The building looks different to me as I step out of the taxi, though I can’t figure out why. I still have the keys I stole from Owen the night I killed him and I take them out, now, to open the lobby door but they don’t work, won’t fit properly. Instead, a uniformed doorman who wasn’t here six months ago opens it for me, excusing himself for taking so long. I stand there in the rain, confused, until he ushers me in, merrily asking, with a thick Irish accent, “Well, are you coming in or staying out—you’re getting soaked.” I move into the lobby, my umbrella held under one arm, tucking the surgical mask I brought with me to deal with the smell back into my pocket. I’m holding a Walkman, debating what to say, how to phrase it.
“Well, now what can I do for you sir?” he asks.
I stall—a long, awkward pause—before saying, simply, “Fourteen-A.”
He looks me over carefully before checking his book, then beams, marking something down. “Ah, of course. Mrs. Wolfe is up there right now.”
“Mrs. … Wolfe?” Weakly, I smile.
“Yes. She’s the real estate agent,” he says, looking up at me. “You do have an appointment, don’t you?”
The elevator operator, also a new addition, stares at the floor as the two of us rise up into the building. I’m trying to retrace my steps on that night, during that whole week, uselessly knowing I have never been back to this apartment after murdering the two girls. How much is Owen’s apartment worth? is a question that keeps forcing its way into my mind until finally it just rests there, throbbing. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about people with half their brains removed. My chest feels like ice.
The elevator doors open. I step out, cautiously, watching behind me as they close, then I’m moving down the hallway toward Owen’s apartment. I can hear voices inside. I lean against the wall, sighing, keys in my hand, knowing already the locks have been changed. As I wonder what I should do, trembling, staring at my loafers, which are black and by A. Testoni, the door to the apartment opens, startling me out of a momentary flash of self-pity. A middle-aged real estate broker walks out, offers a smile, asks, checking her book, “Are you my eleven o’clock?”
“No,” I say.
She says “Excuse me” and, making her way down the hall, looks back at me, once, with a strange expression on her face, before disappearing around the corner. I’m staring into the apartment. A couple in their late twenties stand, conferring with each other, in the middle of the living room. She’s wearing a wool jacket, a silk blouse, wool flannel slacks, Armani, vermeil earrings, gloves, holding a bottle of Evian water. He has on a tweed sport jacket, cashmere sweater vest, cotton chambray shirt, tie, Paul Stuart, Agnes B. cotton trench coat draped over arm. Behind them, the apartment looks spotless. New Venetian blinds, the cowhide paneling is gone; however, the furniture, the mural, the glass coffee table, Thonet chairs, black leather couch, all seem intact; the large-screen television set has been moved into the living room and it’s been turned on, the volume low, a commercial where a stain walks off a jacket and addresses the camera is on now, but it doesn’t make me forget what I did to Christie’s breasts, to one of the girls’ heads, the nose missing, both ears bitten off, how you could see her teeth through where I had ripped the flesh from her jaws and both cheeks, the torrents of gore and the blood that washed over the apartment, the stench of the dead, my own confused warning that I had drawn in—
“Can I help you?” the real estate agent, Mrs. Wolfe I’m guessing, intrudes. She has a very angular thin face, the nose is large, distressingly real-looking, heavily lipsticked mouth, white-blue eyes. She’s wearing a wool bouclé jacket, washed-silk blouse, shoes, earrings, a bracelet, from where? I don’t know. Maybe she’s younger than forty.
I’m still leaning against the wall, staring at the couple, who move back into the bedroom, leaving the main room empty. I’m just noticing that bouquets in glass vases, dozens of them, fill the apartment everywhere, and I can smell them from where I’m standing in the hall. Mrs. Wolfe glances behind her to see what I’m staring at, then back to me. “I’m looking for … Doesn’t Paul Owen live here?”
A long pause before she answers. “No. He doesn’t.”
Another long pause. “Are you, like … sure?” I ask, before feebly adding, “I don’t … understand.”
She realizes something that causes the muscles in her face to tighten. Her eyes narrow but don’t close. She’s noticed the surgical mask I’m gripping in a damp fist and she breathes in, sharply, refusing to look away. I am definitely not feeling right about any of this. On the TV, in a commercial, a man holds up a piece of toast and tells his wife, “Hey, you’re right … this margarine really does taste better than shit.” The wife smiles.
“You saw the ad in the Times?” she asks.
“No … I mean yes. Yes, I did. In the Times,” I falter, gathering a pocket of strength, the smell from the roses thick, masking something revolting. “But … doesn’t Paul Owen … still own this?” I ask, as forcibly as possible.
There’s a long pause before she admits, “There was no ad in the Times.”
We stare at each other endlessly. I’m convinced she senses I’m about to say something. I’ve seen this look on someone’s face before. Was it in a club? A victim’s expression? Had it appeared on a movie screen recently? Or had I seen it in the mirror? It takes what seems like an hour before I can speak again. “But that’s … his”—I stop, my heart skips, resumes beating—“furniture.” I drop my umbrella, then lean down quickly to retrieve it.
“I think you should go,” she says.
“I think … I want to know what happened.” I feel sick, my chest and back covered with sweat, drenched, it seems, instantaneously.
“Don’t make any trouble,” she says.
All frontiers, if there had ever been any, seem suddenly detachable and have been removed, a feeling that others are creating my fate will not leave me for the rest of the day. This … is … not … a … game, I want to shout, but I can’t catch my breath though I don’t think she can tell. I turn my face away. I need rest. I don’t know what to say. Confused, I reach out for a moment to touch Mrs. Wolfe’s arm, to steady myself, but I stop it in midair, move it to my chest instead, but I can’t feel it, not even when I loosen my tie; it rests there, trembling, and I can’t make it stop. I’m blushing, speechless.
“I suggest you go,” she says.
We stand there in the hallway facing each other.
“Don’t make any trouble,” she says again, quietly.
I stand there a few seconds longer before finally backing away, holding up my hands, a gesture of assurance.
“Don’t come back,” she says.
“I won’t,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
The couple appears in the doorway. Mrs. Wolfe watches me until I’m at the elevator door, pressing the button for the attendant. In the elevator, the smell of the roses is overpowering.
Working Out
Free weights and Nautilus equipment relieve stress. My body responds to the workout accordingly. Shirtless, I scrutinize my image in the mirror above the sinks in the locker room at Xclusive. My arm muscles burn, my stomach is as taut as possible, my chest steel, pectorals granite hard, my eyes white as ice. In my locker in the locker room at Xclusive lie three vaginas I recently sliced out of various women I’ve attacked in the past week. Two are washed off, one isn’t. There’s a barrette clipped to one of them, a blue ribbon from Hermès tied around my favorite.
End of the 1980s
The smell of blood works its way into my dreams, which are, for the most part, terrible: on an ocean liner that catches fire, witnessing volcanic eruptions in Hawaii, the violent deaths of most of the inside traders at Salomon, James Robinson doing something bad to me, finding myself back at boarding school, then at Harvard, the dead walk among the living. The dreams are an endless reel of car wrecks and disaster footage, electric chairs and grisly suicides, syringes and mutilated pinup girls, flying saucers, marble Jacuzzis, pink
peppercorns. When I wake up in a cold sweat I have to turn on the wide-screen television to block out the construction sounds that continue throughout the day, rising up from somewhere. A month ago was the anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death. Football games flash by, the sound turned off. I can hear the answering machine click once, its volume lowered, then twice. All summer long Madonna cries out to us, “life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone …”
When I’m moving down Broadway to meet Jean, my secretary, for brunch, in front of Tower Records a college student with a clipboard asks me to name the saddest song I know. I tell him, without pausing, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Beatles. Then he asks me to name the happiest song I know, and I say “Brilliant Disguise” by Bruce Springsteen. He nods, makes a note, and I move on, past Lincoln Center. An accident has happened. An ambulance is parked at the curb. A pile of intestines lies on the sidewalk in a pool of blood. I buy a very hard apple at a Korean deli which I eat on my way to meet Jean who, right now, stands at the Sixty-seventh Street entrance to Central Park on a cool, sunny day in September. When we look up at the clouds she sees an island, a puppy dog, Alaska, a tulip. I see, but don’t tell her, a Gucci money clip, an ax, a woman cut in two, a large puffy white puddle of blood that spreads across the sky, dripping over the city, onto Manhattan.
We stop at an outdoor café, Nowheres, on the Upper West Side, debating which movie to see, if there are any museum exhibits we should attend, maybe just a walk, she suggests the zoo, I’m nodding mindlessly. Jean is looking good, like she’s been working out, and she’s wearing a gilt lamé jacket and velvet shorts by Matsuda. I’m imagining myself on television, in a commercial for a new product—wine cooler? tanning lotion? sugarless gum?—and I’m moving in jump-cut, walking along a beach, the film is black-and-white, purposefully scratched, eerie vague pop music from the mid-1960s accompanies the footage, it echoes, sounds as if it’s coming from a calliope. Now I’m looking into the camera, now I’m holding up the product—a new mousse? tennis shoes?—now my hair is windblown then it’s day then night then day again and then it’s night.
“I’ll have an iced decaf au lait,” Jean tells the waiter.
“I’ll have a decapitated coffee also,” I say absently, before catching myself. “I mean … decaffeinated.” I glance over at Jean, worried, but she just smiles emptily at me. A Sunday Times sits on the table between us. We discuss plans for dinner tonight, maybe. Someone who looks like Taylor Preston walks by, waves at me. I lower my Ray-Bans, wave back. Someone on a bike pedals past. I ask a busboy for water. A waiter arrives instead and after that a dish containing two scoops of sorbet, cilantro-lemon and vodka-lime, are brought to the table that I didn’t hear Jean order.
“Want a bite?” she asks.
“I’m on a diet,” I say. “But thank you.”
“You don’t need to lose any weight,” she says, genuinely surprised. “You’re kidding, right? You look great. Very fit.”
“You can always be thinner,” I mumble, staring at the traffic in the street, distracted by something—what? I don’t know. “Look … better.”
“Well, maybe we shouldn’t go out to dinner,” she says, concerned. “I don’t want to ruin your … willpower.”
“No. It’s all right,” I say. “I’m not … very good at controlling it anyway.”
“Patrick, seriously. I’ll do whatever you want,” she says. “If you don’t want to go to dinner, we won’t. I mean—”
“It’s okay,” I stress. Something snaps. “You shouldn’t fawn over him.…” I pause before correcting myself. “I mean … me. Okay?”
“I just want to know what you want to do,” she says.
“To live happily ever after, right?” I say sarcastically. “That’s what I want.” I stare at her hard, for maybe half a minute, before turning away. This quiets her. After a while she orders a beer. It’s hot out on the street.
“Come on, smile,” she urges sometime later. “You have no reason to be so sad.”
“I know,” I sigh, relenting. “But it’s … tough to smile. These days. At least I find it hard to. I’m not used to it, I guess. I don’t know.”
“That’s … why people need each other,” she says gently, trying to make eye contact while spooning the not inexpensive sorbet into her mouth.
“Some don’t.” I clear my throat self-consciously. “Or, well, people compensate.… They adjust.…” After a long pause, “People can get accustomed to anything, right?” I ask. “Habit does things to people.”
Another long pause. Confused, she says, “I don’t know. I guess … but one still has to maintain … a ratio of more good things than … bad in this world,” she says, adding, “I mean, right?” She looks puzzled, as if she finds it strange that this sentence has come out of her mouth. A blast of music from a passing cab, Madonna again, “life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone …” Startled by the laughter at the table next to ours, I cock my head and hear someone admit, “Sometimes what you wear to the office makes all the difference,” and then Jean says something and I ask her to repeat it.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to make someone happy?” she asks.
“What?” I ask, trying to pay attention to her. “Jean?”
Shyly, she repeats herself. “Haven’t you ever wanted to make someone happy?”
I stare at her, a cold, distant wave of fright washes over me, dousing something. I clear my throat again and, trying to speak with great purposefulness, tell her, “I was at Sugar Reef the other night … that Caribbean place on the Lower East Side … you know it—”
“Who were you with?” she interrupts.
Jeanette. “Evan McGlinn.”
“Oh.” She nods, silently relieved, believing me.
“Anyway …” I sigh, continuing, “I saw some guy in the men’s room … a total … Wall Street guy … wearing a one-button viscose, wool and nylon suit by … Luciano Soprani … a cotton shirt by … Gitman Brothers … a silk tie by Ermenegildo Zegna and, I mean, I recognized the guy, a broker, named Eldridge … I’ve seen him at Harry’s and Au Bar and DuPlex and Alex Goes to Camp … all the places, but … when I went in after him, I saw … he was writing … something on the wall above the … urinal he was standing at.” I pause, take a swallow of her beer. “When he saw me come in … he stopped writing … put away the Mont Blanc pen … he zipped up his pants … said Hello, Henderson to me … checked his hair in the mirror, coughed … like he was nervous or … something and … left the room.” I pause again, another swallow. “Anyway … I went over to use the … urinal and … I leaned over … to read what he … wrote.” Shuddering, I slowly wipe my forehead with a napkin.
“Which was?” Jean asks cautiously.
I close my eyes, three words fall from my mouth, these lips: “‘Kill … All … Yuppies.’”
She doesn’t say anything.
To break the uncomfortable silence that follows, I mention all I can come up with, which is, “Did you know that Ted Bundy’s first dog, a collie, was named Lassie?” Pause. “Had you heard this?”
Jean looks at her dish as if it’s confusing her, then back up at me. “Who’s … Ted Bundy?”
“Forget it,” I sigh.
“Listen, Patrick. We need to talk about something,” she says. “Or at least I need to talk about something.”
… where there was nature and earth, life and water, I saw a desert landscape that was unending, resembling some sort of crater, so devoid of reason and light and spirit that the mind could not grasp it on any sort of conscious level and if you came close the mind would reel backward, unable to take it in. It was a vision so clear and real and vital to me that in its purity it was almost abstract. This was what I could understand, this was how I lived my life, what I constructed my movement around, how I dealt with the tangible. This was the geography around which my reality revolved: it did not occur to me, ever, that people were good or that a man was capable of change or that the world could be a better
place through one’s taking pleasure in a feeling or a look or a gesture, of receiving another person’s love or kindness. Nothing was affirmative, the term “generosity of spirit” applied to nothing, was a cliché, was some kind of bad joke. Sex is mathematics. Individuality no longer an issue. What does intelligence signify? Define reason. Desire—meaningless. Intellect is not a cure. Justice is dead. Fear, recrimination, innocence, sympathy, guilt, waste, failure, grief, were things, emotions, that no one really felt anymore. Reflection is useless, the world is senseless. Evil is its only permanence. God is not alive. Love cannot be trusted. Surface, surface, surface was all that anyone found meaning in … this was civilization as I saw it, colossal and jagged …
“… and I don’t remember who it was you were talking to … it doesn’t matter. What does is that you were very forceful, yet … very sweet and, I guess, I knew then that …” She places her spoon down, but I’m not watching her. I’m looking out at the taxis moving up Broadway, yet they can’t stop things from unraveling, because Jean says the following: “A lot of people seem to have …” She stops, continues hesitantly, “lost touch with life and I don’t want to be among them.” After the waiter clears her dish, she adds, “I don’t want to get … bruised.”
I think I’m nodding.
“I’ve learned what it’s like to be alone and … I think I’m in love with you.” She says this last part quickly, forcing it out.
Almost superstitiously, I turn toward her, sipping an Evian water, then, without thinking, say, smiling, “I love someone else.”
American Psycho Page 43