The Cleopatra Murders

by Mic Palmer

  “Take a stand,” he had basically told him, “define yourself.”

  This in turn got him to thinking about Orlando’s discussion about binary opposition. All at once, it was beginning to make sense. What better way to carve out a space for yourself than to delineate your enemies?

  Thoughtfully stroking his beard, much like Donatello’s prophet, Orlando argued that the statue of David symbolized a new reality, a new dynamic, a new tension. Whether it was the Florentine Republic versus the Medicis, Michelangelo versus the Pope, or more generally the weak versus the powerful, people were taking sides, factions were forming, ideas were being espoused. The result: brand new identities.

  “But what’s with his hands?” Jack reflected. Disproportionately huge, they had the effect of diminishing other important parts of the anatomy, not the least of which that most associated with masculine potency. “Now there’s a contradiction,” he thought to himself.

  “Look at the strength, the beauty, the composure,” his former teacher rhapsodized. “You see how he’s sizing up his enemy – look how natural he appears, how lifelike – can you see the veins in the arms?”

  “Sure,” Jack had thought to himself, “but so what? Is that really so amazing?”

  All of art history, it seemed, came down to the incomprehensibly slow movement away from stiff lifeless forms to more naturalistic animated ones, and this in large part came about through the innovations of Giotto and Masaccio, but Jack could never quite appreciate what all the fuss was about.

  While Giotto’s paintings did indeed contain some degree of movement, his characters lacked authenticity, passion, humanity. Like Jack himself, it seemed that in many ways they were just going through the motions.

  What impressed Jack, however, was the fact that Giotto was also an architect. Examining the strangeness of his nearly 300-foot bell tower (better known as the Campanile), he noted that it almost seemed as if the many windows, bas reliefs, and niches were nothing more than drawings. The façade appeared unreal, flat, two-dimensional, not unlike the figures within his paintings. Nevertheless, it was interesting, almost otherworldly. “Not bad,” Jack mouthed, curious to see what came next.

  When he had last seen Masaccio’s Expulsion, all he could think about was how oddly proportioned the figures appeared to be, how contorted, but now what caught his eye was how truly anguished they seemed. The two hundred years or so that passed between Giotto and Masaccio had apparently made a difference, but only so much. With very few exceptions, Western art was still trapped in the morass of the Dark Ages.

  “What could have been going through their heads?” Jack recalled himself complaining to a sympathetic classmate. “I mean look at all of those sick-looking babies, those sticklike bodies, those blank, almost dimwitted expressions. Couldn’t they just see how off they were, how unrealistic? Did they really need a Giotto or Masaccio?”

  An old man cleared his throat, signaling that Jack was blocking the aisle. “Has it really been nearly twenty years since I said that?” he thought to himself, as he pressed his belly against the bookshelf. Not surprisingly, time had not changed him in this regard. The artists of the Middle Ages were inexplicably terrible, especially when recalling the Greeks, who nearly a millennium before seemed to have figured it all out. Civilization had therefore gone backwards. “I wonder if that could happen today?” Jack thought to himself.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jack’s next stop was 12th Avenue near 55th Street. This was more like it, a darkly lit warehouse so stock full of authentic Arabic merchandise that one could have staged a scene from A Thousand and One Nights. There were gigantic crystalline clear camel bone mirrors, tentacular hookahs, fantastically adorned mosaics, calligraphic vases and plates, gigantic elaborate armoires, Alhambra chandeliers, Madeira benches, and even a few lanterns, all covered with squiggly lines, geometric shapes, and repetitive patterns.

  Then there were the rugs and runners, loads of them, of all shapes and sizes, rolled and unrolled. Taking up nearly a whole wall, they must have numbered in the dozens.

  As Jack approached he observed three workers struggling to unload a huge cabinet from the back of a truck. It was pale blue and white with dozens of broken lines separated by tiny circles. Yelling at each other in Darija, the men were tall and dark, with not an ounce of fat between them.

  “Can I see your boss?” Jack asked.

  Wearing green and orange collared shirts and heavy-looking brown corduroy slacks, the men began shouting at one another, as if to debate the meaning of Jack’s inquiry.

  Just then a large glutinous man in a pink buttoned-down Pinpoint Oxford with yellow armpit stains appeared. “Can I help you?” he offered, after yelling something in Arabic that appeared to mean shut up.

  “Are you the owner?”

  “No,” he responded with a flourish of his overburdened keychain.

  “Is he here?”

  “He’s in Morocco. What can I do for you?”

  “You’re the manager?”

  He was an impatient creature with shiny blue lips, oversized features, and skin like a glazed duck. “Yes, please. I have complete authority. Now what is it that you need?”

  Using the same phony identity, Jack explained what he was looking for, at which point the man waived his clipboard toward a wall of purple curtains.

  What awaited him on the other side? Jack wondered. Nevertheless, he wasn’t particularly frightened.

  Even if this guy did somehow turn out to be the killer, why would he possibly hurt him? Firstly, he was of the wrong gender, and secondly, there was nothing about Jack that didn’t check out, not yet anyway.

  Passing through an arras of moldy velvet, he found himself in an office not much different than Pelletier’s. Beyond the invoices and catalogues, however, was a noticeable smattering of old food wrappers. Still possessing the bitingly spicy yet cloyingly sweet aroma of chili powder, saffron, and orange-spiced harissa sauce, they had Jack thinking he was about to gag. Together with the heavy cloud of incense and moist, almost soupy heat, their effect was not unlike being dipped in a vat of oil.

  The manager squeezed himself into the chair behind a rather small pressboard desk. “Sit,” he commanded, all jittery and impatient.

  “What’s your name?” asked Jack, somehow feeling sorry for him.

  Full of nervous energy, the man kept jingling the keys in his hand. “Azam Azziz.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Azam Azziz.”

  Jack liked it. It was exotic, even ominous, having the ring of a magical incantation. “Open sesame,” he thought to himself.

  “I assume you’re Moroccan?”

  “Yes,” he offered, to the sound of keys.

  “But your accent sounds almost French.”

  “I went to school there.”

  “Probe,” Jack told himself. “For business?”

  “I have a doctorate in French literature,” said the manager, with a hint of a smile. “Unfortunately, there’s no money in it.”

  “Really, what was your thesis on?”

  Dabbing his forehead with a grease-stained handkerchief, Azam made it clear that he wasn’t one for small talk. “Madame Bovary,” he replied.

  The tinkling of the keys was starting to get on Jack’s nerves. “I think I read it in high school.”

  Droplets of sweat formed atop his naked scalp. “Did you?”

  “It was about a woman who had an affair,” Jack commented, surprised that he had remembered even this much.

  Azam’s response was cold and mechanical. “It was about a woman ruined by the prevailing culture.”

  “Beautiful,” Jack thought to himself. “How’s that?”

  “I’d rather not bore you with the details,” he said, without a hint of emotion. “Now is there something in particular that you’re interested in?”

  Based on the fact that the makeshift office didn’t have any photographs, Jack at first assumed that he wasn’t a family man. Quickly, however, it dawn
ed on him that Azam was probably a Muslim and so wouldn’t possess any graven images.

  “Well,” Jack went on, “my wife has absolutely fallen in love with Moroccan rugs. She thinks they’re just beautiful and that if we had a nice selection of them, it would really set our place apart.”

  “They’re not cheap,” jingled the proprietor.

  “I realize that, but I already promised her. You know how it is. Are you married?”

  Azam paused for a moment. “No.”

  “That’s too bad. As much as I joke, I wouldn’t have it any other way, and to tell you the truth, she’s usually right. If she thinks they’ll sell, I’d be crazy not to listen.”

  “How many are you looking for?”

  “Maybe a dozen or so to start.”

  Azam’s eyes lit up. “That’s about twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “I understand.”

  “Fine,” said Azam, as he jumped up to the sound of his keys. “Why don’t we see if we can find something that appeals to you.”

  “Where are they?” asked Jack.

  Through labored breathing, Azam’s words seeped out without the slightest hint of modulation. “We need to go to the back.”

  “I don’t know if I like this,” Jack thought to himself. “What about the carpets I saw on the way to your office?”

  Azam pushed his way through the velvet curtains. “They’ve already been purchased.”

  Finally, Jack began to worry, not just because of where he was taking him, but because he seemed to fit the profile. In addition to being strange, ugly, lonely, and intelligent, he admitted to writing a paper on the negative effects of society on women.

  Leading Jack through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms, he jiggled his keys every step of the way. “What the hell’s wrong with him? Doesn’t he realize how annoying that is?”

  Finally, they reached a door with a gigantic padlock. Appearing more suitable to a gallows than a warehouse, it had to have been at least a hundred years old.

  “That’s quite a security system,” Jack commented. “You must have some gold-laced carpets in there.”

  Fumbling with the lock, Azam didn’t respond.

  “So,” Jack went on, “is this a family business? It seems these things are usually passed down.”

  “My uncle used to work with the owner.”

  The hallway was lighted with a failing fluorescent bulb that flickered and buzzed. Somewhere in the distance the sound of dripping water could be heard. “Ok,” said Jack, checking the switchblade in his pocket. “Any brothers or sisters in the business?”

  Having gone through nearly the whole ring of keys, Azam appeared irritated. “No,” he muttered. “I am the sole child.”

  Jack had a sense of foreboding. “Was he onto me? Why didn’t I call first? What retailer just shows up out of the clear blue sky?”

  Azam’s eyes grew wide. Yellow with flecks of red, they appeared angry. Yanking at the rusty lock, he muttered curses under his breath.

  “Shit,” thought Jack. The sudden change in the carpet merchant’s demeanor caused him to take a step back.

  Disturbingly agitated, Azam pressed and pulled at the stubborn device as if he were involved in a life and death struggle, but just as quickly, when it finally came loose, he not only calmed down but began mumbling something that sounded a lot like an apology, not to Jack mind you, but to the lock. Waving his finger as if he were dealing with a naughty child, his unintelligible words had the tone of “I’m sorry, but why would you do that?”

  As the great iron door began to creak inward, Jack’s eyes desperately widened in order to assess what lay on the other side, but all he could make out was a dark cavernous room full of what appeared to be the silhouettes of crates and furniture.

  With the only light source being a couple of cracks between some boarded-up windows, Jack wondered what he was getting himself into; nevertheless, he was not yet ready to embarrass himself by walking away.

  The sound of dripping water could be heard. Plopping down into a pool of some sort, it reverberated throughout the room like a pulse monitor.

  “Sounds like you can use a plumber,” Jack nervously prattled. Perfectly torn, his mind teetered between the idea that he was strolling into a dungeon and the much more likely possibility that he was again on the wrong track.

  Was it really possible that this oddly-shaped heap of flesh would turn on him? Things like that just didn’t happen, not to him at least.

  “Watch your step,” said Azam, as he played with a light switch.

  Well behind him, Jack grasped the knife in his pocket. “Not having much luck, are we?”

  Still jingling, Azam was disturbingly reticent. “There’s another light on the other side of the room.”

  Feeling as if he were burning up, Jack undid his collar. “Maybe we should do this another time.”

  Azam was curt. “Just a few more feet.”

  Was this an order or a comment? Although neutral on their face, Azam’s words had a hint of menace about them.

  “Fuck,” yelled Azam to the sound of crashing boxes.

  “What?” responded Jack, his heart in his throat.

  “I told them to clean in here!”

  “How much further?” asked Jack, not hiding his apprehension.

  Azam let out a weird high-pitched giggle. “Soon,” he jingled.

  Now Jack was officially worried, and the sound of the drip was driving him crazy. Studying its two-tone quality, he strained to pin point the source, which could’ve been anything from a broken faucet to a bleeding body.

  The sound was loud and persistent. Bouncing off the high ceilings and cinderblock walls, it now seemed to beat with Jack’s heart. “What the hell is that?” he gripped.

  It was at that point that Azam grabbed what appeared to be a weapon.

  “It’s really happening,” Jack thought to himself. Feeling an icy stabbing pain to the pit of his chest, he backed away, but before he could pull out his knife, he found himself falling backwards, having tripped over a box.

  At that moment the lights came on, revealing Azam holding a wooden stick. “I needed to pull the string. Are you alright?”

  “Fine,” said Jack, with his heart chugging like a steam engine.

  Azam approached the sink in the same manner as he did the misbehaving lock. After saying a few words that Jack couldn’t make out, he tightened the faucet and returned to his customer.

  “Take a look,” he urged, pointing towards several dozen rolled-up carpets.

  As it turned out, the room was rather modern looking. Bordering a side street, it had a separate entrance, tiled counters, and dusty cash registers.

  “We used to use this as a showroom,” offered Azam, “when we did retail.”

  “I see,” said Jack, as he pretended to look over the carpets. Utterly embarrassed, he eventually chose three styles, at which point they discussed the price and agreed to touch base within the next week.

  “Ok,” said the merchant, with a wry grin.

  Making his way across the room, which somehow seemed much smaller now, Jack again considered fleeing the country. “Maybe Spain,” he reflected.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jack’s parents were old, even when he was young, leading him to speculate that he had been adopted. But that’s as far as it went. Tormented by the fear of what he might find, he tried to put it out of his mind and for the most part succeeded.

  Nevertheless, there were times when he not only courted the notion but fantasized about it. Not really having anyone to play with, he imagined his real parents as being young and active. Perhaps he even had brothers and sisters.

  As it was, however, his father was all but an invalid. Having been struck by a car on his way to sign up with the navy during World War II, he suffered permanent damage to his right arm and leg, thereby making the usual father and son activities out of the question. Instead, Jack had to content himself with building models, playing board games, and trying to s
olve puzzles, but the only thing he was ever good at was drawing.

  Alone in his room, he’d spend hours poring over photographs from magazines and books, and before long he was setting them down, participating in them, making them his own. Otherwise, he’d sketch his surroundings, which seemed to change and expand with each new observation. For a time he remembered every awkward angle, misplaced shade, and aberrant line, but only to the extent that they contributed to the overall conception. Never one for parts or pieces, he knew when something wasn’t right through pure intuition, the application of which was often difficult if not erroneous, and yet through trial and error he’d somehow reproduce the give and take of what he saw.

  Although he could never put it into words, for him his art was kind of a record of being, and for a time nothing except maybe his parents was more important. At one point he even risked his life for it.

  Standing outside in the cold, hypnotized by the fire that was burning down his home, he suddenly remembered his drawings.

  “Jack!” cried his mother, as she bolted after him. After just a few steps, however, she was stopped by an onlooker. “No!” she shouted, but it was too late. Within seconds he had made his way into a dense fog of blinding smoke. Nevertheless, he kept going, and before long found his bedroom, the roof of which had just collapsed. Miraculously, however, his things were spared. Gasping for air at this point, he somehow managed to retrieve every single one of his sketchbooks, pads, and watercolors.

  Having learned of his son’s impetuousness, Mr. Lorenz slammed down his neighbor’s phone and rushed across the street, but before he could do anything the crisis had passed.

  “Look!” said his wife, as if she were witnessing the second coming.

  Emerging from the thick smoke was their son, who coughing a bit didn’t seem to realize the risk he had taken.

  “What the hell is wrong with you!” shouted Mr. Lorenz, as he smacked the boy in the face.

  Having dropped his sketches, Jack felt himself smothered in hugs. “Don’t ever do that again,” warned his mother.