by Tim Davys
“Gin and tonic,” Vincent ordered, waving one paw in the air. “And throw in a few olives! And leave the bottle here!”
“I wouldn’t mind another glass of water,” said Tortoise.
“You don’t like losing control, do you?” said Vincent.
“No,” answered Tortoise.
The answer seemed natural to him.
“But sometimes you have to,” said Vincent. “Try, and see what happens. Life can’t be controlled.”
“Well,” Tortoise answered meditatively, “I don’t know if I agree with that. You can probably control most things. I’m not a particularly reactive type.”
“Reactive?” Vincent laughed. “That’s another way to put it. If you ask me, Diego, reactions are all we have. If we’re not good at reacting, we’re in bad shape.”
Vincent held up the bottle of gin. Tortoise did not understand what he meant.
“Think about it, Diego. You can’t control reality . . . I mean, try to control what I’m saying?”
“No, of course I—”
“And at the same time you have to react to everything I spew out. You have to give me some answers. Handle it.”
“Yes, but I—”
“So whether you want to or not, it’s all about reacting. And losing control, my friend, will be your training. ’Cause that’s what life looks like, you know? Uncontrolled. Random. Idiotic.”
“Well,” said Diego, who did not want to contradict his newfound friend, but not agree with something he couldn’t stand for either, “I guess I think that many things in life are logical and rational. Complicated, sure, but not incomprehensible, if you just accept the fundamental conditions.”
He spoke in a slow drawl that Vincent found very irritating.
“And perhaps that’s even our cause, our mission here in life, to try to bring order to all that you’re talking about,” Tortoise continued. “What’s ‘idiotic,’ as you say.”
Tortoise had been one of the best pupils in his class, and after his civil engineering degree he could pick and choose among job offers. Hare’s architecture degree remained unfinished. Even if they were both at Bombardelli & Partners looking for work, they had applied for two different positions.
Tortoise applied for a position in the construction department, after having studied and been fascinated by durability theory in college.
“Good luck bringing order to existence, my friend, and if you succeed you have to call me. Now I want whiskey!” Vincent yelled to the bartender, but it was hard to hear what he was saying because he was slurring. “There’s no more of this porridge left.”
Hare did not notice that Tortoise still had not had anything to drink besides water.
After the Afternoon Rain more customers appeared, and right before the Evening Weather the bar was full. Tortoise did not dare leave the thoroughly intoxicated hare alone. The stuffed animals at Clerk’s studiously avoided watching as Vincent snorted and laughed and shouted and drank; he drank more than Tortoise thought it was possible to drink. When the money finally ran out, Tortoise helped Vincent home. Tortoise lived more or less around the corner from Vincent’s red-dotted Calle de Serrano, on cement gray Calle de Padilla. Tortoise hailed a taxi, and when they arrived he helped Vincent up the stairs into his apartment building. The last half hour it had been impossible to make out what the intoxicated stuffed animal was saying, even though he talked constantly.
It was five weeks before Vincent Hare started at Bombardelli & Partners, and by then Diego Tortoise had already worked there a week. Within a few days, everyone had formed an impression of the loud hare. His desire to be liked stopped at nothing. Tortoise did not know whether this was deeply tragic or simply unpleasant.
Vincent’s clothing, to start with. Colorful suits that appeared to be a few sizes too small, with handkerchiefs that seemed to gush forth from the breast pocket and were as gaudy as the suits (but in contrasting colors), along with pointed shoes with shoelaces the same color as the handkerchiefs. It reminded Tortoise of a clown running around the office.
Furthermore, Vincent’s ingratiation knew no bounds. Every morning on his way from reception to his desk approximately in the middle of the office, he managed to drop more flattering comments than Tortoise would formulate in his entire professional career. The art form was perhaps impressive, but Tortoise leaned over his desk, blushing, to avoid showing how ill at ease he was. Hare himself seemed unaffected.
It was natural that the two sought each other out at first. They were newcomers who started at about the same time, and between them there was also that evening when Tortoise had dragged the dead-drunk hare home from Clerk’s. They were opposites, so Tortoise found it more interesting to look for similarities. It turned out that they had both read Gillespie’s On Night in Tourquai (which Tortoise appreciated while Vincent thought it shied away from the deeper problems), they agreed that the new Volga Mini was a step backward in terms of design, and they both liked pizza, which is why for the first few weeks they had lunch at Gino’s, even though it was a bit of a walk.
Surrounded by the heavenly aromas from the open wood-fired oven and the comforting din in the popular restaurant, where a full-bodied red wine was served in carafes with the food whether you ordered it or not, Vincent went into great detail about the internal power structure at Bombardelli, as he perceived it after a few weeks.
“Bombardelli is not just king at the office,” Vincent announced as he rolled up a perfectly cut wedge of pizza and stuffed it into his mouth. “The rattlesnake is an autocrat. Dictator. He IS the office. I don’t think you understand what that means, Diego. He decides everything. In detail. The pen you are using this afternoon . . . it’s not by chance you are holding just that one. Everything is part of Bombardelli’s plan.”
Tortoise did not drink alcohol with lunch, but Vincent tasted the red wine and it was to his liking, so he took another gulp before he continued.
“And the rattlesnake’s partners, Daniela Fox and Horse Svensson,” Vincent informed him. “She’s thirty-seven, he’ll soon be eligible for retirement. This is the kind of thing you have to keep track of, Diego. There is no rule that says there can only be two partners, or that one partner has to retire before Bombardelli appoints a new one.”
Tortoise had ordered a Pizza Compastone with no olives but got olives anyway, and picking them out demanded his concentration. Stuffed animals came and went during lunch; at Gino’s you sat at a long table, and the hare and tortoise already had new neighbors.
“Don’t you understand?” asked Vincent, noticing the tortoise’s lack of interest and feeling offended.
“Don’t I understand what?”
“But . . . there is only one reason to start at Bombardelli & Partners: It’s to become a partner yourself. Everything else is a failure. This is a competition, Diego. Between you and me. A race. We started the same time; let’s see who becomes a partner first. May the best animal win!”
Vincent Hare was 27 years, 73 days, 4 hours, and about 30 minutes old and had worked at Bombardelli & Partners for five weeks when he met Maria Goat for the first time. It happened by chance, in the morning, by the coffee machine. He had already set his cup at the designated place in the machine, but took it out again and let her go ahead of him. She had on a red-speckled blouse he liked, and she looked at him with open curiosity. She had an attractive roundness, short legs, and her cream white wool smelled of roses. She pushed the button for “Choco-Tea” and he assumed she had made a mistake. So he said something to the effect that he had pushed the wrong button to start with, too. Thirty-five stuffed animals worked at the office; he had never seen her before and therefore assumed she was new. She answered that she had worked at Bombardelli & Partners for two years, and that she preferred Choco-Tea to the alternatives.
Maria Goat was one of the youngest architects at the firm, and was considered promising. She was not inte
rested in philosophy and lived alone because she chose to. She had Choco-Tea several times a day, she liked Tortoise (whom she considered a model of reliability and solidity), and she had season tickets to the Concert House because she idolized Rachmolotov (whom Vincent had never understood). During the months that followed, she treated Vincent with the same sort of curious interest that was in her eyes the first time; as if he were an odd object, an anomaly at Bombardelli, and he could not decide if he was flattered or bored by her treatment. At some point every day, by the coffee machine, in the lunchroom or in the elevator, they nodded fleetingly at each other, and if they had time exchanged a few words about the particularly interesting and big projects that more or less the whole office was affected by and everyone had an opinion on.
During this time Vincent attempted to adapt to “reality.” He thought about the word in quotation marks, even though he tried to refrain, and let the days come and go as they would. After six months at Bombardelli he discovered by chance his gray notebook, long untouched in the drawer in his nightstand. He took the notebook out, and wrote:
1. Meaning of Life: Repetition = life?
2. Knowledge Account: Don’t think so much, it feels better that way.
3. Bank Account: Looks promising, could be better.
No one observing the scene from the landing in the ballroom would have believed it was the first time Vincent Hare was at a party where the written invitations had arrived two months in advance. He was dressed in a form-fitting midnight blue tuxedo with a white scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, and a pair of midnight blue patent-leather shoes that set him apart from the crowd. Nonchalantly he held his cup and saucer at waist level and laughed lightly without anyone having been funny.
But in reality he was greedily soaking up every detail, every second, every gesture, and every word he came across. He was 28 years, 105 days, 15 hours, and about 15 minutes old. In life as he had known it so far, nothing surprised or terrified him any longer, but the sound of the sand that ran through his mental hourglass sometimes thundered like an avalanche. That was why this social sphere that he had recently discovered, high above what he was used to, was so important. It was a sign that it was still possible to discover unknown pieces of the puzzle that perhaps might explain or tie together all the seemingly meaningless and disparate parts flowing around in Vincent’s life.
Several hundred stuffed animals in evening clothes were gathered in the grandiose ballroom. Dinner had just been taken in the Hall of the Stars directly adjacent. Vincent had not been aware you could hire the National Historical Museum for private parties.
Jack Dingo suddenly showed up, with a broad grin on his face.
“You don’t fool me,” Dingo said. “You were so turned on by that anaconda you got to sit next to, you hardly knew what you were eating. You were drooling, Vincent.”
“Where were you sitting?”
“Where I could see you,” Dingo replied. “I never would have brought you with me if I realized you couldn’t behave in fine circles.”
They both laughed, because it was obvious that it was the dingo who didn’t appear to belong among the party attendees. His glass claws lacked a counterpart in Mollisan Town and gave him a certain originality, but there was an expression in his eyes and around his mouth that neither the claws, a white shirt, or a white bow tie could conceal. The dingo’s kind of avarice was not openly appreciated by the upper class.
“I see,” said Vincent. “These are the finer circles? If you knew where the tip of that anaconda’s tail was during dinner, I doubt you would talk about fine circles. But I admit it was hard to concentrate on the food.”
Dingo laughed.
“Samuel!”
A plump dolphin went past with a large cognac glass in his fin. He stopped when he heard his name, and lit up when he saw Dingo.
“Jack!” he exclaimed. “Who let you in?”
“Samuel, say hello to Vincent,” said Dingo. “He’s new here. Take care of him. Where’d you get the cognac?”
Dolphin nodded vaguely toward a corner of the ballroom where many stuffed animals appeared to be gathering, and Dingo went off to the bar. Dolphin stayed behind. A string quartet started playing on one of the balustrades. The music fell like gentle rain over the gala dresses and made them glitter.
“Well, now. Are you an associate of Jack’s?”
“I assume that’s the sort of thing I should deny?”
Dolphin laughed.
“I think you’re right. We all know him, but no one lets on. If you’re not at Rosenlind’s level, of course,” said Dolphin, throwing out his fin to emphasize the abundance of the evening. “Because then you can associate with any riffraff at all, it just makes you interesting.”
“I really don’t know Rosenlind except by reputation,” Vincent admitted. “He’s said to be . . . terrifying?”
“To get anything in this life,” Dolphin replied, “takes will. That applies to Lion, it applies to you, and it applies to me. And the will must be strong . . . you know, it can be perceived as unpleasant. I assume Lion frightens some. But look, speak of the devil!”
Jack Dingo came walking with Lion Rosenlind in tow. Beforehand Vincent had done his homework and found out that Rosenlind, besides the boards he was on, not only owned the convenience store chain Monomart—as was generally known—but also for the past ten years controlled the manufacture of Volgas. This meant that he employed hundreds of thousands of stuffed animals in his industries, and that his power over Mollisan Town was considerable.
“Vincent Hare,” Lion Rosenlind called from a distance, as if they were old friends. “It is a true honor to meet you. Jack always talks about you. You’re a painter, Jack tells me?”
“Well, I needed to pay the rent,” Vincent answered with a suitable smile, “so these days I work at Bombardelli.”
“An architect!” Rosenlind exclaimed. “Impressive. And how do you put up with that eccentric? Bombardelli is building a reputation. He’s gifted, but he pushes the boundaries.”
“Who doesn’t?” asked Dolphin.
All four of them laughed, Vincent without being sure why.
“It’s true,” said Rosenlind. “We all live on the edge. But only Jack gets paid for it.”
Jack raised his glass and toasted them, but before Vincent had absorbed the thought that Rosenlind was one of Dingo’s customers, the lion had disappeared to talk with more guests.
That night when he came home he took out his gray notebook, and wrote:
1. Meaning of Life: Can it have something to do with physical satisfaction? Why can’t it be that simple? When did materialism become a sign of stupidity?
2. Knowledge Account: Smile. They like that.
3. Bank Account: Everything is relative.
Let’s drive down to Mindie,” said Lion Rosenlind, and he pronounced the name with emphasis on the first and last syllable, the way Vincent Hare had always done.
They were sitting in an anonymous but elegant office, and Vincent had just signed fifty-some documents without having any idea why or what he had signed. Rosenlind stood to the right behind Vincent, and on the other side stood an attorney who supplied Vincent with papers. The last time he had asked what he was signing, and Rosenlind had given him a long, complicated explanation with terms and time perspectives that soon bored Vincent. To run a business in Mollisan Town apparently required piles of permits and signatures. If Vincent had heard right, between the last time he signed piles of documents—a couple of months ago—and this time, he had purchased several chemical industries. Today he sold them again. But he wasn’t sure, it could be something else, he didn’t really care, he was happy to lend his name. A week ago Rosenlind bought a car for Vincent to thank him. Vincent, who knew that nothing was free in this city, was still wondering, however, what would be asked in return, because he doubted that these signatures could correspond t
o the black Volga GTI with brown leather seats he was now driving.
The attorney excused himself, threw together his documents, sorted them in plastic pockets, and set them in his briefcase. Then he quickly departed. As Vincent understood it, Lion Rosenlind had offices in Tourquai as well as Amberville and Lanceheim, anonymous corner rooms at the end of long corridors he seldom seemed to visit. Instead of work he devoted himself to the things he liked: sports and cars, food and females. Rosenlind’s successes had given him a unique position. There was a rumor that the mayor of Mollisan Town had the habit of confirming major decisions with Rosenlind, because the lion controlled such a large part of the city’s industries.
For that reason it was fascinating, thought Vincent, that the powerful multibillionaire found such childish joy in investigating Yok.
“Now, let’s drive down to Mindie,” Rosenlind repeated in Vincent’s accent.
Together they sat in the backseat of one of the lion’s limousines, and Vincent had to provide an address where the chauffeur would drive them and drop them off.
The more run-down the neighborhoods Vincent took Rosenlind to, the greater the billionaire’s delight was. In Mindie, that was a simple task. You only needed to walk a couple of blocks before you stumbled across traces of prostitution and crime. Rosenlind could spend long afternoons in brothels where Vincent never would have set his paw, or else he smoked opium at bars Vincent had passed for twenty years without going in. The anonymity that Yok offered the disguised billionaire liberated him. He called it his “breathing hole,” and Vincent did not question anything; why should he?
At regular intervals they changed roles, however, and Rosenlind became Vincent’s cicerone in those parts of the city that were the opposite of Yok. The lion presented his unknown friend as one of the most interesting contemporary young architects (though Vincent made it clear he worked as a project manager and nothing more). Vincent got to rub elbows with the rich and powerful in Mollisan Town. The contrast to the afternoon outings in Mindie could not have been greater. Usually they ended up in restaurants and nightclubs, but on a few occasions they went to private parties in one of the enormous houses at Swarwick Park or out in Le Vezinot.