by Lavie Tidhar
‘I just joined,’ Joe said. He made some cash materialise. The man followed it. ‘Always a pleasure to welcome new members, sir,’ he said, making the money dematerialise. Joe grinned. ‘Where’s the post room?’ he said. The man pointed. ‘Straight and to the left,’ he said. ‘There’s only Millie on duty, sir.’
‘Thanks,’ Joe said.
He walked down the muted corridor. He was running on nervous energy, a sense of something ending. Sounds of cutlery, clinking, the pop of a bottle, laughter, conversation. He felt like the intruder that he was. At the end of the corridor he turned left — the post room small, a sleepy girl behind the counter, a red Royal Mail post box by the open door.
‘Millie,’ Joe said, and the girl opened her eyes with a start — ‘Sir?’
‘The name’s Mike,’ he said. Smiled friendly. ‘Mike Longshott.’
He saw the reaction in her eyes — ‘Sir, I—’
‘I understand you’ve been holding some mail for me?’
‘Sir? No, sir.’
‘What do you mean?’
The girl looked confused — a mirror held up to Joe. ‘Your instructions, sir,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Joe said. ‘I might need to change them though. Now that I’m here.’
Raised voices in the distance. There was a clock above Millie’s head — the ticking was driving Joe insane. ‘Can we just go over my original instructions?’
More money materialising like magic. ‘For your trouble,’ he said.
The girl suddenly beamed. ‘I have to say I was intrigued,’ she said. ‘I never thought…’
‘You’d see me?’
She nodded. He didn’t tell her, the feeling echoing deep inside him. The voices louder — coming closer. ‘My instructions—?’ he said, leaving a gap for her to fill.
‘All moneys from Mr. Papadopoulos in Paris to go towards maintaining the membership account,’ Millie said happily. ‘All queries, fan letters, requests and miscellanea to go direct to Mr. Papadopoulos in—’
‘Paris?’
‘Yes.’
Round and round and round we go, Joe thought. It was a clever setup. Another dead end. Also — Papa D. held out on me.
‘Any fan letters?’
‘Not really, Mr. Longshott.’
‘Anything come in recently?’
‘Only this. I haven’t forwarded it yet.’
She handed him an envelope. United States stamp, dated two weeks before. Joe put it in his pocket. ‘On second thought,’ Joe said, ‘I think I’ll keep the arrangement as it stands. You’re doing an excellent job, Millie.’
She blushed. And — ‘Could you—?’ she said. A paperback appeared from under the desk — worn, dog-eared. Assignment: Africa.
Joe: ‘Is there a back door exit from here?’
Millie: ‘Yes, right through here.’
Running steps in the corridor outside. Joe closed the door, locked it. ‘Problem with the account,’ he said, shrugged. Pen on her desk. Opened the book to the title-page, wrote, To Millie, who looked after me, and signed it, with a flourish — Mike Longshott.
Knocks on the door. ‘Follow me,’ Millie said. Opened a second door, led him into a narrow service corridor, walked down it, pushed open steel fire doors and let in the night.
‘Goodbye, Mr. Longshott,’ she said.
‘Goodbye, Millie. Thank you.’
There was something wistful in her smile.
Joe walked out and the fire doors closed behind him with a sound like that last thumping of a drum.
a sheet of paper, folded accordion-fashion
——
He sat on a bench and the night went past him in a blur.
Just sitting there felt good. He had reached the end of the road — there was no trail left to follow, nowhere left to go. Freedom made him light-headed. Opium fumes, alcohol, nicotine and coffee made epic battles in his body. When he closed his eyes he felt like he was falling. There was a gaping darkness underneath. He wanted to let go, fall into it. When he opened his eyes he saw disconnected images: the girl on the stage, a screen of rainbows hiding her face; another London he had glimpsed and didn’t like; Rick, the shadows of the bars falling on his face; the man from the CPD talking about opium, stirring coffee; Madam Seng’s hand on his face, her eyes wet; Mo’s empty office, the row of books on his shelf slouched like guerrilla soldiers on parade; the woman he met at the airport in Bangkok, searching the board for a flight that would never come.
He couldn’t go back to his hotel — the men from the CPD would be there, waiting for him. They had tracked him down to the Blue Note — there had been two warnings, good-cop, bad-cop — he didn’t think there would be a third.
He could go back to Vientiane. It seemed very far now, a hot dry place transformed in the rainy season into a lush tropical garden, the dusty streets swept by thick drops of rain, unpaved sidewalks turning to mud, eggplants going out of season, mosquitoes congregating around open drains to pass on gossip and malaria. He still had the black credit card: he could go anywhere.
Anywhere but over the rainbow, he thought. Or perhaps that was wrong. Perhaps the song was upside down. It was returning from the place where the clouds were far behind that was the problem. Sometimes you can never go back, he thought. He wanted more than anything to solve the case, it gave him substance, shape, a backdrop, a script. He could go anywhere and still be nowhere. He could try and find answers at the bottom of a glass but even those were running out.
He was sorry for beating up on all those doormen, sorry for all the beat up worn out gatekeepers of the world, for all the closed locked doors, for all the dark rooms that would never be lit, for all the hidden secret inscriptions of the mind. He had to admire Longshott, if it really was him, for setting up the mail loop, London-Paris-London, Frith Street to Boulevard Haussmann and back, an endless repetitive loop hiding everything, revealing nothing.
Or maybe not, he thought. Not exactly nothing. He sat up straighter. From his pocket, he brought out the letter he had collected. The Statue of Liberty on the stamp, a postage date of two weeks before. He examined the envelope, determined nothing, tore it open.
A sheet of paper, folded accordion-fashion, slid out and into Joe’s hand.
He spread it open on his knees. Began to read. Noted the large, badly-printed typeface, the profusion of exclamation marks — frowned, read on, shook his head — began to laugh, but the laughter cut short.
It was worth a shot.
And he had nothing else.
He read it again, folded it back the way it came, returned it to its envelope. Stood up. The first rays of light were struggling against the grey-black horizon, like prisoners beating against bars. Joe slipped the envelope back into his pocket, patted it. He found a public rubbish bin, wiped Mo’s gun clean, slid it into the bin bag.
Walked towards the distant sunrise.
IN TRANSIT
the letter from America
——
Morning breaking, the sun a distant lamp carried unsteadily up in the heavens. Rain fell, washing the city, lending the red-grey bricks a sheen of vitality, a coating of moss. Joe had bought coffee at an all-night vendor, Styrofoam cup, the coffee black, two sugars, had it with a cigarette — doctor’s orders. His hand holding the cigarette shook.
Early morning, London. He’d gone back to Edgware Road, on foot. Cars roared in rush-hour traffic above his head. He’d gone into a barbershop, a trick shop beside it just opening up. Did all his shopping on the high street — new clothes, new haircut, new hair colour, wore glasses — a suit, a briefcase, a pencil moustache. Oxford pin on his tie. A Rolex watch, fake and heavy on his wrist. He looked at himself in a shop window and nodded to the stranger. ‘You’ll do just fine,’ he told him. The stranger mouthed the words back to him, without sound.
His last call the bank, took out cash on the black card. The letter from America was snug in the breast pocket of his suit. A black cab to the airport, the driver chatty — ‘Me, I�
�m from Baghdad. You ever been?’
Joe saying, ‘No.’
‘Lovely place,’ the driver said, and sighed. ‘When I go back I’ll take a black cab with me.’
The drive was slow, the roads busy, the sun still struggled to come out. The rain drizzled down the windows of the cab. The world beyond was smudged.
Red brick houses stoic in the rain. Traffic lights blinked sedately. School kids crossed the road. Joe could smell coffee brewing, bread baking, saw forests of dark umbrellas sprouting in the streets. Postmen marched determined from house to house like soldiers performing a search. Blue-haired ladies were opening doors, turning on the lights in hospice and charity shops. Joe edged the window open, let the smell of rain come inside the cab, closed his eyes. The cab driver said, ‘In my country the rain is different.’
Joe didn’t reply.
Outer London spread out from the cab like ripples. Low houses, double-decker buses, somewhere in the distance the bell ring of a school, somewhere in the distance the tolling of church bells, somewhere in the distance, coming closer, the sound of planes, landing and taking-off.
‘In my country,’ the cab driver said, ‘it’s very sunny, not like here.’
Joe let it pass. They drove into Heathrow, watched blue-overalled mechanics swarm around a stationary jet, uniformed stewardesses waiting for the shuttle bus, a two-man team clearing out the rubbish.
‘Smells like oil,’ the cab driver said, and suddenly grinned. ‘Just like in my country.’
Joe didn’t reply. At the terminal the cab stopped, and Mr. Laszlo stepped out. Rolex, briefcase, tie with tie-pin; glasses, moustache, polished black shoes. He paid for the cab. He went inside the terminal, looked out for men in black. Didn’t see them, but knew someone was there.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I hope you can.’ Mr. Laszlo smiled, put his hand on the desk, a heavy gold wedding band on his finger catching the electric light. ‘I’d like a ticket to New York.’
The woman checked her folders, went through a list. ‘I have a seat available on the next flight. That’s in two hours.’
‘That,’ Mr. Laszlo said, ‘would be perfect.’
but soon
——
They were looking out for him but Joe wasn’t there, and Richard “Ricky” Laszlo had nothing to do with the CPD, whoever or whatever they were. As he approached the plane, briefcase still in hand (empty but for three shiny-new Vigilante paperbacks he had picked up on Edgware Road, to replace the ones he had had to abandon at the hotel, the fourth one, World Trade Center, held in his other hand) a light rain was falling and as pale sunlight pierced through the drops he saw her, and stopped.
They stood under the metal plane. She said, ‘I thought…’ and stopped, and on an impulse he took her hand in his, and it was cold. ‘At the Blue Note,’ she said. ‘You left. I…’ again, a silence punctuating her words. ‘When will it end?’ she said.
‘I need to find him,’ Joe said. ‘I need to know.’
She said, ‘Yes…’ He covered her hands in his, trying to warm them. She felt very cold. She looked into his eyes. He wasn’t sure because of the rain, but he thought she was crying. ‘Stay with me,’ she said.
‘I…’
She inched her head, regarded him. When she smiled it reached her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I want you to.’ She was like a wild bird, there on his hand, ready to take off. ‘I want you to know.’
She took her hand away. He let his fall to his sides. Above their heads the engines thrummed. A distant announcer sang the names of far-off cities. ‘I have to get on the plane,’ he said.
She said, ‘Or you’ll regret it?’ and shook her head, wearing her smile like a veil. ‘Maybe not today, but soon?’
All at once she made him uncomfortable. Her eyes were too bright, too knowing. Yet he feared letting her go, sensed how close she was to disappearing. ‘I’ll find him,’ he said.
‘And I will find you,’ she said. ‘I will always find you.’ Then she turned away from him. She walked away in the rain, and for a long time he stared after her, long after she had disappeared between the drops.
Then he climbed the stairs onto the plane; it was only when he stepped into the air-controlled environment inside that he realised the once-new paperback in his hand had become damp and soggy from the rain, and as he took his seat he fanned the pages open in his lap, airing them as he stared out of the window onto the tarmac, searching for her, but she wasn’t there.
— a second invasion —
Baghdad had burned before.
On February 13, 1258, the Mongol army of Hulagu Khan swept into the city, looting, burning, and killing. Baghdad’s Caliph, Al-Musta’sim Billah, was rolled in a carpet and trampled to death by Mongol troops, ensuring his blood, being royal, did not touch the ground. Palaces, mosques, hospitals and homes burned to the ground. The Grand Library was destroyed, and it was said the river Tigris ran black with spilled ink.
745 years later, it was invaded again.
This time they came with tanks; attack helicopters; fighter jets; smart bombs and guided missiles, a string of communication and surveillance satellites like a pearl necklace strung across the sky, in that thin membrane between Earth and space. They came to wage a war on terror, prompted by an attack thousands of miles away.
That attack had been, like a common modern-day fork, four-tined. Once forks themselves were the subject of a holy war. ‘God in his wisdom,’ wrote an unnamed member of the Catholic Church, ‘has provided man with natural forks — his fingers. Therefore it is an insult to Him to substitute artificial metallic forks for them when eating.’ Though this war was not about forks, the attack was carried out in the name of God. Four planes had been hijacked and made to crash, two of them into the tallest structures in the city of New York.
Almost 3000 people had died in that attack. The nineteen hijackers had also died.
Two years later, Iraq was invaded (for the second time in a decade) and its caliph, who was now called President, was taken prisoner and, later, executed. He was — terminated — in the appropriately-named Camp Justice in Kadhimiya, a north-eastern suburb of Baghdad. His last meal was chicken and rice, washed down with hot water and honey. He was killed with a rope around his neck at six o’clock in the morning.
The World Health Organization estimated that in the first three years of the invasion of Iraq, 151,000 people of the target population had been killed.
closing doors
——
He didn’t want to think about death. Outside the window, earth had given way to dark sky, sky to an impenetrable layer of cloud and, beyond that, dawn, giving way to empty night strewn with pinpricks of cold shivery star-lights, like holes in the canopy of a world. Going from London to New York was a sort of time travel, racing back into the night. The book was damp in his lap. The paper, already giving off that faint whiff of corruption from its cheap, pulpy pages. The seat was hard against his back. The cabin was in darkness, Joe’s seat light the only one still shining. Outside the Earth revolved, slowly, irrevocably, as it hurtled through space at an unimaginable speed. Inside the cabin dinner had been served and cleared, and the smell of heated-up chicken still lingered, mixing, for Joe, with the smell of the book. Like the chicken, the book seemed already dead, its text warmed up unnecessarily. He tried to imagine what lay ahead for him, and found that he couldn’t. He tried to picture the city of New York, but it seemed an absence in his mind, a place on the map that had only a hole to mark it. He realised he no longer knew what was true and what wasn’t, where fiction began and reality ended. He felt unsettled in his seat, kept turning this way and that, trying to find comfort and failing. He put the book aside and pushed his way through the adjacent seats into the aisle, and made his way to the illuminated sign that meant the bathroom. He felt the floor of the plane through his socks, his toes clutching at the surface as if it were solid, immutable: it was not planes he feared, but the approaching ground.
&
nbsp; He closeted himself inside the toilet cubicle, shutting the door behind him. Plastic fixtures, dim yellow lights: his face in the mirror looked like the face of a ghost, staring back at him. He sat down, high above the ocean. When he stared at the wall in front of him he saw that someone had scribbled a note on the light-brown surface, five lines, the handwriting unsteady, the black ink letters spilling up and down from their rows, the thing like an obscene epitaph left by person or persons unknown who would never now, could never now, be known.
As a child I tried to step between the drops
Now I close doors softly
Like a stranger who had wandered in, lost
Into his own home
And does not want to wake its occupier.
PART FIVE
ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK
nothing to declare
——
New York was a silent field of lighted butterflies, too numerous to count. Lights rose up into the skies, hovered over the shoreline, swamped out the stars. The captain said, ‘Twenty minutes to landing.’ Looking out of the window Joe thought he could see other planes in the skies, circling at a distance from each other as they waited for permission to land.
Inside the immense hall of FDR, Joe lost his bearings for a moment. There was too much of everything there. Too much ceiling, too high above. Too many voices, too many people, bumping into each other like random particles in Brownian motion, thousands of individual stories that intersected for just one brief moment, touched and converged and tapered off in another direction. The floor was cold marble scuffed by too many shoes. A hidden announcement system seemed never to fall quiet, calling passengers going to or arriving from Paris, Bangkok, Tehran, Moscow, Jerusalem, Peking, Beirut, Nairobi. There was that sense in the arrivals hall of an imperial impatience, tapping its foot, saying, this is the gateway of the world, now get on with it, but in an orderly fashion please.