Yok

by Tim Davys

  “Are you paying attention?” Lion laughed every time he noticed how impressed Vincent was.

  Vincent never knew exactly what he meant.

  Before those evenings out, Rosenlind sometimes bought exclusive clothes for him.

  “But I already have a dark suit,” Vincent might object.

  “Unfortunately you can’t get away with homemade jackets in Tourquai.” Rosenlind laughed, and Vincent felt ashamed.

  At the same time he understood that he was doing the lion a service. The rich predator liked feeling generous, and he liked buying expensive but clearly meaningless objects best of all. Six months after Rosenlind bought back the chemical industries, a couple of restaurants were transferred to Vincent for tax purposes, Rosenlind’s attorneys explained, and before the signing of these documents, Rosenlind stopped by Grand Divino and bought a ballpoint pen that cost the equivalent of two years of Vincent’s salary. It was idiotic.

  “So you realize how important these signatures are.” The lion laughed.

  A week later Vincent lost the pen. It happened at a nightclub where a young polar bear swiped it after writing his phone number on Vincent’s business card. Vincent went to confess the loss to the billionaire.

  “Easy come, easy go,” said Rosenlind, when Vincent suggested they should report the incident to the police.

  After such nights, bewildering and crazy, when Vincent at most managed to get a couple hours’ sleep, it was sometimes hard to readjust to civilian life, to the everyday routines of work and to meeting stuffed animals whose lives were limited by time and resources. The sand was pressing sluggishly through the narrow waist of the hourglass.

  The office layout at Bombardelli & Partners suited Vincent. He considered the architectural firm’s diligent employees his audience. He arrived in midmorning, long after the rain had ceased, and never tired of making his rounds among the desks. He smelled of expensive cologne and had a colorful handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. He laughed often and loud. Vincent made a point of remembering whose mother-in-law had been visiting, who had been at the dentist with his cub, who had read Clouds over Meek Street, and who was brooding about getting a divorce. He knew what projects they were working on and whom they would have lunch with. He confirmed, questioned, and provoked, depending on individual and need, and there was a single purpose for this daily display: to prove to himself that he could. Vincent’s longing after the nights with Lion Rosenlind’s friends did not reduce his striving to become one of society’s small, insignificant cogs, and perhaps in that way give existence a meaning. Rosenlind’s life would never be Vincent’s anyway, not even if he had access to the same money and the same power. The fact that Vincent could dress up as one of Rosenlind’s equals for a shorter or longer period was another matter. But making yourself blind and deaf, which Vincent realized was a prerequisite for Rosenlind’s kind of life, would be impossible in the long run.

  The decision to leave Jack Dingo and Jack’s whole circus behind to instead become an ordinary wage slave still seemed reasonable after a couple of years. Reality, Vincent knew, rested in the eyes of the surroundings, and he exploited that. Through the personnel at Bombardelli he was reminded that he had made the right decision, and that he had changed. At night, in solitude or with stuffed animals who only saw themselves, the transformation was less apparent, and that alone was a reason to drag himself off to the office every day. On the other hand he had a harder time taking the work itself seriously. As project manager—already after eighteen months he had dropped the title of assistant—it was about selling ideas. To start with, the firm’s ideas for the customer, and then the customer’s ideas back to the firm. The latter was always harder, because the customer had less prestige than architects as far as architecture was concerned.

  Of all the stuffed animals who worked at Bombardelli & Partners, Vincent Hare remained eager to work with Maria Goat. Out of habit he courted the females he came in contact with, something he had started doing in his late teens. He continued that behavior as he got older, and practice made perfect. But Goat in particular gave him no response. This made his interest grow even further.

  Vincent Hare was 30 years, 55 days, 4 hours, and about 10 minutes old when Rattlesnake Bombardelli formed the group that would work on Samuel Dolphin’s house, a group led by Goat. She was on an immediate collision course with her principal, Samuel Dolphin, however, and only a couple of weeks into the project found herself in the midst of a moral and professional dilemma. For several days she and the stuffed animals on her team discussed the problem. They often stood around Goat’s desk dissecting the question, looking for different perspectives and angles of attack, but Vincent understood the core of the problem as simple. Either you let the customer—in this case, Dolphin—get his way, or else you realized that the architectural concept you—in this case, Goat—had could not be maintained. It had been thanks to Vincent that Dolphin came into contact with Bombardelli. On an intellectual level Vincent understood how Goat was thinking, but in practice he understood that the only thing was to do as Dolphin wanted.

  Samuel Dolphin, who made his fortune on sparkless matches, sought help from Bombardelli to design a house that would be a monument to his successes. He bought four town houses on the same block in Amberville, and intended to raze them all and replace them with his vision, which to a certain degree was Goat’s vision: cubistic, deconstructionist, and sparkling green.

  But five days ago Dolphin got the idea that all the windows in the building should be removed, closed up, and replaced with a glass roof not visible from the street. He had called from a bar in Tourquai and left a voice message with this order on Goat’s cell phone late in the evening. Loud thumping music and shrieks from shrill voices were heard in the background. Then Dolphin left another message early the next morning, in which he demanded that Goat confirm that she received his first message. But the change, according to Goat, would transform a visionary residence into a bunker, even if it had a glass roof, and she refused to put her name on this barn with boxes attached (which, to be sure, retained their lovely forms and colors). For that reason Goat had not phoned back. Dolphin was furious, and on three occasions he visited Bombardelli at the office to tell him what he thought about the firm’s professionalism.

  Maria Goat was sitting on a chair in worn jeans and a wide-sleeved, white blouse, arguing in a low but definite voice for her cause, often as she was typing on her computer or scheduling meetings in her calendar via phone, and no arguments could budge her.

  “But he’s paid us,” said Vincent, who was leaning against Goat’s desk, stretching out his long legs so that Goat was forced to roll her chair aside. “Which means that this is his damned house now, not yours. Those are his drawings. He can do what he wants with them. You’ve sold yourself, Maria. It’s just ridiculous that you don’t want to admit it.”

  He knew that would provoke her, but he couldn’t refrain. He recognized himself in her without realizing it. Vincent had always let intellectual ideas turn into compulsive thoughts, had always let principles kill spontaneity. Goat seemed to be similar.

  With little interest he listened to her litany of responsibility and artistry and other things that Vincent had given up long ago. He nodded and smiled, mostly so she could get it all out, but the irritation was growing. The other stuffed animals standing around Goat’s desk out in the open office layout nodded, too. She could plead her case. A less cynical stuffed animal than Vincent would have been impressed. The afternoon sun fell in through the windows and made the threads in Goat’s blouse flash.

  “Samuel Dolphin is a friend,” said Vincent. “I don’t need to speculate. You can think what you want, but Samuel’s attitude is simple. He’ll be living in the house. Not us. So he’s right.”

  Which made Goat burst out in a new lament. Vincent was the provocateur, the one who poked holes in her argumentation with a quick, clever remark and put his finge
r on the most tender point. Now he was the one who let himself be provoked. It was an unaccustomed experience, and somehow it pleased him. It proved that he was emotionally engaged.

  He let her win the discussion that afternoon. As soon as the other animals dispersed and returned to their places, he invited her out to dinner. He knew she would say yes. After all, he had never had a no. Goat was resistant and a trifle suspicious, but that was part of the game. They agreed to meet in the twilight at Chez Voudrais, and when they parted a few minutes later he was fortunately able to conceal how satisfied he was.

  Hare was a practiced seducer, and his main problem had come to be this very habit. Lack of commitment was a serious sin if you were sitting across from an expectant female who had devoted hours to making herself beautiful; thinking about other things and not being anxious about the evening or displeased about your progress was unforgivable, and threatened the end of the seduction. This had started happening to Vincent. He had stopped being interested. He asked beautiful females out to dinner a few times a month, simply to stay in practice.

  Goat arrived a few minutes late. Vincent regretted it as soon as he saw her. The energy of the afternoon had run out of him. He suffered through the appetizers in tormented silence. Toasted with champagne and let his eyes sparkle in the glow from the candle on the table. With the entrée things got more interesting as they gossiped about colleagues at the office. She proved to know more than he had guessed, and the warmth she felt for Diego Tortoise touched him. He was seldom in contact with that sort of genuine devotion, and it made him inexpressibly melancholy without knowing it. With dessert he noticed again that he was running on idle, but then there wasn’t much time left.

  And it was only at dawn, as he soundlessly slipped out of her apartment and left her naked in bed, with the sheets like twisted rags on the floor, that he noticed the confusion he felt, but did not recognize. He searched for a bus stop, and while he waited he took out the gray notebook and wrote:

  1. Meaning of Life: No. Still no clue.

  2. Knowledge Account: It must be about putting yourself in situations that you know in advance you DON’T master, as often as possible. But if you end up in such a situation without having planned it? If you don’t recognize yourself in the repetition . . . ?

  3. Bank Account: Why complain?

  Maria Goat’s Comments

  Did I love Vincent Hare? That’s a direct question, but I’m not ashamed to give a direct answer. I loved him. I tried to stay away, but it didn’t work. You really should laugh at my situation. For almost a year I observed him from a distance, and more than once I sneered to myself at everything I loved later—his vanity, his need for affirmation, his self-awareness. How he chose bigger and bigger words the more anxious he became. How the pedestal he put himself on sometimes teetered, and how desperately he struggled to get it to stand still again.

  It was the opposite of love at first sight.

  What made me change? His energy, without a doubt. His energy was the key that opened him to me.

  This is what I mean: Vincent could be infinitely strong and consider himself superior to everything and everyone. The next moment he was filled by, yes, reveled in, his own bitterness and self-pity and complained in a way that would have made anyone feel ashamed. He could be analytically sharp, more thought-out than anyone I knew, and at the next moment let his emotions steer him right toward the abyss. I did not understand this at all, and found it rather trying. During a meeting he might sit absentmindedly, staring out the window for an hour, and then suddenly throw himself into the discussion without caring where he landed. I asked him about that. He said he always had a hard time concentrating. I think he was lying. There was nothing wrong with his ability to concentrate; it was interest he had a hard time mobilizing.

  Then I realized this was all about his energy level. The intensity in everything he undertook was always the same. The introspective brooding. The questioning and the sales talk. The charm he turned on and off like a switch. And then his way of courting me.

  From Vincent’s perspective I was, like all other females, a conquest. This flattered me more than I want to admit. Few are the males who over the years have considered me a conquest. I’m not that type. I guess I can challenge and attract, but I’m not particularly feminine. Not in that way. In Vincent’s eyes I was. Our first dinner made me speechless and surprised, because I had never experienced that before. That kind of cavalier attitude. He treated, even though we both knew I made more. He chose the wine, even though it was quickly apparent he didn’t know anything about wine. He lectured on architecture during dessert, even though I was the one who was the architect. He held on to me in the Breeze, even though I wasn’t cold. It was so moving I couldn’t help but fall for him.

  In a reverse way his solicitude aroused my protective instincts. I have never been a stuffed animal who needs to be taken care of. If my friends were to choose a word to describe me, it would probably be “capable.” Vincent reduced me to someone in distress, but it was so clear that this was a game to him, a charade, that it could not upset me. The more he exerted himself to show off his maleness, the sweeter he became. I know I wasn’t the only one who saw that. In the lunchroom at Bombardelli there were many who sighed in rapture over his manner and his clothes, but the whole time with an undertone of amusement. It was not condescension; it was tenderness. Vincent thought he aroused desire, while in reality he aroused maternal feelings.

  And I felt privileged that I was the one he put first, it gave me a different image in the eyes of my colleagues, a dimension was added to who I was. The relationship between Vincent and I became public, we were invited to couples dinners, and it took time before I realized where we were headed.

  He could not stop courting me, and he had to outdo himself even though no one required it. It was the same thing at work, with whatever he was doing. If he gave me ten red roses on Friday, he had to increase the number to fifteen the next week. If we spent two hours in bed instead of getting up on Sunday, he kept me under the covers another half hour the following weekend. To begin with I didn’t notice this. Then I laughed at it; much of what he did amused me without my daring to talk about it. But at last I saw the destructiveness in his behavior. Then it was too late, for now I was a part of it.

  I tried to talk with him, of course. I’m not timid, I have a tongue. But those kinds of conversations were never good. If he sensed criticism, he became incredibly defensive. And aggressive. There was a darkness over his whole life, and you could absolutely not touch or comment on it. He could talk about others for hours, insightfully and analytically. But he did not want to talk about himself. And trying to see himself, from my perspective, or talk about our relationship, he despised that, and he started defending his behavior before I even brought it up.

  How well did I know Vincent Hare? What do you mean? I wonder if anyone has really gotten to know Vincent Hare. Probably only he himself realizes how lost he is. At the same time, when I say this, I know how easy it is for stuffed animals to make Vincent incomprehensible. There is something enticing in mystifying him, but however much we all want to be special, there isn’t all that much that sets us apart.

  There was in Vincent, more than in others, I think, a greater difference between what he did and what he said. Most stuffed animals say they weigh more than they really do. Sometimes I thought Vincent was the other way around. Perhaps it was his way of pushing limits? He tried a standpoint, a position, formulated himself around it, and then he did the opposite. He could tell about things . . . he had done, which were loathsome. Without my thinking he was loathsome. Is that possible?

  Perhaps I forgave him too easily?

  But, like I said, I loved him.

  Vincent Hare was 33 years, 173 days, 4 hours, and about 15 minutes old when Horse Svensson, one of Bombardelli’s two partners, retired. It shouldn’t have been hard to figure out, given the large reception that
had been held at the office five years earlier when champagne and hors d’oeuvres were served and congratulatory speeches were made on the occasion of Svensson’s sixtieth birthday. Yet the news struck like a bomb whose shock wave swept aside all other issues, and for a few days the talk was solely of Svensson’s retirement. Some were happy about the change and what it might entail; others feared it. The speculations about what would happen could be summarized in three theses: (a) instead of replacing Svensson, Bombardelli would continue with Daniela Fox as sole partner; (b) Bombardelli would entice a prominent architect from another firm by offering partnership; and (c) Bombardelli would recruit internally, that is, make one of the architects currently working at the office the new partner.

  The coffee machine became a meeting place for the most conspiratorial. Vincent Hare, who belonged to this category and who since the news exploded had heard the sand in the hourglass of life running as if it were a rushing river, gathered various groups to discuss the likelihood of the various alternatives. You sipped your coffee and threw out familiar names, which flew through the air to be shot down by criticism and doubt and then fall flat on the ground. Maria Goat usually stayed away, because she had never been interested in gossip. But when the longing for Choco-Tea became overpowering, she was forced to listen to Vincent’s theories as she sipped the light brown chocolate.

  “You then, Maria,” Vincent suggested. “Wouldn’t that be an idea?”

  “How so?”

  Around them stood five or six stuffed animals, and the mood was immediately charged with nervous energy.

  “He means you should become a partner, Maria,” clarified an earthworm who usually worked with Daniela Fox.