The Bend of the World: A Novel (26 page)

16

We kept thinking we heard the party; we kept thinking we saw other guests in the woods, taking a stroll or smoking a joint or looking for a place to lay down a blanket and fuck, but as soon as we approached any of them, they revealed themselves to be insubstantial, melting back into the darkness between the trees, and the sounds of music were night birds, or just the wind in the branches, and the light was just the moon. Johnny, I said, is the moon out?

No, he said. There’s no moon.

I think I see the moon.

Beats me, he said.

Do you smell something? I asked him.

Like what? he said.

It smells like piss, I said.

Maybe, he said.

We’re lost, I said.

Yes, you are. The voice boomed from above us. It had a certain Eeyoreish quality to it, gloomy, all in the head, fairly gay. We started and looked up. Two bright eyes glinted out of a shaggy form in the leaves. It dropped, grabbing branches here and there, swinging on its huge hairy arms like an orangutan.

Oh, fuck, said Johnny. A fucking Sasquatch!

It landed gracefully in front of us, hardly a sound but the slight settling of leaves under its weight. It was huge, hundreds of pounds at least, though it held itself on four legs like a gorilla, and its eyes were at our level. Its huge canines gleamed. Nonsense, it said. I am Targivad, the Wise Monkey of the Forest.

No fucking way, we said.

I bring tidings from the Time Being.

I’m sorry, I said. What?

The Time Being, said the ape. He had, I decided, a regal bearing. I glanced at Johnny, who seemed absolutely stupefied. Out of the primordial No-Thing-Ness, the Time Being came into being for the time being. His being is the forward motion of time and being.

Dude, said Johnny, do you know Calsutmoran?

Who? I said.

He’s in the Ein Soph Department, said Targivad. We usually bump into each other at the Christmas party.

Well, said Johnny, if you see him, tell him that I know he took my Seventh Guest CD-ROM. That shit is a collector’s item.

Your pizza deliveryman took it, along with a twenty-dollar bill and three Pabsts from your refrigerator.

Shit, said Johnny.

You should do less drugs, said Targivad.

No fucking kidding, I said.

Shut it down, said Johnny.

You hot dogs, said Targivad, have not kept an eye out.

That’s probably true, I said.

The Time Being commands me to say unto you that, verily, thou art a pair of major fuckups.

Hey, I said. Tell that to this guy. I pointed a thumb at Johnny. I’m a fucking young professional.

Oh, fine, said Johnny. Throw me under the bus.

Get it together, said Targivad.

Yeah, whatever, I said.

The promise of your youth is wasted on your adult lives, Targivad replied. You cling to youth but not its promise; you are seeds that have sprouted into vines that bear no fruit.

Johnny bears fruit, I said.

Oh, ha ha, said Johnny.

Boys, Targivad snapped. You only get one life. Your account is full of time. There is only one way to spend it, which is in the living of it.

Huh, I said.

Boys, said Targivad.

Yes? we said.

Keep an eye out.

He leapt away and swung back into the trees. Then the forest was pierced with light, bright beams like the beam that had trapped Pringle. We heard the humming again overhead, but it was louder, more insistent, metronomic, a thump-thumping. Luftwaffe, Johnny said. UFOs! We ran again, smashing blindly through the brush. We’d been on the edge of the clearing all along. There was the lodge. There was the bonfire. There were the rest of the party guests, running in every direction, screaming, terror overtaking them. Huge beings moved among us, their faces obscured. They seemed to be wearing some sort of mechanized armor. They emitted shouts and bursts of static. We were caught in the human tide. We surged this way and that but were driven ever tighter. Johnny! I called. Johnny! Morrison! he cried. One of the beings had caught hold of my arm. I screamed and struggled. I tried to break free, but its grip was superhumanly strong. I kicked at it. It touched my chest with some sort of energy weapon. My whole body seized. My muscles froze. One spasm after another pulsed through me. I thought I was going to lose control of my bowels. I felt it in my eyes. I felt it crackling around my brain. I wanted to move, but the effort only induced more agony and only made me tremble harder. I wanted to scream, but I could only manage a dull moan. I tried to say, Why are you doing this? I must have said it, because the creature looked at me through its big glass eye, its whole face, and it said, in English, oddly enough, Resisting arrest. Then it used the weapon on me again. Well, huh. I found myself feeling unexpectedly sober. Oh shit, I thought. Maybe those drugs
did
work. I found my jaw moving again. Helen? I said. We’ll find your girlfriend, said the creature. Oh, it was a cop. I lolled in his grip. There was a helicopter overhead. She’s not my girlfriend, I said. She’s my boss’s girlfriend. Kid, said the cop. Shut up. You have the right to remain silent and so forth. He was dragging me toward the lodge, which was surrounded by cars and wagons, their lights swirling. I saw Johnny being dragged along as well. Johnny! I called once more. We were thrown against the side of a van, side by side. Hey, man, I said. Yo, he said. Shut the fuck up, a cop said. They were zip-tying our wrists. My cheek was pressed to the side panel. I saw, a few cars down, Winston Pringle on the ground, bucking wildly like some kind of enraged walrus. Police state! he shouted in his avian voice. Police state! One of the cops looked at another. He shrugged. Resisting arrest? he said. Looks like it to me, said the other. The first baton fell, then the rest, then Johnny and me and half a dozen others were snatched up harshly and tossed into the back of a different van and taken to jail.

1

I recall falling asleep on a bench with my arm under my ear. I recall waking during the night because my arm had fallen asleep. I recall peering through one squinting, open eye at one of my cellmates, a skinny boy with knotted hair, and asking about my car. What car, man? he asked. Can you, like, describe the car? I said a little VW, small dent on the front quarterpanel, gray. Oh yeah, he said. Your girl took it. Mm, I said.

2

The Morrisons of Sewickley, Pennsylvania, had several lawyers, but they were not the sort of lawyers that drove out to Armstrong County to spring you from the lockup, so I called Cousin Bill, the closest thing I knew to a criminal, a man who I knew for a fact had spent a night or two in the tank himself, and as I’d hoped he would he laughed, his squeaky, wheezing little voice trilling with pure delight, and said he was sending Ben David posthaste. He said it as if I should know who Ben David was. Who’s Ben David? I asked. David Ben David, he said. He’s the swingingest-dicked Jew in Pittsburgh, bar none. I thought the mayor’s man was the swingingest-dicked Jew in Pittsburgh, I said. The sheriff’s deputy in the room looked up from his cell phone. I shrugged. He shook his head. Kantsky? said Bill. He’s not Jewish. I mean, maybe his dad was. His mom was Italian. A DiBella, if I remember right. We went to Allderdice together. He’s a goddamn Knight of Columbus. For real? I said. Far as I know, said Bill. Anyway, Ben David is a fucking shark. He’ll chomp chomp chomp those oakie fucks up there. Just don’t mention the Palestinians. Why the fuck would I mention the Palestinians? I’m just saying, said Bill. He’s ex-Mossad. Not. A. Fan. Okay, I said. So I should just sit tight? Exactly, said Bill. By the way, my recommendation is to take a shit, if possible. No one’ll mess with you if they know you just took a shit. Yeah, thanks, I said. Kidding, he said. I’m proud of you, little cuz. Seriously, try not to get fucked in the ass.

3

I spent a night with some miscellaneous hippies from the party and a few pacing meth heads who may or may not have been from the party. After we’d been unloaded from the van, I’d been hauled one way and Johnny another. We’d passed each other, and he’d offered me a grin so extraordinary and out of place that I thought I must still be hallucinating. Hot dogs, he’d said, and he’d laughed as they dragged him away. He’d never arrived in my cell. Then in the morning I was free. Ben David was waiting for me with my phone and wallet. I looked carefully at my phone. It was undamaged. I checked the contacts. It was definitely mine. He wore a shiny golf shirt, pleated khakis, and suede driving shoes. He had broad shoulders, gray hair that looked as if it belonged to a European orchestra conductor, and the barest suggestion of a paunch behind his braided belt. Peter, he said. His big hand gripped mine. He had the last, ineradicable trace of an Israeli accent. A pleasure to meet you. Bill sends his regards. I told the lawyer I was really grateful. Don’t worry, he said. I know the sheriff up here; I do a lot of drug cases up here. Meth, you know, mostly. A little heroin. Trailed off a lot since the gas companies came in. A good economy is bad for a criminal defense practice. We walked outside. It was a bright, cool morning. Shit, I said. What about my car? Impounded, probably, he said. Sorry. I’m working on that. Seizures—he lowered his voice—are the biggest cop scam of all. I’m seeing what I can do. You know what, I said. Forget it. It isn’t worth anything anyway. Ben David said reverently,
Okeir beitoo bo’tsayah bat’sa v’shonay matanot yich’yeh
.

4

I’m sorry? I said. The greedy for gain brings trouble to his home, but he who hates bribes shall live, said Ben David.

5

That’s an interesting attitude for a lawyer, isn’t it? I said. We walked down a slight incline toward the far parking lot, where Ben David’s long, late-model Cadillac glinted in the sun. Beyond it, a line of trees and a muddy creek. Not at all, said Ben David. Bribes are the province of officials. There are no bribes among criminals. All exchanges among the lawless are legitimate. The law itself is a precondition for corruption. This is why I went into defense. Well, that and the money. He smiled and offered my shoulder an avuncular slap. Everyone is guilty, you see. You’re a Catholic; you should understand. But rarely is anyone guilty of what they’re accused of. Hey, I said. What about Johnny? Ah, said Ben David. Your friend. I inquired. He was transferred to Allegheny this morning. The phrase “other charges” was used. I didn’t press it. Apparently there was a warrant. Since all they had up here was public intox and resisting arrest, they sent him down right away. A warrant? I said. For what? Don’t know, said Ben David. I made some calls. We’ll see. Let me ask you this—we stood beside his car—do you think that he might have been mixed up with this Wilhelm Zollen character? Pringle? I said. Sure, said Ben David. Whatever his name is. Yes, I said. Yes, unfortunately, I do. Well then, Ben David said, he’s probably fucked in the short term. But like I said, I’ll see what I can do. Thanks, I said. We got into the car. Oh, I said. Also, did my cousin mention Helen Witold when he talked to you. Yeah, said Ben David. Is she the artist? He told you she was an artist? No, said Ben David. No. I know her name. One of my partners at the firm has a piece by her. Got it as a part of a payment in a divorce thing for some museum person or other. No shit, I said. Yes shit, he said. Anyway, no, nothing about her. According to the cops, everyone who didn’t get arrested dispersed. Most of them were from Pittsburgh, presumably. I’m sure she got a ride. Hm, I said. I dialed her and went straight to voice mail. Then I realized I didn’t have my keys. Did they have keys with my other shit? I asked. No, he told me. Why? Did you have keys? I must have given them to Helen, I said, although I could not recall having given them to Helen. She must have taken the car. I called her again, and this time I left a message. Helen, I said. I’m going to need my car back.

6

On the ride home, Ben David asked me, So what do you do exactly? I was watching the trees swing past the highway. A deer looked up as we passed. Exactly? I said. Good question. Bill says you work for Global Solutions. Oh, I said. You’ve heard of us. One of my partners, Ben David said, just started working on a wrongful termination suit. Ah, I said. Well, I guess you could say I wrongfully terminate. Ah, said Ben David. Actually, there is no more Global Solutions. We are now Vandevoort IRCM WorldSolv. As of earlier this month. Jesus, said Ben David. Vandevoort, said Ben David. The Dutch company? They were collaborators, you know. Really? I said. One of the few foreign companies that kept supplying Speer in the last year or so of the war, he said. Huh, I said. Did you learn about it in Mossad? Mossad? said Ben David. He laughed. Who told you that, Bill? He’s a real joker. So you weren’t in Mossad, I said. He didn’t answer, but he shook his head and seemed amused. Instead, he said, So, do you like firing people? No, I said. Bill told me he once asked you to come into the business. That’s true, I said. When I’d first moved into the apartment, he’d asked if I wanted to work with him. I was right out of school and just starting to interview for corporate jobs. I could use a hand, he’d told me. I’ve got three new buildings, and I need someone to keep track of my Mexicans. I’d declined. Well, he said, if you ever change your mind, it beats working. And he’d purred away in his fast Mercedes. Never considered it? Ben David asked. Not really, I said. Why not? he asked. To be honest, I said, I always liked Bill, but he sort of seems like a slumlord. Perhaps, said Ben David. He gave me a sidelong look. His mouth had the suggestion of a grin. I wouldn’t be so quick to grasp at the pejorative. And anyway, doesn’t a slumlord serve an actual and essential function in the world you people are making?