The Impossibly (16 page)

When the three weeks were over, I went to the southwest gates of the public gardens and hid behind a bitter orange tree. It was a small tree with dark green foliage and large inedible oranges, meaning the top half of me would not be visible to anyone approaching or leaving, was my theory. The tree was off to one side of the gates near a pair of overfilled trash bins. As I stood there, someone came over and threw something into one of them. My irritation at this gesture (whatever it was had simply bounced off the top of one of the bins, dislodging, as it did so, several other items, all of which fell at my feet) was quickly replaced by a sense of anxiety (he had walked away) that this had been the individual I was waiting for. Or hiding from. Why was I hiding? Hiding was better. I had had some of my greater successes because of hiding, or related to hiding. But did that apply in this case? Surely, simply, it was better to play it safe. I had “waited” before and paid the consequences. Having thought that through, I decided it hadn’t been him, as the individual in the blurred photograph was clearly pretty large (I mean fat) and this individual hadn’t been. A moment later, when I took into consideration the possibility that this individual, like myself, might recently have lost weight, possibly during the process of a disaffirmation, one that had later been overturned, this decision was in doubt again. I momentarily stepped out from behind the tree to see if I could spot him, but couldn’t. For about five seconds I was at a loss, then it occurred to me (and I have no idea why this seemed plausible) that he might return, at which point I could, calling out from behind the tree, tactfully ask him if he had recently lost a great amount of weight, or, depending on my mood, and if no one else more likely had come along, leave the tree and follow him.

The life of the investigator involves a lot of waiting, as does that of the small-time gangster. One waits (or hides) and one thinks and usually this thinking is not much. As I stood there in the semidark behind the orange tree I thought, more or less, nice oranges, nice thick foliage, nice dark leaves. I thought, fucker for knocking the trash onto the ground and for possibly being my killer and, I thought, I was happier when I was fat. Fat and younger so I could handle said fat. Images of myself—fat and younger; wearing a cakeseller’s apron; wearing sunglasses; standing on stage singing opera; looking fat in shorts. Now I am old and where there was once honest fat there are dubious folds. This has nothing to do with my being old. This doesn’t matter. Someone approached. I stopped thinking. It was a woman. My heart went whomp! then I started thinking again. About the woman I had loved and lost and maybe, for a short while, found again. Then the oranges. Then my life as an organic asset, certain aspects to do with pay. Also with screwing up. Then I thought about hiding. About wearing infrared goggles and standing in the dark. Then about moving through the dark. Once I hid in someone’s closet, someone known to carry two guns. She fell asleep, then I came out carrying a hammer. I was convinced I was dead for a time, early in my career. There was even some evidence, not to mention one or two minor out-of-body experiences, and it was during this period that I first got it in mind that I would like to carry out an investigation and even went so far as to set myself up with an office, a friend who was willing to work as my secretary, and one or two clients. For health reasons, however, I was soon obliged to return to work for the firm with which I had been previously engaged. To say anything is to complicate it. Like darkness. To remember anything. My boss in the early days liked trains. I had several friends. One in particular. We drank a lot. Clearly, here, I was remembering. Or for-getting—I am always confused which. My dream came up. I considered rearranging it to make it absolutely clear at the next telling that at the beginning my character had had no idea of the outcome. So that in a sense he, I, knew without knowing it. Which seemed a great luxury. And also utterly outside the realm of possibility. I said this out loud. I smelled something. It didn’t smell good. It was me. Then birds began making noise and I realized that a considerable interval of time had passed. I came out from behind the tree and sat on a bench. I sat there for another interval. I stood. I walked in through the garden gates. I met the woman with the mask only now she wasn’t wearing one.

The next day I mostly spent in bed, although one or two things happened. One of these things was that the young woman with the cheekbones knocked on my door. She was quite a mess, had been crying even, and when I let her in she wouldn’t speak for a few minutes. Bastards, she finally said. She paced around the room a little. In her agitation, her limp seemed more pronounced. It occurred to me, though I didn’t get a chance to suggest it, that she might be able to get one of those special shoes. None of this is real is it? she said, cutting off my thoughts. What do you mean? I said. None of this, what we’re doing, right now—it’s not real. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m talking about this, for example, she said, pulling out her gun. It’s got blanks in it and that stupid little knife of yours is plastic. No it’s not. Yes, it is. Don’t point that thing at me. She did. She fired. Then, when it was dark, I went back to the restaurant in hopes of finding the guy with the face and some explanation for the previous evening, but he wasn’t there. Neither was the accordion player or the kid with the guitar. Or at least I was fairly certain they weren’t. I put it that way, because there was a guy playing the accordion and another playing the guitar, but I was pretty sure they weren’t the same ones as before. Whoever they were, they played pretty well, though, and I stood there for a number or two. I would have stood there longer, swaying slightly, feeling reasonably content, but the waiter started shooting me censorious looks. So I tipped them and started to leave, or did leave, got the hell out, away from everything, went to the beach, took a swim, floated on my back, and looked up at the dark sky, but then the guy in the photograph walked in the door. You will ask, rightfully, how, given the condition of the photograph, I could have been so sure that the fat guy I was seeing was the one in the photograph, and the truth is, even though it was him, and I soon confirmed this, when I saw him I wasn’t entirely sure. Is this a photograph of you, fat man? I said a couple of minutes later, after he had sat down and ordered and they had brought some of his food. Fat man? he said. I made to wave the photograph around in front of his face, then, remembering the regrettable scene at the travel agency, set it down next to him and contented myself with tapping it once or twice. I’m sorry, I said, for any present or imminent rudeness on my part. Fat man? he said. I apologized some more. After a certain amount of this, he took out a pair of glasses, put them on, and looked at the photograph. Yes, that is me, he said. Where did you get it? I told him where. He told me he had a sister who lived in my building and that about a month ago he had visited her. As he was leaving, she had handed him a stack of photos from an excursion they had taken together—clearly he had dropped one of them on his way out. You mean to tell me you’re not an assassin. A what? Because you can tell me if you are—I won’t do anything, I just want to know. So if I were an assassin and had it in mind to assassinate you, you wouldn’t do anything about it? That’s right. Then why do you have a knife? How do you know about the knife? You mentioned it. No I didn’t. He took a drink. Do you mind if I pat you down? I said. The waiter had been standing near the table for some time and now he came forward and put his hand on my elbow. I’m going to make a phone call and we’ll see if your story holds up, I said over my shoulder, because the waiter, quite a sturdy individual, was now leading me away. And maybe I’ll just pay a little visit to your “sister” while I’m at it, fat man. By this time I was out of the restaurant, lying on the sidewalk, and it was the waiter who answered. Please do, he said, but be very nice, she’s a friend of mine.

The “sister” really was the sister and really was also a friend of the waiter’s, in fact she had once, she said, been on exceedingly friendly terms with him. She told me many things about her brother, including certain habits of his, one or two of which I could have done without knowing, and she confessed to me that she was a little worried about how much weight he had recently gained. He can lose it, I said. I used to be a little heavy and look at me now. This reassured her—that a gentleman such as myself, as she put it, could have lost a considerable amount of weight and still retained such grace of carriage and elegance. I smiled. She smiled back at me. We drank tea on a terrace that had a much better view through the black netting than mine did, and it was pleasant to recline in one of her comfortable chairs and to sip tea spiced with bergamot and to look at her face, which was not unhandsome. In fact, for a woman not of the absolutely earliest years she was quite stunning, and as we sat there and discussed her brother, a very “sweet man,” I began working up one or two compliments, which I never got the chance to use. Because the truth is, when I got home after leaving the restaurant and knocked on the only other door in the building, I found it open and the rooms it opened directly onto empty, or almost empty—in the smallest of them, beneath a single bare bulb, was a small wooden table and two chairs, in one of which sat the man with the troubled face.

I know who you are, I said. I know you do and it doesn’t matter, does it? No it doesn’t. So sit down. I sat. He asked me how I was doing. I told him that, frankly, I was a little confused, that I was having trouble with real and not real, and that my confusion was making me prone to outbursts and to regrettable comportment and unfortunate remarks. He said that the outbursts, etc., aside, this was probably a good thing—that it was good to be a little confused about real and not real when in the middle of carrying out an investigation. Am I carrying out an investigation? Absolutely—why wouldn’t you think so? For a moment I thought I’d met my killer’s sister. In this apartment? In the other room and on the terrace. But instead you met me. Yes. And because of it you’re confused. And a little irritated. Stop trembling, it’s all right. What’s all right? Your investigation is almost over. So that fat individual is going to kill me? What do you have against fat individuals? Nothing. Well it sounds like you have something against them. Could you just answer my question? That will be for you to determine. What will? That was the answer to your question. Well it looks a little fishy. Yes it does. I suppose you already know the outcome. Not at all. I looked at him to see if he was lying. I’m not lying, he said. Well then are you insulting my intelligence? I might be. Couldn’t you get that thing removed? Tut, tut, he said. If in fact he had ever said, tut, tut. I asked him if he had. Take it easy, he said. Was she lying to me? I asked. Was who? About what happened. You mean a few months back? It hasn’t just been a few months. Fine, it doesn’t matter, I know what you’re talking about. How long has it been? A while—not too long. But was she lying? I don’t know. And was it real? You’ll have to answer that. I thought about it. When I was finished thinking, or rather sitting there, as he had put it, trembling, I still didn’t have an answer, or only a hypothetical one—that event, the one about the paint and shelves and caged animals, had been real, but much of what followed had not. This was unsatisfying, and a bit too disturbing, so I turned my attention to another matter. Why was my second disaffirmation overturned? What? Why did they pull me out of the well? The boss ordered it. Which boss? You know which boss, you smacked her in the head with a shovel. I killed her. No, you gave her a severe concussion—when she woke up, she said, let him go. But what about all the blood at the crime scene? I don’t know anything about it. You’re lying. About which part? All of it. No, I’m not. I hit her with the shovel because she set me up. Everybody is aware of that, now let’s change the subject. I did kill her, I said, my voice rising, I know I did. End of discussion. So you’re saying she ordered that my disaffirmation be overturned—why, so she could set me up again, is all this another set-up? I won’t say another word about it. By the way the thing on his face was throbbing I could tell he meant it. I took a deep breath and said, okay, let’s talk about my investigation. Fine, he said. What the hell was that southwest gate of the public gardens thing? It was a clue. A clue? We sat there. In a small room off to the side a faucet had been left on and, nearby, someone was operating a jackhammer. A little daylight was coming in through one of the windows. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. Would you like to ask me anything else related to your investigation? Yes, why are we having this talk? Because I’m required to tell you something. Who is doing the requiring? Never mind. Okay, do I want to hear it? I don’t know, do you? I thought about it. There were many things I would have liked to hear: the sound of milk being steamed, a large bird beating its wings, thousands of goats wearing bells coming down out of the hills. Another thing I thought I would like to hear was the sound of my once-upon-a-time and forever-lost sweetheart coming into a room, her feet hitting softly against the cool tiles, I think they would be cool, her dress moving, it must be moving, against her legs. I would also, I thought, like to hear the words “you were highly capable” or even, and of course I mean in reference to me, “he was highly capable,” but I knew the individual sitting opposite me with his pretty eyes and awful condition, familiar, as he was, with my career, would not say them. I don’t really want to die, I said after a moment, aware, incidentally, that I had not answered his question. You expressed that sentiment volubly at your exit interview, he said. I know, I said, after a while I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He shrugged. I can’t say I blame you, he said. Really? I don’t say I approve of your approach to expressing yourself (I took it he was referring to the fact that I had broken several things, including one of my own fingers), but, to be somewhat honest, I’m not really looking forward to my own retirement either. How exactly could it be something to look forward to? Some might see it as a relief. This struck me as a pretty good answer. Have you gotten your letter? I asked him. Not yet, probably a few more years. I thought we were about the same age. Each asset’s career has a different trajectory. I see, I said. I thought of my career’s trajectory. I decided I would only use the word “plummet” in regards to it if I could also use the word “rocket.” This made me smile. Okay, tell me, I said. You’re ready? Yes. Your time is almost up. Is this real or not real? Real. How much time do I have? I can’t be any more specific. So you think I should just go home and wait for that fat individual to come and get me? I’m not sure your investigation is complete. You mean it’s not him? I didn’t say that—I said, I’m not sure your investigation is over. So you think I should keep going? Yes. And are you going to give me any more helpful clues? You have been given excellent clues, right from the start. So that’s what you’ve been doing, you’ve been giving me excellent clues? Some of them yes, others no, but the principle holds. What about hunches? You mean in reference to your dream? You’ve heard about the dream? We all have. Do you have an opinion? Not one I’d care to share. So are we done here? Almost. Almost how? You’re about to be given another clue. How about this time you just tell me what I’m supposed to think. You’re the one who wanted to undertake an investigation. I snorted. Some investigation, I said. He snorted back. Apparently in agreement. I say it that way because at that moment someone limped over and cracked me on the back of the head.