The Impossibly (5 page)

That afternoon the four of us drove away. We had been to the city I had suggested. Now we were going to the country.

WE QUICKLY FOUND EXCELLENT LODGINGS. The old house, in which no one else was staying, had huge rooms, high ceilings, wide hallways, and one or two windowless staircases in addition to the regular one. I did not like these windowless staircases and generally avoided them. Once, though, late at night, in fact the last night, I woke and strayed and met an old man on one of the staircases, an old man I will more properly introduce later, who stood in what should have been absolute dark with what seemed to be a pale light falling onto and around him, and who said to me, listen, listen to what I have to say just a little more. Also, there were a rather unusual number of toilets in the house, some of them small and inexplicably dark even with the lights on, and one night walking by one of them I thought I heard someone praying, or at any rate mumbling rhythmically, on the other side of the door. The house did not have a garden, or rather had for its garden the whole countryside, so that lithe, dark trees seemed always to be waving in a soft evening wind. Our room, on the sunny side of the house, had a yellow door, a silver door handle, a pale blue dresser, darker yellow walls, white moldings, three large windows, those translucent curtains, dark green shutters, a washbasin, a hardwood floor that creaked in four spots, two lamps, two small tables, a silver candelabra, a long mirror slightly cracked in the top left corner, a desk with two drawers, two round floor rugs, a wastepaper basket, a vase that contained a quantity of dried flowers varied in shape and color and tone, one comfortable chair, one desk chair, a faded print in a chipped gilt frame that showed the proceedings of a circus, a huge bed with curtains hung around it, and two very slow old flies buzzing lowly. The circus. John, it seems to me, at some point had something to say about the circus, but about the gladiator-stick-you-with-large-forks-style one, about some place one could visit where the old fork-style circuses had been held. This gladiator business has always seemed improbable to me. Once, as a boy, I put on a suit of plastic armor and took up a plastic lance or sword or club and was pummeled by my friends. That pummeling ended what had been a long-standing interest in the glory, not to mention effectiveness, of knights and their shining armor, and probably preempted any interest I might later have developed in gladiators. Anyway, I prefer the regular kind of circus, she said. As, I said, do I. What was the best thing you ever saw in the circus? I told her about an elephant. And also about some fleas. We both liked fleas. And clowns. Soon our room contained other things, some of which we had acquired on the drive, such as a funny pinwheel that had put her in mind of a strange story, some of which, like the row of insect wings, we had found in the course of our excursions in the fields near the house. In all, we only stayed four days in the country, but it was enough, it was like a year, it was the best time of all, though not really. Never really. At any rate. I was feeling rather giddy from my recent course of action, or nonaction, and so was an incredible amount of fun to be around, I was told. I am sometimes given to telling anecdotes when I am in high spirits and in the company of friends, and in the country I told anecdotes left and right. One of them was about a tree house I had loved to jump out of as a boy and the time I landed on my head. Another was about a bone collection I once had, and that I was made, upon its discovery, to soak with oil and to burn. Another was about an old woman I had heard of who lived alone in a house set off in a stand of trees and whom I visited and with whom I took tea. Despite her current appearance, she had told me, wiping a hand across her oily brow, she had been quite a beauty. Tell another, I was told. So I told an anecdote about a car I had owned, and it was an anecdote because I had stolen the car, but I had managed to do it, everyone agreed, quite interestingly. She said to me afterward, after a whole string of anecdotes, I didn’t know, and I said well there is / are more, and she said I hope so, and there was a little more. Things seemed to be progressing. In this vein there were, of course, several things I wished I could have asked her afterward. And still do. But at any rate, at our disposal was an enormous bathtub, of which we all made frequent use. Once, in fact, I walked in at a moment when the tub was being used quite spectacularly. The general effect was of something that might occur unquietly in the branches of a tree. It was almost warm enough at night to have the windows open in the bedroom, but it was also nice that it was cold enough to be able to breathe slowly on the glass and to make a light fog. We loved, also, to close the curtains around the bed. Sometimes, when we were behind the curtains, in the huge dark bed, we could hear John and Deau in the bedroom across the hall, and more than once it seemed clear that they could hear us. During the day, the four of us or the two of us would go walking through the olive groves. The trees smelled of something we all recognized, but couldn’t name. A soft wind blew. I have always been partial to soft winds. At one time, in fact, I entertained dreams of becoming the captain of a hot air balloon. I have still never been up in a hot air balloon, although I see them once in a while—off in the distance, drifting silently. Once, as we were walking along through the olive groves, through a soft wind, I walked with Deau. Deau was very happy. I am creating my itinerary, she said. In consultation with John, of course. He has made some dazzling recommendations. It is nice now to have finally started. It gives you this wonderful in-the-middle feeling, like you’ve left behind your beginning and you haven’t yet reached your end. I asked her how she would know she had reached her end. She said she didn’t know, hadn’t quite thought it through yet, but it was wonderful to feel so intransitive and yet so transitive, simultaneously. And I remember finding it strange but pleasing that she had used those words, and I remarked on this both to her and to John. Yeah, well, if you want to talk about strange, said John. What do you mean? I said. Words and objects, he said. And shelves, I said, don’t forget the shelves, you haven’t seen them all yet. I haven’t seen any of them yet. Well, you will. He did. He didn’t like the shelves. In fact he stood in the center of the room and said, ouch! but that was later. In the afternoons and evenings we walked among the olive trees. There were low stone walls and twisting paths and a blue sky behind the waving branches. Deau told us that she was a sun worshiper. That she belonged to some organization or other and had to pay dues. Every year, she said, each member was required to allow him / herself to be seriously burned by the sun. I found this quite funny, and generally, found her, Deau I mean, quite funny and nice, and certainly more than just a little pleasant to look at, so I don’t know why I snapped at her later. I will likely chalk it up to my nervousness, but I don’t think that’s quite right. Perhaps there was a hint, in my mind, of something sinister about her. Perhaps it was because there was no hint of something sinister about her, ever, and yet she was. Perhaps I did not like her. Perhaps I am a crumb. I am a crumb. But no real matter, and after all I did apologize. Sometimes on our walks we stopped for a picnic. We ate fresh apples and fresh cheeses and fresh meats and fresh breads, just like you are supposed to do in the country. More than once as we did those things I wondered why they did not come. Why no one came. Surely they would come. Wasn’t that, after all, what they did when someone fucked up? At any rate, at one of those picnics we had the idea that each of us should tell a story. To get things started, Deau told a story about a murder case involving a young woman who had been killed quite unpleasantly in the presence of the only witness, a small girl. There were several suspects, and a couple of what John appreciatively called back-foldings, and at the end of it we learned that the case had gone unsolved, as only the small girl had no alibi, beyond the fact of her size, which, we all agreed, surely exonerated her. There were many nice details in Deau’s telling of the story, one of which was that the young girl in question was known to have been in possession of a fine, red-maned rocking horse, and that, according to a relative’s testimony, she had been in the habit of riding it, at times, for hours, and that more than once she had been found to have ridden herself to sleep, and in fact was found, when the postmurder finding was done, in the saddle; covered with blood as she was, she, too, had initially been taken for dead. John then told a story about something the two of us had once done together, is the way he put it. I told a story about an old farmer living alone in the country who had dark, funny dreams and wished one day to be the pilot of a dirigible and to dock at the top of the tallest building in the world and would have accomplished it, except that by the time he arrived, the building was no longer the tallest. Then it was her turn. Taking John and Deau’s intervention as her lead, i.e., proposing to relate a factual account, she told a story about a house in which she had once lived and a man she had once seriously contemplated killing. When she was finished, no one said anything. Deau was smiling, John was not smiling, and I was not smiling and had a hot mouthful of dry cheese. So did you, in fact, end up killing him? I finally asked when I had gotten most of the cheese down. No, she said. He didn’t look like he’d get up anytime soon so I left. Was that true? I asked her that night as we lay in bed. Absolutely, she said. Which parts were true? Most of them. How about the part where you closed the door on his head? Let’s not get back into it right now. Fair enough. Okay, yeah, good one, better than your pal there with his farmer moo, baa, or whatever, said John when she had finished telling her story, which caused me to jump on him and start punching his arm. When I was done we moved on to talking about heroes—improbable things, heroes—and then about some guy who John said he’d once known. This, although he didn’t say it, was sort of a follow-up, or appendage if you like, to the story he’d told earlier about that thing we’d supposedly done together. Real hero, said John. I used to work for him. His daughter got bumped off in some bad deal, looked like an inside job. He did eight of his organic assets personally until he thought he’d found out who had done it, and in the meantime he had all twenty-six of us others at the ceremony even though they didn’t have anything even approximating his daughter to put into the hole. We were all in black tie and he was in black tie and black hat and we stood in the rain and just fucking stood there. He liked model trains, I said. Who killed his daughter? said Deau. And then we kept on talking about heroes for a while. Later I asked her what she thought about heroes, and she said, nothing, and I said, no, really, and she said, sometimes when you look at some people you just want to cry. The next morning it was fine and bright again and I found myself walking along a little stretch of road with Deau. Let’s talk about her, said Deau. All right, I said. She really is wonderful, isn’t she, said Deau. I said yes I thought she really was. She is eccentric and wonderful and so funny. Yes, I agreed. For example, that story she told was so wonderfully over-the-top, said Deau. How do you mean? I mean she was lying about all of it. Ah, I said. Hah, said Deau, and by the way, your friend John is a tremendous fuck. This was exactly what she said. Yes, I said, yes I had heard once or twice before, though not put that way, that he was. And you saw him in action, saw us in action, in the bathroom, she said. I agreed that I had. Did you like what you saw? I’d rather not answer. Are you a tremendous fuck? Hardly. I bet you are. I bet I’m not. Take a look at these, she said, lifting her shirt. I will not. But I did. Did you and John really do that thing together? she continued, a little later, rather smugly. Did you, I answered, ever ride yourself to sleep on a red-maned rocking horse? I didn’t do it, she said, I was far too young. I didn’t say you did, I said. Then she smiled, not pleasantly, and, very slowly, repeated her question. Yes, we did, I said, also very slowly, and although I am not generally in favor of such elocutions, I very slowly added the words “you” and “big fat bitch” to my sentence, and, once she had slapped me, that was the end of that walk. For a moment, then, just for a moment, I found myself thinking again of the city, and of its river and bridges and trees. And also of the floor of my apartment. And of the ceiling. And of the small unsuccessful clouds. And even of the mushy papers for the washer / dryer. Just for a moment, though longingly. When I got back to our room with so many nice objects in it, she, and I am not referring to Deau, had her hand in my bag. I am not suspicious by nature, in fact, I am not very much at all, I have concluded, by nature, and while I do not have any great desire to put forward the notion that in this instance I was suspicious, it would be unfair to hide the fact that having seen her with her hand in my bag, and given the general set of circumstances I was in plus the interaction I had just had with Deau, I was. Actually, it would probably be considerably more accurate to say that while I would like very much to put forward the notion that in this instance I was suspicious, it would be unfair to mask the fact that even having seen her with her hand in my bag, I was not. But I was nervous. I do get nervous. I must already have said that. I moved toward her, rather quickly, and she stood up and said, oh fuck. By the way, what John and I did together that time wasn’t really doing anything together at all. Once, you see, as we were walking along in a park next to a very different sort of river from the one I have made mention of in this narrative, we, I or John, I can’t remember who first, saw a dead body floating in the water. It floated with its face and hands above water and its legs below, and its lips were orange, I’m not kidding, it was very dead. It had on a flowered skirt and a long black wig and it was moving along surprisingly quickly. It was not a pleasant speed. And I have since found, on far too many occasions, the impromptu memory of that speed quite troubling. Once in fact I almost stumbled. At remembering. John, in his telling of it, told it as if we should have called the authorities or something but hadn’t, as if that was why
it had meant anything to us. According to John, we just walked along next to it, and it kept skimming along near the wall, and we passed a lot of people, but no one else saw it, and we just kept walking along as far as we could, which was a long way, and then the current took it out into deeper waters, and we did not see or hear of it again. If you call that doing something, you can. I call it doing nothing. The doing part of the business occurred some weeks before the time of John’s story about the river and the body and the flowered skirt, and it was an accident. Entirely. At any rate, that’s how we planned, if it became necessary, to explain it to the boss. I did not know what I thought I was going to do. I mean, just after she had said, oh fuck, and the oh fuck was unpleasantly repeating itself in my head, and I was moving toward her too quickly, out of nervousness and slight embarrassment at my outburst at Deau, and also the fact that maybe the whole story about the soup and the man and the cottage—not just part of it—had not been true, but mostly just the general nervousness, not suspicion, and then I had arrived in front of her. Hi, you have five seconds to explain yourself. Hi, I thought you were out walking with Deau. I was. And you’re back so soon. What were you doing in my stuff? Nothing. What the fuck were you doing? But then it turned out to be about a present she had been hoping to hide in my bag, a present which she, once I had taken a step away from her, immediately showed me. It was supposed to be a surprise, she said. What is it? I said. She was holding her hand out, cupped, with her fingers curled and pressed tightly together, as if to hold a small quantity of liquid. What does it look like it is? she said. I told her I was having trouble making it out. She held her hand out a little closer. I kind of leaned over. Don’t get too close, she said. I said maybe if I tried another angle. The other angle didn’t help. Well then I’d have to say it looks like nothing—is it nothing? No. What is it? She smiled. She said hold out your hand. I held out my hand. She said, here. I said, thanks, but here