Thirteen Confessions

by David Corbett

  He passed through the pagoda-style gate on Grant Avenue and dragged himself up the steep hill, maintaining his balance any way he could, bracing himself on cars or delivery vans along the curb, latching onto parking meters, grabbing lampposts entwined with dragons, trying not to tumble into the vendor tables mounted outside every storefront.

  Somehow he managed the two long blocks to California Street and planted himself breathlessly on a wooden bench in the shaded square across from Old St. Mary’s. Rest here, he thought, not long. Once you’ve got your strength back and can talk without choking, maybe ask a lady with a kind face if you can use her cell, call Katy at the center. Say you were mugged, which is true after all.

  Wiping tears from his good eye, he glanced up at the cathedral’s bell tower and felt a sudden, powerful sense of release. He’d reached a place of reckoning, acceptance, and felt ready to surrender. If he could only decide: to whom?

  In time he spotted a familiar figure at the corner, waiting for the light. A slender man in a sport coat, a scarf knotted at his neck. His appearance seemed incongruous, even impossible, and yet not. Excluding Metta House, where else but here to encounter Doctor Wu?

  Lonnie scrambled from the bench and headed toward the corner. He didn’t make it in time for the light, and he lacked the strength to call out, but he watched Doctor Wu continue down Grant, deeper into old Chinatown.

  Traffic was light so Lonnie crossed against the red, shambling as quickly as he could. He spotted Doctor Wu turning into an alley and hurried to catch up, forgetting his pain, his weakness, his savaged eye and ribs and knee. When he reached the corner where Doctor Wu had turned he found himself facing a narrow cul de sac cluttered with nondescript shops and restaurants at street level, tenements overhead, towering above the damp pavement.

  He went storefront to storefront, glancing through steam-fogged windows. At last he spotted the telltale sport coat vanishing up a stairwell inside a crowded dim sum tearoom. Totally Asian clientele, not a round eye in the place—it worked to his advantage. Nothing but stunned glances tried to stop him as he plowed through the dining room to the doorway that led upstairs.

  His good fortune ended at the top. A wide, thick-necked, short-haired guard in a black suit manned the door at the hallway’s end, the one just now closing. He stood with his open left hand covering his right fist, as though ready for a Bao Quan bow.

  “I need to speak with Doctor Wu.”

  It came out slurred—the damage to his face, the stabbing lack of breath from his stairway climb. Bracing himself with one hand against the wall, he shoved off with each step, pushing himself along. The guard simply stood there, eyes front, the empty gaze of a temple dragon.

  “I need to speak with Doctor Wu!” Bellowing now, as best he could.

  That brought the door guard forward, ready to wrap Lonnie up, pitch him back down the stairs into the clamor of voices and hissing oil, clanging pots. Lonnie slammed his palm against the wall, pounding against the ancient plaster as he continued shouting, “I need to speak to Doctor Wu! It’s me, Doctor Wu, Lonnie, I need to speak with you, please! Please come out, talk to me, please!”

  He was thrashing in the guard’s vice-like arms when the door opened. Doctor Wu stood there, ashen but otherwise expressionless. Beyond him, inside the room, a number of stern-faced men in suits, white shirts open at the neck, no ties, sat around a conference table in utter silence.

  Doctor Wu whispered something harshly over his shoulder to someone inside the room, then entered the hallway, closing the door behind him. He said something in Chinese to the guard who, after a long moment, released his hold.

  Lonnie collapsed to the floor. Doctor Wu bent over him, checking the various obvious wounds, specifically trying to look at the shuttered eye.

  “You need medical attention,” he said.

  A short time later Katy arrived and, with the help of the thickset guard, managed to get Lonnie down to her car. Doctor Wu had long since vanished back inside the room with the other men.

  She turned up California, heading west. Lonnie said, “Don’t take me to a hospital.”

  She didn’t respond—just kept driving, eyes straight ahead, hands at ten-and-two.

  “If I wanted to go to a hospital I could’ve stopped at SF Gen.”

  “Lonnie—”

  “It was on the way. Kinda. Given where I was coming from. Where I … ended up.”

  She stopped at a crosswalk and they watched a gaggle of Asian school kids troop merrily corner to corner, the sound of their laughter dulled by the windshield.

  “Why didn’t you?” She looked both ways, then accelerated from her stop. “Go to the hospital, I mean.”

  He sank a little deeper into the car seat. In a whisper: “I don’t know …”

  They continued on in silence for several blocks. “Well, never mind. Doctor Wu feels terrible about what happened—he assumes it had to do with the errand he gave you—and he’s already called his personal physician. He’s waiting for us at Metta House.”

  How responsive, Lonnie thought. How discreet.

  “Those guys back there at the tea house,” he said, “the ones Doctor Wu was meeting. Who are they?”

  Katy shrugged. “I’m not sure. Businessmen, I suppose.”

  Lonnie managed a small laugh. “Think I don’t know a gangster when I see one?”

  “Lonnie, please.” Like she was talking to a feverish child. “You’ve been beaten nearly to death, who knows what kind of damage you’ve suffered, shock alone, but that’s no reason—”

  “The Triads are in bed with the Chinese military.”

  “According to who—the U.S. press?”

  “He’s a spy, isn’t he—Doctor Wu, I mean.”

  Katy put her hand to her head. “Lonnie, for God’s sake—”

  “Christ, for all I know, you’re all spies. Mazur for sure. Jonathan?”

  “Yes, yes. You’ve found us out. We’re all … spies! What better way to end the infinite afflictions of all living beings. You know what bodhisattva really means, right?”

  “Secret agent?” He’d never seen her angry before. She looked on the verge of tears. “Have to admit, it’s a perfect front. Put a little ‘boo’ back in Buddha.”

  She shook her head. A small, miserable laugh. “You ungrateful prick.”

  “Who says I’m ungrateful?”

  “Please, just be quiet.” She redoubled her focus on the street ahead. “At least until we get home.”

  So that’s what we’re calling it now, he thought. Not the center, not Metta House. Home.

  Except for the doctor, the place was empty when they arrived. Not uncommon, most of the others still worked. Katy helped Lonnie to the sofa nearest the fireplace and the physician, an affable, melon-faced Asian perhaps ten years younger than Doctor Wu, commenced with the expected Q&A—what happened, where does it hurt, are you experiencing flashes of light or a buzzing in your ears—his voice calm and caring and precise.

  Rummaging in his pebbled black bag, he said, “I understand you are a recovering addict. I therefore need to ask your informed consent before administering a painkiller. But I would like to get a better look at that eye. The knee as well, of course, but that may require a specialist.”

  A painkiller, Lonnie thought. Probably an opiate. Fentanyl, maybe.

  He nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

  The doctor took out a sterilized needle and a vial, the print too small and faraway for Lonnie to read. As the syringe’s cylinder filled, Katy came closer, crouched beside the sofa, and took Lonnie’s hand. Her grip felt reassuringly cool and dry.

  The doctor came close. “I’m going to lift your eyelid, which may be very tender and painful. But I need to anesthetize the area, and the best spot for that is the eye itself.”

  Lonnie decided not to tell him he’d shot up in his eye before.


  “From the needle itself, you’ll only feel a pinprick, nothing more. Okay?”

  Lonnie nodded again and braced himself and, all things considered, it went quick. He lay back and closed both eyes and waited for the effect to hit, only realizing once the numbing warmth began to spread throughout his body that the doctor had emptied the entire syringe. And, from what he shortly gathered, it wasn’t just an opiate. It was a paralytic—at least, he couldn’t move. And yet, with Katy’s fingers still entwined with his, panic seemed a thousand miles away.

  If he were to describe the ensuing sensation to someone, he’d say that it was like wandering into a strange, small church, no one there but you, except for an unseen organist playing up in the choir loft, which you can’t see no matter where you look. You can hear the music, though: a hymn you think you recognize, the name right there on the tip of your tongue. But then the music falters, the organist loses the tune—stops, goes back, repeats an earlier phrase, but once again turns into a musical cul de sac. The organist retreats, revisits another beautiful line, then wanders off, stumbles across another hymn, diddles with that, then strays into odds and ends from other songs: “Fools Rush In,” “River Deep, Mountain High,” “Mary Had a Little Lamb” …

  And everywhere that Mary went …

  Someone should wise up the lamb, he thought, as the cool dry fingers he’d been clutching slipped free. Following Mary is not a viable long-term option.

  The Ant Who Carried Stones

  The woman, on her knees, pressed her lips against the man’s rough palm. “I swear, all I’ve told you, every word—”

  “Run through it again.” He took back his hand. “All of it.”

  She didn’t dare look at his face. “I haven’t lied.”

  “A thief too proud to lie.”

  “I didn’t steal—”

  He got up, kicked his chair backwards. It clattered across the bare floor. “I said tell me what happened. Again.”

  She clenched her hands beneath her chin, steadying them. “My cousin, Marisa—we live in Boca del Monte—she told me all I had to do was carry a suitcase to Panama. I lost my job at the hotel. My daughter, Rosela, she cries herself to sleep—”

  “Leave your daughter out of it.”

  “‘People do it every day,’ Marisa said. Yes, some get stopped at the airport, the suitcases ripped apart, the money found stitched up inside. But the amounts are legal, just under 78,000 quetzales. No one gets arrested. ‘That’s why they call us ants, because the amounts are small.’”

  “Small to who?”

  “Please, I know I made a mistake—”

  “A mistake?” He snagged the chair, slammed it against the floor. “Talk!”

  “Marisa and I delivered our suitcases to a house in Zona 18. They said come back the next day. We did, with maybe twenty others, sitting on the floor in an empty room like this but bigger. Eventually they came and gave us back our suitcases, drove us to the airport. A man named Lorenzo met us there.”

  “Count yourself lucky you’re not him right now.”

  “It’s not his fault.”

  “You’re protecting him?”

  “No. I—”

  “No means yes. He was in on it.”

  “There was nothing to be in on, I just …”

  He snapped his fingers. “Come on.”

  “We boarded our plane. Despite what Marisa said, despite the amounts, I was terrified. The police are so corrupt, there’s no telling—”

  “Getting ahead of yourself, no?”

  “Once the plane took off, the others relaxed. I couldn’t. Marissa tried to calm me, holding my hand, praying with me—”

  “You talked about how you’d get away with it.”

  “No! Listen to me, she had nothing … It was my stupidity. Mine alone.”

  She glanced toward the window. Sunlight flared through slatted blinds.

  “You landed at La Aurora.”

  “Lorenzo told us, stay together. But the terminal’s so crowded, like fighting a river swollen from rain.”

  “Screw the crowd. You snuck off.”

  “I saw a counter, selling blouses. The embroidery, so beautiful. I thought: Rosela would love something like this. My beautiful girl, she’s so brave, I’ve given her so little—”

  “I said leave her out of it.”

  “I didn’t even realize I’d stopped walking.”

  “You thought, ‘Oh, look what I could buy with all this money.’”

  “No. It was a blouse, a simple blouse!”

  She put her hand to her face and quietly wept. He let her go for a moment, then another fingersnap.

  “The others—they were where?”

  “I looked, but there was just this sea of people.” She wiped her face. “Suddenly, these policemen appeared.”

  “Yes, your corrupt police.”

  “They said they were with the Policia Nacional and ordered me to give them the suitcase.”

  “Naturally, you obeyed.”

  “I told you. I fought. They tried to grab it from me, I held on with both hands. I was afraid to call out. What if I just got the others in trouble as well? Try to imagine what I felt. I’ve never done this, never done anything like it, I’m a simple, silly woman from a poor town, I’ve never even been in an airport—”

  “Yes, yes. These corrupt cops, phony police, whatever, they went for the suitcase.”

  “One of them slapped me across the face.”

  He chuckled. “Surely you’ve been struck before.”

  She flushed from shame. “I was stunned. I didn’t—”

  “And they snatched the money.”

  “They vanished into the crowd. I tried to get my bearings, running one direction, then back, looking for Lorenzo, Marisa.”

  He turned his head and spat. “You got in a cab.”

  “I had only a little money, not enough to get back to Guatemala. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Who did you call?”

  “No one. Who could I—”

  “You knew the name of the hotel where the others went.”

  “I didn’t have my suitcase! I was so scared. I needed time to think.”

  He dug something from his pocket. She dared a glance. The hand she’d kissed now held a pistol.

  “Perhaps there’s some truth in your story. The river makes noise because it carries stones. But you lost a lot of money.”

  “Marissa will tell you—”

  “She washes her hands of you. Called you a scared, stupid fool.”

  “Lorenzo—”

  “He thinks you went running to the first cop you saw.”

  “That’s a lie! I was confused, scared, I swear—”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” He thumbed back the hammer. “What matters is the money. And the money is gone.”

  Feeling the gun barrel nestle in her hair, she shut her eyes tight, praying: Lamb of God, who takes away …

  He didn’t fire. Her terror broke, like a fever, dissolving into clarity, and she could feel, however slightly, that now he was the one trembling.

  “I am not a thief,” she said. “You are not a killer. And yet here we are, two stones in the river.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “I understand now. Do what you must. I forgive you. Please forgive me.”

  “Listen to you.”

  “Whatever happens, you’ll go to the airport. You won’t be able to help yourself. You’ll look for the counter, the one with the blouses. And you’ll find it.”

  “That proves nothing.”

  “One blouse in particular, with dragonflies and sunflowers and lace. You’ll buy it. Tell them to wrap it. Rosela Melendez, Boca del Monte.”

  “Stop saying her name.”

  “She’s the reason I’m here. J
ust as you are here because of me.”

  Finally, she looked up into his face.

  The Axiom of Choice

  As I sat here waiting, wondering how to explain things, I caught myself remembering something often said about set theory.

  I teach mathematics at the college, I’m sure you know that already. It’s sometimes described—set theory, I mean, excuse me—it’s oftentimes described as a field in which nothing is self-evident: True statements are often paradoxical and plausible ones are false. I can imagine you describing your own line of work much the same way. If not, by the time I’m finished here, I suspect you will.

  I see by your ring you’re married. Perhaps you’ll agree with me that marriage, like life itself, is never quite what one expects. I’ve even heard it said that, sooner or later, one’s wife becomes a sister or an enemy. I’m sure for a great many men that’s true.

  I’d put it differently, however. Again, if I can borrow a phrase from my area of expertise, I suppose I might say of Veronica’s essential nature—her soul for lack of a better term—what Descartes said of infinity: It’s something I could recognize but not comprehend.

  Now, I can imagine you thinking, given what you saw in our bedroom, that such a statement reveals a profound bitterness, even hatred. I assure you that’s not the case.

  But there’s no getting inside another person, no rummaging around inside a wife’s or a lover’s psyche the way you might dig through a drawer. The gulf between me and my wife, her and Aydin—that’s the name of the young man whose body you found beside my wife’s: Aydin Donnelly, he was my student—the gulf between any two people may feel negligible at times, intimacy being the intoxicant it is, but the chasm remains unbridgeable.

  It has nothing to do with facts—my God, who has a greater accumulation of facts than a married couple? No, I’m not speaking out of bitterness. On the contrary, I feel humbled by this observation. What I mean to say is this: If you simply bother to reflect on the matter seriously, or just open your eyes, absolutely everything, even oneself—and especially one’s wife—remains mysterious.