‘Why, what did happen with Butterfly? How did you help her?’
‘It was just talk. I didn’t do anything and neither did Butterfly. The guy just disappeared.’
‘But you said you helped her.’
‘No, she asked for my help, but we didn’t do anything. It was like we were making up a story. Nothing happened.’
My brain froze. I was on delicate ground and I should back away, but Beatrice was lying about the teacher. Now that she’d pointed it out it was easy to spot.
‘And then I read the notebook and it was all OK.’
‘How can it be OK that she wrote that she killed your ex-boyfriend?’
‘Because it’s not true and it was a good story. I would have loved to kill him myself. It was my fantasy.’
She carried on and I stared, trying to get some distance from what she had just said. ‘And so I started to sabotage your ideas of Butterfly because I don’t think it’s fair that you thought so highly of her when she was lying to you, even if it is for the sake of an adventure. And I really did feel like your treasure hunt was too close to my life. Ever since college I have been trying to move on from that past and everything about your treasure hunt seemed to be related to me. I decided I wanted out and I told Butterfly. She was really cool with me and said she understood, and it caught me off guard. I agreed to meet you the next day, but you had gone to Jefferson Market Library and you were up to your third murder and I was starting to feel stupid and like I was being used.’
‘By then it was my fifth murder. There were two in Paris as well.’
‘Of course, you told me. The other thing is that now I felt like I had some obligation to you because I’d helped make all this mess. And I was wondering if Butterfly was kind of blackmailing me. I didn’t know what to do. When I was hanging out with you it was nice. When I wasn’t I wanted to run away and never see anybody I know again. I kept saying to myself: next time I won’t reply to that text message, or I won’t answer the phone, and then when it came I felt like it would be nice to hang out. And I was in a shit position and you too; you believe everything everybody says to you. And I didn’t want you to feel stupid because I think you’re not stupid and that you don’t deserve it. And that was the day when I couldn’t go to the cleaners next to my house because you were digging outside. I waited for ages and then I put my hair up and sneaked in, hoping you wouldn’t notice me and thinking that even if you did you wouldn’t recognise me because I was out of context.’
‘Cat saw you. I didn’t know it was you. I just had a funny feeling, though, but I didn’t know what it was.’
‘And then I decided I was going to confess everything to you and that, without directly betraying Butterfly, I was going to betray her and then maybe she’d ask for all the rent and the whole thing was turning out to be very expensive, but it was time to put a stop to it all.’
‘I’ll get these drinks.’
‘It’s not about the drinks. Listen, I went to see Butterfly, who was staying at her mother’s, and we went up onto the roof to talk in private and to have a cigarette, and I told her I wasn’t playing anymore and she said she was really sorry to have upset me, and she wouldn’t ask me to do anything else, and that she was really grateful for my help, and that I wouldn’t owe her rent for this month as agreed. And then I realised that I was looking at a bonsai tree and I laughed and I told her about the low trees in France. She asked me if I was going to see you again and I said that I would like to have a chance to say goodbye, and I went to see you and she had dragged me back into the whole game with the fucking bonsai clue. She wouldn’t let me get away. It was like she was trying to fuck me up. I wondered if she was jealous of me hanging out with you.’
‘God. That would be strange.’
‘Well, I was really pissed. I’m sorry. It was nothing to do with you. So I took you to her mother’s. That was just out of spite for Butterfly, and because you wouldn’t let me not go, and it was so that she could tell you that Butterfly wasn’t dead and then I wouldn’t have betrayed anyone’s trust, sort of. So that was that and here we are. I think I’ve told you everything.’
‘God,’ I said.
Beatrice touched her eyes behind her sunglasses.
‘Well, even if it was all a setup, I really enjoyed your company,’ I said. ‘You’re clever and funny. I couldn’t have hung out with just anyone.’
‘I really liked hanging out with you. I just wanted to be able to stop it all and start again in a more normal way.’
‘But you never wanted me to hit on you, though,’ I said bravely.
‘You didn’t hit on me.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Look, it was fun knowing that there was this slightly flirtatious thing going on. And I’m fascinated by you and your crazy story, but you were dragging me into a past I’m trying to grow out of. I don’t want to live anymore in that dark world that Butterfly inhabits, that you are obsessed with.’
‘I’m not obsessed with it,’ I said.
‘Well, it’s dominated your life for months,’ she said. ‘I can’t carry on being in Butterfly’s stories. I’m going to leave her apartment. I’ve already told her. I want to get better, and you’re part of something that I don’t want.’
‘So that’s why you always went home early.’
‘I just didn’t want to get drunk with you. You’re trouble. Nice trouble, but too dangerous for me.’
‘You said you were unavailable.’
‘Well, it seemed nicer than saying I wasn’t interested—easier to explain. You’re great in so many ways, but you were on the wrong treasure hunt and I don’t think that’s ever going to change.’
‘OK,’ I said, thinking too quickly, ‘did you kill that teacher?’
‘No.’
‘But there’s more to that story, though, isn’t there?’
‘I’m never going to tell you. I’m never going to think about it. It doesn’t exist anymore. You can keep Butterfly and her stories, but I’m not part of it.’
‘OK.’
‘Are you annoyed at me?’ she asked.
‘I was when we were at Butterfly’s mum’s. Then I didn’t know what you were, but I was thinking that you were a bad person.’
‘I know. I thought I was going to explode in tears.’
‘I watched. I’m sorry I was cross.’
‘Cross? I was almost forgetting that you were English and then you go and say something like “I was so terribly cross”.’
‘I wish I could meet you in completely different circumstances.’
‘Oh, that reminds me, there’s one other thing I didn’t tell you.’
‘Oh Jesus. Does it have to be now?’
‘It’s not bad, I just couldn’t tell you before because I needed to escape from you, like I explained, so I omitted to mention that I’m coming to Paris in two weeks for a short break before the new semester starts. I wanted to see some old friends. Anyway, I wondered if I came, if you’d want to get a coffee or a drink sometime.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Well, I’ll call you when I’m there.’
And then we just sat for a while, breathing. I couldn’t see what was going on with Beatrice’s eyes behind her shades. She put her arms on the table and leaned in towards me and said, ‘I still don’t want to get drunk with you. And I still think I might cry.’
‘Are you going now?’
‘Yeah.’ She stood up and got out her purse.
‘No, I really am getting these drinks,’ I said.
‘Well I’ll get the next round.’
‘OK.’
And then she came over and kissed both my cheeks like we were French people and she said, ‘Nice to meet you, Benjamin Constable, with your imaginary cat who I never did see.’
‘He saw you.’
‘Did he like me?’
‘I don’t know. He can’t talk.’ And Beatrice laughed and I said, ‘I liked meeting you too, Beatrice. I half feel that I want to than
k you. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but to say the word seems kind of wrong.’
‘Thank you’s not the right thing to say.’
‘No.’
And Beatrice smiled and walked away and I watched her, waiting for her to look back, but Beatrice doesn’t do looking back.
* * *
I went to an Internet café and there was no new mail. I booked myself on a flight for Paris the next day and telephoned the hotel to confirm that I would be checking out early in the morning. I found an Italian restaurant and ate seafood linguini and drank a bottle of wine myself like a boozy old man. I wondered how much money I’d spent in the last nine days. I must have seriously eaten into my overdraft.
Everything was OK. Somehow I was a winner. I’d done what I set out to do (whatever that was). I wandered out into the street and walked. I thought about Beatrice and I wondered what it would be like to meet her in Paris. Maybe it would be lighter without all the treasure-hunt limitations. I would never ask her about the dead teacher thing.
And then I thought about Butterfly. I walked into Grand Central Station and it was quiet as the evening was coming to an end and I walked along Forty-Second Street. I sat down on the steps of the New York Public Library and smoked a cigarette and then walked round the north side of the library and into the park. I walked past the statue where I found the clue and along the south side to the carousel, wrapped up in tarpaulin, shadowy and still. I walked round and looked towards the fountain.
In real life we don’t get the answers we need. If Butterfly were here, I wouldn’t even ask her.
I sat down on a bench facing the carousel. I thought about Cat. I wondered what time it was. It must’ve been nearly midnight.
24
A Meeting in the Park at Midnight
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back to let the stars wash onto my face. A breeze rattled the trees, forecasting a change of weather, and I imagined a figure walking towards me along the avenue.
‘Hey.’
‘Hello, Butterfly.’
‘I’m glad you’re here.’ She sat down on the bench next to me. ‘I mostly come to this place to be on my own, but tonight I was thinking of you,’ she said.
‘I thought you got on a plane this afternoon.’
‘I changed my mind at the last minute.’
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
‘I didn’t; I just thought you might be,’ she said.
‘Good guess.’
‘Are you going to ask me loads of questions?’ she said.
‘No. I don’t think anything you could say would satisfy me.’
‘I love you, Ben Constable.’
‘Well, that’s nice. I don’t really know what it means, though.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything, it was just something I wanted to say.’
‘I had an adventure, Tomomi Ishikawa. I discovered a new and amazing city and it was fiction-worthy and very bizarre, but an adventure nonetheless. My life is richer for it.’
‘That’s what I wanted for you, not that I think you lack adventure, but I wanted you to do something that I could be involved in. I wanted to show you my New York. I wanted you to see where I lived and where I grew up.’
‘You could have just said, “Hey, let’s go on holiday. I’d like to show you New York.” I think I would have been quite tempted.’
‘Well, this is the way I did it. I feel stupid. I made a big mess of everything.’
‘It did get a little messy.’
‘Did you like Beatrice?’
‘Yes.’
‘I liked the idea that you might have seduced her.’
‘She didn’t want to be seduced. At least, not by me.’
‘Oh well.’
‘You’re pissed off with her, though, aren’t you?’ I said.
‘She shouldn’t have taken you to my mother’s.’
‘Well, I was pleased she took me. It was nice to meet your mum.’
‘That’s good. I don’t think it was a particularly pleasant experience for her, you know, what with you saying I was dead and everything.’
‘Yes, sorry about that. You put Beatrice in a pretty difficult position, though.’
‘Well, you can apologise from me next time you see her.’
We were quiet for a second and then I said, ‘Are you going back to Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘What will you do when you get there?’
‘Go underground to my grave.’
‘Oh, Butterfly, are you one of the undead? That really would be an unexpected twist in this tale.’
‘Ha-ha-ha. I love you.’
She slid along the bench up close to me and I put my arms around her and we stayed like that for a time, and the wind brought fat splashes of rain down on us. It was the first rain I’d felt in New York. I got out my cigarettes, lit two and handed one to her. And we stayed cuddling and smoking and she rested her head against me and the wind grew stronger, and the trees fretted, and suddenly an ocean fell out of the sky. We were soaked in seconds and our cigarettes went out. We ran up to the Bryant Memorial and squished behind the plinth out of the wind and sheltered from the rain. And once we’d wiped the water from our faces and hands, I got out two more cigarettes and lit them. Butterfly licked a last imaginary drop from her nose, more for comedy than out of need, and we laughed and then squatted down with our arms around each other and she pushed her head into my chest and shivered.
After twenty minutes or so the rain stopped. Butterfly stood up and smoothed out her damp clothes.
‘Goodbye,’ she said, and kissed my cheek. Then, the god of imaginary things clicked its fingers and Tomomi Ishikawa was gone—she had never been—and it was just me, by myself, shivering on the step. It was too sudden so I imagined her walking towards the carousel; she turned her head to see whether I was still there, too far for me to see whether she was smiling, and too many shadows. Perhaps she would stop by the fountain and look towards her library one last time. I walked back round to Fifth Avenue on the south side of the building (to keep things symmetrical) and got a taxi to the hotel.
PART THREE
September 2007
25
Incessant Nagging
Where to end a story is matter of choice. This feels like a mantra I’ve been reciting for years. But at a certain point you have to let go and just say ‘And they all lived happily ever after.’ And when I arrived back in Paris this was my intention. I spent my evenings sitting round dinner tables, talking and drinking wine, wondering what the next thing would be to catch my attention, kind of like choosing a new book to read. But people kept asking the same questions, the same questions that were nagging at me and unsettling my sleep. Where was Butterfly? Why had she told me she was dead? Had she really killed all those people? I wrote them down in a notebook and closed it, hoping that might be the end of the matter.
Work started again. For the first few days I was just going through the motions, knowing that it would take a little time before everything seemed settled, but I imagined that, so long as I held my notebook closed, at some point the nagging questions would fade.
Beatrice and I exchanged a couple of emails and arranged to meet for a drink the following week, when she would be in Paris. There were no emails from Butterfly or Charles Streetny and that was a good thing.
I looked at my bookshelf, excited at the prospect of losing myself in a new story, but the only thing I hadn’t read was a copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy that had been sitting there for a long time, ignored. After a few pages it had me drifting off and its verses seeped into my dreams. Like it or not, I hadn’t finished with Butterfly. I knew where she was.
Cat came and stood on my chest. He bapped my face with the rough pad of his paw. ‘For fuck’s sake, Cat, what do you want?’ It was Thursday night just after I’d gone to bed early so that I could get a good night’s sleep, so I could do a good day’s work, so I could go out and have a good Friday night in a rest
aurant, and then a bar, and laugh and talk to people. But Cat wouldn’t leave me be, and so on Thursday night at eleven thirty I got up and dressed, and took the lift down to the ground floor and walked to the metro. I went to Jaurès and then walked down the stairs and through corridors to the platform of the 7bis. I got off at Buttes Chaumont and waited until there was an announcement telling me that there were no more trains, and without looking behind me, without calling Cat, without giving myself time to think, I walked off the end of the platform, past the yellow sign telling me that there would be danger of death if I did, and down the narrow steps. I walked along, hugging the wall into the tunnel. No one shouted at me, no one chased me, and I brushed my hand on the plant, the only plant in the metro. Butterfly’s chalked writing and the arrows had been rubbed out, but I knew where to go. I found the doorway to the left with the stairs running down and turned into the dark, carefully feeling each step with my foot before allowing my weight to fall fully.
Where to end a story is a matter of choice. I know I should have ended it in New York and lived happily ever after. But I didn’t; I carried on writing, each word, each step down taking painful seconds, and after a few minutes I was still in sight of the dim light at the top of the stairway behind me. I found flat ground and a passageway to my left. It was pitch black and there was nothing for my eyes to adapt to. I tried to walk forwards but my body wouldn’t let me. I found my notebook in my bag and ripped out a page, rolled it up and lit one end. I was in a tunnel a metre wide and two high with stone walls, not bricked, but carved out from the pale rock. I hadn’t got more than ten paces before I needed a new torch and tore out more pages to burn. I started with the blank pages and then moved through my notes on New York; things written in cafés, names of streets and squares, three questions about Butterfly. Would I remember without my notes? Would it all still exist without these pages to remind me?
Now I was facing east, or maybe southeast, and moving slowly forwards. When I’d burned the notebook (including the cover) I moved on to The Divine Comedy. It was a shame as I’d only read the first canto. Dante burned more quickly than my scribbled thoughts and I tried to work out the passage of time by the number of pages burned, but it wasn’t easy. So long as I was home by four that would be fine. I wouldn’t burn more than half The Divine Comedy and I’d be sure to have enough pages to light my way back to the metro tracks, and I could get a few hours’ sleep before going to work. The passage forked. OK, I’d be able to remember this junction. I had to go one way or the other so I turned left.
Three Lives of Tomomi Ishikawa Page 23