The Ruined House

by Ruby Namdar

  A white plate appeared as though from nowhere, cast provocatively, Andrew thought, on the table. The long, bloody piece of sliced herring made him think of a castrated penis, its horizontal cuts exposing an interior that looked full of pus. How could one eat such a thing? What on earth had made him order herring? The old man’s huge tongue sticking limply out of his mouth, hanging down like a thick, purple penis. Andrew tried not to think of it and took a bite of the herring, shutting his eyes as though swallowing a medicine. The slimy, intolerably salty fish felt half-alive as he chewed it. It slithered down his throat like an eel and made him choke. He gagged, grabbed his napkin, and spat the half-chewed contents of his mouth into it. Folding it as many times as he could, he stuck its small square under his plate and out of sight. Glancing around to make sure no one had seen him, he drained his glass of water to rid his mouth of the scaly, finny taste, took out his wallet, quickly extracted a twenty-dollar bill, put it under the plate beside the little paper sarcophagus, and left without asking for change.

  Although the torrid air hit him full blast, he was feeling too sick and hounded to pay it any attention. He strode uptown with long steps, glancing over his shoulder from time to time without knowing why. He halted for a moment at the corner of 87th Street, crossed the intersection, and had almost reached 88th when he was jolted by the thought that the waiter must be clearing his plate at that very moment and discovering the incriminating evidence. His heart pounded. It mustn’t be allowed to happen! He had to go back, to get there before the plate was cleared. As if rehearsing his course of action, he shut his right hand like a pickpocket’s over the imagined napkin and slipped it into his pocket. He could all but feel the revolting fish and smell its sticky odor as he furtively took out the small package and threw it in a garbage can. He saw it all clearly, right down to the look of surprise on the cashier’s face when he returned. There would be anxious questions. Had he forgotten something? Was something the matter with the food? Can we offer you something else on the house? They were too well known at Greengrass’s to risk harming their reputation. But the waiter! His sickening mockery fueled Andrew’s fears. He might think he was a thief. They might detain him, threaten to call the police, insist on going through his pockets. What would he say? He needed a good alibi. He would say he had forgotten his cell phone! Cell phones were forgotten all the time, right? No, he would never go back there, never! He wouldn’t even pass it in a taxi. He wouldn’t let a driver turn up Amsterdam. Let them take Broadway, goddamn it! He had to find a taxi, an air-conditioned one. He had to get home, quick!

  11

  The taxi jumped lanes wildly, weaving in and out of the traffic like a speedboat. The driver, a bald, nervous man, kept stepping on the gas, missing the next green light, and cursing gutturally as he slammed on the brakes. The air conditioner hardly worked and the stale air reaching the backseat was lukewarm. Andrew clung to the door handle to maintain his balance and keep the savagely careening vehicle from making him seasick. He lacked the nerve to tell the driver to slow down. A fight with a hotheaded cabdriver was more than he could handle; it was better to grit his teeth and bear it. The streets flew by: 106th, 107th. 108th. How would he keep his nausea down until they got there? If it weren’t so muggy, he would get off now. Then 109th Street. Another minute, a minute and a half. Just don’t barf now! He leaned forward, gulping the cooler air in the front of the car and feebly asked to be let off at 110th and Broadway rather than on Riverside Drive. Not only couldn’t he take being bounced around another second, he didn’t want the doorman to see him getting out of a taxi in the middle of the day. Of course, that was ridiculous. Who was keeping track of his movements? Still, he felt transparent, as if anyone could read him like a book.

  The taxi screeched to a stop at the corner, throwing Andrew forward so abruptly that he almost banged his head against the filthy screen separating him from the driver. He opened the door, threw the man a ten-dollar bill, and fled as if still running from the restaurant. Ankle-deep water was flowing in the gutter. His foot, suspended in midair, avoided stepping in it at the last minute. Where was it coming from? Some kids must have opened a fire hydrant to cool off. Planting his foot on the dry sidewalk, he pulled the rest of himself after it over the filthy stream—only to run smack into the black preacher, who was standing there in dishevelment. His crazed eyes stared at Andrew without seeing him. His mouth was opened in a shout. His hat was pushed back on his head, his tie was awry, and his collar stuck laughably up from his cheap polyester suit. “’Allelujah! ’Allelujah! ’Allelujah!” he shrieked in a hoarse, pitiless voice like a desperate, crazy old raven picking at his own feathers. The cries were not his usual, powerful but controlled ones. They were helpless, maniacal screams.

  Andrew turned toward Riverside Drive, putting as much distance between himself and the preacher as he could. He felt a mixture of pity, anger, and fear. Get ahold of yourself. Don’t fall apart on me now. Don’t lose it. He broke into a run down 110th Street, his lungs on fire with the hot, heavy air trapped in them, dashed into the lobby of the building, and crossed it quickly to the elevator without stopping by the mailbox. It was silly, but he didn’t want to run into the doorman. His foot drummed nervously on the floor as he waited for the elevator to arrive.

  12

  The sound of the shutting door and the precise click of its locks calmed him down a bit. It made him feel that his fears could be contained. He took off his shoes, kicked them into a corner, and tossed his sweaty socks after them, too tired to take them to the hamper. He wanted only to stand quietly with his eyes closed, feeling the reassuring reality of the parquet floor beneath his feet. The air conditioner, which he had forgotten to turn off, was still rattling away, weakly stirring the dense air like a propeller laboring to push a boat off a shore.

  Andrew opened his eyes and surveyed the apartment as if he had not been in it for a long time. It was a mess. Dirty socks and underwear lay on the floor; unwashed dishes were piled in the sink with rotting food; a fifth column of black, greasy dust, the city’s smoggy ambassador of ill will, covered the surfaces of things. How long had it been since anyone cleaned here? Where was Angie? He mentally reviewed the days, trying to remember which was which. No, she hadn’t been here all week. He had been sick and home all the time. What had happened to her? He wandered from room to room like a stranger in his own house, oblivious of the view outside the windows. Angie’s disappearance made him feel that everything was out of control. Where had she gone? She had left him without a word, without even saying good-bye! How could she just walk out on him? Everyone was deserting him. Where, why?

  He had to calm down! There must be a logical explanation. Angie had worked for him for years, she would never do such a thing. He took deep breaths of the room’s stale air. The explanation was somewhere. He could feel it hovering near him like a ghost. It wasn’t just a matter of cleanliness, of the dirty dishes in the sink and the unwashed laundry. Angie was his one remaining link to the world, his last foothold in a widening gyre of emptiness.

  Andrew went to the telephone on the kitchen counter, tripping over a pair of shoes and an empty paper bag on the floor. Seizing the receiver, his finger paused above the dial. Who should he call? Linda, of course . . . no, anyone but Linda! He would never call her again. Rachel! That was it: Rachel! They hadn’t had a good talk in ages, he wanted so badly to speak to her. He began dialing her number in Princeton, humming a little snatch of something in his excitement, and froze on reaching the fourth digit. He had remembered! He knew what had happened to Angie! She had gone on her annual three-week vacation to Saint Kitts. They had discussed it. She had asked to go this year in July rather than August because a cousin of hers was getting married. She had even suggested finding him a temporary replacement, but Andrew had politely declined. It was too much to have to get used to someone new, he would get along without her for three weeks. How could he have forgotten? Everything made sense now. Everything was all right!

  He emitte
d a nervous, involuntary chuckle. What a joke! He must tell Rachel. You won’t believe what happened to me a few minutes ago, sweetheart. Your father is getting senile! He quickly dialed the rest of her number. The receiver came alive with anticipatory rings. The thought of talking with Rachel and amusing her with a funny anecdote filled him with incontrollable excitement.

  The phone kept ringing. Lulled by its monotonous rhythm, he gave a start when he heard a deep masculine voice say, “Hi, this is Tom.”

  For a second, he couldn’t place the name. Of course: Tom, Rachel’s boyfriend! A nice young man. “Hi, Tom,” he said. “How are you? This is Andrew Cohen.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, then “Hi, Mr. Cohen, how are you?” Tom sounded confused.

  “I’m fine, Tom, just fine. Is Rachel there?”

  Another silence was followed by, “Mr. Cohen, Rachel and I haven’t been together for quite a while. I thought you knew. She’s not living here anymore.”

  Andrew caught his breath, feeling dizzy. He did know. They had broken up a month or two ago, maybe more. How could he have forgotten? He was losing his mind, there was no longer any doubt of it. His excruciating embarrassment caused him to break into a series of choked, broken apologies. “Oh, of course . . . Forgive me . . . I’m so sorry . . . I truly am sorry . . . Forgive me for bothering you . . . How are you feeling, Tom?”

  Silence again. Embarrassing, embarrassing, embarrassing! How could he have forgotten something so important? Tom’s hesitant voice filled the awkward void.

  “Mr. Cohen, are you all right? Are you feeling all right, Mr. Cohen?”

  No, he was not feeling all right. “Yes, yes, I’m perfectly fine, Tom. Thanks, Tom. I’m sorry.”

  Tom sounded more concerned than put out. “That’s all right, Mr. Cohen,” he said with a cautious note of commiseration. “Good-bye. Take care of yourself, Mr. Cohen.”

  Although Andrew knew he had to end the conversation, something in him kept clinging to it, refusing to say good-bye to this young man who had been until recently almost a member of the family. “Yes, Tom, I’m fine. Perfectly fine, thank you. How are you getting along, Tom?”

  More silence. It couldn’t go on. There was no real connection between them, they were simply two ghosts haunting the same abandoned house. “I’m fine, Mr. Cohen. I’ll be fine. Good-bye, Mr. Cohen.”

  Andrew felt a great pang of sorrow. For whom was he mourning? Tom? Himself? Rachel? For everyone. For all of us. “Good-bye, Tom. Thanks for everything. Stay in touch.”

  Tom would not stay in touch. There was no chance of that. Why did this make Andrew sad? They had never had a relationship. Their lives had simply crossed for a few months, at most a year. “Sure thing, Mr. Cohen. I’ll keep in touch. Good-bye, Mr. Cohen.”

  Andrew stared at the lifeless receiver. Thoughts he could not put into words chased each other through his mind, nipping at each other’s heels. Poor Tom! Andrew’s feeling of loss increased, as did his discomfort at having forgotten Tom and Rachel’s breakup. He had no explanation for why he had. The more this stoked his fevered mind’s distress, the more compelled he felt to find one. His reaction to the knowledge that he might never speak to Tom again was out of all proportion. He had never realized how attached he was to him.

  Andrew shook his head to drive away the thoughts that were flocking to it. The phone, still in his hand, quivered like a small animal and rang. He snatched his hand away, feeling his blood pressure rise. Suppose it was Tom? Suppose he was calling back to scold him for his presumption? Suppose he knew everything, that he was still in touch with Rachel, that she had told him about his conversation with Linda? A second ring was followed by a third. In a moment, the speaker would announce the caller. It began to croak metallically, rattling off letters that sounded like a commercial name. Andrew relaxed, letting out his breath. It was the same announcement he had gotten earlier in the day from the mysterious credit card company. Hello! This is your last chance to eliminate your credit card debt. Please contact us as soon as possible at the following number. This is a recorded announcement. What on earth did they want from him? It shouldn’t be legal to hassle people like that. There should be a law against it! Andrew grabbed the phone, deleted the message, and muted the speaker with a few violent jabs, leaving on its number recognition. He didn’t have to let the whole world drive him crazy with its crap! It owed him some privacy. He was entitled to engage it when and where he liked.

  Andrew turned away from the telephone. His anger ebbing slowly, he strode to his desk with a feeling of aggressive impotence, savagely pressed his laptop’s ON button, sank into his chair, and waited with a nervous, tuneless whistle for his home page to appear on the screen. Although the thought of it made him sick, he had a strong urge to log on to the repellent blog whose babyish cretin of an author was in pursuit of the Lost Foreskin. But how could he feel nauseous when he hadn’t eaten all day, or last night, either, come to think of it? What was taking the damn computer so long? Why was it so slow? It was only a year old. And why did they keep calling him about credit card debt? Could something be wrong? They stole your identity, they hacked your account and did what they wanted with it. Could it have happened during his visits to that porn site? He should have realized it was a trap all along.

  Andrew tried banishing this latest worry from his mind while clicking several times on the Internet icon. Why wasn’t the computer reacting? Why couldn’t he get the damn blog? Something was holding it up. An announcement was flashing at the bottom of the screen. Andrew leaned forward, struggling to focus his uncooperative eyes on it. Unfortunately, the site you have requested has been removed. We have no further information. He stared dumbly at the small black letters, unable to comprehend their meaning. Where had the blog gone? Who had removed it? Had it been censored? Had its author realized the absurdity of his quest? What was he supposed to do now? Google “foreskin restoration”?

  Andrew’s fingers moved instinctively to his e-mail but refused to click on it. What if the letter he dreaded getting from the editor of the magazine were in his in-box, lying in wait like a venomous little snake? No, he couldn’t deal with that now. Maybe later, that evening. He clicked on the Internet again. What now? More college fuck-fests? Another session with Princess Michelle of the Butterfly Tattoo? Those firm little breasts bouncing up and down in perfect rhythm? Those college boys with their giant erections? Hell, hell on earth! The abyss was yawning at his feet, he only had to let go and plummet into it. Quickly, he ran through the alphabetical list. Pregnant. He had already noticed it on his first visit to the site. What could it be about? Pregnant women having sex in public? Was that supposed to be arousing? The computer whirred softly. The screen blinked, went dark, and lit up again.

  A young woman in her last months of pregnancy knelt, naked, before two muscular young men. Their shaven pubic hair made their penises seem unnaturally, bestially large. The young woman’s tattooed skin, which at first glance looked stitched with black-and-blue marks, gleamed with an exaggerated whiteness. Her hands grasped the young men’s penises while her mouth went from one to the other, desperately sucking. Eyes shut tight, her cheeks hollow, running her lips up and down the two moist erections that glittered in the bad lighting of the improvised projectors. Her swollen breasts with their widened nipples swayed in time to the strong, sucking movements of her mouth. Thrown forward by her breasts and her ponderous belly, she had to cling to the two penises to keep her balance like a monkey in the branches of a tree. Crouching over them, her gaping vagina seemed a diabolical and possibly intended parody of her approaching labor.

  Andrew stared, mesmerized with disgust, at the awful scene. The swollen, bloodred vagina glistened like an open wound between pale labia that resembled drooping sails. A putrid, fishy odor assailed him. Sharp scales and bits of fin in his mouth. A thick, salivating tongue jammed down his throat, wriggling like a fat worm. His stomach convulsed violently, pumping bile into his throat. The sour reflux made him choke. He jumped up a
nd ran to the bathroom, desperately trying not to puke on the living-room floor. Falling to his knees before the toilet, he stuck his head deep into its bowl. Smooth, slippery foreskins stretching and retracting, filling the mouth with their dead, unclean folds. A burning yellow fluid surged up his throat toward his olfactory glands, pricking their soft membranes with a needlelike acidity. He retched in agony, his teeth on edge, his throat tasting of sulfur. Phosphorus bursts of liquid shot from him like fiery arrows, on their way to the water in the toilet bowl, which they painted a garish, apocalyptic yellow. The burning in his throat was unbearable. His whole digestive tract felt like one bleeding, incurable sore. He gasped for air, breathing in the toxic fumes he expelled. His mouth opened and shut like a beak, struggling to eject the last poison from his system. He could feel the bile corroding the enamel of his teeth, eating its way toward their soft, sensitive roots.

  With the last of his strength, Andrew pushed himself away from the toilet. All his muscles went limp, leaving him too weak to lean against the wall. With a slow, inanimate fatality, his body toppled sideways, yielding to the force of gravity. His cheek rested against the cool, befouled floor tiles. He shut his eyes. His breathing grew regular. The dark depths received him, their black gates shutting remorselessly behind him.

  13

  It is the black middle watch of the night. The dogs howl. The Angel of Death has come to the city. A distant, hollow barking echoes in its houses like a muffled but persistent omen, a savage forest sound unknown to places of human habitation. It is the frightful sound that we heard when sheltering underground like hunted animals on the outskirts of town, living in burrows and tunnels like moles, badgers, and foxes, hiding in tree trunks and the clefts of rocks. In the city, murder ran wild. The cries of the slaughtered and tortured turned the night red as flames. The fiends had no compassion: not on the young, not on the old, not on women, or children, or the littlest girls. They slit their throats like young pigeons, wrung their necks like turtledoves. From the jaws of a murderous red dog drips a hideous pink saliva. Its bark doesn’t stop, there is nowhere to hide from it or flee. The harsh, terrifying sound of the Divine Mercilessness batters the walls, bounces against the ceilings, rebounds off the corners. Allelujah! Allelujah! Allelujah! The accursed preacher is shouting in the street again, praising God in his diabolical voice, over and over, day and night, a lifetime, an eternity, of satanic praise. A horrible bloodred dog, as murderous as a wolf, as big as a lion.