, an important moment in the birth of my rapport with his mother. I needed to do it right.